WHILE TONY ELLIS and Kevin Wallace interrogated McNeil in one interview room, Lambert conducted the questioning of Alan Hughes with Debbie Jones in another. Prior to their interviews, both men were routinely offered the services of a solicitor but both declined, as if this in itself proved their innocence. They both seemed so self-assured that Lambert suspected their confidence came from having pretty strong alibis. And as soon as he asked Hughes the appropriate question, he knew he was right.
‘Can you remember where you were late Saturday night?’
Hughes made a show of trying to remember. ‘Yes, missus and I went into Swansea and had a meal at an Italian restaurant.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘We left the restaurant about eleven or just after, and must have got back to Carmarthen about half past.’
‘And did you go anywhere else after that?’
‘Yes, I gave our babysitter a lift home. She stayed and had a cup of tea and I took her home about half twelve.’
‘And can you tell me where you were last Thursday night around two or three in the morning? Presumably you were at work on Friday, so you must have been tucked up in bed.’
Lambert thought he detected a pinprick glint of triumph in Hughes’s eyes before he answered.
‘No, I was out, along with Norm.’
Lambert breathed evenly, keeping his voice level. ‘Where did you go?’
‘We went over to Llanelli. We were playing poker with some mates. About six of us.’
‘You were playing poker?’
Hughes smirked. ‘Not illegal, is it? We weren’t breaking any laws, were we?’
Lambert stared at him, aware of how convenient it was on both occasions to have a watertight alibi. That’s if the alibis were watertight, and he suspected they were. But they would still have to be checked.
As though amused by his own private joke, Hughes chuckled. ‘So you think I murdered those nonces just because our factory happens to have a white van. And how common is sulphuric acid as a chemical? Have you tried all the adhesive manufacturers, or paints, car batteries, water and effluent treatment plants, leather tanning—’
‘Thank you, Mr Hughes!’ Lambert snapped. ‘I get the picture. Now perhaps you can tell me where you were a week ago – last Monday, to be precise, between the hours of 9 p.m. and 1 a.m. on the Tuesday morning.’
Lambert could see that Hughes was smart enough not to reel his alibi off right away. He stared at his fingernails and frowned thoughtfully.
‘I’m trying to remember. Maybe I was at home with the missus. Sunday I was in my local boozer – always go there Sunday night. But Monday …’ He looked up and clicked his fingers. ‘Oh yeah. I went with Norman to Cardiff, and we went out on the piss with some mates.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘I didn’t. I stayed the night in Port Talbot, with Norman and my sister. Cos we was having more than a few sherbets, we went over on the train, and caught the last train back. Gets in to Swansea at around 2.15. We got a cab from Swansea to Norm’s house. You can check up on all this.’
‘We will, don’t worry.’
Lambert stared thoughtfully at Hughes, taking his time while he considered his next move. The fact that Hughes had an alibi for the night of every single murder struck him as odd. Having an alibi for one of those nights he could accept as a coincidence, but Hughes remembered exactly what he was doing on all three nights, and he wasn’t at home with his wife watching television but was in the company of other people. No wonder he looked confident and relaxed.
It was time to rattle that composure.
‘What were you doing the following night? That would have been last Tuesday?’
Hughes was surprised by the question. His mouth opened and closed, and he seemed momentarily lost.
‘Well, Mr Hughes, that’s a perfectly straightforward question. What were you doing last Tuesday?’
‘But I thought …’ Hughes began.
Lambert could see the skidding brakes in the man’s mind as he stopped himself from continuing.
‘You thought what, Mr Hughes?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Were you going to say you thought Jarvis Thomas was murdered on Monday night?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So what were you going to say?’
‘Just that I thought you wanted to know what I was doing on the Monday night. Why would you be asking me about Monday if that was not the night the bloke was murdered? You can’t be that interested in my social life.’
Thinking he’d found a good explanation to justify his blunder, Hughes’s self-assurance began to return.
‘So if you want to know what I was doing on the Tuesday,’ he continued, ‘I was feeling a bit fragile having been on the sauce the night before. I just sat in front of the telly with the missus.’
Ignoring him, Lambert turned to DC Jones. ‘Get the names and addresses of all the people who can confirm what Mr Hughes was doing on those three nights.’
As Lambert rose prior to leaving the room, Hughes said, ‘After you’ve checked with these people, and you see I’m telling you the truth, what happens then?’
‘We have to continue with our investigations.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Lambert turned away without replying. DC Jones announced for the tape that he was leaving the room. As soon as he’d gone, she said to Hughes, ‘Now let’s start with the name and address of your babysitter.’
Hughes and McNeil, in their separate interview rooms, were given tea and sandwiches and were each guarded by a uniformed policeman, giving the four detectives time to sit in the canteen and compare notes. Their alibis had been checked and they were, as Lambert guessed, watertight.
‘They may not have committed the crimes themselves, but they’re bloody covering for someone,’ Lambert stated. ‘I know they are.’
The next step was to look at CCTV footage, to see if the white van from the fertilizer company was anywhere near the marina late on Thursday night, or if it was driven through Carmarthen late Monday night.
‘We got exactly the same story from McNeil,’ Tony Ellis said.
Lambert nodded. ‘I’ve no doubt they were where they said they were on those nights.’ He looked at Jones with a knowing smile. ‘But did you notice his reaction when I suggested the murder took place the following night?’
‘Yes, he practically wet himself. He didn’t have a strong alibi for Tuesday, and he seemed confused about the murder happening on the Tuesday.’
‘You mean,’ said Ellis, ‘he might have known in advance that the murder was supposed to happen on the Monday?’
‘It looks that way,’ Lambert replied.
‘You think it could be another vigilante, sir?’ Jones suggested. ‘One of these PASO members, using the van from the fertilizer company?’
‘And their sulphuric acid,’ Wallace added.
‘We need to get the names of all the PASO members,’ Lambert said. ‘And they’ll need to be thoroughly checked.’
His mobile rang. He flipped open the screen and saw it was an unidentified number.
‘DI Lambert,’ he said.
‘It’s Rhiannon … Williams.’
Lambert noticed the briefest of pauses before she gave her surname. ‘I must see you some time tonight, Inspector. I need to talk to you. This is important. I can’t go into details on the phone.’ She sounded distressed, as if she’d been crying and was trying to recover.
‘Can you give me some idea of what it’s about?’
‘It’s about Mark Yalding. I know he was innocent of that pornography business.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
She spoke rapidly. ‘Please … can I meet you? I’ll explain then. It’s difficult to talk right now.’
‘Very well, Mrs Lloyd.’
He waited for it to register. And then, after a pause, she said, ‘I’m sorry I lied, Inspector, but I didn’t want Gavin to find out.’
‘I understand. I could meet you in, say, half an hour?’
‘No, my husband is leaving for Edinburgh at four. Supposing he’s delayed with business at the office. Can we make it later? Could we meet at half seven?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Shall I come to your place?’
‘No, I’ll come over to Bridgend. Perhaps I could meet you at the M4 services there.’
‘As good a place as any, I suppose.’
‘I’ve got to go. See you at half seven.’
She cut the call.
Ellis, Jones and Wallace were frozen with anticipation, listening and waiting for an explanation of the phone call.
‘That was Rhiannon Lloyd, who has some concerns and information concerning the death of Mark Yalding. She sounded a bit distraught to say the least.’
‘This Gavin Lloyd character,’ Ellis began slowly and thoughtfully, ‘are you certain he doesn’t know about his wife’s affair?’
‘No, I’m not. But his receptionist has worked for him for at least four years, and she seemed genuinely shocked and surprised when I told her.’
‘But if he does know about the affair, it would make him a suspect in Yalding’s murder,’ Ellis said.
DC Jones rubbed her forehead in frustration. ‘But Yalding’s killer used the same MO as the killer of the two sex offenders. Why would Lloyd kill the other two if his motive was revenge for his wife’s infidelity?’
Wallace, who felt it was time to input an opinion, said, ‘Maybe he killed Yalding in the same way to make it look like a copycat killing.’
Lambert stared at Wallace. ‘But the sulphuric acid details were released to the papers after Yalding’s murder.’
‘True. So that rules out a deliberate copycat kill.’
‘You interviewed that witness who spotted the white van. In your opinion, how reliable was that witness?’
‘I think he definitely spotted the killer’s van.’
‘And Gavin Lloyd has never learnt to drive,’ Lambert said. ‘I checked up and he’s never even held a provisional licence.’
Jones sighed heavily. ‘So it’s unlikely he’s our white van driver. I wonder what his wife’s phone call was all about.’
‘We’ll find out in just over three hours’ time,’ Lambert said, glancing at the clock before giving DC Jones an encouraging smile. ‘And I think it might be useful if you accompany me, Debbie – same as before.’
‘Woman to woman. Shoulder to cry on?’
‘Exactly.’
They got to the M4 services a little before 7.30. Lambert bought the coffees in the coffee shop area, from where they could keep an eye on the main entrance.
DC Jones watched her boss absently stirring his espresso, even though he didn’t take sugar. She knew he’d recently had a long meeting with DCS Marden, and suspected it hadn’t gone well, especially knowing how much they disliked one another.
‘What’s happening about McNeil and Hughes?’ she asked him.
‘Because of the lack of evidence, and the way both their interviews went, the chief super doesn’t think we’ve got enough to hold them. He knows the CPS would want more evidence, and he’s probably right. It took all my powers of persuasion to let me hold them until all the CCTV footage has been seen.’
‘That shouldn’t take long, should it? I mean, we know the approximate time of death, especially in the marina murder.’
Lambert’s mobile rang and he answered it hurriedly. ‘Yes, Tony.’ He listened intently then said, ‘It could have been a false number plate. If it is, it’s probably going to be difficult to trace. The vehicle it came from may have ended up in a breaker’s yard. Well, all you can do is try. Yeah, I’ll speak to you later, after I’ve met Rhiannon Lloyd.’
After he hung up, Jones said, ‘I presume the CCTV showed a white van with different number plates to the ones on Hughes’s van.’
‘Spot on, Debbie. Same type of van but different number plates. This will please Marden. We’ve haven’t got a shred of evidence with which to hold and charge McNeil or Hughes. Nothing but coincidence.’
‘And that’s a great deal of coincidence, if you ask me, Harry.’
Jones glanced at her watch. ‘Where is she? It’s a quarter to eight.’
Lambert slammed his cup on to its saucer with a clatter. ‘This stinks to high heaven! She phones me up in a distressed state saying she has some vital information but she can’t be that desperate to meet me if she turns up late.’
The young DC gave her boss a knowing look over the rim of her cup. ‘That’s if she turns up at all.’
Lambert grabbed his mobile from the table and began to scroll. ‘I’ve saved her number. I’ll give her a call.’
Jones watched him listening to the empty ringing, and saw the frustration and impatience building to a sense of urgency as his frown deepened and his eyes danced with troubled thoughts. Eventually, he gave up and clicked off the phone.
‘Maybe she’s driving.’
‘It didn’t stop her answering before.’
Lambert spent a moment deliberating, then pocketed his mobile and stood up. ‘Come on! We’re going!’
He hurried from the coffee shop area and Jones followed, rushing to keep pace with him.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, mainly as confirmation, because she could guess the answer.
‘We’re going to pay a visit to the Lloyds’ marital home. I’d be interested to see how the Crachach live.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ll explain on the way over.’
Between Barry and Penarth, Lambert swung round a sharp bend, knowing the house was somewhere nearby, less than half a mile past a church. They found it difficult to see the houses that stood back from the road as it was now dark and there were no street lights.
‘There’s the church,’ Jones said, as the giant shadow of a building loomed into view. ‘Can’t be far now. What’s the name of the house?’
‘Glyndŵr.’
‘Slow down. There’s an entrance just ahead with a house name on the gate.’
Lambert braked gently and let the car glide towards the entrance to a wide driveway. He spotted the sign the same time as Jones.
‘We’re here,’ she said.
He turned into the drive, his headlights picking out the bushes on either side, which could have been rhododendron but it was too dark to see clearly. The house was a long way back from the road and the drive led to a semi-circular car park at the front, in which Rhiannon Lloyd’s Land Rover stood. The house was dark; there was not a light to be seen anywhere.
Lambert parked a little distance from the Land Rover and the house. They got out of the car and had walked only a couple of paces forward when two halogen security lights lit up the area. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the lamps, Lambert scanned the house, getting a vague impression of discreet affluence, with its high windows, impressive stone steps leading up to an enormous front door, and a castle-like turret on one of the corners of the house above the second floor. Just below one of the second-floor windows was a burglar alarm.
‘Her four-by-four’s here but the place is in darkness,’ Jones observed.
The shapes of their shadows were long and angular and crept up the stone steps as they approached the front door. Lambert pressed the doorbell, and they heard a chime echoing through the house.
They waited, listening for the sound of footsteps, but no one came to answer the door.
‘I wonder where she’s gone.’ Jones whispered. ‘Any point in ringing it again?’
‘None at all,’ Lambert said. ‘Come on – I’ve got a torch in the glove compartment. Let’s take a look round the back.’
Once he’d got his torch, Lambert switched it on and shined it to the left of the house and then the right. ‘What it is to have money, eh? As the house stands in its own grounds, I don’t think it matters which side we go round.’
‘Let’s go left,’ Jones suggested.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I just like to make a decision.’
Their feet crunching on the gravel, they walked to the left of the house as the beam from Lambert’s torch danced along the side walls and path in front. It was cold now that night had descended and Jones shivered. A rustling sound from the undergrowth caused them to halt, until they realized it was either a fox or some other nocturnal creature foraging for food. They continued around the back until they came to a large patio with steps leading down to lawns and gardens. There were French windows at the top of the terrace, leading to what was probably a living room. Lambert tried the handle but it was locked.
He shone his torch to the other side of the house, and there appeared to be another building, which seemed to be an extension to the main house. Then Lambert remembered Lloyd’s receptionist telling him they had a granny annex as the driver’s living quarters.
They walked across the patio, knowing there had to be another back entrance, either leading to a utility room or kitchen. They hadn’t gone very far before the beam of Lambert’s torch focused on an open door. The top half of the door was glass and this had been smashed.
‘I think,’ Lambert whispered, ‘she’s had unwelcome intruders. But I don’t think they’re still here. Let’s go in and take a look.’
Feeling a tension in his chest, he eased open the door and entered, his feet crunching on shards of glass. He shone his torch up and down the wall beside the door, found the light switch and clicked it on. The enormous kitchen was suddenly washed in light, revealing a room that was used for socializing as much as cooking, with a refectory table in the centre. There were two doors, one was closed, perhaps leading to a utility room, and the other was wide open and led to the hall.
Lambert nodded at a glass panel beside the kitchen door. ‘Alarm couldn’t have been switched on,’ he whispered.
As they crept out of the kitchen and into the hall, they passed an open door leading into what was perhaps the living room. Lambert reached in and switched on the light.
Wall lights and expensive art deco standard lamps illuminated the spacious room, which was tastefully furnished but a mess. An antique bureau in an alcove had had its drawers pulled right out and the contents were scattered across the thick pile carpet. There was a discoloured empty square above a marble fireplace, indicating that a picture had hung over it.
‘This place has been ransacked,’ Lambert said. ‘Let’s go and see what else we can find.’
At the end of the hallway, near the front door, Lambert saw the light switches for the hall and upstairs landing and switched them on. The front hallway was lit by a chandelier and they both stood still for a moment, surveying the grand, carved oak staircase.
‘Usually,’ Jones said, tilting her head to indicate the staircase, ‘anything of value is in the master bedroom.’
Lambert nodded his agreement and led the way up the stairs. As they rounded the first landing, they saw the remnants of a broken vase on the floor, which had presumably stood on the window sill by the leaded windows looking out on to the back garden.
They started up the next flight to the first-floor landing and stopped. The cream-coloured carpet was splattered with blood, spread out across an area of staircase like an explosion of red paint.
Jones’s mouth suddenly felt parched and her stomach quaked. She stared at her boss, whose expression was fixed, as if he was carved from stone.
‘Tread carefully,’ he said quietly.
Leading the way again, he climbed the rest of the stairs, avoiding the smears of blood, and reached the landing.
‘My God!’ Jones said as she joined him, and saw the dark trail of blood leading to the bedroom.
Lambert now strode purposefully towards the bedroom, just in case whoever had shed the blood was still alive and needed attention.
As soon as they entered they saw her body, lying near the double bed, as if she had tried to escape her killer by crawling underneath. As they stared at the crumpled, bloody figure, they knew there was no way she could still be alive.
It looked as if Rhiannon Lloyd had been shot twice; through the shoulder and then in the back of the head.