AS IF IN CONTRAST to the funereal weather of the previous day, bright sunshine and a vivid blue sky took the mourners by surprise, some of whom were renowned Welsh actors and would have welcomed rain and umbrellas, giving the ceremony a dark atmosphere and a bit of Hollywood.
The crematorium car park was crammed with expensive cars, but one vehicle stood out like the proverbial sore thumb, which got Lambert wondering. It was a scruffy red van with sliding doors, a veritable rust bucket that didn’t look roadworthy. He could see a young man with shoulder-length hair sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking and watching the crowd of mourners thronging the entrance to the chapel of rest.
He waited for most of the mourners to enter the chapel before getting out of his car. As he walked across the car park, he glanced at the rust bucket, and could see that the long-haired young man was showing no signs that he was about to attend the funeral as he continued smoking and staring into space.
As he approached the chapel entrance, Lambert undid the button on his dark suit, one he very rarely wore, and smoothed his black tie. He had bought the tie for his father’s funeral last year but hadn’t worn it, wearing a garishly patterned one instead. It was probably an ineffectual comment, cocking two fingers up at his father, rebelling against the formality of the occasion. Had he thought it through at the time, he would have realized his father would have appreciated the garish tie far more than the sombre black.
Thoughts of his father reminded him of the abrupt waking from his dream this morning. He couldn’t remember most of it, elusive as dreams usually were, but there was one image which stuck in his conscious mind: his father’s metamorphosis into the Tin Man. Lambert tried to analyze it over a hasty bowl of cornflakes, but soon gave up. But now, as he reached the chapel entrance, the significance of The Wizard of Oz suddenly hit him square on. Whereas he had previously thought the Tin Man was a symbol, he now realized it was a memory. It was a reminder of the pervert’s house in Port Talbot and his collection of pornographic films. And Lambert suddenly knew why the classic MGM musical was the only normal DVD in his collection of filth, like a rose in a cesspit. It was the paedophile’s dirty dream. To the paedophile, Dorothy in her white ankle socks was an innocent, the symbol of a child who can be defiled.
He found this more disturbing than any other aspect of the case so far. Probably because the film had been a favourite of Natasha’s when she was a sweet innocent child, and the thoughts of what went on in the twisted mind of a paedophile were alien to him.
Jaw clenched in disgust, he was the last to enter the chapel. He stood at the back, pressed tight against other mourners who couldn’t get a seat. Not a pew to be had for neither love nor money. The place was heaving. If there’d been rafters, they’d have been hanging off them. Organ music played softly, an unrecognizable dirge that was the overture to the proceedings, and there was an expectant hush as the congregation waited, and the occasional dry cough.
Along the row of pews at the front, Lambert saw Gavin Lloyd, head bowed as if in prayer, and sitting one on either side of him were two young people, a boy in his twenties and a girl in her late teens or early twenties. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, catching her long blonde hair, which shone with angelic radiance as her shoulders trembled and shook with discreet sorrow, and the tableau might have resembled a scene from a Victorian painting were it not for the boy, whose dark brown hair, as long as his sister’s, was unkempt and greasy, and even from the back of the chapel, Lambert could see the resentful and sullen demeanour in his troubled posture.
The organ music ground to a halt as the chaplain entered and stood at the lectern. A few dry coughs before a mighty hush. Then the chaplain spoke, first in Welsh, followed by a translation into English.
Lambert groaned inwardly. A bilingual service meant it would last twice as long.
A shuffling, scuffling sound as the congregation rose to sing the first hymn in Welsh. Someone saw Lambert without a hymn book and thrust one into his hand. He nodded his thanks, found the relevant page, and opened and closed his mouth in time to the organ music, like John Redwood when he was Secretary of State for Wales, trying to bluff his way through the Welsh national anthem.
His eyes drifted round the congregation. Although many were involved in singing heartily, many also gave crafty sidelong glances to see who else of importance might be attending the funeral. Lambert wasn’t absolutely certain, but he thought he could see Shane Williams about four rows back from the front. And wasn’t that Charlotte Church sitting just behind him? And further along the row, he was sure that was Max Boyce. All the great and the good in Wales seemed to be attending Rhiannon Lloyd’s funeral. The only one who seemed to be missing, Lambert thought wryly, was Tom Jones. Maybe he had a prior engagement.
A booming baritone in the back row caught his attention. Lambert stared at the back of the man’s head. Even from behind, there was no mistaking his avian form. Now Lambert knew why the chief super hadn’t demanded an update until late afternoon. No doubt he’d be spending most of the day at the funeral buffet, stuffing his face and hobnobbing with the influential.
The service ploughed on for another hour. Thankfully, not everything was translated into English, but it was still an ordeal, and Lambert wondered if those on the periphery of grief thought the same, and were contemplating the relief of the buffet and some lubrication.
Finally, with the organ thundering ‘Bread of Heaven’, the coffin moved smoothly towards the curtained opening as Lloyd’s daughter let out a strangled animal cry. As he was nearest to the door, Lambert was first out into the welcoming fresh air. As other mourners exited, they congregated in little groups, and Lambert suddenly felt conspicuous as he stood alone.
As soon as Marden came through the chapel door, he spotted Lambert, his dark eyes a kestrel honing in on a defenceless mouse. He darted forward and hissed, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just came to pay my respects.’
Marden moved his head back as if Lambert had said something dirty. ‘You didn’t know her, did you?’
‘I’d got to know her slightly during the course of my investigation.’
‘And that gave you …’ Marden began and then corrected himself. ‘You only met her once, yet you attend her funeral. You’ve never struck me as a religious man.’
‘I’m not. But I can still pay my respects.’
Marden sniffed, as though there was something unpleasant under his nose. ‘Yes, well, I hope you’re not …’
Lambert anticipated what he was going to say. ‘No, I won’t be stuffing my face at the funeral tea. I’ll be off now.’ He was about to turn away but stopped and eyeballed Marden, adding cryptically, ‘I got what I came for.’
Before Marden could ask what he meant, Lambert turned sharply and walked back to his car, where he sat and waited for what he guessed might happen.
When Gavin Lloyd and his son and daughter eventually emerged from the chapel, Lambert saw the producer put an arm round his son’s shoulders. The daughter turned away abruptly, her body language signifying irritation. Lloyd, gesturing with his free hand, seemed to be pleading with his boy, who was staring straight ahead in a passively aggressive role.
From the scruffy van nearby came several impatient blasts on the horn. The son looked over, shook off his father’s arm and walked away towards the car park. Lambert saw the father calling after him but his son didn’t look back. As soon as he had climbed into the passenger seat, his mate’s van took off with an unhealthy clanking and grinding, leaving a trail of black exhaust fumes behind.
Lambert switched the ignition on and prepared to follow. A quick glance towards the chapel told him that Lloyd’s son and his friend’s polluting rust bucket were already history, as mourners crowded round Lloyd offering sympathetic handshakes.
Out on the road, Lambert followed closely behind the van. He didn’t think it necessary to trail them any other way. It wasn’t as if they were hardened criminals expecting a police tail. They headed east along the A38, probably avoiding the M4 in case they were stopped for a vehicle check. He followed them towards Cardiff city centre, but when they reached the district of Canton, they suddenly swung left off the main road into a side street. He had no alternative but to follow, but as soon as he turned the corner he saw the van’s one brake light come on as it stopped, its left indicator blinking as a precious space had been found in this overcrowded, litter-strewn street.
Lambert overtook the van and sped up the street until he found a space. He reversed quickly into it, awarding himself a gold medal for bad parking as the rear end of the car poked out into the street at an oblique angle. But having followed them this far, he wasn’t going to risk losing them now.
As soon as he was out of the car, he jogged back towards their van and saw them rounding the corner at the end of the street. He put on a spurt and reached the main road just as they crossed over and disappeared into a doorway sandwiched between a kebab takeaway and a bookies. After a lull in the heavy traffic, he dashed across the road and headed straight for the doorway.
There were three doorbells, and the bottom two had small handwritten names encased in plastic. The top bell was blank, and Lambert guessed it belonged to Lloyd’s son and his mate. The entrance door had been left ajar, so he decided against ringing the bell to announce his arrival, and entered the dark hallway. It was bare and bleak, apart from a small table in the hall, heaving under a pile of junk mail and pizza delivery leaflets. It was a three-storey building, with a flat on each floor, and Lambert wasted no time in climbing the stairs two at a time and was seriously out of breath by the time he’d reached the top floor. Once more he promised himself a fitness regime, the same failed promise he’d been making for the past year. He heard muffled voices coming from their flat and paused for a moment to get his breath back before banging loudly on the door.
Silence, followed by a scuffling sound. A voice just the other side of the door asked, ‘Who is it?’
Lambert said, ‘It’s me.’
Lambert, ear close to the door, thought he heard whispering. He took his ID out of his pocket as the door opened slowly and cautiously, the rust bucket driver’s wary, rodent-like face peering questioningly at Lambert. But Lambert wasn’t in the mood to play games and gave the door a mighty shove. The driver of the van almost fell backwards into the arms of Lloyd’s son, who stood just behind him.
‘Hey! What’s going on?’ he protested.
Lambert showed them his warrant card. ‘Police. I’d like a word with Rhys.’ As he pushed past the driver, he got a whiff of cheap aftershave covering a multitude of sins, and stood in the middle of the living room, looking down at a glass coffee table, so dirty it was almost opaque.
‘Well, well, well. A half ounce of Golden Virginia, a rolling machine and what looks like a mini brake pad. What can that be, I wonder?’
‘It’s not exactly serious stuff,’ Rhys Lloyd protested. ‘It was downgraded years ago.’
‘It’s still illegal,’ Lambert pointed out. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I’d like a word with you – in private.’ He stared at the driver. ‘So if you’d like to make yourself scarce for a half hour or so.’
The driver, whose long stringy hair was like a torn curtain hanging either side of a prematurely ageing face, held Lambert’s look, trying to work something out in a mind that was clogged with debris. Eventually, he said in a wheedling tone, ‘Where ’m I supposed to go?’
Lambert shrugged. ‘I don’t care. Suit yourself.’
‘I live here. You can’t make me leave if I don’t wanna.’
‘Look, son, why don’t you go to the pub? There’s one just round the corner. Just so I can have a word with Rhys.’
‘What d’you wanna talk to me about?’ Rhys Lloyd asked.
‘I’m investigating your mother’s death. So I just want to ask you a few questions.’
Suddenly, Rhys Lloyd’s face crumpled, and he swayed for a moment before collapsing into a tattered easy chair. One small tear trickled from an eye and he dropped his head, almost shamefully, on to his chest. His friend shuffled uncomfortably, trying to look suitably concerned.
Lambert delved into his back pocket for his wallet, took out a £10 note and handed it to the driver. ‘Go and get yourself a few beers.’
The young man’s eyes lit up greedily. ‘See you later, Rhys,’ he mumbled as he snatched the note before hotfooting it out the door.
‘So much for loyalty and friendship,’ Lambert sighed.
With the flat of his hand, Rhys Lloyd wiped the single tear from his cheek and looked up at Lambert. ‘So what sort of questions d’you wanna ask?’
Lambert looked around the spartan room for another seat, spotted a black metal folding chair lying on the floor under the window, brought it over to within a few feet of Rhys Lloyd, squeaked it open, sat down and made eye contact with him.
Now that Lambert had a chance to study him, he could see that he was quite good-looking, in an effeminate way. He had a pasty complexion and perfectly formed delicate features, with sensual lips and shoulder-length hair, giving the impression of a tortured poet who ought to be dressed in a flamboyant style of swinging sixties velvet, instead of the conventional suit he had obviously been kitted out with for the funeral at the insistence of his father.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ Lambert began. ‘Were you and she very close?’
‘I guess. Although it was Angharad who always …’
The young man stopped, finding the memories painful. Guilt probably pounded away at his emotions, telling him he’d been too self-absorbed to get to know his mother before it was too late.
Lambert knew this questioning was going to be tricky and kept his voice soft and neutral. ‘Did your mother and father get on well?’
Rhys Lloyd looked him straight in the eye and Lambert knew there was an intelligence there which you didn’t get from a first impression. And, as soon as the young man spoke, Lambert knew he was right and this could be tricky.
‘I hope you’re not going to suggest Dad killed my mother.’
Lambert let his breath out slowly. ‘No, of course not. But I need to get as much background as possible.’
‘Bollocks! Why would you ask if my parents got on well if you weren’t looking for a reason for my father to kill my mam?’
‘Let me explain about police work, Rhys. It can sometimes be quite laborious and it often means we have to eliminate people from our enquiries….’
The young man clenched his fists angrily. ‘Don’t patronize me. I’ve seen enough poxy cop shows on TV to know how that works. So why d’you want to know about Mam and Dad’s rows?’
‘Oh, so there were rows, were there?’
Caught out, Rhys Lloyd blustered, ‘Look, what … what d’you want me to say? Mam and Dad had an occasional row, so he must have killed her? Most people have rows. Angharad and I used to fight all the time … like cat and dog. You don’t kill someone if you have a row. Get fucking real, man.’
Eyes blazing, Rhys Lloyd stared defiantly at Lambert.
Lambert made a calming gesture with his hands. ‘Listen to me, Rhys. I’m not suggesting or even going down that route of suspecting your father. But both your parents knew many people who visited their house. The funeral today was jam packed with all kinds of people. And I’m certain most of the mourners came to give their sincere condolences to your father and to pay their respects to your mother. But there may have been a regular visitor to their house who perhaps might not have attended the funeral. I just want to know if you can think of anything unusual you can recall when you were at home.’
‘I was never there very much.’
Lambert cast his eyes pointedly around the scruffy flat. ‘You traded a nice home like that for this.’
‘I’m twenty-two years old, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Yes, I understand that. You wanted your own life. So what made you leave?’
The son fell into a moody silence, and Lambert thought he wasn’t going to answer. But when he looked into the detective’s eyes again, they were vulnerable, as if he wanted to unburden himself.
‘I was embarrassed. It used to make me cringe.’
‘What did?’
‘The way Mam used to speak to Dad sometimes.’
‘You mean she henpecked him?’
The young man nodded slowly. ‘It was usually over money. And if Dad had a great idea for a TV series or a project, Mam used to destroy it. It made me so angry sometimes, I … I couldn’t stand it any more, so I left.’
Gently now, Lambert said, ‘I’m trying to find out, Rhys, if there were any unusual visitors to the house.’
‘There were always loads of visitors. I don’t know about unusual.’
‘Any odd phone calls?’
Rhys Lloyd thought for a while, frowning. ‘There was a peculiar phone call from this woman which Dad was angry about. I heard him asking her not to call him at the house again.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About a month ago. I’d gone home to stay the weekend and that was when she rang.’
‘Any idea who it might have been?’
‘I know exactly who it was.’
Lambert leaned forward, poised and waiting for the information, aware that the young man was indulging in dramatic effect.
‘It was his mother.’
Lambert frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why was that so unusual, his mother ringing him?’
‘Because we didn’t know his mother was still alive.’
‘So this woman – your grandmother – had he fallen out with her years ago?’
‘Yes. No.’ Rhys Lloyd shrugged. ‘I don’t know. All I know is, all the time we were growing up, Dad led us to believe his parents were dead.’
‘Let me get this straight. When your father spoke to his mother, if he had lied all those years about her being dead, why did he suddenly own up to her still being alive? He could have said it was someone else on the phone.’
‘No, he couldn’t. Because I was the one who answered the phone. At first I didn’t have a clue who she was. She sounded pissed, slurring her words. Then she said she wanted to speak to her son.’
‘So what happened after that?’
‘That’s when Dad became angry, and told her never to call the house again. Mam heard him, and wanted to know who it was. So I told her it was Dad’s mother and she was shocked, wanting to know why he’d kept quiet about her for all these years. He said it was because she was an alcoholic and he was ashamed of her. I told Mam she had sounded drunk on the phone, and Dad explained what it was like growing up with an alcoholic. Mam said she’d still like to meet her, seeing as she was family, like. But Dad said he’d never reveal where she lived. Mam kept arguing about it but he said it was better for everyone concerned if we kept his mother out of it.’
Lambert was intrigued by the son’s story. So what did it matter if his grandmother was an alcoholic? Why the secrecy? And why the hell was Gavin Lloyd so intent on keeping her out of his life?
Now he couldn’t wait to get back to Cockett to delve a little deeper into Gavin Lloyd’s past. Just a few more questions and he’d be finished.
‘Your father came from Newtown, I believe. Is that where his mother lives, d’you think?’
‘I expect so, only …’ Rhys Lloyd hesitated, a puzzled frown like scars on his forehead.
‘Only what?’
‘She didn’t sound as if she came from Wales.’
‘You mean she had a different accent? What did it sound like?’
‘I don’t know. Like someone in EastEnders.’
‘A Londoner?’
‘Sounded like it. Because she’d been drinking, it was hard to tell. Anyway, what’s this got to do with the burglary and whoever killed my mother?’
‘Sometimes things hidden in a person’s past …’
‘Like the grandmother I’ve never known, you mean?’
Lambert nodded. ‘You have another grandmother, don’t you? Was she at the funeral today?’
‘Not much point. She’s got Alzheimer’s. Dad went round and tried to explain about Mam, but I don’t think she understood. Dad’s been very good to her; he goes round there all the time.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘House in Porthkerry, not far from the airport.’
‘Is there anything else you can remember from when you went back home? Any other strange phone calls or visitors?’
Rhys Lloyd thought about it and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, why are you asking me about all this? Shouldn’t you be talking to my father?’
‘Bit too soon after the funeral.’
‘Didn’t stop you talking to me, though, did it?’
‘I think your father’s going to be tied up for a while at the post funeral tea. Any reason you didn’t attend?’
‘Most of the people will be using it as a kind of reunion, or an excuse to … I can’t think of the word.’
‘Network?’ Lambert suggested.
‘Yeah,’ Rhys Lloyd said bitterly. ‘It’ll be a networking opportunity for most of them. I think it’d freak me out if I went.’
Lambert stood up. ‘I’m sorry for your tragic loss, Rhys. If you’ll excuse me—’
Rhys Lloyd looked up knowingly. ‘So what have I told you? Bugger all, except that my father’s mother is still alive. How will that help you to catch whoever it was who killed my mother?’
‘It won’t.’ Lambert said. ‘But often police investigations take us down blind alleys—’
Rhys Lloyd broke in, venom in his expression. ‘I hope you get the bastard who did it. And I hope they …’
Unable to think of a punishment appropriate enough to fit the crime, Rhys Lloyd began sobbing quietly. There was nothing Lambert could do or say to relieve his affliction, so he walked quietly to the door and let himself out.
Lambert parked near The Mountain Dew, picked up the folder that lay on the passenger seat and checked his watch. Another ten or fifteen minutes and Tony Ellis would be with him. He was visiting Sharon, who had to go into hospital early for observation because she was slightly anaemic.
As it was half seven on a Tuesday, the pub was fairly quiet, just the usual tea time regulars, who interrupted conversations to greet Lambert. Most of them knew what he did for a living, and he could tell by their eager expressions, that they would be keen to bring the conversation around to the gruesome spate of murders. But Lambert wasn’t in the mood for conversations about bringing back hanging, throwing away the key, or castration for sex offenders, so he took his pint and sat some distance from the bar. Besides, he needed to brief Tony Ellis about his role for tomorrow.
He sipped his pint of bitter, thinking about Randall Morris, who was still in police custody. Since a photograph and details of the wrecking bar that was purchased in Llanelli had been published in all the South Wales newspapers and several national dailies, two local Llanelli people had come forward with information. The trouble was, neither of their descriptions tallied. One of them said short and fat and the other thought the man was of average height, dark haired and thin. Randall Morris was tall with a shock of wild red hair.
The only way to settle it was to put Morris on an identity parade. But since the more recent evidence had come to light, Lambert thought it could wait another day. And he was hoping that by tomorrow it wouldn’t be necessary.
He downed his pint, and was at the bar getting a refill when Ellis arrived.
‘I timed that well,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the same.’
As soon as they were seated with their pints, Lambert asked Ellis about his wife.
‘Sharon’s fine. She’s in good hands. I took her in a bar of dark chocolate and a small can of Guinness to boost her iron levels.’
‘I thought pregnant women were not supposed to have alcohol.’
‘They’re not. But one small Guinness won’t do any harm, and the benefits of the iron’ll counteract the small amount of alcohol.’
Lambert patted the folder on the table beside him. ‘Tony, before I give you details of where this investigation heads now, I want you to promise me if Sharon goes into labour, you’ll be there. Don’t think twice about interrupting the investigation. Feel confident about delegating. I think you’ll find Debbie more than capable.’
‘What about Kevin?’
Knowing what Ellis was driving at, Lambert smiled. ‘He’s improving with age. So I think you can trust them both if you’re called away.’
‘Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate that. But why aren’t you heading the investigation?’
‘I still am. But tomorrow I’m having an away day.’
Lambert opened the folder, took out an A4 sheet of paper, and said, ‘Down to business,’ as he handed it to Ellis.
Ellis read from the paper, his eyes widening, while Lambert watched him, waiting for his reaction. As soon as Ellis looked up and made eye contact, Lambert said, ‘He reinvented himself. There’s no such person as Gavin Lloyd. Not the one we know, anyway. His name was Keith Hilden, born and bred in London’s East End, and changed his name by deed poll back in 1983. The man is a phoney; a social-climbing, opportunistic liar who has even managed to fool his own family all these years.’
Ellis pursed his lips as if to make a whistling sound, but stopped himself. ‘So he’s managed to keep his past buried for more than twenty-five years.’
‘Up until now.’ Lambert handed Ellis the folder. ‘In there you’ll find instructions for what needs to be checked tomorrow.’
Ellis opened the folder, took out sheets of A4 and read the instructions. ‘Yes, I see where you’re going with this. What about the chief super?’
‘Up until today he still thought Rhiannon Lloyd’s murder was a separate incident.’
‘What’s changed his mind?’
‘When I presented him with the evidence about Keith Hilden’s quarter of a century alias, he reluctantly agreed to my suggestions, even though he was stuffed full of the man’s sausage rolls and sherry at the time. But if all this proves to be groundless …’ Lambert waved a hand at the sheets of A4. ‘And if I come back empty-handed tomorrow, he’s going to want my head on a plate.’
‘What about the gun that killed Rhiannon Lloyd?’
‘They think it was a Smith and Wesson .38.’
Ellis raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. A revolver rather than an automatic is far less likely to jam. And there’s no automatic ejection of cartridges. So it could have been a professional hit.’
‘We can’t rule that out,’ Lambert said.
Ellis glanced at the sheet of instructions again and a glint came into his eye. ‘So far it’s been a shitty week, but now I feel confident. Tomorrow’s the day for results. I just know it.’
Lambert chuckled. ‘You’re bound to say that, Tony, because you’re so close to being a father, so I don’t think it’s entirely to do with the investigation.’ Ellis opened his mouth to protest but Lambert continued. ‘Not that I blame you. You’re the one that’s embarking on an exciting journey.’ Lambert gave Ellis a lopsided grin. ‘Mind you, I don’t envy you the journey through the teenage years.’
‘And what about your journey, Harry?’
‘Literal or metaphorical?’
‘Your away day to London tomorrow.’
The smile suddenly vanished from Lambert’s face. ‘I think that’s where the truth lies buried. In Gavin Lloyd’s past. And I think his mother may shed some interesting light on it.’
‘His mother?’
‘Yes, I didn’t tell you, did I? Not only has he kept quiet about his change of name, when he cunningly reinvented himself, but even his family knew nothing about his dear mother, alive and well and still living in east London.’
‘Ashamed of her, you think?’
‘Well, she sounds like she might have a serious drink problem. But something tells me he had another reason for reinventing himself and starting a new life here in Wales.’
Ellis glanced at his watch. Lambert could see he was on tenterhooks, his mind torn between thoughts and worries of the impending birth and wanting a resolution to the horrendous spate of murders.
Nervously, Ellis excused himself and went to the Gents, leaving Lambert to chew on his own troubled thoughts. His last remark to Tony Ellis about Gavin Lloyd having reinvented himself reminded him of his sister, starting again in another country to escape a distressing past.
But as Lambert knew, escape is never truly possible. His own past was a constant reminder of something he wanted to banish from his mind, but was always there to haunt him, a ghost of regret.