THE SEMI-DETACHED house was identical to the others in the street in an area that was well behaved and insipid, and light years way from civilization, unless the most welcoming pub in the British Isles was just round the next corner. Lambert doubted it. The district was a secure enclave, where the natives only ventured out into the world at large from necessity, and rarely at night.
He thought he saw the net curtain twitch as he walked up the path, and when he rang the doorbell, the door opened almost immediately, as if they were looking out for him.
‘Mr Farleigh?’
The retired teacher smiled and offered his hand. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Detective Inspector Lambert, isn’t it?’
He was ruddy complexioned, and looked as if he’d walked out of a joke shop wearing a disguise of a ragged moustache, thick black-framed glasses and a bulbous nose. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a slight stoop, as if he suffered from back trouble.
Standing behind him, his wife, ample busted and wearing a smart twin-set as though she had dressed especially for his visit, beamed at Lambert, and he got the impression they were both excited about being interviewed by a detective. She had one of the biggest busts he had ever seen, and he wondered how she didn’t topple over. He was introduced to her before being ushered into the front room; a room so tidy it would have been a sacrilege to leave a newspaper on the floor near your chair. Lambert stared at the walls as he entered, which were festooned with framed watercolours.
‘Rita’s the artist,’ the ex-teacher explained. ‘I keep telling her she should hold an exhibition.’
Mrs Farleigh blushed shyly and quickly changed the subject with an offer of coffee. Then, seeing Lambert hesitate, she gave a nod in her husband’s direction and said, ‘I can make some fresh. Don likes a good strong cup.’
Lambert smiled at her. ‘I’d love some. Thank you.’
She shuffled out to make the coffee as Lambert and Farleigh sank into easy chairs.
‘You wanted to talk to me about one of my pupils,’ Farleigh said. ‘Only I’ve been retired for eighteen years now. I’m seventy-eight, you know.’
‘You certainly don’t look anywhere near that,’ Lambert lied as he unzipped his document case. ‘I hope you have a good memory, Mr Farleigh. The boy I want to talk to you about would have been at your school somewhere in the mid seventies.’
‘Well, I can’t promise I’ll remember someone that far back, but you never know.’
‘The boy’s name was Keith Hilden. Ring any bells?’
Farleigh tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling. ‘It does vaguely. I’m trying to picture him but …’
Lambert slid a photograph out of his case, leant across and handed it to Farleigh. ‘This is him in his mid forties. His hair would have been dark then.’
Farleigh stared at the photograph for a long while, biting his lip. He seemed tense, and Lambert realized he was afraid of letting him down.
His wife entered and said, ‘Coffee’s just started to filter through,’ and hovered in the doorway, clearly afraid to miss out on whatever Lambert was investigating.
Her husband turned to her and said, ‘The inspector wants to know about a boy in our school, going back to the seventies. This is a recent photo of him. The chap’s face seems vaguely familiar but …’ He shrugged helplessly.
‘Why, if you don’t mind me asking,’ his wife said, ‘are you investigating this man from when he was a boy? It’s a long time ago.’
Lambert gave her a vague answer. ‘He’s part of an ongoing investigation.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Farleigh exclaimed. ‘I don’t think he wants to tell us, Don.’ She laughed to show she was joking, but Lambert could see she was irked by his noncommittal reply. Needing her husband’s cooperation, he decided he’d offer her a bit more information.
‘Keith Hilden has disappeared. And we’re trying to trace him.’
Which was true in a way. The boy had vanished years ago and become someone else.
Mollified by his answer, she excused herself to fetch the coffee.
‘Still no luck?’ Lambert asked.
Farleigh stared at the picture, frowning and concentrating before shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I just can’t place him. Name’s familiar, though.’
And then, on a sudden impulse, Lambert removed Lloyd’s driver’s photograph from the document case and handed it to Farleigh. ‘Have a look at that. See if his face means anything to you.’
It was a long shot. He hadn’t considered this before. But now it made sense. Perhaps Lloyd and his driver went back a long way, back as far as their schooldays. And what if Jack Collier wasn’t his real name?
Farleigh stared closely at the photograph. ‘What’s this chap’s name?’
Lambert hesitated. He was reluctant to give Farleigh a name that might be false. Instead, he said, ‘We don’t know. We think he’s a criminal associate of Keith Hilden.’
Suddenly, the air was electric as Farleigh, eyes gleaming with excitement, sat up straight and tapped the photograph with the back of his fingers.
‘I know this chap, and he was a friend of Keith Hilden’s. Yes, yes, it’s all coming back to me now. Con O’Sullivan. I’m sure this is Con O’Sullivan.’
‘How is it you can remember this man so clearly?’
‘Because we were always talking about him at school; we were worried about him. We thought he might have been abused at home.’
It was Lambert’s turn to sit up straight. ‘Why d’you think he might have been abused?’
‘He was always withdrawn. Hardly spoke to anyone. There was obviously something going on at home.’
‘When you say at home …’ Lambert began.
‘His father,’ Farleigh explained excitedly. ‘We think his father abused him. He was being brought up by his unemployed father.’
‘And you say Hilden was his friend?’
Farleigh nodded. ‘Yes, I remember the other chap clearly now I can lump them together. He was a bright lad, Hilden. And none of us ever understood what a bright kid like him saw in O’Sullivan, who was always so sullen.’
‘Perhaps he liked to have someone he could manipulate,’ Lambert suggested.
‘Yes, I’m sure there was an element of that in it.’
Mrs Farleigh pushed a hideous gilt tea trolley into the room. ‘Coffee’s ready,’ she said. ‘How are you getting on?’
Pleased with himself, Farleigh grinned at her. ‘I’ve remembered them.’
‘Oh good,’ his wife said, more interested in serving the coffee now. ‘Sugar, Inspector?’
‘No, thanks. And I’ll have it black.’
He waited for her to pour him a cup, and offer him a biscuit, which he declined, before turning his attention back to her husband.
‘If most of the teaching staff thought the boy was being abused, was anyone going to contact social services or do anything about it?’
‘Oh, we were just about to, but something happened.’
Farleigh’s eyes became distant as his mind scrolled back to 1975. Waiting for him to continue, Lambert’s breathing became shallow and tremulous, as though he was poised on the edge of a cliff.
‘So what happened, Mr Farleigh?’
‘His father was murdered.’
Lambert was aware of the heavy silence in the room, apart from the faint clink from the crockery in his hand.
‘Can you remember any of the details? Who killed him or anything like that?’
‘I think it was a burglary. He was robbed, I think. I don’t know any of the details.’
‘And what happened to Con O’Sullivan after that?’
‘He was taken into care, until they found him a foster home in the same area.’
‘And did he stay on at your school?’
‘Yes, and after his father had gone, he seemed to improve – marginally. So naturally all the staff thought they’d been right about the abuse.’
‘And did he remain friends with Keith Hilden?’
Farleigh screwed his face up as he tried to recall. ‘I think so. Yes, I really think he did.’
Sitting on the edge of his seat now, Lambert stared at Farleigh, hoping he could answer the key question.
‘Mr Farleigh, I know you probably don’t remember details of the burglary and the murder, but have you any idea how his father was killed?’
Farleigh clicked his cup down positively in its saucer. ‘Oh, I can remember that all right. He was bludgeoned to death – with some sort of metal bar.’
When DC Jones arrived back at the incident room, Wallace had his back to her, spooning instant coffee into a cup. He glanced over his shoulder and didn’t notice how badly she was limping.
‘You timed that right,’ he said. ‘Kettle’s just boiled. Tea or coffee?’
‘They say you should drink strong sweet tea after a shock, but I’m not going to start drinking it with sugar now.’
That got his attention. Turning to face her, he asked, ‘Why? What’s happened?’
Groaning, she limped over to a chair near a desk. ‘Sprained my bloody ankle, that’s what’s happened. Make me a tea no sugar, will you? I’ve just got to check something online, then bring your coffee over and I’ll tell you all about it.’
She moved the computer mouse and waited while the screen reignited. She knew Flybe was the main carrier from Cardiff to Edinburgh, went straight to their website and typed in tomorrow’s date for a single journey to Edinburgh. It came up with several scheduled flights, and the latest one left at 8 p.m.
‘Bingo!’ she cried. ‘Got you, you bastard!’
Wallace brought their drinks over, and she told him what had happened at the old lady’s house, ending the account with her idea of how Lloyd could have murdered his wife before flying to Edinburgh to be met by his driver, which would explain why he wanted to make certain the staff at the hotel remembered him.
Impulsively, Wallace stood up and said, ‘I’ll get to the airport right away and get the CCTV checked for that evening.’ He rummaged in one of the folders on the desk for a photograph of Gavin Lloyd. ‘I’ll take this as well, and see if someone can ID him.’
‘Why don’t we both go?’
‘I think you need to see First Aid and get that ankle seen to. I can probably get a copy of the CCTV on disk and we can both go through it here.’
As DC Wallace hurried to the door, Jones clicked her fingers as an idea struck her. ‘Hang on, Kevin! You might not need the CCTV. He still holds a driving licence in the name of Keith Hilden, remember. He could have booked his ticket in that name, and if ID was required going through security, his photo driving licence would have been acceptable.’
Wallace grinned at her. ‘You’re not just a pretty face. Thanks, Debbie.’
‘Not so fast, Kevin! You might need this.’
He came back into the room as she delved into her handbag for her notebook, scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the registration number of a red Vauxhall Nova. You might try looking for it in the long stay car park.’
Wallace pulled a long face. ‘Thanks a bundle. I take that back about the pretty face.’
As soon as he’d left, DC Jones moved her left ankle in a circle to test how painful it was. She winced. Now that the excitement had died down, the pain was back with a vengeance. She started to rise, bracing herself for the walk to First Aid, when her mobile rang. She sat down again and grabbed it from her handbag.
It was DI Lambert, wanting to know what had happened at Mrs Parry’s house. She repeated her story, ending with her theory about the possible air travel to Edinburgh.
‘Christ! How come none of us thought of that sooner?’ he groaned.
‘It was a conjuring trick,’ she replied. ‘I believe it’s called misdirection. He drew attention to himself with his bad behaviour, at the petrol station in Cardiff and at the hotel, fooling us into thinking he really had been driven to Edinburgh, and letting us think he employed a professional killer, knowing we’d never find anyone, because that person doesn’t exist.’
‘Well done, Debbie. Good work. You know, something tells me you could be right, and Kevin will find that Hilden was booked on that flight to Edinburgh. Fingers crossed that’s what happened. Now you need to get that ankle seen to. But if you can delay that just a minute longer, there’s something I’d like you to do.’
He told her about what he’d learnt from Mr Farleigh, the retired schoolteacher, and asked her to contact the Metropolitan Police to find out about the father’s unsolved murder, and see if she could find out who worked on the case, even though it was thirty-five years ago.
‘Harry!’ she called, as he was about to hang up.
‘What?’
‘Mind if I ask you something?’
‘Go on,’ he answered.
‘Earlier on, Kevin found out the London flat of Green Valley Productions was the address for Mark Yalding’s credit card. And at least ten days ago, as we were going to meet Rhiannon Lloyd at that pub, you said how easy it was to learn my mother’s maiden name. So you must have had some idea back then of how Mark Yalding’s card was obtained.’
‘But that’s all it was then, Debbie – a vague idea; a hunch.’
‘Still, it’s one that’s paid off. Just like you must have had some sort of idea of what I might find in Mrs Parry’s garage.’
‘I was hoping you might find the car.’
‘We still might. Kevin’s going to search the long stay car park at the airport.’
‘Good. But now let’s hope you can find me one of the officers who investigated the death of Con O’Sullivan’s father.’
‘I’ll get straight on to it and call you back.’
Less than an hour later, Lambert got off the District Line at Embankment, and had just stepped out into Villiers Street when his mobile alerted him to a text message from DC Jones, asking him to call her. He turned into the Victoria Embankment Gardens, walked past the bandstand, found an empty bench to sit on, and called her back.
‘Hi, Harry,’ she greeted him. ‘Where have you been? I tried to get hold of you ten minutes ago.’
‘I was on the underground train. I’m in central London. Any joy with the Met officers?’
‘The DI on the case died of a heart attack in 1990, and the detective sergeant now lives in Canada. But there was a Detective Constable Martin Dyson, who retired five years ago and is still around. I’ve got his phone number and address for you.’
When she finished reading it out, Harry said, ‘Shit! Big mistake!’
‘What is?’
‘He lives in Barking, Essex. I thought by coming into central London I could branch out in any direction, to any one of the hundreds of districts. And what happens? Barking’s not that far from Hornchurch and I’ve just come from there.’
He heard her stifle a giggle. ‘Oh well, at least you’ve got a good transport system where you are.’
‘Yes, and I’m helping to pay for it. Any news from Kevin at the airport?’
‘I was just coming to that. Kevin phoned fifteen minutes ago to confirm that Keith Hilden was on the passenger list for the eight o’clock flight to Edinburgh on the night his wife was murdered. He paid cash for his ticket early that morning, and two of the Flybe ground staff identified him from his photo. It looks like we’ve got enough evidence for an immediate arrest, Harry.’
‘Except that Clive Marden wants it all done up in a neat package with pink ribbons to hand to the CPS. Don’t worry, by this time tomorrow, we’ll have that bastard behind bars. Did you get that ankle seen to?’
‘I’m just about to hobble over to First Aid.’
‘Good work, Debbie. I’ll ring you later when I have some news.’
After ending the call, Lambert immediately tried the retired Metropolitan police officer, but got an answering machine giving a mobile number. He made a note of the number and rang it. It was answered after a couple of rings, and judging by the background noise, Martin Dyson was speaking from somewhere crowded like a shopping centre. The ex-police officer had difficulty hearing, but managed to explain to Lambert that he worked as a security guard at Lakeside Shopping Centre and wouldn’t be home until seven. But he would be quite happy to speak to him then.
With some reluctance, Lambert agreed and disconnected the call. It was just gone three, and he had almost four hours to kill.
At least now he had time to eat a proper meal.
Martin Dyson lived in a small, cramped, untidy flat. The walls were dotted with framed photographs of children at varying stages of growing up, and Lambert guessed he was divorced, saw his children once in a while, and spent his nights down at his local, adding even more weight to his enormous midriff. His face was damp with perspiration and his hair was dark and slicked back with a middle parting. He was still wearing a brown security uniform, with an American cop-style badge on the lapel, and there were dark sweat patches under his arms.
‘Why do you want to know about a crime going back thirty-five years?’ he asked.
‘It was an unsolved crime,’ Lambert said. ‘Do you remember a man called Frank O’Sullivan who was murdered in the docklands? He had a young son of thirteen – Con O’Sullivan.’
Dyson stared down at the carpet. ‘Let’s see now,’ he began. ‘O’Sullivan … O’Sullivan.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Oh yeah, now I remember. That was the guy who was bashed on the head.’
‘Could you tell me what happened?’
Dyson smirked as if digging up an old case was trivial. ‘The guy left the door on the latch for his son. But he had a visit from an opportunistic burglar who beat him over the head with a heavy instrument. His wallet was found a few streets away with no money in it.’
‘And did you and the other investigating officers accept robbery as a motive, Mr Dyson?’
‘Please! Call me Martin.’
‘Martin.’
Dyson hesitated, and Lambert could see his reluctance to answer the question straightaway. Eventually, he exhaled noisily and said, ‘Although I was one of the officers, I was a rookie. Most of the investigation was carried out by DS Jimmy Lennon.’
‘What about the DI on the case?’
‘There was a lot going on at the time. So he left most of the investigation to Jimmy.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘The son did. He stayed the night at his mate’s house, went to school the next day, and discovered the body when he got home.’
‘Was he interviewed soon afterwards?’
‘Well, at first he was traumatized. In a state of shock. When we did eventually get round to talking to him he told us he spent the night at his friend’s house watching TV.’
‘And did you check that?’
Dyson suddenly bristled with indignation. ‘What do you take us for? Yeah, of course we checked.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lambert said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply your investigation was anything but thorough.’
‘We questioned his friend, and his friend’s mother. She was in the pub most of the night, but she remembered they were there when she got home. And she remembered them both going off to school the next morning.’
‘Can you describe the murder weapon for me?’
Dyson frowned deeply, unnerved by Lambert’s change of thought.
‘A murder weapon was never found.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as strange?’
‘Not really. The killer could have disposed of it by throwing it in the Thames. The river weren’t far from O’Sullivan’s house.’
‘Whereabouts was his friend’s house?’
Dyson jerked a thumb at one of the walls, as if the building was nearby. ‘That site was redeveloped. I think it’s a big Asda supermarket now.’
‘I mean, how far away from each other did they live?’
‘Oh, less than a quarter of a mile, I’d say.’
‘And you visited the Hilden house, did you?’
‘Yeah, it’s funny, I can remember their house quite clearly. It was an old house – Victorian, probably – and part of the front garden had been paved over, and there was an old Hillman Hunter outside, a real old rust bucket. No tax, but it was parked off the road. Jimmy asked the mother if she had the keys, but she said they’d got lost over the years. She was a widow, and the car used to belong to her husband.’
‘Did you search the house?’
‘Yeah, we had a quick shufti but we never found nothing.’
‘Did you speak to Con O’Sullivan’s teachers?’
The question caught Dyson by surprise, and Lambert saw the guarded look in his eyes, like a shutter rolling down. After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘I didn’t speak to any of the teachers. But I think Jimmy did. I was busy doing door-to-door with some uniforms to see if anyone spotted anything that night.’
‘And did the sergeant tell you what the teachers told him?’
Dyson shrugged. ‘Nothing very much, I don’t think.’
Lambert feigned surprise. ‘Didn’t the sergeant tell you about the possible sex abuse Con O’Sullivan may have suffered from his father?’
Dyson found a small threadbare spot on the arm of his easy chair, and examined it. ‘I don’t think he did,’ he muttered. ‘If he did, I don’t remember.’
Lambert snorted. ‘Oh, come on, Martin. The teachers were about to call social services. They would have done had the father not been murdered. And if the boy was being abused, doesn’t that give him a motive? He’d have been a specific suspect.’
‘We found no evidence linking him to the murder. So Jimmy was convinced it was a burglary gone wrong. And DI Grant backed him up.’
Lambert stared pointedly at a portrait of a primary schoolgirl in a blue gingham blouse, smiling sweetly to camera. ‘You’re a family man, I see.’
Dyson scowled with suspicion. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I just think it’s commendable to love one’s children. There’s something spiritual about that sort of love.’
Dyson’s scowl uncoiled and he nodded his agreement. ‘Although the missus and I split up about eighteen years ago, and the children are grown up now, I still see them regularly. I’ve got a good relationship with them.’
‘And what about DS Lennon? Was he a family man, too?’
‘He was devoted to his kiddies. Do anything for them.’
‘So when he suspected O’Sullivan was seriously abusing young Con, he didn’t look too hard for evidence linking the son to his father’s murder.’
Dyson’s face darkened and he lumbered to his feet. ‘I think I can safely say this interview’s over.’
Lambert also stood up. ‘That’s OK, Martin. You’ve told me everything I need to know.’
Dyson moved a step forward, his chin jutting forward confrontationally. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something else for nothing: if it turns out that Con O’Sullivan’s been killing those paedophiles in South Wales, I hope he finishes the job and gets away with it.’
Lambert smiled thinly. ‘How did you know?’
‘You don’t have to be Einstein to work that one out. It’s still in the news, and you sound like a Taff.’ Dyson glanced at his watch. ‘Now if you don’t mind – it’s pub quiz night.’
As he swung open the flat door, Lambert thanked him and started to exit.
‘Me an’ a mate went on holiday to Wales a couple of years back,’ Dyson said, and Lambert noticed a malicious glint in his eye as he turned to face him. ‘Would have been all right if it weren’t for all them Taffs. Fucking sheep shaggers, the lot of them.’
‘I’ve never heard that before,’ Lambert said, but the door had already slammed in his face.