Just past the factory, the road angled up at almost forty-five degrees, climbing out of the valley bottom to the green heights five hundred feet above, where his bird-watching retreat lay beyond the last houses and then the allotments.
This Wednesday, the day after his wife had been carried out feet first by Caradoc Builders and Undertakers, Lewis Lloyd drew back the bolts on the doors to the Public Bar on the dot of twelve. He did this every day, closing up at three and opening again from six until eleven.
Yesterday was an exception, not because of overwhelming grief, but because he had had to go down to the coroner’s office and the undertaker’s to sign forms, which threw his usual routine out of kilter. The loss of his wife made little difference to his staffing problems, as Rita rarely appeared in the bar, except when she wanted a fresh bottle of gin or when the fancy took her for a flirtatious gossip with some of the less geriatric patrons.
At lunch times, Sharon, a fat adenoidal girl from Mafeking Street, helped behind the bar, mainly employed in inserting a lettuce leaf and a slice of reconstituted ham into bread rolls. She also removed the cellophane from cloned Cornish pasties and popped them into the microwave, to satiate the appetites of the workers from Panda Plastics. On alternate evenings, the gloomy mahogany bar was manned by either Wayne or Alvis. The first of these two young men was a deserter from the Army, the other on bail awaiting trial for burglary.
With the doors opened, the landlord walked across the cavernous room, its half-panelled walls and ceiling yellowed with decades of cigarette smoke. He sat on a stool at the end of the bar, next to the hinged panel that gave access to the serving area and his sitting room and kitchen beyond. Picking up the Western Mail, he began reading the sports pages, ignoring the sympathetic looks from Sharon, who having been nurtured on television soap-operas from the age of three, was convinced that his nonchalant manner concealed abject grief. In fact, Lewis’s mind was not on the current aberrations of the Welsh Rugby Union, but was busy reviewing the likely consequences of his recent homicidal behaviour.
Jim Armstrong, the coroner’s officer, had offered nothing more than gruff sympathy and efficient form-filling, when he had gone down to the police station to give him details about his lately deceased wife. Then he had phoned Lloyd about an hour ago, to tell him that there had been a hitch in the proceedings and that he should not make any arrangements for the funeral until he heard again from the coroner’s office. For form’s sake, the publican tried to sound concerned and asked what the problem was, but the officer was evasive.
From previous less serious brushes with the law and from some research in the Public Library at Porth, he was aware of what would be the likely sequence of events. The post-mortem would show nothing and there would most probably be an adjournment of an inquest until further futile tests were done. With luck, the coroner would then throw in the towel, hold a resumed inquest with an “open” verdict and let burial go ahead. If he was less fortunate, the rozzers would come sniffing round, given that he had had some domestic trouble with Rita in the past. As long as he stonewalled them, there was nothing to fear, as they had absolutely nothing to go on, even though there was a large insurance policy riding on the death.
Though Lewis Lloyd was relatively uneducated, having left school at sixteen, he was intelligent and cunning and had worked out all the possible permutations of what may happen after he had done the deed. He had no remorse, as the drunken, unfaithful, vituperative Rita had it coming and all that now remained was to weather any stormy passages that might be in store.
There was only one aspect that Lloyd had been unable to factor into his equations – and that was because he had known nothing about the letter that his wife had sent the police.
Willy Williams parked the CID car in Mafeking Terrace an hour later and as they walked back to the drab building on the corner, Mordecai asked him what sort of chap this Lewis Lloyd was.
“Bloke about forty-five, ordinary enough, I suppose. Used to be on the railway, but got run over by an engine, still limps a bit. Had a nice bit of ‘compo’, so he bought the pub with it, they say. Mad keen on birds, he is – the feathered sort.”
“What’s all this with his missus, then?”
“Rita? Frizzy blonde, quite a looker in her time, but she got too fond of the bottle. Used to be a hairdresser, but I reckon she was too lazy to make anything of it.”
“So why would she marry a bird-watching wimp like Lloyd?”
“Probably the compensation he had-keep her in gin for life, that would! Though I hear the pub’s not doing too well these days, so Lloyd’s probably a bit skint.”
They reached the corner and Willy’s proffered curriculum vitae was curtailed as they pushed open the door of the pub. Inside the bar, an old man slumped in one corner, reading a racing paper. Half a dozen younger men and women were crowded round a couple of tables in the centre, chattering, drinking lager and eating Sharon’s offerings off paper plates.
A dark-haired man was sitting at the bar reading a newspaper, but when he saw Willy, he folded it up and came towards them.
“Mr Lloyd?” said Mordecai Evans, managing to make the simple words sound menacing.
Lewis nodded a greeting to Willy, who he had good cause to recognise and then nodded at the DI to agree that he was indeed Mr Lloyd.
“Detective Inspector Evans from Ponty,” grated Mordecai. “Can we go somewhere more private?”
In the gloomy back room, which had a worn three-piece suite, a dining table and a small television set, Lloyd motioned the police officers to sit and perched himself on the edge of a dining chair.
“This is just where we come when we’re serving in the bar,” he said apologetically. “Our proper living quarters are upstairs.”
Mordecai ran a finger round his thick neck, jammed into a tight collar. It was hot in here and he suddenly fancied one of his suspect’s pints.
“Your wife died yesterday, Mr Lloyd. I’m sorry to disturb you at a time like this, but we need to ask a few questions.” He didn’t sound in the least sorry, thought Willy.
“I found her dead in bed, officer. I can’t understand it, it was a terrible shock. She hadn’t been ill – at least, no more than usual.”
“What do you mean by that?” grunted the DI, suspiciously.
Lloyd’s rather swarthy face looked down at his fingernails. “Well, it’s no great secret round here that she was too fond of the sauce, if you get my meaning, especially living on licensed premises. Dr Battachirya warned her about it many times. He sent some tests away last year, but we didn’t hear any more.”
“But the doctor said he couldn’t give a certificate, so it couldn’t be that,” chipped in Willy.
“I don’t know, then,” replied Lloyd, shrugging his shoulders. “I expect the hospital will find something.”
“You had a conviction for assaulting her not long ago? What do you say to that?” demanded Mordecai, accusingly.
The publican’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “I don’t see why you bring that up! She wasn’t beaten to death, was she?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” snapped the detective. “Have you caused any further physical harm since then?”
Lloyd bridled at this. His indignation was genuine, as he knew perfectly well that Rita would not have so much as a scratch on her at the post-mortem.
“Of course not! And I resent you even suggesting such a thing.”
Unperturbed, Mordecai dipped into his pocket and brought out the plastic-covered letter, which he held out to Lloyd.
“Your wife handed this in to the police only a few days ago. What do you say to that?”
The publican had never played poker, but he might have been a great success at the game, for as he read the letter, his face betrayed none of the concern that flooded through him. Stupid bitch, he thought, what did she want to go and do this for, just before he saw her off! But confidence in his plan soon overcame the shock of her accusing him to the police. W
hatever they thought, nothing could ever be proved.
He handed the letter back to Mordecai. “She was hardly compos mentis much of the time, inspector. Tipsy most of the day. Emotional and dramatic, I think she imagined she lived in Coronation Street or Emmerdale!”
“What d’you mean by that?” snapped the inspector, suspiciously.
Lewis Lloyd shrugged and turned up his hands, continental-fashion.
“Out of touch with reality, I think they call it. She spent all her time accusing me of something, very often ranting and raving, usually about money. No wonder she drove me to giving her a slap now and then.”
Willy Williams decided to join the debate.
“Well, she tells the police she’s in fear of her life from you – and then turns up dead within a day or two. What about that?”
Lloyd turned a dead-pan face towards the sergeant. “What about it, then? You tell me what she died of? What makes you think I could have killed her?”
There was no answer to that and the two officers turned in some frustration to routine questions about where and when.
“She was found dead in bed, so where were you?” grated Mordecai.
“In the back bedroom, we hadn’t slept together for a couple of years,” said Lewis. “I might have caught something, she went with so many other blokes,” he added bitterly.
After a number of further questions and getting unrewarding answers, DI Evans got up and hovered menacingly over Lewis.
“I’m not satisfied, Mr Lloyd, so while we’re waiting for more information from the hospital, I’d like to search your premises. Do you consent or shall I have to get a warrant?”
“No, you carry on, lad!” said Lewis affably. “I’ve got nothing to hide, so help yourself!”
Willy tried to look menacing, but he didn’t have the face for it like Mordecai. “You’ve got a hut up the mountain, too, haven’t you?” he said.
The landlord nodded. “Just an old shanty, it used to be for the fitters at the top end of the slag hoist when the colliery was working. I rent it from a farmer now, somewhere to watch the birds from and get a bit of peace from Rita.”
“Well, we’ll want to search that too, so I’ll be sending some officers up here later today.”
With that feeble threat, the detectives marched out, leaving Lloyd to once again carefully review all his actions, to check that they had been foolproof.
The rest of the day saw a lot of action, with little result. After reporting back to his Detective-Superintendent at Headquarters in Bridgend, Mordecai Evans got his blessing to crank up the investigation and by mid-afternoon, a white Scenes-of-Crime van pulled up in Mafeking Street, followed by a Ford Focus carrying a civilian photographer. Three SOCOs delighted the gawping inhabitants of the street by ostentatiously standing at the back of their van to pull on their white paper suits and then trooping into the pub, carrying an assortment of metal cases.
Meanwhile, after a number of phone calls to the coroner and to the Forensic Pathology department in Cardiff, Mordecai and Willy made their way up to the new Abercynon General Hospital, a few miles away.
This was a large concrete edifice, looking like a grain-silo with windows. It had been built on the site of a former colliery and on the bulldozed slag at the back, the mortuary occupied the exact spot where the winding-house had once stood. The detectives found the consultant pathologist, Dr Archie Carlton, waiting for them in the little office, looking somewhat disgruntled. He was a thin, gangling man, with a lock of mousey hair flopping over his forehead and was a born pessimist.
“Don’t see why you want that Home Office chap coming up here,” he said peevishly. “I had a word with him on the phone, when he rang to say he was coming. If I say there’s nothing to be found, then no one else is going to be able to say anything different.”
After the usual ritual of cups of dark-brown tea being supplied by the mortuary attendant, Mordecai attempted to be diplomatic.
“It’s the coroner and my chief, doc. They insisted, as there’s some dodgy background to this death.” He explained the circumstances and managed to placate the hospital pathologist’s wounded pride before a screech of rubber on gravel outside heralded the arrival of Professor Peter Porteous from Cardiff.
The forensic pathologist was rather like a rubber ball on legs, a bouncy little man of fifty, with receding hair and a toothbrush moustache. He affected a yellow waistcoat and a drooping bow tie and was always in a hurry, inevitably having to be somewhere else before he even arrived.
Grabbing a mug of tea, he went straight into a discussion with Archie Carlton.
“Didn’t find a thing, eh?” he gabbled. “All the stuff gone off for histology and toxicology?”
The hospital doctor nodded mournfully. “Asked for everything, even insulin. Blood, urine, bile, stomach contents, CSF, vitreous fluid, the lot.”
“She was forty, I gather. No problem in her coronaries?”
“Clean as a whistle, could drive a bus down them. Normal sized heart, no pulmonary embolism, damn all.”
“She was bit cyanosed, you said on the phone?”
Carlton shrugged. “Just a bit blue round the lips by the time she got here. Nothing specific about that, no petechiae in the eyes or any other signs of asphyxia.”
Porteous nodded briskly. “Don’t believe in the signs of asphyxia myself. Lot of bullshit, used as an excuse by people who should know better.”
Mordecai decided to add his pennyworth. “She was a heavy drinker, professor. Rarely sober!”
Porteous took a mouthful of tea. “Liver look all right?” he asked Carlton.
“Touch of fat, nothing out of the way,” grunted the other pathologist.
“I’ve seen a few boozers throw a double-six with not much to show for it at post-mortem,” commented the forensic man. “But it’s a diagnosis of despair to suggest that.” He put his mug down and looked at his watch.
“Right, let’s get to it. I should have been in Swansea ten minutes ago.”
Five days after the second autopsy, Lewis Lloyd was sitting in his hut on the mountain, wondering what was happening to the investigation.
Both Willy Williams and Mordecai Evans had been back twice, first with another SOCO team to turn the pub over once again – and then to grill him once more. As there was nothing significant to be found or said, they went away with their tails between their legs, Mordecai again muttering empty threats.
Lewis sat in an old armchair, thinking over recent events. He blessed the foresight with which, soon after they were married, he had insured Rita for forty thousand pounds, being flush with his compensation money at the time. She had done her best to go through his windfall with her extravagance on clothes, drink and dubious “shopping trips” to Bristol and London, a thin cover for her numerous brief affairs. Now the money from the Prudential would come in very nicely to clear his debts and let him build a brand-new pigeon loft in the back-yard.
The thought of birds made him get up and scan the mountain-top for feathered friends, but the light was already failing. The autumn was well advanced and even at five in the afternoon, it was getting dusk. It was a poor time of year for bird-watchers and he decided to have a day off next Monday and drive up to Llangorse Lake to see what water-fowl were about. It was cold in the old hut and he contemplated lighting the stove for the first time since last Spring, but as he had to be back for opening time, it seemed hardly worth it, so he subsided into his chair again.
As he sat there wondering when they would release Rita’s body for the funeral, another conference was going on in the CID office in Pontypridd.
The coroner, his officer, and an inspector in charge of the SOCOs were crowded into Mordecai’s cluttered office, along with the DI and his sergeant.
“So what are we going to do about it, Mr Evans?” asked the coroner, with a cheery smile.
“We’re stumped, that’s what we are, sir,” growled Mordecai. “Can’t get a thing out of Lloyd, though my gut tells me the bugger
did it!”
“All the investigations have turned out negative,” put in Willy. “At least, unless you’ve got anything new?” He looked enquiringly at the SOCO.
Albert Whistler, a tall, grizzled man nearing retirement, shook his head.
“Sweet Fanny Adams, I’m afraid. We went over that pub with a fine-tooth-comb, as well as that hut up on the mountain.”
“Nothing at all?” queried David Mostyn, with a leer.
“She had no injuries, sir, so there would be no blood. We checked everywhere for poison containers or pills, but nothing but cough medicine and aspirin.”
Jimmy Armstrong, the coroner’s officer, waved a thin file of papers.
“We’ve had both post-mortem reports now, the one from Doctor Carlton and another from the Prof in Cardiff. No help at all.”
The coroner nodded. “I read them before I came across here, they both agree that there was no anatomical cause of death whatsoever. Heart, brain, lungs-everything all normal.”
“What about something like suffocation?” asked Mordecai, still grasping at straws.
“I spoke to Professor Porteous on the phone this morning,” said Mostyn. “He was very helpful, but of no help, if you know what I mean. He said there are some forms of suffocation which can leave no signs at all, but that’s just a negative finding, of no legal use whatsoever.”
The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries Page 63
