Each Man Kills

by David Barry

  Lambert sighed deeply. ‘Evans is no more insane than you or me. Anyway, we shall soon see. I’m off for some lunch. I’ll see you later, Tony.’

  Lambert turned away from Ellis and strode out of the court. Ellis, a little bit hurt that he had been dismissed so curtly, without so much as an offer to accompany his boss to what he guessed would be a pub lunch, stood rooted to the spot. He watched Lambert marching determinedly along the street, shoulders slightly hunched as though oppressed by the thunder clouds hanging over the city. After a while Ellis shook himself out of his sinking mood and decided he would go back to the Central Police Station and grab something to eat in the canteen.

  ***

  Although Lambert was aware of the way he had rejected Ellis’s expectation of a shared lunchtime, he felt a strong desire to be on his own and any self-reproach concerning his sergeant was soon set aside by a strong desire for a solitary indulgence in his own company. He bought a copy of the Times then walked the short distance to the Bank Statement, a Wetherspoons pub. Although it was lunchtime, the pub wasn’t overcrowded and he found an empty table with no trouble. He stood for a moment studying the menu, and subconsciously patted his stomach as he chose his dish - a chicken Caesar salad. He memorised the table number, then went to the counter to place his order and pay for it. Instead of beer, he asked for a large glass of Rioja.

  Once he was seated, he flicked through the newspaper without absorbing what he was reading. Then a news item of domestic abuse caught his eye, a story about a woman in Kent who having suffered years of domestic abuse by a jealous husband had vanished, and the police were treating it as suspicion of murder, even though they had no evidence other than the husband’s flimsy tale of his wife leaving him.

  Sipping his wine thoughtfully, Lambert’s thoughts drifted to his own loss, the recent death of his father. Did he mourn him? No way. His old man had bullied his mother unmercifully over the years. He never laid a hand on her, not until...

  Bullying bastard!

  Coming home from Bristol University for the summer that time, there was no disguising the bruising on his mother’s face.

  Who did it? Was it him? I’ll fucking kill him.

  Fear in his mother’s eyes. Knowing what her son was capable of doing. She tried to lie. Was she lying to protect her husband? No, on reflection, after the event, he realised she had lied badly, as if a part of her hoped he would hit his father.

  Then, the old man staggering back from the pub. Cocky sideways grin. Noticing the expression on his son’s face.

  What’s wrong, son?

  Face full of fear as he backs away. This is it! Payback time. Crash! The old man backed against the kitchen dresser. Crockery smashing. Shouting and swearing. Pummel the fat pig. Smash his face into a bloody mess. Instead, his hands squeeze the bastard’s throat. Squeezing tighter and tighter. Eyes bulging. Gasping. Choking. His mother intervenes, trying to pull him off. Afraid of how far he might go.

  But half choking his father to death had been enough. The old man was shit scared and became a parody of Uriah Heap after that. Up until a few years later when he went his own way and buggered off back to Port Talbot, the town where he was born and brought up.

  Lambert gritted his teeth as the bitter memories soured the taste of his wine. And there was the strange business of Angela, his sister.

  What happened, Angela? Why did you vanish out of our lives forever. When I was only 13-years-old.

  Lambert gulped the wine and shuddered. Angela, who was five years older than him, met a young man and they emigrated from the UK to Australia, bleaching out and burying the past as if it had never happened. Her family air-brushed out of their shared childhood.

  Why? What happened, Angela? What was the reason?

  Now he was lucky if he received a Christmas card from her. No birthday cards. Not ever. He doubted if she even knew the date. As far as she was concerned her family had ceased to exist. The Swansea part of her life was over and he knew nothing of her life in Australia.

  And why me, Angela? What did I ever do to hurt you? It was him, wasn’t it? That bullying bastard who laced our lives with bitterness.

  That was always Lambert’s niggling question, always there in a corner of his mind, ready to resurface when he experienced the frustrations of his job. Now, with his father dead and Angela living a new life as someone else, there would never be an answer. But try as he might to expel the ugly images from his mind, the disgusting thoughts of his father and Angela, even though. . .no, he didn’t dare think it. Out damned spot! Clinging to a safer explanation he told himself it was just because the old man was jealous. That was it. Jealous of their relationship.

  The bullying bastard knew how much his children loved their mother, would do anything for her, and he resented it, and became a green-eyed bully. And so it became a vicious circle. The more time he spent with his cronies at the pub, until it was chucking out time when he would reel home glassy-eyed and slump into a chair, the more his children clung to their mother. So maybe that’s all there was to it. Maybe the old man was jealous of their loving relationship with their mother. No. Who was he trying to kid? There was something more than that. He’d been about six years old, and he vaguely remembered how withdrawn Angela became. It was so sudden. One minute he remembered the way she played with him and teased him. Then it stopped. Like brakes being applied. She became sullen and withdrawn during her first two years at secondary school, up until the time she was nearly fourteen. And then she became tougher. Grew stronger and would give back as good as she got.

  And he always suspected it was something to do with that old bastard who passed away peacefully in his sleep.

  ‘Did you order the Caesar salad?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Table number thirteen?’

  He snapped out of his introspection. He’d been buried in the past, head bowed, staring at the suspected murder story in the newspaper, while thoughts of his family tumbled about like soiled underwear. Now he found himself looking up at a stunning young woman. He gave her a huge smile.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘An unlucky number until you came along.’

  He moved the newspaper to one side as she placed the plate before him. His smile widened as he looked into her lovely green eyes.

  ‘Whereabouts are you from? Which country, I mean?’

  ‘Czech Republic.’

  He couldn’t resist adding, ‘Why do all the attractive girls come from your country?’

  She laughed, pleased with the compliment, then turned away quickly before he thought of something else to say.

  He began to eat his salad as he watched her walking towards the bar. After she disappeared through a door marked Staff, he let his eyes wander round the pub taking in the other customers. There was a red-faced man sitting near the entrance, bending over every so often and coughing loudly into his hand. Two young mothers with children sat at another table near the coughing man, and Lambert noticed one of the women casting worried looks in the coughing man’s direction every time his hacking became intense. As he tried to balance a crouton with a sliver of lettuce and chicken on his fork, Lambert’s eyes shifted to a darkened corner of the bar. The mouthful of food stopped in its tracks as he thought he spotted a familiar face. The man sat on a leather sofa next to a woman, almost directly opposite from where he (Lambert) was sitting. He could swear he knew the man but he didn’t recognise the woman. And they were clearly an item, the way they sat close, holding hands, and occasionally the woman pecked her partner’s cheek. Lambert tried not to make it obvious he was watching them, but there was something so familiar about the man. He recognised the face, but where from? It was annoying. The detective in him made it a point of dedication to store faces in his memory file. But this one just escaped him, yet he knew it was recently he’d had dealings with the man. Less than six months ago and...


  And then the memory hit him like a squall.

  Morris James had changed. No longer the scruffy dresser. Wearing a reasonably smart suit (Marks and Spencer’s perhaps) and a plain white shirt with a purple tie, possibly silk. Quite stylish for the pathetic man he had brought in for questioning about his wife’s death less than three month’s ago. And the woman he was with now, while not exactly a stunning beauty was reasonably attractive. He guessed she might have been in her early fifties. She was plump, with a round face, but it gave her a pleasantly pretty and unlined look. But what amazed Lambert was the demeanour of the man he had suspected of expediting his wife’s suicide. The man was relaxed and confident, and had clearly reinvented himself. It was a metamorphosis, and Lambert stopped himself from staring open-mouthed.

  He finished his meal hurriedly and downed the remaining half glass of wine. He didn’t want Morris James to recognise him, although he couldn’t think of a reason why not. After all, the coroner’s suicide verdict had been final, and if Lambert had any suspicions about James assisting his wife’s suicide, it didn’t matter.

  Out on the street, Lambert looked up at the threatening black clouds and shivered, even though it was quite humid. He strode towards the Crown Court, thinking about Melanie’s words in the Italian restaurant that night, almost begging Lambert to leave him alone because he had already suffered so much.

  Lambert smiled, almost chuckled aloud as he thought about this. If only Melanie had seen the little man’s rebirth, the miraculous recovery from his tragic past. Perhaps he had taken advantage of the situation, and finding his wife hanging decided to carve out a better life for himself. And so what? In any case, it was a heads or tails situation. Heads he helped kill her; tails he didn’t. There was no way of knowing now. Just like the situation of his father and sister. Except the one with Morris James and his wife had a more positive outcome.

  As Lambert walked back to the court, his spirits rose. Melanie was right, he thought. Why persecute someone like James who has suffered all his life? A man who deserved a better life and seemed to have found it.

  For the first time in his career Lambert actually felt relieved that one of his suspects had slipped through the net, however tenuous the misdemeanour.

  Chapter 15

  As they waited outside the No. 1 courtroom of the Crown Court, Ellis said, ‘I don’t think it’ll take long for the jury to decide. I think we’ll get a result on this one.’

  Lost in his own thoughts, Lambert mumbled absently, ‘It’s not too late.’

  ‘Something wrong, Harry?’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘I thought I could smell burning.’

  ‘It’s never too late to change,’ continued Lambert, turning towards Ellis and sharing his thoughts.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Ellis frowned, wondering where this was going.

  ‘Have you taken Sharon out for a meal lately?’

  Ellis’s frown deepened. Where the hell was the conversation about his wife leading? ‘Well, we haven’t had a chance to. Er, not lately. No.’

  ‘You look after her. You’re very lucky. She’s a lovely girl.’ Lambert’s eyes blazed with conviction. ‘Don’t screw up your relationship.’ Then he smiled suddenly, realising he had perhaps shown too much vulnerability to a colleague. ‘It’s a case of do as I say, not as I do.’

  Ellis tried to think of something to say, but his mind was a sudden blank. An image, not a pleasant one, popped into his head. Sharon alone with Lambert. It was highly unlikely this would ever happen, but just supposing it did. Would Lambert take advantage of the situation and attempt to seduce Sharon? Knowing his boss’s bad reputation, could he really trust him alone with his wife?

  ‘I would never try it on with the wife of anyone I knew,’ said Lambert, looking closely at Ellis. ‘That would be dishonourable. An abuse of friendship.’

  Ellis was taken aback. It was as if Lambert could read his thoughts. He was embarrassed and mumbled, ‘No, I never thought...’

  He paused, struggling to finish the sentence. He was saved from the growing awkwardness by the sudden appearance of the court usher, swinging the courtroom doors open with a flourish, announcing the resumption of the trial. There was a flurry of activity, and a rush as everyone crowded into the courtroom for the sentencing. There were coughs and splutters, scraping and squeaking on polished wood as the court reassembled.

  As they returned to their seats, the sergeant reflected on his boss’s words. It seemed that Lambert had wanted Ellis to know, to reassure him, that their relationship went beyond the workplace and had grown into a deep friendship over the last few years. Ellis now felt a morsel of guilt hovering over his emotions like a hangover. He hadn’t trusted Lambert. It seemed like a betrayal of their friendship. Brotherly love turned sour. On the other hand, Lambert did have a reputation....

  Ellis was rescued from further squirming thoughts as the prisoner was escorted back to the dock. He and Lambert stared intently at Evans, watching for any hint of awareness in his eyes. But he stared unblinking into the distance. The judge returned, everyone rose in a perfunctory fashion, then sat again. The judge glanced at his notes briefly, and without once looking at the prisoner, addressed him through his lawyer.

  ‘It is patently obvious that you have nothing to say. I think, therefore, that we must assume that you are unaware of what is going on. In view of the psychiatrist’s report and your cursory confession, coupled with the forensic evidence, and the findings of the jury, I have no alternative but to sentence you to a term of life in a hospital for the criminally insane, where you will be looked after and where eventually some light may be shed on your motives for committing this terrible and futile crime.’

  He gathered his papers together, rose and swept out, his manner suggesting that he was personally aggrieved by the prisoner’s silence and wanted to wash his hands of the affair. As the rest of the court rose, Lambert muttered to Ellis,

  ‘Short and sweet.’

  As Evans turned away from the court, he caught Lambert’s eye for an instant, and there was a glimmer of recognition. As soon as he had been taken down, Ellis turned to Lambert and said,

  ‘Not a bloody word. Not since the day we arrested him.’

  Lambert smiled cynically. ‘A class act if ever I saw one. Come on, let’s take a slow stroll back to the station.’

  The walk back to the police station was hot and uncomfortable. Still the dark thunder clouds hovered and the inhabitants of Swansea grumbled and moaned, wishing the weather would make its mind up one way or the other. Hands deep in his pockets, tension in his shoulders, Lambert walked along the street with his eyes fixed on some distant time or place. Then, like a car braking, he suddenly stopped and turned to Ellis.

  ‘Know what Evans reminded me of? That film of Moby Dick. There was this South Sea islander who willed himself to die.’

  ‘Queequeg,’ offered Ellis.

  Lambert frowned. ‘Yeah, that’s the fellow. How come you can remember his name? Film on recently, was it?’

  Ellis grinned. ‘I read the book.’

  ‘Oh?’ questioned Lambert, with what seemed to Ellis to be a touch of pique. ‘I could never get past the first couple of chapters myself.’

  Ellis shrugged apologetically. ‘Well, you either love it or hate it.’

  Lambert regarded his sergeant with narrow-eyed suspicion, as if his being able to read the book gave him some sort of advantage.

  ‘I didn’t love it or hate it. Just couldn’t get through the bloody thing.’

  Lambert turned and walked on quickly. They crossed Dilwyn Street into Singleton Street, Lambert broodingly quiet. He thought of Helen, the way she used to accuse him of only reading lightweight stuff. Which was true. He’d never been much of a reader.

  They walked in silence for a while, Lambert lost
in thoughts of his broken marriage, and Ellis not wishing to intrude on his boss’s introspective mood. After a while, Lambert seemed to snap out of it, and returned to the discussion about Evans.

  ‘D’you think Evans might be faking it?’

  ‘Could be,’ Ellis replied. ‘I mean, he left the judge no choice but to commit him as insane.’

  Lambert sighed with frustration. ‘The whole thing stinks. He wanted everyone to believe it was a motiveless crime. And there was nothing in the evidence to indicate he was deranged. Far from it.’

  ‘I suppose the death of his mother could have pushed him over the edge.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tony. He may have been close to her, but he hated his stepfather. Even to the point of celebrating when he fell off the roof and died.’

  ‘You think he might have pushed him?’

  ‘He wasn’t even in the UK when his stepfather had the accident.’

  ‘D’you think Evans might be covering for someone? Someone who wanted the farmer dead and Evans obliged as some sort of favour. You know, like the Mafia’s code. We’ve done you a favour so now you owe us.’

  ‘Who knows? But I do know one thing - and I’d stake my life on it - Evans definitely had a motive for murdering that farmer. The trouble is, now we’ll never know. The motive’s locked inside his head and I get the impression it’ll stay locked up with him forever and ever. Amen.’

  As he spoke, the still air was wrenched apart by a gigantic thunderclap. Then the heavens opened and people scurried for cover. By the time Lambert and Ellis arrived back at the station, they were soaked through.

  Chapter 16

  Lambert lay on his back, his arm getting numb under the gentle pressure of her neck, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. Her even breathing indicated that she had dropped off to sleep and he wondered if he could rescue his arm. He had enjoyed their lovemaking, but a doubt began to aggravate like toothache. He swallowed noisily as the post-coital calm shifted into reverse, and he was confronted by the spectre of remorse. He didn’t want to hurt her; but it was inevitable that he would. Although he quite fancied her, they had little in common, and now it looked as if the entire Sunday was going to be spent in her company. Throughout the summer he had fought the temptation to ask her back to his flat, knowing it was a mistake, but things just got the better of him yesterday. Loneliness, that’s what it was. Not to mention his physical appetite. Apart from one brief fling at the start of summer, with a married woman who ran for cover as soon as he suggested they see each other again, he had lived a life of celibacy for the last two months. But not from choice. He had tried ringing Melanie several times to ask her out, but she didn’t want to know.