by David Barry
‘OK! Hit the floor! Now! Under the table! Do it! Get down!’
She scraped the chair back and fell to her knees, scrambling for safety beneath the table. As she clutched herself into a tight, self-protecting ball, the last thing she saw were his feet at the door.
Evans came running out of the cottage brandishing the cap gun just as the Rover hurtled and skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steep bank. When Lambert spotted Evans with the gun, something clicked in his memory and a young boy’s voice said, ‘I hope my cap gun’s still there...It’s gone...Some fucker’s nicked my gun.’
Lambert threw open the car door and ran towards Evans. The police marksmen, he guessed, would be positioned behind the trees opposite the cottage. If he could get between them and Evans...It was a terrible risk, he realised. A gamble. There was a fifty-fifty chance it could be a real gun. But it all happened in a split second. No time to think. Instinct took over.
Evans spotted Lambert coming towards him and he knew the detective had guessed about the gun. He stopped running, got into firing position, slowly and deliberately raised the gun and aimed it at the detective.
What Lambert saw next was like something out of a dream. Evans’s body jerked like a puppet and his body left the ground. It happened faster than a flash bulb popping but the image that stayed with Lambert seemed to slow the action. The loud report of the rifle came as the SAS man’s body slammed into the bank. There was a large wet stain on his anorak, his arms thrashed about loosely, then his body bounced and rolled down the bank and into the road.
Lambert walked cautiously towards the body. He felt Ellis and Wallace close behind him, Ellis saying, ‘You all right, sir?’
From behind a parked car further down the road, a uniformed police officer, brandishing a handgun aimed low at Evans’s body, shouted angrily without looking at Lambert, ‘What the fuck are you trying to prove? Fucking idiot. Nearly got yourself killed.’
Lambert climbed the bank and retrieved the cap gun. He showed it to the officer, who by now was joined by at least a dozen others. Lambert clicked the trigger.
‘It’s a child’s cap gun,’ he told them.
‘And you knew about that?’ the uniformed officer yelled accusingly. ‘Why weren’t we told?’
Lambert didn’t reply. How could he admit it was supposition?
A medic stooped and checked Evans’s pulse then pronounced him dead. Lambert turned and saw Gwyneth Chandler hobbling tearfully down the path that led to the road. A WPC ran to comfort her, keeping her away from the body.
‘I’m all right,’ Gwyneth sobbed.
She broke through the crowd which now circled Evans’s corpse, looked down at the body and shuddered; then looked up at Lambert, accusation in her eyes, as if he was directly responsible for the killing.
‘I’m sorry.’ He showed her the cap gun. ‘It was fake. We had no way of knowing. It’s what he wanted. We were all part of his great scheme. His search for Valhalla.’
‘Those who live by the sword,’ she said. ‘He told me.’
‘What else did he say?’
The WPC put an arm around Gwyneth’s shoulders.
‘Look, I know it’s been a terrible shock...’ Lambert began.
The WPC threw Lambert an icy look and comforted Gwyneth, ‘You don’t have to...’
A great shuddering sigh shook Gwyneth’s body, then she wiped the tears away from her cheeks and said, ‘It’s all right. I’ll be all right. I’d sooner talk about it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lambert quietly, and gave the WPC a reassuring nod. He took Gwyneth gently by the arm and they walked a little way down the road. She was frowning hard, staring at the ground, trying to make sense of it all.
‘Why?’ she asked simply.
‘Lindow Man.’
She looked up at Lambert, eyes widening in surprise. ‘How did you know about Lindow man?’
‘Years ago my wife took me to the British Museum in London. I think Evans thought he was like Lindow Man, the Celtic warrior, the sacrificial victim. And I think he’s staged his own elaborate suicide. The way a soldier dies.’
She forgot about her terrible shock for a moment and looked up at him, surprised and captivated by the revelation, like a religious fundamentalist gaining a convert.
‘I owe you an apology, Inspector.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I’d sort of written you off as...well...a bit blinkered. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean blinkered exactly...’
Lambert smiled at her. ‘You don’t have to apologise. I often give that impression. Maybe I should get out more often.’ He inclined his head towards the cottage. ‘So tell me about what happened in there?’
Gwyneth dropped her eyes, avoiding his look.
‘That’s if you feel up to talking about it.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That farmer he shot. It was his father.’
‘Yes, we know.’
She looked up sharply. ‘You knew?’
‘We only just found out - days ago. Checked the family’s blood groups.’
‘Poor Gary. Knowing he was the son of the man who raped his mother. It’s no wonder he...’
‘Did he say anything about the actual murder? Describe it in any way?’
Gwyneth frowned as she thought about this. ‘It was weird but...he said he couldn’t go through with it. And he seemed ashamed, as if the soldier in him had failed.’
‘You’d swear to that?’
Gwyneth hesitated. ‘Well...yes...although he seemed to change his mind after he told me. Said he had killed his father.’
Gwyneth watched Lambert carefully as he became embroiled in his own conflicting thoughts now.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘About the time Wilson was shot, I was investigating a murder which was clearly a suicide and false confession.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just that it was staring me in the face, and I ignored it.’
Gwyneth noticed how animated he became. He looked as if he was straining at the leash to get away. He glanced at his watch and gave her an apologetic smile.
‘Mrs Chandler, I’m afraid, if you don’t mind, I’ll get someone to look after you. And we’ll need a statement, of course. When you feel up to it.’
‘Before you go...you made me a promise.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. About his letters.’
‘Oh yes. I’ll make sure you get them back.’
She noticed he hadn’t mentioned bringing them back himself, as he had the time before.
Chapter 31
There was a fine drizzle covering the Mumbles. A north wind blew down from the mountains and the rain had an icy bite to it. Lambert turned up his coat collar, and walked around the front of the car towards Terry Clark’s house. Ellis let the window down and called out,
‘Good luck, Harry.’
Lambert didn’t turn back to acknowledge it. He walked, shoulders hunched, up the front path and rang the bell on Clark’s front door. After a few minutes, just as he was about to ring again, the door was opened by the young mercenary. He was smartly dressed in a double-breasted, pin-stripe suit, a pale-blue shirt and a lemon-yellow silk tie. Lambert thrust his ID under Clark’s nose. It was waved nonchalantly aside.
‘No need for that, Inspector. I don’t suppose this is a formal visit. Like to come in?’
As Lambert went through into the living room, Terry Clark grinned confidently and said, ‘I thought you might come back.’
Lambert halted. ‘Oh? And why’s that Mr Clark?’
‘I thought you might be coming to give me the bad news. But I heard it on the local radio. Yeah, I shall miss old Gary. Poor bast
ard. But it was a forgone conclusion. Know what I mean?’
As Lambert sat on the arm of an easy chair, he noticed the passport and traveller’s cheques on the coffee table.
‘You going somewhere, Mr Clark?
‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘I could place you under arrest.’
Terry Clark looked genuinely puzzled. ‘What the bloody hell for?’
‘Murder. You shot Wilson.’
‘Who the fuck is Wilson?’
‘Gary Evans’s true father.’
‘You mean the bloke Gary shot was his old man?’
Clark looked shocked and surprised, but Lambert was unconvinced. He knew from his years in the police that Clark’s reaction was just a fraction overdone.
‘You know damn well it was his father.’
Clark crossed a finger on his breast and shook his head. ‘On my mother’s life.’ He laughed and crossed behind the sofa. ‘OK then, Inspector, let’s just say - for argument’s sake - that I knew it was Gary’s old man. It don’t explain why I’d want to shoot him.’
‘Because Evans couldn’t go through with it. So he called you on his mobile and made you an irresistible proposition. Fifteen thousand pounds to kill his father. It was the easiest money you’ve ever earned for killing someone. You wiped your prints off the gun and left it for Evans to pick up. As you were leaving the farm, you almost collided with the car of the man who found the body. He identified your vehicle.’
Terry Clark came round to the coffee table, picked up the passport and cheques, and said, ‘He must’ve been mistaken. I was here all night.’
‘Neighbours would know if you went out. We can check.’
‘So what? I might’ve popped out. Then again, I might not. For fuck’s sake, it was months ago. Who can remember?’
‘I can remember for a start?’
Clark shot Lambert a puzzled frown.
‘On the same day we caught and arrested Gary Evans, I took a trip to SAS HQ at Hereford, which was where I was given details on where to find you. When I arrived here, you were washing away the evidence.’
‘And what evidence would that be?’
‘The same evidence we found on Evans’ Audi. A fine chalky dust from the dusty road near Wilson’s farm. I caught you in the act of washing it away. You made absolutely certain your four-by-four which was seen driving away from the crime scene was restored to its pristine condition.’
Clark laughed arrogantly. ‘This is speculation. It just happened that my car was due a wash. Sheer coincidence, that’s all it was.’
‘What was the fifteen thousand for that Evans transferred to your account that same night?’
Clark stuffed the passport and traveller’s cheques into his inside pocket and glanced at his watch.
‘I didn’t even know he’d bunged me that money till I checked my account much later. I expect it was the same as leaving it to me in his will, like. Seeing as he was the end of his line, so to speak. No one else to leave it to.’ He tapped the glass of his watch. ‘Listen, Inspector, I don’t wanna be rude, but I got places to go. So if you wanna arrest me, either put up or shut up.’
Lambert stood up and moved closer to Clark. ‘Evans confessed before he died. To his pen pal librarian. Told her everything.’
‘Yeah, well, poor bastard’s dead now, so he ain’t gonna repeat it, is he?’
Clark stood, legs apart, looking relaxed and sure of himself, a trace of a smile in his expression. ‘Right, if you’ve got no further questions, Inspector. I have to get to Heathrow Airport and it’s a long drive.’
Lambert walked to the doorway and said, ‘If anyone had a justifiable reason for homicide, it was Evans. But you - you sell your services to the highest bidder. Have a good flight, Mr Clark. And try not to kill many women or children.’
Clark flushed angrily. ‘What the fuck would you know about it? I’ve never killed no one under the age of sixteen.’
Lambert couldn’t believe he was hearing this.
‘Oh. That makes it all right then.’
Chapter 32
Lambert slid into the passenger seat next to Ellis. He unclipped the tiny microphone from behind his tie.
‘Did you catch all that?’ he asked Ellis.
‘Sure. But you didn’t expect it to go any other way, did you?’
‘No, but I had to give it my best shot.’ He stared at the microphone in his palm. ‘The amount of arm-twisting it took to get the authorisation to use this. What a waste of time. Still, at least I might sleep better knowing that one day Clark will get his.’
‘He who lives by the sword, eh, Harry?’
‘Something like that.’
Ellis put the car into gear. ‘We going back to Swansea Central?’
Lambert stared thoughtfully into the distance. When he spoke, his voice was flat, expressionless. ‘Drop me at my flat, will you? I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll get a cab in later on.’
As they pulled away from Terry Clark’s house, Ellis said, ‘Doesn’t always work out like that though, does it?’
‘That’s a bit cryptic for me, Tony. What doesn’t?’
‘Bad guys getting their comeuppance. There’s no guarantee Terry Clark won’t die of natural causes at a ripe old age.’
A short, dry laugh erupted then died in Lambert’s throat. ‘If I thought that...’
His unfinished sentence hung in the air like damp fog. They drove in silence for a while. Both thinking about it. Both troubled by it. After a while Ellis gave an embarrassed cough.
‘Harry,’ he began tentatively. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘Politics and religion. We ought to save it for the pub.’
‘I just mean, you know, maybe the evil in this life will be punished in another.’
‘A couple of years ago, Natasha asked me if I believed in God.’
‘And what did you tell her?’
‘I said it depends on which day I’m asked.’
Ellis laughed spontaneously. ‘If it’s a wet Wednesday I must be an atheist.’
‘Something like that.’
They arrived outside Lambert’s flat. As his boss was getting out of the car, Ellis said, ‘Thanks for letting me drive, instead of Kevin.’
‘As long as it’s put a few ghosts to rest. Drive carefully, Sergeant.’
Before pulling away, Ellis watched him walking towards his flat. A loping, defeated walk. A man returning to an empty flat. There was no one to impress and the walk said it all.
***
With barely a glance at the shambles of his flat, Lambert picked up the phone and dialled Helen’s number. She picked it up after only two rings.
‘Yes, who is it?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘It’s me,’ he announced.
‘Harry, I’m sorry...’ She spoke hurriedly. ‘I heard about the shooting on the radio. It must have been terrible. But at least that woman was unharmed. I know you probably feel like unburdening yourself, but I don’t...’
‘That’s not why I rang,’ he cut in quickly. ‘It’s about last night...’
He heard a jangling sound, like a bunch of keys rattling.
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting. I’m sorry - I don’t have time to talk. I really don’t.’
‘I love you, Helen. I’ve never loved anyone else.’
‘I’m going to miss my train.’
Her voice was firm. And cold.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, I heard you. But I don’t have time to talk now. I’m going to Tom and Vanessa’s in London for a couple of days. To look around.’
He froze. Somewhere in the back of his mind there echoed an empty, jeering laugh.
‘I might go back to live in L
ondon,’ she said. ‘It’s not definite. But I’d like to be near to Natasha if that’s where she decides to settle.’
‘And what about last night?’ His voice became strident. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I don’t have time to discuss it now. I’ll miss my train.’
‘This is more important than your bloody train,’ he yelled. ‘Catch the next one.’
‘I’m going now. I’ll talk to you when I get back.’
He felt himself spinning out of control and could do nothing about it.
‘Shall I tell you what it was about, sweetheart?’ His voice hard and brittle, like the Hollywood tough guy. Knowing he would regret saying it, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘Revenge. You’re getting your own back, aren’t you?’
The line went dead. He stared at the receiver for a moment as if he didn’t quite believe what had happened. Then he hung up, and stared at his reflection in the cracked art deco mirror which hung on a chain over the hideous grey-tiled fireplace. The face which stared back at him needed reassurance, a defiant gesture of some sort.
‘So that’s final,’ he told it. ‘You always did have a way with women.’
Then, like an alcoholic reaching for a bottle, he looked up Gwyneth Chandler’s number and started to dial.
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