The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 62

Mordecai brandished Rita's letter under Armstrong's nose. "She wrote to us, saying her husband was threatening to kill her, man! Now she's dead!"

The coroner's officer shrugged. "Don't blame me, I'm just the dogsbody round here. Perhaps you'd better have a word with the coroner."

"d.a.m.n right I will," muttered the detective. "And a few words with the flaming husband as well." His irritation subsided as the possible consequences of this affair began to sink in. He sat on one of the hard chairs provided for grieving relatives when being interviewed by Armstrong and stared pensively at the coroner's officer.

"You live in Tonypandy, Jimmy. What's the gossip on these Lloyds these days?"

Armstrong, whose tweed suit and tidy grey hair made him look like everyone's favourite uncle, clasped his hands as if in prayer.

"Queer pair, a disaster waiting to happen, I reckon."

"He still runs the pub? I thought he'd have had the sack, after his run-in with the law," growled the DI.

"It's a Free House, he's not just a manager," cut in the sergeant. "The Elliot Arms is a bit of a dump, but we don't get much trouble there. It's too old-fashioned to attract the yobs, no strippers or live music, just a quiz-night once a week."

"Why were he and his missus at each other's throats then?" demanded Mordecai.

Armstrong shrugged his big shoulders. "Incompatible, they are! He's a quiet sort of bloke, until he gets his rag out, then he's got a terrible temper. She's an old slag-booze, bingo and blokes. Rita'll go for anything in trousers at least, when she's sober enough to stand up."

The DI grunted and hauled himself to his feet. He tapped the letter. "So there might be something in this, eh?"

The coroner's officer held up his hands defensively. "Don't ask me, that's your job. But I'd have a word with my boss first."

The coroner was a local solicitor who conducted his business from his offices above a shoe shop in Pontypridd's Taff Street, a few hundred yards from the Divisional Police Headquarters. Mordecai Evans and his sergeant took a walk there, pushing impatiently through the ambling throng in the narrow road, which was the town's main shopping street.

They turned in at a door on which a worn bra.s.s plate declared "Thomas, Evans and Rees Solicitors" though these gentlemen were long dead and the present senior partner was Mr David Mostyn, Her Majesty's Coroner for East Glamorgan.

In a seedy reception area at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, a girl with a bad head-cold showed them into his office. Mostyn was a rotund man with a shiny bald head and a round, pink face that always seemed to have a smile on it, even when he was discussing death in all its often horrible forms. He ushered the two detectives to hard chairs and sat down again behind his paper infested desk.

"My officer has told me about the situation over the phone," he began, picking up a form from a pile in front of him. "We already had a bit of a problem in that Doctor Carlton hasn't yet been able to give me a cause of death." He gave them a cheery grin, as if he had just won the Lottery.

"Surely that's unusual in itself, sir?" muttered Mordecai, picking at a pimple on his neck.

The coroner shook his head happily. "Not that unusual, Inspector. Especially if tablets or alcohol are involved, nothing may be found at the post-mortem, but the answer may come later from laboratory tests."

The DI delved into his inside pocket and pulled out Rita Lloyd's letter, now encased in a clear plastic envelope. He handed it across the desk.

"You see our problem, sir. I get this this morning, then I'm told she's already dead!"

David Mostyn scanned through the single page of writing, then handed it back and rubbed his bald head as an aid to thought.

"It certainly requires us to proceed with caution, officer. What do you know about this pair?"

Mordecai motioned with his head towards his sergeant. "Williams here knows them best, he comes from that part of the valley."

w.i.l.l.y cleared his throat and began to speak as if he was in the witness box, though he managed to avoid phrases like, "I was proceeding in a northerly direction."

"Sir, Lewis and Rita Lloyd have been known to me for a long while. In fact, I arrested him some time ago for a.s.saulting his wife. He is the owner and licensee of the Elliot Arms in Tonypandy, a free house where he lives with the now deceased."

The coroner nodded, his benign smile still firmly in place. "Have you spoken to him about this yet?"

Mordecai shook his head. "We've only known about this for an hour, sir. It was only by chance that Lewis Armstrong mentioned to my sergeant that she was dead."

The coroner stared down at the paper he held in his hand.

"All I've got is Lewis's daily notification to me. It just says that the family doctor was called to the house-Dr Battachirya, that would be who then phoned in to say he was reporting a death, as he couldn't give a certificate. The woman was found dead in bed by the husband at seven-thirty yesterday morning."

Mordecai Evans's pugnacious face stared at David Mostyn.

"That's all you have, sir?" he demanded, as if he suspected that the coroner was holding out on him.

"At this stage, yes. If the p.m. had shown a natural cause of death, like a coronary or a stroke, I would have issued a disposal certificate and that would be an end of it. As it is, I have to wait for the pathologist, Dr Carlton, to come back to me eventually with an update based on the results of the tests he sent away."

"How long will that take, sir?" ventured w.i.l.l.y Williams.

Mostyn beamed back at him. "Varies a lot, sergeant. Some things, like alcohol and carbon monoxide, he can have done in his own hospital the same day. More complicated tests for drugs have to be sent away and can take weeks."

The inspector glowered at the coroner as if it was his fault. "We may not be able to wait that long, sir. I've spoken to my Superintendent and he's told me to see the husband and if I feel there's any doubt, to proceed as if it's a criminal investigation."

David Mostyn's smile faded a little. "And what would that entail in this case?"

Mordecai shrugged his bull-like shoulders. "We may have to call in the Scenes-of-Crime team to the pub, sir. And possibly ask the Home Office pathologist to carry out a second autopsy-with your consent, of course."

He could almost see the figures ringing up like a cash register in the coroner's eyes, as Mostyn calculated the extra cost to the budget he received from the local authority. However, he rallied and with his grin at maximum rictus, he agreed with good grace.

"Well, have a talk with this Lloyd chap, Inspector and keep me informed as to what's happening."

The Elliot Arms was an ugly red-brick building on the main road through the Rhondda Valley, a twisting, congested route lined with terraced houses, betting shops and Chinese take-aways. Built in 1900 to wash the coal-dust from the throats of thousands of miners, the public house had fallen on hard times, now that not a single pit remained in the valley. Lewis Lloyd had managed to survive by accepting a frugal life-style, most of his custom coming from the old colliers whom came to the Elliot mainly out of habit. There was also a hard core of pigeon fanciers, whose Club met once a week in the barren room above the Public Bar. Lewis was himself a pigeon man, with a large loft out in the backyard where he kept a dozen cherished Fantails. He also had a moderate lunch-time trade in ham-rolls and pasties bought mainly by the workers from a small plastics factory further up Mafeking Terrace, the side street on the corner of which his pub was situated.

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 reconst.i.tuted ham into bread rolls. She also removed the cellophane from cloned Cornish pasties and popped them into the microwave, to satiate the appet.i.tes 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 pa.s.sages 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.

w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y'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 w.i.l.l.y, 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 w.i.l.l.y, 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 w.i.l.l.y.

"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 w.i.l.l.y.

"I don't know, then," replied Lloyd, shrugging his shoulders. "I expect the hospital will find something."

"You had a conviction for a.s.saulting 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 b.i.t.c.h, 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. Whatever 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."

w.i.l.l.y 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!"

w.i.l.l.y 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 a.s.sortment of metal cases.

Meanwhile, after a number of phone calls to the coroner and to the Forensic Pathology department in Cardiff, Mordecai and w.i.l.l.y 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 circ.u.mstances 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.