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. 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.”
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.