Somebody Told Me

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Do we start on Walsh too, boss?’ Jane said.

  Lydia responded. ‘That will prove difficult.’

  ‘He’s in prison,’ I said.

  Chapter 3

  The call to visit Superintendent Cornock wasn’t a request, but more of a summons. His normally pallid complexion had greyed more than just a shade or two. Now he was looking positively unhealthy. Years of working ridiculous hours had taken their toll and he sat unselfconsciously fingering a packet of painkillers, a glass of water on the desk in front of him. The tropical fish tank in the corner made a gurgling sound.

  ‘Felix Bevard,’ Cornock announced as though the dead man were the first minister of Wales.

  ‘His body was found this morning.’

  Cornock nodded, ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Bevard. She was pretty cut up and she pointed the finger at Jimmy Walsh.’

  More nodding. It was unlike Cornock not to respond.

  ‘But as you know, sir, he’s inside. I haven’t checked his release date but it can’t be long.’

  ‘Sixteen days.’

  The precision of Cornock’s reply rattled me. Realising that he had more to tell me, I stopped. He slowly turned the packet of paracetamol through his fingers. ‘I’ve arranged for you to be briefed by an inspector from one of the dedicated source units.’

  I moved forward slightly in my chair.

  ‘Felix Bevard was about to sign a deal to make him a supergrass. He would give evidence against Jimmy Walsh in exchange for being taken into witness protection.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Walsh must have got to him first.’

  Cornock leant forward over the desk. ‘Walsh is a sociopath that we’ve been trying to lock up permanently for years.’

  ‘But he’s got the perfect alibi.’

  ‘It must have been someone with links to Walsh. So you had better be careful.’

  I didn’t need to find obstacles; Cornock had thrown them into the investigation like an unexploded grenade. A dedicated source unit handled human intelligence, not something from a sci-fi movie, but in fact a team of officers that specialised in handling informants. And this DSU had the task of handling Bevard. I groaned to myself at the prospect that poking into their little empire would be unwelcome.

  But we had a suspect. Jimmy Walsh. He had a motive.

  Walsh would have friends and fixers – people who did things for him, solved his problems so he wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty. Or dirty enough for him to be caught.

  ‘There’s one more thing, John.’ Cornock looked up at me. ‘I’m taking a sabbatical for a few weeks – doctor’s orders.’ His eye contact drifted away. ‘My wife hasn’t been too good recently and perhaps you weren’t aware but my daughter is back home with us now.’

  I nodded. Cornock’s daughter’s drug addiction had been the subject of gossip around Queen Street but I hadn’t heard that she was back in Cardiff. I realised that I had no idea how old Cornock was – probably older than I thought. Then I wondered about his replacement – most likely a DCI from one of the other teams. Mentally I ticked off various names.

  ‘I’m sure you’re interested in who might take over from me.’

  I smiled wanly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is your first day back?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you possibly haven’t heard about Dave Hobbs’ promotion.’

  My body froze. Rigid to the spot. I couldn’t move. And I definitely couldn’t find anything to say.

  ‘While you were away DCI Webster died of a heart attack.’

  I hadn’t heard and I should have felt sad. I knew Webster, and he had always been a decent officer. And now Dave Hobbs would be his replacement.

  ‘With you on holiday in Lucca a decision had to be made quickly. I know that you and Inspector Hobbs have had your differences in the past but I hope you can put all of that behind you now?’

  Not a chance. Hobbs hates my guts.

  Dave Hobbs had never hidden his dislike for my methods or his contempt for my past when the booze had its claws into me, even though I had put my drinking days behind me. And his naked ambition made working with him difficult when I never knew what was going on in his mind.

  ‘His promotion to Acting Detective Chief Inspector was confirmed this morning.’

  I wanted to offer my resignation on the spot but I was too surprised to say anything.

  ‘You’ll be answering to him during this investigation while I am on sabbatical until the correct command structure can be put in place.’

  I left Cornock’s office and dragged myself back to the Incident Room, my head a mass of conflicting emotions. My shoulders wanted to sag. I desperately wanted to be back in Lucca, walking along the city walls with Dean or drinking coffee in one of the small cafés off the main square. Anywhere but Queen Street police station being answerable to Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs. The image of his small piggy eyes came to mind and then I heard his grating accent, from Caernarfon or one of those places in the mountains of the north that had a castle. I ignored Lydia, who was saying something, and after slamming the door to my office shut, I slumped into my chair.

  The telephone rang in the Incident Room beyond my door. And it didn’t seem to stop.

  Then it rang in my office and I snatched the handset off the cradle. It was Lydia. ‘I’ve got an Inspector Ackroyd from a DSU wanting to fix a meeting with you. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Tell him … We need to go … Later, tell him later this afternoon.’

  I slammed the telephone down.

  I drew a hand over my face. Then I stood up and headed for the door. Lydia and the others didn’t look up and nobody asked what was wrong. And what could I tell them? That my senior officer was a north Walian who had scrambled eggs for brains.

  I left the station intending to walk around the block, clear my thoughts, restore some equilibrium to my mind but I kept picturing Hobbs sitting in Cornock’s office and each time the stress returned. I marched down Queen Street and into one of the main shopping arcades. The shops didn’t register and eventually I found myself on the Hays where I stopped and ordered a coffee. I sat watching the mid-week shoppers passing me. The words of the resignation letter I had been drafting lost their urgency as my mind turned to the tasks in hand. Hobbs’ promotion was only temporary after all and I was still the senior investigating officer. I had a killer to find so I threw off my frustration and made my way back to Queen Street.

  Lydia stood up as I entered the Incident Room and followed me through to my office. ‘Inspector Ackroyd has called again.’

  I sat down by my desk.

  ‘What does he want, boss?’ She said it slowly as though she was measuring every syllable.

  It took me five minutes to summarise the position.

  ‘So we’ll have to investigate the DSU officers,’ I added.

  She creased her mouth. ‘Jesus. They won’t like that.’

  * * *

  Detective Inspector Malcolm Ackroyd had restless eyes that darted around. He wore a three-piece navy pinstripe suit, a rarity in plain clothes these days. He turned up his nose as he scanned my navy trousers and my battered herringbone jacket. He sat down on one of the visitor chairs.

  ‘John. I need to brief you on this Bevard case.’ Ackroyd had a dense, deep voice.

  Lydia closed the door to my office and Ackroyd gave her a truculent glance but said nothing. I was ready to tell him that briefing me included Lydia no matter what he thought.

  Ackroyd pulled out a sheaf of papers from the briefcase on his lap. ‘Bevard and Walsh were implicated in a murder two years ago in Roath Park.’

  He glanced at me before continuing.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Webster was the SIO for that inquiry and he made absolutely no headway with the case.’

  At the time, I was a sergeant in plain clothes in Merthyr Tydfil but I recalled the publicity surrounding the inquiry.

  ‘Mr Oakley was shot and
then his body dumped in a boat on the lake. There was no forensics although we were certain he wasn’t killed in the park.’

  ‘Does Walsh have a thing for Roath Park?’

  ‘He was brought up in Roath. He met his wife there apparently and he loves the place. His Facebook page is full of images of him and his family walking in the park.’

  Lydia snorted her surprise. ‘He’s in prison and he’s got a Facebook page?’

  ‘His wife runs it.’

  ‘So what changed?’ Something had made Bevard a candidate for a supergrass deal – he must have had new information about the Oakley murder that implicated Walsh.

  Ackroyd put the briefcase down by his feet and settled back into his chair. ‘A routine CSI search of one of Bevard’s minicabs, part of another investigation unrelated to the Oakley case, discovered blood residue in the boot. It came back as a match to Oakley.’

  I whistled under my breath. ‘That’s a result.’

  Ackroyd nodded. ‘But although we had Bevard implicated, we wanted Walsh too. More than anything the senior officers wanted Walsh convicted of murder. It was like an obsession. He had to be put away at all costs. So we looked at the supergrass option. Then we planned Bevard’s arrest carefully to avoid any possibility that anyone, including his wife, would get to know.’

  ‘So what was the deal?’

  ‘He had been promised immunity from prosecution in exchange for enough evidence to convict Walsh of Oakley’s murder.’

  I sat back in my chair stunned. A troubled look appeared on Lydia’s face.

  ‘But Bevard was involved in the Oakley murder,’ I said.

  ‘On the basis of his evidence the most we could prove against him would have been a secondary role. The senior officers were salivating at the prospect of a clear-cut case against Walsh – something to put him behind bars for years.’

  The supergrass deals had a bad reputation. It meant dishonest, disreputable men giving evidence against equally dishonest, disreputable men where the motives of everyone were dubious. Prosecutors hoped for minimal publicity whenever there were trials that relied on such evidence because the whole process stank. I was getting a very bad feeling the more I listened to Ackroyd.

  ‘Who knew about the agreement?’

  Ackroyd sighed. ‘It was my team that led the process.’ He pointed to the file. ‘The names of everyone involved are in the papers. All the officers have been with my unit for years and all fully cleared.’

  I had never worked in professional standards, the department that policed the police officers, and I had no interest in doing so but now I’d have no choice.

  Ackroyd continued. ‘The whole purpose of a dedicated source unit is to make certain that we have a sterile corridor to all of our informants.’ He paused and drew a hand in the air. ‘But you know that of course.’

  ‘There must have been prosecutors involved.’ Until her intervention, Lydia had sat silently staring at Ackroyd.

  He started to nod. ‘Of course. Everyone linked to the supergrass deal is mentioned in the file.

  ‘We’ll need—’

  Ackroyd finished my sentence in a neutral tone. ‘Full financial checks on everyone associated with the case and full background checks. I can tell you now, John. It wasn’t anybody in my team. They are one hundred per cent safe. Nobody would sell Bevard out. Nobody.’

  I drew a hand over the buff folder on the table. But somebody had sold him out. As well as investigating fellow officers there would be lawyers too.

  ‘I’ll need the original file from the investigation into Oakley’s murder.’

  ‘Why?’

  Ackroyd’s reply annoyed me. He had promised complete cooperation and yet in the same conversation challenged me.

  ‘I’ll run this investigation the way I please. We’ll collect the file this afternoon.’

  ‘You know full well I can’t tell you where the DSU is based.’

  I leant forward on the desk. ‘Your unit is compromised from top to bottom. So you can forget the petty protocols about keeping your address secret from the rest of us ordinary plain clothes officers.’

  Ackroyd glared at me and paused. ‘I’ll deliver the papers personally.’

  ‘I need to explain this to my team and you’re staying.’ I stood up and paced out into the Incident Room.

  ‘I really don’t think …’ Ackroyd protested.

  A photograph of Bevard was already pinned to the middle of the board. I turned to face Wyn and Jane, unease creasing their faces. Lydia stood behind them alongside Ackroyd who had his arms folded. I could see the incredulity on the faces of Wyn and Jane when I explained that we’d have to investigate the DSU. And Crown Prosecution lawyers. ‘Detective Inspector Ackroyd here has given us his assurance that there will be full cooperation from his team.’

  Ackroyd mumbled his agreement.

  ‘Where do we start, boss?’ Wyn said.

  ‘At the beginning. All the usual checks, bank accounts, family etc… Any links to Walsh or anyone who may have worked other cases involved with him and his family.’

  Ackroyd made to leave. I turned to him. ‘Malcolm. One more thing. Who was the sergeant on the Oakley case?’

  He stopped by the door and turned to face me. ‘Dave Hobbs.’

  Chapter 4

  A single red horizontal barrier guarded the main entrance to HMP Grange Hall. Adapted as an open prison after the end of the Second World War from an RAF base, it had no fences or guards patrolling the perimeter. Occasionally a prisoner found the temptation to abscond too great and publicity would follow. After identifying ourselves to a guard engrossed in the morning’s newspaper we walked over to the administration block. I pressed the intercom and stood waiting. It reminded me of the black-and-white war films featuring men with clipped accents flying off into the sunset in Spitfires and Hurricanes.

  The intercom crackled and I introduced Lydia and myself. There was a bleeping sound and I pushed open the door. A woman with an intense stare and clothes that my mother would have thought fashionable led us through corridors covered with lino that sparkled from recent cleaning.

  Outside a door with Governor printed on a large metal plaque, she stopped and knocked. After a shout from inside she pushed open the door and led us inside. Governor James stood in front of her desk, and reached out a hand. ‘Amanda James, governor.’ We shook hands and she waved us to a round table in one corner of the room. I had expected the woman who’d met us to leave but she sat down and dragged a folder on the table towards her.

  ‘You’ve already met Sandra,’ James said.

  ‘I don’t believe we were properly introduced,’ I said.

  Sandra didn’t raise her eyes from the sheets of paper open in front of her. ‘Sandra Green. Jimmy Walsh’s probation officer.’ She managed an indifferent tone that matched her colourless complexion.

  ‘I’m not certain how we can help,’ James said once she had sat down.

  I leant over the table. ‘Walsh is a prime suspect in relation to the murder of Felix Bevard.’

  James nodded; Green cast me an intense frown.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Walsh was personally responsible?’ James didn’t give me an opportunity to reply. ‘Because I’ve been through our roll call for the past three days and Jimmy Walsh was present and accounted for on each occasion.’

  ‘Don’t some of your prisoners work outside in the community?’

  ‘Yes, but not Walsh. And before you ask, he could not have slipped out on the evening in question.’

  ‘How many times are the prisoners checked each day?’

  James let out a brief sigh. ‘The first roll call is at midday before they have lunch. The second is in the afternoon. And the final roll call is in the evening. An officer will go around the billet and check on each prisoner – there are spy holes in the door, the sort you get in hotels.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the officers who conducted the roll call check?’

  James gave me a puzzle
d look. ‘Whatever for? If a prisoner is absent from the roll call then we have a system for instigating a search. Inspector, Jimmy Walsh was here on the night Bevard was killed.’

  ‘Of course, but he might be responsible for directing the murder.’ I paused. ‘Presumably you keep a record of Walsh’s visitors?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll need to see a complete list.’

  James pushed over a folder.

  ‘Do you have details of the telephone calls he made?’

  ‘We can do better than that. All the calls are recorded digitally. I’ll send you the voice file of all his recent conversations.’

  Lydia made her first contribution. ‘How long has Walsh been in Grange Hall?’

  James played with a ballpoint, failing to hide her irritation. ‘He was transferred here six months ago for the last part of his sentence. He was allocated work in one of the greenhouses supervised by the gardening staff. We grow vegetables for the prison estate. So he spends his days cutting tomatoes, weeding, general gardening chores. Sandra can tell you more about him.’

  We turned to look at Sandra Green. She had thin colourless lips and untidy hair. She squinted, first at me then Lydia, before putting both hands on top of the papers in front of her as though she were preparing to make an announcement.

  ‘Walsh has always been civil to me and my staff.’

  ‘We were hoping you could give us more background into his family,’ Lydia said.

  ‘He was brought up by a single mother, and she had a string of failed relationships often with violent men. All of which contributed to his behaviour and personality. And she was an older mother – late thirties.’

  ‘Were there siblings?’

  ‘I believe there was mention of a twin having died at birth. Multiple births are more common in older mothers.’

  James butted in. ‘He had a difficult upbringing. That doesn’t excuse his criminality.’

  I doubted that the family of Mr Oakley would take such a sympathetic view of Jimmy Walsh.

  ‘Do you check his mail?’