‘Jack Ledley,’ I said. ‘Gloria Bevard identified him as one of Bevard’s friends.’
I looked over at Lydia. ‘Get your coat. Let’s see if Ledley’s at home.’
This time I hammered on Ledley’s front door. But the result was the same. The next door neighbour came out of his front door when he heard me shouting.
‘Jack hasn’t been home since you were here last.’
‘Do you know where he might be? I need to speak to him.’
He stared at me as though I was deranged. ‘Like I said. I don’t know where he could be.’
He stood there for a few seconds before going back inside and firmly closing the door.
I jerked my head up the street. ‘You take one side. I’ll take the other. Somebody must know something about him.’
I could see the scepticism on Lydia’s face but I headed off before she could say anything. I spoke to several people who shook their heads when I mentioned Ledley’s name. After a dozen houses I crossed over and waited while Lydia finished with a portly man who kept her talking on the doorstep.
‘Nothing, boss. It’s as though he’s invisible.’
‘Damn. Let’s go to the sports centre where they played football. They might know something.’
We spoke to a receptionist who knew nothing about the members of the five-a-side football teams and she looked blankly when I mentioned the name of Felix Bevard and Jack Ledley. He was quickly becoming someone that we needed to find.
Someone who had spoken to Bevard on the day he died. Someone with information about Bevard’s last few hours.
Chapter 13
I was at my desk early and the message from Jackie reminding me about the arrangements for me to spend Saturday afternoon with Dean surprised me. It was longer than the messages I was accustomed to, and it sounded friendly. I texted her back and afterwards kept an eye on my telephone, half expecting a reply.
I worked my way through the preliminary reports of the house-to-house inquires in Yelland’s estate but they told us little of value and then the forensics report and the post mortem results took us no further. The prison had emailed his personnel file to us and I scanned the details.
I knew there had to be a connection to Walsh. And the only concrete one we had was Norcross who had once worked for Walsh and whose fingerprints were found at the Bevard murder scene. But we still couldn’t tie him directly to the murders.
So I called the forensics lab and spoke to one of the scientists there who snorted in disbelief when I inquired about progress. Frustrated, I turned to the papers on Norcross and wasted an hour until I read the result of the PNC check and read the name of HMP Newport where he had spent part of a sentence years ago. I had seen an earlier reference to the prison in the paperwork and a knot of tension developed that I had missed something obvious.
Then I recalled the details on Yelland’s personnel file and clicked on my mouse until his CV opened on my screen. He had spent six months in HMP Newport too, and I turned back to the papers on Norcross. My mouth dried and a sense that I was making progress filled my mind. Some progress, at least.
I picked up the telephone handset and called Newport prison.
After a brief conversation I strode out into the Incident Room and peered at the board. ‘Owen Norcross was in Newport jail at the same time that Brian Yelland was working there.’
None of the team said anything.
I stared at the image of Norcross. ‘Get him in for questioning. He’s on bail. Tell him we need to ask him some more questions.’
‘What if he refuses, sir?’ Wyn added.
I turned to him. His eyes had a troubled look. ‘Then arrest him.’
‘What for?’
‘For? Being an associate of Jimmy Walsh – that should be more than enough.’
For a moment Wyn thought I was serious. Jane sniggered.
‘And while both of you get Norcross into the cells Lydia and I will go and talk to Yelland’s mates in the prison.’
I walked back to my office for my jacket and then I joined Lydia as we made our way to the car park. After the usual formalities it was late morning before we were shown through to see Governor James. She had a harassed look on her face.
‘The press have rung every hour.’ She waved us to the chairs by the table.
I sat in one of the visitor chairs, Lydia by my side.
‘Is there any indication who might have killed Yelland?’
‘It’s far too early to say,’ I said.
‘It means a complete investigation.’ She sounded crushed. ‘Headquarters have these protocols.’ Her gaze couldn’t settle on anything. ‘They’re sending a team.’ She made it sound very cloak and dagger. ‘Yelland was subject to disciplinary proceedings. The whole thing is being handled by the HR section here in consultation with the Prison Officers Union.’
‘We’ll need the file.’
She nodded. It was a tired, worried nod. ‘These things take time. You have no idea about the paperwork we need to go through to discipline a prison officer. And my predecessor was useless. He ignored any problem and hoped it would go away.’
‘You could fill me in about his background while Sergeant Flint speaks to the POU representative.’
James reached for the telephone, tapped in a number and barked some instructions at the person at the other end. She smiled weakly at me.
‘Tell me about Yelland.’
‘He was a drunk. But I expect you know that. And if he worked weekends there were complaints from families in the visitor centre that he smelt of booze and that he was slurring. One Saturday he fell over and broke a chair.’
‘When did he finish work on Sunday?’
‘He should have finished his shift at six but he filled in for a colleague and did some overtime. He left at ten.’
There was a knock on the door and a woman drifted in with an armful of papers she deposited on James’s desk. ‘The POU representative will see Detective Sergeant Flint now,’ she announced.
Lydia left and I turned my attention back to James.
‘Had he been threatened by anyone?
‘Not that I am aware, Inspector.’
‘Did he have any contact with Jimmy Walsh?’
James stared over at me open-mouthed in astonishment. ‘Surely you don’t still think Walsh was responsible?’ She shook her head slowly as though my approach was to be pitied.
‘Yelland was the officer who showed us Walsh’s cell.’
‘I know but, for Christ’s sake. Walsh is a prisoner here, he couldn’t have been responsible unless …’
‘He conspired with someone else.’
She sat back in her chair with a thud. She shifted through the papers. ‘We had only gone so far with the disciplinary proceedings. We had to get risk assessments of his work and evaluate his performance.’ She paused. ‘And now the poor man is dead. This is awfully sad. Have you spoken to his wife? I understand they were separated.’
Eventually she extracted a thin plastic envelope and riffled through its various contents.
‘I’ll need to speak to HR about releasing all the papers.’
A growing sense that the reason for Yelland’s death did not lie in his disciplinary file made me appear deferential. ‘I will need everything in due course. Perhaps you can get back to me once you’ve spoken to HR. I’ll need full details of where he worked, what his duties were, etc. And I need to know whether he made any enemies in the prison? Both from the prisoners and the staff.’
‘His colleagues can give you a better picture. I understand years ago he was considered material for governor grade but things got on top of him. And then the booze got a hold of him. Terrible thing being an alcoholic.’
Every time a person was portrayed in this way, I thought the speaker must know about me and then my shirt tightened around my neck and the hairs on my neck stood up. So I found myself blanking out her comments.
‘I understand he was having a relationship with one of the female sta
ff.’
James gazed over the desk, astonished. ‘First I’ve heard of it.’
‘Wouldn’t such a relationship be relevant in the disciplinary proceedings?’
‘You cannot seriously expect me to know everything about the private lives of all the staff here.’
‘I’ll need a list of all your staff in due course.’
‘Of course.’ James was surveying the carnage on her desk as I left. I joined Lydia in the entrance lobby and we were escorted to another administration building.
‘The representative of the POU is a right fascist. He wanted to know if there was written authority for all the paperwork to be disclosed. Then he went through a list of things the prison authorities had done wrong and how they had contributed to Yelland being a drunk.’
‘Yelland’s dead and he wants to play the union game.’
‘That’s what I told him. I couldn’t believe he was being so awkward. Obviously he wants to protect his own little empire.’
‘Prison officers are notoriously defensive. There’s a great esprit de corps.’
Eventually we were led into an airless room in a two-storey building in the middle of HMP Grange Hall. We hadn’t been offered coffee or tea or water and my throat felt parched. After an hour listening to the jaded comments from various prison officers who knew Brian Yelland I sympathised with Governor James’s dilemma. They all shared a cynicism about the effectiveness of the prison system and how shorter sentences in the relaxed regime at HMP Grange Hall made their life difficult, increased crime and generally contributed to the decline of civilisation.
The final officer was younger than the rest.
‘Glyn Vaughan.’ He reached out a hand, which I shook. He sat down and gave us an open smile that encouraged me to believe he might be more helpful than his colleagues.
‘Were you friends with Brian Yelland?’
Vaughan nodded. ‘We worked together. I got on well with him. I suppose you know he was facing disciplinary proceedings.’
I flicked through the file of papers in front of me until I found Yelland’s personnel details. I looked up at Vaughan. ‘You’re a bit younger than Yelland?’
‘I had probably more in common with him than some of the other officers. I came into the prison service after university not really knowing what I wanted to do. Most of the other officers are ex-servicemen which is a bit ironic when you consider the ex-servicemen we lock up.’
‘Did you work the same shifts as Yelland?’
‘For most of the time. We shared responsibility for looking after the four “F” billets and we supervised the gardening section.’
‘Is that where James Walsh works?’
Vaughan’s direct eye contact told me so much more than his simple nod.
‘Was Brian good at his work?’
Vaughan cleared his throat as though he wanted time to compose an answer. ‘He was a very experienced prison officer but I think he got too familiar with a lot of the prisoners. Although this is an open jail and we’ve got our fair share of dodgy accountants and crooked lawyers, there are still career hardened criminals here too.’
Lydia stopped scribbling notes and gazed over at Vaughan.
I continued wondering what else he could add. ‘What do you mean by “familiar”? Any specific examples you could share?’
‘Oh, you know, he would hang around the billet for longer than he needed. Then he’d get talking to the prisoners. We are not here as social workers, Inspector.’
‘Was he ever over familiar with Jimmy Walsh?’
Vaughan pursed his lips. ‘I warned him about Walsh. I saw him in the greenhouses and sheds where Walsh worked, talking and sharing a joke with him. As though they were mates.’
‘Can you remember if you were working last Wednesday evening? It was the night Felix Bevard was murdered?’
‘There were a lot of disturbances that night.’
I frowned. ‘What kind of disturbances?’
‘It happens occasionally when the tension boils over. Younger prisoners from the other billets had been fighting earlier in the day. Then there was an argument between two prisoners over a game of poker.’
‘Was Jimmy Walsh involved? Did Brian Yelland work that evening?’
‘Brian was working for sure. He’d asked for overtime. He needed the money apparently. But then he always needed money. As I recall Jimmy Walsh had been ill.’
‘Was he seen by a doctor?’
Vaughan guffawed. ‘If the prisoners are sick then they’re sick. There’s no doctor on site. Walsh might have got paracetamols from the other prisoners.’
I tidied the papers but Vaughan remained seated. ‘Look, Inspector, there’s one other thing. I can’t prove this but I think Brian was taking money from Walsh.’
I let out a slow breath. I saw the tension in Lydia’s face.
‘You had better explain.’ I used a measured tone.
‘It’s not unheard of for the wealthier prisoners to make certain their time inside is made easier by paying prison officers to make sure they get the right privileges and the best food. I noticed Brian was bringing in ready meals – far more than he would ever eat on duty. If Walsh got hungry, all he had to do was use the microwave in his billet. And Brian made sure Walsh got the quietest cell and the cosiest job in the prison.’
‘Did you ever voice your concern to your superiors?’
Vaughan gave me a crooked smile. ‘Brian was a colleague. What he did was stupid but nobody escaped. Nobody absconded.’
After Vaughan left I wondered what Governor James would make of all this. We left the administration block and made our way to the main gate. I could understand the indignation of the red-topped newspapers whenever a prisoner absconded but there had to be a system for trying to rehabilitate offenders. I pointed my remote at the car and it bleeped open.
‘What did you make of Vaughan, boss?’
I stopped and put a hand on the roof of my car. ‘I think it brings nearer that conversation I need to have with Jimmy Walsh.’
* * *
A tray with the dried-up remains of a half-eaten lasagne lay on a plastic plate on the floor of the interview room. The room smelt thick from dirty clothes and unwashed bodies. The custody sergeant had warned me that a couple of drunks had been interviewed in the room earlier that day. Lydia took the tray outside and I put the tapes and my papers on the table. Before leaving my office I had read an email from the governor of Newport jail. The paragraphs that told me about the conflict between Norcross and Yelland had made interesting reading.
Owen Norcross appeared in the doorway moments later, this time with a solicitor. Chris Humphreys was one of the regulars from one of the less fashionable firms in Cardiff and the quality of his suit and the scuffed brogues suggested he needed a better class of client.
‘What is the basis of this interview? Have you arrested my client?’ Humphreys pumped himself up before continuing.
‘Your client is on bail and has agreed to assist us with our inquiries.’ I smiled at Norcross. It had little effect. He sat down, crossed his arms, and stared at me.
Once Lydia and I were settled at the desk I turned to Norcross. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Brian Yelland.’
More blank stares.
‘Mr Yelland was a prison officer at HMP Grange Hall.’
‘No comment.’ Norcross glanced at Humphreys.
‘He was killed on Sunday evening.’
Humphreys made his first contribution. ‘Are you suggesting that my client had a motive to kill Mr Yelland because he was a prisoner when Yelland was an officer there?’
‘Did you know Mr Yelland?’
‘No comment.’
Moving some of the papers to one side, I checked the dates of Norcross’s incarceration in Newport jail.
‘You knew Brian Yelland from your time in Newport prison. He was one of the senior officers on the wing where you spent the last six months of your sentence.’
He moved in his chair as
though he were sitting on something uncomfortable.
‘Did you have an argument with Yelland?’
He shook his head back and forth.
‘Is it true that there was an argument between you both about your privileges and that you threatened Yelland?’
Norcross glanced at Humphreys. He gave the slightest of nods.
‘Yelland was a vindictive bastard and he was drunk all the time. I didn’t kill him.’
Humphreys stopped scribbling in his notepad and announced, ‘And you’ve got no reason to hold my client or suspect that he was involved.’
I ignored Humphreys and kept looking at Norcross. ‘Where were you on Sunday night after you left the police station?’
He unfolded his arms and placed his palms on the table; there was a note of defiance in his voice. ‘I went to see my mum, then I went home. I was back before midnight.’
We left Norcross and his lawyer, who protested vehemently about his client’s continued detention. I went outside to smoke a cigarette while Lydia spoke to Norcross’s mother. I returned to the custody suite as Lydia finished her call. ‘She confirms he visited but she can’t recall when he left.’
She shrugged. ‘We don’t have any eyewitness evidence, boss.’
An hour later we had released Norcross. My reminder that he was still on bail met with a dull stare. I watched him leave Queen Street with Humphreys. It sickened me to think that he would be on the telephone with Bernie Walsh once he got home, laughing and gloating.
Chapter 14
Lydia had chosen to play a CD of La Traviata on the car stereo during our journey the following morning. Our agreement to alternate musical tastes meant the theme tune to our next trip would be Elvis’ greatest hits. She took the M4 west until the junction for Bridgend and then she followed the road north for Maesteg. After the decline of the coal industry the town was nothing more than a dormitory area for Port Talbot. Gloria Bevard’s extended family still lived there and she had given us the address of her parents’ home where she was staying. I mulled over her father’s name: Walter Underwood. He had been a childhood hero of mine who had played half back for Swansea before they reached the heights of the English Premier league. Nobody remembered him much but he had played for Wales on the first occasion I had watched an international game, and he had scored the only goal.
Somebody Told Me Page 8
