‘Did you know La Traviata is the most popular opera?’ Lydia said, clearly aiming to embarrass me over my knowledge of Italian opera.
‘It was first performed in Venice in 1853.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I can be full of useless information.’
After Aberkenfig and Tondu, Lydia powered the car up the valley towards Maesteg. The town hadn’t lost its end-of-the-line feel but it was the sort of isolation that gave it a strong sense of community. The satnav took us to a street of well-maintained dormer bungalows with neatly trimmed gardens and shrubs.
Lydia pulled up once the disembodied voice told us we had reached our destination. At the same time a message arrived on my mobile from my father telling me a meeting had been arranged for Saturday morning with the family lawyers in Pontypridd. It felt like a long way in the future and I hoped that despite the demands of the inquiry I’d be able to attend.
Walter Underwood stood in the door as we approached. He still had a strong head of hair and it was difficult to guess his age from his tall stature although the makings of a paunch suggested he wasn’t as fit as he once was.
‘Mr Underwood, Detective Inspector Marco.’ I reached out a hand. His shook mine fiercely.
‘I’ll call Gloria. She’s sleeping.’
‘Thanks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was in the Cardiff City Stadium when you played for Wales in that game against Cyprus.’
He gave a brisk acknowledgement. ‘I scored that game. Shame we didn’t progress in that competition. We had some good players then.’
I wanted to talk football and Welsh football in particular. Especially as the national team was in one of the more favourable groups for the next World Cup. However, Walter left us in a sitting room with mementoes from his playing career littered across various sideboards and cupboards. I cast an appreciative eye around them all including the photograph of him receiving his fiftieth cap.
I hadn’t finished admiring the collection when I heard movement behind me. Gloria walked in, sank into a chair and then yawned.
‘What do you want?’
‘I was admiring your father’s collection. I enjoyed watching him play years ago.’
‘He still loves his football. He trains the local team and helps youngsters. It’s a pity there wasn’t the money in the game when he was playing. He’d be dead rich by now.’
‘Where does he help out?’
‘Local sides mostly. And Mam does the teas after the game on a Saturday.’
She tucked both legs underneath her on the chair.
Lydia butted in; talking football wouldn’t find Bevard’s killer. ‘We need to ask you about a Martin Kendall.’
‘Who?’
I switched into detective mode quickly enough when I noticed the casual lie. It was the averted glance and the slight evasive tone to her voice that sharpened my concentration.
Lydia continued. ‘He worked with Jimmy Walsh.’ Then she described Kendall in detail even down to the colour of his Porsche.
‘I think he may have mentioned him. Yeh, he did. Felix was forever getting involved with Jimmy Walsh.’
I glanced over at Lydia. She was gathering her thoughts.
‘Have you got a big family?’ I said.
‘Two sisters, like. We’re close, really close I mean. We do everything together and the boys are best mates with their cousins.’
Talking about her family was obviously something she enjoyed. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without Mam this last week. I was a wreck. So I’ve been staying here with the boys. I can see my sister too. They live nearby, see.’
Lydia got back into the swing of her questions. ‘We’re trying to build a picture of what Felix was doing on the afternoon he was killed. We can’t account for two hours in the middle of the afternoon. Do you know if he was meeting anyone?’
She straightened in her chair. ‘Are you suggesting he was playing around? My Felix would never do that.’
‘I didn’t say that. Do you know if he was meeting anyone?’
‘No, definitely not.’
‘We believe he might have been in the Cwmbran area that afternoon.’
‘But that’s miles from the golf course. What was he doing there?’
‘We hoped you might help us. We believe he may have been with a man called Jack Ledley?’
She gave a disinterested shrug that sat uncomfortably with the earlier belligerence.
‘Do you know Jack Ledley?’
She started chewing a nail before shrugging. ‘Sorry, dunno.’
Discussing with her the fact that Felix was contemplating signing a supergrass deal had to be faced. These agreements meant a complete change for the entire family, a new life, a break with everything familiar. Gloria looked tired; the skin around her eyes looked parched and cracked as though she had aged since her husband’s death.
‘I need to ask you about one other matter.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Were you aware that Felix was going to give evidence against Jimmy Walsh?’
She glanced away before adjusting her hair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Jimmy was implicated in the murder of a man called Robin Oakley a few years back.’
Gloria looked at me with a neutral expression.
‘Felix had enough evidence to have Jimmy Walsh convicted.’
I waited for a response. Lydia filled the lull. ‘Gloria, did Felix ever mention the witness protection scheme to you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Felix,’ Lydia paused, ‘and you and the boys would have been given new identities and a new life.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘He mentioned nothing about this to you?’
She pulled her legs closer to her now.
‘It would have meant a fresh start for you as a family without the risk of Jimmy Walsh ever finding you.’
She shook her head. ‘My Felix wouldn’t do that. Nobody knew him better than me and I’d swear on my gran’s grave Felix wouldn’t do that. He knows how close I am to my family. He'd never make me leave them.’
Gloria adopted an increasingly fractious response to the rest of our questions. We left soon after and headed back for Cardiff. I cursed silently when a message reached my mobile from Hobbs requesting a meeting later.
‘Perhaps she was right, boss, and Felix Bevard was never going to contemplate being a supergrass.’
‘I find that hard to believe when he was facing a murder charge. Remember, Robin Oakley’s blood traces in one of his taxis would be enough to get him convicted.’
Lydia didn’t seem convinced.
* * *
Back at Queen Street a uniformed officer was sitting by a desk in the Incident Room. ‘Detective Inspector Marco?’
I nodded.
‘Constable Colin Young, sir. I’m with the traffic department.’
I waved Young through to my room. ‘How can I help?’
He was about my age, clean-shaven, with a lean powerful build.
‘I’ve been on a week’s holiday.’ It explained the bronze tinge to his skin. ‘I understand you are investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’
I cast my watch a surreptitious glance, aware I didn’t want to keep Hobbs waiting.
‘I stopped Bevard that afternoon for speeding.’
It stopped me thinking about Hobbs in an instant. I pulled my chair nearer the desk, scrambled for a ballpoint and a clean sheet of paper.
‘Where was that? I’ll need all the details. Where have you been?’
‘On a beach in Tenerife. I always go for a week this time of the year.’
‘We know Bevard was in the Llanymerlin golf club on the afternoon he was killed. So what time did you stop him?’
Before Young started, I bellowed for Lydia. She took seconds to appear in my room and after hearing why we needed to speak to Young she sat down on one of the visitor chairs.
‘I was doing a regular patrol along the A472. It’s a known spot for speeding mot
orists. I was parked on one of the slip roads—’
‘Where exactly is that? Wait, Lydia will get the map.’
Lydia returned moments later with an ordnance survey sheet. She spread the map out over the desk and we looked on as Young found the exact location where he had stopped Bevard. We exchanged a troubled glance. It was miles away from the golf club and the shop he’d visited the same afternoon.
I looked over at Young. ‘I want you to remember everything.’
Young sat back in his chair. ‘He was in Pontypool driving north in the direction of Blaenavon. There was another man in the car with him.’
‘Can you describe him?’
My brusqueness startled Young who hesitated.
‘I didn’t see his face but …’
I leant over the desk. ‘Anything at all. I need to know who this other man was.’
‘He had tattoos and I think he had a pony tail.’
I glanced at Lydia. She nodded sternly.
Young continued. ‘I checked the car through the DVLA system and it belonged to Bevard. There wasn’t anything wrong with the car. He was pleasant and polite. He even apologised for speeding but he was doing far too much for a warning so I issued a ticket.’
‘Did you see anything in the car? Anything, it’s important.’
Young puckered his brow. ‘Come to think of it there were shopping bags on the back seat. Two or maybe three carrier bags. I wasn’t paying much attention. I think it might have been frozen foods, ready meals.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
Young gave Lydia a puzzled look. ‘We don’t pass the time of day with speeding motorists.’
Then I read the time again and I quickly tapped out an email to Hobbs telling him I was delayed. I turned back to Young. ‘I need your help.’
It took Young twenty minutes to give us an idea of how long it would have taken Bevard to travel from the golf club to the shop in Cwmbran and then to the spot where he was stopped for speeding. Lydia jotted down his comments about the likely road conditions. By the end I was no clearer why Bevard was driving around the eastern valleys. Young left us huddled over the map promising that if he remembered anything else he would contact us.
‘What do you think, boss?’ There was eager anticipation in Lydia’s voice.
‘Let’s concentrate on what we know. He was buying food. So he must have been buying it for somebody else. Let’s double-check …’
I clicked into the computer and found the forensics report from Bevard’s car that had been parked near to Roath Park. There was no sign of any shopping. It had his fingerprints on the steering wheel, and nothing to suggest any foul play.
‘There wasn’t anything in Bevard’s car?’ Lydia said.
I shook my head. I found a pencil on my desk and drew a circle around an area between the golf club, Cwmbran and Pontypool where Young had stopped Bevard. ‘Somewhere here we’re looking for Jack Ledley who was with Bevard. We’ll need to get Wyn and Jane working on all of Bevard’s known associates. Have we had the list of the prisoners released from HMP Grange Hall in the last three weeks?’
‘No, sir. I think we’re still waiting …’
‘Well, tell them to pull their finger out.’
‘Yes, boss—’
‘And we’ll need to talk to the drivers in his minicab business.’
I glanced again at my watch. Hobbs’ patience would be running thin by now.
‘I’ve got a meeting with Chief Inspector Hobbs.’
‘I know, sir. He asked me to attend as well.’
I narrowed my eyes but Lydia couldn’t possibly know why Hobbs wanted her to attend. We walked through the emptying corridors of Queen Street as the building readied itself for the night shift. I tapped on the door to Cornock’s office; I still couldn’t bring myself to think of it as Dave Hobbs’s office. There was a brief businesslike shout for us to enter. The room was still stuffy. Dave Hobbs had a china teacup and saucer set on the desk and his best pompous air.
‘Do sit down, Inspector Marco, Sergeant Flint.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Lydia said.
I mumbled something under my breath. Hobbs cast me a condescending glance.
‘My apologies about being late. We had an interesting development late this afternoon.’ I found a comfortable position on the chair and settled my right foot over my left knee.
‘So you’re making progress.’ Hobbs raised an eyebrow.
I galloped through a summary of the events of the week, dwelling specifically on the unresolved journey Bevard had taken on the last afternoon of his life.
‘Do you have any direct evidence to implicate Walsh, yet, Inspector?’
‘It’s only a matter of time.’
Lydia made her first contribution. ‘I think our best option is to trace Jack Ledley, the man Bevard met the afternoon he was killed.’
‘That sounds very sensible, Sergeant Flint.’ Hobbs looked in my direction. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a written report by the morning.’ Then he paused and added. ‘Inspector.’
I could see what he was playing at. He was like a parent with a naughty child who wouldn’t say please. Would I play his game? Would I say the magic word for him?
‘Of course. I have another couple of hours of work before leaving tonight. Sir.’
Then Lydia and I left. Walking back to the Incident Room I gradually unclenched by fists and then counted to fifty and then even more slowly to one hundred.
Chapter 15
After a morning reviewing all the house-to-house inquiries around Yelland’s home, and listening to Wyn and Jane recounting another wasted morning trying to track down Jack Ledley, I settled into a hope that forensics from Yelland’s blood-spattered kitchen might give us something we could use. I even managed to keep an even temper when I called the forensics lab for an update on the clothing recovered from Norcross’s home only to be told it would take time.
Lydia stood in the doorway of my office. ‘We’ve had details of the staff at Grange Hall and there’s nobody by the name of Janice working there.’ Lydia sat down opposite me, her hair drawn into a tight ponytail. The blusher on her cheekbones gave her face a sculpted appearance.
The window behind my desk let in enough cool air to remind me it was early September although the forecasters had been predicting more mild weather. Noise levels from the shops and offices increased as the weekend approached. Our main suspect for both deaths was Walsh. All I had to do was join the dots. If I could find them.
And Martin Kendall and Bernie Walsh had cast iron alibis. My frustration was off the scale at being unable to see what linked both murders. It meant another conversation with Sharon Yelland to establish who had seen her late husband with ‘Janice’ and then get a detailed description. It would all take time.
‘Get Wyn and Jane to speak to Sharon Yelland so we can track down this “Janice” woman.’
‘Yes, boss.’
I scanned the to-do list I had printed first thing that morning. Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs would have been pleased with my approach to paperwork. ‘And Wyn and Jane can talk to the bookmakers Sharon mentioned at the same time.’
After booting up my computer I scanned the dozens of emails that clogged my inbox, hoping I wouldn’t miss anything too important. Then I turned my attention to the various financial reports on the lawyers and police officers involved in the Bevard supergrass deal. I read financial summaries for the three police officers involved in the case, including the chief superintendent who had signed off on the agreement although the final decision must have gone to one of the ACCs.
Inspector Ackroyd had a house in Caerphilly with a small mortgage. I read about his investments in tax-free savings products and that his wife worked as a teacher. They had two children and everything seemed glaringly normal and unremarkable. The other two officers on his team had no financial problems that merited our attention. Ackroyd’s assurance that his officers were not the source of the leak seemed right. I
was pleased, of course. Discovering that a police officer might have been indirectly responsible for Bevard’s death would have been unpalatable.
The most senior of the Crown Prosecution lawyers had more ready cash than I earned in a year, which piqued my interest. After establishing that his bank account had the same level of liquidity for the past three years and that he had disclosed a substantial inheritance after his father died two years previously, which included a flat in a French ski resort, I stopped digging any further.
The last two CPS lawyers had addresses in the more desirable parts of Cardiff. I scanned their CVs and turned to the financial records. Roger Stockes had little in his bank account at the end of each month. I noticed regular payments to a private school and an internet search told me it charged annual fees of more than five times my monthly salary. Having a financial drain on his income would be a motive enough. I dwelt on his file in more detail and found there were irregular patterns of expenditure so I burrowed further.
Lydia appeared at my door. ‘Coffee, boss?’
A niggle worked its way into my mind as I tried to ignore a feeling I had missed something important amidst the bank statements and financial summaries. I went back to Stockes’ CV. I stopped when I reached the details of his university degree: astronomy. It was when I read the name of the university he had attended that my pulse flipped sideways.
I looked over at Lydia. ‘Something wrong, boss?’
I knew exactly where I had read the same information. ‘Roger Stockes went to the same university as Yelland. They both studied astronomy.’
Lydia sounded surprised. ‘So one becomes a prison officer, the other a lawyer for the CPS.’
‘And by happy coincidence one works on the Walsh supergrass deal and the other is a prison officer on Walsh’s billet. Stockes would have had access to all the information about Walsh. He could have mentioned it in passing to Yelland and he sees it as a smart way of making a few extra pounds.’
Somebody Told Me Page 9
