I pushed open the door. A voice bellowed from the rear. ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’
‘Police. I need to talk to the owner.’
I heard the sound of glasses clinking together. Moments later a tall thin man emerged from behind the bar area and walked towards me. He gave my warrant card a cursory look. ‘He’s upstairs. They’re very busy.’
At the top of a broad staircase covered with a deep red carpet was a room full of men in casual clothes rearranging tables and chairs. I scanned, hoping I could make out the owner, but a name like Williams didn’t suggest he was an Italian. A man, mid-fifties, receding hairline and heavy paunch, walked towards us.
‘I’m sorry but the restaurant is closed. Didn’t you see the sign downstairs?’
I held up my warrant card. ‘Are you David Williams?’
‘Yes. What’s this about?’
‘Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’
‘What do you want?’ There was an intense, worried look on his face.
It was the reaction I had expected from Bryant and Parks. A visit from two police officers isn’t a daily occurrence and I could sense the anxiety in Williams’ voice.
‘We’re looking again at the murder of Mr Oakley several years ago when a Jimmy Walsh was a possible suspect. His alibi was that he had been here all evening at a family party.’
‘I remember. It was a big party. They were using this room for a disco and the buffet.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder. Behind him, two members of staff were hanging prints of Italian beach scenes.
‘What can you remember?’
‘You’re joking right?’ He drew a hand over his head. ‘The place was rammed. We were rushed off our feet trying to organise everything, all the food and the booze. And I seem to recall we were short-staffed.’
‘At the time you made a statement confirming Jimmy Walsh and his wife Bernie Walsh had been here that evening.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you remember anything about when they arrived and when they left?’
The incredulity on Williams’ face was obvious. ‘I can’t remember what I said all those years ago. I remember seeing Walsh with his wife but …’
‘Could Walsh have left during the evening?’
There was a shout from one corner as one of the prints fell onto a table, glass smashing over the tablecloth.
Williams turned and shouted. ‘For Christ’s sake. That’s coming out of your wages.’ Both men stood transfixed, staring at the ruined print. ‘Get it cleared up and then take it downstairs. We’ll get it re-framed.’
He stared back at me. ‘How the hell would I know about Jimmy Walsh? I haven’t seen him for years. Why don’t you talk to Mickey and Frank over there?’ Then he strode over to the men struggling to hang the prints, shouting at them to be careful.
I glanced at Lydia. She frowned slightly. From the file of papers under her arm she found the original list of witnesses. I couldn’t recall anyone called ‘Frank’ on the list.
‘There’s a Michael Prentice, two girls, but nobody by the name of Frank, boss.’
I approached both men. ‘Which one of you two is Mickey?’
‘I’m Mickey Prentice,’ the taller one said. The man standing by his side had a ruddy complexion and flabby cheeks. There was innocence about his face.
‘You must be Frank?’
The man nodded.
‘I want to ask you both about a party a few years ago. The police were investigating a man called Jimmy Walsh in relation to the murder of a Robin Oakley.’ Frank blinked rapidly.
‘Do you both remember that evening?’
Mickey was the first to reply. ‘I made a statement years ago.’
Lydia had found what I assumed was his original statement from the file. ‘I want to clarify if you can remember what happened?’
After five minutes it was clear Mickey hadn’t been primed to expect us. He scanned through the original statement Lydia gave him, shrugged and then thrust it back at her.
I kept my questions neat and simple. Both remembered seeing Jimmy Walsh, neither could tell me exactly when he arrived or when he left and my question about whether he could have left during the evening met with raised eyebrows and incredulity. I turned to Frank. ‘Do you recall what happened that evening?’
‘It’s a long time ago.’ He swallowed self-consciously.
‘You were both working together?’ I kept my gaze firmly on Frank.
‘The place was super busy.’
There wasn’t the vagueness I had expected from his replies. The evening had been fixed deep in his memory. My anticipation grew at the prospect of a new witness. In the background David Williams kept shouting instructions.
‘Do you remember a Mrs Parks?’
Both men shook their heads.
‘And what about Philip Bryant?’
Mickey snorted. He glanced at his colleague. ‘You tell him, Frank.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That slob Bryant had been shagging his girlfriend.’
Frank folded his arms. ‘It was all a long time ago. She was working in the Dog and Whistle. He couldn’t keep his hands off her.’
‘So was Bryant at the party?’
Mickey replied first. ‘He was here all right. He got wrecked.’
‘What time did he arrive?’
‘He was pissed when he arrived.’ Frank added slowly, ‘It was late – half ten or eleven. I remember he complained like hell about there being no food. And more than anything I can remember her perfume on his clothes.’
* * *
Sitting in the car I fumbled for the satnav.
‘Philip Bryant lied to us.’
I must have sounded desperate but Frank’s evidence weakened Walsh’s alibi.
‘Boss, how is this helping with the Bevard inquiry?’ Lydia said.
Bryant arriving late at the party meant Walsh’s alibi could be challenged. We would have to put him in Roath Park for him to murder Oakley. ‘I want to work out how long it would have taken Jimmy Walsh to drive to Roath Park.’
‘We know Walsh had to time to leave the party, sir.’
I couldn’t ignore Lydia for too long nor could I ignore her comments about how the investigation into Oakley’s murder would help us with the Bevard case. But for now her concerns could wait. I answered my own question.
‘Ten minutes, maybe more.’ I tossed the satnav towards her. ‘To hell with this bloody machine. I know the way.’
I started the car. Then I looked over at Lydia. ‘Get your phone out and time us.’
Now it was her time to fumble in her bag before she produced a mobile and found the time setting. ‘It’s not going to be real evidence.’
‘I want to know how long the journey would have taken. Start it now.’
I glanced in the mirror, accelerated towards the junction with Albany Road and then indicated left. I pulled into the traffic; luckily it was light and I headed west. I’d almost reached the junction of Wellfield Road but instinct made me decide not to turn right. Walsh would have taken the shortest route with the least traffic and he might have been delayed on Wellfield Road leading towards the junction with Ninian Road. So I drove further along towards one of the residential streets and headed right down Alfred Street. It was quiet, and I increased my speed as much as I dared. Three minutes later we were at the junction with Ninian Road. Roath recreation ground opened out in front of me. The pleasure grounds and Roath Park stretched out northwards. The quickest way towards the park itself was along Ninian Road towards the roundabout and then up Eastern Avenue. Would Walsh have taken this route?
I sped along Ninian Road. It had to be the quickest route.
I slowed at the end of the road, my irritation rising as we got snarled up behind half a dozen cars waiting to cross the roundabout. Lydia announced that five minutes had passed. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. Eventually I negotiated the tight roundabout and then drove under
the flyover feeling a sense of relief as I saw the railings for Roath Park to my right. I drove sedately up Lake Road West until I reached the entrance and saw the Captain Scott Memorial lighthouse perched at the bottom of the Roath Park lake. I braked, too hard and too suddenly for the driver behind who blasted his horn.
‘Seven and a half minutes, boss.’
I let my breathing return to normal.
‘So it would have been a fifteen-minute round trip.’
‘Assuming the traffic was the same.’
I turned towards Lydia. ‘And, he would have needed time to kill Oakley.’
Chapter 20
First thing Monday morning I strode into the Incident Room and headed straight for the board displaying the images of the victims and Jimmy Walsh. The way Martin Kendall and Bernie Walsh had orchestrated their alibis reinforced my determination that Walsh was guilty. But gut feeling and intuition could always be an excuse for a lack of evidence. And if I was wrong then I’d be issuing speeding tickets on the motorway soon enough.
Lydia caught me in the middle of rearranging the photographs and she gave me a startled look. I had Bernie and Martin Kendall directly underneath Jimmy Walsh and underneath both of them Phil Bryant and alongside him Owen Norcross.
Lydia dumped her bag on the desk and shrugged off her coat. ‘I’ve been thinking, boss.’ She measured her words, which I knew meant I had to take her seriously. ‘We still need to establish where Bevard was on the afternoon he was killed and we need to find Ledley.’ She paused; I could see where this was going. ‘I can’t help think that spending time on the old Oakley case is a dead end.’
I folded my arms and Papa’s worried frown came to mind when I told him about Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh.
‘It’s personal.’
‘That’s what worries me, sir.’
‘Jesus, Lydia, yesterday we established that Walsh’s alibi for the Oakley case wasn’t as watertight as everyone believed.’ I paced back to the board and pointed at Bryant. ‘And we know that he has been to visit Walsh in jail.’ I stared at his face. ‘I wonder where he was the night Bevard was killed?’
Listening to myself I knew we had to focus on Bevard but the Oakley case still niggled. ‘You’re right we focus on Bevard. But first we speak to Mrs Oakley.’
Lydia scowled but I used a tone that suggested my decision wasn’t a matter for debate. In order to make progress with Bevard I had to speak to Mrs Oakley, be satisfied in my own mind that the investigation into her husband’s death had been completed properly. And I needed to hear from her what Jimmy Walsh had done to them. At least then I could tell Uncle Gino and Jez what sort of people they were dealing with, although I doubted that either would listen to me.
Behind her, the main door opened and Wyn entered. The weekend had resulted in a haircut, a neat short back and sides, and there was purposefulness in his stride. Seconds later Jane walked in already yawning and dragging her feet.
I acknowledged their greetings and quickly gave them a summary of the position with Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh. Wyn tugged at his nose while Jane frowned, gazing over at the board.
‘What we haven’t looked at are the social media accounts for both Bevard and Yelland. And Roger Stockes told us that Yelland was using some internet dating sites.’
After half an hour I had allocated various tasks.
‘And I need a complete trawl through every available CCTV camera within ten miles of where Bevard was stopped for speeding.’
I sensed Wyn’s early morning enthusiasm already waning.
* * *
Once we were off the motorway temporary traffic lights delayed us and I drummed my fingers over the top of the steering wheel. Lydia continued to hum along to the recording of Rigoletto she’d chosen for the journey.
‘Do you think Mrs Oakley might have anything new to tell us, boss?’
It was Lydia’s way of saying – I hope this isn’t another waste of time.
I mumbled a reply, recalling Mrs Oakley’s disinterest when I called first thing that morning to arrange our visit. The lights ahead of me turned green and I pulled away as the satnav gave more instructions. The disembodied voice led us through various suburbs of Bridgend. I indicated left and pulled into a cul-de-sac of a dozen bungalows, some with dormers and others with converted garages. Mrs Oakley’s property was at the end and I parked the car in the drive behind a red Alfa Romeo Brera sports car. The rims of the alloys were scuffed, the paintwork scratched and as we walked to the front door I noticed the car’s tired leather upholstery.
A man in his twenties, heavily built with a polo shirt a size too small that accentuated the pumped-up muscles of his arms, gave us an intense stare. ‘I’m Howard Oakley. You’d better come in.’
Mrs Oakley stood at the end of the hallway staring at us. She was thin, flat-chested and her clothes made her look shapeless. Her lips were colourless. ‘What do you want?’
I held out a hand and shook hers. It was bony, the skin flaccid. ‘I’m investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’
‘He was involved with Jimmy Walsh wasn’t he?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’
Mrs Oakley darted her head towards the door into the living room. A television was on mute but before sitting down she pressed the remote to switch it off.
‘You know Jimmy Walsh killed my Robin don’t you? There was nothing you lot could do about it. Perfect alibi – that’s what I was told.’
The old springs of the sofa groaned as Lydia and I sat down.
Mrs Oakley looked up at her son who had followed us into the room with an upright wooden dining chair. He sat, legs apart, hands propped onto solid knees. ‘Howie can tell you. He knows all about that scumbag.’
I looked over at Howard. The deadpan look on his face remained unchanged.
‘I want to go over some of the details you told the police at the time of your husband’s murder.’
Lydia passed me a copy of the statement Mrs Oakley had provided.
Before I continued Howard piped up, his voice surprisingly reedy. ‘That bastard Walsh is a fucking murderer. Detective Webster in charge of the enquiry was a useless piece of shit. He had no interest in Mam or me.’
‘I appreciate your strong feelings on the matter.’ I wanted to say – you’re right and I’m going to nail the bastard, but years of policing kicked in. ‘At the time Jimmy Walsh had an alibi we couldn’t challenge. It was considered carefully by the prosecution lawyers.’
‘Then Jimmy must have paid somebody off.’ Howie folded his arms, defying me to challenge him. I turned to look at Mrs Oakley but Howie continued. ‘And Felix Bevard was up to his neck in the same shit as Walsh. So if you ask me he’s had what’s coming to him. Good riddance to a bad load of shit.’
As I turned to look over at Howie I shared a worried glance with Lydia.
‘I need to talk to your mother,’ I said, lowering my voice.
He pouted. I turned back to Mrs Oakley, giving her the barest of smiles. ‘Can we review what you told the investigating officers at the time?’
I went over everything again in detail: the time when Oakley had left the house on the morning of his death, the meetings he had had with Walsh and Bevard and the various telephone calls and late-night visits heavy with veiled threats and ultimatums. Howie couldn’t resist interrupting but when I pointed a finger at him with my hardest glare he sank back into his chair.
‘At first Walsh and his scumbag son-in-law were as nice as pie. They wanted to make us rich so we could retire. They took as to the races near Llanelli. Robin drank a skinful of champagne and puked in the car on the way back.’
‘Tell them what happened then, Mam,’ Howie said.
Mrs Oakley started chewing a nail; as though it was the first thing she had eaten all day. ‘We got second thoughts. The property had been owned by the family for donkeys’ years and with so many memories we couldn’t bring ourselves to sell it. And other shopkeepers and stallholders in the near
by market didn’t want us to sell.’
Howie stood up and paced around the room. ‘Dad told them right enough. He wasn’t going to sell.’
‘It was the worst thing …’ Mrs Oakley brushed away a tear. ‘He had his greyhounds. Loved them like they were little kiddies. One morning we found them dead and then Felix Bevard came round, pretending to be all nice. Telling us selling up was really for the best.’
An unsettling fear clung to my mind as I dreaded what Uncle Gino and Jez were concocting with Martin Kendall.
‘I hate them. All of them, for what they done to me …’
‘Tell them, Mam. Tell them everything.’ Howard stopped pacing, put his hands on his hips and stared down at Lydia and I.
‘I’m not well.’
Howard took a step towards us. ‘After Dad was killed by those mad fuckers the business went under within a year and they picked up the property dirt cheap. So until now it’s cost them nothing.’
I narrowed my eyes as I looked over at Howie. ‘What do you mean “until now”?’
‘Well he’s fucking dead isn’t he? You need to ask Mam what it’s like for her. Walsh will come out of jail healthy and fit. He’s had three meals a day, best gym for miles and satellite TV all paid for by the taxpayer.’
Mrs Oakley had finished chewing the nail of her left hand but had started another on her right before mumbling. ‘I’m sick.’
I paused. Lydia adjusted her position on the sofa by my side. ‘Mrs Oakley, can you tell us what’s wrong?’
‘I’ve got cancer.’
‘And it was all as a result of those two lizards Bevard and Walsh.’ Howie tempered his voice this time.
‘I’m very sorry.’
The dining chair sagged under Howie’s weight as he dropped his body onto it. ‘The cancer won’t go away. Mam is going to start chemotherapy next week.’
I could see how tangling with Jimmy Walsh and Bevard had led to this. They blamed both men for Mrs Oakley’s illness. And I could see they had been innocents caught in a web drawn by Jimmy Walsh.
‘He’s coming out of jail soon,’ Howie said, rocking back and forth slowly. ‘Two years. That’s nothing for being a mainline drug dealer and killer. Where is the justice in that? It makes my fucking blood boil.’
Somebody Told Me Page 13
