I felt helpless. I wanted to tell them I knew Walsh could have left the restaurant, gone to Roath Park and killed Robin Oakley. For the sake of my career, I decided a gentle reassurance would have to suffice. ‘I can appreciate why you are angry. Cases are reopened, sometimes.’ I could sense Lydia getting uncomfortable by my side. ‘I’m not reopening the inquiry into your husband’s death; all I’m doing is identifying if there’s anything that might link the case to the death of Felix Bevard.’
Mrs Oakley managed a harsh cough that rattled her ribs. ‘You should talk to Maggie.’ There was more coughing until she crumpled back into a chair.
‘Maggie?’
‘It was the best thing that came out of the whole business. Maggie Evans came to see me with Ben. She was ignored by you people too. Nobody believed a word she told ’em even though Ben was in the park the night Robin was killed. She wanted to tell me how sad she was about Robin and everything. Then we got to be friends.’
I turned to Lydia; she was already flicking through the sheets of paper in the file. She handed me the list of witnesses from the original case. I scanned down until I found the name Margaret Evans with an address in Roath. I searched but I couldn’t find a reference to any other witness called Ben.
The possibility that the investigating team had overlooked a witness raised my optimism. I measured every word. ‘Who was Ben?’
‘Ben Evans? Her son of course. He was a nice lad but there is something not right with him. One of them syndromes – it was probably why the cops ignored him. They moved away afterwards. I don’t think she wanted to stay around near Roath Park.’
‘Do you have an address for her?’
Mrs Oakley took a deep breath and her whole body shook violently.
‘Mam has had enough now. It’s time for you to go.’
‘Do you have a phone number for Margaret Evans?’
Mrs Oakley walked slowly to a sideboard and returned with an address book. Lydia jotted down a telephone number and address. I promised to keep Mrs Oakley informed of developments, although in truth the only development she would care about would be Walsh in jail for her husband’s murder. I didn’t blame her for one minute.
Howie pushed the door firmly closed behind us.
* * *
‘I thought you might be here.’
Lydia sidled into the bench seat opposite me. She drew a finger along the table top and grimaced. Ramones was the best greasy spoon in Cardiff and as a regular all I had to was smile at the nearest waitress and a full breakfast would be on its way. I folded away that morning’s Western Mail having read the sports pages in their entirety.
Lydia looked over at the menu board. ‘Does everything involve fried bacon?’
‘They don’t do vegetarian here.’
A waitress arrived at our table before Lydia could reply. ‘What do you want?’
Lydia ordered tea and two rounds of toast. ‘What did you make of Mrs Oakley, boss?’
‘I think we should run Howard Oakley’s name through the PNC. He looks mad enough to have killed Bevard himself.’
Lydia nodded slowly.
I tapped the file of papers sitting on the table. ‘I’ve checked the list of witnesses from the Oakley inquiry and there’s no mention of a Ben Evans being interviewed.’
Lydia curled up her lips. ‘That means—’
‘We need to speak to him.’
‘But that really does mean reopening the Oakley case.’
I knew exactly what was on her mind. ‘We can’t simply ignore this.’
Her tea arrived and she gave the chipped mug a suspicious glance. ‘But it’s not really part of the Bevard case.’
Walsh and Kendall had involved my family and I wasn’t going to leave any loose ends – not on the Bevard inquiry, nor now with the Oakley investigation which looked more and more flawed. Next stop was an interview with the man himself.
Chapter 21
I placed two chairs opposite each other, either side of an old metal table. I dropped a buff-coloured folder onto the surface and sat down. I scanned the room wondering if there was a microphone. But this was HMP Grange Hall and not some set from a television drama.
To my right was a large Perspex window. Prison officers could still see into the room, which was reassuring. Governor James had sounded puzzled by my request to interview Jimmy Walsh, but I had brushed aside her concerns about his imminent release. I glanced at my watch: Walsh was late.
I wanted to invade his personal space. Tell him I was in charge. Make it clear if he ever bullied my family then …
Jimmy Walsh passed the window, a prison officer opened the door and Walsh entered. He was shorter than I imagined, but broader and thicker around the neck. The prison reports had mentioned his regular attendances in the gym that contributed to the bulk.
He dragged a chair from underneath the table and sat down.
The door pulled closed behind the prison officer and I sat looking at Walsh.
He wore standard prison clothes: blue striped shirt and denims with a grey sweatshirt. Hair trimmed closer to his skull than in the images in his file.
Frustration tightened around my chest as I stared at Walsh. I would prove his guilt for Bevard’s death, and he’d be going down for life. I noticed the prison officer staring in at us and I glanced over at him. He nodded back. Walsh stared at me.
I pushed my warrant card over the table towards him. Walsh leant forward, peered down casually, and then made eye contact with me again.
‘Detective Inspector Marco. I’m investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’
‘So I hear.’
‘He was a business associate of yours.’
‘Why am I here, Inspector?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘This isn’t an interview under caution is it?’
‘I’m sure you want to cooperate with the inquiry. You might know something of relevance.’
I stared into the whites of his eyes: there was a trace of yellow there too.
‘I’m in prison, Inspector.’
‘Did Felix Bevard ever contact you?’
‘I’m sure you’ve checked the visitor log.’
I opened the papers on my desk.
‘You and Felix go back a long way.’
He stared straight at me, through me.
‘Did you visit him on your last weekend release?’ I checked the dates with a flourish. ‘When was that exactly?’ I recited the dates.
He adjusted his position. ‘Somebody told me you’re from the Aberdare Marco family.’
My lips dried as he drawled. ‘It’s the Marco ice cream family isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘I always liked their ice cream as a boy.’
I closed the file of papers and pushed it to one side.
‘Is it the same family that owns the Marco café in Pontypridd?’ Walsh managed a narrow smile without opening his lips but there was no emotion in to his eyes. ‘Somebody told me there are big redevelopment plans pending.’
My body tensed. I grasped both hands together. I wanted to reach over the table and calmly throttle Walsh until he agreed never to contact my family again. Somehow, I managed to keep my voice calm. ‘Tell me about Felix Bevard?’
Walsh knew our interview wasn’t being taped and that gave him confidence and composure. ‘Felix was an old friend of mine.’ That smile was back again but now his eyes sparkled like sunshine reflecting off finely sharpened steel. ‘We went back a long time.’
‘And you had him killed.’
He feigned disbelief and outrage with a shake of his head.
I placed my chin on steepled arms. ‘You must have known about Felix Bevard, about his plans to grass you up?’
He stared over at me, blinked once, then tried his mean smile again. He knew, of course he knew.
‘I thought you and I should have this chat. Off the record. You found out Bevard would give evidence that you killed Robin Oakley. You were going down for murder. And for you, that would mean life.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘You do remember Mr Oakley? His widow certainly remembers you.’
Even sitting quite still Walsh exuded a menacing quality.
‘Tell me about Yelland?’
‘He was one of the prison officers here. It was very sad, his death.’
I curled my left hand into a fist.
‘He was making your life easy wasn’t he? You have the cosiest job in the jail, best food, he brought in bottles of whisky and brandy for you. So what do you know about his death?’
He raised his hands, scanned the room. ‘I’m in jail, Inspector.’
‘We know that you arranged to pay off his gambling debts.’
There was something different in his eyes now, surprise perhaps, and I felt pleased that I had the advantage. ‘How much did you pay him to make your life easy?’
He paused. ‘So I slipped him a few quid. I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last to have done that.’
‘So did Yelland get greedy?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ve spoken to Martin Kendall. And I’ve seen your wife. But I’m sure you know that too.’
I sat back in the chair as one of the prison officers walked to the window, raising an eyebrow and tapping on his watch. I nodded briefly; Walsh had to be back in his cell for the afternoon roll call.
‘We are reopening the Oakley murder case …’
He frowned, then rolled his eyes. ‘Somebody told me you’ve been rummaging around my cell. Did you find anything?’
I should have expected that. Nothing was secret in prison.
‘Somebody told me you might even be a good detective.’
I leant over the table. I was staring at the man who had conspired to kill Felix Bevard. He might not have pulled the trigger but it was only a matter of time before I proved who did. And his involvement with Uncle Gino and Jez and Papa had to stop.
‘Tell Kendall to steer clear of my family. You may be released soon but this place is your real home. So don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be back inside, dead quick.’
He smirked, a long, fixed snide-like grin. I stood up, kicked back the chair, and made for the door.
Outside I smoked a cigarette walking to my car and then another as I sat contemplating my conversation with Jimmy Walsh. Paying off Yelland’s gambling debts was more than ‘slipping him a few quid’. It was the only time that Walsh had engaged with me and I wondered if he was distracting me.
I had hoped for more clarity but how exactly I would achieve that eluded me as I sat with the window open, flicking ash onto the tarmac of the car park. My frustration was draining me. I reached for my mobile, thinking I should call Papa. Professional necessity cut in and I threw the mobile onto the passenger seat. I had to find the person who pulled the trigger. I had to hope Walsh’s release would be short lived. I drove away leaving my despondency behind.
Chapter 22
The following morning I was back in Queen Street, refreshed after a decent night’s sleep. I stood in front of the Incident Room board staring at the collection of images. Lydia’s admonishment that we had already spent two days on the Oakley case came to mind but I knew that the case had been handled badly. Detective Chief Inspector Webster, the SIO on the case, had recently died and his sergeant at the time was now sitting in Cornock’s office throwing his weight around as my superior. I had to be careful. If I could finish that inquiry, close the file knowing that I had been as thorough as possible, I’d have been more thorough than the original team.
The silence was broken when Lydia arrived with Jane and Wyn. Once jackets and coats were removed and pleasantries exchanged Lydia joined me by the board.
‘How did you get on with Jimmy Walsh, boss?’
I stared at his face on the board. ‘He’s a scumbag.’ I paused. ‘How much did Martin Kendall pay to that bookmaker?’
I sensed Wyn and Jane moving uncomfortably in their chairs.
Wyn answered. ‘It was three thousand pounds.’
‘Walsh said it was a few quid.’
‘Probably was for Walsh,’ Lydia added.
‘I want every aspect of Yelland’s finances examined. We need to know exactly how much he owed and to who and when. When I told Jimmy Walsh about the supergrass deal he didn’t even bother to try and hide the fact that he knew all about it.’
‘I did a check on Howard Oakley and he has a string of convictions for violence. And there’s mention he has a link to an organised crime group in Swansea. At the time of the investigation into his father’s death he made threats against Bevard that were taken seriously enough for him to be given a formal warning.’
Wyn piped up. ‘I’ve still got contacts in one of the serious crime teams in Swansea.’
‘Good, make contact.’
Now we had Howard Oakley added to the name of Owen Norcross as more than just a person of interest in our inquiry.
‘So Howard has a motive to kill Bevard,’ Lydia said. ‘But Yelland …?’
Oakley’s possible involvement didn’t fit with my conviction that Walsh was responsible for both deaths.
Lydia continued. ‘Maybe there were two killers?’
‘Let’s assume they are connected. Someone wanted them dead.’ I didn’t say and that someone is Jimmy Walsh no matter how much I wanted to. I turned to face the team. I nodded at Wyn and Jane in a joint instruction. ‘Do some more digging into Oakley.’
I scanned the team. ‘And is there any sign of Bevard on the CCTV from Pontypool?’
Three heads shook in unison. ‘Damn. Send it all to my computer. I’ll check it out myself.’
I headed for my office and from a bottom drawer I found a large piece of paper and started drawing a mind map. In the middle I wrote the name Jimmy Walsh in large capital letters. Then I drew a circle around his name. On the right I printed the name of Owen Norcross. His connection to Walsh was enough to make him a prime suspect and because he tangled with Yelland in Newport jail he had motive enough. We still needed the results of the forensic analysis of his possessions and an email to the lab only resulted in a swift, terse reply telling me they were still working on them.
On the left-hand side I printed the name ‘Ledley’ and pondered where he was and how he fitted into Bevard’s world. All we knew about him was his name and that he played five-a-side football with Bevard. And that he had a ponytail and tattoos. It wasn’t taking us very far.
I added the name ‘Phil Bryant’ to the right-hand side, deciding that his dishonest alibi earned him a place underneath Norcross. And underneath Bryant I added the name ‘Howard Oakley’. I drew a wavy red line around his name as a reminder that we had no obvious motive for him killing Yelland. Finally I scribbled the name ‘Felix Bevard’ and ‘Yelland’ in smaller circles at the bottom and left of the page underneath Walsh. It was only a matter of time before I could find a thread to pull them all together.
I pondered my mind map, blanking out the sounds from the Incident Room.
Then I started at the CCTV coverage from around Cardiff on the night Bevard was killed. I clicked through hours of coverage from the various pubs and clubs that Kendall had visited, strutting around like some fancy peacock. Kendall had even chosen pubs with CCTV systems to make certain his face was recorded. By the end of the evening he even glanced up, searching for the cameras. I froze the images several times, peering at him. It reinforced for me that he must have known what was happening that evening in Roath Park café. And that meant that Walsh was implicated.
Sickened by all the obvious bravado I turned my attention to the CCTV coverage from the route that Bevard drove on the afternoon he was killed. He had left the golf course that afternoon and then travelled to Cwmbran where he bought food in a shop, took money out from a cash machine and then was stopped in Cwmbran. Where was he going? The CCTV coverage was patchy; I picked up his car as he left Cwmbran but it was impossible to tell if he had a passenger. The car l
ater appeared again on some coverage from Pontypool but he soon disappeared from the recording only to be seen again on his way back to the golf course later. Alone.
All the inquiries into Jack Ledley had proved dead ends. He owned the house in Birchgrove, had modest amounts in his bank accounts and had no criminal record. By lunchtime the images from my computer monitor were swimming around my mind so I left Queen Street, strode down to St Mary Street, and stood looking at one of the pubs that Kendall had visited the night he was building his alibi. I walked to the next pub on his itinerary but, uninspired, I headed to the St David’s shopping arcade and one of the big coffee chains for a watery coffee and a greasy sandwich. I started thinking about Gloria Bevard, whose movements we couldn’t trace on CCTV. I decided I needed to unpick all the details of her alibi.
Wyn was on his feet when I got back to Queen Street. ‘We’ve identified three women who have been on dates with Brian Yelland.’
Jane was nodding energetically at her desk. I sat down and Wyn explained the intricacies of the dating website that Yelland had used. It promised the latest psychological profiling to find ‘your perfect partner’. The website offered a money-back guarantee although Wyn gave me a puzzled look when I asked what that meant.
‘He emailed the women. It was all fairly innocuous stuff – arranging to meet in a pub for a drink, that sort of thing. We’re going to see the first later today.’
‘Good,’ I said, turning to Lydia. ‘Let’s go and talk to some of Gloria’s friends.’
It took me half an hour to find someone who was available to speak to us that afternoon. Lydia shrugged on her coat as we left Queen Street and we walked around to the offices of one of the large insurance companies that had made its home in Cardiff. The receptionist sounded disinterested as we asked for Ann O’Brien. We sat down in the reception and classical music swirled around us. There was little activity and I wondered what it was like to work in such calm.
I heard the tip-tap of high heels on the marble floor before I noticed Ann emerging from around a corner near the lifts. She was smartly dressed and heavily made up. She reached out a hand and a waft of perfume collided with my nostrils. We shook hands. She gave Lydia a more careful scan than I had warranted.
Somebody Told Me Page 14
