‘DVLA records have you as the owner.’ I pushed over a photocopy of the record; his reluctance to even confirm obvious details rankled.
He mumbled.
I tilted my head slightly towards him. ‘For the purpose of the tape recording of this interview can you please confirm your reply?’
He shook his head.
‘Can you tell me how you know Jimmy Walsh?’
Oakley slowly unfolded his arms and fisted both hands, which he placed on the table in front of him.
‘He killed my father,’ Oakley said slowly.
The lawyer rolled her eyes in frustration.
‘And do you know Felix Bevard?’
‘My client replies no comment.’
Oakley paused and then nodded.
‘Do you blame Felix Bevard for the death of your father?’
Oakley’s face flushed.
‘Your father refused to sell his property to Jimmy Walsh and Felix Bevard.’
‘Is that a question, Inspector? Because this interview is becoming a fishing expedition.’
‘Walsh and Bevard wanted to buy the property your parents owned. It’s a matter of record because your mother made a statement at the time of your father’s death. The Wales Police Service investigated his death but Jimmy Walsh had an alibi.’
‘Like fuck he did.’
I sat back and shared a brief smile with both Oakley and the lawyer.
‘Is that why you went to the property the night before last?’
Oakley had relaxed his arms now, a hand grasping each knee.
‘Would it be fair to say you had a grudge against Felix Bevard?’
No reply.
I reached down and lifted the pistol from a bag by my feet. I placed it carefully on the table. The blood drained from Howard’s face and the lawyer gave him a troubled look.
‘This pistol was found at the back of the shed in your garden. Can you confirm that it is yours?’
He stared at me but made no reply.
‘And your hatred of Bevard was enough to make you buy a pistol and kill him in the storeroom at the Roath Park café.’
Oakley sat there looking terrified. I savoured the open-mouthed astonishment from the lawyer. Her attitude changed soon afterwards. She became even more unhelpful and aggressive.
‘Did you know a Brian Yelland?’
I watched his face closely. I couldn’t read the reaction. Was it surprise or trepidation?
‘Mr Yelland was a prison officer who was killed last Sunday.’ I reeled off the date and watched as Howard’s solicitor scribbled down the details. Howard’s mouth fell open but his lawyer, a regular who got under the skin of every officer at Queen Street with an attitude that she knew better than anyone else, whispered in his ear. Howard shook his head.
‘Do you have any evidence to link my client with the death of Mr Yelland, Inspector?’
I ignored her and continued. ‘Can you tell me where you were on the night Yelland was killed?’
He shook his head slowly and I waited, giving him an opportunity to reply before moving on.
‘He was probably killed with the same pistol that shot Felix Bevard. It was a small pistol, like a Walther P99, like the one we found at your property. It’s only a matter of time before the forensics report is available but if they can link this pistol to both killings then now would be a good time to offer an explanation.’
He opened his lips a fraction. I could see his yellowing teeth. He looked at me blankly.
‘Now is your opportunity to say something and it might go against you if you haven’t mentioned something—’
His lawyer piped up. ‘That’s enough Inspector, you’ve explained the warning already and my client understands the position. Move on.’
I looked over at her; she obviously wanted to return to her warm air-conditioned office. But I had enough to keep Oakley in custody until I could review the evidence with a Crown Prosecution lawyer, Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs and anybody else from the senior management team who wanted to contribute. The lawyer made all sorts of threats about the way I had conducted the interview, none of which I took seriously. I had a killer to find. Howard Oakley had the right motive, and had been after a gun so all I had to do was prove his opportunity.
* * *
An email from Hobbs summoned me to a meeting late that afternoon and I dragged myself to Cornock’s office. I rapped two fingers on the door after listening briefly to the sound of intelligent conversation inside. There was a muffled shout for me to enter and Dave Hobbs waved me to the conference table.
Desmond Joplin was sitting at the far end. I knew the Crown Prosecutor as having a fearsome reputation and for not suffering fools gladly. I suspected it was for these qualities Hobbs had asked him to review the evidence against Oakley. Desmond had a pallid complexion, little hair, save for a monk-like ring around the base of his head. We shook hands. I sat down, Dave Hobbs at the other end of the table. It made me feel like a minnow between two piranhas.
‘You have got no evidence.’ Desmond had an accent polished by years of appearing in the magistrates’ courts. I opened my mouth to reply but he ignored me. ‘I appreciate why you were justified in making the arrest. Especially given the motive. But there’s no evidence linking Oakley to the murders although I grant you that if the gun was used to kill Bevard and Yelland that changes things. And from what Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs has told me you’re linking both deaths together.’
So the acting part of Hobbs’ title disappeared. That annoyed me too.
‘You must release him. You can’t possibly justify further detention. He’ll be released this evening.’
‘What about the attempted burglary and arson? There’s more than enough to justify a prosecution.’
Desmond dipped his head towards Dave Hobbs. I had a sensation things had been taken completely out of my hands. Hobbs held up a piece of paper lying on the table in front of him. ‘We’ve had a letter from Bernie Walsh’s solicitors – Tront and Tront.’
Simply mentioning the name of the solicitors summoned up the image of its senior partner Glanville Tront tearing into a badly prepared prosecution case and witnessing hours of work destroyed.
‘The letter makes it perfectly clear that Mr and Mrs Walsh do not wish to make a complaint. And furthermore if we prosecute they would challenge the entire legitimacy of any evidence the investigators recovered from the property.’
My tie felt inextricably tightened upon my neck. There was finality to the way Dave Hobbs had read out the contents of the letter. ‘But …’ I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Nothing I can do,’ Hobbs said.
I stood up and made for the door. Joviality filtered into the conversation between Desmond and Hobbs as I left. I pulled the door closed behind me feeling like the poor relation.
Chapter 30
I joined the rest of the team in a café near the housing estate where Yelland had lived ready for a morning of house-to-house inquiries. From their truculent looks they clearly thought repeating what had already been done once was a waste of time.
I sat down next to Lydia. A dried-up Danish pastry lay on a plate in front of Wyn. Jane slurped on a milky coffee.
‘I want everyone spoken to again on the estate. Somebody must have seen something.’ I sounded fraught. I felt it too. Howard Oakley had been released and Walsh was a free man. My interest in the murder of Robin Oakley had been pushed to one side once we knew of Howard’s involvement with the gangs in Swansea and his urgent need to find a gun. Before leaving Queen Street last night I had emailed the production company about the video of the Dr Who programme in Roath Park, threatening them with a formal warrant unless they cooperated. First thing that morning I had a reply confirming arrangements for me to view the recording at their offices in London next week. If I couldn’t prove that Walsh had killed Bevard and Yelland then at least there was the possibility of reopening the case involving Robin Oakley.
I dictated inst
ructions about who should go where and I watched the reluctant nodding of heads. ‘Let’s meet up later this morning.’
They followed me out of the café before we made the short journey to the housing estate.
Lydia and I walked up to the gate of the first house on our list. She hesitated but I sensed she had something to say. ‘All the team are behind you, boss.’
There was a but coming.
‘Only, sometimes you might explain things in—’
‘Explain?’ I stopped in my tracks. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lydia this is a murder inquiry.’ I paused. ‘I’ll speak to them again: but it’s my case.’
‘Yes, boss.’
I pushed open the gate and marched up to the door wondering exactly what Wyn and Jane had been bitching about. Maybe it was working a Saturday they found unpalatable. I reached the door and forced a smile when the householder appeared.
We spent twenty minutes ticking off the various sections of the original notes that the uniformed officers had recorded and, satisfied that she could add no more, we left. The same thing had repeated itself by mid-morning with three other households. An elderly spinster opened the door before we had even rung the bell. ‘I saw you coming. Jean from number three rang and told me you might call.’
She glanced at Lydia and me and opened the door, offering to make us coffee as she led us into her kitchen. She made decent enough coffee but we quickly realised that she too had nothing more to add. We made excuses and left carrying the various chocolate bars she insisted on giving us.
‘Probably the only company she’ll have all weekend,’ Lydia said as we stood outside the gate. I scanned the list of names and house numbers noticing that the original officers had marked the next-door property as empty. The drive looked neat and tidy, the gutters clean. It didn’t look unlived in so I ventured up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no response. I rang a second time before noticing a recycling bin placed near a gate to the rear. Not many empty houses put their rubbish out so I tried the gate, which was unlocked. At the bottom of the garden was a man pruning some rose bushes, earphones dangling freely around his neck.
I shouted over.
He ignored me so I walked down to him. He started when he saw me and fiddled with the smartphone, killing the music. ‘Bloody hell, you gave me a fright.’
I showed him my card.
‘Alan Taylor.’ He proffered a hand. ‘How can I help?’
‘We’re conducting house-to-house inquiries about the death of Brian Yelland.’
‘Who?’
I told him Yelland lived in one of the adjacent properties, a near neighbour. ‘I didn’t know him. I only got back last night from a trip to Germany. What happened to him?’
‘He was shot.’
‘Bloody hell. You had better come in.’
The kitchen was functional and clear of any clutter or a woman’s touch. We sat around the table.
‘I live alone and I work a lot in Berlin so I don’t really know any of my neighbours.’
‘Brian Yelland worked in Grange Hall prison and moved into the property in the last year after his marriage broke up.’
‘Sorry. I wouldn’t recognise him. When did this happen?’
I gave Taylor the dates. ‘That was the night before my flight.’ He puckered his brow.
‘When was your flight?
‘It was half past seven from Cardiff International. I had to be awake before four and I left about half past.’
‘Did you see any movement around the estate? Any unusual cars parked? Anybody walking the street?’
Taylor sat more upright in his chair. ‘Now that you ask I did see someone earlier that morning. I never sleep well before an early flight. I remember being up in the middle of the night. And I did see someone in the street.’
‘Can you describe him or her?’ I held out little prospect of any meaningful information.
‘It was a man, definitely. I noticed because he stood under the streetlight outside Yelland’s property. And there was a full moon that night – that was one of the reasons I peered out. He was using one of those fancy cigarette lighters. He was tall with a shaved head and he had a prominent nose.’
My heart almost missed a beat. The image of Martin Kendall’s crooked nose came swimming to mind.
‘Show me exactly where you saw him standing.’
‘Of course.’
Taylor led us into the lounge at the front of the property where he pointed to Yelland’s home and then at the streetlight. My concern as to how he could describe someone in the dark of night diminished as I realised how close the properties were. ‘We’ll need you to make a full statement and cooperate with an artist to make up a photofit image.’
‘Of course. I’m only too happy to help.’
I dialled headquarters and arranged for Taylor to be seen by one of the force’s artists later that afternoon. Then we left Taylor and I headed back for my car.
‘Do you think it’s Kendall?’ Lydia said.
I ran a hand over my mouth. ‘If it is him then he needs to explain what he was doing there.’
I looked over at Yelland’s property. If he had seen Kendall the night he was killed it meant another strong link to Walsh. Maybe my gut instinct wasn’t wrong after all.
* * *
It was early afternoon when I joined Tracy for the quality time I had promised her. We drove over to Barry Island. I drove sedately along Harbour Road taking in the view over the Bristol Channel. Once I’d parked we walked past beach shops and small cafés down to the wide expanse of beach. We headed over to the eastern promenade and admired the brightly painted beach huts that lined a small section. They looked pristine but the imminent winter’s storms would put paid to the owners’ efforts over the summer.
Back on the beach I took Tracy’s hand but she slipped it loose to kneel and gather a piece of sea-worn glass with smooth edges. She placed the blue fragment in her palm and wet the top of her finger to clean off the sand. A deeper, richer colour emerged. Then she slipped it into a pocket. By the end of the month the temperatures would have fallen, the wind would be brisker and the visitor numbers fewer.
We strolled over the long beach towards the western side talking about nothing in particular. Tracy had recently been on a course and she told me how Alvine Dix had made a point of getting her to ‘cascade her newly found knowledge’ to the rest of the team at Queen Street. Later we sauntered around the gifts and trinket shops until we reached Marco’s Café.
‘Any relation?’ Tracy asked.
‘It’s the owner’s Christian name.’
A large sign hung by the door with tall images of the main actors from Gavin and Stacey, the television comedy that had given Marco’s Café and Barry Island a new notoriety. We sat down by one of the round tables and beckoned a waitress. She took our orders for coffee, Tracy opting for a chocolate brownie as well..
‘How are things going with the Bevard inquiry?’
‘Slowly.’
It was indicative of the way our relationship had developed that I found small talk about work difficult. After my last case when I had briefly suspected Tracy had been sharing secrets with her brother it had become less easy to share confidences with her.
Thankfully, she sensed my reluctance and turned her conversation to her father and his medical problems. The house in Bournemouth was still on the market; the agents had suggested a price reduction in the hope they could find a buyer before Christmas. Our coffees arrived and Tracy tucked into the chocolate brownie, making approving comments.
A small minibus of tourists arrived and the café staff quickly arranged several tables together. The commotion soon died down, replaced by loud conversations and laughter at different attempts at the catchphrase used by the characters in the TV show. We paid and then retraced our steps to the car before driving back to Cardiff via Penarth.
That evening we strolled down to the Bay and mingled with the young couples, families out with teenagers and older gr
oups enjoying the last of the September sunshine. We ate in an Italian restaurant, Tracy having relaxed – or perhaps we both had after our afternoon walk by the sea.
Back at my apartment we showered together. I drew a sponge over her back, ran my fingers around the fall of her breasts. She scrubbed my back and then my chest and squeezed me. Once she was clean of soapsuds she slid open the shower door and left me disappointed. Later we made love but Tracy’s embrace and her kisses lacked the tenderness and urgency we had shared at the beginning.
The following morning she made breakfast and things seemed normal. I fetched a Sunday newspaper and we spent an hour exchanging comments about various articles. Cardiff City had one of those odd lunchtime kick-offs that suited the satellite broadcasters so by late morning we were walking through Grangetown to the football stadium. She held my hand more tightly. I bought some coffees before kick-off and at half-time we shared a compulsory pie. The packaging said chicken but I had my doubts.
Cardiff won, thankfully. We jostled through the crowds to the bar and met two of my regular footballing friends. We analysed the game, dissected the strength of the opposition and anticipated that Cardiff would at least make the play-offs for a Premiership slot this season. Tracy smiled, and shared a joke; her coolness from yesterday seemed to have faded.
Most of the post-match crowds had gone when we left. Tracy drew the collar of her jacket to her face against the chill in the air as we walked back to the Bay. Outside my apartment, she dawdled, reached up, touched my cheek, kissing me briefly. ‘Thanks for a lovely weekend. I’m not going to stay tonight John. I need to get up early tomorrow morning.’
She reached into her bag for her car keys.
She smiled at me again before jumping into her car. I stood and watched her driving away, feeling hesitant about our future.
Chapter 31
I drove to Queen Street humming along to Elvis Presley crooning his way through ‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?’, wondering what things had been left unsaid between Tracy and me. I was the first to arrive in the Incident Room that morning and once I’d booted up my computer I opened the email with the attached photofit image of the man Taylor had seen. An adrenaline rush pumped through my body at the real prospect I had more evidence against Kendall. Even with the evidence that Yelland’s gambling debts had been paid by Kendall I was still unconvinced there was enough to justify Kendall’s arrest for his murder.
Somebody Told Me Page 18
