I stood up. My chest tightened and my heart sank to my shoes. I tried to sound calm. ‘Have you called an ambulance?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m on my way.’
I kept talking to her, reassuring her as I walked down to the car.
The journey passed in a blur. An ambulance was parked in the drive when I drew up on the pavement outside the house.I rushed in and found Papa unconscious on the floor, Mamma standing over him. I went over to her and held her close as she sobbed. Paramedics surrounded him talking in technical jargon as they connected various pieces of equipment. They ripped open his shirt. I stood and gaped. This was happening to somebody else, like something in a TV hospital drama.
One of the paramedics said ‘Let’s shock him’
His partner nodded agreement and they attached two large stickers to his chest then pressed a button on the defibrillator; the machine made a loud charging sound before they pressed another button, unleashing a jolt to his chest. One started chest compressions again whilst another placed a tube in his mouth attached to a bag. After a few minutes, which felt like hours, they repeated the process again; his body convulsed again. I looked on, stunned.
The paramedics stared at the screen on the equipment. ‘We’ve got an output.’
‘Let’s get him to the hospital.’ His partner spoke as though we weren’t there. They quickly placed him onto a stretcher while one of them squeezed the bag every now and again to support Papa’s breathing.
It felt like my own heart had stopped. We followed them out to the ambulance. I held Mamma’s hand tightly. Once the paramedics had Papa safely into the rear of the ambulance they closed the door. One of them turned to us as the other headed for the driver’s side. ‘Make your own way to the hospital. And don’t try and follow us as we’ll be driving quickly.’
I nodded and ushered Mamma back into the house. She looked dazed, fussing around finding her handbag and her coat. ‘He’ll need a wash bag and pyjamas.’
I was tempted to tell her not to bother but I knew it was something that would stay on her mind, trouble her unnecessarily so I dashed upstairs. In the bathroom, I gathered a razor, some shaving gel and I heard my mother rifling through a cupboard. Underneath the sink, I found a wash bag and stuffed everything inside. She had come to a standstill, trying to choose a pair of pyjamas, so I grabbed the nearest and we went back downstairs. I pushed everything into a carrier bag from the kitchen and locked the door carefully behind us.
‘He’s been complaining about chest pains,’ Mamma announced as we were halfway to the hospital.
‘I noticed him the other day complaining about pins and needles in his arm.’
‘I told him to see the doctor. All this stress hasn’t been good for him.’
Papa had a business to run and Uncle Gino and Jez had got themselves involved with the Walsh family. I cursed silently. I was heading for the hospital in the certain knowledge Papa had had a heart attack. Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh were to blame.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and found my jaw clenching. I didn’t want to look at Mamma; I couldn’t bear to think what she was going through. Once we’d parked I took her arm as we walked over to the accident and emergency department where a riot seemed to be in progress. Children were running around the place thumping each other, kicking the furniture and screaming at the top of their voices, their mothers unable to keep control.
I stood by the reception desk asking if we could go see Papa. A nurse appeared moments later and ushered us to a small room. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Mamma looked at her blankly.
‘I’ll get someone to bring you some tea. Someone will be along shortly to speak to you.’
Time dragged until a young doctor came bustling into the room. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We think he’s had a heart attack and that’s why his heart stopped – the paramedics did an excellent job in restarting it. We’re going to take him for an emergency procedure to open the blood vessel in his heart that’s blocked, we’ll then be moving him to intensive care overnight.’
My mouth felt too dry to say anything and then I heard Mamma’s voice. ‘Can we see him?’
‘Yes, but only briefly I’m afraid as we’re about to move him.’
It was a short walk through to a room with a bank of monitors and equipment with leads and tubes all leading to Papa. A machine was breathing for him. Nurses and doctors ignored us as they gathered equipment around Papa. A nurse beckoned us to his bedside and Mamma grasped Papa’s hand before a raised voice asked us to step aside. Then they whisked him down the corridor.
We sat and waited. There was activity all around us with the staff bustling to and fro, occasionally giving us a kindly smile. Mamma’s mobile rang but she ignored it until I persuaded her to dig it out of her bag. She thrust it at me – Uncle Gino.
‘We’re at the hospital.’
‘I just heard. It’s terrible. How is he?’ I gazed over at Papa, relieved by his regular breathing. ‘The doctor says he’s stable.’
‘We’ll be there. We’re on our way.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll call you if anything changes.’
Despite all our differences Papa was still Uncle Gino’s brother, and it reminded me there was nothing stronger than a family bond. I was determined that Martin Kendall spent the rest of his life behind bars, preferably sharing a cell with Jimmy Walsh.
Another nurse arrived. ‘A bed has been made available in the cardiac ward. I’ll show you the way.’ She led us through the corridors until we reached the right ward and she left us waiting until eventually they wheeled Papa into a space near a window and an orderly drew the curtain around him with a flourish. Mamma sat perched on one of the high-backed rigid plastic chairs.
Minutes stretched into hours. Afternoon changed into early evening.
A nurse bought Mamma a sandwich, which she didn’t touch although she sipped on some tea. My stomach rumbled reminding me how hungry I felt. To my surprise I saw Jackie walking into the ward and it took me aback for a moment.
‘I’ve just heard, John. I’m so sorry.’
Mamma gave Jackie a feeble smile.
‘Dean is with my mother. I had a last-minute interview this afternoon for a job in the Bay.’
I found a chair and she sat talking with Mamma, finding the right words, the sort of words that escaped me. Sitting there with Jackie took me right back to months earlier when Dean had been hospitalised.
A nurse arrived and turned to me. ‘I’m sure your father will be much better in the morning. You should go home and rest.’ She fussed over Mamma, organising for her to stay the night in one of the family rooms.
I hugged Mamma. ‘Call me if there’s any change.’
She drew a hand over my cheek. ‘Of course.’ Outside the chill autumn evening had given way to persistent drizzle, the sort that soaks you to the skin without you realising it.
‘Have you eaten?’ I asked Jackie.
She shook her head. ‘Fancy a takeaway?’
I ran to my car and followed Jackie to a takeaway restaurant she knew. It was an odd sensation watching Jackie organise our meal in the kitchen of her mother’s house. She found two trays, heaped food onto two plates and we each took one through into the sitting room.
It was warm and comfortable and for the first time that day I relaxed as I listened to Jackie telling me about her interview, complaining about some of the questions one of the men had asked about her childcare arrangements. Jackie finished a bottle of German lager with the last of her curry.
‘Has your father been under a lot of stress?’
I could see the sincerity from the warmth of her eyes.
‘There are some problems with the property the family owns in Pontypridd.’
She moved towards me along the sofa and held my arm. It sent a spasm of warm recognition through my body. ‘I’m sure he’s going to be fine.’ She took her hand away but I wanted her to keep it there; it felt
right, reassuring, consoling even. I caught her gaze. I touched her hand and our fingers intertwined and my heart started a familiar beat that years ago I recognised every time I looked at her.
I curled a hand around her face and pushed back the hair from her face.
‘John, I …’
Then I kissed her. Softly at first without the rawness of that first night years ago. Now, we were both older and maybe wiser. But the passion returned and soon hungry lips consumed each other and I fumbled with her blouse and reached to unfasten her bra. She unbuckled my belt and opened my fly but then she leant back.
‘Do you really…?
‘Of course.’
Chapter 34
A little after eight the following morning my mobile rang. I had already spoken to Mamma who sounded tired but relieved that Papa seemed out of danger. I sat eating a breakfast prepared by Jackie and it felt natural, as though the years of arguments and ill feeling had withered away.
‘How’s your father?’ Wyn said.
‘Over the worst.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it, sir. I’ve traced that final woman we spoke about yesterday. I’ve got an address in Abercynon. I thought as you were in Aberdare it might be on your way in.’
I glanced at Jackie. Wyn had obviously assumed I was staying with my mother. ‘Send me the details. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’
Jackie held my embrace for a long time that morning. I left the house and headed north along the A470. From Wyn’s directions I found the car park and waited until he arrived. I didn’t have to wait long and he joined me in the car laboriously explaining how he had established the identities of all the women Yelland had dated. I listened, with a growing admiration for his ingenuity and resourcefulness. All this social media stuff had passed me by but it got me thinking that perhaps I was missing out.
We left the car and walked over to a block of flats. A glazed wooden entrance door badly needed several coats of paint. No intercom, just a bank of bell pushes with numbers.
‘It’s number six,’ Wyn said.
I pushed the right button. We waited. It felt like several minutes had passed before a diminutive figure appeared in the hallway. She peered at us; we pressed our warrant cards to the glass and she frowned before opening the door.
‘Florence Mulholland?’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector John Marco and Detective Constable Nuttall.’
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘We need to speak to you about Brian Yelland. Can we come in?’
She hesitated but then pulled the door open.
Florence walked ahead of us up the stairs. She was short, with a high forehead and a thin, narrow mouth. I tried to guess her age, mid-thirties at least, with the air of a thwarted spinster.
The sitting room was comfortable and tidy with the occasional ornament. A television and a surround-sound system dominated one corner but there were no photographs of family or personal touches. It all felt sterile.
‘I understand you had a relationship with Brian Yelland.’
Her bottom lip quivered. ‘We met through an internet dating site.’ She glanced over at me, daring me to look critical.
‘How often did you meet him?’ I studiously sought a neutral tone to my voice.
‘I don’t remember, exactly. A few times. We got on really well. I have had lots of dates through various sites and when I met Brian it was one of the more successful.’
She made it sound like choosing the right shade of paint for a domestic makeover.
‘After a while I suspected things weren’t right. He didn’t seem keen.’ She paused, looking down at her intertwined fingers. ‘Things had developed quite quickly.’ She looked up at me, the pain of sharing personal secrets with a stranger obvious.
‘How much did you know about him?’
‘I knew he was a prison officer. And he was having some disciplinary problems.’
‘Were you aware he was attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings?’
She flicked back some hair that had fallen over her face. ‘Yes. And I knew he had problems with managing a gambling habit. But you see, Inspector, I thought I could help him. He was the first man for years who … paid me any attention. And my father had a gambling problem. I really did think I could help.’
‘So what happened between you?’
‘I suspected he was seeing somebody else. He cancelled a date and I was angry. So I went to his place.’ She paused.
‘Did you follow him?’
‘Yes, he drove down into the middle of Cardiff and I followed him to this pub. It was an enormous old place. He didn’t see me, he kept staring at the door and after a few minutes another man walked in. I saw them talking, the other man gave Brian an envelope.’
‘Could you describe this man?’
‘I can do better than that. I’ve got his photograph.’
Her disappointment seemed tempered by the discovery Yelland wasn’t seeing another woman. Perhaps she had thought there was still a chance for her? She reached for her bag and fumbled through its contents. Expectation almost got the better of me; I was tempted to suggest she simply tip out the contents onto the coffee table. She pulled a mobile from the bottom and scrolled through the images.
She thrust it over at me. ‘There, that’s the man he was meeting. It all looks very underhand to me.’
I gazed at the image. My throat tightened and I let out a long shallow breath. ‘Did you ever see him with this man again?’
She stared over at me and blinked. ‘They met one other time. They had a blazing argument.’
I handed the phone over to Wyn who looked at the image and opened his eyes wide.
* * *
I parked behind two marked police cars full of officers not even Martin Kendall would pick a fight with. It had all taken some planning and in the rush I had forgotten to call the hospital. So I rang Mamma, her reassurance Papa was improving assuaging my guilt that I had not been to see him.
A casual drive past his block of apartments in the marina in Penarth had confirmed Kendall’s Porsche was parked in its reserved spot. After speaking to Florence we had established the exact date and time Yelland had met Kendall. Now it was time to get his explanation.
‘Let’s go,’ I said, and I gave the instructions. Two officers joined me as I walked over to the entrance. At the top of the stairs to the first floor I paused, checking that the two officers were behind me. We strolled down the corridor and knocked on his door. I had been rehearsing what I would say to him since I had seen the images that morning. The door opened and he filled the space in front of me. ‘Martin Kendall, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Brian Yelland.’
He shook his head scornfully and walked back into the flat, reaching for his coat. ‘You’re making a big mistake.’ He reached over for his mobile. ‘I’ll call my solicitor.’
Kendall left a brief message and tossed the handset onto the coffee table. The two officers snapped on a pair of handcuffs and escorted Kendall downstairs. The custody sergeant was expecting me when I strolled into the custody suite.
‘Glanville Tront has already arrived,’ he said.
Martin Kendall and the Walsh family could afford the best lawyers in Cardiff. I heard the familiar sound of Lydia’s voice as she spoke with one of the uniformed officers.
Lydia raised a questioning eyebrow as I explained how I had justified Kendall’s arrest. ‘There could be a very good reason for both meetings.’
Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Yelland was taking money from Kendall and Walsh. Perhaps he made one demand too many?’
We sat in the custody suite waiting for Glanville Tront to finish his discussion with Kendall. Lydia organised two rancid-looking coffees in thin plastic cups. A uniformed officer notified us that Glanville Tront and Martin Kendall were ready and we walked through into one of the other cork-lined interview rooms. A tape recorder sat on the table thrust against a wall. The smell of dead skin and old clothes hung in the air
. Within five minutes my nostrils would become accustomed to the stale odour and my hearing familiar with the droning of the air conditioning.
Glanville Tront swept into the room. He had fine, thin, silvering hair grown in long strands drawn over his head. It gave him a bohemian appearance. Whenever I met him I recalled the first time he had cross-examined me – it had been a demeaning, unsettling experience that left me heading straight for the pub. Glanville wore an immaculate navy suit, white shirt and glistening pink silk tie.
Martin Kendall followed and both men sat down.
‘Good to see you, Glanville.’
‘Good afternoon to you too, Inspector. Let’s get on with this.’
After we got the formalities completed, I stared over at Martin Kendall.
‘Do you know Brian Yelland?’
‘He was murdered recently.’
Good start, at least he was answering my questions.
‘Did you know him?’
‘Can’t say that I did.’
‘So you’ve never met him?’
‘No.’
‘Brian Yelland was a prison officer. And he was one of the officers responsible for the billet where Jimmy Walsh had his cell at Grange Hall.’
Kendall nodded. ‘If you say so.’
‘Can you tell me what your relationship is to Jimmy Walsh?’
‘You know full well I work closely with Jimmy in his various businesses.’
‘And what sort of businesses does he have?’
Glanville Tront interrupted. ‘Do you really want a list of Mr Walsh’s businesses?’
For the time being I didn’t pursue my question.
I scanned the visitor log from Grange Hall. ‘Can you confirm how often you went to see Jimmy Walsh at Grange Hall?’
‘Quite a few times. We are mates.’
‘Did Jimmy Walsh ever mention Brian Yelland?’
Kendall shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’
Somebody Told Me Page 20
