She was clutching the same printed sheet that was in front of me.
‘For now I want to look at the telephone calls she made the day her husband died.’
Lydia’s eyes had a steely determination. ‘Wyn is putting together a spreadsheet.’
‘Okay.’ I took the blue highlighter and drew a box around all the calls Gloria Bevard had made that day. Then I highlighted in blue the calls she had made between four in the afternoon and eleven in the evening. It amazed me how many she’d made. There were dozens. I was hoping for inspiration quickly but the volume daunted me.
I could hear the activity from the Incident Room when Wyn and Jane were tracing the identity of the owners of various numbers. The words pay-as-you-go were spoken too often for my liking. After two hours Wyn stood in my doorway and announced that they had made some progress. He was pinning an A4 sheet to the board of the Incident Room with one eleven-digit mobile number printed on it.
‘Mrs Bevard telephoned this number at four-thirty on the afternoon Bevard was killed. It lasted forty-eight seconds.’
Wyn turned to look at the rest of us. Sensing our impatience, he quickly added, ‘She doesn’t call the number again until after eight o’clock. Then she calls the number three times within a few minutes. The calls don’t last more than ten seconds.’
Jane butted in. ‘Which suggests they weren’t answered.’
‘But she made calls to dozens of other people.’
‘That’s right boss,’ Wyn said. ‘But this is a number she had never rung before.’
‘I want all the other numbers she called that day traced.’
‘There are quite a few pay-as-you-go,’ Jane said. ‘But most of them are monthly contracts.’
I stared over at the mobile number.
‘The number is dead, boss. I tried it,’ Wyn said.
‘Where was that number sold?’
‘A shop in Southampton.’
‘There might be CCTV. Call them. Now. And get as much detail about the numbers that were called from that mobile.’
The waiting seemed interminable. I reread reports and doodled more mind maps. After a mid-morning coffee I walked through into the Incident Room and over to the board. Jane had a picture of a young boy and girl in a small frame by her telephone. I knew they weren't hers so I assumed they were a nephew and niece. I didn’t even have a photograph of Dean in my wallet. Wyn’s desk was characteristically tidy, and knowing the way he worked there was probably order to the pencils and highlighters neatly stacked in the large brightly coloured mug.
I stared at the photographs. Knowing that we had enough to make a case against Martin Kendall brought a smile to my face. Peering into the eyes of Jimmy Walsh made me shiver; he had eyes like a shark, black and impenetrable.
Back in my room I flicked through the entries in Walsh’s file from HMP Grange Hall. I read the family background – no siblings although an identical twin had died in hospital as a baby. His mother had been in her forties giving birth and she had a history of abusive and violent relationships. The probation reports made sober reading so I was pleased to see Wyn standing in my doorway.
‘I’ve sent you an email from the shop in Southampton, sir.’
I turned to the screen, clicking until I opened the attachment. The coverage started at eight am and, guessing that the shop would be open until late that same afternoon, I decided to fast-forward sections. After half an hour I got into the routine of spotting when customers arrived so I glared at them and then pressed fast-forward to the next new customer.
After two hours I regretted embarking on the exercise. The small of my back ached, and my eyes felt smudged, so I got up, stretched, went to the bathroom and splashed hot water over my face. I returned to my office with a double strength instant coffee from the kitchen.
I ploughed on for another hour, this time fast-forwarding more frequently.
The time said 3.30 pm when I stopped, realising that I had missed something. The shop was full, all the assistants were busy, some demonstrating mobile phones to various customers, others processing orders.
I rewound the recording.
The back of a man’s head caught my attention as he walked into the shop and up to the counter. I squinted. A troubled thought crossed my mind that I recognised him. I double-checked the date on the recording. It was a Saturday, several weeks earlier.
I fast-forwarded the recording for a few minutes and then pressed play. The order was finalised, the assistant beaming at the customer, bundling the mobile phone box into a carrier bag. I wanted him to turn around. I wanted to look at his face.
Seconds later he duly obliged. I clicked pause. I sensed the skin on my forehead furrowing and tightening. I was staring at the image of Jimmy Walsh. I pushed my chair back and it crashed against the radiator behind me. I gazed at Walsh. It felt like minutes as everything about the investigation ran through my mind.
‘Lydia …’ I called out but Wyn must have reached the same stage in the recordings as I had because he shouted his surprise.
I reached for Walsh’s prison file on my desk and flicked through until I found the information I needed. Then I checked the date on my monitor. Lydia appeared in my doorway as I marched out to the Incident Room.
‘On the date this recording was made Jimmy Walsh hadn’t been released from jail. But he was on a weekend release. The prisoners in those open jails get weekend releases before their actual release dates, usually Friday to Monday. And that weekend Jimmy Walsh was in Southampton buying a telephone.’
Wyn nodded enthusiastically. I reached the board and tapped on the image of Gloria Bevard. ‘So why was she calling Jimmy Walsh on the afternoon Felix was killed?’
There were three sets of eyes gazing at me intently when I turned around.
‘We need to be certain it was Jimmy Walsh and not a doppelganger,’ Wyn said.
‘And I know how we can check.’ Lydia said before reaching for her mouse. ‘We have the recording from the billet where Jimmy Walsh had his cell in Grange Hall. We can compare the images.’
‘Of course, good work,’ I said. ‘Find it.’
It was vaguely voyeuristic watching prisoners walking up and down the corridor, talking to each other without hearing voices. Lydia found the coverage from the billet on the day Bevard was murdered. We had watched once before just to make certain that he really was locked up. That morning Walsh stood by the door of the billet waiting for it to be unlocked. Lydia ran the recording on and recognised him as he returned before lunch. A prison officer made the rounds, counting the prisoners.
He returned later that afternoon, a beanie pulled over his head, coughing into a fisted hand.
Other prisoners walked up and down the corridor, visiting the toilets, taking a shower, but for the rest of the day Walsh was in his cell. It confirmed what we already knew – that he had been ill. The following morning one of the prisoners knocked at Walsh’s door. Then Yelland appeared and words were exchanged with another prisoner, who stood in the doorway of Walsh’s cell before letting Yelland into Walsh’s cell. It was late that afternoon when Walsh emerged coughing and spluttering, still wearing his beanie. He must have been going back to work, no nursing or medical support for Walsh.
I went back to the images of Walsh in the mobile phone shop in Southampton and watched the coverage repeatedly until my eyes burned. Then I clicked back to the images from the billet at HMP Grange Hall. It was the same man, no doubt.
Suddenly I was back in Walsh’s cell staring at one of his books about tracing your family tree. It struck me then that the answer had been in front of me all the time.
‘There was more than one,’ I whispered.
I strode back to my office and clicked onto a Google search. Within minutes I had found a website that provided details of birth certificates.
‘What exactly are you doing, boss?’ Lydia stood with Wyn and Jane by my door.
I pushed Walsh’s file towards her. ‘Dictate his personal details.’
I pun
ched in his first and last name and his year of birth and finally the month of his birth. I left blank the relevant county. Seconds later I had twenty results. It surprised me so many children had been born in the same three-month period and christened James Walsh. I was getting into my stride now and I read the results, jotting down onto a pad the details of the births that had the name of the mother in common.
I stopped and let out a long slow breath as I saw the three names I’d written.
‘There were triplets.’ My voice made a squeaking sound.
Lydia’s mouth fell open, her fingers touched parted lips. ‘They did a switch.’
‘We’ve seen Grange Hall, there are no walls or fences. It would be easy to change places with a prisoner. The only problem is, they have to be identical.’
‘But not all twins are identical.’
I turned back to the monitor and after another few minutes I had the birth certificates of Andrew and Henry. Down the margin of Andrew’s the word adopted had been printed. ‘The probation officer said a sibling died in hospital. So it must have been Henry.’
‘We need to find the adoption records for Andrew,’ Lydia said slowly.
If I was right then I was looking at the name of Walsh’s triplet who had switched places with him in Grange Hall. My eagerness was weighed down by apprehension that I might be wrong. I’d have a long and tense wait until the morning for the answer.
Chapter 44
I mingled with the prisoners in Jimmy Walsh’s billet; some smiled at me, and another offered me a coffee. I walked to the end and saw Walsh’s cell door open. There was no one inside; I looked around the billet. The other cell doors were all closed now. So I went inside. It was as I remembered the first time. The same books on the shelf. The same CDs although this time I spotted a CD player – it must have been under the bed the first time.
I woke up with a start, the duvet curled around my legs, my forehead and shoulders damp with sweat. I sat on the side of my bed. I drew a hand through my hair, rubbed my palms over my face and headed out for the shower hoping I could wash Jimmy Walsh from my mind. But it wasn’t that easy and I kept thinking about him as I drove into Queen Street.
It was a little before eight when I walked into the Incident Room.
Lydia had already arrived and looked up from her monitor. ‘Good morning, boss. What do you think DCI Hobbs will say? Will he authorise the arrest of Jimmy Walsh?’
‘Let’s wait until we get the adoption records.’ In reality I knew Hobbs would want certainty. Evidence that not even the most expensive lawyers in Cardiff could challenge.
The record of the telephone calls made on the mobile Jimmy Walsh had bought arrived later that morning. None of them were traceable. Within an hour the team established they were all pay-as-you-go mobiles. They’d been sold months earlier, enough time for any CCTV record of their purchase in the shops to have been erased.
‘I wonder who Jimmy called?’ Lydia said.
I stared at the list wondering exactly the same. ‘Family and maybe his associates. Mrs Walsh, of course.’ I spat out her name. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket draped over my chair and pulled out my wallet. It always seemed full of till receipts I didn’t need to keep. I found the business card Bernie Walsh had given me. I scanned the details. I looked over at Lydia. I read the number aloud. ‘Is that one of the numbers from Jimmy Walsh’s mobile?’
She reached over for the printed sheet and then nodded her head.
‘I wonder what DCI Hobbs will make of that,’ I said.
Lydia didn’t have time to reply as my telephone rang. ‘There’s a courier waiting for you in reception, Inspector.’
A leather-clad man sat in reception, a helmet on the bench by his side. ‘I have a personal delivery for Inspector John Marco. I need to see identification before I can deliver these documents.’
So my threats and cajoling yesterday had done the trick with the civil servant at the General Register Office. I showed him my warrant card, he jotted down the details and I signed his form and took the envelope back to my office.
Nicolas Ackerman and his wife Jennifer had adopted Andrew Walsh by an order of the Southampton County Court. I showed it to Lydia who must have seen the relief on my face as a small piece of the jigsaw fell into place. Then I punched in the name Andrew Ackerman into the Police National Computer and stared at the monitor. It was a long shot. When the screen filled with his image I wanted to jump up and down on the spot, but I looked over at Lydia and thrust a fist into the air. ‘Yes.’
Lydia looked over at the screen and her mouth widened into a broad smile.
I rang central operations in Hampshire police and traced the SIO in charge of the case when Andrew had been sent down for ten months. It took me another six telephone calls to speak to an Inspector Hammond.
‘I’m looking at an image of Andrew Ackerman from the PNC,’ I said, but before I could continue he cut in.
‘Doesn’t look anything like that now. He’s lost all his hair and he lost a big chunk of his left ear in a fight.’
It explained the beanie I had seen on the CCTV coverage from HMP Grange Hall.
Hammond gave me a summary of Andrew Ackerman’s career. Criminality must run in the genes. I thanked him and rang off. There had been something troubling me ever since my last conversation with Cornock when he had challenged me about the motive for Yelland’s murder. It had never been about Yelland demanding money for more favours in jail.
I gazed over at Lydia.
‘Yelland must have worked out what had happened. We saw him earlier on the CCTV from the billet. He must have realised that Jimmy Walsh had switched places with his identical triplet.’
‘Of course.’ Realisation dawned on Lydia. ‘Sharon Yelland said he thought things were getting better. So he threatens to tell the authorities.’
* * *
The triangulation reports we requested for Bernie and Jimmy Walsh’s mobile telephones reached my computer sooner than had ever been possible in the past. They could be notoriously unreliable but I sat at the edge of my chair as I read them. The telephone Jimmy Walsh had purchased in Southampton was active between four and eight pm in the Roath Park area of Cardiff on the night Bevard was killed. And Bernie Walsh couldn’t escape the power of tracking her calls which placed her within a convenient radius of HMP Grange Hall late that afternoon. It completed the picture we needed to take everything to Acting Detective Chief Inspector Dave Hobbs. Lydia raised an eyebrow when I suggested she accompany me to see him. She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it.
We walked through Queen Street; my mind felt settled. Cornock had been right, it had been something obvious. I knew that Walsh had killed Bevard. We reached the door to Cornock’s office. I gave it a confident tap with my fingers. There was muffled shout and we entered and sat down by the conference table where I outlined the case in detail.
Eventually Hobbs cast his gaze towards Cornock’s fish tank. It looked as though some of the tropical fish had died. He poked a tongue lightly into his cheek and inhaled a long breath.
‘First the triangulation evidence is pretty unreliable. There was the case in North Wales a few years ago when we were tracing a missing person and his mobile signal suggested he was miles from where his body was eventually found.
‘But—’
Hobbs raised a hand. ‘I’m only anticipating how his defence lawyers will react.’
‘We can place him in Southampton when he bought the mobile telephone. He was tracing his family. He’s got an identical triplet. We arrest Andrew Ackerman and—’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Conspiracy to murder.’ I knew I sounded desperate.
Hobbs shook his head. ‘On the basis that we think he might have swapped places with Jimmy Walsh. Get real, John. The Crown Prosecution Service won’t let you run with that. We need evidence, eyewitness evidence. And from what you tell me Jimmy Walsh has already disposed of the only witnesses.’
‘But we have Gloria Bevard calling Jimmy Walsh’s number on the night her husband is killed.’
I sensed Hobbs struggling to find the right words. ‘I grant you that is … interesting.’
Interesting.
‘But without being able to prove Jimmy Walsh had temporarily absconded from HMP Grange Hall you can’t make a connection.’
‘It all builds a picture. Add all the pieces together. We should interview all the prisoners on the billet. And all the prison officers.’
Hobbs leant over the desk. ‘Don’t you think one of the prison officers would have come forward by now if he knew anything? And as for the other prisoners – after what happened to Bevard and Yelland. They’ll all be scared witless.’
I slumped back into my chair, glancing over at Lydia. Determination and despair filled her eyes.
‘I’ll do what I can.’ Hobbs stood up, announcing that our meeting was over.
I couldn’t abide staying in Queen Street so I left and headed to my car. It was on a whim that I decided to drive up to see my parents. I didn’t spend time often enough with them. At least we had Walsh facing a charge of murder and I dismissed the prospect a jury might acquit him.
I arrived in Aberdare and Mamma hugged me tightly, reprimanding me for not having called.
I sat with Papa who looked better. He was sleeping well, he had started to follow the exercise regime the hospital had given him and he was looking forward to his next out-patient appointment.
‘I’ve been thinking, John,’ he said towards the end of the evening. ‘I haven’t got the stomach to fight Gino and Jez any longer. There’s nothing more important than my health. And now it’s time to let go of the past. I’m going to tell Gino we’ll agree to sell.’
The pounding in my ears increased until all I could focus on was my father’s face. It meant another victory for Jimmy Walsh.
Chapter 45
From the first day of the investigation, Jimmy Walsh had been a part of my life. The discovery of the recording from Roath Park on the night of Robin Oakley’s murder meant the prosecution against Walsh had a reasonable prospect of success. But juries can be fickle and the possibility of his acquittal had weighed heavily in my thoughts as I arrived at Queen Street that morning.
Somebody Told Me Page 26
