Another half an hour passed as we talked and she told me about her hopes for the future. She never sounded aggrieved, accepting that having Walsh behind bars for the rest of his life was reward enough.
* * *
Superintendent Cornock had been back in charge for three weeks when the case against Walsh finally got to court. Conveniently, a free morning one Friday appeared in the list of a judge sitting in Carmarthen. It meant a trip out west. Coincidentally the visit by a European head of state to the Welsh Parliament – a recent name change from Assembly having earned howls of derision from some corners of the press – made reporting the events in the Crown court a sideshow.
Lydia and I settled into a seat at the back of the old court building.
Prosecution and defence lawyers drifted into court carrying piles of paperwork.
Walsh had the good sense to accept the inevitable and pleaded guilty to the murders of Oakley and Bevard. We had to accept that Ledley’s killer would never face the court although I knew that I was staring at him when Walsh entered the dock. A visiting judge from London who had been a high profile prosecutor at one time with a well-known dislike of organised crime groups seemed the perfect choice. Another apt coincidence. He asked the occasional question as the prosecution outlined the basis of the supergrass deal. By now the defence had given up and Walsh’s lawyers pleaded that the court should be lenient.
It didn’t help. Nobody thought it would.
The judge imposed a minimum tariff of thirty years, which really meant thirty-five once the parole system had been exhausted. Walsh would be well into his eighties by then. He might even die in prison.
Gloria Bevard burst into tears when she was given a life sentence with a minimum tariff of fifteen years. Without her involvement in telling Walsh about Felix Bevard’s proposed supergrass deal her husband might still be alive. Then she slumped to the floor and had to be helped up back to her seat. Bernie Walsh curled her mouth in disgust when the judge gave her the same sentence as Gloria. I had expected to see Andrew Ackerman in the dock as well but he had denied any knowledge of what Jimmy Walsh intended to do on his brief night of freedom. Once the prosecutors and the senior management of the Wales Police Service realised we had enough evidence against Walsh, Ackerman became unimportant.
I got back to Queen Street as the last of the day shift were leaving.
Cornock bellowed for me to enter when I knocked on the door of his office.
‘I’ve heard.’ He beamed. ‘I’m sure you’re very pleased.’
‘Walsh is behind bars. That’s the best result possible.’
The fish tank glistened and I noticed a new red striped tropical fish swimming around.
‘I waited until you got back,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’m taking my wife to a concert tonight.’
It was the first time I had heard him talking about his social life and for a second it surprised me.
‘I thought you should know about Dave Hobbs.’
I held my breath.
‘His appointment to chief inspector wasn’t confirmed.’
I let out a long slow breath of relief.
‘He’s accepted a transfer into one of those dedicated source units based in Eastern Division. So your paths are unlikely to cross in the future.’
The prospect filled me with hope.
* * *
At low tide North Beach in Tenby leaves the old lifeboat station and its launching ramp stranded high above the white clean sand. Dean, Papa and I wandered around the barnacle-encrusted supports and then on to the edge of the water before looking up at the new lifeboat installation, a modern wooden-clad building. We retraced our steps to the town and then down onto South Beach. Sand in the wind scratched our faces and Dean complained. I fastened the collar of his jacket high up to his chin and we set off along the beach. I held Dean’s hand tightly but we only managed to make it halfway along the beach before Papa slowed. I sensed him struggling.
‘You go on if you want,’ Papa said.
I decided that Dean would probably prefer an ice cream to an extended walk on a windswept beach so we tramped back into town. Out of season the town had a gentle charm that the summer tourists choke. We passed small shops and cafés all anxious for our trade and settled for an ice cream parlour.
We sat in the window and Dean cleared a bowl full of chocolate and vanilla ice cream.
‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Papa said. ‘Has everything finished with that case?’
I nodded. ‘They are all safely locked up.’
‘We’ve had an offer for the property.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s from a reputable company this time. Tell me what happened to that man Kendall?’
I gave him my I-wish-I-could-tell-you look. I thought about how badly I had wanted him imprisoned. And that it had been an all-consuming objective once he had stalked the family. Did we get justice? Was it all really in the public interest?
We finished our ice creams and headed back for the caravan.
~~~~~~~~
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Somebody Told Me
by Stephen Puleston
This book copyright © Stephen Puleston
First edition published 2016 by Stephen Puleston
The right of Stephen Puleston to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, in transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Somebody Told Me Page 28
