Somebody Told Me (14 page)

‘I’ve been checking the house-to-house inquiries for Roath Park for the night Bevard was killed. But there’s nothing of any significance,’ Lydia said. ‘And all the staff from the café have been interviewed. Nobody remembers Norcross being there but they have hundreds of customers each day.’

It curdled my thoughts that soon Hobbs would ask me some awkward questions. A waitress brought my Americano and a tall milky concoction for Lydia. I picked up my spoon, giving the black liquid a therapeutic stir.

‘I feel uncomfortable with this supergrass stuff,’ Lydia said.

I didn’t reply. The truth was I hated these supergrass deals too. It was like shaking hands with the devil and watching him laugh at you. Bad men got away scot-free in order to put equally bad men in prison. Maybe that was what the authorities thought was a good deal. For me it always meant bad policing which explained why they had little publicity.

The sound of accents from the Rhondda Valley as I walked down the main street of Pontypridd took me straight back to my childhood. I smiled to myself as I remembered Saturday mornings going from one shop to another, flirting with girls who had travelled on the same bus from Aberdare. And then feeling important sitting in the Marco café with a milky coffee and some buttered toast. I stopped by the travel agents and looked up at the first floor window that had the name of the lawyers’ office stencilled in sombre black lettering.

Walters and Sons had written Nonno Marco’s will, which contributed to the conflict within the extended Marco family. The original Mr Walters had long since passed away and it was one of his sons we were seeing, although I recalled gossip from years ago that the other son had been caught in one of the public toilets with another man, an event that had scandalised the community. Soon after, he had left to live in Australia.

There was a gentle climb along a tarmac path to the imposing black glossed door to the lawyers’ offices. I took the stairs to the first floor. Reception was empty, piles of paperwork littered the desks, monitors blank, computers silent. I followed the muffled sounds of conversation from a room at the end of a corridor until I pushed open the door to a large well-lit room at the front of the building overlooking the main street. It had a large conference table in the middle and Gareth Walters jumped to his feet as he saw me. Whippet-thin with strands of greying hair taken from the base of his head to form a comb-over made him look ridiculous. He shook my hand warmly enough and pointed me to a chair next to my father who gave me a cursory nod.

Uncle Gino stared over the table at me. Thick clumps of silver hair protruded from his ears; his shirt opened to two buttons exposing a mass of cobweb-like hair over his chest. His eyes were still the two small dark balls I remembered. He got up clumsily and reached over. ‘Hello John. Good to see you.’

Jeremy Marco sat alongside his father. ‘Hi, Jez,’ I said, using the nickname he loathed.

He opened his mouth, bared some teeth like a snarling dog and settled into a sneer. ‘Hello, John.’

‘Let’s get started then,’ Gareth said. ‘We have lots to discuss.’

The lawyer circulated a detailed memorandum to everyone around the table. Uncle Gino rolled his head back and forth as he read it and I scanned Jeremy’s face, intense and serious, before I read the document myself. I skipped over a lot of the legal jargon until I read the details of the money being offered for the café building. A single-page letter from a local valuer stated they thought the sum was ‘reasonable’ but it had a hurried feel and a paragraph of disclaimers did not fill me with confidence. Gareth let us read on for a few minutes and then cleared his throat noisily. ‘Let’s get on shall we? The trust provision in Mr Marco Senior’s will provides that all the beneficiaries need to agree to any proposal for the sale of the café building.’

‘We’ve been hanging on to the property for far too long,’ Jeremy announced. ‘It makes little sense keeping it any longer.’

Gareth butted in. ‘I think John needs to hear all the details.’ He gave me a brief conciliatory smile before slowly dragging three fingers over his meagre hair. ‘There is a rent review due imminently but a recent proposal has emerged for the sale of the property to a development company.’

Uncle Gino had been fiddling with the sheets of paper in front of him – patience wasn’t one of his greatest virtues. ‘Let’s get on with this Gareth.’

‘There’s a redevelopment proposal that includes the old café. The council is supporting the plans.’

‘Is it likely the council might buy the property?’ I said.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Jeremy said. ‘Councils haven’t got the money to do property development. Look, this offer is the best we could achieve. Let’s get rid of the old place and we can all move on.’

‘I don’t know anything about the offer.’

Jeremy sounded tired when he replied. ‘Goldstar Properties have got lots of development sites. They specialise in this sort of thing, developing two or three properties together with commercial and social housing. Look it’s a good deal. We’ve had a valuation confirm it’s a good price. What’s your problem, John?’

‘Don’t get in a flap, Jez.’

‘I’m not in a fucking flap.’

Gareth attempted a conciliatory tone. ‘Let’s not get diverted from the main issue. In principle does the family wish to retain the property?’

‘Goldstar Properties,’ I said. ‘Have I heard of them before?’

The name sounded familiar and I listened to Uncle Gino’s monologue about the unfairness of Nonno Marco’s will. My father sat back, folded his arms, and gave his brother an angry look.

‘Papa, shut up for now,’ Jeremy said sharply.

‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ Uncle Gino added equally sharply. ‘Everyone knows Nonno Marco should have changed his will. The property should have been left to me.’ In temper he raised the papers in front of him and threw them onto the table. They scattered over the floor by my father’s feet and he reached down to pick them up and then threw them back at Gino.

Jeremy raised his voice at us. ‘Do you want to sell or don’t you? It’s simple: if we don’t sell now then we could be landed with the property for years. And who will pay for all the maintenance? The redevelopment might go ahead without the property so it could be worthless in a few years’ time. We might not be able to get a new tenant.’

My father unfolded his arms and leant on the table. ‘Don’t raise your voice at me. I’ll decide when I’m good and ready. And let’s get one thing clear, Nonno Marco’s will was perfectly fair. He knew what you were like.’ He spat out the last sentence at his brother.

I turned to the lawyer who appeared stunned into silence. ‘What do you think, Gareth?’

He threaded the fingers of both hands together and placed them on the table in front of him. ‘Well, if you retain the property there will be future expenses but you have to remember the possibility of the value going up.’ Jeremy snorted. Gareth ignored him and continued. ‘So you have to measure that against the present offer. You might be advised to get more valuations.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Jeremy almost shouted. ‘We all know the present valuation is fair.’

A gut feeling from years of working as a police officer sounded an alarm bell. ‘Have we had a written offer from Goldstar Properties?’

‘Don’t you accept my word they’ve made a proper offer?’

I had never trusted Jez. I paused and looked over at him wondering if there was something underhand going on, some backroom deal. His attitude put my back up.

‘It’s only you and Uncle Gino that have spoken with Goldstar Properties,’ I added. ‘At least you can tell us about who is involved.’

He sighed impatiently. Then he shook his head back and forth. ‘I don’t believe this.’

Gareth joined the conversation. ‘I think it might be helpful if we had a more complete picture.’

Jez feigned annoyance. ‘I have met Mr Kendall and David Shaw a couple of times. They’ve even taken me around one of their developments in Bridgend. And—’

When he said the name Kendall, it was like a brief electrical shock to my brain. Momentarily I was stunned. ‘What was the name?’

‘The man who runs the business is David Shaw. But a Martin Kendall was with him.’

‘Martin Kendall.’ As I raised my voice I sensed four pairs of eyes staring at me.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jez said. ‘Do you know him?’

The saliva in my mouth felt like a paste.

I stared at the papers in front of me. Jez continued. ‘They run a very successful property business and the council officials I’ve spoken to mentioned the work they’ve done with other developments.’

I threaded the fingers of both hands together and clasped them tightly. Telling Jez that Kendall was implicated in the murder of Felix Bevard meant breaking every protocol. I looked at Jez and then Uncle Gino: I had to say something.

‘You have no idea.’ I slowed my speech right down.

‘This is all bullshit,’ Jez replied. ‘What’s your problem, John?’

‘No fucking idea.’

‘You’ve said that before. We need to move on with our lives and get the property sold. They’ve made a good offer.’

I stood up abruptly and kicked back my chair. ‘They’re gangsters and we should have nothing to do with them.’

I turned to the lawyer. ‘This meeting’s over.’

I gathered up the papers and left with Papa. The investigation had just become personal. Jimmy Walsh had seen to that. Now my family were involved in one of his schemes. Then I thought about the Oakley family and what they had been through. The file of that investigation was in my office unopened. There had been no need to reopen the case, but now I wanted to know everything about the inquiry and how Jimmy Walsh had reacted and what he had said. I reached the main street and stopped. I heard Papa’s voice but his words didn’t register.

‘Are you all right, John?’

I spotted a café and Papa followed me in. We found a table out of the way and ordered. I lowered my voice. ‘Kendall is involved with a man called Jimmy Walsh who was implicated in the murder of a business man several years ago. That man owned a property in the middle of Bridgend.’

‘But Jez mentioned—’

‘Yes, it’s probably the same property. Walsh was investigated for murder after the family refused to sell the property to him. He was found floating in a boat in Roath Park lake.’

‘Jesus, I remember that.’

I leant over the table and whispered. ‘Be careful, Papa.’

*     *     *

Tracy sat by my side in the kitchen of my flat, a half-eaten lunchtime sandwich on a plate on the table. She must have realised I was distracted after my meeting that morning. I had resolved after Dean’s accident, when he had spent a week in an induced coma, that my feeble attempts at fatherhood had to be replaced by something more meaningful. Jackie was staying with her mother and messages to my mobile had confirmed the arrangements for me to collect Dean. Until Jackie had told me of her plans to move back to South Wales from Basingstoke I had accepted that seeing Dean would mean travelling regularly. Now she was thinking of relocating it unsettled me. There was a comfort in knowing Jackie and Dean lived a distance away from me. Now she was likely to be nearby I wanted to avoid slipping back into casually ignoring my son.

‘Are you all right, John?’ Tracy peered at me.

‘Yes, of course.’ I didn’t sound convincing.

‘You seem distracted.’

‘Cousin Jez was a complete knobhead this morning.’

I imagined Jez being impressed by Martin Kendall, with his flash clothes and expensive car. The thought of Kendall being involved with my family business filled my stomach with cold bile. Then I saw the smiling face of Martin Kendall as he toured the pubs and clubs of Cardiff constructing a watertight alibi for the murder of Bevard. The whole thing seemed staged. Jimmy Walsh had been expecting us to speak to his wife and Kendall. Had he expected me to be appointed to the case, when he knew one of his construction companies wanted to purchase the old Marco café? My paranoia took me to another dark place as I contemplated the possibility a senior officer had made certain I was the SIO. Then I imagined the small piggy eyes of Dave Hobbs looking at me over Superintendent Cornock’s desk and the possibility he was involved flashed into my mind. Maybe it was Cornock? Or one of the other senior officers pulling the strings.

‘When are we collecting Dean?’

I stared out of the window not listening to Tracy. She tugged my arm. ‘Planet Earth calling Inspector Marco.’

‘What?’

‘Dean,’ she said impatiently.

‘What about him?’

‘We’re taking him to Castell Coch this afternoon.’

‘Of course, of course.’

It was early afternoon before we headed out to collect Dean. Jackie gave me a warm smile but no peck on the cheek although I sensed her scanning the car making certain Tracy was with me. It was a short drive to the Victorian castle outside Cardiff. Spending time with my son gradually unwound my tension. Tracy seemed more relaxed too and she settled into a steady rhythm of asking Dean about his schooling, his friends and how he was feeling after his accident. It was football that preoccupied most of his thoughts and he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Queen’s Park Rangers football team and their various players. It brought a smile to my face because I remember being exactly the same about Cardiff City as a boy. Maybe I could wean him off this Queens Park Rangers business after he moved.

Dean was more amenable than I thought to wearing an audiovisual guide and we wandered around the old castle learning it was built in the Gothic revival style to indulge the desires of the Marquess of Bute for a grand home for occasional summer use. Its name as the red castle came from the sandstone used in its construction and we roamed around the grand old buildings and ornate bedrooms.

We finished the afternoon at a tenpin bowling alley and then at a McDonalds where Dean demolished an enormous burger. The sound of a Scottish accent startled me and took me back to my first meeting with Martin Kendall and the smell of fish and chips that had clung to my clothes.

By the end of the meal, Dean was busy scrolling through his smartphone. I glanced over. ‘Who are you texting?’