Somebody Told Me (19 page)

‘I was wondering if you could tell me about your son?’

‘He’s autistic. He goes to a special needs school, that’s one of the reasons why we moved to Bristol.’

‘Why didn’t he make a statement to the police at the time?’

She gave me a kindly smile. ‘I did tell the officers he had been in Roath Park. I expect they were busy.’

Her simple announcement hastened my excitement. I smiled at her, hoping Ben had that nugget of evidence we needed.

‘I don’t think he saw anything or at least he didn’t tell me.’

‘Is your son still at school?’

I imagined killing time waiting for a schoolboy to return home and every hour was taking Jimmy Walsh nearer his release date.

‘Oh, no, he’ll be home soon. Would you like some tea?’

The waiting was interminable. The tea was brown and strong. Lydia left most of hers but I finished my mug having spooned two teaspoons of sugar into it. We tried small talk; Lydia was more successful than I was. Surreptitiously I kept an eye on the clock, realising we had already been there for almost an hour. Mrs Evans cleared away our mugs and a plate of biscuits.

I felt a physical sense of relief when I heard a key scratching the lock in the door.

‘There are two people from Cardiff to see you,’ Mrs Evans said, loudly enough for Lydia and me to hear.

A teenager slouched into the sitting room and gave us a lopsided look. His slack-waisted jeans complemented the drizzle of stubble over his chin. I smiled, wanting to put him at ease.

‘My name is John and this is Lydia. We’re police officers. It’s Ben, isn’t it?’

He gave me a reluctant pout as an acknowledgement and collapsed into one of the old sofas.

‘We’re investigating what happened in Roath Park a few years ago.’

Mrs Evans joined her son on the sofa and he tried to sit up straighter. ‘Tell them why you were there.’

‘They were filming.’

I knew from the reports that a television crew had been filming earlier in the evening Oakley was killed. But it had been raining and the filming had been abandoned before seven.

‘Come on, Ben, tell them everything.’ Maggie didn’t give her son a chance. ‘He’s a
Doctor Who
fan. He’s got all the DVDs. His bedroom is plastered with posters and pictures of all the actors who have taken part in every series. He could probably go on
Mastermind
with everything he knows about
Doctor Who.
Would you like that, Ben?’

‘Were you near the film crew?’ I said.

Ben opened his eyes wide. ‘It was really cool. I kept really still. Nobody saw me. I was able to sneak through the undergrowth. I sat waiting for them to do the filming. I was there for hours.’

‘By the time he came home he was soaked to the skin. I was afraid he might get pneumonia.’

‘I’d like to hear what else Ben can remember.’ I tried to get my reproach sounding as polite as possible. ‘Did you see anybody else walking around Roath Park?’ I held my breath.

‘I had my camera ready to take photographs.’

My fingertips tingled; impatience built to a point where I was afraid I would raise my voice and shout. ‘Did you get any photographs?’

‘Only the film crew. And the Doctor himself walked right up to where I was. I could almost touch him. I wanted to take photographs but I knew if I did somebody would see me and I’d be reported to the police and may be sent to jail.’

I let out a long slow breath. ‘What time did you leave?’

‘It was late.’

Maggie Evans tutted.

‘Mam was really angry when I got home.’

‘I’d like you to remember what time it was?’

Maggie Evans butted in again. I almost snapped at her, telling her not to interrupt. ‘He had a bath straight after he got home and then he watched his favourite television programme, after
Doctor Who
of course.’

‘The time?’

‘
Big Bang Theory
started at ten-thirty and he’s watched all the repeats.’

‘So how long would it have taken you to walk home?’

‘Eleven minutes.’

‘But when did the filming stop?’

‘Stop?’ Ben said. ‘They were still filming when I left.’

I gaped in disbelief. It contradicted the evidence we already had that filming had stopped due to bad weather. I wanted to rush out of the house, jump into the car and scream over to the offices of the film company in Cardiff Bay. Instead I thanked Mrs Evans and Ben, warning them before we left the flat that I might need another statement. I almost tripped over in my haste to reach the car.

Lydia had her mobile phone at the ready as I started the engine.

‘Whoever was in charge of that Oakley investigation needs to be taken out and fucking shot.’ I realised what I had said but it was too late.

‘I think we need to prioritise, boss.’

I was tempted to break the speed limits on my journey back to Cardiff, but the knowledge that Jane was already on her way to the production company’s offices in the Bay eased my apprehension.

I pulled up behind the pool car outside the address Jane had emailed to my mobile on the journey from Bristol. Lydia followed me as we headed for the entrance. Inside, Jane stopped talking to a member of staff once she spotted me. ‘There’s nobody here, boss.’

‘What do you mean?’ I could hear activity behind her, the occasional one-sided telephone conversation.

‘All of the production staff are out on site.’

‘Is there nobody in charge?’

‘One of the admin staff will talk to us.’

The receptionist was a woman in her twenties with long auburn hair and enormous black-rimmed spectacles. ‘I’ll call Jamie.’ She picked up the handset. ‘There are three police officers in reception for you.’

She mumbled an acknowledgement as Jamie gave her instructions. She got up and led us through a corridor before pushing open the door of a conference room. ‘Would you guys like coffee?’

‘How long will Jamie be?’

She gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘Do help yourself to some sparkling water.’ She pointed towards the blue and crimson bottles of Ty Nant water on a sideboard. ‘I’ll tell Jamie you guys are waiting.’

We sat down and Jane opened a folder of papers on the table. ‘I brought the file as you asked, boss.’

I flicked through the statements looking for confirmation of the names of the witnesses. Quickly I realised the file was vague and incomplete. The original investigating team must have ignored digging deeper into who exactly was filming where, and when. My annoyance turned to anger. They should have known better. I heard a fizz behind me, as Lydia opened one of the bottles. She filled three glasses and pushed them over the table.

‘The only statement is from a production manager. And I bet he wasn’t even there.’ I read it again.

‘Maybe Ben Evans was wrong all along,’ Lydia said. ‘Maybe they did finish filming earlier than he recalls.’

A man, late twenties, with designer stubble and wearing a shirt that clung to his thin frame and overflowed over his fashionably faded denims, breezed into the room. ‘Hi guys. Jamie James.’

‘Detective Inspector Marco.’ I held out a hand. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Flint and Detective Constable Thorne. We’re investigating the death of Felix Bevard who was killed in the Roath Park café. He was linked to the murder of Robin Oakley.’

‘None of the production staff are here. I’m not certain what I can do to help you guys.’

‘This statement …’ I waved it in the air at James. ‘… is from a production manager. I want to speak to someone who was
actually
filming on the night of Oakley’s death.’

‘You’ll need to talk to the original production team. And—’

‘I want to know who exactly was on that team.’

‘It might take some time. I don’t know who was in charge. All I can do is take your details—’

‘This is a murder inquiry, Jamie. I need the details now. Yesterday.’ The tone of my voice was intended to frighten him.

He jotted down the date of Oakley’s murder, a list of everything we needed to know and thankfully he stopped calling us ‘you guys’ every sentence.

*     *     *

‘Why did you do it?’

Dave Hobbs clenched his teeth together and drew in a large breath as I explained my meeting with Jimmy Walsh. ‘I think it was most ill-advised.’

‘Jimmy Walsh somehow knew about the supergrass deal. I don’t know, yet, how he got hold of that information.’

‘You’re not suggesting it leaked from the dedicated source unit? Is that why you interviewed Roger Stockes?’

‘For Christ’s sake, he came to see me. He was waiting for me. He must have known that we’d want to talk to him.’

‘We’ve had a complaint from the CPS about your conduct. They are demanding that if you ever need to talk to Stockes again it be done through the proper channels.’

‘Proper channels.’ I snorted.

‘Yes, John.’

‘My discussion with Stockes was perfectly …’ I struggled for the right word. ‘Cordial. He volunteered information about Yelland. They were trying to interfere with my investigation.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what is it, Dave?’

Like an exasperated parent he shook his head.

‘Walsh got hold of the information from somewhere.’ I paused and waited but Hobbs said nothing.

‘With Bevard dead Jimmy Walsh is in the clear. There is no risk he could be facing prosecution for the Robin Oakley murder.’

‘I don’t want you speaking to Jimmy Walsh again unless it’s under caution and you’ve got evidence that justifies an arrest.’

Hobbs stared.

‘I understand. Dave.’ I stood up and left, enjoying the discomfort on his face, but as no other officers were present there was no chance I was going to call him
sir
.

Back in the Incident Room I listened to Wyn explaining that he had spoken to one of the girls that Yelland had dated. She had left the date after an hour once Yelland had poured two pints down his neck in quick succession.

‘And the other girls he dated?’

‘Working on it, boss.’

Wyn launched into a detailed analysis about Yelland’s Facebook page, announcing that he hoped to cross-reference some of Yelland’s friends to the internet dating site. I stood up, and wandered over to the window, peering down over the rear of properties along Queen Street. Jimmy Walsh’s release next week meant he’d be celebrating in one of the swanky restaurants in the middle of town. ‘I wonder what he’ll do once he’s released?’

Nobody replied immediately.

‘You mean Jimmy Walsh?’ Lydia said. ‘He should keep out of trouble.’

A seagull flew past my window, hovered above the barbed wire lashed to the sill and flew away, taking the sensible course. ‘I don’t think Jimmy Walsh knows what that means.’

As I sat down my mobile rang. My father’s name appeared on the screen.

‘Hi, John. Where are you?’

His anxious tone unnerved me.

Papa was pacing around the sitting room when I arrived. A half-drunk bottle of Peroni stood on the coffee table. Mamma was on the sofa chewing her lip.

‘I’m sure I’ve been followed, John.’

‘What do you mean?’ I stared at Papa. He wasn’t one to exaggerate things but my instinctive reaction was to think he was being melodramatic.

‘I went to Swansea with some deliveries on Monday. I kept noticing this black Ford transit. It seemed to follow me around.’

‘Did it visit the same places as you?’

‘I can’t remember. It was the afternoon when I saw it again. The same van was parked outside the factory.’

‘Does it belong to one of the other units nearby?’

‘I rang two of the companies. They knew nothing about it. And then on Tuesday when I was driving down to work it passed me. I could swear it was the same van. And then it turned round and followed me. I spotted it in the rear-view mirror but he turned off after a few minutes.’

‘Maybe it belongs to a local delivery company.’

‘A black transit? The windows all blacked out. Come off it, John.’

‘When did you see the van next?’ I sounded too much like a police officer and not enough like a concerned son. I had never seen Papa so rattled.

He shook his head. ‘This morning.’

I suppressed my growing anxiety. ‘Tell me what happened.’

My father sat down on the edge of his chair and took a long slug of beer.

‘It was behind me after I left the house. It got too close so I parked in the supermarket. I bought a newspaper and then drove down to the factory.’

He put the bottle back on the table.

‘I left the factory before lunch. I had a meeting with a supplier but instead of going straight there I took a roundabout route. I went up to Tonypandy, then did a detour round one of the back streets and then back down the valley to Pontypridd. They weren’t behind me when I went up the valley. I was checking all the time. But then once I was back and onto the A470 the van appeared behind me.’

An invisible hand grasped my throat and squeezed. I knew there was only one explanation: Jimmy Walsh.

‘I’m worried, John.’

‘Did you get the number plate?’

‘I memorised it this morning,’ Papa reached for his mobile and recited the details.

‘I’ll do what I can …’

Papa nodded. I didn’t need to explain the intricacies of police protocol.

Mamma made her first contribution. She kept her voice low. ‘Has this got anything to do with those people who want to buy the café?’

‘Has anything happened since we met with Uncle Gino and Jez?’

‘Gino complained like hell about you standing in the way of progress and not understanding what family is all about. I spoke to him on Sunday and Jez had told him Goldstar Properties would get another valuation. They told him unless we signed up within two weeks we could forget the deal. And they’d make certain we’d never sell to anyone else.’

My palms felt sweaty. I could hear Martin Kendall’s Scottish accent grinding out a threat.

‘I’ll have to talk to Uncle Gino.’

For a few seconds we stared at each other in silence. Papa finished his beer, returning with a telephone handset which he threw over to me. I fumbled with it until I found the loudspeaker function. The dialling sound echoed around the room and after four rings I heard Uncle Gino’s voice.