Somebody Told Me (20 page)

‘It’s John. I’m with Papa.’

‘You’re causing problems. Why can’t you see sense and agree to sell the old place?’ I glanced at Papa who rolled his eyes. ‘It means nothing to you.’

‘Papa was telling me about your conversation with the man from Goldstar Properties.’

Uncle Gino coughed. ‘He’s a gangster, fucking gangster. But he’s got money and he is prepared to pay a good price. He thinks he can give us shit but he’s got no idea.’

I looked up at Papa then glanced over at Mamma who scowled. ‘This is really important. Did he threaten you at all?’

‘Of course he did but that won’t frighten me. Who does he think he’s dealing with? He should go and live in Sicily, try his luck there, see how long he lasts.’

‘What did he say? Can you remember?’

‘Why all these questions? He’s a businessman. He wants to do a deal and he’s giving me a hard time. So what is it going to take to get you to change your mind?’

‘Papa thinks he’s being followed. And he’s worried.’

Gino went quiet.

‘A black van has been stalking him.’

‘For Christ’s sake, this is not Palermo or some fucking crime thriller on the TV,’ Gino spluttered. ‘Grow up, John. Let’s get the place sold.’

He finished the call and I reached over for my mobile. I punched in the number for operational support. I barked an order for a vehicle registration check. I hoped I could hide the tension galloping through my mind. Mamma left to make some food, announcing I was staying for dinner. Minutes later my mobile rang.

I’d already guessed. I looked over at Papa. ‘It’s a false number plate.’

*     *     *

It was after midnight when I got home. I sat in front of the television, channel-hopping for half an hour, thinking about my parents, hoping they’d sleep. The bottle of Chianti they’d drunk with the spaghetti bolognese would help. I showered and fell into bed exhausted.

It felt as though I had slept for only two hours when the sound of my mobile woke me. I reached a hand over and then knocked the clock off the bedside cabinet. It hit the wall and the batteries ran over the floor. I fumbled for the handset.

‘Detective Inspector Marco? This is area control; we have a report of a burglary and arson allocated to you.’

I propped myself up on one elbow. ‘I’m in the middle of—’

‘I was to tell you it’s at the offices of Goldstar Properties.’

I shot my legs out from under the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What did you say?’

‘Two nearby residents have reported unusual activity. The alarm went off when the windows were smashed. And then the place was set on fire. We have a CSI team on the way but—’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

I yanked on a pair of jeans, fumbled for a shirt and sweatshirt and then, grabbing a fleece, raced downstairs to my car. I raced through the empty streets. Minutes later I reached the fish and chip restaurant, braked hard and parked behind one of the two patrol cars. I jumped out, slammed the car door, and ran.

A fire tender was parked at the entrance, a hose reaching down to the rear of the property. Halfway down the driveway I slowed to a walk and watched as the fire crew dampened down the last of the flames. An acrid smell of burning plastic hung in the air and drifted through the blue-and-white lights of the tender.

I marched up to two uniformed officers. Disembodied voices crackled on radios on their lapels. Despite my haste I had remembered my warrant card which I flashed at the older of the two. ‘DI Marco.’

‘You got here quickly, sir.’

‘Have the owners been notified?’

‘We’ve struggled to find the key holder. A second name we have wasn’t replying to his telephone.’

I turned to look at the building that I had recently visited.

‘Apparently the fire crew got here just in time. Whoever it was splashed petrol over the door and window. He must have hoped that the fire would take hold but the property has a sprinkler system.’

I knew that the entire economic crime unit of the Wales Police Service would sacrifice valuable parts of their bodies for the opportunity to examine the contents of the files inside. Somebody had wanted to hurt Jimmy Walsh very badly and that person must have had a death wish too.

I heard a Scottish accent swearing expertly behind me. I zipped my jacket nearer my chin. Martin Kendall bundled his way past one of the fire crew and marched right up to me.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m investigating a suspected attempted burglary and arson attack. Is this your property, Mr Kendall?’

‘Don’t get smart with me.’

‘I thought it was owned by Mrs Walsh?’

‘I am a keyholder. You must know that.’

‘There’s been a burglary. I was going to check that the building was secure. This is a crime scene. I’m the senior investigating officer.’

‘And I’m the keyholder. And you and everyone else can fuck off.’

I gave him a kindly ah-well-this-is-your-business-really smile before turning to leave.

By the time I was back at my apartment it was daylight and the city had woken. I showered, made a double espresso and watched the early morning television news before heading out for breakfast at Gorge with George. Contractors filled the café, piling on the calories before a morning’s work on the building sites around the Bay. I ordered a full breakfast and a double strength coffee before finding a stool by a bar area at the back. The rear pages of the
Western Mail
carried depressing news about the latest injury setback for the Cardiff City team. My holidays had meant I had missed the first three fixtures of the new season. The results had been mixed, one win, a loss and a nil-nil draw. The headlines focused on the need to strengthen the attacking line-up.

I folded the paper, placing it to one side so I could read the interview with the team manager, and ate my breakfast at the same time. I swished the last piece of my floury bread roll around the brown sauce, finished the coffee and headed for my car after paying.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the car park at Queen Street, still able to taste the fat of the bacon. Lydia had arrived in the Incident Room. ‘I hear you had a busy time last night?’

‘Someone tried to torch the place. A window and door dowsed in petrol. So it was someone quite mad or with a death wish.’

Lydia snorted. ‘Any eyewitnesses?’

‘We’ll need to interview the neighbours.’

‘What did Bernie Walsh have to say?’

‘Nobody could find her but Martin Kendall arrived and went ape shit.’

‘So he doesn’t want to pursue a complaint?’

‘He didn’t actually say those words last night.’

Lydia raised an eyebrow. ‘So is this a live inquiry?’

‘Of course it is. A crime has been committed.’

Lydia tapped the image of Howard Oakley on the board. We knew Oakley had a grudge against Walsh and was probably stupid enough to be an arsonist.

‘Let’s go and talk to the neighbours,’ I said.

Lydia fell in behind me as we trotted down the stairs to the car park. It really felt like lunchtime now and tiredness scorched my eyes. Lydia opened one of the pool cars with the remote control. We took the scenic route down the western link road, skirting past the Millennium Centre and the flashy bars and restaurants of the Bay before heading for Grangetown. She slowed and I surreptitiously glanced down the driveway at the side of the fish and chip restaurant. It was quiet and I wondered when the CSI team would arrive. Thankfully there was no sign of Martin Kendall’s Porsche.

Lydia drew to a halt by the kerb, away from the restaurant. I checked my paperwork and then looked over at the small block of flats where the first witness lived. We found the buzzer for Mr Riddle’s flat and he opened after I had to shout down the intercom. The door of his flat was ajar when we reached the first floor. A man in his seventies with wispy thin white hair opened the door.

‘I am Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’ We held up our cards. ‘We’re investigating last night’s burglary and arson.’

‘You had better come in.’ Inside it was suffocatingly hot and airless. Even so, Riddle wore a sleeveless sweater over a shirt with prominent stripes and a grey tie.

‘You made a call about a suspected break-in last night.’

‘Nothing suspicious about it. I was in the kitchen at the time, making my wife a hot drink. She doesn’t sleep too well.’

‘What time was that?’

‘It was just before the shipping forecast.’

Lydia tapped on her mobile telephone. She looked up. ‘Shipping forecast is at 5.20 am.’

‘I heard the glass smashing. It made a hell of a racket. I looked out of the window but I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t know what it was at first and then I heard more glass shattering. I looked out and saw the flames taking hold. So I rang the fire brigade straight away.’

It tallied with the information we had on his initial call.

‘I went outside hoping I might see something. I’ve been to them neighbourhood watch meetings where we are told to be vigilant.’

‘Did you see anybody?’

‘I saw a red sports car driving away.’

Immediately I thought of Howard Oakley. ‘Could you remember the make of the car?’

‘I can do better than that. It was one of those Italian jobs – an Alfa Romeo. I had a small 147 until a few years ago. I loved the car but the chassis rusted away. Typical Italian cars.’

Now we had a positive link to Howard Oakley and were making progress.

We thanked Mr Riddle, Lydia asking politely about his wife as we left.

A message from Wyn reached my mobile –
Attn DI Marco Important development. Please come back to QS. DC Wyn Nuttall
. Only Wyn could make a text sound formal. The two other witnesses on our list could wait; we sped back into the city.

*     *     *

Wyn was pacing in front of the Incident Room board. He had a serious, determined look on his face that suggested the world was about to end.

He walked over towards us. ‘I’ve been digging around into Howard Oakley’s past. I found the name of an intelligence source that was interviewed about the organised crime groups in Swansea. He’s in one of the interview rooms. I thought you should hear what he has to say first-hand.’

The rivalry between Cardiff and Swansea wasn’t limited to the football field and if the organised crime groups of Swansea felt that their Cardiff rivals were encroaching on their turf then things could get messy. And I wondered if what happened last night had been just that.

Wyn led the way to the interview room.

I pushed open the door. A man, mid-twenties with a baseball hat perched the wrong way round on his head, had his feet propped on the table. ‘This is Brendan,’ Wyn said.

I stared at the soles of Brendan’s trainers. He got the message and hauled them off the table before straightening his position on the plastic chair. His designer polo shirt was dusty pink; a gold chain hung limply around his neck.

‘Brendan came across Howard Oakley recently.’

‘Sure thing. He’s a fucking nutter.’

‘Tell the inspector what you know.’

‘He was asking around for a gun.’

That certainly got my attention. I stared at him. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘Exactly that. He’s been asking around; wanted to know where he could buy a pistol. He kept boasting that he’d been to a shooting club. He got himself involved with some thugs from Swansea so he wanted a gun for protection.’

I glanced over at Wyn and Lydia who were both staring at Brendan. I turned my gaze back at him, suddenly realising Howard Oakley needed far more of my time.

After finishing with Brendan I headed straight for the Incident Room board where I underlined Howard Oakley’s name with a yellow highlighter. He had a motive for the murder of Bevard and for the first time I seriously contemplated that Yelland’s killer had been different from Bevard’s. It was an uncomfortable thought that Walsh might not be involved in the murder of Bevard. My gaze drifted to the face of Martin Kendall. The smell of his stale aftershave pinched my nostrils as I thought about him almost frothing at the mouth, standing outside the property in the early hours.

I looked over at Lydia. ‘We need to arrest Howard Oakley.’

Lydia nodded. ‘I’ll organise a CSI team.’

I turned to Wyn and Jane. ‘Organise for uniformed officers to park outside his house.’

I strode back to my office, and barked instructions to Alvine over the telephone. After finding my car keys I hurried down to the car park, with Lydia, Wyn and Jane following behind us.

Once we were on the motorway heading west Wyn called. ‘The uniformed lads have confirmed the red Alfa is still in the drive. But there’s no sign of movement.’

I thanked him, finished the call and hurried on.

If Howard Oakley had acquired a gun that had killed Bevard then my theory about Walsh being involved was nothing more than self-delusion. An edge of apprehension crept into my thoughts as we raced along the M4 towards Bridgend. Walsh was a sociopath who wouldn’t have hesitated in emptying all the bullets of a small handgun into Bevard. There had been other unsolved murders in South Wales where the motive pointed to Walsh but we simply didn’t have enough evidence to convict. The sort of evidence that was now driving us to arrest Howard Oakley.

I slowed as I approached the exit slip on the motorway and then sped towards Bridgend and although the satnav bleeped instructions I remembered the route anyway. Once I had seen the marked police car parked by the kerb I pulled up behind it. A few minutes later Wyn and Jane slowed to a halt behind us but there was no sign of the scientific support vehicle. I didn’t have time to wait so I gave the order and we pulled into the estate. I accelerated towards the Oakley house, braked, left the car and then waved at Wyn and Jane to cover the back door. I skirted round the Alfa Romeo still parked on the drive and hammered on the front door. A woman’s voice screamed, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps descending a staircase. From the crashing of the door I guessed that Howard Oakley was making for the rear; I shouted at Wyn and Jane. ‘He’s making a run for it. Watch out.’