Somebody Told Me (24 page)

My mobile rang. It was a short one-way conversation. I looked up at Papa nodding what he already knew. ‘False plates again.’

‘I’m going to cruise around for a while, see if I can spot them. I’ll try and get some photographs but until they break the law there’s not much I can do.’

‘This is down to your uncle fucking Gino and Jez getting involved with those gangsters.’

I chewed my lip, racked my brains, wondering what I could do legally. I had no way of proving it was Walsh but there was no other explanation. It was his way of challenging me – telling me that he was in charge. I could see why the senior management of the Wales Police Service desperately wanted him behind bars. ‘I need to get back.’

‘Of course.’

‘If you see them again today get the lads to take photographs.’

I stood up and left but the worry still clung to the pit of my stomach. I drove around for twenty minutes but there was no black van. I drove down towards the A470 and indicated south as my mobile rang.

‘What is it, Wyn?’ I snapped, recognising his name.

‘Ah… We’ve just heard from Bevard’s bank that on the evening he was killed he bought a takeaway meal in Pontypool. We’ve got the address of the restaurant. Apparently there was some problem with the bank’s computer.’ Wyn’s voice shook.

I reached the sign for the motorway and on impulse headed east. ‘Email me the details, I’m on my way there now.’ I needed to calm down before returning to Queen Street so I floored the accelerator.

My mobile lit up as the address I needed reached the screen. I followed the instructions from the satnav and half an hour later I parked outside the Golden Sumac takeaway restaurant. It boasted the best Indian cuisine in Pontypool. I snatched my mobile from the cradle and my fleece from the passenger seat and jogged over the road.

Light reflected from the extensive optic display behind the bar of the Golden Sumac. A man with a thin moustache smiled at me as I entered, reaching for a menu at the same time. ‘We don’t open for lunch for another hour.’

‘Is the owner here?’ I flashed my warrant card.

The smile disappeared and he hurried to the back. An older, more confident-looking man strolled through the main part of the restaurant. ‘I am the owner – how can I help?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector John Marco.’ I dictated the date and time of the purchase by Felix Bevard of what would probably have been his last meal. ‘I need you to tell me if you can remember anything at all about that purchase.’

He gave me a helpless look, walked behind the bar and flicked through his records. I found an image of Felix Bevard and showed it to him. ‘Do you recognise him? He was wearing golfing clothes. He bought a meal here. Do you remember him?’

The owner peered at the photograph. Then he checked his records again, and returned his gaze to the image on my mobile. He gave a brief nod. ‘I served him that day. Now that you mention golfing clothes I remember him. He looked quite funny, alongside the other man.’

‘Other man?’ Instinctively I looked up and around for CCTV cameras. It had become second nature for every police officer by now.

‘The other man had lots of tattoos over his arms. And a ponytail.’

It had to be Jack Ledley.

‘Did you overhear any of their conversation?’

He shook his head.

‘Have you seen the man with tattoos before or since?’

‘No, that was the only time.’

‘And I’ll need you to give me a detailed statement with a description.’

‘I’ve already said all this to the other police officers who came.’

For a moment, I paused, fearing that I hadn’t heard correctly. My lips dried. ‘You’ve spoken to somebody else?’

Frantically I calculated who would risk being a police imposter. Who would take such a gamble?

‘I’ll need a detailed description of that other person too.’ l leant over the bar a fraction. ‘The person you spoke to wasn’t a police officer. If anybody else comes asking about either of these men, call me immediately.’ I pushed my business card towards him.

I ran back to my car, bellowing instructions into my mobile.

Two hours later I stood in front of half a dozen uniformed officers in a conference room in Pontypool police station. I hadn’t bothered learning their names although I’d picked up that there was a Ken and a Steve involved. A large-scale map of Cwmbran and Pontypool had been pinned in the middle of the board behind me. A circle, with the shop Bevard visited at its centre, dominated the map. Another overlapping circle spun out from the Golden Sumac. The final circle covered a radius from the point where Bevard was stopped for speeding. A thick red line connected all three of the known locations to form a triangle.

‘We are looking for Jack Ledley.’ I pointed to his photograph pinned to one side of the board. ‘He has a long ponytail and heavily tattooed arms. On the day he was seen in the shop listed on your briefing memorandum and at an Indian takeaway, he was in the company of Felix Bevard who was killed later that evening. Someone posing as a police officer is looking for him. We need to find him before they do.’

I tapped on the various segments of the map. ‘We’ve divided the town up into sections and we’ve allocated various teams to take a specific area. I want you to speak to all the shops, pubs, takeaways, and any business where there might be contact with the public.’

The officers nodded between concentrated stares.

‘Ledley must have gone out to buy milk, or cigarettes or the newspaper. And remember, Felix Bevard was wearing golfing clothes, so his description should be memorable.’

After answering more questions the Incident Room emptied. Lydia was already organising her coat when I returned from my office shrugging on my jacket. ‘Let’s go.’

We headed for the shop where Bevard had used his card. The shopkeeper gave us an anxious look when he saw us walking up to the counter. Reluctantly he led us to a small room at the back of the building after he’d organised replacement staff on the till.

‘Look, I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘I want you to go through it again.’ He sighed and then did as he was told. I listened intently for any variation, any subtle change. Nothing. It only compounded my frustration.

Next we called at the Golden Sumac restaurant. The owner offered coffee, we declined. We sat at one of the tables and listened as he repeated what he told us before. I asked if he had seen Ledley afterwards.
No, only that once
. We spoke to the other members of staff, who spoke passable English so we took far longer to establish that none of them had seen him around the town.

We fared no better with a newsagent nearby. He curled his lips and shook his head as we showed him photographs of Ledley and Felix Bevard. Three women in a launderette launched into a detailed analysis of the various single men who came in to wash bags of clothes once a week. Even Lydia’s persuasive questioning and her warm smile did nothing to deflect their gossiping. I handed over business cards, accompanied by fierce encouragement for them to call me if they saw anyone matching Ledley’s appearance.

The final stop on our list should have been a pizza takeaway restaurant but the main door was boarded and, peering inside through filthy glass, I noticed the floor covered with discarded newspapers and circulars. Net curtains hung in the window of the adjacent property. At the end of the row was an ironmongers with a window display of faded bleach bottles, foldable stepladders and mops and buckets. The door triggered a bell that rang somewhere in the building. It was like stepping back in time; a counter ran along the three sides of the shop with shelving units stacked to the ceiling.

‘What do you want?’

I heard the voice but didn’t see the face until an old woman emerged from between boxes of washing-up powder. From the wrinkles and her stiff white hair I guessed she must have been well over eighty. I showed her my warrant card and then the image of Ledley and Felix Bevard. She squinted at them both.

‘Have you seen either of these men?’

‘Sorry, love. We don’t get many strangers in here.’

I was fast running out of business cards but gave her one of the last I had. She tucked it into one of the drawers by the till and I returned to the car.

‘Any luck, boss?’

‘No. That last place was like a time warp.’

A morning doing regular policing only reinforced my determination to find Jack Ledley. Driving always helped me focus, and sitting in the passenger seat helped me focus on why Jimmy Walsh had an interest in our missing man. And how did Bevard fit into all this? Then it struck me: I had ignored the obvious. I slammed an open palm against the dashboard.

‘Get back to Queen Street.’

*     *     *

I had to wait a fractious hour, following an ill-tempered conversation with Inspector Malcolm Ackroyd of the dedicated source unit, before he arrived. Lydia pushed the door closed behind him and I waved him to a chair.

‘We’ve been looking for Jack Ledley.’ I stared over at Ackroyd but I didn’t give him a chance to reply. ‘He met Felix Bevard on the afternoon he was killed.’

Ackroyd’s gaze darted around.

‘Bevard bought some food from a local shop. Then he bought a takeaway meal in an Indian restaurant before going back to the golf club.’

I sensed Lydia staring at Ackroyd.

‘And today it emerged others are looking for him too. This morning uniformed officers are crawling over Pontypool trying to find him. And I thought to myself, why was Ledley connected to Bevard? And then I remembered that Bevard is connected to you, Malcolm.’

I pulled my chair nearer the desk. ‘Have you got any idea what I’m talking about?’

Ackroyd opened his mouth to say something but I ignored him. ‘My guess is you know exactly who Ledley is. He was part of your supergrass deal, wasn’t he?’ My voice was rising in step with my anger.

Ackroyd coughed. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit. I’m investigating a double murder inquiry. And trying to unravel a murder from years ago involving Walsh and Bevard. I want to know the truth.’ I slammed a hand on the desk.

Ackroyd, momentarily startled, blinked rapidly before continuing. ‘Felix Bevard told us there was another man involved in the murder of Robin Oakley. Jack Ledley has been on the edge of Walsh’s activities for years.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell us. You fucking idiot.’ It was the first time I’d cursed at another inspector in the presence of a junior officer.

Ackroyd seemed to have visibly aged in front of me.

‘So what was this Jack Ledley going to tell you?’

He groaned. ‘That was the problem. We didn’t interview him, didn’t get a chance. All the information about Ledley came second hand from Bevard. We got the impression Ledley was getting cold feet.’

‘Cold everything else, if Jimmy Walsh gets hold of him.’

If we couldn’t find Jack Ledley I had to hope Jimmy Walsh couldn’t either. But the prospect of another witness against him in the Oakley murder would eat him alive.

‘Malcolm, is there anything else you haven’t told us?’

Lydia peered at Malcolm Ackroyd’s discomfort.

He shook his head. ‘No, Bevard said that together he and Ledley could nail Jimmy Walsh. Look John, make no mistake, everybody wants to see this bastard in jail for the rest of his natural days.’

‘So let’s work together.’ I gave Ackroyd a dismissive flick of my wrist. ‘Now fuck off back to your dedicated source unit and don’t ever conceal information from me again.’

There was a long silence between Lydia and I after Ackroyd left.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I said eventually.

I strode into the Incident Room as Wyn finished what smelt like a sausage roll. I hated it when one of the team ate breakfast at work. Jane was noisily drinking a coffee.

‘You’ve got an hour, maximum. After that I’m leaving for Pontypool.’

Lydia had been there from first thing that morning coordinating the search teams. Wyn nodded his understanding.

‘I’ve spoken to the second of the three women Yelland dated and she says they went out once but she never heard from him again. And she didn’t know any of his friends.’

‘What about the third woman?’

‘I’m still trying to find her full details. She uses a Canadian email service provider so it’s taking me longer than I expected to find her.’

‘Tell the Mounties to go get her on horseback.’

Wyn looked momentarily stunned before he recognised my feeble attempt at humour.

I read the time as Jane cleared her throat. She spent fifteen minutes explaining that she had spoken to four rental agencies covering the towns of Cwmbran and Pontypool. None of them had any knowledge of Jack Ledley. She got up and pointed to the map on the board. ‘One of the agencies has organised a let recently in Griffithstown to a man with a ponytail. An officer is going to call this morning.’

It could be progress.

‘The other agencies weren’t any help at all.’

‘Broaden the search,’ I said. ‘There may be letting agents in Newport that cover that area.’

She got back to work and I walked back to my office intent on checking my emails. I saw the report on the pistol we found in Howard Oakley’s place and I read through to the final page. The conclusion that it was not the same gun that had killed Bevard and Yelland shouldn’t have been a surprise but still I felt deflated. Unless Howard had another pistol, it meant he was no longer a suspect in the murder of Felix Bevard. I was halfway through the rest of my emails when my mobile rang. It was my mother. ‘It’s Papa, he’s collapsed.’

I stood up. My chest tightened and my heart sank to my shoes. I tried to sound calm. ‘Have you called an ambulance?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m on my way.’

I kept talking to her, reassuring her as I walked down to the car.

The journey passed in a blur. An ambulance was parked in the drive when I drew up on the pavement outside the house.I rushed in and found Papa unconscious on the floor, Mamma standing over him. I went over to her and held her close as she sobbed. Paramedics surrounded him talking in technical jargon as they connected various pieces of equipment. They ripped open his shirt. I stood and gaped. This was happening to somebody else, like something in a TV hospital drama.