Somebody Told Me (27 page)

‘We know Bevard was going to give direct evidence against Walsh.’ I dipped my head towards the computer screen of the laptop on the table. ‘This is it.’

‘So who is the third man in these images?’

‘It’s Jack Ledley. And he’s the man Bevard met the afternoon he was killed. DI Ackroyd from the dedicated source unit was aware of Ledley. It was possible he would be a supergrass witness as well.’

‘None of this implicates Martin Kendall?’ Hobbs managed a mean edge to his voice. But he wasn’t going to deflect me that easily. He knew the original Oakley enquiry was a mess and I was picking up the pieces.

‘Martin Kendall was up to his neck in it, no doubt about it. Let me remind you, sir, it was a routine search of one of Bevard’s taxis that found traces of Oakley’s blood. If the original investigating team had viewed all the filming we might already have Walsh behind bars.’

Hobbs sulked back into a guilty silence.

Desmond interrupted. ‘How far did the dedicated source unit get with Jack Ledley?’

‘Not far at all.’

‘Do we know how to contact him?’

‘There’s a team looking for him now.’

‘Really?’ Desmond sounded surprised.

‘And there are others posing as police officers looking for him as well.’

Desmond and Hobbs gaped at me together, realising another life was at stake.

‘I’ll increase the resources available to track down Jack Ledley. We need to identify whether he will give evidence against Walsh,’ Hobbs said.

Hobbs and I turned to Joplin who replied after a brief pause. ‘I originally reviewed all the evidence in the Oakley case. It was all most frustrating. Everything pointed to Jimmy Walsh. As I recall Martin Kendall was a most unpleasant character.’

My enthusiasm got the better of me. ‘This video is a game changer. We need to arrest and charge Walsh. And we arrest Bryant for perverting the course of justice. We arrest them both, then interview them separately. And then refuse bail.’

I could imagine the reception Jimmy Walsh would get from the custody sergeant and especially from the prison officers.

‘Let me review all the evidence again.’ Desmond said. ‘But you still have the murder of Felix Bevard unsolved.’

I didn’t reply.

‘Is it possible Kendall killed them? Shot them on orders from Jimmy Walsh?’

‘Kendall has a solid alibi for the Bevard murder.’

‘Has it been
thoroughly
checked?’ He shot a glance at Hobbs who looked very uncomfortable.

‘We’ve taken it apart. And Mrs Walsh had an alibi too. Both carefully planned.’

‘Then there is someone else, perhaps a contract killer from outside the area. I know it sounds dramatic but it’s not unheard of. I’ll call you later, Inspector,’ Desmond said.

I closed the laptop and left. The possibility that some professional assassin had killed Felix Bevard was an option I wanted to ignore. It meant we might never find the killer and more importantly Jimmy Walsh might escape justice.

By ten that evening I left and drove home, despairing that Desmond Joplin was taking his time making a decision. I had a ready meal from the freezer and ate without enthusiasm, flicking through the channels on my television.

It was midnight when my telephone rang. ‘Desmond Joplin, Inspector. I’ve authorised an arrest.’

I whooped with delight and punched the air with my fist.

I returned to the custody suite, relishing the opportunity of confronting Jimmy Walsh. His appearance was very different from the regulation prison clothes he wore for our first meeting. His hair had been neatly trimmed and there was a faint tang of lemon and pine from his cologne. He turned a manicured finger around the gold cufflinks of his double-cuff shirts. The combined value of the bespoke suits worn by Walsh and Glanville Tront, together with the enormous chronograph watches hanging on their wrists, would have amounted to a deposit for a flat in the Bay.

As I tore open the cellophane packaging of the interview tapes Glanville pulled a fountain pen from inside his jacket, one of the expensive varieties with a mottled body. Coffee in white plastic cups sat on the table but Glanville and Jimmy preferred to sip from small bottles of San Pellegrino.

Once I had organised the formalities I pressed the switch on the tape recorder.

I looked up at Jimmy. I had evidence, now I had something concrete. And my eagerness to challenge him meant my heart rate was off the scale.

‘One of my colleagues interviewed you several years ago about the murder of Robin Oakley in Roath Park.’ I paused; it wasn’t a question but I half expected a reaction. I didn’t get one. ‘You were arrested as a suspect. Do you remember being interviewed?’

‘Of course.’

No point in denying the obvious. At least Glanville had told him to cooperate.

‘At the time my colleague Detective Inspector Webster asked you to confirm your whereabouts for the night Mr Oakley was killed. Is it correct you told the officer you had been in an Italian restaurant all evening?’

‘Yeah, I seem to remember being at a party. A place off Albany Road, nice Italian restaurant with a disco and lots of grub.’

‘The party was very busy.’

Glanville interjected. ‘And what is your question, Inspector?’

‘Did you leave the restaurant at any time?’

‘I’ve got an alibi. I was there all night, you know that.’

‘Of course, Philip Bryant.’ Lydia had Bryant’s original statement. ‘Philip Bryant confirmed he recalls you being there throughout the evening. Were you sitting with him all night?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You must have mingled, spoken to the other guests. Did you step outside for a cigarette? It’s difficult to believe Philip Bryant would have seen you for every minute of every hour.’

‘Are we going to go over what was discussed all those years ago?’ Glanville managed an inquisitorial edge to his voice. ‘Because it seems to me unless you have something new this interview is a
complete
waste of time.’

I was sorely tempted to butt in and tell Glanville I would conduct the interview however I wanted. I gave Lydia an encouraging nod to continue.

‘So, Mr Walsh can you confirm whether you left the restaurant any time?’

Jimmy let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I was there all night. How often do I have to tell you people the same thing.’

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘It was early.’

‘But was it between six and six-thirty?’

He shrugged.

‘Between six-thirty and seven?’

Another shrug.

‘And when did Philip Bryant arrive?’

‘He was there when I arrived.’

Lydia replaced the statement on the table. I saw the exhilaration in her eyes at the casual lie from Walsh.

I spent half an hour, much to the irritation of Walsh and Glanville, getting Walsh to confirm the details he had provided in his original statement.The truth is easy, lying is difficult: it needs a good memory to recall every detail of the falsehood. Glanville occasionally interrupted, making certain Walsh felt he was getting value for money. Eventually he butted in, ‘I really do think this has gone on long enough, Inspector.’

*     *     *

And I still had the photographs from the
Doctor Who
production company.

‘I want to be absolutely clear. Did you go to Roath Park on the evening Robin Oakley was killed?’

‘I think Mr Walsh has dealt with that.’ Glanville made the whole thing sound very tiresome.

‘I was in the La Scala all night.’

I pulled the photograph from underneath the file of papers in front of me. I glanced at them and then up at Jimmy. For the first time there was a genuinely worried frown on his face and glee swept through my body. Glanville maintained a businesslike approach by tapping his fountain pen on the papers.

‘Can you take a look at this photograph?’ I pushed it over the table at Jimmy.

I was trying to keep my breathing flat, but my pulse hammered in my neck. I could hear it in my ears. Glanville moved nearer to Jimmy, staring at the photograph.

‘It’s quite grainy,’ Glanville said. ‘Where was it taken?’

I kept my voice low but firm. ‘I believe this is you in the picture. You’re the man at the end.’

‘Once again, Inspector. Where was this photograph taken?’

I ignored Glanville, and stared straight at Jimmy. I could see the recognition on his face. Now he knew I had evidence. Evidence enough to charge. Fear perspired from every pore on his face.

‘Jimmy, can you tell me if this is you?’

Glanville leant over, and whispered something in his ear.

‘No comment.’

‘This photograph was taken by a camera in Roath Park on the night Robin Oakley was killed. It is a photograph of you and two accomplices.’

Jimmy Walsh folded his arms tightly and closed his eyes. He then opened them and stared at me unblinkingly. His silence was as good as an admission. My pulse slowed but the exhilaration built with the certainty of his guilt and that I had enough evidence to prove it.

*     *     *

The inside of a magistrates’ court must be the same all over the country: a dock where the defendants stand, with stairs leading to the cells downstairs, a raised area where the judge sits and below him or her, a court clerk. Normally the seats reserved for the press would have been empty but that afternoon the press were out in force, every seat taken. I recognised the regular reporters from the television news programmes.

Bernie Walsh sat at the back, her clothes immaculate and the make-up millimetre perfect. The girl sitting by her side must have been her daughter as the resemblance was unmistakable. Next to her was a man in a suit who I guessed was David Shaw from Goldstar Properties.

‘Nobody here to hold Martin Kendall’s hand?’ Lydia whispered.

We sat in seats reserved for police officers. The court usher, a former constable I knew from years ago, sat at the end of our row.

‘He doesn’t have any family.’

Glanville Tront swept into the courtroom wearing a sombre red pinstripe suit, a cutaway collar shirt and a tie knotted flamboyantly. He ignored me, but then I hadn’t exactly expected him to shake me by the hand. He exchanged pleasantries with Desmond Joplin who looked rather shabby alongside him. Who says crime doesn’t pay?

I had attended court many times in the past but that afternoon lifted my spirits. My elation at the prospect of Walsh being remanded in custody was tempered by the knowledge we had no evidence to link Walsh to the murder of Bevard. It must have been the same frustration Detective Chief Inspector Webster felt when he knew Walsh had killed Oakley but had no evidence. If only his team had been more competent … and as I held that thought, Dave Hobbs walked in and sat next to Lydia. He nodded, I nodded back.

Walsh appeared in the dock flanked by two security guards. Glanville scurried over. There were angry pouts, jabbing fingers and Glanville’s palm being waved, calming Walsh’s temper.

We stood up as the district judge entered. He surveyed the packed courtroom, a brief smile passing his lips. Desmond was the first to his feet once the court clerk had read out the various formalities. Despite everything, I felt nervous. Once we had decided to prosecute there was no going back, we had to trust the system. Desmond laboured his objection to bail, reminding the judge that murder was the most serious offence. Then it was Glanville’s turn. He performed at his most theatrical best, challenging the logic of the prosecution’s case, emphasising Jimmy had strong family ties, was a successful businessman and pointed out that the case was based on a grainy, indistinct and unconvincing photograph. Even I felt queasy once he’d finished.

As the district judge announced his decision to deny bail I wanted to slump back in my seat, to shout with delight, dance on the spot. Walsh disappeared back into the safe environment of the cells at the court building.

Lydia looked pleased; it was another step towards making certain Walsh and Kendall were behind bars. Hobbs leant forward, attracting my attention. ‘Good result. Keep me posted with the forensics results from Kendall’s property.’ Then he left. I followed Lydia out of the court building and we headed towards Queen Street. Our success called for a celebration and years ago it would have meant hours touring the pubs favoured by the detectives of Southern Division where the publicans turned a blind eye to our indiscretions.

‘Call Wyn and Jane and tell them to meet us at Lefties.’

Lydia smiled, one of those warm contented curl of her lips, as she found her mobile and relayed a message to the Incident Room. Alex Leftrowski had left Russia for a better life in the West and when I first knew him, he regularly reminded me how lucky he was to live in Cardiff. It had usually been when I was staring at the bottom of an empty glass of beer, my eyes floating in various directions and my brain unconnected. Since those early days the bar had broadened its appeal, away from the hardened drinkers to fashionable sofas and an expensive Italian coffee machine.

‘John Marco,’ Alex said as though it had been yesterday when we last met. ‘It good to see you after much time.’

‘How are the boys, Alex?’ Both his sons were his pride and joy, his reason for working twelve-hour days.

‘They are growing big. Too big. You look happy. Do you want to celebrate? No champagne for you.’ I accepted the good-natured reproach with a smile. I ordered for Lydia and me, telling Alex to expect two more. Wyn and Jane must have run over from Queen Street in their eagerness because they arrived in time for me to order on their behalf. When I returned to the sofa Lydia had started giving Wyn and Jane a detailed account of what happened in court.

‘Thanks boss,’ Wyn said, reaching for his pint glass. Jane had a tall glass with a white wine spritzer, which she tipped towards me in thanks. Lydia had been particular about the variety of continental lager she enjoyed and I left the half-empty bottle on the tray as reassurance. My bottled water looked lonely by comparison.

‘Well done everyone,’ I said.

Wyn relaxed after two large mouthfuls of his beer. ‘Forensics are going through Kendall’s property. Hopefully there will be evidence we can use. He had every video box set imaginable,
Breaking Bad
,
The Sopranos
and all the
Godfather
films.’