Somebody Told Me (4 page)

Felix Bevard’s office was on the first floor so we followed Gloria up the narrow staircase.

She sat down on a cream leather executive chair and sighed. ‘He loved this chair. It cost him a fortune. I told him he was mad to spend so much money.’

She gazed over all the paperwork on the desk. And then she scanned the room as though it seemed unfamiliar.

‘We’ll need a list of all his employees,’ I said.

‘He kept all his paperwork neat and tidy.’ She tipped her head towards two grey filing cabinets.

‘Did he have anyone who helped him?’ Lydia said.

Gloria frowned. ‘What, like a secretary you mean?’ She answered her own question. ‘The accountants came in once a month and did all the paperwork, the payroll, kept everything legit.’

I wanted to guffaw but she continued. ‘There’s a woman who runs the minicab business. She does the rosters for the lads. She makes sure all the cars are serviced. We’ve had complaints made to trading standards in the past so we always keep all the cars bang up-to-date.’

I scanned the framed photographs on the walls that contained images of various footballers. Lydia turned to Gloria. ‘How many people are employed here?’

I looked over at Gloria who shrugged. ‘A dozen maybe. You need to talk to Harry.’

‘Harry?’ I said.

‘He’s the manager here.’

‘So there
is
someone who helped Felix with running the place.’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Was he on good terms with Harry? Anybody been fired recently?’

‘What do you mean? I told you, it was that scumbag Jimmy Walsh who killed my Felix. I’d swear on a stack of bibles that there was nobody else involved. He didn’t have any other enemies.’

‘Has there been anybody making any threats against Felix?’ Lydia said.

Gloria shook her head. I stood up and walked around the office. I tugged open the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets and found three half-empty bottles of Scotch, varying in age and quality – so much for Felix Bevard’s paperwork. Above the cabinets were photographs of Felix smiling with a group of men of a similar age in football gear and trainers at one of the artificial football pitches in the city. Underneath the images was a reference to a seven-a-side football competition. I could hear Lydia probing with some more questions, getting equally bland and noncommittal replies.

‘Was he a keen football player?’ I said.

‘He played a couple of times a week during the season. Waste of time if you ask me. It was an excuse to keep fit but then he’d go to the pub afterwards.’

‘We’ll need details of the men in the football club.’

‘It was Jack Ledley that organised the club. Felix knew him from way back. But you’re wasting your time there.’

Gloria organised coffee and some fancy chocolate biscuits. We jotted down the contact details for every present member of staff, as well as those who had left recently, together with the mobile telephone number for Jack Ledley. We scoured through the filing cabinets but reading back issues of various magazines for licensees and health and safety policies wasn’t going to get us any nearer Felix Bevard’s killer.

Harry arrived but before he settled down to his shift he spent an hour answering our questions, occasionally glancing for reassurance from Gloria. He was a thin, surly man in his forties who had little interest in cooperating with us. It was late afternoon by the time Lydia and I left. We retraced our steps to the car park which was now filling with customers.

‘She’s convinced that Jimmy Walsh was behind Bevard’s murder,’ Lydia said.

‘I don’t trust anyone who says that she has to swear on a stack of bibles.’

‘Lots of people say that. It’s a turn of phrase.’

I didn’t reply. Lydia hadn’t convinced me. Felix Bevard had been a crook and maybe I was unfair to distrust Gloria. But years of seeing families of innocent men grieving gave me an unsettling feeling about the Bevard family.

*     *     *

Sitting in Superintendent Cornock’s room looking at Dave Hobbs was a disconcerting experience. The benefits of my three-week holiday in Lucca – walking in the sunshine, enjoying being with my son – seeped away as I sat there, as though like an invisible leach Dave Hobbs could suck the benefit from my body. Listening to him droning on set my nerves on edge. He said something but I didn’t hear him.

‘Bring me up to date,’ he repeated, more loudly this time.

Mentally I refocused; even the chair felt more uncomfortable now than when it was Superintendent Cornock’s office. I concentrated on his face as if it might help me. He had small piggy eyes and oversized cheeks that made him look chubby even though the rest of his body was averaged-sized. It was his accent I hated the most. Especially, the way he rolled his ‘r’s and warmed every vowel. There were newsreaders on the television and weather forecasters all with the same north Walian accent. And underneath it all he had that remarkable ability to make mediocrity a virtue. I had never been able to talk the talk as Dave could. I wondered if there was a Mrs Hobbs. She probably taught Geography or Home Economics in one of the Welsh language schools in the city and they went for pleasant Sunday afternoon walks in Roath Park.

‘We’re building a picture of Jimmy Walsh at the moment. All his known associates, family and friends. He had a motive to kill Bevard so we believe he was behind the murder.’

‘I hope you will be using the HOLMES system.’ He gave me a sly smile as he referenced the Home Office system for conducting a murder inquiry.

‘Of course. Lydia and I are well acquainted with it.’

‘I’m so glad to hear that. If you have any problems then all you have to do is ask. I’ve had the benefit of extensive training on the system.’

Extensive training.

Hobbs sat quite upright to the desk, placed his hands on the paperwork in front of him. A supercilious menace permeated every pore of his being. There was even a supercilious smell hanging in the air.

‘Dave, I was wondering if you could give me some background on the Oakley murder? I understand that you were the sergeant on that case.’

I was certain that a grain of worry crossed his eyes. He fidgeted with his hands and he let his eyes drift off towards Cornock’s fish tank in one corner of the room.

‘It was a terrible case. My first major murder inquiry. I didn’t always agree with the SIO. Things that could have been handled rather differently. But … You know how it is.’ He fluttered a hand in the air. ‘Mr and Mrs Oakley owned a property in Bridgend. The Walsh family owned several adjacent properties. The Oakleys’ premises prevented Jimmy Walsh from maximising his investments. He tried to persuade Mr and Mrs Oakley to move and he made them a generous offer, allegedly. When they refused he ran out of patience and decided that more
direct action
was needed.’

He paused. I waited for him to continue.

‘The only suspect we had was Walsh. But he had a cast iron alibi. He was at a family party with lots of eyewitnesses. We suspected that Bevard was involved. At the time he and Walsh were very close.’

‘Did you know that Bevard was on the verge of signing a supergrass deal?’ The surprised look on his face gave me the answer. ‘Apparently he would provide enough evidence to convict Walsh of the Oakley murder.’

‘Interesting. And I suppose all of that goes down the drain now?’

I gave my face a serious expression as I nodded.

Hobbs continued. ‘Well, if you need any assistance please ask.’ He scanned the papers on his desk, Cornock’s desk, with glee.

‘Thanks for the insight, Dave.’ I stood up and made for the door.

‘One more thing, John. If we are in the company of other officers I would much prefer it if you respected my rank and used ‘sir’ to address me.’

I gazed over at him. His eyes had been set into a haughty self-righteous, smug look that annoyed me intensely. It was only the remnants of my post-holiday exuberance that stopped me from telling him in explicit terms what I really felt.

I walked back to the Incident Room, very slowly. I had to call Dave Hobbs ‘sir’. I didn’t want to think about it. I had a comfortable established routine with Superintendent Cornock who knew how I worked. From other cases where Hobbs and I had worked together I knew he resented me. The feeling was mutual of course.

The memory of my holiday was receding into a deep and distant corner of my mind and now after only a few days back in Cardiff I felt stale and dull.

I arrived back in the Incident Room and glancing at the board I noticed new faces pinned to it: a man, mid-forties and a woman heavily made up about the same age although it was difficult to be certain.

Lydia walked over to the board. ‘It’s Martin Kendall. He’s Jimmy Walsh’s right-hand man. He’s visited Walsh regularly in Grange Hall. And he was implicated in Oakley’s murder with Walsh and Bevard.’

I joined her and stared at Kendall. His nose was bent as though it had argued with a Japanese wrestler. ‘Do we have an address?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘And the woman?’

‘Mrs Walsh. Bernie, short for Bernadette. She’s quite the player. Always been the one to support Jimmy in his life of crime. She protects the family and her lifestyle. And she’s another regular visitor to Grange Hall.’

‘I need a full analysis of when Kendall and Bernie met Walsh. Go back through the prison records and find out how often they’ve been to see him and then contact the governors of all the prisons he was in before he got transferred to Grange Hall.’ I turned to face the team. Jane sipped on her coffee. Wyn lifted his head and stared at me intently. ‘I want to know who he shared a cell with, who was on the same prison wing as him. And then cross-reference everyone and anyone with a criminal record for violence. Ignore the fraudsters and drug dealers; we’re looking for someone capable of murder.’ I looked at Lydia. ‘Anything from the recordings of the telephone calls Walsh made in prison?’

‘Nothing yet. We’ve only just started. It’s all mundane stuff. They talk about his family and hers. Who had fallen out with who. Who is cheating on their spouses and then they talk about what they will be doing once he’s out. One of the calls is quite explicit. It all sounded staged.’

‘I want a transcript of all their telephone calls. There might be some aside or comment to suggest they were planning something.’

Lydia nodded.

‘Don’t these prisoners have weekend releases before they reach the end of their sentence?’ Wyn said.

‘Check that too. If he was released, we need to know the times and his address. Everything. If he went out for a meal I want to know which restaurant and if he went to the pub I need to know which one. I want every single detail on Jimmy Walsh.’

Wyn and Jane had been uncharacteristically quiet, both listening.

‘And then,’ I continued, ‘we take his life apart until we find something.’

I turned to Lydia. ‘We’ll pay Kendall and Bernie a visit in the morning.’

Lydia and I left the rest of the team huddled over their monitors the following morning and headed down to the car park. Her Ford was neat and clean and I stared at the litter-free foot well in surprise. She paid me no attention as she rummaged through the storage compartment in the driver’s side door until she found a CD of Pavarotti’s greatest tracks. After choosing a disc she pushed it gently into the player. Then she pressed the forward button until she found track fourteen.

‘This is my favourite track “O soave fanciulla”. Excuse the pronunciation.’

‘
La Bohème
.’

Lydia turned and gave me a surprised look. I shrugged. ‘It’s an Italian opera.’

She started the car as Pavarotti’s voice filled the cabin.

The music took me back to my childhood of listening to my Nonno on a Sunday afternoon humming along to the opera in his sitting room, insisting I sit with him. If I became restless Nonna scolded him but he would tell her how important it was for me to get a grounding in Italian music.

Lydia interrupted me as I hummed along. ‘I thought you weren’t a fan of opera.’

‘I know all the important arias. Every Italian does, even one from Aberdare.’

Lydia rolled her eyes.

‘How long have you enjoyed Italian opera?’

‘I had a boyfriend when I was at university. He studied music and he’d memorised all the words for most of the famous arias. I got to like the same music.’

Sunshine caught against the surface of Lydia’s purple fingernails; her hands complemented her slim figure. Almost a year had passed since she’d been assigned to work with me.

‘Are you still together?’ I made it sound innocent enough. Lydia wasn’t my type, too serious, and there were protocols about officers having relationships with each other.

‘No, it was one of those university romances that didn’t last.’

Not having been to university I couldn’t really comment.

She parked about two hundred metres from the restaurant and takeaway owned by Mrs Walsh. In fact most of the businesses owned by Jimmy Walsh were in his wife’s name. And that made her a person of special interest. A few metal tables and chairs were set out on the pavement either side of the door like a scene from
The Sopranos
. I could imagine broad-shouldered Italian-looking thugs puffing on large cigars sitting around a table in a back room playing cards.

But this was Grangetown, in Cardiff, and the restaurant sold fish and chips.

There had been a collective sigh of relief audible throughout the police stations of Cardiff when Jimmy Walsh had been stopped in his Range Rover Sport in possession of enough class B drugs to make contesting a possession with intent to supply charge impossible. Relief had turned to despair when the expected five years in prison became three. Walsh had deep enough pockets to afford the best lawyers that money could buy.

I left the car and walked over the road. Lydia was ahead of me; the discreet heels on her shoes and her well-pressed denims made the most of her legs that morning. I got distracted and a cyclist swore at me as he narrowly missed a collision.

A smell of disinfectant and cleaning fluid and then stale chip-fat made an odd combination as we entered the café. A radio competed unsuccessfully with the sound of vacuuming from the rear so we wandered through and found a woman pushing a machine through the legs of plastic-topped tables. When she saw us she turned the machine off.