Somebody Told Me (6 page)

‘Nobody seems to like him.’

I shrugged. ‘He makes you think that he doesn’t trust you. And he is very ambitious.’

‘I don’t think Alvine likes him very much either.’

We sat at opposite ends of the sofa and Tracy curled her legs up taking a mouthful from her glass. My shoulders ached and tomorrow, instead of a leisurely Saturday morning, I would be back at Queen Street aiming to make progress. I heard about Tracy’s week; there was a tinge of regret in her voice that she hadn’t been on Alvine’s team on the morning Bevard’s body had been found. A burglary in a house near Bridgend meant she had spent two days dusting and gathering evidence.

‘The place was disgusting. It stank to high heaven. I had to stand in the shower for half an hour when I got home.’

After an hour, we decided to get a Chinese so we ambled down into the Bay. It was bustling; couples hand-in-hand jostled with families choosing a restaurant and older couples out for an evening stroll. We managed more small talk but Tracy’s mind was far away.

‘Are you going to come with me to see my parents tomorrow night?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m going to go down to Bournemouth in the morning. Dad isn’t well.’

We found a restaurant and spent a couple of hours eating and talking about nothing of importance. After paying, I took her hand as we walked back to my flat but she was uncharacteristically silent. She stopped by the entrance to my apartment block.

‘Are you …?’

‘Not tonight John. I’m exhausted and I want to get an early start. I’ll call you over the weekend.’

She grazed my lips again and, head bowed, walked over to her car.

She gave me an insipid wave as she drove out of the car park. I returned to my flat, apprehensive that I might not sleep. Not wanting Tracy to dominate my thoughts, I watched some mindless television until a yawn gripped my jaw. Then I went to bed and tossed and turned until I woke the following morning.

The morning traffic had thinned by the time we left Queen Street but we still got snarled up along Dumfries Place heading for the turning north towards Whitchurch. The city’s civic centre on our right, including the Crown court building and the national gallery, had a classical feel from the Edwardian era. Lydia powered the car out along Northern Avenue, which would eventually lead to the A470 north up towards Merthyr Tydfil and North Wales. Whitchurch was one of those suburbs that was trying to be posher than it was and it wasn’t helped by the likes of Owen Norcross living in a semi-detached property just off the main street.

We parked right opposite his house and I noticed activity in the first floor bedroom as a woman moved back and forth. Cracked slabs covered the paved area outside that had once been a garden.

Norcross had a list of previous convictions that made him the possible muscle to Walsh’s brains. He had worked for Jimmy Walsh for several years, an employment record interrupted only by a stretch inside Newport jail for an aggravated assault. The intelligence reports on Norcross all focused on his connections to the Walsh property business.

Lydia scanned Norcross’s record of convictions. ‘His history of violence certainly makes him a person of interest.’

‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’ We left the car and headed over to the house.

The door opened and Norcross stood in the doorway wearing a pair of shorts and a thin short-sleeved summer shirt. I thrust my warrant card towards him and he gave it a grudging acknowledgement before looking over my shoulder, surveying the street. ‘You’d better come in.’

Two suitcases on wheels stood in the hallway with another pair of airline cabin-sized bags.

‘Are you going on holiday?’ I said as we reached the kitchen.

Norcross stood and checked his watch. ‘What’s this about?’

‘We’re investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’ The prospect that our only suspect was leaving the country left only one option. ‘And we need you to answer some questions at the police station.’

‘You cannot be serious.’

‘Find a coat.’

Twenty minutes later Owen Norcross had been booked into the custody suite by a sergeant who knew him well and even asked after his kids. We settled Norcross into one of the interview rooms with a plastic cup filled with rancid-looking coffee. We let him stew as we reviewed our hastily assembled list of questions.

A thin skin of some unidentifiable substance had formed on the top of the coffee that Norcross had ignored. His holiday apparel made him look completely out of place although being interviewed was something he was accustomed to. I sat down and looked over at him. I dropped onto the desk a buff folder with the forensics report and the record of his visits to HMP Grange Hall that Wyn had provided.

‘We are investigating the murder of Felix Bevard. Did you know him?’ I said.

‘Can’t say I did.’ Norcross folded his arms.

‘Bevard ran the Lemon Grove public house and he had a minicab business.’

Norcross stared at me blankly.

‘He was killed in the café in Roath Park last Wednesday night.’

‘What has that got to do with me?’

Lydia spoke up. ‘We have reason to believe Jimmy Walsh was involved with Bevard.’

Norcross looked down at Lydia through hooded eyes already into a I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-anything mode. ‘Sorry, love. Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Flint.’

Norcross managed a sly grin. Lydia narrowed her eyes and let out a snort. ‘Where were you last Wednesday evening?’

‘In the cinema.’ Norcross didn’t flinch or hesitate.

‘Really.’ He was getting under Lydia’s skin so I decided to intervene.

‘And Wednesday afternoon? I want an account of your movements that day.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘I can’t remember. I’d need to check my diary.’

I paused and read the time. By now the search warrant we had obtained to search Norcross’s house would be in the hands of a sergeant and a team of officers authorised to undertake a search. They had instructions to bag up every item of clothing, remove his holiday luggage and impound his car. I had to hope there’d be gunshot residue on his clothes or some fragment the forensics could use to link him to the café and the murder of Bevard.

‘Look, is this going to take all morning? I’m going on holiday tonight.’

I glanced over at Lydia who raised an eyebrow. The only stay away from home that Norcross was going to enjoy was an extended weekend in Queen Street police station.

‘You know Jimmy Walsh very well,’ I said.

‘Yeah, of course. We go back a long time.’

‘And you’ve been to visit him in Grange Hall.’

‘So what if I have?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The economy, whether Wales will be independent and who’ll be the next archbishop.’

He managed a grin.

I could think of all sorts of smart answers but I kept them to myself.

‘Jimmy Walsh and Bevard go back a long time too.’

Norcross shrugged.

‘Did Walsh ever talk about Bevard?’

‘No, why would he?’

‘Did Walsh talk about his plans for his release?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘No celebration party?’

Norcross shook his head.

‘Do you know the café at Roath Park?’

Now I saw a faint shadow cross his eyes. The spectre of a worry.

‘Place near the lake. Passed it a few times.’

‘When were you in there last?’

‘Can’t remember.’

An evasive and vague answer wasn’t going to work.

‘Try. It’s important.’ I paused and sat back, staring him straight in the eye. He looked away.

‘Last month? Last week?’

He shrugged again. He was making it an art form.

‘I need you to tell me when you were in the café last.’ This time I sounded serious.

He retreated into silence.

‘We have your fingerprints from the café. It places you there. We have ongoing inquiries to determine how recently the prints were left but last Wednesday night Felix Bevard was killed there. We suspect that Jimmy Walsh was behind the killing, and that, Owen, makes you a prime suspect. So can you account for your movements on Wednesday evening into early Thursday morning?’

Norcross thrust out his chin, blinking at the same time. I could see the realisation dawning that two weeks in the sun was a faint hope. We finished the interview and stood by the custody sergeant’s desk as he authorised Norcross’s detention.

He probably hoped that once we’d checked his alibi he could be flying off to the sun.

‘One final thing,’ I said. ‘We’ll need you to surrender your passport.’

*     *     *

I was eating lunch when Inspector Ackroyd arrived in my office and handed me his dedicated source unit file. He hesitated before leaving.

‘Are you making progress?’

I thought of Norcross sitting in the cells and the possessions removed from his home that morning.

‘Early days, Malcolm. You know how it is.’

‘Of course … You … I hope … I mean all of my team are clean, John.’

‘I understand.’

First rule of policing – defend your team until hell freezes.

‘No, I really mean it. I’d trust them with my life.’

Walsh got the information from somewhere.

‘Leave it with me.’

He gave me a weak smile and left. I dumped the file on a corner of my desk and finished my sandwich. By early afternoon I had an email from the search team supervisor who had emptied Norcross’s house. Then I called Alvine Dix.

‘There’s no way I can get a team together to look at the evidence until Monday,’ she said.

‘And there’s a vehicle that needs to be examined.’

‘You can’t possibly expect me—’

‘I’ve got a suspect in custody.’

‘Then release him.’

She slammed the telephone down. She was right. The initial twenty-four hours we could keep Norcross in the police cells would be up in the morning. In time for him to be released for Sunday lunch. And hopefully enough time for us to interview his girlfriend.

I called her mobile but the number rang out.

From the Incident Room I heard chairs being moved and chatter from Wyn and Jane. Lydia had arrived back after lunch as I walked through from my office. I had turned down her offer to join her at one of her favourite vegetarian restaurants in the city, preferring a bacon sandwich from the local delicatessen. I looked over at Wyn and Jane. ‘So how did you get on today?’

Wyn was the first to answer. ‘We’ve checked out all the various pubs and clubs Kendall alleges he was visiting on the night Bevard was killed. It surprised me the publicans and their staff recognised him. He only sticks in their minds because he made a point of paying with £50 notes.’

‘Clever bastard.’ I spat out the words realising it was another part of Jimmy Walsh’s plan. The photograph of Felix Bevard stared down at me from the board. Underneath were the images of Jimmy Walsh, Martin Kendall, Bernie Walsh and Owen Norcross, a rogues’ gallery, and our only realistic suspects.

‘I’ve checked out some of the venues Bernie Walsh visited and the results are the same,’ Jane added.

I stared at the image of Norcross praying there would be forensics we could use.

‘Let’s focus on Norcross. We need to talk to his girlfriend. Wyn and Jane, go and talk to his neighbours, the postman, the local supermarket. Examine his computer. And his mobile. I want to know everything about him.’

‘Still doesn’t help us establish how Walsh found out about the supergrass deal,’ Lydia said.

I rubbed both hands over my face. It would be another long day and I could tell now that the inquiry meant another ten-hour shift tomorrow. I even contemplated postponing my visit to my parents’ tomorrow evening but decided against it, knowing how disappointed my mother would be.

‘Lydia. Let’s go and talk to Norcross’s girlfriend.’

Lydia punched in the postcode for an address in Grangetown into the satnav as I started the engine and pointed my Mondeo into the early afternoon traffic. We headed down through the Bay area passing the Millennium Centre on our left and the modern slate-clad Assembly building behind it. If Cardiff City football club had been playing at home the traffic around the stadium would have cast its tentacles through the narrow streets so we were lucky that the team were away playing one of the Sheffield sides. Streets of terraces fanned out ahead of us and I followed the instructions until I spotted the number of the property screwed to a fading plastic door.

I parked and scanned the various houses. It was the part of Cardiff trying its best to gentrify but then a door opened in front of us and a wave of rap music flooded out. Lydia followed me as we crossed the street and I hammered on the door. I heard footsteps after a radio had been silenced.

A woman, late thirties, give or take a few years, opened the door. She stared at our warrant cards that we pushed in her direction. ‘We’re looking for Olga Crumlin.’

‘Sorry, she’s not here.’

‘Where can we get hold of her?’

‘She’s working. I can give you a mobile telephone number. What’s this about?’

‘We need to know where she works.’

Lydia jotted down in her pocketbook the details of the furniture warehouse where Olga Crumlin worked. We headed back to the car and it took me fifteen minutes to navigate from the house in Grangetown to the retail park near Cardiff City Stadium. Enough time for Olga to be called by her housemate and warned to expect us.

Laid out in front of me in the anonymous-looking warehouse were rows of three-piece suites. In a far corner were piles of various-sized rugs. Lydia pointed towards a glass-fronted office. As we approached I could see two women talking animatedly, glancing out over the shop floor. I pushed open the door. Two pairs of eyes turned to look at me. I tried to guess which one was Owen Norcross’s girlfriend. It wasn’t difficult: the older of the two women was touching sixty, the other had high heels and lavish make-up.

‘I’m looking for Olga Crumlin.’

I guessed right; the older woman excused herself, giving Olga a conspiratorial glance as she left. We had our warrant cards at the ready but she paid them little attention.