Somebody Told Me (7 page)

‘What do you want?’

‘Do you know Owen Norcross?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She seemed to relax as though being questioned about Owen Norcross might be second nature.

‘We want to establish his movements for Wednesday night.’

She paused, staring at me and then at Lydia. I wondered what was going through her mind.

‘What’s this all about? What’s he done?’

There was a clear implication that she expected him to have done something. Obviously, she knew all about his background.

‘Can you tell me what you were doing on Wednesday night?’

She frowned. ‘We went to the cinema. We saw that film with Leonardo DiCaprio where he gets attacked by the bear.’

‘Where did you watch the film?’

Lydia already had a pocketbook in hand and jotted down the details as Olga dictated the location of the cinema and the timing of the showing they’d watched.

‘What time did the film finish?’ I said.

‘I can’t remember exactly. Is it important?’

Nice try, Olga.

‘Where did you go afterwards?’

She narrowed her eyes, obviously calculating what answer would best serve Norcross.

‘It was late; I didn’t keep track of the time.’

‘Do your best.’

She paused again. She had probably been texting Norcross frantically since her housemate had warned her to expect us. I anticipated with interest the possibility that she had texted Norcross knowing such texts might make interesting reading when I got back to Queen Street. Now I decided I had to raise the stakes for Olga Crumlin.

‘We are investigating Owen Norcross as part of a murder enquiry.’ I watched her struggle to keep her eye contact with me as colour slowly drained from her face. It served as a warning to her that trying to be clever wasn’t going to work. ‘So where did you go after the film finished?’

She swallowed hard. ‘We went for a Chinese.’

‘Where?’

She named a restaurant in the Bay.

‘When did you leave?’

She shrugged noncommittally.

‘It’s important, Olga.’

‘I was back home by half twelve. I didn’t keep track of the time.’

‘Perhaps your housemate will remember?’

More colour drained from Olga’s face and she slumped into the nearest office chair. She had returned to the house she shared before one o’clock which meant that Norcross had the rest of the night to rendezvous with Bevard. But I knew that
Acting
Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs wouldn’t support the continued detention of Norcross unless we had more evidence. We had his passport; he wasn’t going anywhere.

‘We may need to see you again in due course,’ I said to Olga as we left.

She gave us a brief frightened nod.

‘Do you think she’s telling us the truth, boss?’ Lydia said as we approached the car.

Knowing Kendall and Bernie Walsh had taken time to build careful alibis it seemed odd that if Norcross was involved he had been careless with his. ‘Let’s check out the CCTV coverage from the cinema, ask the staff.’

I jumped into the car; we had hours’ more work ahead of us.

I had left Queen Street just before ten o’clock the previous evening, returning to my apartment in good time to see
Match of the Day
, which was showing the highlights of the Spurs against Swansea game. I woke at two o’clock in the morning when the television was playing a black-and-white film, my orange juice and a sandwich still on the coffee table.

Immediately I started thinking about Owen Norcross. Wyn and Jane had returned to the Incident Room last evening an hour or so after Lydia and myself reporting that Norcross’s neighbours thought he was a chartered surveyor. Even the local shopkeeper thought he was a professional. Given the impending review of Norcross’s detention required by the rules I had nothing to suggest he was other than tucked up in bed the Wednesday evening Bevard was killed.

The manager of the cinema complex had promised to send us the CCTV images and details of the members of staff who had worked the previous Wednesday evening. It all meant more delays and even if Norcross and Olga had been to the cinema it still gave him the rest of the night to have murdered Felix Bevard.

After getting a few more hours’ sleep, the alarm woke me at eight and after a hasty shower I dressed. I chose a white shirt, a tie with blue-and-red stripe, a pair of moleskin trousers and a jacket that had recently been dry cleaned. I even gave my brown brogues a cursory polish before leaving the apartment.

Queen Street was quiet, the revellers from the night before sleeping off hangovers.

In my office I read the final report from the search team. Every piece of clothing that Norcross possessed was now in the forensics department waiting to be processed. It would all take time. A commodity we didn’t have. I glanced at my watch repeatedly, counting down the time until my meeting with Dave Hobbs.

Olga’s flatmate had said that she was watching television when Olga returned between midnight and one o’clock on the night Bevard was murdered. It wasn’t going to be enough to justify the continued detention of Owen Norcross.

At the allotted time I trooped through to see Hobbs. I knocked on his door, but I didn’t wait for a response before barging in. He furrowed his brow in a brief angry rebuke before nodding to one of the chairs.

‘Bring me up to date.’

He elevated the chair, just enough to make him look down at me with a superior officer’s glare.

‘Owen Norcross is our prime suspect. Forensics found his prints in the café where Bevard was killed.’

Hobbs scribbled the occasional note as I gave him a summary of our interviews with Olga and her flatmate. And I handed him a printout of Norcross’s convictions and explained that he was a close associate of Jimmy Walsh who had visited him regularly in prison.

Hobbs chewed his lower lip. ‘It’s not enough, John.’

‘He cannot account for his movements in the middle of the night.’ I waited. ‘And he couldn’t explain how his prints were found in the café.’

‘As your senior officer I have considered all the available factors in determining whether we can authorise Norcross’s continued detention.’

Acting
senior officer I felt like correcting him.

‘Do we have his passport?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I cannot authorise his detention any longer. We’ll have to release him on bail.’

I left the meeting knowing that Hobbs was right but thinking of any reason to disagree with him. I returned to the Incident Room, which was quiet. I sat down heavily by one of the desks and looked up at the faces on the board. Hobbs was right of course. If Norcross had killed Bevard then leaving the fingerprints was clumsy, especially when Bernie Walsh and Martin Kendall had gone to so much trouble to give themselves watertight alibis.

I read the time again and then I walked down to the custody suite.

Once Norcross had been brought out of his cell I went through all the formalities. None of it was new to him and he gave me a sullen stare when I explained that he had to return to the police station in twenty-eight days and that he shouldn’t leave the country.

‘And how the fuck could I do that without a passport?’

I smiled at him but said nothing. I watched as he left the police station and I wondered when I would see him back again.

In Mario’s I dragged a spoon though an Americano while staring out of the window gathering my thoughts. A breakthrough from forensics looked like the best chance we had to get Norcross back to Queen Street. I watched a mother dragging a screaming youngster past the café. My mind wandered. Bevard must have faced a tough choice – give up everything he and his family valued for a new life. Even if in that new life he might never be truly safe. He would always be suspicious of every stranger, guarded in his conversations and distrustful of any inquisitive remark.

And I still had to determine how Walsh had discovered that Bevard was going to sign a supergrass agreement in the first place. There had been a leak and it meant someone had a link to Walsh.

I paid and left Mario’s, winding my way back to Queen Street. We still had to complete the picture of Bevard’s life, so back in my office I found the contacts that Gloria Bevard had given us. The first thing I found was Jack Ledley’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Years of ticking boxes and following protocols made me request a PNC search on him. I spent an hour on the papers from Bevard’s pub before turning my attention to the files from Ackroyd’s dedicated source unit. I worked my way through the papers, focusing on the names of the team members. There were financial reports on the six people involved: three police officers, including Ackroyd, and three lawyers, all of varying seniority in the Crown Prosecution Service. I frowned. Ackroyd could never have signed off on that sort of deal without senior management input. I picked up the telephone and called his mobile.

I got straight to the point. ‘Who signed off on the supergrass deal?’

‘For Christ’s sake, John. It’s Sunday.’

‘And I’ve just spent all weekend with a possible suspect. I need the complete picture, Malcolm. You promised cooperation, remember?’

I sensed the reluctance down the telephone. ‘It was the chief super in central command.’

‘And why wasn’t his name in the file?’

‘Don’t get tetchy, John. You know how it is.’

‘Did it go any higher? Was one of the assistant chief constables involved?’

My throat tightened as I realised that this could go all the way to the chief constables’ office.

‘I don’t know, John. I guess that will be something you’ll have to find out.’

Then he rang off. So there were seven names at least. Maybe even more. Enough to make the case full of holes.

It took me the rest of the day to read the reports of meetings, memoranda from lawyers who complained about the inadequate time given to evaluate the case. And then there was detailed analysis of the available evidence. Two witnesses had confirmed that Walsh was in a restaurant for a big family celebration on the evening Mr Oakley was killed. I had to get full financial searches and background checks on everyone involved in the supergrass deal. Normal protocols meant that I should have gone to
Acting
Detective
Chief
Inspector Hobbs for the authority I needed.

I imagined his artificial sneer, as he’d be asking for all the relevant and pertinent information for him to make an informed decision. Hobbs was expert at using ten words when three would do. I would keep him as far away from the case as I possibly could, so I picked up the telephone.

*     *     *

‘Are you serious?’ Cornock gave me a sullen look.

His face still looked the colour of a dirty pavement slab and his cheeks had hollowed out a fraction too. The enforced sabbatical wasn’t doing him much good. I nodded back with a suitable degree of severity.

Cornock nursed a latte into which he had poured two sachets of sugar. The café was in the middle of a row of shops in Whitchurch equidistant from Queen Street and Cornock’s home in Cyncoed. I couldn’t remember ever having seen Cornock without either a white or powder-blue shirt with a neatly knotted sombre tie. His short-sleeved casual shirt in bold yellows and greens was entirely out of character.

‘You know that you should ask Dave Hobbs for this authorisation.’

I rolled my shoulders, then my eyes in a sort of casual way, hoping to win his trust. ‘He was one of the officers on the original enquiry into the death of Mr Oakley. I didn’t want to compromise his integrity.’

Cornock raised his eyebrows. The expected reproach for my lame reply didn’t materialise. ‘From what you tell me Inspector Ackroyd has already completed potential searches into all of these officers and the three lawyers involved. I don’t see what else you can hope to achieve.’

Cornock took another mouthful of his coffee.

‘He might have missed something. After all, the searches are out of date and I need authority to requisition all personnel files, which Ackroyd didn’t have.’

Encouragingly Cornock nodded. ‘Are you getting accustomed to working with Dave Hobbs?’

‘He’s got a different style.’ Searching for the right words strained my vocabulary. ‘It will take me and the team time to become accustomed to his routine.’

He leant over the table a fraction, lowering his voice. ‘You need to work with Dave Hobbs. The temporary promotion might be permanent. And he could be promoted even further. Sometimes you have to work with people you don’t like. That doesn’t make them incompetent police officers.’

I hesitated, uncertain if he expected me to respond. ‘How are you enjoying your sabbatical?’

Cornock sighed.

‘It’s difficult not having the regular routine. I never thought I would say this, John, but I actually miss coming to work.’

It was the nearest Cornock had ever got to discussing his personal affairs with me. He was the first to break eye contact, staring around the place. Noise from the counter behind us interrupted his daydreaming and he glanced at a crowd of young girls, at a guess, the same age as his own daughter, giggling excitedly. He turned his attention back to the various authorities I had prepared for him to sign. With a flourish he added his name to the bottom of each and pushed them over the table towards me.

‘I would ask you to keep me informed. But I … think it would be better if you built your relationship with Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs.’ He gave the full rank an ominous permanence.

Back in Queen Street Lydia was deep in conversation with Jane who had an ordnance survey sheet on her desk. They broke off when they saw me.

‘I’ve just got back, boss,’ Jane said. ‘I spoke to Bevard’s golfing buddies who told me that he left their game early the afternoon he was killed. He was gone for over two hours.’

I frowned. ‘Where did he go?’

‘They had no idea. One of them thought he was seeing a woman but he had no evidence to back this up.’

Wyn cleared his throat. ‘I have found something in Bevard’s bank statement that might help.’

‘Get on with it, Wyn, it’s Sunday afternoon. I don’t want to be here all day.’