Somebody Told Me (9 page)

‘It looks straightforward enough. Bullet wound to the head. Death would have been instantaneous but I’ll let you have the full report after the post mortem.’

‘Thanks, Paddy.’

I stood for a moment watching him drive away as I smoked a cigarette. Counting each one had become almost as much a ritual as the smoking itself. But I had promised my mother it was only a five-a-day habit. I gazed around the housing estate: the development was a mixture of some semis with small garages and then larger detached houses with bigger gardens.

Llantrisant was another dormitory town for Cardiff. In fact most of the valleys that had once housed heavy industry were now residential areas for the larger conurbations. The politicians talked about the Cardiff City region and they dreamt of greater employment but the valleys of South Wales offered scant opportunity for businesses to develop. Everything seemed focused on the big cities now.

And the residents of this road would all have to be interviewed and their details recorded and their records checked. The killer might be amongst them. Most murderers are known to their victim. But everything told me we already knew where to look for the killer.

Lydia stood with me outside ‘This is connected to Jimmy Walsh, isn’t it, sir?’

I nodded. Someone else was doing his dirty work. I blew out a lungful of smoke. ‘Of course. All we have to do is prove it.’ But the prospect felt daunting.

*     *     *

It had been after two o’clock in the morning when I left Queen Street and back in my apartment I slept badly. I could still feel the tiredness in my eyes as I returned to the empty Incident Room after a few hours’ sleep. Lydia arrived and we spent time organising house-to-house interviews near Yelland’s property, checking when the forensics would be finished and calling the mortuary who confirmed the time of the post mortem. Yelland’s mobile telephone and his computer would be available later so our priority would be to establish his movements on the day he was killed. It was the mundane stuff of every inquiry and by mid-morning when I read an email from the PR department asking for a briefing, I realised I needed to get out of Queen Street and do some real policing.

The mortuary was a modern addition to one of the old hospitals in Cardiff. After years of attending post mortems in a cramped old building with ceramic tiles from the Victorian era it had been a welcome change to visit a new and clean environment. The receptionist who doubled as an administrative officer gave me a friendly smile. ‘You know your way, Inspector.’

Paddy McVeigh was already preparing as I could hear classical music from beyond the double doors at the end of the corridor.

‘That’s the 1812 overture.’ Lydia hummed along.

There was a loud crash of cymbals as I pushed open the door. Paddy waved his arms in the air as though he were standing in front of an enormous orchestra. Then he gesticulated over at us as the mortuary assistant wheeled in a blanketed gurney.

‘Just in time.’ Paddy raised his voice enough for us to understand.

Attending a post mortem was a task I never particularly enjoyed. The sight of blood and a human body being pulled apart hadn’t been on the application form when I joined the police force. But as the senior investigating officer it was an inevitable part of every murder case. I glanced over at Lydia; her gaze settled into a frown as her jaw tensed. With the volume dimmed Paddy got to work and we watched a man contented with his lot in life. Finally he gave a satisfied sigh and then looked up at me. ‘A single gunshot wound to the head. It was a small calibre handgun. At a guess it was a 19 mm, may be Walther P99.’

‘Is it the same weapon that killed Felix Bevard?’

Before answering, he set his gaze to Yelland’s forehead. Then he tilted his head slightly. ‘The tests on the bullet will tell you, but I would say it’s a similar handgun. But the nature of the killing is different somehow. This is more clinical. The killing of Felix Bevard was a frenzied, angry attack. The killer pumped six bullets into him.’

‘But could it be the same killer?’

I should have expected one of Paddy’s sharp one-liners to my rhetorical question. Instead, he sounded stoical. ‘I can’t judge, John. It is a similar gun, possibly the same one. However, the nature of the killing suggests a different perpetrator. Or a killer who really hated Bevard.’

Paddy turned up the volume as we left. At the main entrance Lydia glanced towards the mortuary entrance. ‘He must be having a Tchaikovsky day. He’s playing the
Nutcracker
now.’

Outside, a shower freshened the air and we scampered to the car. It hadn’t given me time for a cigarette although I sensed the guilty presence of the pack in my jacket pocket.

‘Do you reckon we are looking for two killers?’ Lydia said once we were in the car.

Paddy’s comments had been troubling me as well. ‘Could be, but if there are, then they are both linked to Walsh.’

I switched on the engine and let the wipers swish back and forth before I added, ‘Hopefully the forensics from Yelland’s house will yield some more clues.’

I started the car and negotiated my way out of the car park. Lydia tapped a postcode into the satnav and we headed to the north of Cardiff to speak to Sharon Yelland again. The earlier shower had turned into something more intense and the rain battered against the windscreen. It was half an hour before I found the village where she lived.

Lydia parked by the terrace of houses but before we left the car she glanced over. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take the lead, boss.’ She hesitated. ‘She might respond better to a woman.’

After working with Boyd Pearce, who had been my sergeant for several years, the advantages of working with Lydia had taken time to bed in. The inspector who trained me would have been horrified to see a woman working alongside him.

Sharon Yelland lived in the middle of a terrace of six properties and she led us into a small kitchen at the rear where we sat by a table as she made coffee. Evidence of the tears she had shed for her late husband had disappeared and a discreet amount of make-up made her look younger than I remembered.

‘This is a lovely property,’ Lydia began. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘It’s only been a year.’ She reached for three mugs from a cupboard.

‘It must have been tough for the children when you separated. How old are they?’

I could see Sharon relaxing in response to Lydia’s interest in her children.

‘The youngest is five and the oldest eleven.’

‘Have they settled into their new schools?’

The electric kettle bubbled and then frothed before switching itself off. Sharon heaped instant coffee into each mug and after establishing our preferences she added milk.

‘The kids have settled fine. My mother’s taken them today. None of them are sleeping well.’

‘It must be terrible for them.’

Sharon put the coffees down on the table and pulled out a chair to join us. I could sense Lydia’s mood changing, engaging a serious cog. ‘Why did you and Brian separate?’

She peered down at the steaming surface of her drink. ‘His drinking was the big problem. And I found out he was shagging some tart from the prison.’

I wanted to interrupt and ask her all the details but I could see the concentration on Lydia’s face.

‘I told him ages ago he needed counselling. I warned him he’d lose his job if he wasn’t careful.’ Sharon held her mug with two hands and took a first mouthful. ‘Governor James wanted to get rid of him.’

Lydia leant over the table towards her. ‘You mentioned he was having a relationship with one of the prison staff. Can you tell me who she was?’

‘Janice, I think. I never knew her full name. One of my friends who’s married to one of the other prison officers saw them together in Cardiff one weekend. I expect you can find out all about her on his Facebook page. He spent huge amounts of time on Facebook. First thing he did when he got up, during every meal, and then last thing at night. I got sick of it. And I got sick of the lies about money. He was forever drinking or gambling or both. I’m better off now living on my own, than I ever was living with Brian.’

Lydia allowed a lull to develop so I cleared my throat. ‘Did he owe money to any particular bookmaker?’

‘There was this betting shop in Llantrisant he used regularly.’

‘Do you remember the name?’ I said, thinking there’d be half a dozen betting shops in the town.

‘The betting shop chains had banned him over two years ago. It was that small independent one.’

I made a mental note to get a search done once I was back in Queen Street. ‘You mentioned he’d been to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.’

She nodded briskly.

‘Do you know where those meetings were? We might be able to talk to those present.’

‘Pontypridd or maybe Llantrisant?’

‘When did he last see the children?’

‘It was last weekend. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t seem himself.’

‘Was he worried about the disciplinary proceedings?’ Lydia said.

‘It wasn’t that. He was elated. He said things were looking up. But I didn’t know what to believe. He could be delusional. Maybe he had a good tip for a race. When we first got married Brian was full of good intentions. He wanted to get a promotion. He even talked of applying for governor grade. He was clever enough, but it would have meant moving around the country and he knew I didn’t want to do that. My family is all from this area and I didn’t want to move.’

‘Did he have any other family – parents or siblings?’

‘He was an only child and both his parents died when he was in his twenties. His only family were the kids really and he doted on them. He was a good father most of the time. He got completely addicted and then he couldn’t help himself. I did love him once, you know.’

She looked surprised when we asked her if he had any enemies. Had he mentioned any prisoner or former prisoner who might have threatened him? Again more head shaking. We left Sharon and headed back for the car.

‘I wonder what caused the sudden change in Yelland’s behaviour?’ Lydia said as she fired the engine into life.

‘We’ll talk to his mates at the prison tomorrow, maybe they can shed light on what was happening.’ Lydia clicked her safety belt into place. It was my turn to choose the soundtrack for our journey and I thought ‘Suspicious Minds’ was entirely appropriate.

*     *     *

Wyn and Jane were sitting at their desks in the Incident Room when we got back, an air of expectation clear in the way they almost jumped up when we entered.

Wyn was the first to speak. ‘We tracked down that cashpoint in Cwmbran, boss. It was outside a shop where Bevard bought food. The owner couldn’t remember the transaction and looked blank at us.’

I sat on one of the desks.

‘They must have hundreds of transactions each day,’ Lydia said.

Jane continued. ‘The owner hadn’t been working that day. So he suggested we visit his other shop. He thought one of his staff might remember something.’

Jane settled comfortably into recounting their movements that morning. ‘He runs two convenience stores in the town. And he thought one of the staff in the second shop might remember the transaction. The man wasn’t working so we had to track him down in his flat.’

‘Grotty place, too, boss,’ Wyn added. ‘Place stank.’

‘But he
was
able to remember Bevard when we showed him his photograph. Not because of what Bevard bought but because he was wearing his golf clothes. And he had an expensive car that attracted a lot of attention.’

‘Okay, anything else?’

Jane glanced at Wyn who took the prompt to speak. ‘Bevard was with another man.’

Now I stood up and straightened.

Jane continued. ‘The man described was quite distinctive: tattoos all over his arms and a narrow ponytail extending down his back.’

I recognised the description and for a moment struggled to make sense of my thoughts. I turned on my heels and headed back to my office. ‘I’ve seen that man.’

I rummaged through the papers we had taken from the Lemon Grove until I found the photograph of Bevard and his football-playing friends. I stared at one face in particular before marching out to the Incident Room and pinning the image to the board.

One of the men had a ponytail and the tattoos were evident on his right arm.

‘Jack Ledley,’ I said. ‘Gloria Bevard identified him as one of Bevard’s friends.’

I looked over at Lydia. ‘Get your coat. Let’s see if Ledley’s at home.’

This time I hammered on Ledley’s front door. But the result was the same. The next door neighbour came out of his front door when he heard me shouting.

‘Jack hasn’t been home since you were here last.’

‘Do you know where he might be? I need to speak to him.’

He stared at me as though I was deranged. ‘Like I said. I don’t know where he could be.’

He stood there for a few seconds before going back inside and firmly closing the door.

I jerked my head up the street. ‘You take one side. I’ll take the other. Somebody must know something about him.’

I could see the scepticism on Lydia’s face but I headed off before she could say anything. I spoke to several people who shook their heads when I mentioned Ledley’s name. After a dozen houses I crossed over and waited while Lydia finished with a portly man who kept her talking on the doorstep.

‘Nothing, boss. It’s as though he’s invisible.’

‘Damn. Let’s go to the sports centre where they played football. They might know something.’

We spoke to a receptionist who knew nothing about the members of the five-a-side football teams and she looked blankly when I mentioned the name of Felix Bevard and Jack Ledley. He was quickly becoming someone that we needed to find.

Someone who had spoken to Bevard on the day he died. Someone with information about Bevard’s last few hours.

I was at my desk early and the message from Jackie reminding me about the arrangements for me to spend Saturday afternoon with Dean surprised me. It was longer than the messages I was accustomed to, and it sounded friendly. I texted her back and afterwards kept an eye on my telephone, half expecting a reply.