Somebody Told Me (2 page)

Lydia continued. ‘They are specially trained officers that will help you.’

I hesitated. ‘I know this is a difficult time but I need to establish where your husband was last night.’

She sipped on her water before speaking. ‘He’s never late … And I know he wasn’t the best of people … But we loved each other. What am I going to do now?’ She put down her glass and reached for fresh tissues to wipe her eyelids.

‘When did you see him last?’

She looked down at her hands. ‘Yesterday. I can’t think … breakfast. I don’t …’

‘Where was he going yesterday?’

She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth. ‘He was going to play golf. He should have been …’

‘When were you expecting him home?’

‘Last night. He should have been here when I got back.’

‘You were out too?’ Lydia asked.

‘I should have been here.’ She scrunched up a handful of tissues. ‘I was out with friends for a birthday party.’

‘Who was your husband playing golf with yesterday? I’ll need their names.’

The doorbell rang. Lydia stood up and left as Gloria found the contact telephone numbers of Bevard’s playing partners, which I jotted down in my pocketbook. A family liaison officer appeared at the sitting room door with Lydia and we made the introductions.

‘Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?’ I asked.

Gloria glanced over at Lydia and then at the family liaison officer before she crumpled her face into an agonising frown. Then she looked up. ‘It must have been that scumbag Walsh.’

Lydia glanced over at me, puzzled.

‘Who do you mean?’ I said.

‘Jimmy Walsh. This has got his name all over it.’

*     *     *

I stood by the hastily erected board in the Incident Room and stared over at the rest of my team. Wyn Nuttall looked thinner than usual: his neck longer than I remembered, his head high above his shoulders. His shirt was a size too large and that made the neatly knotted tie look untidy. He stared over at me intently. Everything seemed exciting for Wyn, more adventurous than policing in his native North Wales no doubt.

A photograph of Bevard taken by the CSIs had been pinned to the board.

‘Who was he, boss?’ Wyn said.

‘Felix Bevard owns a minicab business and a pub, which are perfect ways to launder money. He was killed in a storeroom in the café at Roath Park. He was shot in the head and the chest – several times. Mrs Bevard will make the formal identification later today. Lydia identified Bevard at the scene.’

Lydia cleared her throat. ‘I was a detective constable on a case where we suspected he was involved in a string of burglaries. We couldn’t prove anything and in the last few years he has kept out of trouble.’

Jane Thorne, sitting alongside Lydia, piped up. ‘Any forensics yet on the gun used?’

I shook my head.

Jane had been languishing as a detective constable for too long to have any realistic expectation of promotion. Her last attempt at the sergeant’s exams had been unsuccessful, so she had settled into her role with a seriousness that made her boring. Steely grey streaks in her centre-parted hair reinforced the impression she was the oldest in the room.

I shared a glance between Jane and Wyn. ‘We’ve got the names of two men he was playing golf with yesterday afternoon. And the names of the staff at the café. I need you to contact them and get preliminary statements. And we find out from the widow where she was last night and get the names of her friends etc… You know the drill. We piece together Bevard’s last known movements.’

I reached for a photograph from the desk in front of me. ‘This is a picture of Jimmy Walsh, who the widow named as being responsible for his death.’

‘Who’s Walsh?’ Jane said.

I replaced the image before replying. ‘Mrs Bevard told us that Felix and Walsh had a falling-out over a property in Newport. Before that they were best mates. Walsh was implicated in an unsolved murder of a man called Robin Oakley, who was allegedly killed because he wouldn’t agree to sell a property to one of Jimmy Walsh’s companies.’ Stillness fell on the Incident Room. ‘His body was found in a boat floating on Roath Park lake early one morning. He was a nice bloke apparently, well-known in the community, supported local charities. We couldn’t prove anything. Not a bloody thing.’

Lydia interjected. ‘Walsh’s reputation is for random violence.’

I continued. ‘So I need a full analysis on Bevard’s mobile telephone. And we need to go through all his bank accounts, credit cards. I need to know everything about him.’

‘Do we start on Walsh too, boss?’ Jane said.

Lydia responded. ‘That will prove difficult.’

‘He’s in prison,’ I said.

The call to visit Superintendent Cornock wasn’t a request, but more of a summons. His normally pallid complexion had greyed more than just a shade or two. Now he was looking positively unhealthy. Years of working ridiculous hours had taken their toll and he sat unselfconsciously fingering a packet of painkillers, a glass of water on the desk in front of him. The tropical fish tank in the corner made a gurgling sound.

‘Felix Bevard,’ Cornock announced as though the dead man were the first minister of Wales.

‘His body was found this morning.’

Cornock nodded, ‘I know.’

‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Bevard. She was pretty cut up and she pointed the finger at Jimmy Walsh.’

More nodding. It was unlike Cornock not to respond.

‘But as you know, sir, he’s inside. I haven’t checked his release date but it can’t be long.’

‘Sixteen days.’

The precision of Cornock’s reply rattled me. Realising that he had more to tell me, I stopped. He slowly turned the packet of paracetamol through his fingers. ‘I’ve arranged for you to be briefed by an inspector from one of the dedicated source units.’

I moved forward slightly in my chair.

‘Felix Bevard was about to sign a deal to make him a supergrass. He would give evidence against Jimmy Walsh in exchange for being taken into witness protection.’

‘Bloody hell. Walsh must have got to him first.’

Cornock leant forward over the desk. ‘Walsh is a sociopath that we’ve been trying to lock up permanently for years.’

‘But he’s got the perfect alibi.’

‘It must have been someone with links to Walsh. So you had better be careful.’

I didn’t need to find obstacles; Cornock had thrown them into the investigation like an unexploded grenade. A dedicated source unit handled human intelligence, not something from a sci-fi movie, but in fact a team of officers that specialised in handling informants. And this DSU had the task of handling Bevard. I groaned to myself at the prospect that poking into their little empire would be unwelcome.

But we had a suspect. Jimmy Walsh. He had a motive.

Walsh would have friends and fixers – people who did things for him, solved his problems so he wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty. Or dirty enough for him to be caught.

‘There’s one more thing, John.’ Cornock looked up at me. ‘I’m taking a sabbatical for a few weeks – doctor’s orders.’ His eye contact drifted away. ‘My wife hasn’t been too good recently and perhaps you weren’t aware but my daughter is back home with us now.’

I nodded. Cornock’s daughter’s drug addiction had been the subject of gossip around Queen Street but I hadn’t heard that she was back in Cardiff. I realised that I had no idea how old Cornock was – probably older than I thought. Then I wondered about his replacement – most likely a DCI from one of the other teams. Mentally I ticked off various names.

‘I’m sure you’re interested in who might take over from me.’

I smiled wanly. ‘Of course.’

‘This is your first day back?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you possibly haven’t heard about Dave Hobbs’ promotion.’

My body froze. Rigid to the spot. I couldn’t move. And I definitely couldn’t find anything to say.

‘While you were away DCI Webster died of a heart attack.’

I hadn’t heard and I should have felt sad. I knew Webster, and he had always been a decent officer. And now Dave Hobbs would be his replacement.

‘With you on holiday in Lucca a decision had to be made quickly. I know that you and Inspector Hobbs have had your differences in the past but I hope you can put all of that behind you now?’

Not a chance. Hobbs hates my guts.

Dave Hobbs had never hidden his dislike for my methods or his contempt for my past when the booze had its claws into me, even though I had put my drinking days behind me. And his naked ambition made working with him difficult when I never knew what was going on in his mind.

‘His promotion to Acting Detective Chief Inspector was confirmed this morning.’

I wanted to offer my resignation on the spot but I was too surprised to say anything.

‘You’ll be answering to him during this investigation while I am on sabbatical until the correct command structure can be put in place.’

I left Cornock’s office and dragged myself back to the Incident Room, my head a mass of conflicting emotions. My shoulders wanted to sag. I desperately wanted to be back in Lucca, walking along the city walls with Dean or drinking coffee in one of the small cafés off the main square. Anywhere but Queen Street police station being answerable to
Acting
Detective
Chief
Inspector Hobbs. The image of his small piggy eyes came to mind and then I heard his grating accent, from Caernarfon or one of those places in the mountains of the north that had a castle. I ignored Lydia, who was saying something, and after slamming the door to my office shut, I slumped into my chair.

The telephone rang in the Incident Room beyond my door. And it didn’t seem to stop.

Then it rang in my office and I snatched the handset off the cradle. It was Lydia. ‘I’ve got an Inspector Ackroyd from a DSU wanting to fix a meeting with you. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Tell him … We need to go … Later, tell him later this afternoon.’

I slammed the telephone down.

I drew a hand over my face. Then I stood up and headed for the door. Lydia and the others didn’t look up and nobody asked what was wrong. And what could I tell them? That my senior officer was a north Walian who had scrambled eggs for brains.

I left the station intending to walk around the block, clear my thoughts, restore some equilibrium to my mind but I kept picturing Hobbs sitting in Cornock’s office and each time the stress returned. I marched down Queen Street and into one of the main shopping arcades. The shops didn’t register and eventually I found myself on the Hays where I stopped and ordered a coffee. I sat watching the mid-week shoppers passing me. The words of the resignation letter I had been drafting lost their urgency as my mind turned to the tasks in hand. Hobbs’ promotion was only temporary after all and I was still the senior investigating officer. I had a killer to find so I threw off my frustration and made my way back to Queen Street.

Lydia stood up as I entered the Incident Room and followed me through to my office. ‘Inspector Ackroyd has called again.’

I sat down by my desk.

‘What does he want, boss?’ She said it slowly as though she was measuring every syllable.

It took me five minutes to summarise the position.

‘So we’ll have to investigate the DSU officers,’ I added.

She creased her mouth. ‘Jesus. They won’t like that.’

*     *     *

Detective Inspector Malcolm Ackroyd had restless eyes that darted around. He wore a three-piece navy pinstripe suit, a rarity in plain clothes these days. He turned up his nose as he scanned my navy trousers and my battered herringbone jacket. He sat down on one of the visitor chairs.

‘John. I need to brief you on this Bevard case.’ Ackroyd had a dense, deep voice.

Lydia closed the door to my office and Ackroyd gave her a truculent glance but said nothing. I was ready to tell him that briefing me included Lydia no matter what he thought.

Ackroyd pulled out a sheaf of papers from the briefcase on his lap. ‘Bevard and Walsh were implicated in a murder two years ago in Roath Park.’

He glanced at me before continuing.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Webster was the SIO for that inquiry and he made absolutely no headway with the case.’

At the time, I was a sergeant in plain clothes in Merthyr Tydfil but I recalled the publicity surrounding the inquiry.

‘Mr Oakley was shot and then his body dumped in a boat on the lake. There was no forensics although we were certain he wasn’t killed in the park.’

‘Does Walsh have a thing for Roath Park?’

‘He was brought up in Roath. He met his wife there apparently and he loves the place. His Facebook page is full of images of him and his family walking in the park.’

Lydia snorted her surprise. ‘He’s in prison and he’s got a Facebook page?’

‘His wife runs it.’

‘So what changed?’ Something had made Bevard a candidate for a supergrass deal – he must have had new information about the Oakley murder that implicated Walsh.

Ackroyd put the briefcase down by his feet and settled back into his chair. ‘A routine CSI search of one of Bevard’s minicabs, part of another investigation unrelated to the Oakley case, discovered blood residue in the boot. It came back as a match to Oakley.’

I whistled under my breath. ‘That’s a result.’

Ackroyd nodded. ‘But although we had Bevard implicated, we wanted Walsh too. More than anything the senior officers wanted Walsh convicted of murder. It was like an obsession. He had to be put away at all costs. So we looked at the supergrass option. Then we planned Bevard’s arrest carefully to avoid any possibility that anyone, including his wife, would get to know.’

‘So what was the deal?’

‘He had been promised immunity from prosecution in exchange for enough evidence to convict Walsh of Oakley’s murder.’

I sat back in my chair stunned. A troubled look appeared on Lydia’s face.

‘But Bevard was involved in the Oakley murder,’ I said.

‘On the basis of his evidence the most we could prove against him would have been a secondary role. The senior officers were salivating at the prospect of a clear-cut case against Walsh – something to put him behind bars for years.’