Somebody Told Me (16 page)

Lydia gave me a world-weary look as I suggested the sort of questions to ask two other witnesses who had confirmed Jimmy’s alibi. After an hour and a half her scepticism had been proved right. We had spoken to a man who ran a coffee shop and delicatessen who feigned surprise at our visit with the flamboyance of an actor accepting an Oscar the whole world knew he would win. A woman married to an estate agent did her best to sound vague but there was enough clarity in her comments to make it clear she had read and reread her original statement in advance.

Outside her home, I put a cigarette to my lips, sparked my Zippo and drew the smoke deep into my lungs. Lydia walked back to the car and when I caught up with her she wafted the smoke away with her hands before giving me a serious motherly scowl. We reached the car and I leant on the door.

Lydia stood waiting for me to finish. ‘That was a waste of time.’

‘Now we know Jimmy Walsh has primed several of the original witnesses who gave him an alibi. That means he was covering his back. And that makes him as guilty as hell.’

‘But we can prove nothing. The case is closed.’

‘Even so, he’s guilty. We need to find the evidence.’

I ground the butt into the pavement and we headed off to see the final witness.

Ristorante La Scala was located down a side street off Albany Road. Large white sheets shrouded the pavement outside as two painters dabbed finishing touches to the woodwork of the windows. The building looked prosperous and I peered at the menu displayed in the window. It had all the usual classic Italian dishes with an English summary underneath in smaller letters. It surprised me that my mother hadn’t heard about this place and I made a mental note to tell her.

‘Have you ever been to La Scala?’ I said to Lydia standing by my side.

‘I’ve never heard of this restaurant before.’

‘I meant the opera house. In Milan.’ Lydia’s love of opera had taken her to Glyndebourne and the Welsh National Opera’s performances at the Millennium Centre.

‘No, but … It is on my to-do list.’ She sounded hopeful.

I pushed open the door. A voice bellowed from the rear. ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’

‘Police. I need to talk to the owner.’

I heard the sound of glasses clinking together. Moments later a tall thin man emerged from behind the bar area and walked towards me. He gave my warrant card a cursory look. ‘He’s upstairs. They’re very busy.’

At the top of a broad staircase covered with a deep red carpet was a room full of men in casual clothes rearranging tables and chairs. I scanned, hoping I could make out the owner, but a name like Williams didn’t suggest he was an Italian. A man, mid-fifties, receding hairline and heavy paunch, walked towards us.

‘I’m sorry but the restaurant is closed. Didn’t you see the sign downstairs?’

I held up my warrant card. ‘Are you David Williams?’

‘Yes. What’s this about?’

‘Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’

‘What do you want?’ There was an intense, worried look on his face.

It was the reaction I had expected from Bryant and Parks. A visit from two police officers isn’t a daily occurrence and I could sense the anxiety in Williams’ voice.

‘We’re looking again at the murder of Mr Oakley several years ago when a Jimmy Walsh was a possible suspect. His alibi was that he had been here all evening at a family party.’

‘I remember. It was a big party. They were using this room for a disco and the buffet.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder. Behind him, two members of staff were hanging prints of Italian beach scenes.

‘What can you remember?’

‘You’re joking right?’ He drew a hand over his head. ‘The place was rammed. We were rushed off our feet trying to organise everything, all the food and the booze. And I seem to recall we were short-staffed.’

‘At the time you made a statement confirming Jimmy Walsh and his wife Bernie Walsh had been here that evening.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you remember anything about when they arrived and when they left?’

The incredulity on Williams’ face was obvious. ‘I can’t remember what I said all those years ago. I remember seeing Walsh with his wife but …’

‘Could Walsh have left during the evening?’

There was a shout from one corner as one of the prints fell onto a table, glass smashing over the tablecloth.

Williams turned and shouted. ‘For Christ’s sake. That’s coming out of your wages.’ Both men stood transfixed, staring at the ruined print. ‘Get it cleared up and then take it downstairs. We’ll get it re-framed.’

He stared back at me. ‘How the hell would I know about Jimmy Walsh? I haven’t seen him for years. Why don’t you talk to Mickey and Frank over there?’ Then he strode over to the men struggling to hang the prints, shouting at them to be careful.

I glanced at Lydia. She frowned slightly. From the file of papers under her arm she found the original list of witnesses. I couldn’t recall anyone called ‘Frank’ on the list.

‘There’s a Michael Prentice, two girls, but nobody by the name of Frank, boss.’

I approached both men. ‘Which one of you two is Mickey?’

‘I’m Mickey Prentice,’ the taller one said. The man standing by his side had a ruddy complexion and flabby cheeks. There was innocence about his face.

‘You must be Frank?’

The man nodded.

‘I want to ask you both about a party a few years ago. The police were investigating a man called Jimmy Walsh in relation to the murder of a Robin Oakley.’ Frank blinked rapidly.

‘Do you both remember that evening?’

Mickey was the first to reply. ‘I made a statement years ago.’

Lydia had found what I assumed was his original statement from the file. ‘I want to clarify if you can remember what happened?’

After five minutes it was clear Mickey hadn’t been primed to expect us. He scanned through the original statement Lydia gave him, shrugged and then thrust it back at her.

I kept my questions neat and simple. Both remembered seeing Jimmy Walsh, neither could tell me exactly when he arrived or when he left and my question about whether he could have left during the evening met with raised eyebrows and incredulity. I turned to Frank. ‘Do you recall what happened that evening?’

‘It’s a long time ago.’ He swallowed self-consciously.

‘You were both working together?’ I kept my gaze firmly on Frank.

‘The place was super busy.’

There wasn’t the vagueness I had expected from his replies. The evening had been fixed deep in his memory. My anticipation grew at the prospect of a new witness. In the background David Williams kept shouting instructions.

‘Do you remember a Mrs Parks?’

Both men shook their heads.

‘And what about Philip Bryant?’

Mickey snorted. He glanced at his colleague. ‘You tell him, Frank.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘That slob Bryant had been shagging his girlfriend.’

Frank folded his arms. ‘It was all a long time ago. She was working in the Dog and Whistle. He couldn’t keep his hands off her.’

‘So was Bryant at the party?’

Mickey replied first. ‘He was here all right. He got wrecked.’

‘What time did he arrive?’

‘He was pissed when he arrived.’ Frank added slowly, ‘It was late – half ten or eleven. I remember he complained like hell about there being no food. And more than anything I can remember her perfume on his clothes.’

*     *     *

Sitting in the car I fumbled for the satnav.

‘Philip Bryant lied to us.’

I must have sounded desperate but Frank’s evidence weakened Walsh’s alibi.

‘Boss, how is this helping with the Bevard inquiry?’ Lydia said.

Bryant arriving late at the party meant Walsh’s alibi could be challenged. We would have to put him in Roath Park for him to murder Oakley. ‘I want to work out how long it would have taken Jimmy Walsh to drive to Roath Park.’

‘We
know
Walsh had to time to leave the party, sir.’

I couldn’t ignore Lydia for too long nor could I ignore her comments about how the investigation into Oakley’s murder would help us with the Bevard case. But for now her concerns could wait. I answered my own question.

‘Ten minutes, maybe more.’ I tossed the satnav towards her. ‘To hell with this bloody machine. I know the way.’

I started the car. Then I looked over at Lydia. ‘Get your phone out and time us.’

Now it was her time to fumble in her bag before she produced a mobile and found the time setting. ‘It’s not going to be
real
evidence.’

‘I want to
know
how long the journey would have taken. Start it
now
.’

I glanced in the mirror, accelerated towards the junction with Albany Road and then indicated left. I pulled into the traffic; luckily it was light and I headed west. I’d almost reached the junction of Wellfield Road but instinct made me decide not to turn right. Walsh would have taken the shortest route with the least traffic and he might have been delayed on Wellfield Road leading towards the junction with Ninian Road. So I drove further along towards one of the residential streets and headed right down Alfred Street. It was quiet, and I increased my speed as much as I dared. Three minutes later we were at the junction with Ninian Road. Roath recreation ground opened out in front of me. The pleasure grounds and Roath Park stretched out northwards. The quickest way towards the park itself was along Ninian Road towards the roundabout and then up Eastern Avenue. Would Walsh have taken this route?

I sped along Ninian Road. It had to be the quickest route.

I slowed at the end of the road, my irritation rising as we got snarled up behind half a dozen cars waiting to cross the roundabout. Lydia announced that five minutes had passed. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. Eventually I negotiated the tight roundabout and then drove under the flyover feeling a sense of relief as I saw the railings for Roath Park to my right. I drove sedately up Lake Road West until I reached the entrance and saw the Captain Scott Memorial lighthouse perched at the bottom of the Roath Park lake. I braked, too hard and too suddenly for the driver behind who blasted his horn.

‘Seven and a half minutes, boss.’

I let my breathing return to normal.

‘So it would have been a fifteen-minute round trip.’

‘Assuming the traffic was the same.’

I turned towards Lydia. ‘And, he would have needed time to kill Oakley.’

First thing Monday morning I strode into the Incident Room and headed straight for the board displaying the images of the victims and Jimmy Walsh. The way Martin Kendall and Bernie Walsh had orchestrated their alibis reinforced my determination that Walsh was guilty. But gut feeling and intuition could always be an excuse for a lack of evidence. And if I was wrong then I’d be issuing speeding tickets on the motorway soon enough.

Lydia caught me in the middle of rearranging the photographs and she gave me a startled look. I had Bernie and Martin Kendall directly underneath Jimmy Walsh and underneath both of them Phil Bryant and alongside him Owen Norcross.

Lydia dumped her bag on the desk and shrugged off her coat. ‘I’ve been thinking, boss.’ She measured her words, which I knew meant I had to take her seriously. ‘We still need to establish where Bevard was on the afternoon he was killed and we need to find Ledley.’ She paused; I could see where this was going. ‘I can’t help think that spending time on the old Oakley case is a dead end.’

I folded my arms and Papa’s worried frown came to mind when I told him about Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh.

‘It’s personal.’

‘That’s what worries me, sir.’

‘Jesus, Lydia, yesterday we established that Walsh’s alibi for the Oakley case wasn’t as watertight as everyone believed.’ I paced back to the board and pointed at Bryant. ‘And we know that he has been to visit Walsh in jail.’ I stared at his face. ‘I wonder where he was the night Bevard was killed?’

Listening to myself I knew we had to focus on Bevard but the Oakley case still niggled. ‘You’re right we focus on Bevard. But first we speak to Mrs Oakley.’

Lydia scowled but I used a tone that suggested my decision wasn’t a matter for debate. In order to make progress with Bevard I had to speak to Mrs Oakley, be satisfied in my own mind that the investigation into her husband’s death had been completed properly. And I needed to hear from her what Jimmy Walsh had done to them. At least then I could tell Uncle Gino and Jez what sort of people they were dealing with, although I doubted that either would listen to me.

Behind her, the main door opened and Wyn entered. The weekend had resulted in a haircut, a neat short back and sides, and there was purposefulness in his stride. Seconds later Jane walked in already yawning and dragging her feet.

I acknowledged their greetings and quickly gave them a summary of the position with Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh. Wyn tugged at his nose while Jane frowned, gazing over at the board.

‘What we haven’t looked at are the social media accounts for both Bevard and Yelland. And Roger Stockes told us that Yelland was using some internet dating sites.’

After half an hour I had allocated various tasks.

‘And I need a complete trawl through every available CCTV camera within ten miles of where Bevard was stopped for speeding.’

I sensed Wyn’s early morning enthusiasm already waning.

*     *     *

Once we were off the motorway temporary traffic lights delayed us and I drummed my fingers over the top of the steering wheel. Lydia continued to hum along to the recording of Rigoletto she’d chosen for the journey.

‘Do you think Mrs Oakley might have anything new to tell us, boss?’

It was Lydia’s way of saying –
I hope this isn’t another waste of time
.

I mumbled a reply, recalling Mrs Oakley’s disinterest when I called first thing that morning to arrange our visit. The lights ahead of me turned green and I pulled away as the satnav gave more instructions. The disembodied voice led us through various suburbs of Bridgend. I indicated left and pulled into a cul-de-sac of a dozen bungalows, some with dormers and others with converted garages. Mrs Oakley’s property was at the end and I parked the car in the drive behind a red Alfa Romeo Brera sports car. The rims of the alloys were scuffed, the paintwork scratched and as we walked to the front door I noticed the car’s tired leather upholstery.