Somebody Told Me (22 page)

I had to witness Walsh walking into the arms of Bernie and no doubt a friendly embrace from Martin Kendall. Bernie Walsh’s 4x4 swept into the car park and reversed into a parking slot. I made out Kendall sitting by her side and I was far enough away for them not to notice me. More cars arrived as the time for Walsh’s release neared.

Most of the visitors who had congregated outside the entrance were women, a reminder that our jails are full of men. Casual conversation developed, judging from the arm gestures and nodding heads, and I wondered if they were regulars, meeting husbands and boyfriends who accepted imprisonment as an occupational hazard.

Our search of the list of prisoners released in the weeks before Bevard’s death had proved fruitless. Someone had pulled the trigger that had killed Bevard and Yelland, and until our arrest of Howard Oakley I had been convinced it had been someone directed by Walsh. If Howard Oakley made a full and complete admission to both murders then I was going to look foolish.

In this case innuendo and circumstantial evidence giving Walsh a motive for Bevard’s death would never be enough. I imagined the howls of laughter and derision if I suggested all the details of Bevard’s supergrass deal be made public as part of a prosecution against Walsh.

The first prisoners emerged. A woman rushed over and threw her arms around a loved one. Bags in hand they headed for their cars. There were fifteen releases that morning and Jimmy Walsh was the last; the delay must have annoyed him.

He stood for a moment on the threshold and pitched his head skyward as though the air was different somehow for a free man. His denims looked crumpled, the shirt and jacket untidy after years in storage. Bernie raced over to him. He smiled, drew her close to him and kissed her deeply; even I could see the hunger in his body.

My chest tightened and I squinted over at them. I reached a hand to the door handle. I would tell him to stop his harassment of my family. But I could imagine the criticism in Hobbs’ voice –
What possessed you to approach him? And why were you outside the prison?

Martin Kendall dawdled behind Bernie. Walsh and his wife finished their embrace and then he hugged Kendall. They were smiling. Once they had finished, Kendall picked up Walsh’s bag and they turned back for their car.

Without a further thought about the consequences I yanked open the car door. My family were more important than any protocols. I left the car and headed towards them. I buttoned my jacket, lengthened my stride, and kept them firmly in my gaze.

Walsh reached the 4x4 and drew a hand along the passenger-side wing as though he were admiring the car for the first time.

Bernie was already in the driver’s seat and Kendall was closing the rear after dumping Walsh’s bag inside. They hadn’t noticed me. Kendall made for the rear driver’s side passenger door.

I increased my pace and Walsh looked over in my direction. He smirked.

I stopped a few feet away from him. He stepped towards me and we stood in front of the vehicle. I could sense Bernie Walsh staring at me through the windscreen.

‘What do you want?’

‘I know what you’ve been doing about the property in Pontypridd.’

‘This is harassment.’

‘Stay away from my family, Walsh.’ I moved towards him clenching my fist. ‘If you do anything to threaten my parents then I’ll make certain you’ll be back in here so fast your head will spin.’

He smirked at me again.

We stood there staring at each other, until eventually he climbed into the passenger seat and they drove away.

I returned to my car and opened the window. I smoked a cigarette in the cool September morning. Once I’d finished I adjusted the rear-view mirror and noticed the grey skin under my eyes. Tackling Walsh had been stupid. But he had given me no choice. I wasn’t going to stand to one side and say nothing, do nothing.

*     *     *

A night in the cells at Queen Street had done nothing to improve Howard Oakley’s mood. He sat opposite me in the interview room, staring. The flimsy white one-piece paper suit made a rustling sound every time he moved in the plastic chair. His cheeks looked puffy and I knew from reading the custody log that he had refused all food. A beaker of water sat on the table in front of him. His solicitor wore flame-red lipstick and a diamond stud in each ear lobe. I hadn’t dealt with her before but the custody sergeant had warned me she could be aggressive.

Before the interview I had read with growing excitement the report from the CSIs. A Walther P99 wrapped in cling film had been found at the back of a shed in the bottom of the garden in Howard Oakley’s property. Preliminary fingerprint analysis proved Oakley had handled it but it might take days for forensic confirmation that it had been the gun that killed Bevard and Yelland.

‘Why did you run?’ I said once the tape started recording.

‘You were going to stitch me up.’

‘There was a burglary at a restaurant in Grangetown early Thursday morning. And the place was torched.’

Howard Oakley folded his arms, pulling them into his chest.

Oakley’s solicitor butted in again. ‘Who are the owners of the property?’

‘The premises are owned by Goldstar Properties. That’s Mr James Walsh and Mrs Bernie Walsh.’ The names hung in the air, as contagious as a cough.

I looked over at Oakley. ‘Where were you between four and five-thirty that morning?’

Oakley scratched his neck. I could sense he wanted to reply. Very few people make no comment interviews: that only ever happens on television crime dramas.

‘Several of the windows in the property were smashed before petrol was poured over the outside. Luckily the premises had a sprinkler system installed and the fire service arrived quickly.’

‘What is the evidence to implicate my client?’

I ignored her. ‘Are you the owner of an Alfa Romeo Brera sports car?’ I looked up at Oakley and then for good measure reminded him of the registration number and its colour. He squinted slightly, then glanced over at the lawyer.

‘DVLA records have you as the owner.’ I pushed over a photocopy of the record; his reluctance to even confirm obvious details rankled.

He mumbled.

I tilted my head slightly towards him. ‘For the purpose of the tape recording of this interview can you please confirm your reply?’

He shook his head.

‘Can you tell me how you know Jimmy Walsh?’

Oakley slowly unfolded his arms and fisted both hands, which he placed on the table in front of him.

‘He killed my father,’ Oakley said slowly.

The lawyer rolled her eyes in frustration.

‘And do you know Felix Bevard?’

‘My client replies no comment.’

Oakley paused and then nodded.

‘Do you blame Felix Bevard for the death of your father?’

Oakley’s face flushed.

‘Your father refused to sell his property to Jimmy Walsh and Felix Bevard.’

‘Is that a question, Inspector? Because this interview is becoming a fishing expedition.’

‘Walsh and Bevard wanted to buy the property your parents owned. It’s a matter of record because your mother made a statement at the time of your father’s death. The Wales Police Service investigated his death but Jimmy Walsh had an alibi.’

‘Like fuck he did.’

I sat back and shared a brief smile with both Oakley and the lawyer.

‘Is that why you went to the property the night before last?’

Oakley had relaxed his arms now, a hand grasping each knee.

‘Would it be fair to say you had a grudge against Felix Bevard?’

No reply.

I reached down and lifted the pistol from a bag by my feet. I placed it carefully on the table. The blood drained from Howard’s face and the lawyer gave him a troubled look.

‘This pistol was found at the back of the shed in your garden. Can you confirm that it is yours?’

He stared at me but made no reply.

‘And your hatred of Bevard was enough to make you buy a pistol and kill him in the storeroom at the Roath Park café.’

Oakley sat there looking terrified. I savoured the open-mouthed astonishment from the lawyer. Her attitude changed soon afterwards. She became even more unhelpful and aggressive.

‘Did you know a Brian Yelland?’

I watched his face closely. I couldn’t read the reaction. Was it surprise or trepidation?

‘Mr Yelland was a prison officer who was killed last Sunday.’ I reeled off the date and watched as Howard’s solicitor scribbled down the details. Howard’s mouth fell open but his lawyer, a regular who got under the skin of every officer at Queen Street with an attitude that she knew better than anyone else, whispered in his ear. Howard shook his head.

‘Do you have any evidence to link my client with the death of Mr Yelland, Inspector?’

I ignored her and continued. ‘Can you tell me where you were on the night Yelland was killed?’

He shook his head slowly and I waited, giving him an opportunity to reply before moving on.

‘He was probably killed with the same pistol that shot Felix Bevard. It was a small pistol, like a Walther P99, like the one we found at your property. It’s only a matter of time before the forensics report is available but if they can link this pistol to both killings then now would be a good time to offer an explanation.’

He opened his lips a fraction. I could see his yellowing teeth. He looked at me blankly.

‘Now is your opportunity to say something and it might go against you if you haven’t mentioned something—’

His lawyer piped up. ‘That’s enough Inspector, you’ve explained the warning already and my client understands the position. Move on.’

I looked over at her; she obviously wanted to return to her warm air-conditioned office. But I had enough to keep Oakley in custody until I could review the evidence with a Crown Prosecution lawyer, Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs and anybody else from the senior management team who wanted to contribute. The lawyer made all sorts of threats about the way I had conducted the interview, none of which I took seriously. I had a killer to find. Howard Oakley had the right motive, and had been after a gun so all I had to do was prove his opportunity.

*     *     *

An email from Hobbs summoned me to a meeting late that afternoon and I dragged myself to Cornock’s office. I rapped two fingers on the door after listening briefly to the sound of intelligent conversation inside. There was a muffled shout for me to enter and Dave Hobbs waved me to the conference table.

Desmond Joplin was sitting at the far end. I knew the Crown Prosecutor as having a fearsome reputation and for not suffering fools gladly. I suspected it was for these qualities Hobbs had asked him to review the evidence against Oakley. Desmond had a pallid complexion, little hair, save for a monk-like ring around the base of his head. We shook hands. I sat down, Dave Hobbs at the other end of the table. It made me feel like a minnow between two piranhas.

‘You have got no evidence.’ Desmond had an accent polished by years of appearing in the magistrates’ courts. I opened my mouth to reply but he ignored me. ‘I appreciate why you were justified in making the arrest. Especially given the motive. But there’s no evidence linking Oakley to the murders although I grant you that if the gun was used to kill Bevard and Yelland that changes things. And from what Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs has told me you’re linking both deaths together.’

So the
acting
part of Hobbs’ title disappeared. That annoyed me too.

‘You must release him. You can’t possibly justify further detention. He’ll be released this evening.’

‘What about the attempted burglary and arson? There’s more than enough to justify a prosecution.’

Desmond dipped his head towards Dave Hobbs. I had a sensation things had been taken completely out of my hands. Hobbs held up a piece of paper lying on the table in front of him. ‘We’ve had a letter from Bernie Walsh’s solicitors – Tront and Tront.’

Simply mentioning the name of the solicitors summoned up the image of its senior partner Glanville Tront tearing into a badly prepared prosecution case and witnessing hours of work destroyed.

‘The letter makes it perfectly clear that Mr and Mrs Walsh do not wish to make a complaint. And furthermore if we prosecute they would challenge the entire legitimacy of any evidence the investigators recovered from the property.’

My tie felt inextricably tightened upon my neck. There was finality to the way Dave Hobbs had read out the contents of the letter. ‘But …’ I couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Nothing I can do,’ Hobbs said.

I stood up and made for the door. Joviality filtered into the conversation between Desmond and Hobbs as I left. I pulled the door closed behind me feeling like the poor relation.

I joined the rest of the team in a café near the housing estate where Yelland had lived ready for a morning of house-to-house inquiries. From their truculent looks they clearly thought repeating what had already been done once was a waste of time.

I sat down next to Lydia. A dried-up Danish pastry lay on a plate in front of Wyn. Jane slurped on a milky coffee.

‘I want everyone spoken to again on the estate. Somebody must have seen something.’ I sounded fraught. I felt it too. Howard Oakley had been released and Walsh was a free man. My interest in the murder of Robin Oakley had been pushed to one side once we knew of Howard’s involvement with the gangs in Swansea and his urgent need to find a gun. Before leaving Queen Street last night I had emailed the production company about the video of the
Dr Who
programme in Roath Park, threatening them with a formal warrant unless they cooperated. First thing that morning I had a reply confirming arrangements for me to view the recording at their offices in London next week. If I couldn’t prove that Walsh had killed Bevard and Yelland then at least there was the possibility of reopening the case involving Robin Oakley.

I dictated instructions about who should go where and I watched the reluctant nodding of heads. ‘Let’s meet up later this morning.’

They followed me out of the café before we made the short journey to the housing estate.