Somebody Told Me (26 page)

‘Glanville Tront has already arrived,’ he said.

Martin Kendall and the Walsh family could afford the best lawyers in Cardiff. I heard the familiar sound of Lydia’s voice as she spoke with one of the uniformed officers.

Lydia raised a questioning eyebrow as I explained how I had justified Kendall’s arrest. ‘There could be a very good reason for both meetings.’

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Yelland was taking money from Kendall and Walsh. Perhaps he made one demand too many?’

We sat in the custody suite waiting for Glanville Tront to finish his discussion with Kendall. Lydia organised two rancid-looking coffees in thin plastic cups. A uniformed officer notified us that Glanville Tront and Martin Kendall were ready and we walked through into one of the other cork-lined interview rooms. A tape recorder sat on the table thrust against a wall. The smell of dead skin and old clothes hung in the air. Within five minutes my nostrils would become accustomed to the stale odour and my hearing familiar with the droning of the air conditioning.

Glanville Tront swept into the room. He had fine, thin, silvering hair grown in long strands drawn over his head. It gave him a bohemian appearance. Whenever I met him I recalled the first time he had cross-examined me – it had been a demeaning, unsettling experience that left me heading straight for the pub. Glanville wore an immaculate navy suit, white shirt and glistening pink silk tie.

Martin Kendall followed and both men sat down.

‘Good to see you, Glanville.’

‘Good afternoon to you too, Inspector. Let’s get on with this.’

After we got the formalities completed, I stared over at Martin Kendall.

‘Do you know Brian Yelland?’

‘He was murdered recently.’

Good start, at least he was answering my questions.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Can’t say that I did.’

‘So you’ve never met him?’

‘No.’

‘Brian Yelland was a prison officer. And he was one of the officers responsible for the billet where Jimmy Walsh had his cell at Grange Hall.’

Kendall nodded. ‘If you say so.’

‘Can you tell me what your relationship is to Jimmy Walsh?’

‘You know full well I work closely with Jimmy in his various businesses.’

‘And what sort of businesses does he have?’

Glanville Tront interrupted. ‘Do you
really
want a list of Mr Walsh’s businesses?’

For the time being I didn’t pursue my question.

I scanned the visitor log from Grange Hall. ‘Can you confirm how often you went to see Jimmy Walsh at Grange Hall?’

‘Quite a few times. We are mates.’

‘Did Jimmy Walsh ever mention Brian Yelland?’

Kendall shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’

‘I want to show you a photograph taken at the time you met Brian Yelland.’

I watched with undiluted pleasure the blood draining from his face. Even Glanville Tront made an odd sort of gurgling sound.

‘The photograph was taken by Brian Yelland’s girlfriend.’ I pushed over a printed version of the photograph.

‘Is that you?’

Glanville Tront reached for the photograph, peered at it and then leant over, whispering something in Kendall’s ear.

‘No comment.’

His Scottish accent couldn’t hide the minute tremor in his voice.

‘You handed him an envelope. A large Jiffy bag type envelope. Can you confirm what was inside?’

‘Really, Inspector have we got to spend all afternoon talking about envelopes being passed in a public house,’ Glanville purred.

I gave Glanville a patronising smile. ‘Does your client wish to reply? I’m sure you advised him about the implications of not replying during this interview.’

Glanville parted his lips as though he wanted to reproach me but thought the better of it.

I continued, getting into my stride. ‘A week before Jimmy Walsh’s release you met Brian Yelland for a second time.’ I pushed over a second photograph. By the lifeless colour of Kendall’s lips I’d need to call the medics soon. ‘You had a blazing row with Yelland that day. What did you argue about?’

‘No comment.’

I looked straight over at Kendall and used my most reasonable voice. ‘Now is your opportunity to explain why you lied to me about meeting Brian Yelland.’

Kendall folded his arms, drawing them closer to his body.

Glanville adjusted his tie and scribbled his notes obviously warming up for another interruption. ‘Murder is a very serious offence. What possible motive is there?’

I ignored him.

‘Is it true you were paying Brian Yelland in exchange for favours he could provide Jimmy Walsh with in prison?’

‘No comment.’

‘Brian Yelland got greedy. He wanted more money. But you refused and when he threatened you and Jimmy Walsh, it was the final straw.’

‘Really, Inspector. This is utter conjecture. You’re making this up as you’re going along. You have no motive. Please tell me which senior officer authorised my client’s arrest.’

I could have cheerfully throttled Glanville Tront, using his expensive silk tie. But I didn’t reply and gave him a businesslike nod that suggested I wasn’t finished.

‘On the night of Brian Yelland’s death where were you?’

‘No comment.’

I could see the anger bubbling up his eyes, in the way his shoulders seemed to swell. And I wanted to tell him never to approach Uncle Gino and my father or anybody else in our family ever again.

‘A man was seen leaving Brian Yelland’s home in the early hours. An eyewitness confirms the man had a prominent nose, rather like yours Mr Kendall. Although it was dark, there was enough street lighting.’

I leant on the desk, peered over at Kendall and watched his eyes darting around. His arms twitched. ‘Why did you visit Brian Yelland on the night he was killed?’

‘Fuck off.’

I steepled my arms and propped my chin on both hands. ‘Did you kill Brian Yelland?’

Lydia sat next to me, in the reception at the production company’s offices in West London, tapping out a message on her mobile telephone, something she had done a lot of on the journey from Cardiff that morning. The reception was full of well-watered indoor plants that glistened under the artificial lights. Marble lined the floor and the sound of muffled conversation spun around the stairwell that curved its way to the upper floors.

I stared over at the girls on reception.

One of them looked similar to Tracy. Tracy and I had spoken tentatively yesterday, and I had made excuses about visiting my father when she had suggested we meet for dinner. By early evening I had left the hospital. Papa was still breathing with an oxygen mask and more colour had returned to his cheeks. Mamma seemed more settled and some friends had arrived and fussed over him so I had left.

I should have gone home but I had headed to the Incident Room.

I had sat staring at photographs of Jimmy Walsh and Martin Kendall.

My unbridled abhorrence for both men was replaced by a determination that nothing would stand in my way of seeing them both spend the rest of their lives behind bars. Kendall’s detention meant he was languishing in the cells and the chances he’d make bail were zero, knowing the attitude of the district judge in the magistrates’ court to a person facing a murder charge.

The sound of someone calling my name interrupted my thoughts. It also interrupted Lydia’s texting. A woman with long hair down her back waved over at us. ‘They’ll see you now.’

We followed her and stopped by a door that needed a security code. She tapped it in and led us through various corridors, the air conditioning cool against my skin. She pushed open the door with
Editing Suite
in large letters on a stainless steel notice and pointed towards two men sitting by a long table in front of three large monitors.

Both men wore faded and expensive-looking denims. ‘Stephen Gate,’ the older man said. He had more hair than his colleague but both had three days’ worth of stubble. ‘And this is Justin Leigh.’ After the usual pleasantries, we sat down.

‘I appreciate information was given to the police that filming had stopped by six.’ Leigh had a broad West Country accent. ‘It was a filthy day. We knew the forecast was for rain but the producer continued. We got a lot of filming done in the afternoon and there was a break.’

Another woman walked in with a tray of coffee and fancy-looking pastries.

‘I am interested in any filming that took place after six pm,’ I said.

Gate replied. ‘Of course, of course. Justin was giving you some background.’

It sounded like an excuse but I let it pass.

‘We’ve put together all the filming recorded that day. As you can appreciate there is a lot. I’m not certain where you want to start. There were half a dozen cameras. When we’re filming something like
Doctor Who
we shoot hours and hours of material that might never be used.’

I knew from my checking the night before that Ben Evans had told us he left before ten pm. ‘When did you actually finish?’

Gate glanced over at Leigh. ‘It was near eleven o’clock actually. The rain had abated so the producer continued. We were working to some tight deadlines.’

‘It still doesn’t explain why you misled us,’ I said flatly. ‘You do realise a man has been killed.’

Gate blinked, Leigh swallowed self-consciously.

‘I want to work back for each camera from eleven o’clock.’

‘We had better get started then,’ Gate said.

Leigh went over to the second monitor and adjusted the screen so that Lydia could watch the coverage with him. Gate did likewise and for the next two hours we sat watching various clips of scenes that would never make it onto the screen. Gate explained that each minute of a finished programme meant hours of recordings. This was turning into a very long day.

He clarified each camera angle and explained how a recording like this was organised. By lunchtime, we had watched the recordings from three of the cameras from eleven pm to seven pm. I couldn’t see Jimmy Walsh and Kendall taking the risk of being in Roath Park much earlier.

The same woman returned with sandwiches and bottles of sparkling water.

We ate as we watched the disjointed coverage. My back was aching, so I stood up and stretched.

Gate was staring at his screen when more tea and coffee arrived. ‘A camera crew was sent around the opposite side of the lake.’

‘What, nearer the café?’ I said, sitting down and pulling my chair nearer to the table.

Gate glanced at his watch. ‘The production assistant will be back later this afternoon, but she told me she was hoping to get some shots across the lake, something atmospheric. Is this something you want to see?’

I stared at the screen. ‘I want to see everything.’

The camera panned across, taking in the Scott Memorial before zooming in towards the opposite bank.

‘I don’t know why she did this. It is a complete waste of time.’ Gate let the coverage run on until eventually the camera seemed to jump up and down. ‘Obviously she’s not stopped filming,’ he said, clicking the forward button, running the film on quickly.

And then suddenly something flashed across the screen.

‘You’ve missed something.’ After a morning of watching disjointed video clips my pulse accelerated.

Gate made the necessary adjustments.

‘Run it after the recording of the Captain Scott Memorial,’ I said. ‘And can you slow down?’

Lydia and Leigh had stopped watching their screen and Lydia had moved her chair so she could sit behind me.

I peered at the monitor. I could see the drizzle hanging in the branches of the trees, the camera dancing around. Then I saw the outline of three men. ‘Stop,’ I shouted.

Gate paused the coverage and we stared at three ghostly silhouettes.

‘Can we enhance those images somehow?’ I stared at the screen again.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Gate replied.

He clicked and fiddled with various controls until a grainy image emerged of the three men.

‘That’s Felix Bevard,’ Lydia said behind me.

I stared at the image. Even a poor-quality image like this couldn’t hide the swagger of the man next to Bevard. Jimmy Walsh’s swagger. And between him and Felix Bevard the outline of a man with a ponytail was clear enough. Jack Ledley. It meant he was inextricably linked to the original murder of Robin Oakley. I wondered if he really had been prepared to give evidence against Walsh. Ledley had seen Bevard on his last afternoon so if Ledley was working for Walsh he could be another suspect.

My mind spun into overdrive as I thought about the fake police officers in Pontypool, and if Walsh was looking for Ledley then it wasn’t to buy him a round of drinks. It meant that Ledley was his next victim. And it meant we had to find Ledley first.

*     *     *

Desmond Joplin, the Crown Prosecutor, ran a hand over his bald patch for the tenth time that evening. Alongside him by the conference table Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs alternated a pained expression of alarm with confusion. He was out of his depth. This was past his pay grade.

‘We’ve got direct evidence Jimmy Walsh’s alibi is suspect,’ I turned to look at Hobbs.

I knew he had been the sergeant on the Oakley case. It meant someone hadn’t done a thorough job. It meant fingers would wag. It meant blame was to be apportioned. The confusion in his eyes turned to a scheming edge I had seen so often when he drew on his Teflon suit.

‘Let’s run through this again,’ Desmond said.

‘We know Walsh could have left the restaurant and travelled to Roath Park. He could have been there and back within half an hour. The restaurant was packed with guests. We spoke to a staff member whose evidence wasn’t taken at the time.’ I glanced over at Hobbs and raised a critical eye brow. ‘He remembers quite specifically Bryant, one of Jimmy Walsh’s associates, hadn’t arrived until much later in the evening. And it was Bryant’s evidence that strengthened Walsh’s alibi.’

‘I see,’ Desmond said. ‘It looks as though the original investigation wasn’t as thorough as it might have been.’

Sharpening the knife, excellent.

I nodded sagely.