Somebody Told Me (30 page)

He led us through into the kitchen where he stopped abruptly when he noticed White and the other officer standing in the back yard. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘We need to speak to your daughter, Donna.’

Lydia opened the back door and White and the other officer entered.

‘You people are always picking on my lads even when they’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Does she live here? Danny, we need to speak to her.’

‘Why do want to speak to her?’

I turned up my nose; his breath could strip paint.

Lydia raised her voice, her patience wearing thinner than mine. ‘Is she with Jack Ledley?’

‘I kicked him out long ago. Useless piece of shit he was.’

‘Where could she be?’

Another call reached my mobile from the officer following Norcross. ‘Sorry, sir, we lost him. He jumped a light and we couldn’t follow him because of the traffic.’

Now we really had to find Ledley.

My mobile rang again but I didn’t recognise the number so I sent it to voicemail.

Danny looked at Lydia and me with distrustful eyes.

‘Her life may be at risk,’ I said.

He squinted, calculating whether we were telling him the truth.

‘She works in the Big Pit Museum up in Blaenavon. Some days she’ll stay with a friend of hers in Forge Side.’

‘What’s the address?’ I said

‘How the fuck would I know.’

I jabbed a finger at Danny’s arm. ‘This is really important. What is the name of her friend?’

He blinked in surprise. ‘Bridget something.’

We left Danny Wilkinson boiling a kettle, complaining he’d never get back to sleep. We strode back to our cars. I could hear White talking into his mobile telephone – obviously with somebody in the office at the Big Pit Museum, demanding to know the name of any employee called Bridget.

I remembered the call to my mobile so I reached for the handset in my pocket. I listened with increasing alarm to the elderly voice.

‘Damn,’ I almost shouted. Lydia gave me a puzzled look. I looked over at White. ‘You go to the Big Pit. I need to call in one of the local shops.’

I ran back to the car, waving at Lydia to join me. I reversed clumsily before flooring the accelerator. ‘The owner of that ironmongery shop we visited just called me. She’s seen Ledley.’

‘At least we know he’s still alive.’

I flashed my lights at a dawdling car but it had little effect so I pressed the horn. The noise seemed to reverberate through the car and around the narrow streets. I waved an encouragement for the driver to accelerate but it had the opposite effect and he slowed down. So I pulled out and overtook the vehicle racing away from Griffithstown. Eventually I pulled up outside the shop.

Before I got out of the car I called the officers following Walsh. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We found the Range Rover parked in the services. No sign of him.’ The news set my teeth on edge. ‘And there are two other officers here, sir.’

‘What the …?’

I heard voices and muffled conversation. ‘The Range Rover is parked next to a Ford Focus that the other two officers followed.’

My heart raced. Walsh had switched cars but now he was with Norcross.

Lydia followed me to the shop; I almost kicked the door open in my haste. A man in his mid-seventies was talking to a man standing behind one of the counters. They stared over at us. Boxes of candles and paraffin lamps stacked on the countertop caught my attention.

I flashed my warrant card. ‘I spoke to the owner last week about a man we’re looking for.’

The man behind the counter turned his head and shouted, ‘Mam.’

It was only seconds but time seemed to drag. The door from the shop area into what I guessed was the owner’s house opened and the woman I’d seen the previous week strode out. She gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement.

‘After you called the first time I’ve been looking out for him. He came in looking for two paraffin lamps. He had a cheek. He wanted to know if there was a discount. We don’t do discounts here. That’s for all them supermarkets. He had long hair with a ponytail. Like a young girl. And I could see tattoos on his arms.’

‘Did he say anything else?’ Knowing Ledley had called was useless without knowing where he was going.

‘He paid and left.’

‘Was there anyone with him?’

She shook her head. I felt desperate. ‘Is there nothing else you can tell me?’

‘I saw his car.’

‘What make and model was it?’

She gave me a patronising nod of her head. Her son piped up from the other side of the shop. ‘Mam doesn’t drive. She wouldn’t know one car from another.’

She smiled at me again.

‘What direction did he go in?’

‘He went into town of course.’

I made for the door, fearing I had wasted another twenty minutes.

‘I saw the number plate.’

I peered over at her.

‘The car had the same letters as my late husband – NLO – Norman Lawrence Owen. Never forget that.’

I looked over at her son instinctively for reassurance.

‘Nothing wrong with Mam’s eyesight.’

I ran back to the car. Lydia was already on the telephone calling the Incident Room, requesting a full search of all vehicles with NLO in their registration details. She called White as I started the engine. Even from listening to one side of the conversation, I could tell he was nearing the Big Pit Museum.

I didn’t need the satnav. There were signposts. I was driving north up the valley. Fast.

Lydia’s mobile rang and she switched on the loudspeaker setting.

‘I’ve spoken to someone in the office at the museum. There’s a Bridget who lives in G Row in Forge Side,’ White said.

‘G Row?’ I said.

‘The terraces up there have still got names from the original rows when they were built for the ironworkers.’

It sounded like something out of a dystopian movie. Maybe each worker had a number too.

‘We’re looking for a car with a registration NLO,’ Lydia said.

‘I’ll get onto it. Forge Side is on your way towards the museum. You can’t miss it.’

‘On our way,’ I shouted. Lydia finished the call and I flattened the accelerator. My mind turned to Jimmy Walsh. An ominous foreboding made me glance at every vehicle coming in the opposite direction. I dreaded the possibility he had found Ledley before us. The traffic was light, just the occasional delivery lorry and white van.

We headed left from the main road towards the closely packed terraces of Forge Side. The houses clung to each other. Narrow, with tiled roofs and plastic windows, they perched over each other and the pavement. My stomach churned. We passed Row A and then B before reaching Row G.

A battered old Ford Fiesta – NLO 452J – was parked halfway down. On the opposite side was White’s marked police car. I parked in the middle of the road, jumped out of the car and raced over to the open door of number ten.

Two tan leather sofas dominated the small sitting room. Stuffed into one corner was an enormous television and surround-sound speakers screwed high up on the wall. I heard the crackling of police radios and the young police officer who had accompanied White emerged from the kitchen ashen faced.

‘Through there,’ he said.

I stepped into the kitchen and straight into the worst nightmare possible.

Jack Ledley lay sprawled under the kitchen table. Blood was splattered all over the floor, the walls and then I noticed the bloodied footprints. Sergeant White knelt over Ledley, his fingers feeling for a pulse on his wrist. He looked up at me and shook his head slowly. I stood rigid to the spot, sensing Lydia behind me.

‘We’ll need a CSI team,’ I said through gritted teeth.

White stood up. ‘I’ve already notified area control.’

‘Did you see anything?’ I said.

‘The door was open when we arrived.’

In the distance, I heard the sound of an ambulance siren. Looking down at Ledley I doubted the paramedics could do anything. We retraced our steps to the front door. Anger and despair were a dangerous combination. Another man was dead and this time I could point the finger of blame directly at the incompetence of the dedicated source unit and Inspector Ackroyd. The noise of the approaching ambulance grew louder until it pulled into the street, stopping in front of my car. I barked instructions at the paramedics to check for life signs and make certain they contaminated the crime scene as little as possible.

White joined Lydia and me on the pavement. ‘Do you want me to start some house-to-house enquiries?’

On the opposite side of the street half a dozen residents had gathered in small groups occasionally giving us anxious glances.

I drew deeply on a cigarette. I sensed Lydia staring at me. I wanted to get back to Queen Street and give Dave Hobbs and Inspector Ackroyd a piece of my mind. But I knew I had to wait until the crime scene investigators arrived. I surveyed Row G. There were a dozen houses on both sides. We had little time to waste.

‘Of course, let’s get on with it.’

I told White and the uniformed constable to take the opposite side of the street. Lydia headed down to the bottom of the terrace just as the paramedics emerged. They confirmed what I already knew, packed their bags and reversed their ambulance up the street. Two marked police cars arrived and more young officers emerged. When I explained the circumstances their mouths fell open and they listened intently to my instructions to secure the crime scene. I headed up to the end of the terrace and hammered on the door. I had spoken to two residents of Row G by the time the scientific support vehicle from Eastern Division pulled into the street. A white-coated CSI emerged with three others.

‘Jack Ledley’s been murdered.’ I jerked my head towards the open door behind me. ‘His body is in the kitchen.’

‘Who else has been inside?’ One of the CSIs asked.

‘Only the officers who found the body and myself and the two paramedics.’

The CSIs left me standing on the pavement as they filed into number ten, Row G.

I hurried down the street to join Lydia. She gave me one of her disappointed troubled looks. ‘Nobody saw anything, and nobody heard anything.’

Despair gripped my throat again; I had to swallow heavily.

‘They must have used a silencer,’ Lydia continued.

A professional, somebody with a clear cold-blooded approach. I fisted my right hand and tapped it onto my left palm.

The young constable walked over the road and stood by White. ‘One of the neighbours says she saw two men by Ledley’s front door. They were only there for a second. Then they went in as though they had a key.’

‘Can she give us a description?’

‘They were both about my sort of height – five ten. And they both had black jackets. They were in a small silver car. She thought it was a Ford but she can’t be certain.’

It had to be Walsh and Bevard’s assassin.

‘Take her down to Queen Street. I’ll organise for an artist to do a photofit.’

‘What, now?’ White said.

I scowled at him. ‘Right now. And I need every available officer from your division doing house-to-house. Circulate the descriptions we’ve got.’

I went back into the house. Alvine was in the kitchen; the place felt cramped with three investigators working together. ‘Let me have the report soon as you can.’ I didn’t wait for a reply. I headed for my car.

*     *     *

I should have gone straight to the Incident Room, caught up with Jane and Wyn, monitored progress. But the red mist that had descended around me as I peered at Ledley’s bloodied corpse hadn’t disappeared. I strode towards Cornock’s office. I refused to contemplate the possibility he would not return or that Hobbs’s promotion would be permanent. Now we had another murder on our hands. It might not be the death of an innocent man, but Ledley didn’t deserve to die. After telling Hobbs exactly what I felt I would demand a meeting with Inspector Ackroyd. I was already rehearsing the sort of comments I’d make.

I reached Cornock’s office where common sense and politeness got the better of me so I knocked, but I didn’t wait for a reply before barging straight in.

Hobbs sat by the conference table, a plate of sandwiches placed in the middle alongside expensive-looking potato crisps, the sort with a trace of skin around the edge. He had opened a red bottle of Ty Nant water and poured two glasses. He wasn’t waiting for me to join him for lunch because Inspector Malcolm Ackroyd sat opposite him.

‘Inspector Marco.’ He managed a formality I wasn’t going to reciprocate.

‘I’ve just driven down from Blaenavon.’

Both men stared over at me. Ackroyd chewed on a mouthful of sandwich.

‘Jack Ledley was killed this morning.’ I let the announcement hang in the air. Ackroyd stopped chewing; I hoped the food would stick in his craw. ‘He was shot in the house where he was living. Several times actually. It looked exactly like the crime scene in the café in Roath Park when Felix Bevard was killed.’

‘I had no idea,’ Hobbs said.

‘If the original investigation into Oakley’s death had been handled properly we would have put Walsh behind bars years ago.’

Hobbs averted his gaze, settling it on the pile of sandwiches. It was about time he realised the reality and lost whatever appetite he possessed.

I turned to Ackroyd. ‘If you had shared information with me about Ledley earlier we might have found him sooner.’

‘Calm down, John,’ Ackroyd said.

‘Don’t you tell me to fucking calm down. I’m not the one responsible for Ledley’s death.’

‘Now you’ve really gone over the top.’

‘Have I?’

Ackroyd snorted, reaching for the glass of water and I noticed the slight trembling of his hand.

‘Let me remind you that until you unearthed film footage from Roath Park we had no idea Ledley was implicated in Oakley’s death.’ Ackroyd was right of course but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me agree with him. Ackroyd’s confidence grew. ‘You know full well he kept bad company.’

I guffawed. ‘Bad company. A man is dead.’

Hobbs interjected. ‘We need to find who killed him.’

‘I know full well who killed him.’