Somebody Told Me (32 page)

I heard the greetings from Jane and Wyn and Lydia but I paid little attention as I walked over to my room. After booting up my computer I glanced over at the folded
Western Mail
perched on the edge of my desk and thought again about Walter Underwood. Gloria Bevard filled my thoughts. I reread all the preliminary statements. She had been out with her friends on the night her husband had been killed. Quickly I found a record of what her friends had said. Gloria and Felix had a troubled relationship. The more I read the more unease crept into my mind like the start of flu; you know something isn’t right but until you start sneezing and coughing you don’t know what’s wrong.

And then Cornock’s reminder that I might have missed something really simple came to mind.

We had been looking in the wrong place for Jimmy Walsh’s source of information about Bevard’s supergrass agreement. I shouted at Lydia. She appeared in the doorway of my room moments later.

‘Shut the door.’

She grimaced, clicked the door closed and sat down.

‘Gloria Bevard might have told Jimmy Walsh about her husband.’

Lydia grimaced. ‘Are you suggesting she was involved in his murder?’

I squeezed my eyes closed. ‘I should have seen this sooner. Gloria Bevard would never have left South Wales. She’s a Valleys girl.’

‘But that means she’d be implicated in Bevard’s death.’ Lydia shook her head slowly. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘I’ve read the statements from the girlfriends she was with on the night of Bevard’s death. A couple make reference to how she and Felix had argued a lot.’

I leant over the desk and thumped an open palm on top of the papers. ‘They’ve all got perfect alibis, Bernie Walsh, Martin Kendall, Gloria Bevard and above all Jimmy Walsh. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I suppose we could requisition her telephone log.’

‘Make it a priority.’ A telephone call reminded me that I had to attend Jack Ledley’s post mortem. I hurried over to the hospital. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk from the assistant or the sound of classical music thundering through the mortuary as Paddy McVeigh got to work. It set my nerves on edge and I couldn’t stop thinking about Gloria Bevard. I remembered the look on her face when I mentioned Kendall’s name. At the time, I was uncomfortable with her reaction. I cursed silently that I had not seen it at the time but death can play games with the emotions.

Back in Queen Street I ploughed my way through the preliminary results from the house-to-house enquiries around Forge Side. Wyn and Jane had given me a summary but it wasn’t good enough; I had to read them for myself. They managed to persuade me not to view the CCTV coverage from the middle of Blaenavon, telling me in clear terms there was nothing to help us.

I left Queen Street at the end of the afternoon and headed out to the hospital to collect my father. Papa was sitting on the high-backed chair next to his bed, Mamma by his side. His impatience disappeared when he saw me and he smiled broadly. We gathered all his belongings together and after thanking the staff profusely left the hospital.

Back home, an hour later, Papa sank into a chair and started watching recordings of various television programmes he’d missed whilst in hospital. I sent Lydia a message enquiring about progress with Gloria Bevard’s telephone records. The answer was the same – still waiting.

I decided to stay a little longer. The doorbell rang and I assumed it to be a neighbour but once Mamma had opened the door I recognised the dull flat sound of Uncle Gino’s voice.

‘Is he back?’

‘Come in.’ Mamma sounded tentative.

Uncle Gino came into the sitting room. He still had his trademark tie pulled down a couple of inches from a loosened shirt collar. The tufts of hair around his ears needed trimming.

‘How are you?’ He shook Papa’s hand vigorously.

Mamma gave him a cool, brittle gaze as she sat down beside me on the sofa. She didn’t offer tea or coffee and soon enough Gino got the message but as he left he jerked his head at me indicating that he wanted to talk to me.

‘I’ll see Uncle Gino to the door,’ I said.

I walked with him to his car and he turned towards me.

‘I didn’t want any of this to happen. You know that.’

‘I told you to stay clear of Walsh and Goldstar Properties.’

He rolled his shoulders. ‘They were offering the best price.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They came to see us yesterday.’

‘Who?’

He looked down at his feet, and kicked some pebbles off the tarmac surface. ‘Mr Shaw and a man called Norcross—’

‘What the hell did they want?’

‘They …’ He gazed up at me. ‘They gave us until Friday. After that the deal is off.’

I couldn’t believe it. Jimmy Walsh had the audacity to stalk my family in the middle of the court case against him. He must have felt confident, arrogant enough to believe his prosecution for the Oakley killing would collapse.

‘We could lose everything,’ Gino said.

My anger boiled over. ‘Papa has had a heart attack and my mother was involved in a hit-and-run because of you and Jez. At this moment I don’t give a fuck if you lose everything.’

I turned my back on Uncle Gino. As I walked to the front door I heard his voice. ‘You be sure to tell your father.’

Mamma was standing in the hallway when I entered and she gave me a quizzical look that said I needed to explain. We joined Papa and I gave them a word-by-word breakdown of what Uncle Gino said.

‘After what’s happened I’m going to keep the old place,’ Papa said, turning his attention to the recording of a football game.

I left my parents and headed back into Cardiff, my thoughts immediately focusing on Jimmy Walsh. A part of me wanted to be pleased that Walsh’s property ambitions would be thwarted but I was worried, too, knowing how vicious Walsh could be. A yawn gripped my jaw as I passed Quakers Yard and I drove home in a blur hoping I could sleep.

I slept soundly, hardly moving all night. That morning I chose my navy suit, a powder-blue shirt and tie that Tracy had given me as a birthday present. In Queen Street I walked over to Lydia’s desk. ‘Have we had Gloria Bevard’s call logs?’

‘It’s just arrived, we’re working on it now.’

‘Send it to my machine. I’ll print it out.’

An optimism that I hoped was not unfounded filled my mind. I reached my desk, fiddled with the mouse and within minutes was reading the printed version of Gloria Bevard’s mobile telephone log. I called Lydia’s name. I had found a blue and a pink highlighter by the time she appeared at my door.

She was clutching the same printed sheet that was in front of me.

‘For now I want to look at the telephone calls she made the day her husband died.’

Lydia’s eyes had a steely determination. ‘Wyn is putting together a spreadsheet.’

‘Okay.’ I took the blue highlighter and drew a box around all the calls Gloria Bevard had made that day. Then I highlighted in blue the calls she had made between four in the afternoon and eleven in the evening. It amazed me how many she’d made. There were dozens. I was hoping for inspiration quickly but the volume daunted me.

I could hear the activity from the Incident Room when Wyn and Jane were tracing the identity of the owners of various numbers. The words
pay-as-you-go
were spoken too often for my liking. After two hours Wyn stood in my doorway and announced that they had made some progress. He was pinning an A4 sheet to the board of the Incident Room with one eleven-digit mobile number printed on it.

‘Mrs Bevard telephoned this number at four-thirty on the afternoon Bevard was killed. It lasted forty-eight seconds.’

Wyn turned to look at the rest of us. Sensing our impatience, he quickly added, ‘She doesn’t call the number again until after eight o’clock. Then she calls the number three times within a few minutes. The calls don’t last more than ten seconds.’

Jane butted in. ‘Which suggests they weren’t answered.’

‘But she made calls to dozens of other people.’

‘That’s right boss,’ Wyn said. ‘But this is a number she had never rung before.’

‘I want all the other numbers she called that day traced.’

‘There are quite a few pay-as-you-go,’ Jane said. ‘But most of them are monthly contracts.’

I stared over at the mobile number.

‘The number is dead, boss. I tried it,’ Wyn said.

‘Where was that number sold?’

‘A shop in Southampton.’

‘There might be CCTV. Call them. Now. And get as much detail about the numbers that were called from that mobile.’

The waiting seemed interminable. I reread reports and doodled more mind maps. After a mid-morning coffee I walked through into the Incident Room and over to the board. Jane had a picture of a young boy and girl in a small frame by her telephone. I knew they weren't hers so I assumed they were a nephew and niece. I didn’t even have a photograph of Dean in my wallet. Wyn’s desk was characteristically tidy, and knowing the way he worked there was probably order to the pencils and highlighters neatly stacked in the large brightly coloured mug.

I stared at the photographs. Knowing that we had enough to make a case against Martin Kendall brought a smile to my face. Peering into the eyes of Jimmy Walsh made me shiver; he had eyes like a shark, black and impenetrable.

Back in my room I flicked through the entries in Walsh’s file from HMP Grange Hall. I read the family background – no siblings although an identical twin had died in hospital as a baby. His mother had been in her forties giving birth and she had a history of abusive and violent relationships. The probation reports made sober reading so I was pleased to see Wyn standing in my doorway.

‘I’ve sent you an email from the shop in Southampton, sir.’

I turned to the screen, clicking until I opened the attachment. The coverage started at eight am and, guessing that the shop would be open until late that same afternoon, I decided to fast-forward sections. After half an hour I got into the routine of spotting when customers arrived so I glared at them and then pressed fast-forward to the next new customer.

After two hours I regretted embarking on the exercise. The small of my back ached, and my eyes felt smudged, so I got up, stretched, went to the bathroom and splashed hot water over my face. I returned to my office with a double strength instant coffee from the kitchen.

I ploughed on for another hour, this time fast-forwarding more frequently.

The time said 3.30 pm when I stopped, realising that I had missed something. The shop was full, all the assistants were busy, some demonstrating mobile phones to various customers, others processing orders.

I rewound the recording.

The back of a man’s head caught my attention as he walked into the shop and up to the counter. I squinted. A troubled thought crossed my mind that I recognised him. I double-checked the date on the recording. It was a Saturday, several weeks earlier.

I fast-forwarded the recording for a few minutes and then pressed play. The order was finalised, the assistant beaming at the customer, bundling the mobile phone box into a carrier bag. I wanted him to turn around. I wanted to look at his face.

Seconds later he duly obliged. I clicked pause. I sensed the skin on my forehead furrowing and tightening. I was staring at the image of Jimmy Walsh. I pushed my chair back and it crashed against the radiator behind me. I gazed at Walsh. It felt like minutes as everything about the investigation ran through my mind.

‘Lydia …’ I called out but Wyn must have reached the same stage in the recordings as I had because he shouted his surprise.

I reached for Walsh’s prison file on my desk and flicked through until I found the information I needed. Then I checked the date on my monitor. Lydia appeared in my doorway as I marched out to the Incident Room.

‘On the date this recording was made Jimmy Walsh hadn’t been released from jail. But he was on a weekend release. The prisoners in those open jails get weekend releases before their actual release dates, usually Friday to Monday. And that weekend Jimmy Walsh was in Southampton buying a telephone.’

Wyn nodded enthusiastically. I reached the board and tapped on the image of Gloria Bevard. ‘So why was she calling Jimmy Walsh on the afternoon Felix was killed?’

There were three sets of eyes gazing at me intently when I turned around.

‘We need to be certain it was Jimmy Walsh and not a doppelganger,’ Wyn said.

‘And I know how we can check.’ Lydia said before reaching for her mouse. ‘We have the recording from the billet where Jimmy Walsh had his cell in Grange Hall. We can compare the images.’

‘Of course, good work,’ I said. ‘Find it.’

It was vaguely voyeuristic watching prisoners walking up and down the corridor, talking to each other without hearing voices. Lydia found the coverage from the billet on the day Bevard was murdered. We had watched once before just to make certain that he really was locked up. That morning Walsh stood by the door of the billet waiting for it to be unlocked. Lydia ran the recording on and recognised him as he returned before lunch. A prison officer made the rounds, counting the prisoners.

He returned later that afternoon, a beanie pulled over his head, coughing into a fisted hand.

Other prisoners walked up and down the corridor, visiting the toilets, taking a shower, but for the rest of the day Walsh was in his cell. It confirmed what we already knew – that he had been ill. The following morning one of the prisoners knocked at Walsh’s door. Then Yelland appeared and words were exchanged with another prisoner, who stood in the doorway of Walsh’s cell before letting Yelland into Walsh’s cell. It was late that afternoon when Walsh emerged coughing and spluttering, still wearing his beanie. He must have been going back to work, no nursing or medical support for Walsh.

I went back to the images of Walsh in the mobile phone shop in Southampton and watched the coverage repeatedly until my eyes burned. Then I clicked back to the images from the billet at HMP Grange Hall. It was the same man, no doubt.

Suddenly I was back in Walsh’s cell staring at one of his books about tracing your family tree. It struck me then that the answer had been in front of me all the time.