Somebody Told Me (8 page)

Jane was busy pinning the map to the board.

‘Bevard made a withdrawal of two hundred pounds from a cash machine in Cwmbran on the same afternoon that he was killed. And he made a purchase in a convenience store there.’

I walked over to the board; Wyn and Lydia joined me alongside Jane as we stood staring at the highlighted section identifying the golf club. There was no easy explanation for Bevard leaving the golf course. Was he meeting someone? And if so who? I glanced at the various faces on the board. I had to know what Bevard was up to that afternoon. I tapped on the map.

‘Tomorrow we go to Pontypool and talk to the owner of the convenience store.’

As I drove up the valley towards Aberdare, skirting round Mountain Ash, Tracy wasn’t far from my thoughts. It had been late in the afternoon when I sent her a message that had gone unanswered. Now it occurred to me that I perhaps should have texted earlier and that maybe she was annoyed with me.

An urgent edge had crept into my father’s voice when we’d spoken earlier that week. He had family business to discuss and made it clear I had to be punctual. A property in Pontypridd bequeathed by my grandfather – Nonno Marco – had a complicated legal provision that meant I was dragged into deciding the property’s future. Only Uncle Gino, my father’s older brother, had any interest and he had been pressurising my father into agreeing to sell. The third sibling, Uncle Franco, was an ageing hippy, still touring small venues with his rock band, who let my father and Uncle Gino make all the decisions.

I pulled into the drive at my parents’ home, the final bars of ‘You Were Always On My Mind’ filling the cabin. My father opened the door before I pressed the bell.

‘How are you, John?’

He had a mass of hair that always made him look younger than his age.

‘Busy.’

‘You’re always busy. Come in.’ He turned and I followed him into the house.

My mother was preparing a meal in the kitchen, and she reached up with one hand and cupped my left cheek, drawing her hand along the stubble. ‘Not shaving now, John?’

‘What are you cooking?’

‘
Spezzatino di manzo
.’

‘That’s beef stew to you and me,’ my father said behind me.

‘You talk to Papa.’

Upstairs in one of the bedrooms that he used as an office he settled into his chair by the paper-strewn desk and took a long slug from a bottle of Peroni. He gave me a businesslike look. ‘I need to talk to you about the property.’

I sat in an office chair.

‘Nonno made a bloody complicated will with that idiot of a lawyer.’

My father had complained about the will before, many times.

‘Nonno put the property in trust because he wanted everyone in the family to pull together once he’d died. It was old-fashioned but he hoped that somehow we could work together as a family.’

‘He hadn’t reckoned on Uncle Gino and Jez.’ I almost spat out my cousin’s name. He was lazy and if Nonno could see the way he had treated the family he’d be rewriting his will.

My father nodded slowly.

‘While the property was producing a decent income then there wasn’t a problem. But now Gino needs the cash and he’s been talking to some property developer who’s interested in buying it.’

‘With the sitting tenant?’

‘Apparently. They’ve bought up some of the adjoining properties and they want to demolish and rebuild the place. The local council is supporting them.’

‘Uncle Gino must be salivating at the prospect of getting his money.’

My father drank some more beer and let his gaze wander around the room. ‘I’ve got lots of memories from that place. Nonno was a good man but it’s like he’s trying to control events from the grave.’

‘What do you want to do?’

He sighed. ‘We might think about getting rid of the old place. Too many memories and if the price is right … And we might avoid all the hassle of arguing with the tenant about the rent and negotiating a new tenancy.’

‘So the new owners would take on the problems with evicting the tenant?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What’s happened so far?’

The smell of oregano and tomato drifting from downstairs made me feel hungry.

‘Gino has sent me a pile of paperwork. We need to go through it before we meet the lawyers at their offices in Pontypridd. I’ll let you know when it’s been arranged.’

He passed over a thick wad of papers and took me through each one. There were documents and letters which he tried to explain in layman’s terms. An hour passed quickly and Papa started tidying his papers when the front door bell rang. I heard Mamma’s footsteps and then the sound of a greeting as she opened the door.

‘Mrs Marco, lovely to see you.’

The voice of my ex-partner, Jackie, was unmistakable. I had seen more of Jackie in the last three months than I had in the previous three years – Dean’s recent admission to hospital had seen to that. Thankfully he had survived the operation he needed on his brain after a fall, but I had spent hours in the hospital and it had thrown Jackie and me together.

Mamma had always liked Jackie and the feeling had been mutual. I silently cursed my mother for having orchestrated an invitation for her to join us for dinner. I flashed an angry glance at my father but he was staring at the computer screen reading emails so I went downstairs.

‘Nice to see you, Jackie.’

She gave me a smile and held my gaze a little longer than normal. I gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt smooth; her perfume lingered in my nostrils.

‘I didn’t know you were joining us.’

For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then my mother cut in. ‘Of course you did. I told you last week.’

Jackie wanted to reply but Mamma fussed over her, leading her by the arm into the kitchen, telling her the finer details of the recipe she’d been assembling. I followed them, helped myself to some sparkling water and listened to their conversation. Mamma still treated Jackie like a daughter-in-law, sharing the occasional confidence, asking her advice – both ignoring me.

‘Where’s Dean tonight?’ It had taken a degree of her prior planning to make these arrangements.

‘Dean’s staying with some friends.’ She paused, a serious look in her eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking about moving back. There are some jobs going in one of the call centres in Cardiff Bay. And I don’t think I can afford to keep the house once my divorce from Justin is finalised. So I’ll probably sell up.’

‘You’ll be able to see a lot more of Dean then.’ Mamma’s tone was upbeat and positive.

I wondered how much of Jackie’s arrangements were not being shared with me.

Papa joined us in the kitchen before we went into the adjacent dining room where a bottle of Chianti stood on the table with two bottles of water. Mamma’s beef stew was up to her usual high standard and Jackie made all the right complimentary comments. It still annoyed me that Mamma was trying to interfere in my personal life, but criticism was futile. There was a careful analysis of whether Dean was fully recovered after his accident and brain operation. Then his current schooling was scrutinised before the discussion focused on the quality of schools near Jackie’s mother.

After panna cotta my father made espresso and by eleven I was stifling a yawn. I mumbled my excuses about having to work the following morning and needing a good night’s sleep and Jackie joined me as we left my parents’ home. I didn’t know exactly what to say as we stood on the driveway.

Jackie squeezed my arm. ‘I wanted to tell you how much I valued your help when Dean was ill. I could never have done it without you.’ Then she lingered too long with a simple kiss on my cheek before getting into her car and driving away.

Now Jackie dominated my thoughts as I drove back to Cardiff. I was uncertain of my own emotions and unclear how I would react if Jackie tried to rekindle our relationship. I had reached Taff’s Well just before the M4 when my mobile rang. I fumbled with my jacket on the seat by my side and answered the call.

‘Inspector Marco. You’re needed at a murder scene.’

I slammed the car into third gear and hammered up the slip road of the motorway where I raced into the outside lane. The traffic was light and soon the car reached a hundred miles an hour. I thrust the mobile into the cradle on the dashboard and dialled central operations. The call was answered after a single ring.

‘Are the CSI team on their way?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir. Miss Dix and her team are en route.’

Then I rang Lydia. ‘Just had the call, sir.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’

Mentally I calculated the journey to Llantrisant – it was two junctions on the motorway and then a few miles to the north. Twenty minutes maximum. I made it in twelve. I pulled the car onto the pavement as Lydia parked behind me. We strode over to the semi-detached property where a uniformed police officer stood outside.

‘He’s in the kitchen.’

I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked down the hallway.

Brian Yelland sat upright in a chair by a pine table still wearing his prison officer’s uniform, a blank look on his face, a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. I stared over and recalled the only time I had met him. I had caught the smell of alcohol on his breath when he showed us Walsh’s cell in HMP Grange Hall. Drunks always tried to overcompensate, I knew that only too well, and his loquaciousness had become grating. I stood for a moment and scanned the scene – first the body, then the table, before slowly turning to the rest of the kitchen. The realisation gripped me that a killer had stood in this same room. I couldn’t escape a feeling of foreboding that the finger was pointed at Jimmy Walsh, safely locked up in the prison where Yelland worked.

Lydia stood behind me. ‘Jesus, it’s just like Bevard.’

I nodded. ‘Looks like another professional kill.’

‘One of his neighbours found him. He called to see Yelland about some problems with the boundary fence. He looked in and saw the body.’

A slice of buttered bread sat alone on a cream-coloured plate and near it was an upended yogurt pot. Tomato ketchup smeared the plate in front of Yelland: his last meal had not been fine dining.

‘We’ll need to know if he had a family.’

‘Looks like he lives alone.’

I turned my attention to the rest of the kitchen. It had all the usual accessories: a kettle and a toaster, crockery on a drainer – and the smell of decaying food. And amongst this domestic normality I had to hope there would be some trace of the killer.

Behind me, I heard the muted sound of vehicles arriving and then voices.

Then a white-suited Alvine Dix appeared in the doorway.

‘What have we got, Marco?’

I glanced towards Yelland.

‘We’ll get started then.’

I retreated with Lydia out of the kitchen and into the sitting room at the front of the house. It had a cheap three-piece suite, its arms scuffed and the cushions sagging. I peered out of the window. The markings of the patrol car glistened under the street light. It still had its blue warning light flashing. Then I noticed an A-Class Mercedes parking. Paddy McVeigh jumped out and I walked through into the hallway to meet him.

‘Hi, Paddy.’

‘Hello, John. Where’s the body?’

I pointed down the hallway. The pathologist hurried towards the kitchen and I heard Alvine complaining about being disturbed.

‘Shut up, Alvine,’ Paddy shouted. He knew well enough how to handle her. Not that there was any ill will towards Paddy or me from Alvine but she had to get things done and if anyone got in her way then she complained. A lot.

I was about to return to the sitting room when I heard a frantic woman’s voice. ‘Is it true?’

‘This is a crime scene, madam.’ I recognised the voice of the uniformed officer. ‘You cannot go in there.’

She shouted. ‘I need to see him. Is he in there?’

‘Madam …’

I heard the sound of scuffling and then a small woman with auburn hair burst into the house. Lydia had emerged from the sitting room by now and we stood between the woman and the kitchen so she stopped.

‘My name is Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’ I kept my voice soft and low.

‘Is it true?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Sharon … Sharon Yelland. I’m Brian’s … At least …. We were separated. One of the neighbours called me.’

I raised an arm, pointing her into the sitting room and then towards the sofa where she sat. Now I could see the bags around her eyes where the tears had left their tracks.

‘I’m afraid Brian has been killed.’

Her lips quivered. ‘How?’

‘He was shot.’

Her face crumpled and she pushed her hands to her face.

I glanced over at Lydia who took my prompt. ‘Sharon, can you tell me about Brian?’

She was still crying but Lydia had managed a kindly tone and Sharon glanced over at her, swallowed and then calmed herself. ‘We were separated.’ She fidgeted for a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.

Lydia leant forward again. ‘How often did you see him?’

‘He’d come to pick up the kids and we’d meet to have coffee sometimes.’

It suggested that despite the problems in their marriage she still had feelings for Yelland.

‘And he’d been having trouble at work.’

Lydia shot me an urgent glance before continuing. ‘What sort of trouble?’

‘The governor had started disciplinary proceedings against him.’

‘Do you know the details?’ I said.

‘Bad time keeping and unprofessional conduct. But that was an excuse – it was really about the drinking.’

Suddenly I tuned into what she was saying. ‘Did he have a problem with drink?’

She grunted. ‘Problem? He’d get into work pissed. I pleaded with him to get help but he ignored me.’

Once we had all her contact details we ushered her outside where two neighbours were waiting. A comforting arm was placed over her shoulder as they walked over to one of the houses nearby. Conversation between Paddy and Alvine, from down the hallway, broke my concentration and seconds later, Paddy appeared in the doorway. ‘John, I’ve finished.’