Somebody Told Me
by Stephen Puleston
~~~~~~~~
Get Stephen Puleston’s Starter Library FOR FREE
Sign up for the no-spam newsletter and get Dead Smart [a prequel novella in the Inspector Marco series] and lots more exclusive content, all for free.
Details can be found at the end of Somebody Told Me.
Chapter 1
In a puddle of Diet Coke and piss is an unedifying place to die. I counted a single bullet wound to the centre of the man’s forehead and several to his chest. His sweatshirt was a neutral grey, frayed around the collar. His jeans looked clean, at least the parts I could see. The oblong storeroom stank of the urine that had pooled by his feet on the concrete floor.
And there was blood. Thick pools of the stuff.
Against one wall were towers of various coloured soft drink cans, and lining another were boxes of crisps and snacks and chocolate bars. A wooden chair lay on its side a few feet away from the corpse. He looked mid-forties, clean-shaven, blonde hair. He lay on his side, one leg neatly on top of the other, facing towards me. I could see the outline of a wallet in his rear right hip pocket. Outside I heard a man’s voice raised in disbelief, then a woman answering back in a thick Cardiff accent. I opened the door and walked into the kitchen of the café and then through into the main seating area. It was a bright warm September morning and I looked over Roath Park lake; two boats were already bobbing along on the surface of the water.
A uniformed officer, his face flushed and harassed, was talking to a stocky woman with a pale complexion, who I had seen dragging heavily on a cigarette outside the café earlier. She was sitting by one of the tables snivelling into a handkerchief. The officer left us and joined a colleague in talks with customers who kept pointing at the café as though they expected the place to open without more delay.
‘This is Mary Peters, sir. She found the body first thing this morning.’
Mary made another blubbing sound and then blew her nose.
‘It’s terrible. I should be open now. I don’t know what my boss will say.’
‘Do you know who the dead man is?’
She gazed up at me in disbelief. Then she blew her nose again and shook her head at the same time.
‘When did you arrive?’ I said.
‘It was the usual time.’
‘And what time is that?’ I would be here all morning at this rate.
‘Half-seven.’
‘What time do you open normally?’
She blew her nose yet again. ‘Half past eight.’
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary this morning?’
She opened her eyes wide, the shock evident. Then she shook her head slowly. After a halting explanation that everything was normal when she arrived at work I heard a voice raised in temper by the front door before a man barged in. He was swarthy, with thick black hair. In the distance, I could hear the siren of an approaching police car.
‘What the hell has happened?’
I pushed my warrant card towards him. ‘Detective Inspector John Marco. Who are you?’
‘Steve Tucker. I’m the manager here.’
‘Mary discovered a body in the storeroom when she arrived at work.’
He glanced at the door to the kitchen.
‘Who is it? I mean, is it one of the girls who work here?’
‘It’s a man. This is a crime scene so I’m afraid you’ll need to leave.’
I ushered them towards the door and gestured at one of the uniformed officers.
‘When can we open?’ Tucker said, hovering by the door. ‘I can’t afford to lose all this business. It’s my livelihood and our busy period’s starting.’ He stood quite still, hands on hips. ‘I need to know when I’ll be able to open. I’ve got staff to pay. This could be a disaster for my business – people talk, soon everyone will know that someone was killed here.’
‘A man was murdered in your café: which was a disaster for him. And his family. You’ll be notified once we’ve finished.’
The uniformed officer stood by my side now. ‘Give your personal details to this officer. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.’
Tucker stared at me defiantly as though he was thinking how he could challenge me further. Common sense prevailed, and he left. After a few seconds I followed him outside where I dragged a packet of cigarettes from my pocket. It was the second of my five-a-day habit and I sparked my Zippo into life and drew deeply.
It was my first day back after a three-week holiday. Hundreds of emails needing my attention swamped my inbox that morning making my vacation a distant memory. I had heard the reluctance in my voice when area control rang to tell me that as the nearest senior officer the case had been allocated to me. And, surprise, too, as normally I preferred the day-to-day work of real policing to the grind of paperwork.
There was a commotion as more uniformed police officers arrived, followed quickly by Alvine Dix, a crime scene manager, with two of her regular investigators in tow. Alvine had been a fixture at Queen Street police station longer than I had been there. She liked walking in the Brecon Beacons, I knew that much, and she’d had an unsuccessful marriage to a librarian she had met online, but after she caught him wearing her clothes one evening when she returned home early things hadn’t worked out between them.
‘Good morning, John,’ Alvine said.
I crushed the butt under my shoe. ‘Alvine.’
I gave her colleagues brief nods. She dictated instructions for the CSIs to establish a perimeter and then we walked through the café to the storeroom. It felt hotter now and the smell stronger.
‘Who found the body?’
‘One of the staff when she arrived for work.’
Alvine scanned the room taking in the stacks of cans shrouded in thin plastic. ‘We’ll get started.’ There was a purposeful tone to her voice, almost contented.
‘I’ll need the wallet in his pocket. There might be identification.’
She shouted for the photographer who appeared in the doorway moments later. He was finished in seconds and she fished out the wallet into an evidence pouch and handed it to me. I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and counted forty pounds in well-thumbed five-pound notes and some loose change in a pouch. But no credit card or debit card or driving licence and nothing to tell me who the man might be so any family would have to wait.
Back in the café I stopped to look out over the lake again. The sunshine glistened on the water now and onlookers had gathered on the opposite bank, craning to get a view of the café. Soon the reporters would arrive with cameras and lights and notebooks at the ready.
In the meantime, I had to find out who the mystery man might be.
Then I heard the familiar sound of Lydia’s voice. I turned and noticed her nodding to one of the officers by the door. I followed her purposeful and determined walk through the café: she had the ability to make calmness seem natural.
‘Good morning, boss.’ Her black jacket looked new and flecks of her auburn hair already coloured its shoulders. In profile her nose was bold but face-on it complemented her wide mouth and strong dark eyes perfectly. ‘How was your holiday?’
‘Great thanks.’
‘Glad to be back?’ She grinned, knowing I need not answer. ‘Did Dean enjoy himself?’
Spending time with my son had been the big bonus of my holiday. I wanted to be a real father, not like the semi-detached version I had been over the past few years. Dean had picked up a few words of Italian and my mother’s family had spoilt him continuously for the three weeks we had been staying with them. Even my vocabulary had improved.
‘We had a great time. And what a welcome back.’
Her face hardened. ‘There’s a body?
’
I jerked my head behind me. ‘A member of staff found the corpse in the storeroom behind the kitchen when she arrived this morning.’
‘Any ID?’
I wandered over to the window. ‘Only an empty wallet.’
I read the time. The pathologist was late. A hearse might even arrive before him.
‘I’ll call central operations.’ Lydia dialled the number, and I heard her asking for details of all missing persons for the last forty-eight hours. I caught a glimpse of the uniformed officers outside marshalling the perimeter of the crime scene and talking to the public. Then I noticed the small figure of Dr Paddy McVeigh walking down the path towards the café entrance. He spoke a few words with one of the officers and then disappeared from view only to re-emerge through the main entrance.
‘Inspector Marco. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was terrible.’
‘Paddy. How are you?’
‘Fair to middling. Can’t complain. So where is …’
I nodded to the kitchen door. ‘In a storeroom at the back.’
Paddy strode into the kitchen, past the stainless steel worktops and microwaves to the door at the rear. I followed and listened as he exchanged pleasantries with Alvine who then stepped out into the kitchen. He knelt by the body and started his examination.
I gazed around the storeroom. In the far corner a double door was barred. A single fluorescent tube hummed loudly. I struck me as odd that there was only one chair. If the dead man had been sitting on it had the killer stood up, I wondered. Or had he been the one sitting down?
I looked over at Alvine. ‘I want all the chairs in the café dusted and examined.’
She frowned and opened her mouth to reproach me, no doubt. I didn’t give her an explanation because Paddy stood up and turned to me.
‘Gunshot wounds. Small bore hand gun, I’d say and …’ He looked around the storeroom. ‘The body hasn’t been moved so he was killed here. I’ll get more from the post mortem report but it looks like he drank some Coke before he was killed. It must have gone all over him.’
Once Paddy had left I looked down at our mystery man, who was lying on his back now, when Lydia came in to stand by my side. She peered down and then turned to me.
‘I know that face.’
‘What?’
‘That’s Felix Bevard.’
Chapter 2
The house had well-maintained hedges in a crescent-shaped rockery that edged the drive. Small ornamental trees stood in wooden tubs near the front door. It looked like an ordinary suburban house with a double garage and vertical blinds on the downstairs windows. Lydia drove past and then turned round to park. After reading the intelligence report on Felix Bevard sent to my mobile I realised that he was far from ordinary. His minicab business was suspected of being implicated in drug trafficking and prostitution and his pub, the Lemon Grove, was the ideal venue to launder significant amounts of ready cash. I wondered what his neighbours thought of him.
Three unsolved murders in Cardiff were linked to Bevard and known organised crime groups. A flag on the file warned of significant intelligence on Bevard being available in other police force areas. When her husband hadn’t arrived home the night before Mrs Bevard had reported him missing. The details were unremarkable, standard phrases taken from the computer system that never reflected the worry of a wife or husband. The usual reassurance had been given that everything would be done to find him. A family liaison officer was due to arrive later.
I stood by the front door and pressed the bell. It had a nice middle-class chime to it and I imagined Gloria Bevard in happier circumstances making pastry in the kitchen listening to Radio 4.
She yanked the door open and stared at us. ‘Have you found him?’
Gloria Bevard had blazing red hair, a long chin and one eye that looked slightly off centre, making it difficult to judge how to look at her. No amount of make-up could disguise the crow’s feet gripping the side of each eye under which there were deep bags. A silver pendant hung around her neck with the word Gloria engraved on it.
She lowered her head hoping, I guessed, for some positive response.
I had my warrant card ready. ‘Detective Inspector Marco and Detective Sergeant Flint. May we come in?’
Gloria led us into an enormous sitting room. Prints and photographs of family adorned one wall. Heavy curtains with extravagant swags and swirls hung at each end of the windows. Gloria stood by a sofa fidgeting with her hands until she started chewing a nail. Breaking bad news was never easy.
‘May we sit down?’ I used a warm get-to-know-you tone.
She nodded and fell into one of the sofas that almost engulfed her thin figure.
‘Do you have anyone at home with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Kids are at school.’
‘I’m afraid we have bad news. We found a body this morning that we believe is your husband.’
Her lips quivered, she clutched her hands to her mouth, and sobbed.
‘Can I get you some water?’ Lydia said.
Gloria mumbled confirmation before reaching for a box of tissues on the coffee table.
‘I knew something was wrong. He’s never late home.’ Then the tears started.
Lydia returned with a glass of water that Gloria grasped tightly.
‘We’ve arranged for a family liaison officer to be with you later today.’
She looked over at me wide-eyed and shell-shocked.
Lydia continued. ‘They are specially trained officers that will help you.’
I hesitated. ‘I know this is a difficult time but I need to establish where your husband was last night.’
She sipped on her water before speaking. ‘He’s never late … And I know he wasn’t the best of people … But we loved each other. What am I going to do now?’ She put down her glass and reached for fresh tissues to wipe her eyelids.
‘When did you see him last?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘Yesterday. I can’t think … breakfast. I don’t …’
‘Where was he going yesterday?’
She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth. ‘He was going to play golf. He should have been …’
‘When were you expecting him home?’
‘Last night. He should have been here when I got back.’
‘You were out too?’ Lydia asked.
‘I should have been here.’ She scrunched up a handful of tissues. ‘I was out with friends for a birthday party.’
‘Who was your husband playing golf with yesterday? I’ll need their names.’
The doorbell rang. Lydia stood up and left as Gloria found the contact telephone numbers of Bevard’s playing partners, which I jotted down in my pocketbook. A family liaison officer appeared at the sitting room door with Lydia and we made the introductions.
‘Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?’ I asked.
Gloria glanced over at Lydia and then at the family liaison officer before she crumpled her face into an agonising frown. Then she looked up. ‘It must have been that scumbag Walsh.’
Lydia glanced over at me, puzzled.
‘Who do you mean?’ I said.
‘Jimmy Walsh. This has got his name all over it.’
* * *
I stood by the hastily erected board in the Incident Room and stared over at the rest of my team. Wyn Nuttall looked thinner than usual: his neck longer than I remembered, his head high above his shoulders. His shirt was a size too large and that made the neatly knotted tie look untidy. He stared over at me intently. Everything seemed exciting for Wyn, more adventurous than policing in his native North Wales no doubt.
A photograph of Bevard taken by the CSIs had been pinned to the board.
‘Who was he, boss?’ Wyn said.
‘Felix Bevard owns a minicab business and a pub, which are perfect ways to launder money. He was killed in a storeroom in the café at Roath Park. He was shot in the head and the chest – several times. Mrs Bevard will
make the formal identification later today. Lydia identified Bevard at the scene.’
Lydia cleared her throat. ‘I was a detective constable on a case where we suspected he was involved in a string of burglaries. We couldn’t prove anything and in the last few years he has kept out of trouble.’
Jane Thorne, sitting alongside Lydia, piped up. ‘Any forensics yet on the gun used?’
I shook my head.
Jane had been languishing as a detective constable for too long to have any realistic expectation of promotion. Her last attempt at the sergeant’s exams had been unsuccessful, so she had settled into her role with a seriousness that made her boring. Steely grey streaks in her centre-parted hair reinforced the impression she was the oldest in the room.
I shared a glance between Jane and Wyn. ‘We’ve got the names of two men he was playing golf with yesterday afternoon. And the names of the staff at the café. I need you to contact them and get preliminary statements. And we find out from the widow where she was last night and get the names of her friends etc… You know the drill. We piece together Bevard’s last known movements.’
I reached for a photograph from the desk in front of me. ‘This is a picture of Jimmy Walsh, who the widow named as being responsible for his death.’
‘Who’s Walsh?’ Jane said.
I replaced the image before replying. ‘Mrs Bevard told us that Felix and Walsh had a falling-out over a property in Newport. Before that they were best mates. Walsh was implicated in an unsolved murder of a man called Robin Oakley, who was allegedly killed because he wouldn’t agree to sell a property to one of Jimmy Walsh’s companies.’ Stillness fell on the Incident Room. ‘His body was found in a boat floating on Roath Park lake early one morning. He was a nice bloke apparently, well-known in the community, supported local charities. We couldn’t prove anything. Not a bloody thing.’
Lydia interjected. ‘Walsh’s reputation is for random violence.’
I continued. ‘So I need a full analysis on Bevard’s mobile telephone. And we need to go through all his bank accounts, credit cards. I need to know everything about him.’
Somebody Told Me Page 1