Somebody Told Me

by Stephen Puleston

  Olga’s flatmate had said that she was watching television when Olga returned between midnight and one o’clock on the night Bevard was murdered. It wasn’t going to be enough to justify the continued detention of Owen Norcross.

  At the allotted time I trooped through to see Hobbs. I knocked on his door, but I didn’t wait for a response before barging in. He furrowed his brow in a brief angry rebuke before nodding to one of the chairs.

  ‘Bring me up to date.’

  He elevated the chair, just enough to make him look down at me with a superior officer’s glare.

  ‘Owen Norcross is our prime suspect. Forensics found his prints in the café where Bevard was killed.’

  Hobbs scribbled the occasional note as I gave him a summary of our interviews with Olga and her flatmate. And I handed him a printout of Norcross’s convictions and explained that he was a close associate of Jimmy Walsh who had visited him regularly in prison.

  Hobbs chewed his lower lip. ‘It’s not enough, John.’

  ‘He cannot account for his movements in the middle of the night.’ I waited. ‘And he couldn’t explain how his prints were found in the café.’

  ‘As your senior officer I have considered all the available factors in determining whether we can authorise Norcross’s continued detention.’

  Acting senior officer I felt like correcting him.

  ‘Do we have his passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I cannot authorise his detention any longer. We’ll have to release him on bail.’

  I left the meeting knowing that Hobbs was right but thinking of any reason to disagree with him. I returned to the Incident Room, which was quiet. I sat down heavily by one of the desks and looked up at the faces on the board. Hobbs was right of course. If Norcross had killed Bevard then leaving the fingerprints was clumsy, especially when Bernie Walsh and Martin Kendall had gone to so much trouble to give themselves watertight alibis.

  I read the time again and then I walked down to the custody suite.

  Once Norcross had been brought out of his cell I went through all the formalities. None of it was new to him and he gave me a sullen stare when I explained that he had to return to the police station in twenty-eight days and that he shouldn’t leave the country.

  ‘And how the fuck could I do that without a passport?’

  I smiled at him but said nothing. I watched as he left the police station and I wondered when I would see him back again.

  Chapter 10

  In Mario’s I dragged a spoon though an Americano while staring out of the window gathering my thoughts. A breakthrough from forensics looked like the best chance we had to get Norcross back to Queen Street. I watched a mother dragging a screaming youngster past the café. My mind wandered. Bevard must have faced a tough choice – give up everything he and his family valued for a new life. Even if in that new life he might never be truly safe. He would always be suspicious of every stranger, guarded in his conversations and distrustful of any inquisitive remark.

  And I still had to determine how Walsh had discovered that Bevard was going to sign a supergrass agreement in the first place. There had been a leak and it meant someone had a link to Walsh.

  I paid and left Mario’s, winding my way back to Queen Street. We still had to complete the picture of Bevard’s life, so back in my office I found the contacts that Gloria Bevard had given us. The first thing I found was Jack Ledley’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Years of ticking boxes and following protocols made me request a PNC search on him. I spent an hour on the papers from Bevard’s pub before turning my attention to the files from Ackroyd’s dedicated source unit. I worked my way through the papers, focusing on the names of the team members. There were financial reports on the six people involved: three police officers, including Ackroyd, and three lawyers, all of varying seniority in the Crown Prosecution Service. I frowned. Ackroyd could never have signed off on that sort of deal without senior management input. I picked up the telephone and called his mobile.

  I got straight to the point. ‘Who signed off on the supergrass deal?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, John. It’s Sunday.’

  ‘And I’ve just spent all weekend with a possible suspect. I need the complete picture, Malcolm. You promised cooperation, remember?’

  I sensed the reluctance down the telephone. ‘It was the chief super in central command.’

  ‘And why wasn’t his name in the file?’

  ‘Don’t get tetchy, John. You know how it is.’

  ‘Did it go any higher? Was one of the assistant chief constables involved?’

  My throat tightened as I realised that this could go all the way to the chief constables’ office.

  ‘I don’t know, John. I guess that will be something you’ll have to find out.’

  Then he rang off. So there were seven names at least. Maybe even more. Enough to make the case full of holes.

  It took me the rest of the day to read the reports of meetings, memoranda from lawyers who complained about the inadequate time given to evaluate the case. And then there was detailed analysis of the available evidence. Two witnesses had confirmed that Walsh was in a restaurant for a big family celebration on the evening Mr Oakley was killed. I had to get full financial searches and background checks on everyone involved in the supergrass deal. Normal protocols meant that I should have gone to Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs for the authority I needed.

  I imagined his artificial sneer, as he’d be asking for all the relevant and pertinent information for him to make an informed decision. Hobbs was expert at using ten words when three would do. I would keep him as far away from the case as I possibly could, so I picked up the telephone.

  * * *

  ‘Are you serious?’ Cornock gave me a sullen look.

  His face still looked the colour of a dirty pavement slab and his cheeks had hollowed out a fraction too. The enforced sabbatical wasn’t doing him much good. I nodded back with a suitable degree of severity.

  Cornock nursed a latte into which he had poured two sachets of sugar. The café was in the middle of a row of shops in Whitchurch equidistant from Queen Street and Cornock’s home in Cyncoed. I couldn’t remember ever having seen Cornock without either a white or powder-blue shirt with a neatly knotted sombre tie. His short-sleeved casual shirt in bold yellows and greens was entirely out of character.

  ‘You know that you should ask Dave Hobbs for this authorisation.’

  I rolled my shoulders, then my eyes in a sort of casual way, hoping to win his trust. ‘He was one of the officers on the original enquiry into the death of Mr Oakley. I didn’t want to compromise his integrity.’

  Cornock raised his eyebrows. The expected reproach for my lame reply didn’t materialise. ‘From what you tell me Inspector Ackroyd has already completed potential searches into all of these officers and the three lawyers involved. I don’t see what else you can hope to achieve.’

  Cornock took another mouthful of his coffee.

  ‘He might have missed something. After all, the searches are out of date and I need authority to requisition all personnel files, which Ackroyd didn’t have.’

  Encouragingly Cornock nodded. ‘Are you getting accustomed to working with Dave Hobbs?’

  ‘He’s got a different style.’ Searching for the right words strained my vocabulary. ‘It will take me and the team time to become accustomed to his routine.’

  He leant over the table a fraction, lowering his voice. ‘You need to work with Dave Hobbs. The temporary promotion might be permanent. And he could be promoted even further. Sometimes you have to work with people you don’t like. That doesn’t make them incompetent police officers.’

  I hesitated, uncertain if he expected me to respond. ‘How are you enjoying your sabbatical?’

  Cornock sighed.

  ‘It’s difficult not having the regular routine. I never thought I would say this, John, but I actually miss coming to work.’

  It was
the nearest Cornock had ever got to discussing his personal affairs with me. He was the first to break eye contact, staring around the place. Noise from the counter behind us interrupted his daydreaming and he glanced at a crowd of young girls, at a guess, the same age as his own daughter, giggling excitedly. He turned his attention back to the various authorities I had prepared for him to sign. With a flourish he added his name to the bottom of each and pushed them over the table towards me.

  ‘I would ask you to keep me informed. But I … think it would be better if you built your relationship with Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs.’ He gave the full rank an ominous permanence.

  Back in Queen Street Lydia was deep in conversation with Jane who had an ordnance survey sheet on her desk. They broke off when they saw me.

  ‘I’ve just got back, boss,’ Jane said. ‘I spoke to Bevard’s golfing buddies who told me that he left their game early the afternoon he was killed. He was gone for over two hours.’

  I frowned. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘They had no idea. One of them thought he was seeing a woman but he had no evidence to back this up.’

  Wyn cleared his throat. ‘I have found something in Bevard’s bank statement that might help.’

  ‘Get on with it, Wyn, it’s Sunday afternoon. I don’t want to be here all day.’

  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.’

  Chapter 11

  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 p
ositive.

  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.’

  Chapter 12

  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.’