Somebody Told Me

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘So we need a complete picture of Yelland’s finances.’ Lydia sank back into the visitor chair in my office, a look of resigned acceptance on her face.

  ‘And we need a complete analysis of Stockes’ finances too.’

  The prospect of interviewing a Crown Prosecution lawyer was almost as daunting as interviewing police officers, and with Dave Hobbs more than a ghostly presence in the background I had to be careful how I proceeded.

  ‘But are we saying that Stockes killed Bevard and then Yelland?’ She gave me a perplexed frown. Lydia was right: this possibility looked remote.

  Lydia left and I turned my attention to the file of papers relating to the financial affairs of Roger Stockes. It always amazed me how far back the banks and financial institutions could go when we asked for information as part of a criminal inquiry. I spent the first hour getting a clear picture of his financial position. A generous salary reached the account on the twenty-fifth of each month. Other regular credits into his bank account would need an explanation so I opened a spreadsheet I named ‘queries/income’.

  If Stockes was in hock to Walsh, it would be fairly recent so I had decided to go back three years. Then I turned my attention to his outgoings. He had a mortgage, a car loan, regular payments to finance and credit card companies with fancy names. I punched the figures into another spreadsheet I called ‘expenditure’ and which I hoped I could use to establish any unusual patterns. The possibility that Stockes had been the original source of the leak about Bevard’s supergrass agreement appalled me. If he had shared the information with Yelland for some extra cash flow then he deserved a stretch in a high security jail. Perhaps it had been only a casual remark at the end of a drunken evening. And for Yelland it had been a meal ticket he couldn’t ignore.

  I noticed that Stockes made regular payments to one of the large supermarket chains and a quarterly subscription to a wine club. I sat back hoping I could make sense of the information on my screen, but all I saw was a tangled web of figures, dates and abbreviations. This was a task better suited to an officer in the economic crime department and I thought of Boyd Pearce. He could help but I knew I couldn’t risk any word of my investigation being shared around Queen Street or the other departments of Southern Division. I dialled his number.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Boyd, how’s Mandy and the family?’

  Boyd had transferred from my team to the economic crime department before his wife gave birth to their first child and I’d rarely seen him since.

  ‘They’re great thanks, busy of course. Not a moment of peace when I get home… Are you working on that Bevard murder enquiry?’

  I sensed a wistful edge to his question, laced with regret and the possibilities that working on my team again offered an excitement and challenge he missed.

  ‘I need help with constructing a spreadsheet to analyse income and expenditure for one of the suspects.’

  ‘That’s not difficult.’ I listened as he explained how to go about creating a document in Excel, using formulas. ‘You need to colour code various months and then calculate totals for each month to see if your suspect has a pattern for taking cash out of his account. That way you can identify any months with irregular payments or withdrawals. For example, everyone has to eat, so if there’s a month when he’s not spending money in the supermarket and he’s not dead then he’s buying food with cash.’

  I thanked Boyd, promising to buy him lunch sometime. Our conversation had given me a renewed focus.

  It was late afternoon by the time I had anything resembling a working spreadsheet. My euphoria at having succeeded with the paperwork was tempered by a complete lack of any useful information. There was nothing about Roger Stockes’ financial affairs to suggest he was handling large amounts of cash.

  I pushed my chair back and threw a ballpoint across the papers on my desk before stalking out into the Incident Room where Lydia was staring at her monitor.

  I sat down heavily on one of the office chairs. ‘I’ve been through Stockes’ finances for the last three years. There’s nothing.’

  Lydia sat back with a satisfied look on her face. ‘I’ve been working on Yelland’s financial position. It was a complete mess. He was making regular payments to various finance companies. Once he was in arrears with one company he got a loan from another at a higher interest rate to pay off the first. Then he got into a cycle of high interest loans.’

  ‘How did he break out of that vicious circle?’

  ‘That’s where things get interesting. In the last year he paid off some of his smaller loans. He had two credit cards with two thousand pounds owed on each. They were both paid off. It helped him with his cash flow but then within two months he was paying money out to online bookmakers.’

  ‘So once he paid off one debt he starts another.’

  ‘It looks like that. Perhaps Wyn and Jane will have more information from the bookmakers.’

  I stood up, walked over and stared at the image of Yelland pinned to the board. The Incident Room door opened and Wyn and Jane, voices loud in animated conversation, entered carrying large mugs of coffee.

  ‘I hope you’ve got something positive to tell me,’ I said.

  Wyn blinked furiously, and Jane slipped off her fleece and threw it over one of the desks. Once their drinks had been safely deposited Wyn cleared his throat.

  ‘We spoke to Mrs Yelland, boss,’ Wyn began. ‘All she could give us was the name of the woman who’d seen Yelland in Cardiff. We tracked her down after speaking with the admin section of the prison. She gave us a description but something was lost in translation – the woman had made no reference to Yelland’s girlfriend working in the prison.’

  ‘Damn, bloody hell. We still need to identify her.’

  Jane took a large mouthful of her coffee before announcing in her most important voice, ‘We had a very helpful conversation with the manager of the bookmakers. He knew all about Brian Yelland. He’d run up debts of about three thousand pounds in a twelve-month period.’

  It surprised me a bookmaker would allow such extended credit.

  Jane continued. ‘A month ago the debt was paid in full. In cash and it wasn’t Yelland who paid the bill. We got a detailed description of the man who called in with a wad of twenty-pound notes.’ She paced over towards the board and pointed at the face of Martin Kendall. ‘He described Kendall down to the hairs on his nose.’

  For the first time since the case started my pulse beat a fraction faster.

  Chapter 16

  I reached the top of the stairs in Queen Street and felt my chest tightening. My five-a-day habit was reminding me that I should be cutting down. I pushed open the door to the Incident Room and noticed a short man in an immaculate grey suit standing with Lydia. From the unsettled look on her face and the way her eyes darted around I could tell she wasn’t comfortable.

  ‘Inspector Marco, good morning,’ he said, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Roger Stockes. I’d like a word.’

  I darted a glance at Lydia and then at the board, hoping that nobody had added Stockes’ name to it. We shook hands and I showed him into my office. Lydia followed.

  Stockes made himself comfortable in a visitor chair. ‘I was in a meeting with DCI Hobbs this morning and I thought I would take the opportunity to speak to you. I’m sure you know by now that I was friends with Brian Yelland.’

  A meeting with Dave Hobbs? I wondered what they talked about.

  ‘Brian and I studied at university together.’

  I couldn’t make out the accent. It wasn’t Cardiff or South Wales. It had a rounded crisp edge to it that professionals develop to make themselves sound important.

  ‘We had established that you were associated with Brian Yelland.’

  ‘We were good friends. And his death was shocking.’ He paused for effect and shook his head solemnly. I could see that Stockes and Hobbs would get along just fine.

  Lydia had a suspicious frown etched on her face. I stared over
at Stockes wondering why he had decided to come and see me. He had seized the initiative but he could only guess how much we knew already. I found a notebook and reached for the buff folder of papers we had on Stockes from the pile on my desk.

  ‘What was your involvement with the supergrass agreement?’ I said.

  ‘The initial case involving the discovery of the DNA in Bevard’s car came onto my desk. The case was handled by one of the dedicated source units. I coordinated the paperwork with a senior prosecutor. The whole thing was signed off correctly.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ I looked down at the papers on my lap reminding myself of all those involved in the decision-making process. ‘So can you tell me who was involved?’

  Stockes reeled off the names of police officers and lawyers and I mentally ticked off each one against my list.

  I spent half an hour listening to lots of legal jargon and his assessment of the evidence. Occasionally Lydia interrupted with a question, but Stockes handled the interview with ease. But I was still curious about why he had made the initial approach.

  ‘Have you made any progress with identifying who murdered Bevard?’

  I shook my head. Stockes continued. ‘I suppose you consider Walsh to be the directing mind behind the murder?’

  ‘I’m sure you appreciate that we have to entertain the possibility Walsh was aware that Bevard was contemplating giving evidence against him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re talking to everyone involved.’ I looked over at Stockes. He didn’t avoid my eye – in fact he kept staring straight at me.

  ‘We believe there might be a link to the death of Brian Yelland, too.’

  He couldn’t hide the anxiety in his face. He drew two fingers under his cheekbones as though he had a developing toothache.

  Lydia cut in. ‘Yelland was killed with a gun similar to the one used to kill Felix Bevard.’

  ‘Can you tell me more about your relationship with Yelland?’ I said. ‘Did you see him regularly?’

  ‘We went out occasionally for a drink. After he and Sharon were separated I saw him more often.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you what happened between him and Sharon?’

  Stockes shrugged. ‘Not really. I suppose the drinking didn’t help.’

  ‘Do you know if he had been seeing anyone else?’

  ‘He’d been using some internet dating sites and he’d been on some dates but nothing came of it.’

  ‘He didn’t mention anyone called Janice?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Yelland?’

  He thought for a moment before answering. ‘We went out one night two weeks ago.’

  ‘What was his mood like?’

  He shrugged but avoided eye contact. ‘He was in good form. He even mentioned going on holiday which surprised me when he always complained about money.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about work?’

  ‘The usual small talk. There was a lot of bad feeling at work. He was facing disciplinary proceedings and he was worried.’

  ‘Did he ever mention any prisoners by name?’

  Stockes gave me a puzzled look. ‘No, why would he?’

  ‘Small talk I suppose.’

  He narrowed his eyes, hardened his gaze.

  ‘When he was working in Newport jail a man made a complaint against him. Did he ever talk about that?’

  ‘He mentioned it but prisoners often make unfounded claims against prison officers. A lot of them know how to milk the system.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a man called Owen Norcross?’

  Stocked puckered his lips and shook his head. ‘Not that I recall.’

  A typical evasive lawyer-like reply only made me feel more suspicious.

  ‘Norcross was the prisoner who made the complaint about Yelland. Did Yelland ever mention James Walsh to you?’

  Mention of Walsh bridled him. He made an odd sort of coughing sound and shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure you must realise that we have to look at every possible thread in this case. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come here to see me. We believe that Walsh found out about the supergrass deal. He must have realised that it meant he was going to face a life sentence.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that Bevard might simply have told someone. These people are toe-rags, Inspector, and they all swim round in a big pool of their own shit.’

  I stared at him for a couple of seconds. Any initiative he had when he arrived had gone by now and it only made me more suspicious of Stockes. When he left he handed me a business card with his direct line number and an assurance that if he could help in any way I should not hesitate to call.

  After he left Lydia turned to me. ‘Do you think he told Yelland about Bevard?’

  Contemplating that a Crown Prosecution lawyer had lied to me meant there was something much bigger at stake.

  ‘I don’t like coincidences especially when they’re linked to someone like Walsh.’

  ‘Maybe he thought we wouldn’t dig into his private life if he came to us first.’

  ‘Then he’s mistaken.’

  Stockes’ appearance that morning wouldn’t stop me turning over every part of his life.

  * * *

  I sat in my car, Lydia by my side, nursing a double-shot Americano in one of those plastic beakers with a clever lid that was supposed to make drinking from it easier. I had worked ten days straight and part of me knew that I needed a day off although I wasn’t certain that my meeting in the morning with Uncle Gino and Jez at the solicitors counted.

  Across the road from my car the ACE minicab firm occupied an old garage on a side street: convenient for the motorway and near enough to make it a short drive into the middle of town. Lydia and I looked over at the various cars parked untidily on the forecourt. A big sign over the entrance boasted it was a 24-hour guaranteed service – special rates to the airports of Cardiff and Bristol.

  We left the car and headed over towards the entrance. Behind a counter, a woman with leathery skin and a sun-bed tan peered over at us.

  ‘Where to, love? Only it’s our busy time now. There might be a bit of a wait. There’s a coffee machine by there.’

  I held up my warrant card and she squinted over. ‘You after that dirty bitch who stole Robbie’s money last week? Only he’s not here.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Lydia said.

  ‘Sonia.’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Mr Bevard.’

  Suddenly her mood changed. She straightened and approached the counter. ‘You had better come through.’ She nodded at the door in reception.

  A large whiteboard dominated one wall with the names of all drivers and vehicle registration numbers. It looked an unintelligible jumble. The smell of oil and grease and dirty food hung around the place.

  ‘How many drivers have you got working here?’ Lydia asked as she looked at the board closely.

  ‘There are twenty different drivers. Some of them work part time, some own their own cars.’

  I stared at the tangle of names. ‘Do you know a man called Jack Ledley? Big, lots of tattoos and a ponytail?’

  She frowned. ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘Do any of the drivers live up in Cwmbran or Pontypool?’

  ‘Don’t think so. So you haven’t found who killed Felix?’

  Lydia persevered. ‘We’ll need a list of the drivers. Are any of them here now?’

  ‘There are five of them on their break. Is it true he was killed with a machine gun, like one of them Steven Seagal films? I like them.’

  I stepped over towards Sonia and lowered my voice. ‘It’s all a bit confidential. A need-to-know basis.’

  Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘Now … How about that list?’

  She sat down at her desk and started rummaging through paperwork. Lydia sat next to her.

  ‘Do you know if Felix Bevard had any enemies?’ Lydia said.r />
  ‘What, like someone who’d want to kill him?’ she murmured.

  ‘Someone who might have threatened him. Business rivals or disgruntled employees.’

  She curled her lips into a frown. ‘Don’t think so.’

  It surprised me how quickly Sonia was able put her hands on the necessary records in the midst of such chaos. Then she walked over to a photocopier, piled sheets of paper into the top of the machine and waited until it had pinged out all the copies. She handed us the various sheets and we left through a side door before heading towards the restroom at the back of the garage.

  Five men sat around a table drinking from large dirty mugs. One of them was picking at fish and chips from a plastic container, another flicking through a men’s magazine. They all scanned Lydia from head to toe when she followed me in.

  I flashed my card at them, and Lydia did the same. ‘DI Marco. We’re looking for someone who knew Felix Bevard. We believe his name was Jack Ledley. He had long hair and tattoos on his arms.’ There were blank stares mostly; two of the men shook their heads and as Lydia ticked off their names from Sonia’s list I had the impression they were telling us the truth. But there were fifteen more names on the list. Somebody must have known Ledley.

  A car drew up in the main body of the garage and the atmosphere inside the restroom changed. They craned to look outside, some frowning. ‘That’s Gloria,’ one of them said under his breath. I followed Lydia outside. She reached Gloria Bevard before me.

  She peered over at us. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘We need to trace Jack Ledley,’ Lydia said, using her most diplomatic tone.

  ‘Don’t come back here unless you notify me in advance. I mean … I want to know what’s going on. I want to know who killed Felix.’

  It was difficult to make her out. I paused and stared at her. Was this the natural reaction of the grieving widow?

  Gloria seemed out of place amongst the old cars, the oil and the grime. Lydia repeated the description of Ledley, but Gloria ignored her. She looked over my shoulders to the back of the garage and then over to the office.

  Adopting a casual tone, I said, ‘What will you do with this place now?’