It was early afternoon before we headed out to collect Dean. Jackie gave me a warm smile but no peck on the cheek although I sensed her scanning the car making certain Tracy was with me. It was a short drive to the Victorian castle outside Cardiff. Spending time with my son gradually unwound my tension. Tracy seemed more relaxed too and she settled into a steady rhythm of asking Dean about his schooling, his friends and how he was feeling after his accident. It was football that preoccupied most of his thoughts and he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Queen’s Park Rangers football team and their various players. It brought a smile to my face because I remember being exactly the same about Cardiff City as a boy. Maybe I could wean him off this Queens Park Rangers business after he moved.
Dean was more amenable than I thought to wearing an audiovisual guide and we wandered around the old castle learning it was built in the Gothic revival style to indulge the desires of the Marquess of Bute for a grand home for occasional summer use. Its name as the red castle came from the sandstone used in its construction and we roamed around the grand old buildings and ornate bedrooms.
We finished the afternoon at a tenpin bowling alley and then at a McDonalds where Dean demolished an enormous burger. The sound of a Scottish accent startled me and took me back to my first meeting with Martin Kendall and the smell of fish and chips that had clung to my clothes.
By the end of the meal, Dean was busy scrolling through his smartphone. I glanced over. ‘Who are you texting?’
‘Facebook, Dad,’ he said, adding disbelief to his voice.
Despite having relaxed for most of the afternoon my mind switched immediately to the comments made by Sharon Yelland. I had ignored her comment about Brian’s use of Facebook. So I turned to look at my son.
‘Do you mind showing me how Facebook works?’ I had little interest in pictures of other people’s kids so I had made a concerted effort to ignore the social media site.
‘Yeah, suppose.’
I watched intently as Dean explained all about storing photographs on Facebook, finding people, liking them, and generally helping me join the twenty-first century. By the end, I knew exactly what Wyn and Jane would be doing Monday morning.
Chapter 18
The following morning I woke early from a vivid dream where I watched Jeremy talking to Jimmy Walsh and Martin Kendall in a bar. A bottle of champagne stood in an ice bucket on the table before them and I joined them as they raised their glasses in a toast. They all smiled at me. The dream turned my stomach so I got up without waking Tracy and traipsed through to the kitchen where I made instant coffee and sat watching early morning television.
It was supposed to be a rest day. A chance to relax. Spend some time away from Queen Street. I had even declined an invitation to watch the televised Cardiff against Burnley game with Robbie, my regular footballing companion, in order to spend time with Tracy.
But Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh dominated my thoughts.
The Oakley inquiry had been in the background. The murder of Robin Oakley had been fully investigated. I dragged the barest details to the forefront of my mind. Walsh had wanted Oakley’s property and had done everything possible to force Oakley into selling until he had only one option left. I shuddered at the prospect that Walsh was trying the same thing with my family.
I had to read the Oakley papers. My family were involved now and, ignoring the bad feeling between us, we were still family. Perhaps there was a statement or some piece of evidence that might help me in the Bevard case. After all, Oakley’s blood had been found in one of Bevard’s taxis.
I glanced at my watch. If I was lucky I’d be finished by lunchtime and I could still spend the rest of the day with Tracy. So I walked through into the kitchen and made her tea. I put the mug down by the bedside light and sat on the side of the bed. I ruffled her shoulder and she looked up at me through bleary eyes.
‘Look, I’m really sorry. Something has come up at work. I should be finished by lunchtime.’
‘I thought …’
‘I know, but there’s something I have to do.’
‘We were going to do something together today …’ She drew the duvet over her head.
I showered quickly, dressed and was in my car twenty minutes later heading into town, my mind resolved that Jimmy Walsh wasn’t going to get near my family. He’d made it personal and now I felt the same.
I started with the statements from Mrs Oakley. It sickened me to read how Walsh and Martin Kendall had flattered them about all the money they’d make from the sale of the property. Kendall and Walsh had entertained Robin Oakley and his wife lavishly but when they changed their minds things got nasty.
Noting down the Oakleys’ contact details I turned my attention to the list of witnesses. I read down the names and I stopped at one that looked familiar. I flicked through to the statement from Philip Bryant, the landlord of the Dog and Whistle public house and friend of Jimmy Walsh. His evidence was one part of the alibi Walsh had for the night of Oakley’s death.
His name was familiar because he had been a regular visitor to see Jimmy Walsh at HMP Grange Hall.
I rang Lydia. ‘There’s a development. We need to interview—’
‘I thought we were—’
‘It’s important.’
She said nothing for a while. ‘Give me half an hour.’
‘Thanks.’
It gave me time for breakfast so I left the station and walked over to Mario’s where I ordered a bacon sandwich and a double-shot Americano. The café was quiet and I read a newspaper while I waited. The latest immigration figures and the chorus of disapproval from various politicians dominated the headlines. Nothing changes. By the time I got back to Queen Street Lydia was waiting in the Incident Room.
‘Good morning, boss. What’s the urgency?’
‘This bastard Kendall is involved with my family.’
I turned and watched a worried veil fall over Lydia’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
She listened as I explained about the property in Pontypridd, occasionally nodding her head. Finally she said, ‘What has this got to do with the Bevard inquiry?’
‘Background,’ I said, too quickly.
She gave me a dubious look. I continued. ‘Bevard was implicated in the Oakley death. The initial impetus for the supergrass deal came from that murder case. We should have been looking at the background sooner.’
I ignored her raised eyebrow.
Half an hour later we drew up outside the Dog and Whistle. It was a large old building at the end of a row of shops north of Cathays Park. A crowd of young men on gleaming bicycles congregated outside one of the takeaway restaurants nearby. Before leaving Queen Street I showed Lydia the statement from Bryant that provided Walsh with the alibi he needed in the Oakley investigation.
‘Let’s hope Phil Bryant is working.’ Lydia was already out of the car as she finished what sounded like a reproach.
We sauntered towards the pub. It was tired, like the pubs I would visit at the end of a drinking session, untroubled by the decor, surroundings, or quality of the beer. I had wasted too many hours propping up the bar in places like this, forcing the last dregs of cheap beer down my throat. Somebody once asked me if it was difficult sitting in a pub and not drinking. Not drinking wasn’t the hardest part, it had been waking up and not being able to remember how I got home or where I had been. Even so, I didn’t make visiting pubs a regular part of my new social calendar and when I reached the door I hesitated.
The smell was the same as any other pub, warm and almost welcoming as though the place wanted to wrap itself around you, push a pint of beer into your hand and tell you that drinking it was the most natural thing to do. A large man with a thick beard paced around the bar area that filled the centre of the pub; behind him the optics glistened under the artificial light.
Luckily the place was quiet, readying itself for a busy Sunday lunchtime. I walked up to the bar and flashed my warrant card.
‘Detective Inspecto
r Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint. I need to speak to Philip Bryant.’
He stared at our warrant cards before nodding towards the end of the bar.
We passed through into the rear section under a sign that said ‘restaurant’, which was a grand term for a room that had half a dozen bench-like tables. Bryant adopted a wide-legged stance.
‘What’s this about? I don’t have any trouble here.’
‘I’m investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’
‘Who?’ His face told me he knew all about Bevard, so it annoyed me he wanted to play games with me.
‘He was a business associate of James Walsh.’
‘What has that got to do with me?’
‘You’ve been to see Jimmy in Grange Hall.’
Bryant cast a gaze over my shoulder at the sound of voices from the bar. ‘What if I have? I’ve known him a long time. Look, we’ll be busy soon.’
‘A few years ago you were interviewed as part of the inquiry into the murder of Robin Oakley. Jimmy Walsh was the main suspect. Do you remember what you told the police at the time?’
‘Christ almighty, that was years ago. Are you like those cold case cops on the TV? It must be fucking boring.’
I slowed my voice. ‘I asked you a question, Mr Bryant.’
Lydia reached for a file of papers.
‘For fuck’s sake. I am trying to run a business here.’
‘And we are investigating a murder.’ Lydia’s voice sounded deeper than normal but just as professional. She thrust a photograph in front of Bryant. He scanned it, pulled a face and turned away. ‘He was shot at point-blank range.’
Bryant showed no emotion and my annoyance grew at his casual indifference.
Lydia clutched a closely typed statement. ‘This is a copy of the statement you signed a few days after Robin Oakley was murdered in Roath Park. Quite a coincidence, but Felix Bevard was killed there too.’
The noise from the bar increased. Bryant cast agitated glances over my shoulder more frequently now. He feigned irritation, not very successfully.
‘Look, it was a long time ago. I was at this party with Jimmy. There were lots of people there. I can’t remember how many. What I do remember is Jimmy was there the whole night with his missus.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Early, about seven. It was in that fancy Italian place on Albany Road. The place was buzzing, full of people. Ask anybody and they’ll remember Jimmy was there all night.’
‘So why did you visit Jimmy Walsh in jail?’
‘I don’t need a reason.’ Now he folded his arms and stared. Gone was the urgency to help out in the bar.
‘How long have you known him? Did you visit him when he was at any of the other jails?’
The concentration on Bryant’s face slipped.
‘Only Grange Hall then.’ I stepped towards him. ‘I think Jimmy Walsh had Bevard killed. And because you are one of the kind, charitable friends who visited him in jail I’d like to know what you talked about.’
Bryant narrowed his eyes. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
* * *
Lydia opened the plastic bag she had bought from the convenience store near the Dog and Whistle and handed me a soft drink can. It fizzed as I snapped it open.
‘That went well,’ I said.
‘We’re wasting our time, boss.’
I hated it when Lydia sounded like a teacher telling me what I should do to get better results in a school exam. ‘We should concentrate on the Bevard murder. Don’t you think we might tread on someone’s toes if we’re seen to be reopening the Oakley inquiry?’
I took a mouthful of the sugary drink. My determination stiffened; we had to discover what linked Bevard to the murder of Oakley and Jimmy Walsh. After talking to Bryant I realised I was being led by Walsh like a poodle on a chain. Even from prison, he was directing things but, for now, I would play along.
‘I don’t want anyone to say we didn’t give the whole case our complete attention.’
Lydia cleared her throat. ‘There’s nothing to justify us spending time on looking at the old case. There is no way we can reopen the case against Walsh for the Oakley murder.’
I held up my hand. ‘I want Walsh to know we’re working on the original case because that way he’ll believe we’re wasting our time because he knows there’s nothing we can do. That fat slob in there …’ I looked over at the Dog and Whistle. ‘… will have been on the telephone to Bernie Walsh the minute we left. And then when she visits dear Jimmy this weekend she’ll give him all the details.’
‘Okay, but I’m still not convinced.’
‘Can we record the conversations between Jimmy and his wife in the visitors centre in Grange Hall?’
Lydia gave me a disdainful glare and didn’t bother to reply.
We finished our drinks as I explained to Lydia that Jimmy Walsh’s empire extended to various allegedly legitimate businesses. An acquisition in the year before his incarceration had been a second-hand car showroom and the name of one of the employees appeared on the witness list in the Oakley case. On a weekday the journey would have taken half an hour through the Cardiff traffic but that morning we pulled up outside the garage in half that time. I strode over the tiled floor towards a beaming woman standing behind a spotless counter. She had a smart jacket and enough hair spray to give a climate change activist a stroke. I flashed my warrant card, Lydia did the same.
‘I need to see your boss.’
The smile disappeared and she turned sharply and walked towards a door behind her. I heard her say my name and Lydia’s before she glanced back at me. A moment later she was back forcing a smile. ‘Mrs Parks will see you now.’
A nameplate on the door informed us the occupant was the general manager.
Joanna Parks was a short stout woman in her fifties who almost lost her balance reaching over the paper-strewn desk to shake my hand. ‘Excuse the mess. The accountants are in next week so I need to get my paperwork organised.’
I pulled up a chair and we sat down.
‘What’s this all about?’
Lydia opened the file on her lap. ‘We’re investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’
The second less-than-surprised look of the day confirmed the Walsh family had been hard at work.
Lydia continued. ‘He was a known associate of Jimmy Walsh.’ She paused and Joanna Parks gave a weak smile now. Of course, I know all about it. Bernie called me last night.
‘I understand you made a statement when Mr Walsh was being investigated in relation to the murder of a Mr Oakley. You were at a party with him in the La Scala restaurant.’
Parks nodded. ‘I remember. Jimmy and his family were there all night. We had the run of the first floor. There was a disco and an amazing buffet. The Italians certainly know a thing or two about entertaining.’
At least I could agree with that sentiment.
I scanned her statement that Lydia had given me. ‘Tell me what you remember about the evening.’
Parks launched into a detailed recollection, repeating almost word for word the statement on my lap. Expecting her to have rehearsed her recollection of events didn’t lessen my rising anger. Abruptly I cut across her. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Parks. We may need to see you again.’
I stood up and led Lydia back to the car.
‘You were right, boss. We’re being set up.’ Lydia sat in the passenger seat. ‘She’d been rehearsing her statement.’
‘You think?’ I said it too sharply and it earned me a reproachful turn of her head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ I slammed my hand against the steering wheel. ‘Jimmy bloody Walsh thinks we’re all muppets. What the hell is that bastard playing at?’
Lydia crunched on an apple she found in her bag. Even that put my nerves on edge. I wanted to smoke, badly, but instead I found an old packet of chewing gum in a storage compartment and chewed on a dried-up segment. ‘Let’s go and talk to the other witnesses from that night.’
Lydia gave me a world-weary look as I suggested the sort of questions to ask two other witnesses who had confirmed Jimmy’s alibi. After an hour and a half her scepticism had been proved right. We had spoken to a man who ran a coffee shop and delicatessen who feigned surprise at our visit with the flamboyance of an actor accepting an Oscar the whole world knew he would win. A woman married to an estate agent did her best to sound vague but there was enough clarity in her comments to make it clear she had read and reread her original statement in advance.
Outside her home, I put a cigarette to my lips, sparked my Zippo and drew the smoke deep into my lungs. Lydia walked back to the car and when I caught up with her she wafted the smoke away with her hands before giving me a serious motherly scowl. We reached the car and I leant on the door.
Lydia stood waiting for me to finish. ‘That was a waste of time.’
‘Now we know Jimmy Walsh has primed several of the original witnesses who gave him an alibi. That means he was covering his back. And that makes him as guilty as hell.’
‘But we can prove nothing. The case is closed.’
‘Even so, he’s guilty. We need to find the evidence.’
I ground the butt into the pavement and we headed off to see the final witness.
Chapter 19
Ristorante La Scala was located down a side street off Albany Road. Large white sheets shrouded the pavement outside as two painters dabbed finishing touches to the woodwork of the windows. The building looked prosperous and I peered at the menu displayed in the window. It had all the usual classic Italian dishes with an English summary underneath in smaller letters. It surprised me that my mother hadn’t heard about this place and I made a mental note to tell her.
‘Have you ever been to La Scala?’ I said to Lydia standing by my side.
‘I’ve never heard of this restaurant before.’
‘I meant the opera house. In Milan.’ Lydia’s love of opera had taken her to Glyndebourne and the Welsh National Opera’s performances at the Millennium Centre.
‘No, but … It is on my to-do list.’ She sounded hopeful.
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