Somebody Told Me

by Stephen Puleston

‘We need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘You’re just going to set him up. I’m not going to help you.’

  Floorboards creaked upstairs; something heavy was dropped onto the floor as Wyn and Jane searched Howard’s possessions. Lydia, sitting by my side, leant over towards Mrs Oakley.

  ‘Howard’s in a lot of trouble, and we need to find him. Does he have a girlfriend, or can you tell us who his friends are?’

  She snorted and pulled her folded arms tightly against her chest.

  Lydia sat back. ‘If Howard has done nothing wrong, then he’s got nothing to hide.’

  It had little impact on Mrs Oakley, who simply pouted. Footsteps descended the staircase and Wyn gestured over towards me. I followed him into the sitting room at the front of the house.

  ‘We found his mobile, boss.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘A load of old clothes, a lot of sports gear and a massive amount of steroids.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘We need to find him.’

  Through the window I watched Alvine and her team organising for a low loader to collect Howard’s ancient red sports car. I returned to the kitchen.

  Realising there was nothing we could do to prevent Mrs Oakley contacting Howard once we had left I turned to her. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  I grabbed her arm but she shook me off, screaming at the same time. ‘This is police brutality. You can’t arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Eventually we bundled her into the back seat of the marked police car, which headed off for the local station in Bridgend.

  Back in my car, my mobile rang. It was operational control. ‘We have reports of the missing 4x4 breaking the speed limit along the M4 and then taking junction 45 towards Swansea. A patrol car is in pursuit.’

  A few brief minutes later we reached the M4 and I flattened the accelerator, flashing my headlights and sounding the horn repeatedly as I manoeuvred through the traffic. As I drew to a halt near the roundabout underneath the motorway another message arrived on my mobile. Lydia read it out. ‘The 4x4 has been abandoned in the Liberty Stadium car park.’

  I knew exactly where it was from my visits to the stadium when Cardiff played Swansea city. It was another few minutes before we drew in alongside two marked police cars. Three officers in high visibility vests stood around the 4x4. We left my car, and peered in at seats covered in dirt and grime. Dog hairs covered the rear seat and a blanket was crumpled at one end. I surveyed the car park, wondering if Howard Oakley was nearby, looking on.

  ‘Did any of you see him?’ I said to the motorway patrol officers.

  ‘He’d left by the time we arrived.’

  ‘Where could he go from here?’

  One of the officers pointed towards the houses on the other side the dual carriageway. ‘It’s only a short walk into Manselton from here.’

  Another officer cut in. ‘He could have walked over to the Morfa Shopping Park and taken a bus into the centre of Swansea.’

  I gathered my thoughts. I dialled Wyn’s number. ‘I need you to contact Brendan – get him to tell you everything that Howard mentioned about his connections with the organised crime groups in Swansea. I want names, addresses.’

  I finished the call and turned to Lydia. ‘Let’s go to Swansea Central police station.’

  Chapter 28

  The conference room on the top floor of Swansea Central police station had a large, highly polished table. We sat around it with Inspector Anderton and Sergeant Thomas as I explained in detail why I needed to speak to Howard Oakley. A third officer joined us as I finished.

  ‘This is Harry Ogden. He’s in charge of the organised crime unit.’

  I reached over to shake his hand. I knew Ogden from years ago. He had aged badly – his skin was pallid, his jowls extensive. He was an old-fashioned type of detective who cracked heads together and worried about the consequences later: ideally suited to policing the organised crime groups.

  ‘Do you have any idea if Howard has any contacts in the Swansea area?’ Anderton said.

  I cast a glance at Ogden. ‘We know that he was trying to source a firearm.’

  ‘Any names?’ Ogden said.

  I shook my head. ‘I should have some details later.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls. But we’ll need more information.’

  ‘Of course. In due course I’ll need a team of officers available.’

  Thomas had been quiet until now. ‘I can take half a dozen officers away from other duties this afternoon until early this evening. After that you’ll need to talk to the superintendent for authority.’

  It was exactly what I expected. The bean counters at the finance department cast a ghostly presence over everything we did.

  ‘Is there an office we can use?’

  Anderton glanced at Thomas and mentioned an office number he thought was vacant. We left the conference room, following him through the building to a small room with two desks and a telephone. Lydia went in search of the canteen while I telephoned Wyn.

  ‘I need a full list of all the gyms that Howard visits. Go through his mobile telephone and ring me back.’

  I finished the call without waiting for Wyn to acknowledge his instructions. I booted up the computer on one of the desks and as Lydia returned with coffee and sandwiches I began an internet search for the gyms in the Bridgend and Swansea areas. An hour later I had a list of fifteen. When Wyn rang me back I cross-referenced each against numbers on Howard Oakley’s mobile telephone. There were three, one in Bridgend, two in Swansea.

  Ogden made an appearance as I grabbed my jacket. ‘We’ve got the name of two gyms that Howard Oakley might have used. I want to talk to some of his mates.’

  ‘I’ll get my jacket and I’ll see you in the car park.’

  On my way out, I called Wyn and dictated instructions for him and Jane to visit the gym in Bridgend. Outside we caught up with Harry Ogden standing by his car, finishing a cigarette, which he ground into the tarmac. There was something reassuring about another detective smoking. We followed him to the first address in Townhill.

  Perspiration and the smell of second-hand clothes assaulted our nostrils once we entered. Faces turned towards us, thin vests strained at pumped-up shoulders. We found the manager and I pushed a photograph of Howard Oakley in front of his nose. He gave it a genuine stare and as far as I could tell an equally authentic shrug of the shoulders when he told us he didn’t recognise him.

  Not one of the dozen or so customers recognised Howard Oakley either. I wondered why his mobile telephone had the details of this gym. As we headed back for our cars, Wyn telephoned. ‘The Bridgend gym manager hasn’t seen Howard for a week. But he’s given us the details of some of his mates. We’re going over there now, boss.’

  The second gym was in Sketty. We pushed open the double doors into the first floor premises. A radio played one of those annoying Coldplay songs in the background. Another dozen men were bench pressing with an equal number working on machines.

  Two men in matching polo shirts with the name of the gym embroidered on the material came over. ‘Can we help?’

  We flashed cards and then presented once again the image of Howard Oakley. They nodded slowly.

  ‘We need to track down some of his friends.’

  Ten minutes later we had two names and addresses. We jogged out of the building before racing back to the cars. Ogden was on the telephone screeching at Thomas to organise a team to meet us at an address in Fforestfach. Again Ogden led the way; this time he wasn’t bothering about watching the speed limit.

  We parked a hundred metres from the property and waited for Thomas’s team to arrive.

  Our mobiles crackled into life. It was Ogden. ‘Everyone is in place. Let’s go.’

  We raced over to the property, joining Ogden as he kicked open a small wooden gate. He pounded on the door, calling out that it was official police business. When the door opened he pushed his way in, pinning the occupant against the wa
ll. I streamed through into the sitting room and then into the kitchen, both of which were empty. Upstairs the bedrooms were a mess. A man in his thirties clambered out of a double bed complaining that he was working nights and that he’d never get back to sleep.

  We left the occupants, ignoring their protests and their threats of legal action.

  Lack of success didn’t deter Ogden in the least. ‘Fucking toe-rags.’ He slammed the gate before marching towards his car. ‘Let’s hope he’s at the second address.’

  We had more of an opportunity to coordinate with Thomas’s team before we reached the address in Landore near the Liberty Stadium. I drew up a few metres behind Ogden who called me on my mobile.

  ‘It’s the house with the white painted wooden windows and the gloss black door.’

  I leant forward and stared through the windscreen. ‘Got it.’

  ‘The rest of the team are in the passage round the back. Take your time. He might be expecting us.’

  Lydia and I walked over with Ogden as nonchalantly as we could. We knocked on the door. No reply. We exchanged urgent glances.

  Ogden hammered on the door. I peered in through the net curtains; there was no movement or sound. Ogden’s mobile rang. He barged past me after answering the call. ‘Someone has just climbed out of the back window.’

  He turned to Lydia. ‘You stay here.’ I followed Ogden towards the end of the terrace. At the rear a plainclothes officer was gesticulating towards the back of a house and shouting for someone to stop.

  Ogden and I ran down the passageway, meeting Thomas on the pavement of the adjacent street. ‘It was Oakley all right,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Which direction did he go in?’

  Thomas nodded towards a property on the other side of the road. ‘There was the sound of a door being broken. He probably went into the back door and out via the front.’

  Ogden and Thomas ran over to the house. On impulse I took a right and found myself in another terrace. In the distance I caught sight of a man running in the direction of the Liberty Stadium.

  I gave chase, hoping that it was Howard Oakley and that somehow in the chaos he had been able to make his escape. By the end of the road I was breathless and sweaty. I caught sight of him running towards the main road.

  He turned right and, after stopping briefly to call Ogden, I set off in pursuit. He must have been several hundred yards in front of me along Neath Road – I could see him glancing over at the Liberty Stadium. He must have been thinking that the stolen 4x4 would still be there. Then I realised that it probably still was. And Howard Oakley had a set of keys. I increased my pace as did the stitch in my side.

  He reached the roundabout for the Liberty Stadium and I stared in disbelief as he raced across it, dodging between the traffic heading into and out of Swansea. He even managed to bang into a car and gesticulated wildly at the driver. I followed him, waving my hands in the air, shouting ‘police’ at the top of my voice, hoping the traffic would slow down. I weaved in-between various cars until I was able to follow Oakley down into the entrance of the Liberty Stadium but he had gained valuable seconds on me.

  I imagined him passing me in the 4x4, grinning inanely.

  I ignored the stabbing pains in my chest. Oakley was already sitting in the 4x4, trying frantically to start the engine. Behind me I heard a patrol car siren. I reached the vehicle as Oakley fired the engine into life. He started a three-point turn; the siren grew louder. I tugged at the driver’s door, but he opened it and pushed me away. I fell into some shrubbery as the patrol car mounted the pavement and came to a halt immediately in front of Oakley.

  He slammed the vehicle into reverse but another patrol car joined the second to block his exit. I got to my feet and ran over to the 4x4. I yanked open the door, pulled Oakley out and he fell onto the tarmac. Then I puked all over my shoes.

  Chapter 29

  I dragged a hand over my wrist and read the time. I was early. Saloon cars varying in age filled the car park. Most had occupants that cast urgent glances over at the gatehouse at HMP Grange Hall. I had parked at the far end hoping nobody would notice my presence. There was no real purpose for me being there either.

  I was there to watch Jimmy Walsh walk free.

  For now.

  I had to witness Walsh walking into the arms of Bernie and no doubt a friendly embrace from Martin Kendall. Bernie Walsh’s 4x4 swept into the car park and reversed into a parking slot. I made out Kendall sitting by her side and I was far enough away for them not to notice me. More cars arrived as the time for Walsh’s release neared.

  Most of the visitors who had congregated outside the entrance were women, a reminder that our jails are full of men. Casual conversation developed, judging from the arm gestures and nodding heads, and I wondered if they were regulars, meeting husbands and boyfriends who accepted imprisonment as an occupational hazard.

  Our search of the list of prisoners released in the weeks before Bevard’s death had proved fruitless. Someone had pulled the trigger that had killed Bevard and Yelland, and until our arrest of Howard Oakley I had been convinced it had been someone directed by Walsh. If Howard Oakley made a full and complete admission to both murders then I was going to look foolish.

  In this case innuendo and circumstantial evidence giving Walsh a motive for Bevard’s death would never be enough. I imagined the howls of laughter and derision if I suggested all the details of Bevard’s supergrass deal be made public as part of a prosecution against Walsh.

  The first prisoners emerged. A woman rushed over and threw her arms around a loved one. Bags in hand they headed for their cars. There were fifteen releases that morning and Jimmy Walsh was the last; the delay must have annoyed him.

  He stood for a moment on the threshold and pitched his head skyward as though the air was different somehow for a free man. His denims looked crumpled, the shirt and jacket untidy after years in storage. Bernie raced over to him. He smiled, drew her close to him and kissed her deeply; even I could see the hunger in his body.

  My chest tightened and I squinted over at them. I reached a hand to the door handle. I would tell him to stop his harassment of my family. But I could imagine the criticism in Hobbs’ voice – What possessed you to approach him? And why were you outside the prison?

  Martin Kendall dawdled behind Bernie. Walsh and his wife finished their embrace and then he hugged Kendall. They were smiling. Once they had finished, Kendall picked up Walsh’s bag and they turned back for their car.

  Without a further thought about the consequences I yanked open the car door. My family were more important than any protocols. I left the car and headed towards them. I buttoned my jacket, lengthened my stride, and kept them firmly in my gaze.

  Walsh reached the 4x4 and drew a hand along the passenger-side wing as though he were admiring the car for the first time.

  Bernie was already in the driver’s seat and Kendall was closing the rear after dumping Walsh’s bag inside. They hadn’t noticed me. Kendall made for the rear driver’s side passenger door.

  I increased my pace and Walsh looked over in my direction. He smirked.

  I stopped a few feet away from him. He stepped towards me and we stood in front of the vehicle. I could sense Bernie Walsh staring at me through the windscreen.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I know what you’ve been doing about the property in Pontypridd.’

  ‘This is harassment.’

  ‘Stay away from my family, Walsh.’ I moved towards him clenching my fist. ‘If you do anything to threaten my parents then I’ll make certain you’ll be back in here so fast your head will spin.’

  He smirked at me again.

  We stood there staring at each other, until eventually he climbed into the passenger seat and they drove away.

  I returned to my car and opened the window. I smoked a cigarette in the cool September morning. Once I’d finished I adjusted the rear-view mirror and noticed the grey skin under my eyes. Tackling Walsh had been stupid. Bu
t he had given me no choice. I wasn’t going to stand to one side and say nothing, do nothing.

  * * *

  A night in the cells at Queen Street had done nothing to improve Howard Oakley’s mood. He sat opposite me in the interview room, staring. The flimsy white one-piece paper suit made a rustling sound every time he moved in the plastic chair. His cheeks looked puffy and I knew from reading the custody log that he had refused all food. A beaker of water sat on the table in front of him. His solicitor wore flame-red lipstick and a diamond stud in each ear lobe. I hadn’t dealt with her before but the custody sergeant had warned me she could be aggressive.

  Before the interview I had read with growing excitement the report from the CSIs. A Walther P99 wrapped in cling film had been found at the back of a shed in the bottom of the garden in Howard Oakley’s property. Preliminary fingerprint analysis proved Oakley had handled it but it might take days for forensic confirmation that it had been the gun that killed Bevard and Yelland.

  ‘Why did you run?’ I said once the tape started recording.

  ‘You were going to stitch me up.’

  ‘There was a burglary at a restaurant in Grangetown early Thursday morning. And the place was torched.’

  Howard Oakley folded his arms, pulling them into his chest.

  Oakley’s solicitor butted in again. ‘Who are the owners of the property?’

  ‘The premises are owned by Goldstar Properties. That’s Mr James Walsh and Mrs Bernie Walsh.’ The names hung in the air, as contagious as a cough.

  I looked over at Oakley. ‘Where were you between four and five-thirty that morning?’

  Oakley scratched his neck. I could sense he wanted to reply. Very few people make no comment interviews: that only ever happens on television crime dramas.

  ‘Several of the windows in the property were smashed before petrol was poured over the outside. Luckily the premises had a sprinkler system installed and the fire service arrived quickly.’

  ‘What is the evidence to implicate my client?’

  I ignored her. ‘Are you the owner of an Alfa Romeo Brera sports car?’ I looked up at Oakley and then for good measure reminded him of the registration number and its colour. He squinted slightly, then glanced over at the lawyer.