He shrugged.
‘Between six-thirty and seven?’
Another shrug.
‘And when did Philip Bryant arrive?’
‘He was there when I arrived.’
Lydia replaced the statement on the table. I saw the exhilaration in her eyes at the casual lie from Walsh.
I spent half an hour, much to the irritation of Walsh and Glanville, getting Walsh to confirm the details he had provided in his original statement.The truth is easy, lying is difficult: it needs a good memory to recall every detail of the falsehood. Glanville occasionally interrupted, making certain Walsh felt he was getting value for money. Eventually he butted in, ‘I really do think this has gone on long enough, Inspector.’
* * *
And I still had the photographs from the Doctor Who production company.
‘I want to be absolutely clear. Did you go to Roath Park on the evening Robin Oakley was killed?’
‘I think Mr Walsh has dealt with that.’ Glanville made the whole thing sound very tiresome.
‘I was in the La Scala all night.’
I pulled the photograph from underneath the file of papers in front of me. I glanced at them and then up at Jimmy. For the first time there was a genuinely worried frown on his face and glee swept through my body. Glanville maintained a businesslike approach by tapping his fountain pen on the papers.
‘Can you take a look at this photograph?’ I pushed it over the table at Jimmy.
I was trying to keep my breathing flat, but my pulse hammered in my neck. I could hear it in my ears. Glanville moved nearer to Jimmy, staring at the photograph.
‘It’s quite grainy,’ Glanville said. ‘Where was it taken?’
I kept my voice low but firm. ‘I believe this is you in the picture. You’re the man at the end.’
‘Once again, Inspector. Where was this photograph taken?’
I ignored Glanville, and stared straight at Jimmy. I could see the recognition on his face. Now he knew I had evidence. Evidence enough to charge. Fear perspired from every pore on his face.
‘Jimmy, can you tell me if this is you?’
Glanville leant over, and whispered something in his ear.
‘No comment.’
‘This photograph was taken by a camera in Roath Park on the night Robin Oakley was killed. It is a photograph of you and two accomplices.’
Jimmy Walsh folded his arms tightly and closed his eyes. He then opened them and stared at me unblinkingly. His silence was as good as an admission. My pulse slowed but the exhilaration built with the certainty of his guilt and that I had enough evidence to prove it.
* * *
The inside of a magistrates’ court must be the same all over the country: a dock where the defendants stand, with stairs leading to the cells downstairs, a raised area where the judge sits and below him or her, a court clerk. Normally the seats reserved for the press would have been empty but that afternoon the press were out in force, every seat taken. I recognised the regular reporters from the television news programmes.
Bernie Walsh sat at the back, her clothes immaculate and the make-up millimetre perfect. The girl sitting by her side must have been her daughter as the resemblance was unmistakable. Next to her was a man in a suit who I guessed was David Shaw from Goldstar Properties.
‘Nobody here to hold Martin Kendall’s hand?’ Lydia whispered.
We sat in seats reserved for police officers. The court usher, a former constable I knew from years ago, sat at the end of our row.
‘He doesn’t have any family.’
Glanville Tront swept into the courtroom wearing a sombre red pinstripe suit, a cutaway collar shirt and a tie knotted flamboyantly. He ignored me, but then I hadn’t exactly expected him to shake me by the hand. He exchanged pleasantries with Desmond Joplin who looked rather shabby alongside him. Who says crime doesn’t pay?
I had attended court many times in the past but that afternoon lifted my spirits. My elation at the prospect of Walsh being remanded in custody was tempered by the knowledge we had no evidence to link Walsh to the murder of Bevard. It must have been the same frustration Detective Chief Inspector Webster felt when he knew Walsh had killed Oakley but had no evidence. If only his team had been more competent … and as I held that thought, Dave Hobbs walked in and sat next to Lydia. He nodded, I nodded back.
Walsh appeared in the dock flanked by two security guards. Glanville scurried over. There were angry pouts, jabbing fingers and Glanville’s palm being waved, calming Walsh’s temper.
We stood up as the district judge entered. He surveyed the packed courtroom, a brief smile passing his lips. Desmond was the first to his feet once the court clerk had read out the various formalities. Despite everything, I felt nervous. Once we had decided to prosecute there was no going back, we had to trust the system. Desmond laboured his objection to bail, reminding the judge that murder was the most serious offence. Then it was Glanville’s turn. He performed at his most theatrical best, challenging the logic of the prosecution’s case, emphasising Jimmy had strong family ties, was a successful businessman and pointed out that the case was based on a grainy, indistinct and unconvincing photograph. Even I felt queasy once he’d finished.
As the district judge announced his decision to deny bail I wanted to slump back in my seat, to shout with delight, dance on the spot. Walsh disappeared back into the safe environment of the cells at the court building.
Lydia looked pleased; it was another step towards making certain Walsh and Kendall were behind bars. Hobbs leant forward, attracting my attention. ‘Good result. Keep me posted with the forensics results from Kendall’s property.’ Then he left. I followed Lydia out of the court building and we headed towards Queen Street. Our success called for a celebration and years ago it would have meant hours touring the pubs favoured by the detectives of Southern Division where the publicans turned a blind eye to our indiscretions.
‘Call Wyn and Jane and tell them to meet us at Lefties.’
Lydia smiled, one of those warm contented curl of her lips, as she found her mobile and relayed a message to the Incident Room. Alex Leftrowski had left Russia for a better life in the West and when I first knew him, he regularly reminded me how lucky he was to live in Cardiff. It had usually been when I was staring at the bottom of an empty glass of beer, my eyes floating in various directions and my brain unconnected. Since those early days the bar had broadened its appeal, away from the hardened drinkers to fashionable sofas and an expensive Italian coffee machine.
‘John Marco,’ Alex said as though it had been yesterday when we last met. ‘It good to see you after much time.’
‘How are the boys, Alex?’ Both his sons were his pride and joy, his reason for working twelve-hour days.
‘They are growing big. Too big. You look happy. Do you want to celebrate? No champagne for you.’ I accepted the good-natured reproach with a smile. I ordered for Lydia and me, telling Alex to expect two more. Wyn and Jane must have run over from Queen Street in their eagerness because they arrived in time for me to order on their behalf. When I returned to the sofa Lydia had started giving Wyn and Jane a detailed account of what happened in court.
‘Thanks boss,’ Wyn said, reaching for his pint glass. Jane had a tall glass with a white wine spritzer, which she tipped towards me in thanks. Lydia had been particular about the variety of continental lager she enjoyed and I left the half-empty bottle on the tray as reassurance. My bottled water looked lonely by comparison.
‘Well done everyone,’ I said.
Wyn relaxed after two large mouthfuls of his beer. ‘Forensics are going through Kendall’s property. Hopefully there will be evidence we can use. He had every video box set imaginable, Breaking Bad, The Sopranos and all the Godfather films.’
Jane looked surprised by Wyn’s loquaciousness.
‘And Alvine will go through all the evidence from the Robin Oakley inquiry,’ Wyn continued.
‘You should have seen the look on Walsh’s face
,’ Lydia said, her voice deadly serious.
It stunned us all into a momentary silence until I replied. ‘Well, he’ll have an even longer face by the end of tonight once he’s been processed in Cardiff jail.’
I no longer needed alcohol to help me relax. The comfort of knowing Martin Kendall and Jimmy Walsh were safely behind bars was reassurance enough. As Wyn drank more Brains best bitter he even cracked the occasional joke. I saw a new side to Jane who dropped the jaded, tired-of-life halo with simple small talk.
Two hours flew by before we left the bar.
It was a cloudless night and for once I noticed the stars.
Chapter 37
When I sat in the Incident Room gazing up at the fuzzy image of Jack Ledley the euphoria from the night before seemed a distant memory. He was a direct link to Jimmy Walsh’s presence in Roath Park the night Bevard was killed. Years of policing allowed a dark veil of uncertainty to drag itself across my mind as I considered the strength of the evidence against Walsh. It reinforced the need to trace Jack Ledley. And now Walsh knew we had the video evidence it made it all the more imperative for him to find Ledley first. After all, if Ledley did become a supergrass then Walsh really was facing the rest of his life behind bars.
The sound of muffled conversation on the stairwell beyond the door broke my concentration and I turned and saw Lydia sharing a joke with Jane. They each gave me a smile of acknowledgement.
‘Morning, boss,’ Lydia said, shrugging off a thick fleece.
Jane perched a tall takeaway coffee beaker on her desk, and tossed her bag under it.
‘We’ve got the uniformed officers who led the search teams in Pontypool arriving soon,’ Lydia said, looking at her watch.
The computers on their desks hummed into life. The monitors flickered as Wyn entered the Incident Room. ‘Did you see the news last night? I’ve never seen so much coverage.’
‘It was only the preliminary remand hearing.’ I wanted to sound authoritative but I could hear the earlier uncertainty creeping into my voice.
Before anyone could reply two uniformed officers barged into the Incident Room. The older one’s shaven head glistened in the artificial light and the younger had a close-trimmed short back and sides. I waved them towards two chairs. They sat down, placed hands on their knees and clenched their jaws.
‘Bring us up to date.’ I couldn’t remember the names of either officer so I spoke to the room. Luckily, Lydia saved my embarrassment.
‘Constable Williams led the team that searched the northern part of the town, sir.’ She nodded at the bald officer who adjusted his position on the plastic office chair.
He took his cue. ‘We went into every shop and pub and bed and breakfast. But we couldn’t find anyone who had seen anyone resembling either Bevard or Ledley.’
‘How many hours have you put into this search so far?’ I could hear the bean counters in headquarters squealing in pain at the overtime. Thankfully, it would be Acting Detective Chief Inspector Hobbs’s problem.
He shook his head slowly. ‘A lot, sir, and I’ve had some of the officers’ team leaders complaining they need them back.’
With police resources scarce and the public demanding value for money, I didn’t blame them. Constable Barclay, who had led the second team, had a similar story. Standing by the board he gave us a guided tour of the town as he glided a hand over the map. We listened for an hour as the officers gave us the details of where they had searched and who they had spoken to. Several of their team had spoken to the same people more than once and a local councillor had grilled two officers about the inquiry. I made a mental note to email Dave Hobbs warning him to tell the public relations department they could expect some disgruntled politicians complaining police time wasn’t being utilised effectively.
‘How much longer do you want us to search, sir?’ Barclay returned to his seat.
Now it was my turn to step towards the board.
I gazed at the map. Pontypool was one of the many post-industrial towns in the eastern valleys still suffering from the recession before last. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my trousers and pondered.
Barclay continued. ‘It could take us days, maybe even weeks, to find him and we don’t even know for certain he’s there.’
The look of ice-cold anger on Walsh’s face when he was taken down into the cell at the magistrates’ court came to mind. Bernie Walsh would have instructions to find Ledley. She’d have the same person tracking him down that killed Bevard and the reality that I had no idea who was responsible filled me with a sick feeling. I looked over at the photograph of Norcross. I couldn’t ignore his long association with Walsh. I recalled our interview at the start of the inquiry when he denied any involvement in killing Bevard: he needed to be watched. Perhaps I could get Hobbs to authorise a surveillance team. I bowed my head for a moment, anticipating how he might react.
‘We carry on. A man’s life is at risk. At least we know Jimmy Walsh is out of the way so that might make it harder for Bernie Walsh to find Ledley.’
I scanned the team in front of me and read on their faces their determination and agreement with my decision. Other policing priorities would have to wait.
‘I’ll be up there later today.’
I mentally calculated when I might arrive once I had seen my father in hospital. I left Williams and Barclay to finalise the details with Lydia and strode back to my office already composing the emails to Dave Hobbs and the public relations department.
* * *
Papa was sitting up in bed when I arrived and Mamma sat on the tall visitor chair by his side. She beamed when she saw me. I found a chair and sat down.
‘We’ve been told Papa can go home,’ she said as though he wasn’t there.
Papa rolled his eyes. He still looked pale and I stared over at him. His cheeks were more sunken and the skin around his mouth was tight. I wanted to say – are they sure? Instead, I smiled and said, ‘That’s great news. Is there going to be any follow-up treatment?’
‘He needs to take things easy for a few weeks.’ I could see her relishing the possibility of having him home where she could keep an eye on him. ‘Then he has to start some exercise – walking and swimming is good.’
A few weeks at home would drive Papa mad, and what would happen to the business in the meantime? There was a resigned look on his face that implied he was agreeing to humour his wife for now.
Small talk filled another twenty minutes before an agitation gnawed at my mind that I needed to be in Pontypool.
‘Hello, John.’
I recognised Jackie’s voice immediately.
I stood up and kissed her briefly on the cheek. This time I lingered. Her perfume was delicate, full of warmth; it reminded me of our recent night together. As I went to find another chair, I noticed the grin on my mother’s face.
‘I had the second interview this morning, John.’ She sat down and gave my mother a smile of acknowledgement. ‘I start next month.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said.
‘Congratulations,’ Papa said.
Jackie turned to me. ‘I heard all about that man Walsh on the TV. Does it mean the case is over?’
I glanced at my parents in turn, knowing the answer they wanted to hear.
‘Of course.’ I hoped I sounded convincing. Then I wondered if Lydia, Williams, and Barclay were making progress.
An odd uncomfortable feeling overcame me as we sat there discussing hospital food and the television from the night before. Jackie was my ex and although we appeared to have rekindled something I wasn’t certain if I wanted it to. Mamma certainly did but she had never really liked Tracy. ‘I need to get back to work.’
Mamma smiled again. ‘Papa will be discharged tomorrow, John.’
‘I’ll call tomorrow night.’
Jackie got up too. ‘I’ll walk out with you. I’ve got to drive back to Basingstoke today.’
We walked out of the ward and headed for the lifts. ‘John.’ Jackie
touched my arm. ‘I wanted to tell you that it was really special the other night.’
We reached the open landing by the lifts where visitors were waiting.
There was a fondness in her eyes I hadn’t seen for years. It made me wonder what I had missed in those wasted years when I spoke to the bottom of a pint glass more often than to her. A message arrived on my mobile as I wondered how to reply.
Get back to QS – Walsh has been released.
Chapter 38
‘What the fuck happened?’
I grasped the top of the chair tightly. Desmond Joplin sat opposite me at the conference table, avoiding my gaze. Hobbs balled his fingers into a tight fist. As he sat down he waved me to a chair but I couldn’t sit so I paced around the room.
Joplin gave a dry cough and then cleared his throat. ‘A judge released him on bail. Walsh’s lawyers argued that the quality of the recording was so poor it could not be relied upon.’
My mind raced. Only a circuit judge could have considered an appeal from the district judge in the magistrates’ court.
‘Who was the judge?’
‘Does it matter?’ Hobbs said.
‘It was one of those part-time judges.’ Desmond sounded despondent. ‘Walsh’s lawyers managed to get him to hear their appeal because he was finalising something else in court this morning.’
‘He needs to be taken out and shot.’ Both men looked up at me startled. ‘You know what I mean … This is so wrong.’
I stood by the window and stared out into the dull grey afternoon. Forecasters promised rain later and in the last week the temperatures had dropped a few degrees. Soon enough the investigation was going to get much colder too. ‘Walsh killed Oakley – no doubt.’
‘We know that, John.’ Hobbs managed to sound supportive.
‘And he was responsible for the death of Bevard …’
Joplin piped up. ‘But there is no evidence.’
The sky darkened and the first drops of rain fell.
‘Walsh is subject to a night-time curfew,’ Joplin said.
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