Somebody Told Me (17 page)

A man in his twenties, heavily built with a polo shirt a size too small that accentuated the pumped-up muscles of his arms, gave us an intense stare. ‘I’m Howard Oakley. You’d better come in.’

Mrs Oakley stood at the end of the hallway staring at us. She was thin, flat-chested and her clothes made her look shapeless. Her lips were colourless. ‘What do you want?’

I held out a hand and shook hers. It was bony, the skin flaccid. ‘I’m investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’

‘He was involved with Jimmy Walsh wasn’t he?’

‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’

Mrs Oakley darted her head towards the door into the living room. A television was on mute but before sitting down she pressed the remote to switch it off.

‘You know Jimmy Walsh killed my Robin don’t you? There was nothing you lot could do about it. Perfect alibi – that’s what I was told.’

The old springs of the sofa groaned as Lydia and I sat down.

Mrs Oakley looked up at her son who had followed us into the room with an upright wooden dining chair. He sat, legs apart, hands propped onto solid knees. ‘Howie can tell you. He knows all about that scumbag.’

I looked over at Howard. The deadpan look on his face remained unchanged.

‘I want to go over some of the details you told the police at the time of your husband’s murder.’

Lydia passed me a copy of the statement Mrs Oakley had provided.

Before I continued Howard piped up, his voice surprisingly reedy. ‘That bastard Walsh is a fucking murderer. Detective Webster in charge of the enquiry was a useless piece of shit. He had no interest in Mam or me.’

‘I appreciate your strong feelings on the matter.’ I wanted to say –
you’re right and I’m going to nail the bastard
, but years of policing kicked in. ‘At the time Jimmy Walsh had an alibi we couldn’t challenge. It was considered carefully by the prosecution lawyers.’

‘Then Jimmy must have paid somebody off.’ Howie folded his arms, defying me to challenge him. I turned to look at Mrs Oakley but Howie continued. ‘And Felix Bevard was up to his neck in the same shit as Walsh. So if you ask me he’s had what’s coming to him. Good riddance to a bad load of shit.’

As I turned to look over at Howie I shared a worried glance with Lydia.

‘I need to talk to your mother,’ I said, lowering my voice.

He pouted. I turned back to Mrs Oakley, giving her the barest of smiles. ‘Can we review what you told the investigating officers at the time?’

I went over everything again in detail: the time when Oakley had left the house on the morning of his death, the meetings he had had with Walsh and Bevard and the various telephone calls and late-night visits heavy with veiled threats and ultimatums. Howie couldn’t resist interrupting but when I pointed a finger at him with my hardest glare he sank back into his chair.

‘At first Walsh and his scumbag son-in-law were as nice as pie. They wanted to make us rich so we could retire. They took as to the races near Llanelli. Robin drank a skinful of champagne and puked in the car on the way back.’

‘Tell them what happened then, Mam,’ Howie said.

Mrs Oakley started chewing a nail; as though it was the first thing she had eaten all day. ‘We got second thoughts. The property had been owned by the family for donkeys’ years and with so many memories we couldn’t bring ourselves to sell it. And other shopkeepers and stallholders in the nearby market didn’t want us to sell.’

Howie stood up and paced around the room. ‘Dad told them right enough. He wasn’t going to sell.’

‘It was the worst thing …’ Mrs Oakley brushed away a tear. ‘He had his greyhounds. Loved them like they were little kiddies. One morning we found them dead and then Felix Bevard came round, pretending to be all nice. Telling us selling up was really for the best.’

An unsettling fear clung to my mind as I dreaded what Uncle Gino and Jez were concocting with Martin Kendall.

‘I hate them. All of them, for what they done to me …’

‘Tell them, Mam. Tell them everything.’ Howard stopped pacing, put his hands on his hips and stared down at Lydia and I.

‘I’m not well.’

Howard took a step towards us. ‘After Dad was killed by those mad fuckers the business went under within a year and they picked up the property dirt cheap. So until now it’s cost them nothing.’

I narrowed my eyes as I looked over at Howie. ‘What do you mean “until now”?’

‘Well he’s fucking dead isn’t he? You need to ask Mam what it’s like for her. Walsh will come out of jail healthy and fit. He’s had three meals a day, best gym for miles and satellite TV all paid for by the taxpayer.’

Mrs Oakley had finished chewing the nail of her left hand but had started another on her right before mumbling. ‘I’m sick.’

I paused. Lydia adjusted her position on the sofa by my side. ‘Mrs Oakley, can you tell us what’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got cancer.’

‘And it was all as a result of those two lizards Bevard and Walsh.’ Howie tempered his voice this time.

‘I’m very sorry.’

The dining chair sagged under Howie’s weight as he dropped his body onto it. ‘The cancer won’t go away. Mam is going to start chemotherapy next week.’

I could see how tangling with Jimmy Walsh and Bevard had led to this. They blamed both men for Mrs Oakley’s illness. And I could see they had been innocents caught in a web drawn by Jimmy Walsh.

‘He’s coming out of jail soon,’ Howie said, rocking back and forth slowly. ‘Two years. That’s nothing for being a mainline drug dealer and killer. Where is the justice in that? It makes my fucking blood boil.’

I felt helpless. I wanted to tell them I knew Walsh could have left the restaurant, gone to Roath Park and killed Robin Oakley. For the sake of my career, I decided a gentle reassurance would have to suffice. ‘I can appreciate why you are angry. Cases are reopened, sometimes.’ I could sense Lydia getting uncomfortable by my side. ‘I’m not reopening the inquiry into your husband’s death; all I’m doing is identifying if there’s anything that might link the case to the death of Felix Bevard.’

Mrs Oakley managed a harsh cough that rattled her ribs. ‘You should talk to Maggie.’ There was more coughing until she crumpled back into a chair.

‘Maggie?’

‘It was the best thing that came out of the whole business. Maggie Evans came to see me with Ben. She was ignored by you people too. Nobody believed a word she told ’em even though Ben was in the park the night Robin was killed. She wanted to tell me how sad she was about Robin and everything. Then we got to be friends.’

I turned to Lydia; she was already flicking through the sheets of paper in the file. She handed me the list of witnesses from the original case. I scanned down until I found the name Margaret Evans with an address in Roath. I searched but I couldn’t find a reference to any other witness called Ben.

The possibility that the investigating team had overlooked a witness raised my optimism. I measured every word. ‘Who was Ben?’

‘Ben Evans? Her son of course. He was a nice lad but there is something not right with him. One of them
syndromes
– it was probably why the cops ignored him. They moved away afterwards. I don’t think she wanted to stay around near Roath Park.’

‘Do you have an address for her?’

Mrs Oakley took a deep breath and her whole body shook violently.

‘Mam has had enough now. It’s time for you to go.’

‘Do you have a phone number for Margaret Evans?’

Mrs Oakley walked slowly to a sideboard and returned with an address book. Lydia jotted down a telephone number and address. I promised to keep Mrs Oakley informed of developments, although in truth the only development she would care about would be Walsh in jail for her husband’s murder. I didn’t blame her for one minute.

Howie pushed the door firmly closed behind us.

*     *     *

‘I thought you might be here.’

Lydia sidled into the bench seat opposite me. She drew a finger along the table top and grimaced. Ramones was the best greasy spoon in Cardiff and as a regular all I had to was smile at the nearest waitress and a full breakfast would be on its way. I folded away that morning’s
Western Mail
having read the sports pages in their entirety.

Lydia looked over at the menu board. ‘Does everything involve fried bacon?’

‘They don’t do vegetarian here.’

A waitress arrived at our table before Lydia could reply. ‘What do you want?’

Lydia ordered tea and two rounds of toast. ‘What did you make of Mrs Oakley, boss?’

‘I think we should run Howard Oakley’s name through the PNC. He looks mad enough to have killed Bevard himself.’

Lydia nodded slowly.

I tapped the file of papers sitting on the table. ‘I’ve checked the list of witnesses from the Oakley inquiry and there’s no mention of a Ben Evans being interviewed.’

Lydia curled up her lips. ‘That means—’

‘We need to speak to him.’

‘But that really does mean reopening the Oakley case.’

I knew exactly what was on her mind. ‘We can’t simply ignore this.’

Her tea arrived and she gave the chipped mug a suspicious glance. ‘But it’s not really part of the Bevard case.’

Walsh and Kendall had involved my family and I wasn’t going to leave any loose ends – not on the Bevard inquiry, nor now with the Oakley investigation which looked more and more flawed. Next stop was an interview with the man himself.

I placed two chairs opposite each other, either side of an old metal table. I dropped a buff-coloured folder onto the surface and sat down. I scanned the room wondering if there was a microphone. But this was HMP Grange Hall and not some set from a television drama.

To my right was a large Perspex window. Prison officers could still see into the room, which was reassuring. Governor James had sounded puzzled by my request to interview Jimmy Walsh, but I had brushed aside her concerns about his imminent release. I glanced at my watch: Walsh was late.

I wanted to invade his personal space. Tell him I was in charge. Make it clear if he ever bullied my family then …

Jimmy Walsh passed the window, a prison officer opened the door and Walsh entered. He was shorter than I imagined, but broader and thicker around the neck. The prison reports had mentioned his regular attendances in the gym that contributed to the bulk.

He dragged a chair from underneath the table and sat down.

The door pulled closed behind the prison officer and I sat looking at Walsh.

He wore standard prison clothes: blue striped shirt and denims with a grey sweatshirt. Hair trimmed closer to his skull than in the images in his file.

Frustration tightened around my chest as I stared at Walsh. I would prove his guilt for Bevard’s death, and he’d be going down for life. I noticed the prison officer staring in at us and I glanced over at him. He nodded back. Walsh stared at me.

I pushed my warrant card over the table towards him. Walsh leant forward, peered down casually, and then made eye contact with me again.

‘Detective Inspector Marco. I’m investigating the death of Felix Bevard.’

‘So I hear.’

‘He was a business associate of yours.’

‘Why am I here, Inspector?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘This isn’t an interview under caution is it?’

‘I’m sure you want to cooperate with the inquiry. You might know something of relevance.’

I stared into the whites of his eyes: there was a trace of yellow there too.

‘I’m in prison, Inspector.’

‘Did Felix Bevard ever contact you?’

‘I’m sure you’ve checked the visitor log.’

I opened the papers on my desk.

‘You and Felix go back a long way.’

He stared straight at me, through me.

‘Did you visit him on your last weekend release?’ I checked the dates with a flourish. ‘When was that exactly?’ I recited the dates.

He adjusted his position. ‘Somebody told me you’re from the Aberdare Marco family.’

My lips dried as he drawled. ‘It’s the Marco ice cream family isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘I always liked their ice cream as a boy.’

I closed the file of papers and pushed it to one side.

‘Is it the same family that owns the Marco café in Pontypridd?’ Walsh managed a narrow smile without opening his lips but there was no emotion in to his eyes. ‘Somebody told me there are big redevelopment plans pending.’

My body tensed. I grasped both hands together. I wanted to reach over the table and calmly throttle Walsh until he agreed never to contact my family again. Somehow, I managed to keep my voice calm. ‘Tell me about Felix Bevard?’

Walsh knew our interview wasn’t being taped and that gave him confidence and composure. ‘Felix was an old friend of mine.’ That smile was back again but now his eyes sparkled like sunshine reflecting off finely sharpened steel. ‘We went back a long time.’

‘And you had him killed.’

He feigned disbelief and outrage with a shake of his head.

I placed my chin on steepled arms. ‘You must have known about Felix Bevard, about his plans to grass you up?’

He stared over at me, blinked once, then tried his mean smile again. He knew, of course he knew.

‘I thought you and I should have this chat. Off the record. You found out Bevard would give evidence that you killed Robin Oakley. You were going down for murder. And for you, that would mean life.’

He narrowed his eyes.

‘You do remember Mr Oakley? His widow certainly remembers you.’

Even sitting quite still Walsh exuded a menacing quality.

‘Tell me about Yelland?’

‘He was one of the prison officers here. It was very sad, his death.’

I curled my left hand into a fist.

‘He was making your life easy wasn’t he? You have the cosiest job in the jail, best food, he brought in bottles of whisky and brandy for you. So what do you know about his death?’

He raised his hands, scanned the room. ‘I’m in jail, Inspector.’

‘We know that you arranged to pay off his gambling debts.’

There was something different in his eyes now, surprise perhaps, and I felt pleased that I had the advantage. ‘How much did you pay him to make your life easy?’