Somebody Told Me (23 page)

Lydia and I walked up to the gate of the first house on our list. She hesitated but I sensed she had something to say. ‘All the team are behind you, boss.’

There was a
but
coming.

‘Only, sometimes you might explain things in—’

‘Explain?’ I stopped in my tracks. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lydia this is a murder inquiry.’ I paused. ‘I’ll speak to them again: but it’s my case.’

‘Yes, boss.’

I pushed open the gate and marched up to the door wondering exactly what Wyn and Jane had been bitching about. Maybe it was working a Saturday they found unpalatable. I reached the door and forced a smile when the householder appeared.

We spent twenty minutes ticking off the various sections of the original notes that the uniformed officers had recorded and, satisfied that she could add no more, we left. The same thing had repeated itself by mid-morning with three other households. An elderly spinster opened the door before we had even rung the bell. ‘I saw you coming. Jean from number three rang and told me you might call.’

She glanced at Lydia and me and opened the door, offering to make us coffee as she led us into her kitchen. She made decent enough coffee but we quickly realised that she too had nothing more to add. We made excuses and left carrying the various chocolate bars she insisted on giving us.

‘Probably the only company she’ll have all weekend,’ Lydia said as we stood outside the gate. I scanned the list of names and house numbers noticing that the original officers had marked the next-door property as empty. The drive looked neat and tidy, the gutters clean. It didn’t look unlived in so I ventured up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no response. I rang a second time before noticing a recycling bin placed near a gate to the rear. Not many empty houses put their rubbish out so I tried the gate, which was unlocked. At the bottom of the garden was a man pruning some rose bushes, earphones dangling freely around his neck.

I shouted over.

He ignored me so I walked down to him. He started when he saw me and fiddled with the smartphone, killing the music. ‘Bloody hell, you gave me a fright.’

I showed him my card.

‘Alan Taylor.’ He proffered a hand. ‘How can I help?’

‘We’re conducting house-to-house inquiries about the death of Brian Yelland.’

‘Who?’

I told him Yelland lived in one of the adjacent properties, a near neighbour. ‘I didn’t know him. I only got back last night from a trip to Germany. What happened to him?’

‘He was shot.’

‘Bloody hell. You had better come in.’

The kitchen was functional and clear of any clutter or a woman’s touch. We sat around the table.

‘I live alone and I work a lot in Berlin so I don’t really know any of my neighbours.’

‘Brian Yelland worked in Grange Hall prison and moved into the property in the last year after his marriage broke up.’

‘Sorry. I wouldn’t recognise him. When did this happen?’

I gave Taylor the dates. ‘That was the night before my flight.’ He puckered his brow.

‘When was your flight?

‘It was half past seven from Cardiff International. I had to be awake before four and I left about half past.’

‘Did you see any movement around the estate? Any unusual cars parked? Anybody walking the street?’

Taylor sat more upright in his chair. ‘Now that you ask I did see someone earlier that morning. I never sleep well before an early flight. I remember being up in the middle of the night. And I did see someone in the street.’

‘Can you describe him or her?’ I held out little prospect of any meaningful information.

‘It was a man, definitely. I noticed because he stood under the streetlight outside Yelland’s property. And there was a full moon that night – that was one of the reasons I peered out. He was using one of those fancy cigarette lighters. He was tall with a shaved head and he had a prominent nose.’

My heart almost missed a beat. The image of Martin Kendall’s crooked nose came swimming to mind.

‘Show me exactly where you saw him standing.’

‘Of course.’

Taylor led us into the lounge at the front of the property where he pointed to Yelland’s home and then at the streetlight. My concern as to how he could describe someone in the dark of night diminished as I realised how close the properties were. ‘We’ll need you to make a full statement and cooperate with an artist to make up a photofit image.’

‘Of course. I’m only too happy to help.’

I dialled headquarters and arranged for Taylor to be seen by one of the force’s artists later that afternoon. Then we left Taylor and I headed back for my car.

‘Do you think it’s Kendall?’ Lydia said.

I ran a hand over my mouth. ‘If it is him then he needs to explain what he was doing there.’

I looked over at Yelland’s property. If he had seen Kendall the night he was killed it meant another strong link to Walsh. Maybe my gut instinct wasn’t wrong after all.

*     *     *

It was early afternoon when I joined Tracy for the quality time I had promised her. We drove over to Barry Island. I drove sedately along Harbour Road taking in the view over the Bristol Channel. Once I’d parked we walked past beach shops and small cafés down to the wide expanse of beach. We headed over to the eastern promenade and admired the brightly painted beach huts that lined a small section. They looked pristine but the imminent winter’s storms would put paid to the owners’ efforts over the summer.

Back on the beach I took Tracy’s hand but she slipped it loose to kneel and gather a piece of sea-worn glass with smooth edges. She placed the blue fragment in her palm and wet the top of her finger to clean off the sand. A deeper, richer colour emerged. Then she slipped it into a pocket. By the end of the month the temperatures would have fallen, the wind would be brisker and the visitor numbers fewer.

We strolled over the long beach towards the western side talking about nothing in particular. Tracy had recently been on a course and she told me how Alvine Dix had made a point of getting her to ‘cascade her newly found knowledge’ to the rest of the team at Queen Street. Later we sauntered around the gifts and trinket shops until we reached Marco’s Café.

‘Any relation?’ Tracy asked.

‘It’s the owner’s Christian name.’

A large sign hung by the door with tall images of the main actors from
Gavin and Stacey
, the television comedy that had given Marco’s Café and Barry Island a new notoriety. We sat down by one of the round tables and beckoned a waitress. She took our orders for coffee, Tracy opting for a chocolate brownie as well..

‘How are things going with the Bevard inquiry?’

‘Slowly.’

It was indicative of the way our relationship had developed that I found small talk about work difficult. After my last case when I had briefly suspected Tracy had been sharing secrets with her brother it had become less easy to share confidences with her.

Thankfully, she sensed my reluctance and turned her conversation to her father and his medical problems. The house in Bournemouth was still on the market; the agents had suggested a price reduction in the hope they could find a buyer before Christmas. Our coffees arrived and Tracy tucked into the chocolate brownie, making approving comments.

A small minibus of tourists arrived and the café staff quickly arranged several tables together. The commotion soon died down, replaced by loud conversations and laughter at different attempts at the catchphrase used by the characters in the TV show. We paid and then retraced our steps to the car before driving back to Cardiff via Penarth.

That evening we strolled down to the Bay and mingled with the young couples, families out with teenagers and older groups enjoying the last of the September sunshine. We ate in an Italian restaurant, Tracy having relaxed – or perhaps we both had after our afternoon walk by the sea.

Back at my apartment we showered together. I drew a sponge over her back, ran my fingers around the fall of her breasts. She scrubbed my back and then my chest and squeezed me. Once she was clean of soapsuds she slid open the shower door and left me disappointed. Later we made love but Tracy’s embrace and her kisses lacked the tenderness and urgency we had shared at the beginning.

The following morning she made breakfast and things seemed normal. I fetched a Sunday newspaper and we spent an hour exchanging comments about various articles. Cardiff City had one of those odd lunchtime kick-offs that suited the satellite broadcasters so by late morning we were walking through Grangetown to the football stadium. She held my hand more tightly. I bought some coffees before kick-off and at half-time we shared a compulsory pie. The packaging said chicken but I had my doubts.

Cardiff won, thankfully. We jostled through the crowds to the bar and met two of my regular footballing friends. We analysed the game, dissected the strength of the opposition and anticipated that Cardiff would at least make the play-offs for a Premiership slot this season. Tracy smiled, and shared a joke; her coolness from yesterday seemed to have faded.

Most of the post-match crowds had gone when we left. Tracy drew the collar of her jacket to her face against the chill in the air as we walked back to the Bay. Outside my apartment, she dawdled, reached up, touched my cheek, kissing me briefly. ‘Thanks for a lovely weekend. I’m not going to stay tonight John. I need to get up early tomorrow morning.’

She reached into her bag for her car keys.

She smiled at me again before jumping into her car. I stood and watched her driving away, feeling hesitant about our future.

I drove to Queen Street humming along to Elvis Presley crooning his way through ‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?’, wondering what things had been left unsaid between Tracy and me. I was the first to arrive in the Incident Room that morning and once I’d booted up my computer I opened the email with the attached photofit image of the man Taylor had seen. An adrenaline rush pumped through my body at the real prospect I had more evidence against Kendall. Even with the evidence that Yelland’s gambling debts had been paid by Kendall I was still unconvinced there was enough to justify Kendall’s arrest for his murder.

It meant another meeting with Hobbs. I rehearsed my arguments and I imagined his voice asking me – motive? And then he’d tilt his head and look down his nose before dismissing me.

We had to have a legitimate reason to organise an identity parade where we could hope that Taylor might identify Kendall. I didn’t have time to think about it any further as a message reached my mobile from Papa –
van is back. Lurking around first thing this morning.

I ran down to my car. The gearbox made a crunching sound as I found first gear and floored the accelerator. The engine whined; I cursed silently that I wasn’t driving one of the pool cars that had warning lights. I resorted to flashing my headlights and blasting my horn. I hammered round Boulevard de Nantes and then right at the junction with North Road. Traffic scattered as I hugged the outside lane of the dual carriageway out of the city. I drove like a maniac, racing past the junction with Eastern Avenue and then on towards the main roundabout where the M4 reached the A470.

Once I was clear of the traffic lights I hurried towards Pontypridd. My heart pounded as I thought about Jimmy Walsh and his cronies. There was a tailback on the exit slip so I had to stop. Using the next junction might be better. The tarmac wagon ahead of me gradually pulled away and I committed to driving down the slip road. Luckily the lorry peeled away and I took a junction towards the industrial estate.

I slowed the car but my pulse still raced as I scoured the parking slots and site streets for the black van. I approached my father’s industrial unit and drove past hoping for a sight of the vehicle. But there was no sign so I retraced my steps and parked away from public gaze near a rear entrance to the factory.

The walk to the offices was one I had taken many times but never with such apprehension. Papa looked ashen faced as he stood in the office, next to one of the admin girls. He ran his hands over his arms as though he were cold. The telephone rang but when the girl answered it, she held the handset in her hand and looked up at Papa.

‘We’ve had dozens of these crank calls today.’

‘Have you tried identifying the caller?’

‘It’s always a withheld number.’

‘The telephone company could trace them.’

I followed Papa to his office. Inside there was a small bottle of whisky open on his desk and a glass by its side. ‘That’s not going help,’ I said.

‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’

He sat down behind his desk and gazed at the chaotic mass of paperwork. Managing his business was obviously the last thing on his mind.

I sat down in one of the office chairs. ‘Tell me what has been happening.’

‘We’ve had half a dozen calls yesterday morning and we were expecting a delivery by lunchtime. It never arrived and I called the supplier who told me he’d received a telephone call cancelling the order.’

‘So whoever it is must know where you get your deliveries.’

‘The girls are upset about the whole thing. Yesterday when I drove home from work the black van dropped in behind me on that last but one roundabout before the junction for the A470. To be certain it was the same one I took a random route home. But he followed me all the way.’

He reached a hand towards the glass but at the last second pulled back.

‘I was later than normal leaving the house this morning. But within a few of minutes of leaving I spotted the van in my rear-view mirror. He got really close. I couldn’t see the driver. And I made a note of the number plate.’ Papa scrambled amongst the papers on his desk and handed me a small sheet.

‘I can guess the result of this.’ I dictated the details down the telephone.

Papa leant on his papers. ‘Who are these people, John?’

He ran a hand up his left arm again. ‘Are you all right?’ I nodded at his arm.

‘Yes, it’s nothing. Just a bit of pins and needles. Your mother fusses too much.’

He sat back in his chair after topping up the whisky glass and taking a healthy mouthful.