Free Somebody Told Me by Stephen Puleston Page B

thrust the mobile into the cradle on the dashboard and dialled central operations. The call was answered after a single ring.
    ‘Are the CSI team on their way?’ I said.
    ‘Yes, sir. Miss Dix and her team are en route.’
    Then I rang Lydia. ‘Just had the call, sir.’
    ‘I’ll meet you there.’
    Mentally I calculated the journey to Llantrisant – it was two junctions on the motorway and then a few miles to the north. Twenty minutes maximum. I made it in twelve. I pulled the car onto the pavement as Lydia parked behind me. We strode over to the semi-detached property where a uniformed police officer stood outside.
    ‘He’s in the kitchen.’
    I snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked down the hallway.
    Brian Yelland sat upright in a chair by a pine table still wearing his prison officer’s uniform, a blank look on his face, a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. I stared over and recalled the only time I had met him. I had caught the smell of alcohol on his breath when he showed us Walsh’s cell in HMP Grange Hall. Drunks always tried to overcompensate, I knew that only too well, and his loquaciousness had become grating. I stood for a moment and scanned the scene – first the body, then the table, before slowly turning to the rest of the kitchen. The realisation gripped me that a killer had stood in this same room. I couldn’t escape a feeling of foreboding that the finger was pointed at Jimmy Walsh, safely locked up in the prison where Yelland worked.
    Lydia stood behind me. ‘Jesus, it’s just like Bevard.’
    I nodded. ‘Looks like another professional kill.’
    ‘One of his neighbours found him. He called to see Yelland about some problems with the boundary fence. He looked in and saw the body.’
    A slice of buttered bread sat alone on a cream-coloured plate and near it was an upended yogurt pot. Tomato ketchup smeared the plate in front of Yelland: his last meal had not been fine dining.
    ‘We’ll need to know if he had a family.’
    ‘Looks like he lives alone.’
    I turned my attention to the rest of the kitchen. It had all the usual accessories: a kettle and a toaster, crockery on a drainer – and the smell of decaying food. And amongst this domestic normality I had to hope there would be some trace of the killer.
    Behind me, I heard the muted sound of vehicles arriving and then voices.
    Then a white-suited Alvine Dix appeared in the doorway.
    ‘What have we got, Marco?’
    I glanced towards Yelland.
    ‘We’ll get started then.’
    I retreated with Lydia out of the kitchen and into the sitting room at the front of the house. It had a cheap three-piece suite, its arms scuffed and the cushions sagging. I peered out of the window. The markings of the patrol car glistened under the street light. It still had its blue warning light flashing. Then I noticed an A-Class Mercedes parking. Paddy McVeigh jumped out and I walked through into the hallway to meet him.
    ‘Hi, Paddy.’
    ‘Hello, John. Where’s the body?’
    I pointed down the hallway. The pathologist hurried towards the kitchen and I heard Alvine complaining about being disturbed.
    ‘Shut up, Alvine,’ Paddy shouted. He knew well enough how to handle her. Not that there was any ill will towards Paddy or me from Alvine but she had to get things done and if anyone got in her way then she complained. A lot.
    I was about to return to the sitting room when I heard a frantic woman’s voice. ‘Is it true?’
    ‘This is a crime scene, madam.’ I recognised the voice of the uniformed officer. ‘You cannot go in there.’
    She shouted. ‘I need to see him. Is he in there?’
    ‘Madam …’
    I heard the sound of scuffling and then a small woman with auburn hair burst into the house. Lydia had emerged from the sitting room by now and we stood between the woman and the kitchen so she stopped.
    ‘My name is Detective Inspector John Marco and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’ I kept my voice soft and low.
    ‘Is it