Read Somebody Told Me for Free Online Page A

Lydia was ahead of me; the discreet heels on her shoes and her well-pressed denims made the most of her legs that morning. I got distracted and a cyclist swore at me as he narrowly missed a collision.
    A smell of disinfectant and cleaning fluid and then stale chip-fat made an odd combination as we entered the café. A radio competed unsuccessfully with the sound of vacuuming from the rear so we wandered through and found a woman pushing a machine through the legs of plastic-topped tables. When she saw us she turned the machine off.
    ‘We’re looking for Mrs Walsh,’ I said.
    ‘In the office round the back, love.’ She nodded towards a door with a lopsided sign saying
Office
.
    Behind it a staircase led to the first floor and at the top I heard the sound of voices at the end of a corridor. I glanced over at Lydia before heading past a window. Outside in the car park were a Porsche Carrera and a gleaming Range Rover Evoque. I’d heard the Walsh family were good customers of the Range Rover dealers in Cardiff and realised then that the Porsche dealers must be doing okay too.
    The voices became louder as we reached a door at the end. I didn’t knock: we weren’t calling on civilised society where politeness and manners were valued. So I barged in despite the feeling that Lydia had been about to say something. Sunshine streamed through large windows. Sitting at a table was a woman in her mid-forties, tanned and slim, with perfect hair and so much bling on her fingers she must have been tired at the end of each day from the weight of hauling the stuff around.
    ‘Mrs Walsh?’ I said.
    She didn’t answer. But the man by her side did. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
    He stood up and drew himself up to his full height. He looked exactly like the photograph pinned to the Incident Room board. His powder-blue shirt followed the contours of his frame like a blanket covering a racehorse. A braided leather belt held up dark grey trousers. The thick neck and broad shoulders indicated a regular gym subscription.
    I pushed my warrant card towards him before moving it slowly so that Mrs Walsh could read it. ‘I’m Detective Inspector John Marco, Wales Police Service, and this is Detective Sergeant Flint.’ I kept my eye contact direct. Martin Kendall did the same. In fact he never even blinked. He had deep-set eyes, black and unreadable.
    On the table were two coffee cups, their tide marks evidence of recent refills. The smell of fish and chips had disappeared but now there was something else hanging in the air: expensive aftershave and perfume, no doubt.
    ‘What do you want?’ Kendall said.
    ‘Who are you?’ I said.
    He scowled.
    ‘Simple question,’ I added. ‘What’s so difficult about telling me your name Mr Kendall?’
    Now he glared at me. I sat down at the table, nodding for Lydia to do the same.
    ‘What do you want?’ Kendall said again. I took against him as soon as I heard the Scottish accent.
    ‘We’re investigating the murder of Felix Bevard.’ Kendall glanced at Bernie Walsh who told him with a raise of an eyebrow to sit down.
    ‘How can we help, Inspector?’ Bernie managed a narrow smile.
    ‘Felix was a business associate of your husband. So I was wondering if you had any recent contact with him?’ Bernie looked away and she feigned disinterest with a lazy shrug.
    ‘Felix Bevard was found killed in Roath Park café.’ Lydia had an irritated edge to her voice.
    ‘I’d heard. Very sad,’ Kendall said, making an effort to keep his voice flat.
    ‘When was the last time you saw Felix Bevard?’
    ‘I can’t recall.’ Bernie leant over to Kendall. ‘Can you remember Martin?’
    He shook his head while staring at me.
    ‘It must have been several years ago. But come to think of it I saw him going into that flash Indonesian restaurant in the Bay,
a week
after Jimmy went down.’
    There was more nodding now from Kendall’s direction.
    ‘What makes you think he was a
business associate
of