Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Davies,’ Stanley seemed unhappy about interrupting, ‘do you think it would be better for me to walk across the road to your friend’s farm, or is there a telephone number where I could reach her?’

  ‘She’s number three on the quick-dial thingy,’ replied Gwladys in a businesslike manner, ‘the phone’s in the hall out there – just ring star, three, star and you’ll get her. Ann Edwards. But don’t tell her what’s happened – I’ll tell her when she gets here. Ta.’ She looked at her watch. ‘She should be there; probably getting tea ready, I should think.’

  It appeared that the thought of her friend preparing an evening meal overwhelmed Gwladys, and it set her off into floods of tears. Glover suspected she was beginning to accept that her husband was, in fact, dead; that she’d never again prepare a meal for him. He could do nothing but wait as she wailed and snuffled.

  When her sobbing gradually subsided, Glover couldn’t help but feel relieved; relieved that she’d shown some sort of emotion other than anger, and relieved that she’d finally stopped.

  Stanley re-entered the large farmhouse kitchen and announced, ‘Your friend will be right over, Mrs Davies.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she managed to reply, her tone now much softer than before. ‘Maybe you had better get Dr Morris for me, if you can – he’s number four on the thingy. Thank you.’

  A knock at the front door drew Stanley’s attention. ‘I’ll get that, and phone your doctor.’ Moments later Stanley returned with a female officer in tow, who busied herself around Mrs Davies; she offered more tea, enquired about the location of biscuits, and asked if the poor woman fancied anything else to eat, offering to cook something.

  While Gwladys Davies was fending off the attentiveness of the family liaison officer, Glover whispered to Stanley, ‘Let’s get the friend in, tell the liaison to make sure the woman’s taken care of by her doctor for the night, and we’ll get out of here. Until we know a cause of death I don’t know if this woman’s just a widow to be pitied, or a suspect. Either way, we’d better make sure one of our lot is with her at all times – right?’

  Another knock at the front door was again answered by Stanley; the neighbor had arrived.

  Glover was only too well aware that most murders were committed by spouses. He didn’t know if they were even dealing with a murder yet, but – if it turned out that they were – he might already have witnessed something that would prove useful for the investigation. All that anger from the widow? It was quite something.

  As he was leaving, Glover turned once more toward the still-snuffling Gwladys and said, as comfortingly as he could, ‘Be assured, Mrs Davies, that I’ll be in touch if we get any more news, and this officer can be here with you all night, if you’d like that. We can’t have you feeling lonely, now, can we? But could you maybe just tell me the exact time you left your husband this morning? Was he due to meet with anyone up at Three Cliffs?’

  Glover was taken aback by the torrent which broke forth from Gwladys Davies.

  ‘Ten to eight, I left,’ she snapped, ‘same as usual. Well, usual since he retired, anyway. I know it had only been a week, but he didn’t know what to do with himself already. Couldn’t help but get under my feet, he couldn’t, and he held me up something rotten. “Helping” he said he was; but he wasn’t helpful at all. Usually out by eight for all those years, you see, both him and me; him off to see his customers, me to the stall in the market.’

  Glover was glad when she drew breath.

  The she was off again. ‘But now? Well, he’ll have to find something to do with his time; I can’t cope with his sort of help. And plans? No, no plans that I know of, other than getting the car back. That was his problem, see? Never had any plans. I’ve been telling him and telling him to find something to do.’

  Gwladys managed a wistful smile. ‘He’ll enjoy playing more golf, I suppose – loves it he does. But you can’t do that every day, can you? Well, I suppose he could, but he doesn’t like the rain, see? Makes his arthritis play up, doesn’t it? Those knees of his. Never give him any peace, they don’t. He was just going out to walk Arthur when I left him this morning. Oh . . . poor Arthur. You must get him home to me, you must.’

  Glover found it all extremely interesting.

  As Evan Glover was brushing his teeth, his mobile phone started to ring in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the banister downstairs. It was six forty-five a.m. It had to be DSI Lewis.

  ‘Shall I get it?’ asked Betty, calling from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes please, love,’ was Evan’s gurgled reply.

  ‘Detective Inspector Evan Glover’s telephone,’ said Betty.

  ‘That you, Mrs Glover?’ asked Superintendent Lewis.

  ‘Hello Michael, how are you?’ Betty made a point of addressing all Evan’s superiors as equals – they weren’t her bosses, after all.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Evan.

  Betty called, ‘It’s Michael.’

  Evan hurried to take the call – he knew about Lewis’s dislike of dealing with spouses; twice-divorced himself, Lewis seemed to have a unhealthy disrespect for officer’s partners.

  When Evan finally grabbed his phone from Betty, who gave him a wicked grin as she passed it to him, he listened patiently while his superior explained how deeply concerned he was that Glover’s immediate superior was on holiday, and how he very much wished DCI Ted Jenkins was around.

  ‘I intend being very “hands-on” with this case, Glover,’ said Lewis.

  ‘I should imagine so, sir,’ replied Glover, warily.

  ‘It’s not a case I would ordinarily place under the control of a DI.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not good optics, for a case like this.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But we’re stretched, so I am appointing you to act up to DCI for the duration. You’ll report directly to me. Big responsibility for you, Glover. But I think you’re up to it.’

  Evan’s gut rolled. ‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down, sir.’

  ‘No, you bloody well won’t,’ snapped Lewis. ‘Full update on my desk, in an hour.’

  Evan looked at his phone when Lewis had gone, and organized his thoughts.

  ‘I’m acting up. In charge,’ he said to Betty, who was hovering at his elbow.

  His wife beamed. ‘Of course you are. You’ll be brilliant, cariad. I’ve put coffee in a thermal mug for you, and I’ve shoved a couple of those granola bars into a bag – in case you need a snack.’

  Evan grinned. ‘It’s not my first day at school, love.’

  Betty kissed his cheek. ‘No, it’s much more important than that. I’m so proud of you. Now go – you’ll be great, I know it.’

  Evan kissed her, grabbed the coffee, and shouted, ‘I’m off to see Rakel; I hope she’s got something. As you can imagine, I might be late tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep the soup going,’ came Betty’s less than welcome reply.

  Glover pulled the front door closed behind him and jumped into his car. It was just before seven a.m. He wondered what Rakel had found. As he negotiated the blessedly light traffic, he slurped at his coffee – it was good and hot, and actually tasted of coffee, which was a blessing.

  Rakel Souza welcomed Evan to her office while she munched a fast-food breakfast sandwich.

  ‘DSI Lewis is taking a very “hand’s on” approach with this one.’ She rolled her eyes and added, ‘His phrase – so he wants everything, and I mean everything, to go through him. He’s been phoning me almost every hour, on the hour, through the night. The man’s driven me nearly insane. Frankly, I don’t know how I’ve kept my cool. By the way, he just phoned me to tell me you’re acting up as DCI for this case. Congratulations . . . I think.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s going to be a challenge dealing with him, and this case. So, let’s get to it. What did you find? I know we’re all grateful that you’ve been at it all night, but Lewis – for all his involvement in the details – didn’t tell
me a thing. What have you told him?’

  ‘As much as I can, but I told him I needed you to come here to see something; I didn’t want to just tell you about it on the phone, or see it in photos. Come with me to the dirty rooms.’

  Glover knew that ‘dirty’ signified the presence of corpses; the public were never allowed into ‘dirty’ areas – they only got to see the remains of their loved ones from a ‘clean’ room. None of this rolling out of corpses from chilled drawers to be pawed over by anyone and everyone, like they always seemed to be doing on those American TV shows. The West Glamorgan NHS Trust’s Health and Safety Regulations wouldn’t allow for that sort of thing; they got enough stick about not keeping the wards clean, without letting members of the public come into contact with all sorts of who-knew-what in the mortuary.

  Glover hated the mortuary, not because of what happened there, but because of the smell; ‘sweet’ certainly wasn’t the word for it. Of course, it depended on what Rakel and her team had on the go at any given time, but not even the chilly conditions, nor the use of various chemicals, could mask the unpleasant realities of the place. He hoped he wouldn’t have to be there for too long, and tried to prepare himself for the task of viewing the corpse, this time possibly completely splayed open.

  As Glover pulled on the required gloves and paper coverall, and donned the ridiculous little hat that completed the outfit, Souza brought him up to date.

  ‘It’s definitely him, Evan. I got the man’s medical and dental records last night, and there’s no question about it.’

  Glover was disappointed; somewhere inside him there’d been a slim thread of hope that the body had somehow been set up to appear to be GGR.

  ‘He’s had a huge amount of dentistry done over the years,’ continued Souza, watching with a smile as Glover fiddled with the paper cap, ‘some of it involving a good deal of metalwork. However, I think what’s most amazing is that throughout all those years of rugby, he never broke a single bone, except his nose. His records tell me he broke that eight times, necessitating some septorhinoplastic surgery because of the damage to his septum. Had an ACL rupture, a couple of concussions, and lost several teeth as I said, but nothing terribly serious, considering.’

  ‘Despite the fact he played well into his thirties, very few people could catch him on the field,’ was Glover’s glum reply.

  ‘True. However, although he looked not too bad on the outside – except for the terrible injuries from the fall, of course – his innards told another story,’ added Souza, sounding grim.

  ‘Definitely the observable early stages of hypertropic cirrhosis,’ she continued, ‘he probably thought he was suffering from constant indigestion, but it was an enlarged liver that was doing it. There are some faint signs of jaundice, but he might not have noticed that, given his generally ruddy complexion. He also had a touch of liver palm, but if he helped out on the small-holding I dare say he could have put the characteristic reddening at the ball of his thumbs down to general wear and tear of the hands. I suppose working for a brewery for forty-odd years has its damaging side-effects, after all,’ she concluded.

  ‘Alcohol induced then?’ asked Glover.

  ‘Most likely; booze is by far the most common cause of cirrhosis. He’s drunk a lot of it, for a good number of years, I’d say. But I’m getting some other tests done too – liver, kidneys, heart, body and blood chemistry of course, toxicology reports and so on. I can’t say too much right now, but there are a few other physical issues I’m concerned about.’

  Glover looked quizzical.

  ‘Don’t ask, Evan, because you know I won’t guess. What do I know? His arteries don’t suggest he was overly familiar with the words “low fat”; he had surprisingly good muscle tone for a man of sixty-five who was obviously otherwise generally unfit, and he has very small testicles. He might have had a few years left in him, but only with a significant change in lifestyle, I’d have said.’ Souza looked serious as she pushed open the swing doors that led from the ‘clean’ offices to the mortuary itself.

  Glover was still grappling with her comment about the man’s testicles; he felt compelled to speak. ‘Now, you know me, Rakel, a man who likes plain language when it comes to your area – so why the comment about the testicles? What does that mean?’

  Souza continued to walk slowly toward the rooms where the post-mortems were conducted. ‘Nothing, necessarily, by itself, and that’s why I hesitate to make any assumptions.’ She was obviously being cautious. ‘What I can tell you is that the testicular atrophy, the relatively lean muscle mass for his age, the liver and kidney condition – all taken together – plus the number of hypodermic wounds in the man’s thighs, lead me to suspect that GGR Davies was a long-term user of anabolic steroids.’

  Evan took a moment to consider Rakel’s comments. He was stunned.

  GGR on steroids? It made no sense.

  ‘But he hasn’t played rugby in nearly thirty years, Rakel, why on earth would he be taking steroids?’ asked Glover, somewhat confused.

  ‘Calm down, Evan. I’m telling you what I’ve found, and how I interpret those findings, without the benefit of any conclusive test results – so please bear that in mind?’ Glover nodded his agreement.

  ‘So,’ continued Souza, ‘what we have here is the possibility of a man who might have become a steroid user at an early point in his career and continued to use them thereafter.’

  The thought horrified Glover; what would all those records, caps and cups mean if GGR had achieved it all because of steroid use?

  ‘Or,’ added Souza, noting her friend’s horrified expression, ‘we have a man who began to use steroids as he aged, feeling the effects of having taken knock after knock on the field. Steroids aren’t able to actually build muscle, you see, Evan, they’re used to allow for a quicker recovery time after exercise and to increase tolerance to pain, which allows the user to push their body further and faster so they can build more muscle and stamina. Maybe GGR used them to allow him to manage his aches and pains and to allow him to play round after round of golf, which I understand he did.’

  Glover preferred that idea; if his hero was using steroids, and if he hadn’t used them during his career, and if they were for medicinal reasons only, well . . . that might be acceptable. Betty’s cousin had just had a steroid injection in her hip – not all uses of steroids were bad, he reasoned.

  ‘Is there any way to tell how long he’d been using them?’ Glover dared to ask. Do I really want to know? was what he was asking himself.

  ‘No, other than for years,’ replied Souza. ‘He’s obviously been what you might call a “responsible user”, but there are some suggestions of cumulative liver and kidney damage, which would be normal, and some effect on the heart. Pretty frequently observed side effects of long-term usage – meaning years, not months. But as for whether he was using them when he was playing – which I’m sure is what you mean, Evan – there’s no way of knowing. Of course, you have to bear in mind that anabolic steroids weren’t banned substances in sports when he was playing. They’re Schedule Four drugs now, as I’m sure you know, and banned throughout sport. GGR wasn’t involved in the sport anymore, so no one would be testing him.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’d think they’d be tricky to get hold of, but they are more prevalent than you’d think in Welsh rugby, at all levels, it seems. As I’m sure you know, many people have uninterrupted access to them for decades. Looks like GGR was one of them. But the steroids, if they are confirmed, aren’t what killed him. At least – I don’t have any test results yet that suggest they did. No, this is what I wanted you to see.’ Souza shouted to be heard above the fans that droned constantly inside the, ironically, spotlessly clean, ‘dirty’ white-tiled room.

  She moved purposefully toward the cadaver on the bench. Glover was thankful that GGR’s body had been stitched closed; giant ‘scarecrow’ stitches marked a large ‘Y’ shape across the whole torso. He was struck, once again, by the amount of damage sustain
ed by the man in his fall.

  ‘Let’s have it then,’ said Glover, somewhat abruptly, wanting to get out of the place as soon as possible.

  ‘Can you see this?’ asked Souza, lifting the head to show the back of the man’s skull.

  ‘I can see lots of things,’ answered Glover bleakly; it was difficult to work out which injuries had been sustained in GGR’s descent versus those which had been inflicted when Souza had removed the top of the skull as part of her investigations.

  ‘Here,’ said Souza. She pointed to a depression just at the base of the pitifully battered skull.

  Glover drew nearer to the pathetic figure on the slab – he didn’t want to, but he had to. ‘How do you know that wasn’t something that happened to him as he fell?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask that,’ smiled Souza, and flicked a switch on a light box suspended on the wall beside them. ‘Because of this,’ she exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to the illuminated, yet still somewhat indistinct, image in front of them.

  Glover had to squint to make out the detail. How was anyone supposed to make any sense of X-rays? He assumed they were of the once-wonderful GGR. As Souza had mentioned, the man had a lot of metal implanted into his teeth and jaws; indeed, it looked as though most of his teeth were actually screwed in.

  ‘Okay, Rakel, what am I supposed to be looking at? All those screws?’ Glover was puzzled and a little frustrated. Souza, on the other hand, seemed quite excited.

  ‘See this here?’ she pointed to a series of lines at the base of the skull area on the screen. ‘That wasn’t made by craggy rocks – but by a blunt instrument.’ Souza sounded as delighted as she might have done if she’d just discovered the usefulness of the Rosetta Stone. ‘It was definitely the fall that killed him – massive head and neck trauma as we saw, and the spinal shock he suffered as a result killed him almost instantaneously. However, this initial injury was what might have caused him to fall in the first place, or it might have made it easy for someone to steer him toward, or even over, the cliff edge. This bash on the head would have made him woozy at least, possibly semi-conscious.’