by Cathy Ace
‘Where were you on Monday morning, Mr Everett – between eight a.m. and noon?’ Stanley’s tone was abrupt.
‘At work – you can check with my office. So, no, I wasn’t pushing GGR off a cliff in the Gower,’ was Everett’s equally sharp reply.
‘If you could give us your work details we could check that quite easily, Mr Everett,’ said Glover in his most reasonable voice. ‘Maybe you’d like a coffee while we follow up on that? You could tell Stanley here how you like your coffee and she could bring it for you.’
The man looked delighted that the spiteful minion would be relegated to being his fetcher and carrier, which was just what Glover wanted. He instructed Stanley to follow up on the office alibi – which he suspected would hold. Glover thanked the man for coming and told him that, if everything checked out at his office, there’d be no need to bring his daughter in, at that time.
As Stanley attended to Everett’s coffee, Glover dragged himself back upstairs and looked at his watch. One o’clock. He was making progress, but it was slow. And his main emotion was of hopelessness – he was utterly dismayed at his findings so far about GGR.
He decided he deserved a break; he’d call Betty, and hear a sane voice just for a few minutes. But not right now – now he wanted to see that recording of GGR’s speech, and he needed to do something to rally the troops a bit. He was pretty sure he’d have to face the super soon, too, though he congratulated himself on having managed to avoid him for so long. Glover kicked himself for even thinking of the man, as he heard his superior’s voice behind him in the corridor.
Inwardly, Glover rolled his eyes, but to his super’s face he said brightly, ‘Sir – just the person. I was about to call you in to join the team; we’re going to watch a recording of the speeches GGR made at the Brynfield Club on Sunday night, and I thought you’d be interested in seeing it.’ Glover was a pretty good liar, all in all, and he knew Lewis wouldn’t pick up on the sarcasm in his tone.
Whatever Lewis had been about to say, it was clear the thought of actually seeing GGR’s last speech before he died put it quite out of his mind, and the man beamed. ‘Thank you, Glover – I think it will be an important event to witness.’ His serious tone almost made Glover smile.
By this time the two men had reached the team room, where they were joined by Stanley, who whispered to Glover, ‘Everett’s alibi checks out – I’ve sent him home, but asked him to remain available.’
‘Good job,’ replied Glover. One door had closed then, thought Glover to himself, as he asked everyone to take a seat so they could see the TV monitor that had been set up in the corner of the room. Of course Lewis got the best seat in the house.
Glover stood at the front of the room and told the team what they were about to see – adding that it would be a chance for them to note if anything had been said, or had happened, during the speeches that might have a bearing on what had happened to GGR the following morning.
The mood in the room was one of apprehension; people seemed uneasy at the thought of watching GGR just hours before his death. Glover and Stanley took their positions at the rear, perched beside each other on the edge of a desk.
DC Hughes was in charge of making the screen and the recording work, and, after a few hiccups, a rather dark and somewhat grainy picture appeared. It was clear the microphone was nearer the camera than the top table, so the voices of the main speakers echoed, whereas whispers at the back of the room could be heard more clearly. Still, thought Glover, it was better than nothing. Maybe there’d be something . . .
The golf and rugby captains made a few comments, then there was a vote of thanks for Dr Bill Griffiths, who couldn’t be seen in the shot, as well as one for Kevin Waters and all the staff who’d helped make the day a success. Then GGR was introduced, with all the usual references to his stellar career, and a few comments about how he’d been a regular at the Brynfield Club for so many years.
Glover watched with mixed emotions; had he seen this tape before his day had begun he’d have been watching it as an avid fan – a chance to gain an insight into a more intimate side of his boyhood hero. As it was, he was looking at the face of a man he was beginning to hate; a man who’d had it all, but had decided to abuse the trust put in him by young players, at least one young girl and, frankly, the entire community.
The applause on the recording finally subsided, allowing GGR to speak. Glover heard, once again, that familiar voice; gravelly and jovial, warm and comforting. Not slurred at all, which made him wonder about how very often GGR must have drunk large quantities of beer, given that, by all accounts, he’d probably have sunk the best part of two gallons of beer by that point in the proceedings.
Glover felt the mood in the squad room become more intense as GGR began to speak – all ears and eyes were focused on The Great One.
GGR opened with the expected acknowledgements of the club’s officers and staff; he expressed surprise that the day had gone so well, given that both golfers and rugby players were involved, which earned him a good laugh, then he began his speech in earnest.
‘I’ve thought long and hard about what to talk to you about tonight, gentlemen, trying to work out what it is that golfers and rugger buggers have in common – and then the answer came to me – of course, it’s beer!’
A round of applause and laughter followed.
‘About which, given my years with the brewery, I know quite a bit. Indeed, you could say I know beer inside and out.’
He shouted ‘Cheers!’ and raised his glass to the crowd, then he drank down a full pint in a matter of seconds. The roar in the Brynfield Club showed his audience’s appreciation of this feat. In the police team room there was a ripple of chuckles.
GGR continued, ‘I suppose I’ve had a blessed life. The perfect life some might say – playing rugby for Wales and working for a brewery. The only thing missing is being the lead tenor in a male voice choir . . .’
Laughter.
‘The sad truth is, I can’t carry a tune. But there – the rugby and the beer make up for it, I suppose.’
The man knew his audience, there was no doubt about it. Glover wondered how many of the officers he was looking at suspected just how well GGR really did know beer, from the drinker’s perspective; he guessed that, even if they’d known, they wouldn’t have cared.
GGR continued, ‘So, beer. It is what I think the writers of “Bread of Heaven” had in mind when they wrote that hymn; I know there’s been many a time it’s been a meal in a glass for me. All that goodness in there gentlemen – hops, barley, water – it’s almost a health food. But not all beers are created equal; it takes years and years to invent a good new beer. I’m sure many of you are aware that Fire Dragon Dark has been my tipple of choice for as long as I can remember, but I wonder if you knew that I was involved in the development of a beer that they actually wanted to name after me?’
Clearly no one knew.
‘However, I said I could think of a better name than mine – so they called it Fire Dragon Fireworks.’
A ripple of understanding ran through the team room, while on the tape a series of ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ohs’ flew about, and a round of applause broke out.
Glover wasn’t much of a a frequenter of pubs, except when work required it, but even he knew about Fire Dragon Fireworks; the brewery sold it for only two months each year, and it was powerful stuff.
GGR seemed pleased at the reception he was getting, and carried on with enthusiasm. ‘Believe me, gentlemen, there was a lot of tasting that had to be done to get that one right.’
Laughter.
‘It took about a year, all in all. Then, to launch it, we had a big party up at the brewery. All top secret it was before that night. Maybe some of you remember it – hiding the packaging, not letting anyone see the end result – then the grand unveiling, in every bar where it was served. At the brewery itself they allowed me to have the first pint pulled . . . and the second, and the third . . . well, it’s good stuff, isn’t it?’<
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A cheer went up in the Brynfield Club.
‘Just as well they only sell it for two months. Fireworks is right, eh chaps?’
Glover could hear comments close to the microphone about how strong the beer was, and how the hangover the next day was equally powerful.
GGR drank from the fresh pint that had been placed in front of him. ‘I’m not too sure about this seasonal beer thing myself, but if you’re going to have one at all, it should be a good one. Not too keen on the Christmas ales, me – all messed around with, and too fruity for my liking, but I have to admit I thought a beer to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night was a good idea; all that standing around in chilly fields waiting for the dud Catherine Wheels to turn, you need a good beer to keep you warm. And speaking about Catherine Wheels, the launch party at the brewery had some of those girls there who wander around with free beer, and I bet you can guess where their Catherine Wheels were. No duds there, gentlemen!’
Sniggering close to the microphone.
‘Yes, it was a delight to be able to develop a beer that people like as much as they do that one – it’ll be here in the bar at the beginning of November – the fifth year for the brewery to put it out, and I hope you all lap it up; I know I will. Oh, but that launch party, boys. I have to say – and, remember, I don’t work for them anymore – the Fire Dragon Brewery does a bloody good job with its beers, and its parties. I had to leave before the fireworks display they were having that night – the little woman had plans for the evening, and I didn’t want to be late – or there’d have been fireworks of a whole different sort!’
Big laugh for that one, on the tape and in the squad room.
‘No, no, seriously gentlemen, I don’t want to speak ill of the wife – I’m sure many of you know my Gwladys . . .’
Spontaneous, if polite applause on the tape.
‘. . . she’s put up with me nearly forty years now . . .’
More applause.
‘. . . and she’s happy that I’ve finally retired. I think. But, back to the launch of Fire Dragon Fireworks; like I said, good party, good beer, and strict instructions from the wife to not be late home. So there I am, wending my way through the lovely lanes of Clydach. It’s pitch dark out there – I don’t think they can afford street lights out that way . . .’
He paused to allow for laughter, and drew some.
‘. . . and I have to admit I was putting my foot down a bit, when all of sudden what’s in front of me but a bloody big sheep. Huge it was, and on the side of a narrow bit of road. Well, gentlemen, there was no way I was going to miss it.’
There were a few groans.
‘Luckily I drive one of those Swedish cars they say are safe because they do a moose test; if the car can cope with hitting a moose, it’s safe. Well, in this part of the world I can now confirm we have developed the sheep test, and I can tell you I hardly felt a thing. I was tempted to stop and stuff the sheep in the boot and take it home for a stew, but as it was, I just wound down the window and shouted “mint sauce” at it and got off home.’
There were laughs and calls of ‘mint sauce, mint sauce’ around the room on the tape.
In the team room the joke didn’t seem to go down as well as at the dinner, but there were a few chuckles. On the recording, GGR was enjoying himself as much as his audience was – Glover could tell he was a man who knew it wasn’t just what you said to a crowd like that, but how you said it, and GGR was hamming it up a treat.
‘Now, now, don’t get me wrong,’ GGR continued, ‘I’m not one for “hunting and gathering” my own food, that’s what the wife’s for, and who knows, maybe that poor sheep was somebody’s darling . . .’
Laughter broke out.
‘. . . see, now – there’s a chap who knows what his wellies are for,’ cracked GGR pointing at someone in the crowd.
Hoots of laughter at that one.
‘. . . but when I got home and the wife saw the mess on the front of the car, she laid into me good and proper, so I did get to see the fireworks after all!’
Hoots of laughter and applause followed.
GGR quietened the crowd. ‘But enough about beer – I am well aware you’d rather be drinking it than hearing me talking about it, so I’d better get on with these presentations and let you all get to the bar.’
For the next ten minutes GGR read out names, handed out plates and handfuls of cash, and finally the Howells’ Cup – which was accepted, to the accompaniment of much cheering, by the golf club captain and the twelve members who’d played in the tournament. GGR thanked everyone again, encouraged them all to visit the bar one last time, and not to forget the arrival of Fire Dragon Fireworks in about five weeks’ time, then the recording shut off.
There was, disappointingly, no sign of the fight that had ensued what must have been just a few minutes later.
Everyone in the squad room was quiet. Glover rose and addressed the room.
‘Well, there we have it – GGR’s last public appearance. Any questions? Observations?’
Before anyone had a chance to comment, Detective Superintendent Michael Lewis rose to his feet and turned to face the room. ‘Wonderful man – quite wonderful. Talented, entertaining, and a real supporter of youth rugby. He’ll be sorely missed. And it’s we who have to find out exactly how he met his demise. He might not have been playing any more, but he was a man in his prime, with a full and busy retirement ahead of him. Whoever caused his death has robbed him of that – so come on, let’s have some action. I want results. Glover – my office for an update, now.’ And he was gone.
He’d said all the things Glover hadn’t wanted him to say; the team had been on a little up-slope, now Lewis had sent them off into a downward spiral again. They needed a pep talk; they knew what their responsibilities were – they didn’t need reminding of that. Glover could have happily strangled the man.
‘I’ll be ten minutes, sir – have to make a couple of really important calls,’ called Glover toward the super’s back.
‘Quick as you can, Glover,’ was what he heard in reply, but was halfway to choosing to ignore.
‘Stanley, did you get anything from it?’
‘Well, sir, I do have a question.’
Glover noted her hesitation. ‘And that is?’
‘So the Welsh really don’t mind the sheep jokes, then?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go around making jokes about it yourself, Stanley – it’s the sort of thing we take pretty well from one of our own, but from an Englishwoman? Let an old rugby player get a few cheap laughs with it, but I’d steer clear of the whole thing, if I were you.’
‘Good advice, I’m sure, sir.’
Stanley seemed to consider the matter closed, as did Glover, who headed off to his office, and a chance to call Betty. Now, maybe even more than earlier, he wanted to hear the voice of his wife; not ‘her indoors’, not ‘the little woman’ nor any of the other phrases which annoyed the hell out of him – but his wife. His love, his comfort, and his anchor. He didn’t like it when people made fun of their wives just to get a cheap laugh – something else that rankled about GGR.
‘Is that you?’ asked Betty as she answered the phone.
‘Yes, love, it is. How are you?’
‘How are you is more like it?’ replied Betty, sounding concerned. ‘I just saw the lunchtime news – God, it’s a mess, Evan.’
Glover was suddenly aware that he’d managed to not only miss the media people who might have been trying to talk to him, but was also completely unaware of what the public was being fed in terms of what he had no doubt was misinformation. He thought he’d better find out what the rest of the world thought was going on.
‘So what’s the news then?’
‘Well, first of all, I had to go down to town this morning – we’re almost out of cabbage and I needed to make you some fresh soup for tonight.’
Glover swallowed hard – how he hated that stuff.
Betty continued, unawa
re of – or else choosing to ignore – her husband’s silence on the matter of the soup. ‘So I popped into Swansea Market, and you should see Gwladys Davies’s stall; her name is draped in black velvet, and where the fruit and veg should be there are dozens of photographs of GGR, all with their own little funereal attachments, surrounded by flowers and candles, and piles of cards, and little notes. It’s like a shrine. They’ve even set up a book of remembrance for people to sign; the queue was right around the middle of the market. And I tell you what, Evan – the mood all around town was like a funeral itself; we Welsh are good at this sort of thing. Lots of conversations in hushed tones – even the market itself sounded like a church.’
Glover wasn’t surprised; Betty had hit the nail on the head – the Welsh had a talent for enjoying misery. He could also imagine all the stories about ‘I was there when GGR . . .’ did this, or that, being swapped. He wondered if pub landlords would go so far as to drape black swags on the framed GGR rugby shirts on their walls. He suspected many would.
Mind you, with the history the nation had, it was hardly a surprising response; marginalize a people, take all their land off them, try to wipe out their culture and tell them they aren’t allowed to speak their own language and see what you get. And that was one of the real reasons why GGR had been such a hero – he’d always managed to stuff the rugby ball right down England’s throat. It was a small compensation, but his nation had taken it, and had loved him for it.
Evan’s momentary lapse of concentration had clearly been noted by Betty, who had stopped speaking; even on the phone it seemed she could tell when Evan was distracted.
‘Sorry,’ said Evan quickly, ‘I was just thinking about what you’d said – and you’re right, we’re good at that sort of thing.’
‘So it seems,’ said Betty. ‘And if you believe the news on TV today it seems there’s a fight breaking out about where and when his memorial should take place. They interviewed his sister in Cardiff and she was all for the WRU dedicating the next Wales versus England international to his memory at the Principality Stadium; but then there’s a group saying there should be a special service at the Cardiff Arms Park, because he never actually played at the new stadium. Swansea’s Lord Mayor was on next, saying it should be held at St Helen’s – where he played for the All Whites, whereas some people think it should be at the Liberty Stadium, where the Ospreys play. Wherever it ends up being there’s going to be a lot of singing – it looks like every male voice choir in existence will be there; they had Bryn Terfel on the telephone from Milan saying he’d drop everything and fly in from wherever he was in the world, and they had Max Boyce on camera saying he’d write something especially for it. They expect the biggest-ever gathering of international players from the 1970s to the present day there, too. Wherever “there” turns out to be. It’ll be quite the event.’