Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  The doctor looked dazed; he peered at Glover with bloodshot eyes, then half-smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you, Inspector, but I don’t really feel like a coffee. I wonder – might I have a cup of tea? Out of a proper china pot, and a cup, not a mug, if that’s at all possible. I don’t want to be a bother – but that would be lovely.’

  Glover nodded at the PC who was standing inside the interview room door, then took his seat, indicated that Griffiths should do likewise, and nodded to Stanley to start the recording devices. He stated the facts for the record. He then asked if Griffiths had attacked GGR Davies at Three Cliffs the previous morning.

  ‘Oh yes,’ was Griffiths’s matter-of-fact reply. ‘I don’t know that I meant to do it when I went there – but it seemed like the right thing to do when I was face to face with him. An eye for an eye. It seems fair.’

  Glover couldn’t see any emotion on the face of the man in front of him. Bill Griffiths had shut down. An automaton was speaking for him. The nervous energy he’d noted when he’d met him had evaporated. Glover felt sorry for him; he tried to ease him through the interview.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, Bill? Was it the speech on Sunday night that set you off on this path? You didn’t miss the speeches at all, did you? You heard GGR alright, didn’t you?’

  Griffiths didn’t lift his downcast eyes. He nodded. ‘You saw the recording?’

  Glover nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘Then you know what he said. He was actually making a funny story out of it. It made me see that Josh’s death meant nothing to him. The man was too drunk and too stupid to put two and two together – he didn’t even know what I was talking about when I confronted him with it.’

  ‘So, it was when he said that he’d hit a sheep when he was leaving the Fire Dragon Fireworks beer launch that you knew he’d at least seen that he’d knocked down your dog. A large, white, standard poodle, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes – Milly. She was a lovely girl. Won a prize at Crufts one year, she did. But that wasn’t why we loved her; she was such a gentle old girl. Linda and I had her before Josh came along; we couldn’t get pregnant, and for four years she was our only baby. Then Josh was born, and we had the complete family. He was such a happy little boy; he and Milly would play together, she looked after him like he was her own – she was still taller than him when they both died that night.’ Griffiths sobbed, dry-eyed.

  ‘And when GGR joked about leaving the launch party with a fair few pints in him, I suppose your next move was to hunt down his car in the car park.’

  ‘Oh no, I’d been with him earlier in the day when he was rooting around in the boot trying to find something. I already knew he had a silver car. A lot of people do; trust me, I’ve noticed every single one of them for the past five years, and have wondered if each one was the one that killed my boy. But, until he told the story, the fact I knew he had one meant nothing. But I didn’t sleep at all Sunday night – I just went through it all in my head, and worked it out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Glover gently. ‘So why did you go to Three Cliffs yesterday morning, Bill? What was your intention?’

  ‘I hadn’t even bothered going to bed, so I was out early – I just wanted to . . . get away. But you can’t, can you? You can’t get away from what’s in your own head, and somehow I intended to confront him with it. I wanted to see something in him that showed he understood what he’d done. When we were golfing he’d talked about his own little dog, which he didn’t seem to care for a great deal, I must say, but he’d spoken of where he liked to walk with it, so I knew where he’d be.’

  ‘As it turned out,’ the doctor added thoughtfully, ‘I was there long before him.’

  Glover noticed a wry smile on Griffiths’s lips.

  He sighed. ‘I sat in the little dell at the top of the cliffs for what seemed like hours before he arrived. It was quite wonderful. Everything was grey and shifting; I was completely enveloped in thick mist. Although the sea was far below me, it sounded as though I could reach out my hand and touch it. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed that time there. I don’t know how long it lasted, but I wanted it to go on forever. I felt very close to Linda and Josh there – as though I could hear them calling me. I felt safe. I could actually feel them there. I was at peace with the world. And I haven’t felt that way for a long time.’

  Glover nodded sympathetically.

  Griffiths sighed heavily. ‘Then he came blundering along. Just like he’d taken them from me before, he did it again. I couldn’t feel them anymore. He was singing loudly and totally out of tune, puffing on a horrible cigar, and he had his giant golf club with him; I don’t like those things – they’re so unnecessarily large. If it hadn’t been for the harvest mist he’d have seen me from some way off, and might even have avoided me. But, as it was, he was almost right next to me before he saw me at all.’

  He paused seeming to recall the moment, ‘Anyway, he was surprised to find me there, but greeted me jovially enough. He reeked of alcohol, and was even swaying a little on his feet. Loud. Drunk. Insensitive. I didn’t see GGR the way I’d thought of him for years. All I could see was a murderer. He asked me why I was there and I told him. “Because you killed my son.” He told me not to be so stupid, so I told him about Josh, and how he and Milly were knocked down in the lane outside my house in Clydach, not far from the brewery, on the night he’d been at the beer launch. I described Milly, and told him what my wife had seen. And do you know what he said, Inspector?’

  Glover had to admit he keenly wanted to know.

  ‘GGR Davies laughed. Laughed, and said I was talking rubbish. Then he said that, even if it was true, there would be no way to prove it. Besides, he was GGR and no one would believe it of him.’

  Unfortunately, Glover could imagine the GGR he’d just begun to know saying exactly that; he’d had a glimpse of the level of entitlement the man had felt . . . had been led to expect, in a society where he was all but a God.

  Glover sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Bill,’ he whispered.

  And he was. In every way.

  The doctor continued, ‘And then – I don’t really know what happened. Honestly . . . I’m not trying to cover anything up – I just don’t know what happened next. I know he’d tied up his dog and laid the golf club against the rock face, and I seem to remember picking it up. I think he turned away and I just swung at him with his club. But then, it’s all a blank. I don’t even know what I did with the golf club – did I throw it over the cliff? Did you find it?’

  Glover didn’t react.

  Griffiths didn’t look up. ‘I don’t remember getting back to my car and I don’t remember driving. But I must have done, because I remember getting cash out of the wall at the bank – in fact, that’s the next thing I do remember, and I don’t even know why I did it. As I put the cash in my wallet I could see I already had money in there. Then I realized what had happened, but I still didn’t know the whole story. I went back to work on Monday afternoon and I just sort of got on with things. As normal.’

  The man shrugged, ‘I didn’t feel right, but no one said anything to me, and I got out of there as soon as I could. But I still couldn’t settle. I didn’t sleep much Monday night – I woke in the chair at one point, all sweaty and aching, so I went out for a walk on the front, along the beach. Then I got ready for another day, and I wondered if I’d actually gone to Three Cliffs and seen GGR or not; I was beginning to think I’d dreamed it all. Then I heard the news on the radio, and I knew I hadn’t. Then you came to the club, and I had to face you, and lie. But I knew I couldn’t keep on doing it . . . I couldn’t keep on lying about it. It’s always been difficult without Josh and Linda, and I knew that I just couldn’t do it anymore. Besides, with their killer gone, there’s no need for me to carry on. It’s over now.’

  Glover looked at Stanley – who pushed the tea the PC had brought toward Griffiths; he hadn’t touched it so far. Griffiths lifted the cup from the saucer a
nd drank it down.

  He looked up and smiled at Glover and Stanley. ‘That was the best cup of tea I’ve ever tasted,’ he said. It was the first emotion he’d displayed. ‘Strong, sweet, just the right amount of milk.’ His words slurred a little, but he looked happy.

  Glover smiled back at the man. Then he stopped smiling.

  Something was wrong. Griffiths’s eyes weren’t focusing; his pupils were dilated. He’d kept his eyes firmly fixed on the desk during his confession, but now Glover could see something was amiss.

  He turned to the constable at the door. ‘Call for paramedics now, and fetch the duty medic as quick as you can.’

  He leaped out of his seat and rounded the table.

  ‘Bill – what have you done, Bill?’ Glover shouted at Griffiths, who was beginning to slump.

  Stanley was on her feet in a second. They caught Griffiths before he slid out of his chair.

  ‘Overdose of some sort?’ asked Stanley of Glover.

  ‘I suspect so,’ was Glover’s response.

  ‘Have you taken something, Bill?’ shouted Glover again.

  ‘Nothing you can do. All over now,’ replied Bill Griffiths dreamily.

  ‘We’ve got to try to keep him moving, sir,’ was Stanley’s unusually assertive comment, and Glover nodded. He patted Griffiths’s cheeks and tried to keep him conscious.

  A doctor was with them in a matter of moments, the paramedics ten minutes later. Glover and Stanley paced about outside the interview room as every revival technique was attempted.

  ‘He probably walked about on the street outside until he began to feel the effects,’ was Glover’s observation, ‘then he came into us to tell us what he’d done before he went.’

  Stanley nodded. ‘Do you think he might have got away with it, sir? I mean he’s had one nervous breakdown already – and it sounded to me like he snapped; another break with reality. They might not have locked him up at all; it might have just been treatment.’

  ‘I think you might be right, Stanley, but there was nothing for him to “get away” with; he was living in his own hell already.’

  ‘So you think his account was accurate, sir?’

  ‘We’ll never know for sure – but GGR’s recorded version of events that Guy Fawkes Night and the Josh Griffiths case do rather line up. And GGR was probably right – we wouldn’t have been able to prove anything, not after five years. Frankly, from what I’ve seen in the last twenty-four hours, you could have had photos of him actually doing it, and people wouldn’t have believed it of him.’

  Glover was angry. Angry and sad. The fact that Griffiths was finally pronounced dead didn’t help.

  Back in his office, Glover raked his hands through his hair, crunched a peppermint and slurped cold coffee – three devices he used to try to calm himself; none of them worked.

  Rakel Souza was on her way from West Glamorgan General; a death in custody was a nightmare, and he needed the best person available on the case.

  Interview Room Two had been sealed off, and Glover suspected Lewis would be after his blood.

  Word had got out about the fact that Griffiths was a suspect in the GGR case but, Glover thanked God, it hadn’t left the station or reached the media yet – though they, of course, had been beside themselves with glee when an ambulance came screaming up to HQ and paramedics had started running about. The clamor to know what was happening was clearly audible through Glover’s window.

  ‘Right, Stanley – I’m off to see the super. He needs all the facts – and I intend to give them to him.’

  ‘Any requests for a last meal, sir?’ was Stanley’s wan reply.

  Glover managed a smile. ‘I’ll just take my peppermints, that should do it,’ and he went off to face his fate.

  Glover called Stanley into his office within ten minutes. ‘Shut the door, Stanley, there’s a good sergeant.’

  Stanley settled herself across the desk from her boss.

  ‘I’ve told the super everything,’ began Glover, ‘about Joshua, Linda and Bill Griffiths. I’ve filled him in about GGR taking steroids, and our suspicion that he was supplying them around his Fire Dragon client list. I explained about him groping that girl at the Brynfield Club, and I’ve given him chapter and verse about GGR’s drinking and driving – and how our lot have been letting him get away with it for years. And do you know what he said?’

  Glover’s tone made it clear that his question didn’t require a reply.

  He pressed on, ‘He said that we’d never be able to prove anything about GGR killing Josh Griffiths; that his own steroid use was his own business, and the dealing was something we’d never be able to get anyone to testify to; that no breath tests meant we’d never known, as a police service, that he’d ever actually been drinking and driving. He said the man’s reputation had to be protected, and we should proceed as though Griffiths’s statement was one made by a man in extremis, but which couldn’t be used to damn GGR after his own death. He wants a cover up, Stanley. The bloody man wants a cover up. So that there can be a national outpouring of grief for a murdering, drug-taking drunk, who was enabled by everyone around him.’

  Stanley remained quiet.

  Glover stood up and started to pace.

  ‘It’s not right, Stanley. The truth should come out about that man. Lewis says we can’t undermine him – that it’s important he remains a dead hero. That the memory of him as an inspiration is important. More important than the truth.’

  Glover raked his hands through his hair. ‘I know he’s got a point, Stanley. What good would it do to smear The Great One in death? We can clean up after him as far as the steroids are concerned; no one we know of except the Griffiths boy, and his mother and now his father, were directly affected by his drinking and driving, and he did – and still does – inspire a great deal of good. But let me tell you this, Stanley – I feel sick to my stomach about it.’

  Glover resumed his seat.

  Finally Stanley spoke. ‘So?’ Her question hung in the air.

  ‘So . . . we’ll do as our superior officer instructs,’ replied Glover bleakly. ‘Griffiths’s confession to the killing of GGR will be made public, but not the reasons for it. Of course they’ll come out at the inquest, but I have a feeling that someone – and I can tell you right now it won’t be me – will be there to undermine the “suggestions” that Griffiths made in his statement. No mention will be made of the drinking, the groping, or the steroids, because they are not “pertinent to the case”, as Lewis put it. And that’s that. There’s no one left to jump up and down on Bill Griffiths’s behalf, or on behalf of his family, so it’ll be GGR who wins and Bill Griffiths’ name will always be mentioned with GGR’s; he’ll be known forever as the man who went mad, and killed a hero. It’s disgusting. Why the hell do we do this job, Stanley?’

  Stanley remained silent.

  Glover was boiling. ‘Why do we do it? Why do we not stop to eat, or sleep, or see our loved ones while we pursue the case, gather the facts, interview the endless suspects? Why? To bring the bad buggers to justice, that’s why. To allow people to sleep soundly in their beds knowing they are safe. Bill Griffiths was a healer – a medical practitioner who apparently worked hard to ensure good health in his local community. GGR Davies habitually sat behind the wheel of a car, drunk; he was the epitome of a dirty old man, groping a sixteen-year-old; he endangered the long-term health of maybe hundreds of people with those steroids, and that’s without considering the cheating at rugby aspect. And he killed a little boy. He killed him. I’m as certain of that as Bill Griffiths was. I cannot believe we’re going to have to live with this, Stanley.’

  Glover squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard. Then he looked at his watch. It was six thirty p.m. It had been less than thirty hours since he’d taken the call about a body being found at Three Cliffs from Superintendent Lewis. In thirty hours his life had changed forever.

  He resigned himself to a long night at the station; a death in custody entailed a huge am
ount of paperwork. He and Stanley would have to be interviewed; there’d be no veg soup for him that evening.

  ‘Stanley – I’ll be out in five – go and tell the team the super’s version, and let them go. They’ve had a long day.’

  ‘Sir,’ was Stanley’s only remark as she left the room.

  Glover picked up the phone and dialed Betty. She answered in her sing-song tones, which always lifted his spirits.

  ‘I’ll be late, sorry, love, no dinner for me – you go ahead.’

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Get someone?’ asked Betty.

  ‘Yes. Bill Griffiths. The doctor. A full confession. Then he died in front of me, poor bugger. Overdose, I think.’

  He could hear his wife’s voice catch as she said, ‘Oh Evan, I’m so sorry, cariad. It must have been awful for you.’

  Had it been awful to see Bill Griffiths slip away, rather than be paraded about to be vilified by all? Actually, Glover thought it might not have been the worst thing that could have happened to the man. Griffiths had no one left in the world he loved; he felt that he had visited retribution upon the man who had killed his son and, eventually, taken his wife from him. For Bill Griffiths, it was all over.

  ‘I think he was happy, Betty – happy that he’d done the right thing, in his own mind, and happy it was all over. Not that I’m saying people should go around taking justice into their own hands, mind you. But I’ll tell you all about it later, when I get home.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll be up – whatever time it is. And we can talk as much as you like. Or as little as you like.’

  Glover had known she’d understand.

  ‘Just one thing, Evan.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you find out – did GGR fall, or did Bill Griffiths actually push him?’

  Glover thought about it, and realized he still didn’t know.

  ‘I know he didn’t jump. As for the other questions, I don’t think we’ll ever get the answers. But there’s one thing I can tell you, Betty, GGR had fallen so far before he even got to the top of Three Cliffs that morning, I don’t know how I’m going to stomach all the memorials. Maybe we could postpone our trip to Scotland and fly off somewhere else – somewhere warm, where they don’t play rugby at all, and where GGR isn’t known, or mourned. Where he doesn’t mean anything.’