Swansea Girls

by Catrin Collier

  ‘I’ll look after her, Joe.’ Whether Roy had intended to sound critical or not, Joe took his words to mean ‘better than you’.

  ‘We’re not going to the police station, are we, Mr Williams?’ Katie asked in a small voice as they sped down Mumbles Road towards Swansea.

  Roy turned from the front passenger seat and smiled. ‘No, love, I’ll drop you home but you and Lily may have to make statements tomorrow.’

  ‘Statements ...’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. You just tell me what you saw.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything that happened outside.’

  ‘But you did see what happened inside. It will be all right,’ Roy reassured, ‘You can make the statement in our house and your Mam can be there.’

  ‘My mother will have a fit at the sight of me coming home in a police car.’

  ‘I’ll explain, Judy.’

  ‘What about me?’ Helen gasped hoarsely between sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, but you’re going to have to come down to the station with me so we can sort out what happened back there.’

  ‘My father will kill me.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt he’ll do that, love,’ Roy reassured.

  ‘Leastwise, not until you’ve paid for that dress,’ Judy whispered in Helen’s ear as Roy turned back to give the driver directions.

  ‘We’re well ahead of the time it would have taken you to walk from the train stop,’ Roy murmured as they turned the corner into Carlton Terrace. ‘Right, as yours is the first house, Judy, I’ll see you inside.’

  Lily squeezed Helen’s hand in an attempt to comfort her as her uncle walked Judy to her front door. He was inside only a few minutes.

  ‘Is Judy’s mother angry?’ she asked as he returned.

  ‘No, love, none of this is your fault. You next, Katie.’

  Shaking, Katie crept out of the car and followed him down the steps to her basement.

  ‘Got your key, love?’

  ‘Isn’t it in the door, Mr Williams?’

  ‘It is. Bad practice that, anyone could walk in.’ Knocking loudly, he turned the key and stepped down into the kitchen. Annie was hunched over the table.

  ‘Annie?’ He blanched as she turned her face to him. It was a raw mass of bloody, beaten flesh, her blood-flecked eyes sunk so deeply into the swollen tissue above her cheekbones he doubted she could see.

  ‘I – I – fell over, Roy,’ she mumbled thickly. ‘Hit the sink ...’

  Walking over to her, he wrapped his arm round her shoulders. She cried out and he saw her right arm hanging purple and limp from her shoulder. ‘Come on, love, I’ll take you to our house.’

  ‘I can’t – the boys – Ernie –’ She didn’t even ask what he was doing, bringing Katie home.

  ‘Katie, pack whatever you and your mam need for the night. You’re spending it in our house. Go on, love,’ he prompted when she hesitated.

  ‘Dad ...’ She didn’t need to say any more.

  ‘I’ll check.’ Roy walked to the door that led to the passage.

  ‘He’s out,’ Annie whispered thickly. ‘He woke up and went out. We thought he’d sleep through the night but he didn’t ... and I fell over ...’

  ‘I know, Annie. You don’t have to tell me how clumsy you are. I’ve seen it since the day you moved into the street.’ Helping her out of the chair, he scooped her into his arms as she fainted.

  ‘When the ambulance comes you’ll go with Annie, Norah?’

  ‘If I do that, Roy, who’s going to stay with the girls?’

  ‘They’re sensible enough. They proved that tonight.’

  ‘But Ernie ...’

  ‘I’ll alert the patrols to keep an eye on the place. It might be as well if you warn Lily to keep the door locked and bolted, and at the first sight or sound of Ernie to ring 999, but I doubt he’ll come here, not to a policeman’s house after what he’s done.’

  ‘And Brian?’

  ‘Remind Lily to ask who’s there before opening the door.’

  ‘Roy ...’

  ‘Sorry, Norah, I’ve got to get to the Griffithses. They’ll want to come down to the station.’

  ‘That Helen Griffiths,’ Norah began heatedly, ‘she’s nothing but trouble. I’ll not have our Lily ...’

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, love. Lily and Katie have had enough to cope with for one night. And ring the station before you leave the hospital. I’ll get a car to pick you up and bring you back here.’ Roy stepped over the low wall that separated the Griffithses’ house from theirs and rang the doorbell. He rang it three times before giving up and returning to the car.

  ‘Do you know where your mam and dad are?’ he asked Helen.

  Her sobs had subsided since the other girls had left the car and he couldn’t help thinking that her tears had been more for the benefit of her audience than any injury or shock she’d sustained. ‘Mam’s in the theatre. Dad’s at some old boy thing.’

  ‘Dynevor School?’

  ‘I think so.’ She began to cry again at the prospect of seeing her father.

  ‘That’s being held in the Mackworth Hotel,’ the driver said.

  ‘We’ll telephone from the station.’ Roy recalled some of the rumours he’d heard about Esme Griffiths as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the car. If they were to be believed, she spent more time in Swansea Little Theatre than she did with her family. The evening’s events had rather borne that out. No mother worthy of the name would have allowed her daughter to go to the Pier in a dress like the one Helen had been wearing. Little wonder the girl was running wild and attracting the wrong kind of attention.

  He glanced back at Helen, hunched and miserable on the back seat of the car, and felt an unexpected pang of pity. He’d have a few words with John and Esme Griffiths when they came down to the station. What was the point of having money enough to give your children everything they wanted if you didn’t take the time and trouble to guide them on the right path?

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ the sergeant barked.

  Helen began to cry again, this time softly and quietly.

  ‘The truth.’ The sergeant looked from the girl to Roy. He was aware he sounded harsh and intimidating but he wasn’t used to questioning young girls. Signalling to Roy to step outside, he closed the door and glanced up and down the corridor to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Do you think she was raped, Williams?’

  ‘No, sir. But only because there wasn’t time. The girl’s dress had been ripped off her and Murton Davies’s flies were open when I got there. In my book that makes his intentions obvious. Young Clay told Powell the girl was struggling with Murton Davies when he left the ballroom with the drinks. He also says he saw Murton Davies rip her dress, which suggests Murton Davies had just attacked her.’

  ‘I phoned the hospital.’

  ‘Is Murton Davies all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Minor bruises and contusions. He’s also drunk as a lord but then he might as well be one. You have heard of the Murton Davieses?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Roy answered carefully.

  ‘His father’s already been on the line screaming for his son’s attacker’s blood.’

  ‘And the girl his son tried to rape?’

  ‘I’d be very careful who you relate that version of events to, Constable Williams.’

  ‘His friends admit he was drunk. The girl was screaming and trying to fight him off. Clay saw him tear the girl’s dress. His flies were open. How much more evidence do we need?’

  ‘Murton Davies’s solicitor is at the hospital. From the boy’s version of events, it appears he and the girl got a little over-amorous, the girl’s dress got caught on his watchstrap and he accidentally ripped it.’

  ‘You believe that, sir?’

  ‘I believe in youth and high spirits, and a girl crying rape when she thinks she’s about to be exposed as a tart. We’ll have to wait for the doctor’s report, but there appears to be no real damage done to the girl t
hat I can see, and you know the Murton Davieses. The father’s Grand Master this year. He can call on some pretty strong connections.’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the facts of the case, sir.’ Roy knew damned well it did, but he wasn’t going to stand by while Jack Clay’s and Helen Griffiths’ more likely version of events were swept aside without a single protest.

  ‘You know how difficult it is to prove these cases one way or another. Between you and me, if the boy did tear her dress deliberately she would have got no more than she deserved,’ the sergeant pronounced caustically. ‘Parading down the Pier half naked on a Saturday night. Her dress might be in shreds, but by all accounts there wasn’t enough to cover the bits that mattered before it was ripped off her. Has she said anything to you about why she left the ballroom?’

  ‘Not to me, Sergeant, but Jack Clay mentioned she was hot ...’

  ‘I bet she was. The Murton Davieses’ solicitor suggested she’s a professional streetwalker.’

  ‘She’s barely eighteen.’

  ‘We’ve picked up younger.’

  ‘I know the girl and her family. They live next door to us.’

  ‘In Carlton Terrace?’

  ‘That’s where I live, sir.’ Roy tried not to let his exasperation show. He knew what the sergeant was thinking. No family in Carlton Terrace could possibly rank as consequential in the scheme of Swansea politics or importance as the Murton Davieses.

  ‘The solicitor also suggested that both the girl and the boy who attacked Murton Davies had been drinking. He said something about smashing glasses over his client.’

  ‘It appears the girl had one gin and tonic, sir. The boy she was with, Jack Clay, brought out a second and dropped the glass when he went to help her fight off Murton Davies.’

  ‘Allegedly fight off, Constable. And as he admits he bought her two gin and tonics even if we can’t prove the streetwalker charge, we may get her on drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘You want me to charge her, sir?’

  The sergeant bristled at the disapproval in Roy’s voice. ‘Not yet, but we’ll keep it in mind. I think the best thing we can do from everyone’s point of view is sweep the whole thing under the carpet. I can’t see the Murton Davieses wanting a scandal any more than the girl’s parents or the lad who attacked him. What’s his name?’

  ‘Clay, Jack Clay, sir.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘It should.’

  ‘There we have it. A wild one, eh.’ The sergeant stood back and thought for a moment. ‘There’s no doubt she arranged to meet this Clay outside?’

  ‘She hasn’t said, but witnesses inside the ballroom corroborate Jack Clay’s story, so it seems likely, sir.’

  ‘That puts a whole new complexion on things. In my experience couples only leave a ballroom to do the one thing they can’t do inside. It could be she is a professional after all. Arranged to meet one chap, then another comes along, smarter, wearing a dinner jacket more money in his pocket ...’

  ‘I don’t think either her or Clay had more than a couple of kisses in mind, sir. That path’s too public. Not the sort of place a professional would choose a few minutes before closing time when the entire area is about to be flooded with people leaving the Pier to catch the ten-thirty train back to Swansea.’

  ‘Sarge?’ a young constable opened the door that led to the public desk. ‘Miss Griffiths’ father is here.’

  ‘Doctor here yet?’

  ‘On his way, Sarge.’

  ‘Send him in as soon as he gets here.’

  ‘And Mr Griffiths?’

  ‘Better tell him to come in.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘What happened, Roy?’ White-faced, John Griffiths didn’t even see the sergeant as he rushed through the door. ‘Is it one of the children ... Esme ...’

  At a nod from the sergeant, Roy beckoned John towards an interview room further down the corridor. ‘Come in here, John, and I’ll explain.’ Roy opened the door on a cubicle that stank of cheap disinfectant mixed with other odours that didn’t bear thinking about. Deliberately slowing his pace to accommodate John, Roy still had to wait for him after pulling two upright utility chairs from under a steel table.

  ‘Please, who is it?’

  Roy waited for John to sit, then took the chair opposite. ‘There was a fracas down the Pier. Helen’s dress was ripped. Two boys had a bit of a punch-up, probably over her, but it looks like neither she nor them are hurt – not seriously,’ he amended, remembering the blood on Larry’s face and Jack’s suit. ‘But one of the boys has been taken to hospital and we’ve sent for the doctor to check out Helen and the other one to be on the safe side.’

  ‘If Helen’s hurt or upset, Esme should be here.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘The theatre.’

  ‘We sent someone down there; it’s locked.’

  ‘There’s probably an end-of-run party. Her cousin, Dot – Dorothy Ellis who lives above her hat shop in Eversley Road – generally organises them.’

  ‘I know the place, we’ll send a car.’ Roy looked up as Brian knocked and opened the door. ‘You still here, boy?’

  ‘Just keeping Martin company. The sergeant asked me to tell you the doctor’s here and he wants him to examine Helen first.’

  ‘We’re on our way.’ Roy rose from his seat.

  ‘Martin? Martin Clay’s involved in this?’

  ‘Only as a witness to the fight,’ Roy replied. ‘Helen’s next door. If anyone can sort out this mess, she can. You go ahead, I’ll see to that car.’

  Helen was sitting, shivering, on a chair wrapped in her coat and a blanket.

  ‘Helen?’

  She burst into yet another paroxysm of noisy tears as her father walked into the room.

  ‘What happened, love?’ John sat on the chair beside hers.

  Embarrassed, ashamed and more upset by her father’s solicitude than she would have been by his anger, she plucked at the stitching that hemmed the grey blanket, shredding it.

  ‘The boy your daughter was with insists she was attacked, Mr Griffiths,’ the sergeant answered for her.

  ‘Were you?’ John asked, horrified.

  ‘It was horrible,’ Helen wailed.

  ‘There’s only one way to settle this, Mr Griffiths, and that’s a full medical examination. We’d appreciate your consent.’ The sergeant handed him a form and a pen.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ John glanced across at a screen in the corner and saw a man place a doctor’s bag on a couch behind it.

  ‘Given the hysterical condition of your daughter and her inability to answer the simplest of questions, an examination is our only recourse,’ the sergeant replied resolutely. ‘It may provide us with the evidence we need to proceed if she has been attacked, and medical attention should she require it.’

  Helen hid her face in her hands again, rather than meet her father’s questioning gaze.

  ‘The form, sir.’

  John attempted to read the paper the sergeant had given him. The words wavered on the page.

  ‘You sign there, sir.’ The sergeant indicated a line.

  John looked at Helen again. ‘Helen?’

  As her sobbing escalated the sergeant broke in, ‘Believe me, sir, we’ve tried everything to get through to her.’

  John glanced from the sergeant back to his daughter. After a few interminable seconds he scribbled his signature. ‘You’ll wait for her mother to get here.’

  The door opened and Roy entered the room.

  ‘You’ve tracked down Mrs Griffiths, Constable Williams?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’ Roy couldn’t bring himself to meet John’s eye. ‘She wasn’t in Eversley Road.’

  ‘Dot ...’ John began.

  ‘The shop and the flat above it were locked.’

  ‘Then she must be home.’

  ‘They tried there on the way back, there’s no one at your house.’

  ‘In that case you won’t mind if we g
o ahead with the examination, seeing as how we have your permission, sir. The sooner it’s over the sooner we can take whatever measures are necessary.’ The sergeant’s tone brooked no argument.

  ‘Come on, John, I’ll find us a cup of tea.’ Roy guided him out of the room. ‘And then you can talk to Joe.’

  ‘Joe’s here?’

  ‘He was in the Pier when it happened but he’s fine. You can see for yourself.’

  ‘You have a woman officer on duty?’ the doctor asked the sergeant, as Roy closed the door.

  ‘Not at this time of night but I’ve seen the procedure often enough.’

  ‘Right, young lady.’ The doctor turned to Helen. ‘Behind the screen, remove all your clothes and lie on the couch.’

  The next ten minutes were the most humiliating and embarrassing Helen had ever experienced. As she lay on the examination couch, eyes tightly closed but not enough to stop the tears trickling down her cheeks, the doctor poked and prodded her body as though she were a specimen on a slab. And the whole time he examined her he talked to the sergeant over his shoulder – about the weather, the prevalence of drink-related fights at the weekend and, the ultimate mortification, her.

  ‘There’s a scratch on her right breast. Do you want a photograph?’

  ‘Might as well.’ The sergeant’s voice, brusque, deeper than the doctor’s, fell harshly on her ears as he leaned over the couch to view the mark. Helen cringed as the coarse material of his uniform trousers brushed against her bare legs. ‘Could that have been made by a watch strap?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s not deep.’

  Helen winced as the doctor ran his hands over her right breast and pressed down.

  ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘Not really,’ she whispered.

  ‘Her knickers and suspender belt are intact but her stockings are in shreds.’ The sergeant’s pen scratched over his notebook.

  ‘Right, young lady, you can dress.’

  Realising the doctor was no longer touching her, Helen opened her eyes. The doctor had moved to a sink in the corner, where he was washing his hands.

  ‘Just your knickers,’ the sergeant qualified as he went to the table to get a camera. ‘I need to photograph that breast.’