Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  Evan grimaced. How could Souza be so objective?

  ‘Sorry Evan,’ added Rakel, obviously noticing the effect her words were having on him, ‘I suppose I see it all a bit more scientifically than you; I’ve watched my fair share of rugby over the years, as you know, but when GGR was at the height of his fame as a player I had my nose stuck in a book, doing my best to pass all my exams at school.’

  Glover nodded. ‘I understand. Not much chance of anything useful down there,’ he nodded toward the bottom of the cliff, ‘and we’re not likely to find much that’s undisturbed up here, either. So it’s over to you for a formal ID. But you know what I really need, Rakel?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ was Souza’s sarcastic reply. ‘Was the fall the actual cause of death? Any clues as to the manner of death – natural, accidental, suicidal, or homicidal? Bluntly put, is there any reason to expect foul play?’

  ‘Exactly. Pronto.’

  ‘Right-o, I’m off then,’ said Souza as she slapped Glover gently on the back. ‘I’m sorry for you, and for my poor husband, that it’s probably GGR,’ she said quietly. ‘It’ll be big news this, I know – and I also know DCI Jenkins is away. Do you think Lewis will put you in charge of this one?’

  Evan smirked. ‘I shouldn’t think so. He wouldn’t want a mere DI running a case as high profile as this one. He’ll find a DCI to take it on, but maybe I’ll be allowed to join the team. And there’s bound to be a team, even if it’s not a murder team, as of now, because we can’t be sure how this happened. But it’s GGR, after all. Probably.’

  ‘Yes, probably. Well, if Lewis has any sense he’ll get you to act up for the case. You’re just the man for the job, Evan. I know how much you idolized GGR, and I know you’d deal with this case with intelligence, insight, and respect for the dead. You’d better talk to Lewis soon, though – I know he was keen to hear from you; I’d told him about the wallet, see? No doubt he’ll want to prepare for the media onslaught. Tell him I should have something formal by morning, if not before, but I’ll get out of your hair for now and let you get on with your side of things. Bye, Evan.’

  ‘Bye, Rakel, and keep me posted?’ Evan called toward his departing colleague.

  He turned his face toward the last rays of the sun, and breathed deep; such beauty marred by such a tragedy. No matter what the reason for GGR’s demise, it was a sad day for anyone who loved rugby, and the seagulls cried above him as if mourning the passing of an extraordinary man, which GGR had certainly been.

  Evan snapped his eyes open, and turned purposefully toward his car. Better get going.

  It was still only four p.m., according to Glover’s watch. He thought it strange that it had taken such a short time for his world to have shifted so much.

  Maybe just one missed step had ended the life of an always-nimble man who had made pride swell in a nation’s heart for a decade or more. Or maybe there was an altogether more complicated, darker, reason for The Great One’s demise. It was up to him to at least begin the process to find out. And he knew exactly where his first port of call would be – the Davies house, up on the South Gower Road.

  Everyone knew GGR owned a small-holding from where his locally well-known wife, Gwladys, took their fruits, vegetables and eggs to the seasonal stall she had operated under the great glass roof of Swansea Market for at least the last thirty years.

  The Glovers themselves had often benefitted from GGR’s wife’s green thumb, and he knew many people shopped at her stall just to be able to say ‘These are from GGR’s place, you know’ when they presented their family with an evening meal, or visitors with a hearty Sunday lunch. The cachet was not to be ignored, even after all these years.

  Just minutes away by road, Glover’s car soon crunched to a halt on the graveled hard-standing in front of the Davies’ white-painted, stone, Gower house, topped with its dark slate roof and trimmed with glossy black woodwork – the norm for the area. The place looked spic and span, but deserted; all closed up, and just a little melancholy. Knocking at the door brought no response.

  ‘Probably still at the market, if that’s where she is today,’ commented Glover to Stanley, weighing whether they should set off for the city center to try to catch Gwladys Davies before she left her stall for the day, but uncertain they’d make it in time.

  As if voicing Glover’s own doubts, Stanley asked, ‘Do we know if she’s even at the market at all at this time of year?’

  ‘I think with it being apple, blackberry and cauliflower season, she’s likely to be,’ replied Glover, listing some of his favorite foods. ‘They’re the sort of things they grow here. You phone the market and find out, while I call in to the super.’

  The pair moved apart to allow for privacy, and made their respective calls. Concluding their business almost simultaneously Stanley spoke first.

  ‘Mrs Davies has been at Swansea Market since she set up her stall at about nine this morning, sir. Left about forty minutes ago; she’d sold out of everything so she left early, they said. In fact, if she was coming straight home, she should be here soon,’ concluded Stanley, looking at her watch.

  Glover nodded. ‘The super wants me to follow up with her as a first priority. Sounds like he’s already pulling out his few remaining hairs with worry that, somehow, the presumptive identity will leak; he wants us to break the news to the likely widow before anyone else can. So we’d better hang about here. Not much else we can do right now.’

  Glover felt like a wound spring; he wasn’t desperate to be the bearer of such devastating information to the woman he’d always known as a jolly, rotund person, smiling at customers across a well-stocked veg stall, but he really wanted to get going with the investigation.

  The trouble was, of course, he didn’t really know what he was investigating. He’d have to wait until Rakel could give him some insight into how, and maybe even why, the man had ended up at the bottom of the cliffs.

  There was always the chance he had jumped, but Evan thought the presence of the man’s dog made that unlikely; why would a person take their dog to the spot where they planned to throw themselves off a cliff? Even Glover, not a dog owner himself, felt that would be an unkind thing to do, causing unnecessary distress to a – presumably – beloved creature. And that wouldn’t be like GGR at all – not the man known for his support of youth rugby, and seen almost weekly in the local newspapers surrounded by beaming boys.

  No, it didn’t feel like a suicide. No note – though, of course, there might have been one tucked away inside the man’s clothing.

  Glover found it hard to believe GGR would choose to end his own life; at sixty-five he was comparatively young, and still adored and respected by everyone who’d ever heard of him. Saving a possible diagnosis of some dreadful disease, Evan couldn’t come up with any reason why GGR wouldn’t have been looking forward to a long and active retirement.

  ‘There’s a car coming, sir. This might be her now.’ Stanley’s comment pulled Glover back from his reverie.

  Sure enough, a small red hatchback with luminous yellow capitalized lettering announcing ‘DAVIES FRUIT & VEG’ pulled up in front of the cottage. A moment later, a short, slightly greying woman of significant girth pushed herself out from behind the steering wheel. Glover recognized GGR’s wife.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked cheerily enough, her bright blue eyes – which matched Glover’s own in their intensity – shining happily at the pair. She glanced at their unmarked car, then returned her gaze to their faces.

  She froze. ‘You’re the police.’ It was like an accusation.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davies, we are,’ replied Glover, as comfortingly as possible. They both showed her their IDs.

  Gwladys Davies’s face was stony. ‘It’s Geraint, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Geraint. What’s the silly bugger been up to now?’

  Glover judged her response as being more angry than concerned.

  ‘Maybe we can talk inside,’ was Glover’s hopeful response.

  But Mrs Davi
es wasn’t budging. ‘You can tell me right here, right now, thank you very much.’

  Definitely anger, thought Glover.

  ‘Drinking and driving again, is it?’ she sounded disgusted. ‘I’ll give him what for, you see if I don’t. You lot keep letting him off, and he keeps doing it. Where is he this time? Got him locked up somewhere safe till he sobers up, I hope. I suppose I’ll have to come and get him again. Well, I’m emptying this lot out first – he can bloody well wait until I’m good and ready.’

  Mrs Gwladys Davies opened the hatchback of the car and started to pull out empty crates and boxes, tossing them across the little courtyard with strength and fury.

  Glover could hear her muttering, ‘Bloody man’ under her breath, and felt terribly sorry for her; this was probably the last time she’d ever be angry with her husband. It was hard to be angry with someone who was dead. She was happily cursing the man she’d soon be mourning, and Glover hardly had the heart to stop her.

  He grappled with how to break the news; it was never easy, but this time it would be truly as hard for him to tell her, as it would be for this woman to hear his words. He knew the couple had no children; he wondered about other relatives.

  ‘Family liaison’s on the way,’ whispered Stanley into his ear, almost telepathically. ‘Coming in an unmarked car, of course. We don’t want any tongues wagging yet, though they will soon enough, I suspect. Should be here in about fifteen minutes.’

  Glover smiled, and winked his thanks.

  Turning his attention to the red-faced woman in front of him, Glover knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. He swallowed hard, and set about changing her life forever.

  ‘Mrs Davies,’ he raised his voice to get her attention, and succeeded. ‘You’re right, Mrs Davies, it is about your husband, but it’s not what you think. I really do feel it would be better if we could speak to you indoors. Maybe there’s a friend or a neighbor you’d like my colleague to fetch.’

  The woman tutted at Glover. ‘Why on earth would I want anyone with me? What are you going to tell me? That he’s dead or something, is it?’

  Gwladys Davies smiled at her own silly suggestion for a split second, then her face fell. She stopped in her tracks, a wooden slatted crate in one hand, a flattened cardboard box in the other.

  ‘Oh my God – he’s not, is he?’ Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Her mouth hanging open.

  ‘A man’s body was found at the base of Three Cliffs today, Mrs Davies, and we have good reason to believe it is that of your husband, Mr Geraint Gareth Richard Davies.’ It seemed strange, and almost heretical, to Glover to be speaking the man’s full name like that. ‘We found Mr Davies’s wallet and mobile phone on the body, and I believe you have a little dog . . .’

  ‘Arthur. Where’s Arthur?’ she cried, looking around in a panic.

  ‘Arthur’s fine – he’s been taken away by the RSPCA,’ Glover reassured her.

  ‘I want Arthur!’ shouted the woman. ‘Tell them to bring him back to me. He doesn’t like other dogs. He needs to be home with me. Tell them to bring him home now.’

  Glover was somewhat taken aback by the woman’s fixation on her dog. He nodded to Stanley, and knew she would understand that he meant her to get hold of the RSPCA and arrange for the dog to be returned to its owner. But he also knew he had to continue with his difficult task. It was far from over.

  ‘Maybe if we could step inside?’ he tried again.

  Gwladys Davies waggled a bunch of keys toward Glover. ‘It’s the little gold one,’ she whispered. She seemed to have shrunk, to have somehow deflated. She looked completely bewildered.

  Glover handed the keys to Stanley and moved to support the woman, who had dropped the boxes she had been holding with a clatter, and was hanging onto her open car door in an effort to support herself.

  ‘Let’s get you inside and organize a cup of tea, is it?’ said Glover, gently, as he steered the woman, whose legs weren’t working at all well.

  ‘I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it,’ she whispered, as Glover sat her down, carefully, on a wheel-backed wooden chair beside her large, well-scrubbed, pine kitchen table. She looked up at Glover with dry eyes, silently beseeching him to tell her it was all a lie.

  But he couldn’t.

  ‘Mrs Davies,’ he began, keen to spare the woman the ugly details of her husband’s condition, ‘our people are working on a formal identification as we speak, but we’re in little doubt about it being your husband. However, do you happen to know what he was wearing when he went out with Arthur this morning?’

  Maybe the clothes would clinch it.

  ‘I know exactly what he was wearing; I lay out his clothes for him every morning,’ was the woman’s proud and confident reply. ‘He had on his nice new beige trousers that I got him for his retirement do; they’re that good old-fashioned twill material, they’ll last for years, they will. And he wore his yellow-and-green checked shirt. He probably wore that horrible red windcheater thing they gave him from the brewery, knowing him, though why he will insist upon wearing it when he’s got so many other nice jackets, I’ll never know. That waxed cotton coat I got for him? Never wears that, does he?’

  Maybe it was possible to be angry with the dead, after all, thought Glover; or maybe Gwladys Davies was in denial. But her description clinched it for him; there was no doubt in his mind it had been GGR’s body on that stretcher.

  ‘I know this must be very difficult for you, Mrs Davies, a sudden death is very upsetting. So is there someone you’d like my sergeant to get hold of for you? Maybe even your family doctor?’ Evan was almost begging her to say yes. The presence of a friend or a relative, and the use of some heavy sedatives, usually meant the burden of comforting a bereaved one could reasonably be passed along to family liaison – and he could get on with his job.

  Gwladys Davies thought for a moment, then said sharply, ‘Get Ann from the farm across the road. Geraint’s sister lives in Cardiff now – she’s gone very posh has Janice – and she’ll take forever to get here. Drives like a snail, she does. I suppose I’d better ring her to tell her. But what do I tell her? What happened exactly? Are you sure it’s him?’

  Glover knew how long it had taken him to face the facts, so wasn’t surprised the man’s wife was unable to accept the news. He explained again about the dog, mentioned the wallet and the phone, then added the confirmation of the clothing. The woman was ashen as she took a cup of hot tea off Stanley; her hands shook.

  ‘Did Mr Davies seem quite his usual self when you left him this morning?’ ventured Glover. The possibility of suicide had to be explored, however unlikely it might seem.

  Gwladys Davies was quick to respond. ‘If you mean was he grumbling about anything and everything, shouting at me for no reason, and badly hungover, then yes, he was. Didn’t get home till gone midnight. A taxi brought him. So of course he didn’t feel like getting out of bed at six this morning – not like some of us have to.’

  She was still angry with the man; Glover wondered just how much resentment had simmered, and maybe boiled, between the two of them when he was still alive.

  Her mouth pursed, then she added, ‘Supposed to be walking Arthur, then sorting out picking up the car this morning, he was.’

  ‘So there was nothing out of the ordinary?’ pressed Glover. ‘Nothing preying on his mind – worrying him?’

  Gwladys Davies put down her mug and narrowed her now steely-blue eyes at Glover.

  ‘You mean do I think he flung himself off the cliffs, don’t you?’ Her mouth was pressed into a narrow, white line. The jolly woman Glover remembered from the fruit and veg stall in Swansea Market seemed to have evaporated – maybe she was just a concoction for the customers, and this was the real person GGR had lived with. The wrinkles seemed to sit very comfortably around her angry little mouth, indeed, they seemed to have been formed as the result of many years of wearing a habitually judgmental expression.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I mean, Mrs Davies.’ Gl
over didn’t mean to be unkind, but he felt her direct approach should be met with a matching response.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! Geraint was many things, but he wasn’t a man who would hurt himself. He’d no more jump off Three Cliffs than I would. Besides, he’d never do anything to mess up that face of his. I suppose he is a mess? They always are when they go off the cliffs.’

  Glover found her remarks curious, given the circumstances.

  ‘I’m afraid that, yes – as you have clearly deduced – your husband’s remains bear the marks of a significant fall. But I appreciate your insights, Mrs Davies. So you don’t think it likely that your husband took his own life. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to do him harm?’

  ‘So, if he didn’t jump, then he must have been pushed?’ was her disdainful retort.

  Glover was beginning to hate that phrase.

  ‘We have to explore every possibility, Mrs Davies – I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to leave any stone unturned.’ Glover was using his ‘pacifying’ voice. It wasn’t working.

  ‘Inspector –’ the woman made Glover’s title sound like an insult – ‘there’s no way Geraint would have jumped, and no, there’s no one I know of who hated him enough to push him off. If you don’t know how he ended up at the bottom of the cliff – and it’s quite clear you don’t – then might I suggest you go away and find out.’

  Her tone was mocking Glover, and he didn’t like it. One bit.

  She continued, ‘The chances are he was still half-drunk from last night so slipped and fell. Always boasting about how he was still so nimble on his feet, he was. Well maybe he wasn’t quite so nimble this morning.’

  Glover was disappointed with the way the interview was going; he was somewhat shocked to hear about GGR’s drinking habits, and even more surprised to find that his wife wasn’t the cheery woman he’d expected, but a bitter and angry woman, who, even now, wouldn’t stop making spiteful comments about his hero.