Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  Glover took a moment. He was trying to make sense of what Souza had said. It sounded a lot like manslaughter, or possibly murder.

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ he said, keen to understand the full implications of what Souza was telling him, ‘GGR was hit on the back of the head just before he went over the cliff? These marks are not an old injury. The bash on the head and the fall are definitely related?’

  ‘Yes. My findings are that the trauma to the back of the head immediately preceded the fall – by a matter of moments.’

  ‘And do we have anything other than “blunt instrument” at this point?’

  ‘Ah ha!’ was Rakel Souza’s delighted response. ‘I knew you’d ask me that too – and I am pleased to be able to oblige. Come with me, Evan. I’ve spent hours on just that question – and I’m pretty much one hundred percent sure of my information.’ Rakel Souza directed him toward a computer screen where she pushed a couple of keys; a photograph of a golf club appeared.

  She waved at the screen. ‘Meet Massive Martha III – the largest driver there is. Only been available for about six months. And it’s the only face-pattern and size that fits what I have observed on GGR’s head. And, even more than that, I can tell you he was struck by a left-handed club.’ She glowed.

  ‘They have left-handed golf clubs?’ Glover was a keen non-golfer; he hated private golf clubs and all they stood for, and that had poisoned his mind against the game itself. It didn’t surprise him at all that it might have been a golfer who’d done for The Great One. Putting his enmity toward golfers to one side, he listened to Rakel Souza’s patient explanation.

  ‘Yes, Evan, they have left-handed golf clubs, for left-handed players, like me. But, no, it wasn’t me. By the way, I suppose I am officially confirming that, unless anyone can come up with a way for a man to bash in the bottom of his own skull with a golf club, then we’re looking at a murderous assault. Whether he fell or was pushed after the blow to the head, it was the blow that was the root of it. So you can tell Lewis it’s official; it’s a suspicious death, with murder or at least manslaughter in play. In a way I’m sure that will cheer you up no end, because now you’ll get all the people and resources you need for the investigation.’

  ‘Well, you’re not wrong about the resources, Rakel. But I still wish it wasn’t him.’

  Rakel sighed. ‘I know, Evan; even if he might not have been quite the man you thought he was, it’s still GGR.’

  Glover looked thoughtful. ‘Tell, me, Rakel, would the blow have taken great strength?’

  ‘On balance, and considering the physics involved, not really. Also, the angle of the injury doesn’t help us in terms of the height of the person who delivered that blow. The ground where I suspect GGR was struck, in other words, where the dog had been tied up in that little dell we saw, was quite uneven, as you know. Thus – relative to GGR – a short person could have been standing on higher ground, or a taller person on lower ground to deliver the observed angle of the strike.’

  Glover realized Souza’s comments allowed for just about anyone at all to have been the assailant, but decided to continue with his confirmation of the details. ‘So, a tall or short, strong or weak, man or woman could have inflicted the blow, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And, to broaden the field further, should I assume that they would not necessarily have to be a left-handed person to be able to swing a left-handed golf club?’ Glover wasn’t feeling happy.

  Rakel Souza smiled. ‘It’s a correct general assumption, but I’d bet that if they were right-handed, we’d see the other part of the club presenting on the skull.’

  Souza drew back from Glover and adopted a teeing-off stance. ‘You see, if you’re right-handed, you’ll automatically swing through with the right arm directing from the back,’ she demonstrated, and encouraged Glover to work through the motions with her.

  He did his best.

  Rakel continued, ‘A right-handed person’s dominant arm is their right arm and they’ll need it to control the club through the swing. But if you’re left-handed, you’d swing through with the left arm.’ Again, they both tried the motion. ‘I would suggest it would be extremely awkward for a right-handed person to swing a left-handed club and achieve sufficient force at impact to produce what we see at the base of GGR’s skull, which clearly indicates the striking face – not the back-side – of the club came into contact with his body. It would be a highly unnatural set of movements for a right-handed person, though not impossible.’

  ‘Good work, Rakel,’ said Glover. ‘Now all I have to do is find a left-handed golfer who wanted to kill GGR.’

  ‘Hmm, a left-handed golfer who’s serious enough about their game to want to spend a few hundred pounds on just one club, let alone the rest of the stuff in their bag. But don’t forget that the person wielding the club at GGR’s head might not have actually owned the club, or might not even have been a golfer at all. Frankly, these drivers are designed to be pretty foolproof, so anyone making even a first attempt at a swing could have connected in the way the evidence suggests. Sorry.’ Souza seemed to be apologizing for the fact she wasn’t making Glover’s life any easier.

  He forced a smile. ‘Well, I can always start with every golfer in the area, and go from there; there can only be . . . well, I don’t know how many there’d be of them. But, that aside, this has been a great help, Rakel. Really. And I’ll make sure Lewis knows it.’

  ‘Ah yes, DSI Lewis,’ replied Souza. ‘I suppose I should warn you that he’s a bit of golfer himself – plays off a seven handicap at his club, I hear.’

  ‘That fits,’ tutted Glover, rolling his eyes. ‘Maybe it was him, out there at Three Cliffs on Monday morning taking a swing at GGR. Too much to hope for?’ He smiled at Souza. ‘Anything else I should know right now?’ he asked, keen to get away.

  ‘Not until I have those results back, Evan. I can put in the hours, as can my team, but you can’t rush science, and that’s that. As soon as I know anything, I’ll phone you. Well, I’ll phone Lewis, then I’ll phone you, because that’s how we’re playing this time – Lewis is “hands-on”.’

  ‘You, me, and Lewis, all three of us with our hands all over it. Thanks Rakel, talk soon,’ called Glover as he left Souza’s insufficiently deodorized surroundings.

  Tearing off his protective paper clothing with delight, Glover checked his watch – almost eight a.m. He’d get to the office to connect with Stanley, phoning Lewis on the way; he’d left a list of things for Stanley to take care of that morning, and had no doubt she’d be well on the way to completing her tasks. Now he had a few other things he needed her to organize.

  Glover knew Stanley was good, but suspected it would take her longer to find the answers to all Glover’s questions than it would take Glover to drive from West Glam General Hospital to HQ, so he took a few minutes to sit in the car park and get the facts straight in his mind. He sent a comprehensive text message to Stanley, then phoned his superior – who warned him the word was out about GGR, and the newshounds were already sniffing around.

  As Glover finally eased out of the car park to join the rush hour traffic, he was glad it was moving slowly enough to give him time to think; that day the whole of Wales would begin to mourn its hero. GGR was gone; The Great One was dead. A national tragedy.

  How had he died? That would be the first question on everyone’s lips, of course.

  Murder? It was a scandal. A national scandal.

  Who did it? Without an immediate answer to that question, the next comment would doubtless be that the police were useless.

  The importance of the task at hand began to weigh even more heavily on Glover. He knew it wouldn’t be easy; even with the extra workforce a murder investigation allowed for, he and Stanley were going to feel the strain. Glover remembered he’d be losing Stanley in a few days. He cursed aloud. Here he was, working on a case that might well splatter his name all over the local papers (which he always hated), a case that involved
a man he’d idolized for as long as he could remember, and he’d be stuck without Stanley. Wonderful.

  Glover entered HQ at the rear of the building to avoid the mass of media vehicles clogging the High Street, then clattered up the echoing stone staircase toward his office.

  ‘Stanley,’ he called as he marched along the corridor.

  ‘Sir,’ came Stanley’s reply from inside Glover’s own office.

  When Glover entered what he often referred to as his ‘cell’, it was clear why Stanley was there – she was ‘entertaining’ Detective Superintendent Michael Lewis, who wasn’t exactly smiling.

  ‘What the hell are we going to tell them all, Glover? The chief’s all over me,’ were the first words out of the super’s mouth. Glover stopped in his tracks. It was clear from Stanley’s face that panic was beginning to get the better of her; the super could be a bit of a bear when he wanted. But he was right; what were they going to tell the media? How much – or how little?

  ‘Well, sir,’ Glover began cautiously, thinking on his feet, ‘this is a very high profile case, sir. National importance, not just local or regional. But we really can’t say much right now – so how about you work with the public relations people at Regional HQ and get a statement prepared confirming identity, expressing regret, promising investigation of all possibilities and so forth. You could just read the statement, put out an appeal for anyone who saw GGR out at Three Cliffs yesterday morning, and apologize for not being able to take questions because of the ongoing investigation. It would keep it short and sweet, sir, and they’re a bit less frantic if you throw them a bit of something every so often, aren’t they? Even announcing you’re going to tell them something at a certain time seems to shut them up for a while.’

  Lewis seemed somewhat mollified, and wandered out of Glover’s office muttering something about getting the top brass at Region involved with doing some actual work.

  Glover assumed he was in the clear to get on with his job, at least for a little while. He was relieved. Time was pressing, and he didn’t want anyone to think he was dawdling. He had a team to get together, get briefed, and get working.

  But first, Stanley needed to be filled in. It transpired she was much better versed in golfing than Glover might have expected.

  ‘We have golfing weekends with the scouts, sir,’ was Stanley’s explanation for understanding all about golf clubs. Glover was beginning to wonder what other aspects of Stanley’s scouting involvement might come in useful. He had no idea scouts even played golf.

  ‘So, it’s going to be a murder investigation, then, is it, sir?’ she continued. ‘I saw the team was getting set up first thing this morning.’

  Glover noted she was finally beginning to adopt the Welsh habit of asking non-questions. Glover smiled. He liked this young woman.

  Stanley continued, ‘And, if it was a golf club that inflicted GGR’s original injury, then I’m sure it’s going to interest you to know he spent the whole of Sunday at a golf and rugby tournament.’

  ‘A golf tournament? Dozens of golfers? Hundreds of golf clubs? Marvelous. Where?’

  ‘He was at the Brynfield Golf and Rugby Club, sir. Annual tournament, it seems. The two clubs which share the facility play golf against each other in the morning, then have a sevens rugby match in the afternoon. GGR was there to present the awards at the end of the day – guest of honor, sir.’

  ‘So,’ said Glover, starting to burrow his fingers through his hair in what he knew to be a habit that displayed distressed concentration, ‘maybe something happened that set someone off, and they took it out on GGR the next morning on Three Cliffs?’ It didn’t sound probable to Glover.

  ‘Could be, sir,’ was Stanley’s guarded reply.

  ‘Do we know anything about how GGR was logistically involved in the event?’ Glover asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. In fact, you can talk to Jerry about it. Do you know DS Hill, Jerry Hill, sir? We share an office. He was at the tournament itself, sir, and I’ve asked him to hang about until I knew if you wanted to talk to him.’

  Glover’s face brightened a little. ‘Excellent. Let’s have him in right away.’ As Stanley left her boss to fetch her office-mate, Glover leaned back in his chair, and popped a peppermint into his mouth. He was crunching into it with vigor when Stanley reappeared.

  ‘DS Hill, sir,’ announced Stanley as a tall, thin, dark-haired young man, with a pallid complexion and deep-set brown eyes, walked apprehensively into Glover’s office. Glover had spotted him about the place, of course, and had seen him in action when they pulled large teams together, but he’d never formed much of a real opinion about the chap. Not as a person. Not as an officer, or a detective. Now was the time.

  ‘So, Hill, Stanley tells me you were at the Brynfield Club on Sunday when GGR was there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was, sir.’ Polite, at least.

  ‘And what can you tell me about the man, and the day, that might help with our investigations?’

  DS Hill looked puzzled. ‘Well, nothing, sir, I don’t think, sir.’ He half-looked around at Stanley, awkwardly squirming in his chair. ‘I mean, if GGR died at Three Cliffs yesterday, I don’t see how . . .’

  Clearly the internal gossip mill hadn’t got hold of the key facts. Glover was relieved; he was anxious that the details about GGR’s manner of death didn’t leak out, yet.

  ‘Don’t worry about how it might help me, just tell me,’ said Glover firmly. Hill almost jumped. Glover was beginning to wonder if the man was sound – he certainly didn’t seem to have much backbone.

  ‘Well – it’s an annual match, sir. I belong to the Brynfield Golf Club, and we share a clubhouse with the Brynfield Rugby Club, as I’m sure you know. Every year we have a tournament – club against club, one dozen men per club play golf in six fours, then a dozen from each club play a game of sevens rugby – allowing for five substitutes. Usually the golf club wins the golf, and the rugby club wins the rugby, but the big deal is to try to get the double – that’s when you win the Howells’ Cup, sir.’

  ‘And GGR’s role in all of this?’ pressed Glover.

  ‘He gave the after-dinner speech and the prizes this year. Did a very good job of both, too – highly entertaining.’

  Glover wondered if Hill was this poor at answering questions when his own DI asked them.

  ‘I need details, Hill. Specifics. Did GGR arrive before dinner? After dinner? What? Tell me everything about GGR and the tournament.’ Glover knew he sounded terse. Maybe that would work.

  Hill looked cowed. His tone suggested he was sulking. ‘Well, I was out following the golfers all morning, supporting the team and all that. GGR wasn’t there, though I heard he played a round that morning. We came in for lunch, and I did see GGR at the bar just as we were off to the rugby. Next . . . I saw him having drinks with a group of the rugby lot before dinner, then he sat at the top table for the dinner itself. Afterwards he made a speech, and handed out all the prizes, including the Howells’ Cup – which we won, sir. First time ever.’ Hill seemed pleased with himself.

  Glover snapped, ‘Anything untoward?’

  Hill looked uncomfortable. ‘I saw GGR arguing with one of the rugby lot just as we were all off out after lunch. It didn’t seem like much – just a couple of raised voices and some finger wagging, in my opinion.’

  ‘Any bad blood between the teams? Anything on or off the field of competition?’ asked Glover sharply.

  ‘Well, you know, sir, boys will be boys, but it’s mainly good-humored rivalry. Usually. But on Sunday night, well, there was the usual banter between tables over dinner, as I’m sure you can imagine, and afterwards GGR did his speech, which was very entertaining as I said – something about knocking over a sheep on a country lane and shouting “mint sauce” as he drove off.’

  Hill half-smiled as he remembered the tale, looked up, saw Glover’s stern look and hurriedly added, ‘Well, it was funny at the time, sir, and then, after all that, and the presentations and so forth, someone mentio
ned cockles and whores and it all seemed to go off for no reason.’

  ‘Cockles? Whores?’ Glover queried. ‘What do you mean, “go off”? Explain yourself, man.’ He was quickly losing patience with this young officer.

  ‘Yes, cockles sir, and I believe whores, sir. I have no idea what happened next, honestly I don’t, but within seconds it seemed like there were bodies all over the place.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ asked Glover.

  ‘Not so you’d notice,’ was Hill’s response.

  ‘What about GGR?’ Glover shot back. ‘Was he involved at all?’

  Hill looked thoughtful. ‘Well, he did go down at one point – he was beside the bar at the time, I recall, and just, well, disappeared. He, literally, went down. Then I saw someone picking him up and sort of dusting him off. But it was difficult to tell exactly what was going on. The whole thing only lasted a few minutes, sir, and then it was all over and done with. Brought a bit of an abrupt end to the evening’s events, too. Which was a shame really. Though it being a Sunday, a lot of us – especially the rugby club people – had work the next morning, so I suppose there was that, too.’

  ‘So I’m assuming it was you who stepped in to restore the peace?’ asked Glover pointedly.

  ‘Well . . .’ DS Hill scratched his forehead in place of an answer.

  ‘You’re a police officer, Hill – you’re bound to uphold the law and maintain the peace. So what did you do?’ Glover stood and leaned over his desk toward the young man.

  Hill looked apprehensive. When he finally replied, he did so in a voice that suggested he wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Like I said, sir, it seemed to me that initially it was all pretty much par for the course, as far as the chatter and name calling was concerned, then one of our lot mentioned cockles, someone took the bait – and before I really knew what was happening, one of the front-row players from the rugby club, huge bloke, sir, and I mean really huge, was sort of over the table and at someone else’s throat.’