Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ was all Evan could manage. The words felt like dust in his mouth; all that celebration for a man who was . . . well, not what people thought he was in any case.

  ‘But enough about my day – how’s it going with you, cariad? Need to talk?’

  ‘Oh Betty, love, you have no idea how much I need to talk. Have you got five minutes? I can’t let the team see how I’m feeling – but I’ve got to let it out somehow.’

  ‘Always got five minutes for my husband,’ replied Betty, warmly. Evan Glover could imagine her settling into the kitchen chair to listen, so he talked, and talked. Betty was quiet, except for the odd exclamation of disbelief. In just a few minutes she, too, was made aware that the man being lauded by everyone who’d ever worn a daffodil or eaten a leek on St David’s Day was not what they had all thought.

  ‘Did you say there was a Dr Bill Griffiths at the Brynfield Club?’ she asked when Evan had finished.

  ‘That’s right. Know him?’

  ‘Short man, fair hair – worried expression?’ she asked.

  Glover was always proud of his wife’s perspicacity. ‘That’s right – used to live in Clydach.’

  ‘It sounds like him – very sad. When I was grief counselling for that couple of years I spent a lot of time with him and his wife, Linda. In fact – they were a big part of the reason I gave it up.’

  Glover was glad to talk about something other than GGR. ‘Why so?’ He knew Betty had gone through a tough time during that period of counselling – and that she’d been glad to shift back to her more generalized practice of psychotherapy – but she’d never been very forthcoming about the details. He wondered what it had to do with Dr Griffiths.

  She sounded thoughtful as she spoke. ‘Their little boy was killed, and they came to me because they wanted some help outside the NHS. Bill was the GP up there in Clydach, and he didn’t want to work with anyone he knew. So I got them; they came into Swansea for sessions for about six months. But, obviously, I couldn’t help them – or else I didn’t help them enough, because she committed suicide, and he had a complete breakdown. Like I said, it was all terribly tragic – and that’s why I lost confidence in my suitability for that specific role. In myself, to be honest. When I found out she was dead, I didn’t feel I could do it anymore. Not the grief work. Not after that.’

  Evan could feel his wife’s sadness. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said gently. ‘What happened to their son?’ He felt he should have remembered, but he was ashamed to admit he didn’t.

  ‘It was bad; a hit-and-run in the lane right outside their house. He was only four, and she thought she’d strapped him securely into the child seat in the back of the car, then she’d gone back to make sure their dog was safely inside the house, and to lock the front door. She couldn’t find the dog and thought it might have gone out onto the road. As she went to check, she was passed by a car, and then she saw the car hit the dog. The car just kept going. Of course she ran to the poor dog, terribly upset, only to discover that her little boy had also been struck. She couldn’t be sure what had happened – but it seemed the dog had run out onto the road, and the little boy, Josh – Joshua Griffiths, that was his name – had somehow got himself out of his seat, and the car, and he ran after the dog.’

  Glover was beginning to remember something about it; it hadn’t been a case he’d worked on, but there’d been a lot of work-hours thrown into it, he seemed to recall.

  Betty continued, ‘See, the car had hit them both. The dog was dead, and by the time the ambulance came, so was the little boy. They never got the driver, and she just couldn’t come to terms with the guilt. Her husband, Bill, had been at work at the time; he’d rushed home, of course, but he was too late to help his boy. Their sessions with me were always fraught; she couldn’t forgive herself, he couldn’t forgive himself. He thought that if he could have got there sooner he might have been able to help the boy, you see. She used to go on and on about the driver, how fast the car had been going, how it almost knocked her down too, and how the man – she was sure it was a man, a man in a silver car – was shouting and laughing as he ran into the dog. She always wondered if the man had done it on purpose. She often said that if only he’d hit her he might have missed her boy. She was a mess. I was always pretty sure their marriage wasn’t going to survive it in the long run – often that’s the case – but I didn’t see her overdose coming. Looking back, I suspect the signs were there, but I’d missed them – completely. I suppose his breakdown was the only way his psyche could cope with it all; complete shutdown. So it’s good to know that he’s back on his feet. I’d never met him before the tragedy, but I suspected he’d have been a nice chap; probably always lived on his nerves, but a nice, steady sort.’

  Evan Glover’s mind was racing – though his thoughts weren’t wandering; he’d heard every word, and it got him thinking.

  ‘Betty, love, what sort of dog did they have?’

  ‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’

  ‘Humor me,’ was Evan Glover’s gentle answer.

  ‘Oddly, I happen to know it was a white standard poodle, because Linda Griffiths would show it at the Clydach fair every year; won some sort of prize up in London at some point.’

  Glover was silent for a moment, then he asked, ‘And do you know when the boy was killed?’

  ‘I know exactly when it was; it was November fifth, five years ago this coming November – it was Guy Fawkes Night and they were off to a fireworks display. That’s why she wanted the dog inside the house; it would have been frightened by all the fireworks going off that night. I don’t know where the display was to be held, though.’

  ‘I think I do,’ answered Evan Glover, cryptically. ‘Listen, I have to go. I’ll phone later, but I think it might be a late one tonight.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you too, Betty. I don’t think I tell you enough, but I hope you know it.’

  ‘I do. Be safe.’ Betty blew a kiss into the receiver.

  Glover put down the telephone and was out of his chair in one movement. Sticking his head into the corridor he shouted, ‘Stanley!’ as loud as he could.

  Stanley was there in seconds.

  ‘Stanley – get me everything we’ve got on a hit-and-run: November fifth, five years ago; a boy named Joshua Griffiths; Clydach area. And make it fast.’

  ‘Sir?’ Stanley was puzzled.

  ‘New line of enquiry – just get it done, and back to me pronto. Go.’

  As she was leaving, Glover called her back. ‘Stanley, where was Dr Bill Griffiths on Monday morning?’

  ‘I’ll have to check my notes, but I’m pretty sure he said it was his morning off and that he went to town.’

  ‘That’s how I remember it too,’ replied Glover. Then he looked up and shouted, ‘Go on, scarper,’ and Stanley scarpered. Again.

  Glover paced around his little office. If it wasn’t the Cockle Wars, and if it wasn’t something to do with steroids, and if it wasn’t the distressed father of a groped girl, maybe this was it. He pulled open his office door and marched back to the team room.

  ‘Let me see that video again,’ he said to DC Hughes, who quickly got the equipment working for Glover. Glover turned down the volume so the team wasn’t distracted, sat close to the set and listened again to GGR’s speech.

  That must be it.

  ‘Sir,’ Stanley was back. ‘We don’t have anything here on the Joshua Griffiths case, because all the paperwork is up at Valley HQ. But I know who led the case, sir: DCI Treharne.’

  ‘Right-o, Stanley,’ replied Glover, and he reeled off a list of questions to which he wanted Stanley to discover the answers. ‘When you know all that, come into my office – if I’m on the phone, wait with me.’

  ‘Sir,’ was Stanley’s efficient reply.

  Glover made his way back to his office; he was mindful of the fact the super was waiting for him, but, if he was right, then it was much more important for him to talk to DCI Trehar
ne at Valley than to bring the super up to date. He suspected the super wouldn’t see it that way, but he reckoned that was the super’s tough luck.

  Glover put down the telephone; DCI Treharne at Valley HQ had pretty much confirmed Betty’s version of the Joshua Griffiths story, in all its tragic details. A family destroyed by a reckless driver. They’d never had anything much to go on; the wife had only been able to tell them it was a silver car – no description beyond that. It had been dark and misty. She’d been distracted. They’d monitored car repair shops for six months with no luck, and there was no forensic evidence, no glass or paint transfer, for them to work with. There hadn’t even been any skid marks – the driver hadn’t so much as slowed down or braked at all, it seemed. Glover believed Treharne when he said they’d done the best they could; Treharne lived in the area, and Dr Griffiths was his own GP.

  Glover crunched into a peppermint; where the hell was Stanley? No point calling her – if she wasn’t in Glover’s office then she didn’t have all the answers Glover needed, so he’d just be interrupting her needlessly, and – given the way the super’d been all over him the last couple of days – he knew only too well how unproductive that could be.

  Think – that was what he had to do. He needed to consider all the facts, yes, but then he had to work out the truth; Glover knew only too well there could be a world of difference between the two.

  ‘Sir?’ It was Stanley.

  ‘Sit – and speak,’ was Glover’s reply. Stanley did both.

  ‘Sir, you wanted to know what Waters, Griffiths and the golf captain did after we left them this afternoon. They have all left the club, sir.’

  ‘Times?’ asked Glover, crunching a fresh peppermint.

  ‘Waters almost immediately after we left; the captain decided against playing today and left shortly after we did, and Griffiths left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You asked me to check what type of golf clubs GGR used. Well, he did use a left-handed Massive Martha III, as we know. I checked that fact once again with the pro at the Brynfield Club, and it’s definitely not one of the golf clubs in his bag at his home, and no one has reported finding a “spare” lying about at the Brynfield Club. GGR’s wife, who is now quite with-it by the way, has confirmed that he would often take “a bloody big golf club” with him when he walked the dog – to “play about with his swing” she said. I have to say she’s in no better a mood today than yesterday – and she rather flew off the handle with me about us “allowing Geraint’s sister to give all those TV interviews”. I did try to explain that we have no control over that sort of thing, but I think that one might come back to you, sir.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ was Glover’s eye-rolling reply.

  ‘Next – the car. GGR’s car was still at Brynfield, as we knew. There’s no reason to think it couldn’t easily be identified as his; it had Fire Dragon Brewery and Welsh Rugby Union Youth stickers on the back window, and all sorts of items with his name on them strewn about inside it. It’s a six-year-old silver Volvo. Otherwise, no distinguishing marks or features. No accidents reported for the VIN number.’

  ‘So his car is silver, then,’ said Glover sadly, shaking his head. The pair exchanged a significant glance. Glover sighed. ‘Oh God. Right. Next.’

  ‘The Brynfield rugby club captain, who was playing with GGR on Sunday, confirms they had a lengthy conversation about how GGR liked to walk on Three Cliffs; he portrayed it as his “morning ritual”, though the captain did comment that, since GGR had only been retired a week, he suspected it was a good intention rather than a ritual. They even talked about the “harvest mist” that comes in at this time of year, and GGR made it clear that he loved it. All four of them talked for some time about how the mist changes sounds and smells. Apparently he was quite taken with mist, sir.’

  Glover raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I know, sir,’ was Stanley’s understanding reply.

  ‘And finally?’ asked Glover, as he rose from his seat and looked out of his grubby little window.

  ‘And, finally, the launch date for the Fire Dragon Brewery’s Fireworks beer was Guy Fawkes Night five years ago, sir.’

  ‘That nails it,’ said Glover gravely. ‘So we have motive, means and opportunity, Stanley.’

  ‘It seems so, sir.’

  ‘But a missing suspect.’

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, Stanley?’

  Stanley looked taken aback. ‘Well, we are looking for his car,’ she replied, hesitantly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they know at the club that we want to interview him,’ she continued, painfully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose we could consider where he might go?’

  ‘We could Stanley – and where do you think that might be?’

  Stanley’s eyes grew wilder by the second.

  ‘Think like a scout leader, Stanley; how would you track him? Where might a psychologically wounded assailant go?’

  Stanley seemed to buck up a bit. ‘Well, sir, a wounded animal often tries to return to its lair, to an area it has scented a good deal, so maybe he’d head for his old stamping ground?’

  Glover, his back still turned toward Stanley, nodded his encouragement.

  ‘Or what about where he can visit his loved ones?’ Stanley looked impressed with herself.

  ‘Very good,’ replied Glover. He wasn’t patronizing Stanley, he was pushing her, and was pleased with the results. ‘So we could check his old home, wherever his family is buried – anywhere else?’

  ‘Scene of the crime, sir?’

  ‘Less likely, I think – it’s probably a zoo down on the South Gower Road today, Stanley. I can only imagine what Traffic Division is having to deal with down there.’

  Stanley looked rather less pleased with herself. ‘Well, I’m not sure where else to suggest, sir.’

  ‘We could always try downstairs, I suppose.’

  ‘Downstairs, sir?’ Stanley looked confused.

  Glover smiled. ‘Sorry Stanley, I’ve been leading you on a bit. While you’ve been talking, I’ve been looking out of the window – and I’ve been watching him walk along the road toward the station. He’s not having an easy time of it – it’s busy with the press and all that lot. And he’s doing a sort of crab-like dance; he’s not coming straight to us, he’s wandering along the other side of the road, going back and forth, not forward.’

  Stanley rose and joined her boss at the window. ‘I see him. Shall I pop down and unofficially make sure he gets through the front door? Or do you want to do it officially?’

  Glover thought for a moment. His quarry finally crossed the road, walking toward the front entrance of the police station. ‘Let’s get downstairs so he doesn’t have time for any second thoughts, Stanley. I’m sure you’re quicker than me – off you go.’ Stanley shot out of Glover’s office, with Glover himself in hot pursuit.

  As Glover left his office he heard the unwelcome voice of the super behind him. ‘Glover – where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting in my office for you. I’ve promised the chief an update – come with me, now.’ The man was almost squeaking he was so angry.

  Glover stopped in his tracks, sighed heavily and turned to face his boss. ‘Sir,’ he began politely enough, ‘I cannot talk to you at this precise moment, but I promise you will be the first to know of any developments – which I am expecting imminently. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ and Glover was off.

  ‘No, I will not excuse you, Glover. Come back here!’

  Glover suspected that, behind him, there was a certain amount of foot-stamping going on, but he didn’t look back to see the expression on his superior’s face; he could imagine it.

  As Glover reached the bottom of the staircase he could see their man talking to Stanley just inside the front door. Glover tried to catch his breath, and pushed open the security door that prevented anyone from barging into the station.


  He smiled, and extended his hand. Once their hands met, he tightened his grip and his face grew serious. ‘William Griffiths, I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Mr Geraint Gareth Richard Davies. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence. Do you understand that you have been cautioned?’

  Dr Bill Griffiths looked at Glover with dead eyes. ‘I understand. I did it.’ He spoke simply; it was the voice of a man who was utterly defeated.

  The desk sergeant dropped his pen and his mouth fell open. Glover could sense the uniformed officer’s excitement – it was palpable.

  ‘If you mention this to anyone – I’ll have your job, and your pension,’ Glover said to the sergeant. The desk sergeant’s response was quick, and to the point.

  ‘I understand, sir. I’ll open up and let you have Interview Room Two, sir. Alright?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Glover looked pointedly at the officer and said, ‘Not even a phone call home. If I get so much as a sniff . . .’

  ‘You’ve made yourself abundantly clear, sir,’ was the terse reply as the buzzer sounded and the heavy door was released.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Dr Griffiths?’ was Glover’s question as they entered the interview room.