Chapter 10

I sat behind the wheel of the Golf and thought about what I'd learned from Sylvia Hurst. Dominic had been a problem child, but by the time he met Mum, he was a caring and considerate young man, maybe a touch insecure. Had his issues just been childhood devilment that he'd grown out of? It seemed like it. Then there was Carole Griffiths killing herself two years after her son was sent to prison. Was it because she couldn't cope with having given birth to a murderer? Once again, I found myself with more questions than answers. I took a deep breath and started the engine. It was time for Anthony to meet the granddaughter he never knew he had.

I pulled up outside the row of small bungalows. It was early afternoon, and the brightness of the day was slowly fading. It was going to be another cold night. I rummaged in my cluttered bag for a mirror to check my appearance. My skin looked dry and my face sad, not surprising given what I'd recently discovered. What I'd learned about my father so far was a mass of contradictions. I already had a headache and didn't know if I could face more dark revelations from Dominic's father. But I'd already come this far.

I opened the car door, and it was almost ripped off by a gust of wind. I pulled my coat tightly around me and trotted down the pavement to the door. I rang the bell and waited. The house appeared to be in darkness, as did the ones either side. After a long wait, the door opened, and a small elderly man stood in the dark doorway.

It was difficult to estimate Anthony Griffiths' age. He could be anything from his late sixties onwards. His shoulders were hunched, making him look smaller. What little hair he had left was dark grey and pointing in all directions. His face was a relief map of deep wrinkles, and his eyes were glassy; he gave off the aura of a defeated man.

‘Anthony Griffiths?' I asked. I had to squat slightly to make eye contact with him.

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry to intrude on you like this, but… I'm sorry, I'm not sure how to say this.' As soon as I had seen him, I knew I couldn't lie to him. He already looked in pain – this man didn't deserve any more.

‘Are you selling something?'

‘No, I'm not. I have some news for you. It's about your son.'

His eyes widened. ‘I don't want to know.' He started to close the door.

I was losing him. I had a few seconds, maybe, before I would have to shout my news through the letterbox and reveal everything to everyone on Langdale Crescent. ‘Mr Griffiths, please, I'm… It's… My name is Dawn Shepherd. I'm Dominic's daughter.'

The wind dropped then blew a fresh gust over me, making me shiver.

‘What?'

‘I don't know if you remember a young woman by the name of Rita Shepherd. She and Dominic went out together for about a year before… well, before he went to prison. They split up when my mum was moving away to go to university, but then she found out she was pregnant with me. I have a photograph here somewhere.' I opened my bag and began rummaging inside for the picture Mum had given me earlier.

With shaking hands, Anthony took the picture and angled it so the light behind him could give him a clearer view. Judging by his reaction, he recognised his son straightaway.

‘The woman he has his arm around, that's my mother.'

‘Really?'

‘I know. She's pretty and thin, whereas I'm the opposite.'

Anthony looked up, back at the photo, then back at me. ‘I think you're a very attractive woman,' he said, with sincerity.

‘Thank you.' I felt myself blush.

‘You have your mother's eyes.'

‘Everyone says that.'

‘What do you want from me?' He handed the photograph back.

‘I don't want anything. I just want to talk.'

‘What about?'

‘About your son… my father. I'd like to get to know you, too. You're my grandad, after all.'

Anthony's eyes lit up, and a small smile appeared on his lips. ‘I'm your grandad,' he said. He chuckled to himself. ‘You'd better come in.'

There was something TARDIS-like about the bungalow. From the outside it had looked like such a tiny building, so I was surprised when I walked along the small hallway and entered the spacious living room. Even with a widescreen TV in the corner, two sofas, a sideboard and a small table and chairs in the opposite corner for having a meal, there was still plenty of walking space. It was tastefully decorated in neutral colours, but there was a hint of sadness in the air. This was not a happy home to live in.

‘Can I get you a drink?' Anthony asked from the doorway. He looked uncomfortable, a stranger in his own home.

‘I'm fine. Thanks.'

‘Would you like to take a seat?' He pointed to the sofa with a shaking hand.

I perched on the edge of the sofa, while Anthony took his place on what appeared to be his regular seat, the one closest to the television and next to a small coffee table where a large mug and a plate with crumbs were placed.

‘Is that your wife?' My eyes had been wandering around the room and landed on a framed photograph on the sideboard. It was a large picture showing Anthony and Carole on their wedding day standing in the doorway of a church.

‘Yes. That's Carole.'

I picked up the silver frame and looked at my grandmother. She was dressed elegantly in a floor-length, white satin gown. Her hair was flowing down her back along with the sheer veil which was lifted slightly by a breeze. Her skin was smooth, her eyes wide and smiling.

‘Friday, the tenth of July, 1970 that was taken,' Anthony said.

‘She's beautiful.'

‘She certainly was.'

‘You look very handsome too. I love the velvet suit.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You look so happy.'

‘We were.'

I replaced the frame and returned to the sofa.

‘When did you find out Dominic is your father?' Anthony asked, breaking the silence.

‘Last week.'

‘Oh. It must have come as a shock.'

‘You could say that. Mum always said I was the result of a one-night stand and that she couldn't remember who the boy was. I never questioned it.'

‘What made her tell you the truth?'

‘It was the news of Dominic being released from prison. It had a bit of a strange effect on her.'

‘I see. I don't think I can be much use to you. I don't know Dominic that well.'

‘He's your son.'

Anthony appeared to buckle at the mention of his relationship to the killer. ‘I don't need reminding.'

‘I'm sorry.'

A silence fell between us, and Anthony's expression plunged into a deep sadness.

‘I made a stupid mistake,' he said, wiping away a tear that had formed in the corner of his eye.

‘In what way?'

‘I thought moving away would solve everything. I thought we'd be able to start afresh, a new life, put Dominic and everything behind us. It didn't work. It backfired.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Carole needed to talk about Dominic. I refused. I banned his name from this house. All she wanted to do was talk, and I wouldn't let her. She kept everything bottled up until she couldn't stand it any longer. Then she…' His voice broke, and he bowed his head.

‘I heard about what happened.'

‘Who from?'

‘An old neighbour of yours. Sylvia Hurst.'

‘Bloody hell, is she still going? She must be about a hundred by now,' he said, with a chuckle. ‘Is she still on Aldwick Road?'

‘Yes.'

‘I think they probably built those houses around her – she's been there that long. Lovely woman, well, Carole liked her, but bloody nosy.'

‘I really am sorry… about your wife. Could I ask you some questions about my father?'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘What was your relationship with him like? I've read that you worked away a lot – that must have been a strain.'

Anthony's eyes darted from me to the floor and back again. ‘I was a long-distance lorry driver. I was away a lot. I phoned Carole every night, asked her how she was, but it wasn't the same as being there. Depending on what routes I was working, sometimes I was only home at weekends.'

I didn't say anything, but I had noticed how Anthony said he called home every night to ask how his wife was, not his son.

‘There was an atmosphere in the house,' he continued, his gaze fixed straight ahead. ‘Dominic was a sullen child, and Carole, well, those tablets she was taking turned her into a zombie. I knew the problem wasn't with her.'

‘Did you spend much time alone with Dominic?'

‘No,' he answered firmly, after a short silence. ‘I… there was nothing there between us.'

‘What do you mean?'

He looked at me with watery eyes. ‘Tell me, do you and your mother have a good relationship?'

‘Yes.' I smiled. ‘We're very close.'

‘Do you do things together?'

‘Yes. We go for meals, the cinema. Sometimes it doesn't feel like we're mother and daughter.'

He gave a weak smile. ‘That's nice. We didn't have that, me and Dominic. He was a difficult boy to like.'

I hope I didn't let my facial expression show my revulsion. Had Anthony really said he hadn't liked his own son?

‘Sylvia said he was a problem child, always in trouble. Yet at the time my mum was going out with him, she paints him as being a very caring and affectionate man. How can someone go from one extreme to the other?'

Anthony adjusted himself on the sofa. ‘Not long after he was sent to prison, that drug he was taking was taken off the market.'

‘Drug?' I felt bad for playing dumb and deceiving him, but I wanted to hear everything in his own words.

‘Yes. I can't remember what it was called. Carole went to the doctor's many times, because she wasn't coping with Dominic, and they gave her tablets for her nerves. It was only when this new GP arrived at the surgery and said he wanted to see Dominic that we realised it was Dominic who should have been on medication, not Carole. So, she was weaned off her tablets, and he was given some kind of new wonder-drug.'

‘What for?'

‘To stabilise his moods. He was an angry child. He didn't mix well with others. He wanted to be friends with other children but didn't know how to, and they all thought he was weird. I suppose nowadays he'd be labelled as autistic or as having that ADHD or whatever it's called.'

‘So, this drug he was taking was taken off the market? Why?'

‘I can't remember the full details. There was something about a woman in America who killed her husband while taking it, I think. You'd need to speak to Dominic's solicitor about it. She knows all the information. I've got her card here somewhere. Would you like it?'

‘Please.'

Anthony struggled out of the comfortable armchair and went over to the sideboard. Walking, even a few steps, seemed to cause him pain.

‘Why would Dominic need a solicitor?' I asked. That sounded false – I doubted I'd be nominated for a BAFTA anytime soon.

He found the card and handed it to me. Clare Delaney's name was written in gold lettering on an embossed card. Very classy.

‘I didn't agree with it. I told her all this, too. Nobody will thank her.'

‘Thank her for what?'

‘She was working on the theory that it wasn't Dominic who killed Stephanie White, that it was this drug that made him do it. She was putting together a case to sue the makers of the drug and have the murder conviction quashed.'

‘I did read a couple of articles online where Dominic said he didn't do it. He said it a number of times. Do you think that's possible?'

‘No,' he answered, without hesitation. ‘He's guilty. I know it.'

‘Did he tell you so when you visited him in prison?'

‘I never visited him. Carole did. I didn't. I couldn't. I couldn't believe what he'd done. He disgusted me.'

I felt bad for bringing up buried trauma and emotions. I could see the agony etched on Anthony's face, the sorrow in his glassy eyes.

‘Dominic's solicitor.' I looked at the card. ‘This Clare Delaney. Does she believe in Dominic's innocence?'

‘I've no idea what she believes. If you go to see her, look very closely at her eyes. She doesn't have pupils – she has pound signs,' he said, with a chuckle.

I smiled. ‘Should I not have come here this evening? I can tell I've upset you.'

‘Don't be silly. I'm pleased you've come. You're a lovely young woman and obviously a credit to your mother.'

‘That's kind of you to say, thank you.'

‘Let me give you a piece of advice,' he began, leaning forwards in his chair. ‘Forget all about who your father is. Don't let him into your life. I don't care what he says, and I don't care what that solicitor says. He killed Stephanie White. I can feel it in here,' he said, tapping his heart with gnarled fingers. ‘He cut her up, hid her in our attic, and he killed his mother, too. You don't want someone like that in your life.'

I suddenly felt very cold. It couldn't have been easy for a man to call his own son a killer. I felt such sympathy for him. I wanted to give him a hug, but having only just met him, it didn't feel appropriate.

I looked back at the business card. A solicitor wouldn't get involved in a case like this, if he was guilty, would she?