Chapter 49

Terry didn't bother returning home to Greystones Mews. It wasn't his home, and he didn't feel comfortable there without his dad. He might as well be uncomfortable in his office; he'd probably get the same amount of disturbed sleep slumped over his desk as he would get in his bed.

He pulled the blinds closed, turned the radiator up a notch and slumped in his chair. It wasn't long before his eyelids grew heavy, and sleep claimed him.

Unfortunately, it didn't claim him for long. Every time he woke, he looked at the time on his phone. He saw every hour of the remaining night: 12:07, 01:14, 01:52, 02:44, 03:31, 04:19.

There was a knock on the glass door. He jumped up from his slumber. He looked at his phone: 05:54.

‘Yes,' he called out, in a hoarse voice.

The door opened, and the custody sergeant popped his head through the gap.

‘Have you spent the night here?'

‘Do I really need to answer that?' Terry asked, yawning, stretching, running his fingers through his knotted hair.

‘I suppose not. Have you considered having your post redirected?'

‘You're a funny man, Adam. What can I do for you?'

‘The bloke who was brought in last night for driving into that bus stop, Andrew Dickens. He's been ranting and raving since gone three. He says he wants to talk to you. Normally, I'd wait until regular hours but as you're not normal?—'

‘Thanks.'

‘—I thought I'd give you a nudge and see if you wanted to speak to the gobshite now, before I have to charge myself with GBH.'

‘Put him in an interview room. Give me five minutes to have a coffee and a wash, and I'll come down.'

‘Five minutes? That's optimistic, isn't it?' He left before Terry could say anything.

‘Interview with Andrew Dickens at seventeen minutes past six on Thursday, the sixteenth of January 2020. Those present are myself, that's Detective Inspector Terry Braithwaite…' Terry turned to the PC by the door.

‘PC Ben Kent.'

‘And…'

Terry indicated towards Andrew.

‘Andrew Dickens,' said Andrew.

‘Mr Dickens, for the benefit of the recording, I'd like you to state that you've requested this interview at this time and have not been pressured into it.'

Andrew cleared his throat. ‘No. No pressure. I wanted this interview.'

‘Once more for the benefit of the tape, do you wish to have a solicitor present?'

‘No. Let's just get on with it.'

‘Right, let's begin.'

‘I know I said I wouldn't grass on my mates, but there's no way I'm going to be sent down for something I didn't do. I didn't see Dominic's parents coming up the path, and if you say his mother's dead, then it obviously wasn't her. My mate would be able to give you a better description.'

‘Okay. Who are your mates?'

He took a deep breath, clearly still unsure if he was doing the right thing. ‘Paul Cummings and John Wheatley.'

‘Do they work with you at the supermarket?'

‘Yes.'

‘Whose idea was it to go round and give Dominic a hiding?'

He looked down. There was obvious regret for his actions.

‘It was a joint thing.'

‘About what happened last night. Why did you crash into that bus shelter?'

Andrew shook his head. ‘I wasn't thinking straight. I haven't been thinking straight since we… since New Year's Day. I must have lost concentration or something. I don't know. I… I can't believe… I can't believe I had it in me to…'

‘Kill a man?' Terry suggested.

‘I didn't kill him,' he said.

‘He died following your attack on him.'

‘Look, talk to John. Ask him to tell you who he saw coming up the path. We didn't stab him. They obviously did. They're the ones who killed him.'

There was nothing more Terry could do. Once daylight broke, or what passed for daylight in January in the north of England, two teams were sent to the homes of John Wheatley and Paul Cummings to arrest them for the murder of Dominic Griffiths. Wheatley resisted and had to be restrained, cuffed and practically dragged to the police car by three uniformed officers. Cummings accepted his fate and headed for the waiting car with his head down.

By the time they were ready to be interviewed, DS Kyra Willis had arrived, freshly showered, with clean clothes and minty breath and looking bright and sharp, ready to face the day. She spent the first twenty minutes chastising Terry for his appearance before revelling in how fast the case seemed to be moving.

First up to be interviewed was John Wheatley.

John had a face riddled with pockmarks. His blond hair was a buzz cut, and his blue eyes were dull. He had an indecipherable tattoo on his neck and wore a blue hooded sweater that had been through the wash too many times. His expression was stern. He resented being arrested. There was a deep-seated hatred for the police there, and the look he gave Terry and Kyra as they entered the room should have struck them down dead.

Kyra started the recording. Terry filled John in on the overnight developments of Andrew Dickens confessing to the beating of Dominic Griffiths. Now, it was John's turn to speak.

‘The bloke was a nonce. He had it coming to him,' John said, in a thick Geordie accent.

‘Stephanie White was not sexually interfered with. Dominic Griffiths was not a paedophile,' Terry stated.

‘He killed a child. He deserved a beating.'

‘Did he deserve murdering?'

‘We didn't kill him,' he said, pointing a grubby finger at Terry. ‘I'll hold my hand up to giving him a slap, but we didn't stab him.'

‘Who did?'

‘You're the filth. You tell me.'

‘Andrew Dickens said you called out that Mr Griffiths' parents were coming up the back garden path, which is why you all ran.'

‘That's right.'

‘How did you know they were his parents?'

‘Because they looked like his parents.'

‘How do you know what his parents look like?'

‘There was a photo of them on the fireplace. I was looking around the room at his stuff while Andrew and Paul were giving him a kicking.'

Terry frowned. ‘Can you describe the people you saw coming up the path?'

John let out a heavy sigh. ‘I only saw them briefly through the net curtains. The bloke had a hat on, like a beany hat. The woman had dark hair down to her shoulders. She was wearing a long, grey coat. She was a few inches shorter than him. They were exactly like they were in the photograph.'

From the folder in front of him, Terry took out a black and white photograph Kyra had found in Dominic's house. It showed Anthony and Carole Griffiths in the back garden of their home in 1977.

‘Is this the couple you saw coming up the path?'

‘Yes. Definitely. I'd stake my life on it.'

‘Carole Griffiths –' Terry pointed at the photograph ‘– died in 2001. Anthony Griffiths died last week. At the time his son was killed, he was living with bone cancer. He was in a great deal of pain and wouldn't have been able to kill his son by stabbing him four times in the chest, especially considering one stab went through his ribcage and pierced his heart. Do you see why I'm having trouble believing you?'

John sat back. His eyes widened. There was fear on his face. ‘We didn't kill him,' he said, his voice no longer harsh and threatening.

‘You have a history of violence, don't you, John?'

He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago.'

Terry opened the folder. ‘The fourteenth of February 2015, you were arrested for threatening your wife with a knife.'

‘It was a misunderstanding.'

‘The twelfth of March 2014, you were arrested for assaulting Jamie Pratt.'

‘He threatened my sister.'

‘The second of November 2012, you were charged, along with your brother, with beating up two Liverpool football supporters.'

‘Things got out of control. They were taking the piss because they beat Newcastle. We'd had a few drinks.'

‘And then there's this one: the tenth of August 2010. Perverting the course of justice. Lying under oath.'

‘My sister already had points on her licence. She'd have lost her job if she couldn't drive.'

‘Lying under oath,' Terry repeated. ‘Why should I believe you when you say a ghost and a terminally ill man killed Dominic Griffiths, when you freely admit to being in the house and taking part in his assault?'

‘Because it's true.'

Terry looked at his watch. ‘Interview terminated at 09:37.'

The interview with Paul Cummings was even shorter. He hadn't seen anyone coming up the garden path. He echoed Andrew's words, more or less verbatim, when quoting John as shouting, ‘Shit, his parents are here', before all three of them ran out of the front door. He admitted kicking Dominic a few times in the trunk of his body, but claimed Andrew performed most of the assault.

He was full of remorse and spent most of the interview wiping away tears with the sleeve of his sweater. He stated that he would never have gone to Dominic's house if it hadn't been for Andrew and John egging him on, telling him that Dominic should be taught a lesson.

‘Paul, do you drive a car?' Terry asked.

‘Yes.'

‘What make?'

‘A Peugeot.'

‘Colour?'

‘Black.'

‘Did you use your car to travel to Dominic's house on the night of the first of January?'

He nodded. ‘Andrew hasn't got a car, and John's only got a van. Andrew said the van would stand out a mile.'

‘How long were you planning this assault?'

‘We didn't plan on assaulting him, just scaring him,' he said, with frustration.

‘How long?'

‘I don't know. A few weeks maybe.'

‘From the beginning of December then?'

‘Maybe. I don't know how it started. Andrew said that some girl at work had told him who Dominic really was. We all knew him as Rupert.'

‘Who was the girl at work who told Andrew?'

‘I don't know. Everyone gossips in that place.'

‘So, you planned to scare him. You chose which night to do it, and you had your car to get to and from Dominic's house.'

‘Yes.'

‘Which makes this premeditated. Paul Cummings, I'm charging you with the murder of Dominic Griffiths. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?'

‘We didn't kill him,' he pleaded.

‘Don't worry. You won't be on your own. I'll be charging your two accomplices, too.'

It was almost lunchtime by the time Terry arrived back at Forth Banks. He'd showered, changed, had a quick bowl of cereal and a strong coffee. Now, in his office, he was eating an egg salad sandwich he had picked up in the canteen and was washing it down with his umpteenth coffee of the day.

Kyra entered without knocking. She pulled a face when she smelled the sandwich. ‘I don't know how anyone can eat eggs like that. The smell alone turns my stomach.'

‘Did you want something?'

She looked down at her pad. ‘Andrew Dickens said the woman who told him Dominic's real identity was Selina Baxter. Apparently, she's well known for being a bit of a gossip.'

‘So much for Selina only telling her mum and her boyfriend.'

‘Exactly. And I've run Paul Cummings' registration number through ANPR, and it was picked up on Scotswood Road just after eleven o'clock on the night of the first. Scotswood Road isn't far from Atlantic Road.'

‘A couple of minutes, if that.'

‘Case closed?'

‘It would seem so,' he said, glaring into space.

‘You don't sound convinced.'

‘That synthetic hair keeps popping back into my mind. Andrew, Paul and John weren't wearing a disguise. They just knocked on the door and walked in. So, who went to the house wearing a wig, and who were the couple walking up the garden path?'

Kyra pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Are we sure that couple even exists? Only John claims to have seen them, very briefly, and after looking at a photo on the mantelpiece. Is it possible it could have been a trick of his imagination? Andrew said they'd had a few drinks in the pub before they went round to Dominic's house.'

Terry thought for a while. ‘Okay, I can probably accept he was half-pissed and thought he saw something he didn't, but that doesn't explain the hair.'

‘It might have been there for days.'

‘Even if it was, it still means that someone visited Dominic wearing a disguise. Why?'

Kyra chewed her bottom lip. There was a pensive look on her face. ‘I really don't know. I'm sorry. I suppose it's going to be one of those unanswered questions.'

‘I don't like those.'

‘No. But the tourist industry at Loch Ness has managed to turn them into a boon,' she said, with a smile.