had subsided since the other girls had left the car and he couldn’t help thinking that her tears had been more for the benefit of her audience than any injury or shock she’d sustained. ‘Mam’s in the theatre. Dad’s at some old boy thing.’
‘Dynevor School?’
‘I think so.’ She began to cry again at the prospect of seeing her father.
‘That’s being held in the Mackworth Hotel,’ the driver said.
‘We’ll telephone from the station.’ Roy recalled some of the rumours he’d heard about Esme Griffiths as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the car. If they were to be believed, she spent more time in Swansea Little Theatre than she did with her family. The evening’s events had rather borne that out. No mother worthy of the name would have allowed her daughter to go to the Pier in a dress like the one Helen had been wearing. Little wonder the girl was running wild and attracting the wrong kind of attention.
He glanced back at Helen, hunched and miserable on the back seat of the car, and felt an unexpected pang of pity. He’d have a few words with John and Esme Griffiths when they came down to the station. What was the point of having money enough to give your children everything they wanted if you didn’t take the time and trouble to guide them on the right path?
‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ the sergeant barked.
Helen began to cry again, this time softly and quietly.
‘The truth.’ The sergeant looked from the girl to Roy. He was aware he sounded harsh and intimidating but he wasn’t used to questioning young girls. Signalling to Roy to step outside, he closed the door and glanced up and down the corridor to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Do you think she was raped, Williams?’
‘No, sir. But only because there wasn’t time. The girl’s dress had been ripped off her and Murton Davies’s flies were open when I got there. In my book that makes his intentions obvious. Young Clay told Powell the girl was struggling with Murton Davies when he left the ballroom with the drinks. He also says he saw Murton Davies rip her dress, which suggests Murton Davies had just attacked her.’
‘I phoned the hospital.’
‘Is Murton Davies all right?’
‘Oh, yes. Minor bruises and contusions. He’s also drunk as a lord but then he might as well be one. You have heard of the Murton Davieses?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Roy answered carefully.
‘His father’s already been on the line screaming for his son’s attacker’s blood.’
‘And the girl his son tried to rape?’
‘I’d be very careful who you relate that version of events to, Constable Williams.’
‘His friends admit he was drunk. The girl was screaming and trying to fight him off. Clay saw him tear the girl’s dress. His flies were open. How much more evidence do we need?’
‘Murton Davies’s solicitor is at the hospital. From the boy’s version of events, it appears he and the girl got a little over-amorous, the girl’s dress got caught on his watchstrap and he accidentally ripped it.’
‘You believe that, sir?’
‘I believe in youth and high spirits, and a girl crying rape when she thinks she’s about to be exposed as a tart. We’ll have to wait for the doctor’s report, but there appears to be no real damage done to the girl that I can see, and you know the Murton Davieses. The father’s Grand Master this year. He can call on some pretty strong connections.’
‘That doesn’t alter the facts of the case, sir.’ Roy knew damned well it did, but he wasn’t going to stand by while Jack Clay’s and Helen Griffiths’ more likely version of events were swept aside without a single protest.
‘You know how difficult it is to prove these cases one way or another. Between you and me, if the boy did tear her dress deliberately she would have got no more than she deserved,’ the sergeant pronounced caustically. ‘Parading down the Pier half naked on a Saturday night. Her dress might be in
‘Dynevor School?’
‘I think so.’ She began to cry again at the prospect of seeing her father.
‘That’s being held in the Mackworth Hotel,’ the driver said.
‘We’ll telephone from the station.’ Roy recalled some of the rumours he’d heard about Esme Griffiths as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the car. If they were to be believed, she spent more time in Swansea Little Theatre than she did with her family. The evening’s events had rather borne that out. No mother worthy of the name would have allowed her daughter to go to the Pier in a dress like the one Helen had been wearing. Little wonder the girl was running wild and attracting the wrong kind of attention.
He glanced back at Helen, hunched and miserable on the back seat of the car, and felt an unexpected pang of pity. He’d have a few words with John and Esme Griffiths when they came down to the station. What was the point of having money enough to give your children everything they wanted if you didn’t take the time and trouble to guide them on the right path?
‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ the sergeant barked.
Helen began to cry again, this time softly and quietly.
‘The truth.’ The sergeant looked from the girl to Roy. He was aware he sounded harsh and intimidating but he wasn’t used to questioning young girls. Signalling to Roy to step outside, he closed the door and glanced up and down the corridor to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Do you think she was raped, Williams?’
‘No, sir. But only because there wasn’t time. The girl’s dress had been ripped off her and Murton Davies’s flies were open when I got there. In my book that makes his intentions obvious. Young Clay told Powell the girl was struggling with Murton Davies when he left the ballroom with the drinks. He also says he saw Murton Davies rip her dress, which suggests Murton Davies had just attacked her.’
‘I phoned the hospital.’
‘Is Murton Davies all right?’
‘Oh, yes. Minor bruises and contusions. He’s also drunk as a lord but then he might as well be one. You have heard of the Murton Davieses?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Roy answered carefully.
‘His father’s already been on the line screaming for his son’s attacker’s blood.’
‘And the girl his son tried to rape?’
‘I’d be very careful who you relate that version of events to, Constable Williams.’
‘His friends admit he was drunk. The girl was screaming and trying to fight him off. Clay saw him tear the girl’s dress. His flies were open. How much more evidence do we need?’
‘Murton Davies’s solicitor is at the hospital. From the boy’s version of events, it appears he and the girl got a little over-amorous, the girl’s dress got caught on his watchstrap and he accidentally ripped it.’
‘You believe that, sir?’
‘I believe in youth and high spirits, and a girl crying rape when she thinks she’s about to be exposed as a tart. We’ll have to wait for the doctor’s report, but there appears to be no real damage done to the girl that I can see, and you know the Murton Davieses. The father’s Grand Master this year. He can call on some pretty strong connections.’
‘That doesn’t alter the facts of the case, sir.’ Roy knew damned well it did, but he wasn’t going to stand by while Jack Clay’s and Helen Griffiths’ more likely version of events were swept aside without a single protest.
‘You know how difficult it is to prove these cases one way or another. Between you and me, if the boy did tear her dress deliberately she would have got no more than she deserved,’ the sergeant pronounced caustically. ‘Parading down the Pier half naked on a Saturday night. Her dress might be in