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‘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.’
