‘By the age of fifteen Clive had seen and heard enough, and he ran away. His life became one of itinerant squatting, including a couple of years in a disused manor house near St Austell. This was one of many buildings in Cornwall that had once belonged to a prominent aristocratic family but which had fallen into disrepair after the family had moved elsewhere. One day in 1971 Bob Silver visited this house with clients from the building trade interested in acquiring it and converting it into a hotel and leisure resort. While inspecting the decaying rooms Bob and his associates heard an unexpected noise coming from one of them. At first they thought it might be a trapped bird but on entering discovered the unfortunate Clive cowering in a corner surrounded by a few meagre belongings and items of food. On the floor, quite out of place, they saw several rather fine drawings. “Don’t hit me,” whimpered the boy, and they were quick to reassure him that he was in no physical danger. Bob found himself overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness for the terrified teenager and tried to ascertain why he was living in this fashion.’
‘With three children of his own, did he really need any further responsibility? His relationship with Justyn didn’t sound particularly good,’ said Brigit.
‘That was the point. His three children were, to all intents and purposes, grown up and had all hugely benefited from Bob’s patronage, as he saw it, by being sent to private schools. They had enjoyed a privileged background very different from his own.’
‘Which was?’
‘He was an orphan, growing up in Plymouth in a home established by a merchant seamen’s charity. Through hard work, intelligence, energy and opportunism he had risen in life to a position he could not have dreamt of as a child. So when he saw Clive Holford crouching in the corner of a derelict building, terrified of being hit and appearing all alone in the world, it plainly touched a nerve. And so began Bob’s patronage of the boy, helping him get his life together and encouraging his talent as an artist. That Saturday afternoon in St Ives was the launch day for Clive’s studio. It must have been a significant moment for both of them.’
‘All of which would be fine and very heart-warming had Bob maintained a purely platonic relationship with Clive, but you said they were caught in an intimate situation at the Minack Theatre.’
‘But he did keep things platonic. He took Clive under his wing and demonstrated a paternal love and guidance missing in his relationship with his own children, the youngest of whom he deemed deeply ungrateful. Their being together at the theatre was a perfectly innocent father–son relationship – hardly untoward behaviour.’
‘It would be seen as strange these days.’
‘Oh, piffle! Forming a platonic, paternalistic relationship hardly makes Bob a paedophile.’
‘So why couldn’t he come clean with his family and friends?’
‘He wanted to, but he didn’t know how. It seems that he always remained insecure about his childhood and had an irrational fear of returning to the abandoned and penniless world of his past. He didn’t understand why his relationships with his own children were not better. He simply felt a stronger bond with Clive, who adored him as the father he had never had. Several times Bob wanted to tell Margaret, when she suspected a gay relationship had developed, but she didn’t want to discuss the subject of Clive. She was burying her head in the sand for the sake of her career and her family. Of course, it would have been far better if he had told the truth. As it was, the rumour mill was in full flow, particularly when it was reported that Bob didn’t return to the hotel until five-thirty the following morning after we spotted him with Clive at the Minack and subsequently in the pub.’
‘So why did Bob return so late then?’
‘There is a particularly unfortunate aspect to that episode. Do you remember me saying that on the way back from the open-air theatre Bob and Clive stopped off at a pub in St Buryan where Justyn, myself, Suzie Hughes-Webb, Caroline Jessops and Danny Galvin were having a drink?’
‘Yes – and Bob was highly embarrassed.’
‘Very much so, yes. But whereas Bob was embarrassed Clive was mortified for a different reason. He had spotted his father serving behind the bar. They had exchanged glances, and Clive was very relieved to get out of the pub before Ken could speak to him. The lad had started to feel faint and was literally shaking as they left. When Bob dropped Clive back at his bedsit in Hayle, which Bob paid for, Clive revealed the horror of seeing his father again and the terror he felt that he might follow him home. Bob agreed to stay in his car outside until dawn broke to keep watch as Clive went into his bedsit to sleep.’
‘So there’s no motive there, and Bob should have been eliminated from suspicion.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Grant mysteriously.
12
22 AUGUST 1972
Richard Hughes-Webb was a man with an intimidating presence. On entering a room people would often stop in mid-conversation to acknowledge him. It wasn’t so much his impressive height but, rather, his head, which was disproportionately large. He had a distinctive Roman nose and thick eyebrows below a largely bald pate flecked by a few strands of white hair on each side. On close observation of others Richard’s eyes would drill through theirs, causing the impression that he knew whatever sins they had committed. It was quite unnerving, but his confidence didn’t stop with his appearance; he was mentally very alert and dominating. He was also prone to making speeches at every opportunity. It could be another family’s celebration, such as an eighteenth birthday, and before the appropriate parent or sibling could speak Richard would be on his feet announcing the toast.
On Tuesday 22 August it was Inspector Higham’s and PC Stobart’s task to arrest Richard and bring him in for questioning. As they approached the hotel Stobart revealed more than a little apprehension at their forthcoming morning’s work and awkwardly slowed his step. ‘This isn’t going to be easy, guv. This Hughes-Webb bloke has quite … an aura about him.’
‘An aura? I’d call it a nuclear-free zone, protecting him from what ordinary mortals have to contend with,’ Higham remarked, also clearly daunted by the task ahead of them. ‘But villains come in many shapes and sizes, from ragamuffins to Lord Haughty-Haughtys. And don’t forget we’re the ones with the blue uniforms and badges.’ At this Higham allowed himself a little chuckle, which Stobart knew was his cue to join in, laughing heartily but knowing his place in the pecking order.
On arrival at the hotel they asked for Richard at the reception desk. Miss Fabian looked initially alarmed and soon her face assumed a look of utter indignation as she protested shrilly, ‘Are you absolutely sure, Inspector?’ A determined look on the Inspector’s face ensured common sense got the better of her, and she swiftly located Richard at breakfast.
After initially resisting Miss Fabian’s entreaty Richard emerged from the dining-room with a face like a volcano on the point of eruption. His left cheek had the unusual characteristic of twitching just before he lost his temper. He remarked loudly and imperiously that he was awaiting his kippers, before demanding, ‘What in the name of earth’s creation is all this about?’
The Inspector’s nerve appeared to desert him. ‘I … I … I … I … er … er … am … he stuttered as he recalled how he had been intimidated by this man on Sunday. He knew he had to assert himself now, and he pulled himself together. ‘I am asking you to accompany us to the local police station, sir.’
‘The man’s completely insane,’ barked Richard so loudly that all in earshot were transfixed by the live theatre.
Yvie rushed out of the restaurant, saw the look on her husband’s face and pointed out in a firm voice that even Richard had learnt not to challenge, ‘You had better go. Resisting arrest is not an option – for anyone.’
Her husband continued to share his opinion of the local constabulary with the assembled throng at the top of his voice, as he reluctantly accompanied the officers. ‘This is a scandal. Heads will roll, you know.’
Higham’s face was crimson. He could not recall ever arr
esting a suspect as imposing and authoritative as Richard Hughes-Webb. In the Inspector’s experience, criminals simply weren’t like this, whatever he had asserted to his assistant on the way to the hotel.
The police, although intimidated by their suspect, had been purposeful elsewhere. On the Thursday before making this arrest, they had found parasite worm eggs in an outhouse at Richard’s cottage in Zennor and had tested them at their forensic laboratory. Results not only confirmed the toxic nature of the larvae but established that the substance ingested by the porter on Sunday morning was the same.
Under interrogation Richard reluctantly admitted that they were being cultivated for use in a local animal science park with which he was involved, adding in a rather patronizing manner that this fact was already known to the local constabulary. He went on to say more bombastically that he was at the cutting edge of research into heart disease and that this involved testing the effects of such toxins on the cardiovascular systems of mammals. ‘And if you and future generations of Highams and Stobarts would like to enjoy longer, healthier lives you should damn well support such activities.’
Richard’s condescending and arrogant manner finally caused Inspector Higham to snap. ‘I am placing you under arrest for the poisoning of Tom Youlen,’ he thundered, taking control, his face red, his cheeks pinched in anger. ‘But first you are going to take us to this animal science place and stop treating us like Mr Plods from the village farm.’
‘I know where it is, sir,’ interrupted PC Stobart, hurriedly trying to placate his superior, who he had begun to fear might suffer a coronary and require his suspect’s specialist skills. The veins on Inspector Higham’s face looked fit to burst, so the Constable suggested they left for the science park immediately.
On the way Richard regained some of the initiative, addressing his two captors as if he was holding forth at some major medical conference. ‘Look, I understand you are rattled at the discovery of poor Tom having eaten some of these worm eggs and having suffered a terrible stroke. It’s an awful tragedy, a terrible thing, but I can assure you I never encouraged him to do so. He was a charming fellow. I liked him.’ Richard sought to calm the situation while feeling smug at getting under the Inspector’s skin. ‘Moreover I have an alibi who can confirm where I was at the time of Tom’s ingestion of the eggs. I would also like the name of the Chief Superintendent of your force.’ The last remark was delivered in an especially crisp and deliberate tone.
The police remained silent, once again unsure how to handle their prime suspect. Inspector Higham regained some composure, and by the time they had finished their investigation at the science park he had decided to let the surgeon off with a caution. He had by then received information from one of his officers that Richard’s alibi was watertight. Grant Morrison’s mother, Rose, had accompanied him to get the Sunday-morning papers when the delivery failed at the hotel; she had further added in her witness statement that she and Richard had then gone for a drive, returning to the hotel at around midday.
The police returned the vindicated and overbearing Richard Hughes-Webb to the hotel shortly before lunch and headed back to their station feeling frustrated. It was some time after they left the hotel car park before their gloomy silence was broken.
‘The problem with people like him’, remarked Inspector Higham, ‘is they play the game from the top. If we don’t get everything right, they do us; they do us every time, these nobs. They have the money and the power, and their lawyers do the rest – and we get done.’
‘Done like the kipper he didn’t have for breakfast,’ rejoined PC Stobart, warming to his theme, successfully lightening the mood and regarding his joke as superior to anything the Inspector could offer.
‘Oh, very good, Police Constable,’ Higham chuckled. ‘Very good indeed.’
‘And who does he think he is anyway?’ continued Stobart, sensing he was on a roll. ‘Carrying out experiments down here in Zennor like he’s Dr bleeding Frankenstein. Come to think of it, he looks like the monster.’
As they pulled up at the police station car park the men’s mild amusement at the first joke gave way to proper laughter at the second, and for a while they couldn’t talk. They remained in their seats until some of their composure returned. Alighting from the car they were spotted by the Chief Superintendent, who shouted loftily across at them, ‘You both look happy today.’
Inspector Higham felt something sharp prick his spine.
13
PRESENT DAY
‘Paul Galvin had one of those irritating faces that seemed to be smiling at you all the time. Even when meeting people for the first time he had an inane, welcoming sort of grin that made you think it was an agreeable meeting of old friends, when actually you often felt like punching him in the face.’
‘So, he smiles at you, and you want to punch him. That’s nice.’
‘Well, not really,’ continued Grant. ‘He was always immaculately turned out, even on the squash court, until he started sweating profusely. He appeared to radiate joy all around unless a financial issue arose, which would affect his mood dramatically. The police had heard all about his failed property development in Penzance and had taken a statement from Tom’s brother, Dickie, who worked for Sandersons. The local constabulary had formed an opinion that Paul’s conduct was beyond the pale and had accordingly already cast him as a villain, particularly on hearing that he blamed Tom for the whole disaster. There was, naturally, a suspicion that Paul had a motive for hurting Tom, but the position became considerably worse for him when Bill, the other night porter, revealed that he had seen Paul in earnest conversation with Ivan Youlen the morning after Tom’s collapse. Remember, Ivan was not just Tom’s nephew but also Dickie’s son, and Dickie was seriously out of pocket thanks to Paul.’
‘The son that Dickie was sort of estranged from because Ivan fathered a child out of wedlock?’ asked Brigit. ‘So when and where did this earnest chinwag occur?’
‘At about ten in the morning they were seen having an animated conversation outside the newsagent in Zennor. Paul had gone to get his Sunday paper.’
‘And who saw them?’
‘Arnie Charnley. It seemed the non-delivery of the Sunday papers had given several people reason to visit the newsagent in Zennor at around the same time, since no one had offered to get them for anyone else. When Arnie joined the scene he realized this was Tom’s nephew who had been suspected of stealing his cash from the cottage.’
‘So how did the police know about the row, and how did they deal with it?
‘They received a tip-off at about midday from an anonymous caller about the scene outside the newsagent.’
‘Who from?’
‘Ted Jessops,’ announced Grant triumphantly.
‘I thought you said Ted was lying comatose in bed, staring at the wall glassy-eyed and unable to communicate.’
‘That was on the Monday. On Sunday Ted had been very active. Don’t forget he knew exactly who Ivan was and had his own reason for reporting what was going on. So the police returned to the hotel at midday on Tuesday afternoon and arrested Paul Galvin and Ted Jessops. We were on the beach at Sennen Cove at the time and didn’t hear of the excitement until we got back at about six.’
‘And what about the scene in Zennor? Did you find out what Paul and Ivan were discussing?’ asked Brigit.
‘Well, it wasn’t the Test Match. Ivan was close to assaulting Paul, apparently accusing him of ruining his family. Ivan was particularly foul-mouthed and abusive.’
‘Unsurprising, given Ivan’s precarious financial position and the fact that his father was left unpaid by a collapsed company which was probably his only source of regular employment. I reckon that would seriously unhinge most people.’
‘Yes,’ continued Grant. ‘The problem now was there were too many suspects for the Old Bill to get their heads around. Richard had been released thanks to his alibi. Paul and Ted had been rounded up like cattle on the Tuesday afternoon. And, don’t forget, Ivan
was in Zennor at ten on Sunday morning. Furthermore, Arnie had been arrested the previous day and released on bail.’
‘Sunday morning papers didn’t come,’ Brigit sang quietly.
Grant interrupted. ‘It was Wednesday morning papers didn’t come. Sunday morning was creeping like a nun.’ He immediately apologized, but the Beatles had always been his favourite band.
‘Whatever. If Ted Jessops grassed up the others, who grassed up Ted?’
‘Ivan,’ said Grant emphatically, now quite pleased at how Brigit was getting up to speed. ‘Ivan spotted the Jessops’ brown Rover as Ted tried to leave the scene outside the newsagent in a hurry.’
‘That man really should have changed his car!’ exclaimed Brigit.
Grant grinned. ‘Yes. Ivan reported it straight away to the police, and it was very much a case of “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” It didn’t take the police long to trace the phone call to a box near by, although Ted always denied he’d made the call. I think making that call, grassing on a mate, triggered Ted’s slide into depression. He was trying to finger Ivan, but it backfired.’
‘What about Bob Silver? Where was he by this point?’
‘He had left the hotel the previous Thursday saying he had important meetings in London. In reality he had stayed down in Cornwall. He booked into a B&B so that he could help Clive with his art gallery opening on the Saturday, but his wife Margaret spotted him. He couldn’t believe his bad luck when she walked into the gallery, as there were several dozen of them in St Ives.’
‘So how did Margaret Silver stumble on this one?’
Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice Page 6
