Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

‘I’ll stay and help,’ Atterton said. ‘The equipment’s rented for a month.’

  ‘We’re volunteers,’ Horsley said.

  ‘Don’t worry. A pint of beer will be the payment. I imagine you can manage that.’

  ‘Of course. Who knows what we’ll discover now.’

  ***

  Tremayne was pleased: the body was with Pathology. Stuart Collins, the senior pathologist, arrived back in his office at seven in the evening. Both Tremayne and Clare were waiting for him.

  ‘You don’t waste any time,’ Collins said.

  ‘We’re anxious for any information,’ Clare said. ‘There wasn’t much that could be done at the crime scene, just the man’s removal and transportation to here.’

  ‘I’ve not looked at him yet. The little I’ve heard so far is that he is of medium height and that he was well dressed. Apart from that, you’ll have to wait. I’ll not be commencing the post mortem until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not tonight?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Unlike you, I have a home to go to, and not only that, the man needs to be prepared. Those working on it know what to do, and Forensics has put a couple of people on duty to start their work. I suggest that you two come back tomorrow at seven sharp and watch me as I work. You’ll gain more doing that than pestering me now.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Probable,’ Collins said.

  ‘Positive?’

  ‘Nothing’s positive until I’ve given my report. It’s causing quite a stir from what I’ve heard, buried treasure and all that.’

  ‘It’s the body that you have,’ Tremayne said. ‘Not the one that’s still there. If the ancient body had been murdered, we'd not be opening a case; the statute of limitations is definitely in place on that one.’

  ‘Interesting, though,’ Collins said. ‘I must admit to being interested in what they’ve found.’

  ‘So am I,’ Clare said. Tremayne said nothing. His image of an uncaring, disinterested man was to be maintained at all costs.

  Tremayne and Clare left Collins in his office, aware that the man – regardless of what he had said – would be spending another hour or two there before he went home.

  Clare slept fitfully that night, the cat snuggled up at the end of the bed; Tremayne went home to a meal and a couple of beers before retiring upstairs– sleep was no trouble for him, and he slept until the alarm sounded at 6 a.m.

  Stuart Collins was in with the body on Tremayne’s arrival, Clare was already there and kitted up. A junior pathologist stood on the other side of the long-dead man. Even though the body, or more correctly, the skeleton, was without clothes, it bore little resemblance to what had once been human.

  ‘It’s been cleaned as much as possible,’ Collins said. ‘Forensics have a watch, a ring on the man’s left hand, not a wedding ring. They also retrieved a wallet, empty they tell me, and not much else. The clothing is with them as well. Louise Regan can help you with forensic analysis, I can’t.’

  ‘What can you tell us?’ Tremayne asked.

  Collins examined the body for several minutes before replying. ‘A broken leg in his youth, a full set of teeth so there should be dental records. Also, he had dislocated his shoulder at one stage. He had a height of approximately five feet eight inches. Age is based on my examination and assessment of the clavicle, the pubic symphysis, and the sternal rib end, standard and verifiable tests. I would give the man’s age at between 30 and 39. That’s all I can tell you for now. Toxicology and DNA testing will be conducted, but the skeleton shows no visible indication of trauma. My full report will give you more, but you have, I believe, enough for you to be going on with. Decay of a body to skeleton takes between eight to twelve years depending on a number of factors. Examination of the area where the body was found may help, but you’ll have a better chance with the man’s effects.’

  ‘Dental records?’

  ‘You will have them within one hour.’

  ‘Short, sweet and to the point,’ Tremayne said. ‘It shouldn’t be impossible to find out who this man was.’ Clare nodded, having been down that road before, knowing that the dead don’t always give up their secrets that easily.

  Chapter 6

  Forensics did not take long to come back with some indicators. The clothing, tattered remnants that had been severely affected by their time in the ground, proved, as previously thought, to have belonged to someone affluent. The jacket that the man had been wearing was made-to-measure; a clothing label stitched to an inside pocket – readable only after Forensics had spent time with it – gave the name where the jacket had come from. It was a men’s outfitters that still traded in Salisbury, a shop that Tremayne bought his suits from, ready-to-wear for him, not the luxury or the extravagance to pay for that little extra.

  Louise Regan, the head of Forensics, her thick-framed glasses perched perilously on the end of her nose, had to give Tremayne his due – he was persistent.

  ‘What else can you tell us,’ Tremayne said standing with a cup of coffee in his hand. They were in a small canteen down the hall from Forensics. Clare had a juice, and Louise Regan, a mug of hot chocolate.

  ‘The dental records are being checked,’ Louise Regan said. ‘Either the dental records or the man’s clothing will give you a positive ID.’

  ‘Approximate year of death?’

  ‘It’ll take time, and you, DI Tremayne, never have the time to let us complete our work.’

  ‘I’ll take an approximation.’

  ‘The clothing would not look out of place today. Men’s fashions haven’t changed that much in the last couple of decades.’

  ‘There was a wallet.’

  ‘Relatively intact considering, but empty, nonetheless. Whoever buried him was careful to ensure that an easy ID wouldn’t be possible.’

  ‘Whoever it was,’ Tremayne said, ‘never intended him to be found.’

  Tremayne continued, talking out loud, expressing the possibilities, the unknowns, the knowns.

  Pathology had given Homicide little to assist them. There had been evidence of animals gnawing at the bones, a rat possibly. Remarkable in itself how untouched the body was, although a violent attack, a blow to the stomach, fatal damage to a bodily organ, the possible rupturing of an artery, even if the man’s wrists had been slashed and he had bled to death, would all be hard to prove. The possibilities were myriad, and nothing was to be gained from further questions to Louise Regan. Tremayne and Clare left and returned to Homicide.

  Clare sat at her computer. ‘The men’s outfitters are still in the same building close to the Guildhall.’

  ‘Have you contacted them yet?’

  ‘I’m going there in the next ten minutes. These days they sell only ready-to-wear, but they used to be almost exclusively made-to-measure.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to someone?’

  ‘The manager. He’s in the shop now.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ Tremayne said acerbically.

  ***

  At the men’s outfitters, not far from the police station, Clare waited in the manager’s office. It wasn’t her first time in the shop as she had gone in on several occasions with Harry. He liked to dress well, and the shop was the best in the city. Re-entering the shop brought back good and bad memories, but mostly bad.

  ‘Cedric’s retired now,’ said the manager, a tall man, probably not much younger than the man they were waiting for, Clare assumed. The shop had an old-world feel about it. Whenever she had come in with Harry, there had been time for a cup of tea and a chat, the salesman never hurrying, always willing to dispense his wisdom on the wares for sale.

  ‘He worked here for over forty years, did Cedric,’ the manager said.

  ‘He’ll know what I’ve got to show him?’ Clare asked, making conversation while the two of them waited.

  ‘More so than me. I’ve only been here for fourteen years, transferred from our store in Bristol when it closed. I’m still a junior, according to Cedric, that is. Not that I’ll make much l
onger, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m close to retirement, and the profit margins are hard to make, too much competition, imports from China, cost-cutting, pre-Christmas sales, and then at the new year too. We can’t do that, not with our clothing only made from English or European cloth. No cheap imports here with “Made in Italy” on the label, even when it was made in a sweatshop in China or Pakistan. Comes at a cost, though, and most people don’t want to pay. Look at that piece of fabric you showed me. How many years has it been in the ground?’

  ‘Over ten. Possibly more.’

  ‘There’s not much left, but you can still make out the weave. Quality always pays, that’s what Cedric would always say, not that he wasn’t capable of flattering the customer to get him to spend his money.’

  The door to the office opened, a small man entered. Clare judged him to be in his late seventies and not in good physical shape. For one thing, he was grossly overweight. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and around his neck hung a tape measure.

  ‘Cedric’s not good at retiring,’ the manager said. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he said, looking over at the man.

  ‘I’d still be here if I could.’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Yarwood. She needs your expertise.’

  A pudgy hand took hold of Clare’s and shook it vigorously. ‘I hope I can be of assistance,’ Cedric said. The voice was still firm, although his breathing was laboured.

  ‘You’d better take a seat,’ Clare said as she moved a chair towards the man.

  ‘You said you had a piece of fabric for me to look at,’ Cedric, the former head of men’s outfitting, said. He had taken advantage of the chair offered and was sitting down, his breathing improved.

  ‘We pulled a body out of a burial mound up near Stonehenge. Not the original inhabitant of course.’

  Clare showed the plastic bag containing the fabric sample to Cedric. He took out a pair of glasses from the top pocket of his jacket; it was clear that his eyesight was poor, judging by the thick lenses. According to the manager, Cedric had shrunk into oblivion after his compulsory retirement eight years earlier, and had rarely left his house other than to visit the local supermarket, and yet as he concentrated on the fabric the years started to fall away from him.

  To Clare, he was the same as Tremayne, her detective inspector, her mentor. His retirement was looming, and the pressure was on again for him to accept the more-than-generous package to leave early. Jean, his wife, had been encouraging him to take it, and Tremayne was considering it, more for her benefit than his. After so many years reluctantly apart, the two of them in their later years were more like teenage newly-weds, instead of people who should be acting their age.

  Clare knew from looking at Cedric that retirement for Tremayne would be anathema. She would have a word with Jean to ask her not to encourage him to act rashly. Cedric was, according to the manager of the shop, dynamic until his retirement.

  Apparently, Cedric had a heart condition as well, and the excess weight and the lack of exercise were taking his life. Clare felt sad at seeing a once dynamic man fading away through loneliness and no purpose in life.

  ‘I’ll need to feel it,’ Cedric said.

  Clare withdrew the cloth from the bag and handed it over. Cedric rubbed the fabric between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, holding it close to one eye and smelling it, although the only smell would have been of dirt from the burial mound.

  ‘Fifteen years,’ the pronouncement.

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Clare asked.

  ‘It’s wool, although I suppose you know that already,’ Cedric said. ‘It came from Huddersfield, the company that manufactured it is still there. It’s 280 grams, or 8.26 ounces if you want pre-metric.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Cedric produced a small and very tattered notebook from his pocket. He opened it and leafed through the pages. After five minutes of running one of his fingers up and down the pages, he stopped. ‘April 3rd, 2004, early morning,’ he said. ‘It’s all here, my records for nearly forty years.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘It wasn’t the most popular fabric that year, although it sold well enough. What else was he wearing, this body?’

  ‘Grey trousers, black leather shoes.’

  ‘Shirt?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Button-down or straight point?’

  ‘Not button-down. I’m not sure whether it was straight point though.’

  Cedric stood up and walked around the office. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea,’ he said to the manager.

  It was clear that the man who had sunk into retirement obscurity was reliving his past life and he did not want it to end. Clare let him have his moment with the information that would drive the murder enquiry forward.

  At last, after a suitable delay while Cedric drank two cups, ate one of the biscuits supplied, and paid a visit to the gents, he stood up proud, his posture firm. ‘We sold the fabric to seven customers. Two of them had only a jacket made from the fabric, the other five had suits. One of the two purchased a pair of grey trousers.’

  ‘Do you have their names?’ Clare asked.

  ‘You want a name, not names.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then indulge me. The jacket was double-breasted or single-breasted?’

  ‘Single-breasted.’

  ‘One or two-buttons?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘One more question. Were there flaps on the pockets?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clare answered, and although she had photos of the jacket, she left the man the satisfaction that his fastidious nature, his detailed records, had allowed him to form a conclusion.

  ‘There are more variations, but I don’t need them. Although I’m sorry that the man is dead.’

  ‘A name?’ Clare asked tersely. She had indulged Cedric his moment, but now she needed to be back at Bemerton Road, updating Tremayne, and then checking on the name, who he was, where he was from, his history.

  ‘Only one man bought a jacket with those details. His name is or was Richard Grantley.’

  ‘The only Grantley I know is the mayor of Salisbury.’

  ‘His brother.’

  Clare left the two men in the office at the back of the shop and drove to the police station, passing the Guildhall where Clive Grantley presided. She wondered what secrets there were to be unveiled. Whatever they were, she knew that Tremayne would be excited at the prospect.

  Chapter 7

  The possible identity of the deceased and the reference to Clive Grantley being his brother came as a surprise to Tremayne, not that he could profess to knowing the man well. It was just that Grantley had always been a loner, not revealing too much about his personal life, not even when he had become a councillor on the Salisbury City Council, not even when he was unanimously elected as mayor. There had been a rumour of a wife, but that was some years before.

  Grantley lived in a heritage listed house located in the Cathedral Close, a walled-off section in the centre of the city, and those who had visited would tell that the building was decaying, the furnishings old and the paintings hanging on the walls no doubt originals and very valuable.

  Tremayne had met him on several occasions at official functions. Clare had seen the man several times, spoken to him once or twice.

  Grantley had been the mayor for five years, longer than the previous incumbents, and he had a reputation for getting things done – projects which had been on the council’s agenda for years, forestalled due to planning permissions, environmental concerns, and the occasional obstructionist person or group of people.

  The new bypass to the west of the city had been one such project, and twelve houses had been compulsorily purchased, the owners paid the agreed valuation and moving out.

  ‘‘Tremayne, isn’t it?’ Grantley said as he opened the door of his house.

  ‘Mr Grantley, it’s a matter of some delicacy,’ Tremayne said. ‘
This is Sergeant Yarwood, although I’m sure you’ve met.’

  ‘The face is familiar,’ Grantley replied. His manner was distinctly offhand, but Tremayne took it in his stride, aware than most people resent the police turning up on their door uninvited and unexpected.

  ‘It’s about your brother,’ Clare said.

  ‘Richard’s the only brother I have, and I’ve not heard from him for over ten years.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘Why should my brother be of concern to you? He left Salisbury a long time ago, and apart from an occasional postcard years ago, no one in this family has ever heard from him again.’

  ‘It would be better if we came in,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Here’s as good a place as any,’ Grantley’s reply.

  Clare could see that behind the imposing front door of the house, the hallway had a dull, tired look.

  ‘Very well,’ Tremayne said. ‘A body was discovered close to Stonehenge, in an ancient burial mound. Two bodies to be more precise, but one’s been there for over three thousand years, the other is more recent.’

  ‘How does this relate to me?’

  It was Clare who responded. ‘We had no idea who the more recent body was, no identification, nothing to go on except the man’s clothing.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ Grantley said.

  ‘Very well. There was a label on the clothing, a shop not far from the Guildhall. I went there, met the manager and the person who had sold the made-to-measure jacket in the material discovered at the burial mound. He was definite that it was your brother, Richard.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Grantley said, but a shadow of doubt crossed his face as he grasped the door frame for support.

  ‘It may be best if we come in now,’ Clare said.

  Grantley stood to one side, shaking his head in denial. ‘Not Richard, not in Salisbury.’

  As Clare had imagined, the house inside had an air of decay, and a smell of mustiness, not unusual for its age. There was also a strong smell of tobacco, indicating that Grantley was a smoker. Clare could see Tremayne sniffing the air, attempting to gain some advantage from the stale smell of nicotine. Clare imagined it was pleasant to him, but it made her feel nauseous.