Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

  ‘A drink?’ Grantley asked as he sat down in a leather chair close to the fireplace, although there was no roaring log fire. The room was warm due to the central heating in the house.

  ‘The same as you,’ Tremayne said, noticing that Grantley was holding a large brandy.

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ Clare’s reply.

  ‘Richard was the black sheep of the family,’ Grantley said after he had given Tremayne his drink. ‘If it is him, and I can’t see how, it comes as a shock.’

  ‘We’ll need a DNA swab,’ Clare said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No reason not to,’ Grantley replied, then he rubbed the cotton bud that Clare had handed him inside his cheek to remove some skin cells.

  ‘We may conduct a more detailed check, possibly ask Forensics if necessary.’

  ‘As I said, I’ve no reason to believe it’s Richard.’

  Tremayne sat down opposite Grantley, took a sip of the brandy. ‘Sergeant Yarwood will get the DNA checked soon enough, but in the meantime, what can you tell us about your brother?’

  ‘Had you met him?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, and I’ve been in Salisbury a long time.’

  ‘Richard was or is, if he’s still alive, a remarkable person. Highly intelligent, much more than me. He went to Oxford University, did well, but never completed. “Too easy, too boring”, his only comment if asked.’

  ‘Schooled in Salisbury?’ Clare asked. She had chosen a more uncomfortable chair to sit on, as the room was too warm for her. She didn’t want to leave, couldn’t as her presence was vital, yet she did not feel at ease.

  ‘Briefly, but for large parts of our childhood we were both boarded, only coming home at the weekends and holidays. Always the best, of course. Our parents weren’t stingy, and financially we were very secure, but our mother wasn’t the maternal type and our father was a humourless man who showed little affection. Not cruel, though, not to us at least or our mother. Not the sort of man to like, but then nobody hated him, not that I can remember.’

  ‘Is there any reason why it could be your brother’s body that was discovered near Stonehenge?’ Clare asked. She was struggling with the change in Clive Grantley’s manner. When they had arrived at the house, the man had been terse, almost dismissive, but now in the house, confronted with the possibility of his brother’s death, he was magnanimous, generous of spirit, affable. And one thing Clare knew about Clive Grantley, the mayor of Salisbury, was that affability was not a trademark that many would have associated with him. Competent, financially astute, a great ambassador for the cathedral city, but a man who maintained a distance, who kept his cards close to his chest, a man that few, if any, knew with any intimacy.

  ‘The last time that I saw my brother was in London.’

  ‘The reason for meeting with him?’ Tremayne asked. Clare could see that he was savouring his brandy, enjoying the smoke-filled setting, but she also knew that he was focussed, attempting to gently probe, knowing full well that Grantley was nobody’s fool.

  ‘As I said before, Richard was or is – not that I can believe he’s dead, although apparently both of you think he is – a brilliant, academically-gifted man. IQ off the scale, so it was reckoned, not that he was ever checked; a possible savant, never forgot anything, and what to you and I would seem impossible to understand, he could see the answer clearly.’

  Grantley stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet. Even though the room was warm, the stone floor was freezing, no underfloor heating, and as the building was listed, the modifications to make it twenty-first-century comfortable were not always possible. Outside the building, a blue plaque attached to the wall showed that it had been the home of a famous artist of the eighteenth century, although Clare had not heard of the man, and she’d google who he was later that evening.

  Grantley returned with two more brandies, one for him, another for Tremayne who accepted it gladly. ‘A drink for you?’ he asked Clare.

  ‘A small brandy would be good,’ her reply. Not for the alcohol, purely to endure the room for a little longer.

  ‘As you were saying,’ Tremayne said after all three had a drink.

  ‘Richard passed all his exams at school, top marks most of the time. I used to struggle but not him. He was trouble even then, not serious, but if there was a chance for alcohol or a cigarette, and in his teens to smuggle a female in, or for him to be over the fence and into the local girl’s school, well, that was Richard. You see, to Richard, it was all too easy. He didn’t have to study, not even bother to turn up for the lessons most of the time, so even the school loved him, as did the girls. He was a charmer, charismatic.

  ‘I’m not, I know that. I was seen as the dullard, the plodder. I’d be there day and night trying to be like him, but it wasn’t possible.’

  ‘You’re not known for your charisma,’ Tremayne said, certain that the man wouldn’t take offence.

  ‘A boring old …, isn’t that what you’d say if I weren’t here? I’ll not say the word, ladies present.’

  ‘Probably, but you’re a respected man in the city. Coming back to Richard. If it’s his body, what can you tell me?’

  Clare spoke. ‘The more recent body had been placed in a hole that had been cut into the side of the mound. We don’t know why that location or if it has any symbolism. At the bottom of the mound an ancient body has been found, and it’s possible a site of great significance as the artefacts so far recovered indicate that the deceased, almost certainly a man, was a leader in his community.’

  ‘Symbolism? What does that mean?’ Grantley asked.

  ‘Why bury the body there? Why not in a wood, or in the river, weighted down? It would have taken time to bury the body, the risk of discovery was obvious, yet someone or maybe more than one person deemed it important. Was your brother into spiritualism, a druid, a sun worshipper or a member of a cult?’

  ‘The only spiritualism that he would have ascribed to would have come out of a bottle. If there’s no more, then I suggest we call it a night, don’t you?’ Grantley finally said, his original offhandedness returning.

  ‘I would agree,’ Tremayne said as he downed his brandy. ‘We’ll check your DNA and give you a call.’

  ‘If it’s my brother, then no doubt you’ll have more questions.’

  ‘A lot more. So far, you’ve given us very little.’

  ‘I’ve given you plenty. I saw him in London, the exact date eludes me, although I could probably give you a more accurate date with time. As to what he was doing in Salisbury after that date is beyond me, and I certainly hadn’t seen him.’

  ‘Would you have?’

  ‘It’s probable, but not likely. We weren’t close, and he did not hold me in high regard, saw me as intellectually inferior, which I’ll freely admit to.’

  ‘Your opinion of him?’ Clare asked,

  ‘I admired his easy way with people, his charisma, his brilliance, but I’m here, and he’s dead, and I assume you believe it to be murder.’

  ‘You just indicated that you now believe the body is that of your brother?’

  ‘Not as such and don’t go putting words into my mouth. Not much left after so many years, just a skeleton, would that be correct?’

  ‘The soil had preserved the body better than others, but yes, nobody you’d recognise. It’s the clothing that we have, and we’re checking dental records and DNA.’

  ‘After Oxford he travelled a lot, here and there, made some money, labouring, selling his brilliance on occasions, but his visits to Salisbury were not prolonged, a few months at a time. I was always glad when he left.’

  ‘Your parents, relatives?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Our parents are dead, and there’s nobody else in Salisbury. There are some relatives in Dorset, but I don’t see them, and I don’t think Richard did either. I always thought that he’d gone overseas, and either he was living well or in a shack down by the beach somewhere warm, no doubt a woman keeping him company. If it’s him, then I
don’t know, and I don’t believe I can help you any more. Now if you don’t mind, please leave me alone.’

  Tremayne and Clare left the house and walked out into the cold air. Above them loomed the cathedral spire, the tallest in England.

  Chapter 8

  The DNA collected by Clare had proved positive: Clive Grantley was the sibling of the body in the mound.

  Also, Clive Grantley had given the name of a dentist close to one of the boarding schools they had attended, and the dental records obtained had confirmed that the body was that of Richard Grantley.

  Clive Grantley intended to make a statement to the local newspaper and any other interested parties. Not that Tremayne and Clare were necessarily in agreement as Grantley, respected as he was in the city, was, by default, the primary suspect in his brother’s death.

  With a setting sun and dark clouds in the sky, Tremayne and Clare returned to the crime scene. The activity that had accompanied their previous visits to the site, when the twentieth-century body was still in situ, was replaced by a quiet air of industriousness.

  Over to one side of the site, Atterton and Dafydd Evans were bolting together a metal framework, although neither of the two police officers knew what its purpose was. Gerard Horsley could be seen close to the mound, his assistant and presumed lover, Sue Boswell, close by. The personal arrangements of Horsley and Boswell did not concern Tremayne and Clare. Their interest was in the crime scene and if anything further had been discovered. The investigation had transitioned from an unknown body to a body with a name, a name that was certain to raise more questions than answers, a name that was associated with a man who had maintained his respectability over many years, a man who had kept his personal life to himself as much as possible.

  Clive Grantley’s supposed wife, where was she? What had happened to her? Was she still alive? Was she even important? And more pointedly, what of Clive Grantley himself? Why would a man in his fifties, a not unattractive man, although his manner could be unsettling, maintain a life of celibacy? These were the questions that concerned Tremayne and Clare, and even if the archaeological dig offered no more help, it would do no harm to visit the site.

  ‘It’s been a great day,’ Horsley said as he came over to where Tremayne and Clare were standing, his assistant two steps behind him.

  ‘More finds?’ Clare asked. She had read up on the period when the Bronze Age chieftain had walked the earth. She had even been to the museum to see what had been discovered at Bush Barrow by William Cunnington. Horsley was sure that what he had found was more important, and he was regularly in the news and on the television updating an anxious public on what each day had revealed and its significance.

  Tremayne had not expected to see security at the site, but there were two guards in uniform, with a command post, a caravan as it turned out, on twenty-four-hour surveillance.

  ‘We’ve had sightseers and idiots trying to grab some of the gold for themselves,’ Sue said. ‘Money’s no object on this dig, and Lance and Dafydd have done great work shoring up the entrance to the mound and ensuring that we can get down to where the body and the artefacts are.’

  ‘Any more of interest?’ Clare asked. Tremayne looked away and wandered over to where one of the security guards was standing.

  ‘A dagger handle, more gold, although it’s not the value of the metal that’s important. It’s what it tells us about the period. This man would have seen Stonehenge at its peak, probably attended ceremonies there, even seen its construction. What he could have told us is immeasurable.’

  ‘Any more for us? We’ve got a name for the other body.’

  ‘One up on us,’ Horsley said. The first time that Clare had met the man he had not been the most agreeable, but now he was friendly and easy to talk to. ‘No name for our man. The body at Bush Barrow that Cunnington discovered was given the title of “King of Stonehenge”. If he was a king, then ours must be an emperor, not that they had them back then, although that’s an assumption yet again. It’s remarkable how much we know about the period; how much more there is that remains unknown. Even today, there’s still conjecture as to Stonehenge’s original purpose.’

  ‘As I asked before,’ Clare said, attempting to focus on the police investigation, although she would have been happy to stay and help at the site, ‘any more of interest for us?’

  ‘We get regular visits from the crime scene team, but nothing new. We purposely keep away from where that body was recovered, as much as we can, but you didn’t expect much more, did you?’

  The conversation continued for some minutes before Clare left and went over to where Lance Atterton and Dafydd Evans were working. The two men were pleased to see her, especially Evans, who Clare could see obviously fancied himself as a Ladies Man, not that he appealed to her, not that any man, young or old, did either. She had to admit concern that in her thirties she was on the way to spinsterhood, and it did not excite her. There had been a few dates in the last year, most disastrous, including one where she had liked the man and had slept with him, but he proved very soon after to be a lothario and not ‘settling-down’ material.

  ‘We’re bringing out the body today,’ Atterton said.

  To their rear, a tunnel had been constructed in the side of the mound at ground level. It was clear from what little Clare understood of mining techniques that the two engineers had shored the entrance and the tunnel with a metal framework and sheeting. It was still low, with only space to crawl through.

  ‘It’s larger inside, large enough for two people. Horsley and Sue are in there most of the time.’

  ‘What’s with the security?’

  ‘The usual. The ghoulish, the idiots, the ne’er-do-wells, and the plain stupid. I caught one of them myself, gave him a good hiding.’

  ‘Don’t get charged with assault. They’ve still got their rights even if they’re trespassing.’

  ‘I let the security guards deal with it now,’ Atterton said as he went back to work.

  Over at the security caravan, Tremayne spoke to the two guards. With electricity on the site courtesy of a temporary connection organised by the local council, a kettle was on the boil. One of the guards was standing outside, smoking. Tremayne looked at the cigarette longingly, realising that if he took one for himself, his sergeant would report it to his wife. And besides, the need for the cigarette was outweighed by his last encounter with a health scare, his enforced overnight stay in the hospital and two days in bed at home. Even he took note of his mortality, although the smoke blowing in his face did not help.

  ‘It’s not the best at night,’ Hector Warburton said. He was a big man, Tremayne noticed, and not the fittest man he’d ever seen, but then who would want to be out on an exposed landscape at night, temperatures close to freezing.

  ‘What’s your story?’ Tremayne asked. He couldn’t see much to be gained by conversing with the guards, but he had not wanted to hear any more about an ancient warrior or chieftain or whatever he was. The dead were just that, dead and buried, not to be dragged out from their resting place, and whether the man had met his death quietly in his bed or violently made no difference. It was a cold case, cold by thousands of years, and no one was going to be charged with his death, no one would ever come forward with evidence, and there would be no name on any charge sheet.

  ‘Ex-Army. Did my time in Iraq and Afghanistan. Good with a gun and hand-to-hand, no skills for anything else.’

  ‘There’s always the police,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Forty-three, a troublemaker in my youth, smashed a few heads together, spent time in the police cells after a few too many drinks. I don’t think you’d want me, and besides, they talk about having a degree, and there’s no way I’d get through university, not even if I studied part-time, and I wasted my time at school. A family to feed, three children, another on the way now; they’re my priority.’

  ‘Pay good as a security guard?’

  ‘If you’re willing to freeze your proverbials off of a night
time, it is.’

  The other guard came out of the caravan with four mugs on a tray. ‘One for your colleague,’ he said to Tremayne, looking over at Clare as she approached.

  ‘They’re taking the body out today,’ she said as she took one of the mugs of tea. It was too milky for her, but she was not complaining, only thankful for the man’s courtesy.

  ‘The end of your time up here,’ Tremayne said to Warburton and the other guard.

  ‘Not likely. According to Horsley, there are another three weeks on this burial mound, and the idiots we’re dealing with are attempting to get close to the other mounds nearby. If we’re not here, they’ll have heavy machinery. It’s the valuables they’re after, no interest in ancient history.’

  ‘It doesn’t do much for me. We’ve got a more recent history, the last two decades, dead and lying on a slab at the mortuary.’

  With nothing more to be gained, Tremayne and Clare left the site. Gerard Horsley and Sue Boswell were up at the mound, both kitted out, both wearing hard hats, both down on their knees preparing to crawl in through the tunnel. Atterton and Evans stood nearby, supervising them, checking for safety. Also, a few more people had arrived, two obviously a TV crew as the chieftain inside was big news and Horsley now a minor celebrity. Clare wondered what Horsley’s wife would think when she watched the television that night and saw her husband and his assistant sneak a brief kiss.

  ***

  Clive Grantley, a man who had an image to protect, was at home when Tremayne had phoned from the crime scene. Twenty minutes later, a young woman opened the door to his house.

  ‘Hi, I’m Kim Fairweather, Clive’s personal assistant.’

  ‘This is Sergeant Yarwood, and I’m Inspector Tremayne.’

  ‘Clare, good to see you,’ Kim said.

  ‘We know each other from yoga classes,’ Clare said to Tremayne.

  ‘Mr Grantley at home?’ Tremayne asked. He wasn’t about to say it, but he wondered how such a dull man with such a dull house could have someone as bright and attractive, and clearly personable, working for him. But then he supposed he was a dullard to some, and he had Yarwood. The analogy was not lost on him.