Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Nothing mysterious about her, not yet. She’s probably married somewhere, a few children, possibly grandchildren.’

  ‘The knife is important.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain the burial mound. There must be a reason, and Clive Grantley doesn’t appear to be the sort of man to harbour strange beliefs and bizarre practices.’

  ‘Appearances are deceptive.’

  ‘Harry was a regular person, and he ended up a murdering paganist,’ Clare said, remembering her lost love.

  Tremayne could see the sadness washing over her again. He stood up abruptly. ‘Time to go, people to see, places to visit.’

  Louise Regan sighed, rolled her eyes when Tremayne and Clare walked into Forensics. ‘I expected you thirty minutes ago, what kept you?’

  ‘You know I like to give you time to do your job,’ Tremayne’s reply. Clare knew that the relationship between the taciturn police inspector and the head of Forensics was based on mutual respect.

  ‘It’s a knife, good enough?’

  ‘We know that. What else?’

  ‘Give us a couple of hours. Go and annoy someone else and I’ll give you a preliminary as soon as I can.’

  ‘Anything to be going on with?’

  ‘Eleven-inch blade, thin-bladed.’

  ‘Stiletto?’

  ‘Probably. The blade and the handle may reveal a maker’s name, but we’ll not know yet.’

  ‘Easy to purchase?’ Clare asked.

  ‘You’re the police officers, you should know. But yes, the restrictions on knives are not that strict and if what we have is over ten years old, then minimal checks, probably none, would have been carried out on the purchaser. It’s unlikely that you’ll be able to trace it back to a person.’

  Satisfied that they had shown the importance of further details about the knife, Tremayne and Clare drove down to the Guildhall in the centre of the city. Grantley was found at his desk, reading through some documents. Kim Fairweather sat outside his office, busy with paperwork, typing away on her laptop.

  ‘Will he be long?’ Clare asked as she and Tremayne sat opposite Kim.

  ‘Not long. He wants to see you both, anyway.’

  Tremayne felt inside his jacket pocket for the cigarette packet that wasn’t there. Clare sat passively, checking her mobile phone for messages and emails.

  ‘They’re conducting a post mortem on the body,’ she said.

  ‘Which one?’ Tremayne’s irritable reply. The nicotine deprivation hit him most when he was idle, with time on his hands, and when he was feeling impatient. To him, Grantley had questions to answer, and the police investigation took precedence over the mayor’s delaying actions.

  ‘The Bronze Age man. It looks as though they intend to ask Stuart Collins to assist; also, Forensics to see if they can find DNA.’

  ‘Our pathologist and Louise Regan’s people?’

  ‘Good PR for the police. Superintendent Moulton will agree.’

  ‘I can’t see a problem, but we should be in with Grantley, not sitting here.’

  The door to Clive Grantley’s office opened, and the man came out. He shook Clare’s hand first, Tremayne’s second. ‘Come in, please. It’s been a busy day, and I’m just starting to come to terms with my brother’s death.’

  ‘We’ve found a weapon,’ Tremayne said. ‘Subject to further investigation, it’s a proven murder.’ He looked over at Kim Fairweather who was still at her desk. ‘That’s confidential, by the way. We’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself for the time being.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ the young woman replied. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  Inside Grantley’s office, the man became serious and looked Tremayne straight in the eye. ‘If it’s murder, then you suspect me, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve no one else,’ Tremayne said honestly. ‘Not that we have any proof or any motive, but it’s invariably the nearest and the dearest.’

  ‘This intrusion into my personal life is something I’ve always avoided.’

  ‘Have you prepared a statement for the media, the council?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the other councillors. They’ve expressed complete faith in me, and I will remain as mayor. I’ve agreed to an interview with the local newspaper later today, and a television crew will be here in one or two hours. I will give a short statement, no questions.’

  ‘They’ll be persistent,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘They may be, but I will say what I have to, no more. I am taking legal advice as to how I proceed with you and the general public.’

  ‘Your legal advisor, what does he say about us?’ Clare asked.

  ‘He has advised transparency on certain matters.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘My wife, my brother.’

  ‘Anyone else? What about your personal assistant?’ Clare asked. ‘You seem to have a close relationship with her. She’s only young, but you place a great deal of trust in her.’

  ‘I have spoken to her mother before your coming here.’

  ‘That’s understood.’

  ‘Very well. There are two items of interest that I will reveal to you now. One of them is damning. If there is other information that I’m not telling you, I will decide when or whether I should inform you.’ Grantley sat back on his chair; he had stated the conditions under which he would help the police and hopefully had allayed their suspicion of him.

  ‘Withholding vital evidence is a criminal offence, more so when the crime is murder,’ Tremayne said. Clare said nothing, not sure how to respond to a man who should have been more open but wasn’t. Whatever was to come of Grantley’s speech it boded ill for him and for the police.

  ‘I understand that. If you come to me with other information which points to me and others, I will then consider what more I can say. Is that understood?’

  ‘Understood? No. We have no option to do any more at this time, but we will be back. I only hope it is not to arrest you for murder or withholding evidence, or perverting the course of justice. All three are indictable offences, the first one is a mandatory prison sentence, the other two will almost certainly ensure that you spend time behind bars, your reputation shattered.’

  ‘That is as may be. Let us focus on my brother and I. We were of a similar age, two years between us, I the older of the two. He liked to gloat at my ordinariness and to belittle me.

  ‘You can understand why I did not like him very much when we were younger.’

  ‘And now?’ Clare asked. She had to admit a reluctant liking of the man. A man who represented good values, the values that led to him being the mayor of the city, a well-respected person, a person who kept himself to himself, not criticising, not aggrandising.

  ‘My life is complete, as you will soon understand. I am ambivalent about my brother.’

  ‘Is there more about your brother?’ Tremayne, tired of Grantley’s procrastinating, asked.

  Grantley passed over a sheet of paper to Clare. ‘On there is the phone number of my ex-wife. Kim found it for you. I have not spoken to her or made any contact.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘When I married my wife, Richard was not in the country. Five years later he turned up at our door. He was broke, supposedly some investment venture in the Middle East had gone wrong. I don’t know if it was true or not, but I let him in, and he stayed with my wife and myself for two months. By that time, he was on his feet again and flush with money. I did not see him for another eleven months, not until I found out that he had worked his charm on my wife. He had seduced her.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘At first, I was indignant, angry. But we worked it out, my wife and I, or, at least, I thought we had. Another four months, a repeat occurrence. I confronted my brother. He laughed in my face. To him, it was the same as when we were children, him stealing my Christmas presents, taking them or breaking them, always blaming me for a broken pot or a broken window at school or at home. I
hated him with a vengeance. I could have killed him.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I left the matrimonial home, filed eventually for divorce. I do not harbour hatred or anger for long, both of them are wasted emotions. I saw my wife once more before the divorce was finalised and once after, a weekend in Paris attempting to rekindle dead emotions. It was a disaster, and I have not seen my wife since.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Once, and you have the date. Believe me, I had moved on that last time we met, and I felt nothing other than pity for him. I had a complete life by then, he did not. What is life without love and a sense of belonging?’

  ‘But you were alone,’ Clare said.

  ‘I was never alone. After the divorce, I met another woman. We were together for five or six months, and in that time she became pregnant. She was a strong-willed woman who had suffered when she was younger. She did not want marriage, and neither did I.’

  ‘The child?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. The romance had weakened by that time, replaced by admiration for her, and her for me. We became the best of friends, my only true friend, but we were never lovers again. She raised the child, never formed another romantic arrangement, no live-in lovers, and every week or two I would go to her house and be a family for the child. She knew from a young age that I was her father and she loved me as dearly as I loved her.

  ‘The child grew up with two parents who never mistreated her, showered her with love and affection. Her mother has not been to Salisbury for over twenty years, her daughter has.’

  ‘Kim?’ Clare said.

  ‘Now you can understand why I cannot be angry with my brother, even when he had wronged me so much with my wife. Kim and her mother are my family. I have no need of any other.’

  Even Tremayne seemed stunned by the revelation, aware that Grantley had protected that information all his life. ‘Does anyone else know?’ he asked.

  ‘We tell no one, but it is not the greatest secret. Check Kim’s birth certificate, and you will find my name there.’

  Clare felt so emotional on leaving Grantley’s office that she grabbed hold of Kim and gave her a firm embrace. Even Tremayne felt inclined to touch the young woman’s arm as he passed.

  Chapter 10

  The former Mrs Clive Grantley came as a surprise. The photo that Grantley had shown Tremayne and Clare had been taken a long time before, and although it was pre-digital, it was a clear photo taken on a beach in the south of France, the beaming Clive with his arms wrapped tightly around a slim and pretty young woman. She was a stunner then, but the woman who opened the door to the modest semi-detached house on the outskirts of Manchester was no longer slim or pretty. She was a haggard woman in her mid-fifties, the once long hair now cropped and grey.

  ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she said. In one hand, a lighted cigarette, its ash ready to drop onto the wooden floor.

  ‘Grace Thornberry?’

  ‘It depends who’s asking.’

  ‘Inspector Tremayne and Sergeant Yarwood. We’re police officers, from Salisbury.’

  ‘A long time since I’ve been there.’

  ‘May we come in?’ Clare asked.

  ‘If you must. Mind the dog, it doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

  Inside, the house was remarkably tidy considering the state of the owner who was dressed in faded jeans and a creased blouse which had not been ironed. On her feet, Grace Thornberry had a pair of slippers, well-worn and clearly old. She slouched as she walked, pulling one leg after another across the floor.

  ‘Now what is it you want?’

  ‘It’s about your former husband, Clive Grantley,’ Tremayne said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  Clare could see that the woman was disinterested in talking to two police officers.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Grace Thornberry said as she attempted to rise from the chair she had slumped into.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Clare said. ‘Milk in the fridge?’

  ‘The tea’s in the first cupboard to the left of the sink, second shelf.’

  With Clare in the kitchen, Tremayne continued to interview the woman.

  ‘Can we confirm that you are the former wife of Clive Grantley of Salisbury.’

  ‘I am, but as I told you before, it’s a long time since I’ve been there. The memory’s not so good these days.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Clive?’

  'We tried to patch up the relationship once, but it didn’t work out. Sometime after the divorce. I’m not sure of the year, although I remember us taking a flight somewhere.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘That’s it. Until you mentioned his name, I hadn’t thought about him for a long time. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes, he’s alive. We’ve not come about him.’

  Clare returned and gave one cup to Tremayne, another to the lady of the house. Grace Thornberry’s hands shook violently, so much so that Clare took hold of the cup from the woman before it spilt.

  ‘I suppose he’s not that old,’ Grace said, not commenting on her shaking hands, only putting them on her lap and clasping one hand with the other.

  ‘Do you need medical attention?’ Clare asked.

  ‘It’s what it is. I’ve got Parkinson’s, not too severe yet, but the prognosis is not good. Apart from that, I’m fine, a little forgetful.’

  ‘Your domestic situation?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘My husband is at work, and we’re fine enough. Not as comfortably as Clive would be, but money wasn’t my reason for marrying him, if that was what you were going to ask.’

  ‘We need to understand why you married Clive and what caused you to subsequently divorce,’ Clare said, looking to see if the story told by Clive was corroborated by his former wife.

  ‘Why are you here? You’ve not told me that.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that his brother, Richard Grantley, has been killed.’

  ‘I should feel more sorrow than I do, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘What do you remember of him?’

  ‘Charming, attractive, great company. Nothing like Clive. It was hard to believe that they were brothers.’

  ‘Let us come back to when you met Clive.’

  ‘We met in London. We were both young, and Clive was a decent man. Not that I liked him at first, but I’d had a succession of exciting men, and each of them had disappointed. One had taken off with my best friend, another had hit me, and another had stolen money out of my purse. And then along comes Clive, thoroughly decent, upstanding, good family. The sort of man who pays for the meal at the restaurant, holds the chair while you sit down, insists you go through the door before him. An old-fashioned gentlemanliness about him; it was seductive.’

  ‘You fell in love with him?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘But then it went wrong?’

  ‘Somewhat. With Clive and his good characteristics also came a stodgy, stay-at-home nature. He’d prefer a good book and to be in the house, and whereas that was fine for most of the time, sometimes I’d like to get out, kick up my heels, get drunk, make a fool of myself. Clive couldn’t understand that sort of behaviour.’

  ‘You were still young,’ Clare said.

  ‘So was he, but he acted twenty years older. How does he look now?’

  ‘His age, but still the same as you describe him, not that we know him that well.’

  ‘Did he make a success of his life, other than what his parents left him?’

  ‘You met them?’

  ‘Yes. I liked his father, and his mother was sweet, always fussing around the house.’

  ‘And you’ve had no contact or knowledge of Clive for a long time?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m not the curious type, and I was here, two children to look after, a husband. No time really, and I have been content. Of course, I missed the lifestyle that Clive could have given me, not him, but the money. Times have been tough for us. I’m not that materialistic anyway, and
I’ve accepted what I have for better or worse, and mostly it’s been better.’

  ‘Richard Grantley?’ Tremayne interrupted what he thought was going to become a rambling monologue. Clare, if she had known what he was thinking, would not have called it rambling or a monologue. Purely the conversation of a woman who was in her fifties but looked much older, a woman whose life was slowly ebbing away.

  ‘We’d been married for some years, Clive and I, and I was bored. And then, Richard was at the door, down on his luck, looking for somewhere to stay. He was a revelation after Clive. The man was alive, flirtatious, always acting inappropriately when Clive wasn’t looking. I was still young, still had the energy and the passion of youth. Regrettably, I fell for him, not love you must understand. Three weeks after he moved in, he was sharing my bed whenever Clive was out of the house. I suppose that makes me sound cheap, but it wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to hurt Clive, but I couldn’t resist Richard.’

  ‘And Clive found out?’

  ‘He came home early one day, caught us together. The one time that I saw Clive angry, and he struck Richard. But Clive couldn’t maintain the anger, and thirty minutes later we’re all downstairs discussing the situation. The upshot of it was that Clive left the house, as did Richard.’

  ‘Did you see Clive again?’

  ‘We reconciled, tried to make a go of it, and for a time, Clive was more attentive, more demonstrative, more loving, but that wasn’t the way the man was made. Soon enough, Richard’s back in my life. All the good characteristics that Clive had, Richard had none of them. He mistreated me, no violence, but he’d stand me up, cadge money off me, expect me to pay if we found a pub in the country for a one-night fling. Clive and I agreed on a divorce, although neither of us was happy about it. Although with Clive you could never be sure what he was thinking. He rarely smiled, never laughed, never truly loved.’

  Clare remembered the last conversation with Clive Grantley, the love he had for his daughter, the joy she brought him. Grace Thornberry was incorrect in one aspect; the man knew the meaning of love.

  ‘Richard is dead,’ Tremayne said. He sat forward on his chair to emphasise what he was saying.