Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You were in love?’

  ‘It seemed illogical. Sure, I needed the occasional man, who doesn’t, but that was it. No great maternal instincts, no wish to be the housewife waiting dutifully at home for her husband’s return. I was destined for academia, and like all occupations, it’s flawed, with a degree of male chauvinism.’

  ‘I can understand the strength of the emotion.’

  ‘After Kim gave me your name, I googled you. It seems that life has not always treated you well.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ Clare said. With Liz Fairweather, she did not feel the sadness that normally accompanied any mention of Harry Holchester. ‘Kim said she wouldn’t check and I said that one day, a very drunk day, I would tell her.’

  ‘Then tell her, it always helps. Let’s not linger on that. After two weeks, Clive and I met in Cambridge. He told me the story of his wife and his brother. We slept together that night. I was like a giggly adolescent with him; he was verbose, chatting away about this and that. Strange that two people could be so out of character.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘We were together as often as we could be. I was busy as a professor here, the youngest in my faculty; Clive was in Salisbury working with his father on various projects, investments, real estate developments. We’d meet in Cambridge, sometimes in London, sometimes in Salisbury.’

  ‘You became pregnant?’

  ‘We still loved each other, but I didn’t want to commit to marriage, a personal trauma in my earlier life, constantly seeing my parents at each other’s throat day and night put me off the concept. Clive didn’t want a repeat of his first marriage and her betrayal with his brother. By now, I’d become maternal, desperate for the child, the same as Clive. We talked it through, agreed that I would look after it, and he would be the father, always there, never intruding in how I brought up the child. It was an agreement forged from respect for the other, a genuine belief that neither party would harm the other. And that’s how it’s been since then.’

  ‘You weren’t lovers again?’

  ‘Never. We fumbled around a few times, trying to recreate the ardour, but it wasn’t there. Neither of us was overly sexual, and when he visited, he shared my bed, but only for sleep.’

  ‘Kim?’

  ‘You’ve met her. What do you reckon? Do you think she suffered from the arrangement?’

  ‘Not from what I can see.’

  ‘She’s with Clive now, learning about life. One day she may well embrace academia, but I doubt it. She’s a more emotional woman than I am, and no doubt she’ll find a husband in time. I only hope he’s as good as Clive.’

  ‘Not so easy,’ Clare said.

  ‘Is there any more? I’ve got a lecture in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You lecture on Ancient Greek. Have you at any time lectured on ancient British history?’

  ‘Never. It’s not an area I have a great deal of knowledge of. Why?’

  ‘Richard Grantley was found buried in a Bronze Age burial mound. You must have read about it.’

  ‘Are you attempting to make a connection between one of my colleagues or one of my students and his death?’

  ‘It’s a thought. We don’t understand why the burial mound. If Richard was murdered for a reason, although we don’t know that reason yet, then why the burial mound? It makes no sense, but it must have relevance, however obscure.’

  ‘I will put you in touch with someone who can help, but it’s a disturbing thought that I may have contributed to his death, met his murderer.’

  ‘You never met Richard?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. If I had it would have been circumstantial, a chance encounter when I was younger and I tended to drink more than I should. Sometimes I’d wake up the next day not sure of where I’d been.’

  ‘Until we understand the reason for the burial mound, we’re floundering with this enquiry.’

  ‘I’ll help if I can. I spoke to Clive last night, and he seemed to be holding up well.’

  ‘You don’t go to Salisbury?’

  ‘Not for many years, not since Kim was born.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing in itself. Clive and his need for privacy, and then after Kim was born, we felt that she should remain here with me, no conflict of two homes, two parents. Our thoughts were always with her. She’s the most important person in both our lives.’

  ***

  Clare had returned from Cambridge pleased with herself about the possible connection between the mound and Liz Fairweather’s ancient British history faculty members and former students. It was Tremayne who deflated her as they sat in his office.

  ‘Yarwood, I’m appreciative of what you achieved with the woman, but once again you’re allowing emotion to cloud your reasoning.’

  ‘You commented that Clive Grantley was not a murderer, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘I said it, not because it’s a fact but because of what I, as a police officer of many years standing, believed. That did not obviate the need to investigate the man. He could be as guilty as anyone else of the murder and Liz Fairweather could have been his accomplice, not the perpetrator, as she wouldn’t have had the strength to place the body in the mound on her own.’

  ‘Are you intimating she could have been involved? Where’s your evidence?’

  ‘Circumstantial, as most of this investigation is at the present moment. As a result of what the woman told you, you believe that a third party somehow had a grudge against Richard Grantley, a man Liz Fairweather claims never to have met. Where’s the proof that she never met him? She was, as she admitted, a sabre rattler in her youth, a woman who slept around.’

  ‘She didn’t admit to sleeping around, only that the men expected sex in return for a buying her a drink.’

  ‘And you don’t believe she did?’

  ‘We never elaborated on that, although she probably did. We all go through that time, the hormones going wild, wanting to be part of the group, and her group were into anarchy or their version of it, and promiscuity would be part of it. Let’s grant that she slept around. Where does that lead us?’

  ‘Richard Grantley, a university student, a fellow rebel, a pint of beer in exchange for whatever. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility. What do we have on him? University, the member of an anarchist clique, standing on a soapbox in Hyde Park, up in London, sprouting nonsense?’

  ‘Our records of Richard Grantley are incomplete. We know he left school at the age of eighteen and travelled overseas for some years.’

  ‘Clive Grantley mentioned there was more we didn’t know. And what about the reference to working for the government? He would have been the age to infiltrate the more radical university elements. Some of them were pervasive, capable of violence, capable of causing trouble.’

  ‘We’re heading into intrigue and subversion. Shouldn’t we keep to the straight and narrow, look for the more logical rather than heading down rabbit holes without end.’

  ‘And, Yarwood, that’s where you’re missing the point. You’ve become emotional about Kim Fairweather and her mother. Is the mother as agreeable as her daughter?’

  ‘So you find Kim agreeable?’

  ‘As you do, don’t deny it.’

  Clare knew that she was pushing Tremayne, expecting a rebuke, but she knew this was how he liked it, the cut and thrust, the exploration of fanciful ideas and plots, even subplots, the attempt to separate the wheat from the chaff. Of course she was emotional. She couldn’t help the soft side to her nature, no more than Tremayne could, although he was better at concealing his.

  ‘I don’t. And I like Clive Grantley in his own way, a thoroughly decent man, but that doesn’t mean I’m a pushover.’

  ‘Okay, your theory,’ Clare said.

  ‘Didn’t you consider why Liz Fairweather has not been to Salisbury in twenty years?’

  ‘She said it was because of Kim, not wanting to confuse her.’

  ‘Balderdash, and you know it. The child when she was young w
ouldn’t have had any issues with coming here, and as she grew older, she was well aware of who her father was, his constant presence in her life. She must have had friends where the parents were in the family home, parents who had divorced and kept apart, even hated the other, the child being the meat in the sandwich. And you’re telling me that you believe Liz Fairweather kept away for the child.’

  ‘Your evaluation?’

  ‘What if she was involved with the death of Richard Grantley? What if the reason was that she didn’t want to come back to the scene of the crime? If, as she has stated to you, her and Clive Grantley were beside themselves with love and lust for a couple of months, maybe more, either of them could have broken out of the mould, committed a grievous sin.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Love knows no bounds, and what if Richard had found out about Liz? He had made an effort to seduce Grace, Clive’s wife. Maybe Richard, a despicable character from what we know so far, had taken the challenge up to seduce Liz, been rebuffed, acted violently towards her. She had suffered trauma as a child, warring parents, but what if there’s more to it. She had a drunken phase as an undergraduate, promiscuous, slept around, sometimes said no, the man not heeding the refusal from her, assuming it was a yes, the no there as an attempt to maintain her innocence. It happens, and you know it.’

  Clare did but had no intention of elaborating. The past, that past at least, belonged to her teenage years in Norfolk, not to her now as a serving police officer.

  ‘She couldn’t have done it on her own,’ Clare’s reply, realising that what Tremayne said had a degree of plausibility; in fact, it was a solid motive and a distinct possibility.

  ‘Clive, after a lifetime of maltreatment from his more charismatic brother, could rationalise what the two of them had done, even rejoice in it. But Liz, gentler, a woman, could not. They’ve spent a lifetime, the three of them, living a fairy tale existence, but with fairy tales, there’s always a villain. Not, in this case, a witch or an evil ogre, but a flesh and bone villain by the name of Richard Grantley.’

  ‘What you say has some logic to it. I hope it’s not true.’

  ‘There you go again, allowing emotion to enter into it. We can’t ignore the possibility. If Kim Fairweather’s parents committed murder, then it’s up to us to arrest them. You either accept that fact and do your duty, or you have no place in the police force.’

  ‘I resent your aspersion that I would do anything else.’

  ‘I'm tough for your own good, Yarwood. You’re the finest police sergeant in the station, but overt sentimentality can cloud even the most capable investigator. I’ve been guilty of it in the past, although we’ve never come across people such as these three. Normally, it’s a villain, a known rogue, someone that it’s easy to dislike, but I’ll grant you, all three this time are admirable people.’

  Chapter 12

  After Tremayne had given her a dressing down, Clare had to admit that it was for her own good, realising that he had been right. She did see the best in people, and his logic in evaluating the case subsequently had been flawless.

  The most likely culprits were Clive Grantley and Liz Fairweather. For the time being, Clare knew that she would have to curtail her friendship with Kim, to delay the drunken lunch where she would tell her about Harry.

  Richard Grantley was proving to be more of a mystery than expected. There was a record of him returning from overseas at the age of twenty-one, then a period where he had dropped off the map, the time that Tremayne postulated that he was undercover with one of the more demonstrative and disruptive student or anarchist groups. Clare was concerned that somehow Liz Fairweather had been in the thick of it. Grantley could have been using a false name, possibly had changed his hairstyle, changed his appearance, his manner, the way he walked, the way he talked, but not his ability to seduce women, a possible reason for Clive Grantley and Liz, the love of his life, to plot revenge against him.

  It was clear to both Tremayne and Clare that further pressure needed to be put on Clive Grantley and Liz Fairweather. And then there was Grace Thornberry, Clive’s ex-wife, and her husband. None of the people identified as the possible murderer or murderers figured high on the list of definites, and certainly not Grace Thornberry’s husband, an overweight, red-faced man when the two police officers met him at the family home.

  Clare had driven again, a chance for Tremayne to close his eyes – going through the case in his mind, he would say – but Clare knew that he slept most of the time. And when he was awake on the trip, he’d be there, reading the racing guide, asking Clare’s advice about which horse she fancied for the 3.30 at Cheltenham or the next day’s races at Ascot. He may as well have asked the horses themselves, as Clare, who had learnt to ride as a child, had no interest in horse racing, and less interest in losing money on a three-legged donkey. At least, that was how Tremayne would refer to his choice after he had lost money on it.

  Clare had phoned ahead, told Grace Thornberry that they were coming and the visit was official, to take place either at their home or at the local police station. Grace chose the family home.

  The door opened, but not to a tired-looking woman, old for her years, a cigarette dangling precariously from nicotine-stained fingers. The short-cropped hair had been treated, no longer showing grey streaks, and no longer the old slippers, the worn clothes. Grace Thornberry wore a dress, her nails were manicured, makeup had been applied, and the sullen face was replaced with a beaming smile. It all seemed too artificial for Tremayne, but Clare was pleased to see it, able to see an older version of the woman who Clive Grantley had had his arm around all those years before on a beach in the south of France.

  ‘Geoff’s here,’ Grace said. In the hallway of the house a vase with flowers, a pleasant smell in the air. The unwelcoming modest semi-detached had been transposed into charming and inviting. Clare wondered why the change in the woman and the house. What secrets were they attempting to hide, to deflect from the police.

  In the other room, Geoff Thornberry stood. He stretched out his hand and shook Tremayne’s formally. With Clare he was more vigorous, clenching her hand firmly, shaking it more than he should.

  ‘Grace has told me all about you. How pleasant you were to her. How much she enjoyed your company.’

  If he had been trying to intimate an air of married harmony, the man failed miserably. His attempt was overstated, too ingratiating. It was not a good marriage, and without the presence of two police officers, Clare imagined that the house would either be silent or in uproar, slanging matches, broken pots.

  ‘I’ll fetch the tea,’ Grace said. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’

  It was Tremayne who brought balance to the situation. ‘Mr Thornberry, this is not a social visit. A man has been murdered, and your wife is part of the investigation. So, please, let’s stop this charade. You don’t want us here, and that’s understandable. We’re raking over old history. How long have you two been married?’

  ‘Twenty-two years this April. Good years let me tell you.’

  ‘Please, Mr Thornberry. I’ve been a police officer for too many years not to know that you’re wasting your time. Now, we don’t wish to insult you, far from it, but we are going to ask your wife questions about a past life, a time that she probably wants to forget and you’d rather not hear about.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to hide, and sure, sometimes Grace and I have our differences, but we’re here through thick and thin, good and bad.’

  Clare thought the bad probably outweighed the good by a significant margin. She did not like Geoff Thornberry, who gave every indication of being the sort of person who was good at pretending friendship at his place of employment while stabbing someone in the back; the adolescent child who would have been the school bully. Compared to Clive Grantley, Grace’s first husband, the man was an obnoxious bore.

  Grace returned with the tea, not smiling as much as she had before, and it was clear that she had heard Tremayne’s words with her husband.
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br />   ‘Times have been tough,’ Geoff said.

  ‘It’s not as bad as he paints it, Inspector,’ Grace said. ‘Geoff’s tried to make a go of it, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want. And yes, the marriage isn’t good, but we don’t intend separating, as much for ourselves as the children.’

  Clare knew that she didn’t want such a relationship, unable to separate for fear of the unknown, willing to stay with someone you either despised or loathed, although which of those emotions was Grace’s, she didn’t know.

  ‘I had to put the interview on a level plane, no more pretences from you both,’ Tremayne said, directing his conversation at Grace. ‘Now, let’s go back to when you were married to Clive. I’m assuming that your husband knows the story?’

  ‘I know most of it,’ Geoff Thornberry said. ‘Enough to know that I’d rather not be here.’

  ‘Let’s clarify your position,’ Clare said, ‘before we continue with Grace. How much do you know of the murder investigation? How much do you know of Clive Grantley? Have you met him?’

  ‘We’ve got the internet. Richard Grantley, the brother, was found dead. According to Grace, she had met him, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Met!’

  ‘Okay, she made a fool of herself, laid it on a plate for him, had an affair. What else do you want me to say? She screwed around with her husband’s brother.’

  ‘It disturbs me raking over the past,’ Grace said. ‘It’s a period of my life that I’d rather forget.

  ‘Excuse my wife,’ Geoff Thornberry said. ‘I’ve been a disappointment to her. She married me because I was stable, a steady provider, a person who could offer her a reasonable life. Clive Grantley was and still is a dull and decent man; I know that.’