‘How?’
‘I’ll come to that in a minute. Grace back then was on the rebound from Clive. She’d had the mad fling with Richard Grantley, regretted what she had done, but the man had charisma, according to her, and she succumbed every time to his advances.’
‘Not every time,’ Grace interjected.
‘More times than you should have. Grace saw me as a steady bet; I saw her as a beautiful woman, way out of my league. We met, married, had children, enjoyed ourselves some of the time, argued the rest.’
‘Clive Grantley?’
‘I’m a construction engineer. I was in Salisbury consulting on a problem with the new bypass. Grantley came to the site. He wasn’t the mayor then, just a councillor. I shook his hand, explained the issue to him and the others there. It was a five-minute conversation, nothing more, and I never mentioned who I was, no reason to. I know all about Grace and her earlier life, or most of it. Everyone has secrets, and if Grace hasn’t told me all, then it doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Thanks,’ Grace said. Clare could see some affection between husband and wife, not the passion of young love, but enough for the two of them to stay together. It was not how she had seen her future with Harry when he was alive; not how she could foresee it with someone else.
‘Is that it?’ Tremayne asked. ‘Mrs Thornberry, not forsaking your current marriage, let us go back in time. I hope that you have revealed all to your husband as I feel that we need to go deep here. It’s clear that one strong man could have placed Richard Grantley in his resting place. You could not have done it on your own. He was killed with a knife which we retrieved at the crime scene. Did you ever see Clive or Richard with a knife? It folds, the blade recessing into the handle, a long thin blade.’
‘I don’t remember much in the way of possessions with Richard. He knocked on the door that day dressed in a tee shirt and a pair of jeans even though the weather was cold. He had a backpack with him, but no suitcase, nothing else. Clive lent him some clothes, and for a few days, they talked constantly, always reminiscing about old times. I don’t think on reflection that much of it was genuine, purely a need with Clive to believe it was.’
‘Richard?’
‘As I found out later, the man could affect any manner that he wanted. He’d have you believe that you were the love of his life, the friend you had always wanted.’
‘So his reminiscing with Clive could have been disingenuous?’
‘Clive must have known. He was an educated man, but Richard was smarter. If I think back…easier to do than with more recent events, Richard could have engineered the conversation, spun a tale about what had gone wrong in the Middle East, why he was in England with no money, no belongings, just a passport, not even a driving licence. Not that it took him long to get back on his feet again and there he was outside the house with a decent car, another woman in the passenger seat. I was superfluous, but the damage was done, and Clive was out of the house, out of my life.
‘When Clive wasn’t there, I missed him, more so than Richard. But Richard could liven up the room, make any woman feel special. It was a Catch-22, and I blew it.’
‘Which doesn’t absolve you from the murder, does it?’
‘I think it does.’
Clare could see that Geoff Thornberry was becoming agitated, shuffling on his seat. His face was red, redder than usual. The man was getting angry, and that anger was directed at Tremayne. She would have preferred to question Grace on her own, but Tremayne had been adamant. ‘Conflict, ignite the passions, exacerbate the anger, the hatred, let them show if they’re capable of violence.’
‘Grace, let’s be honest here,’ Tremayne said, glancing over at Geoff. ‘Clive Grantley is a man of strong beliefs. This we know. If he had married you for better or for worse, richer or poorer, and so on, your marriage would have weathered the storm regardless of his brother. Did you have such strong beliefs?’
‘Not that strong. If the marriage had failed, then that was that. I don’t believe that Clive was as strong in his views as you say he was, either.’
‘I’d disagree on that point, but let’s not linger. You’ve stayed with Geoff through good and bad, and I hope he doesn’t mind what I’m going to say, although he probably will.’
Clare could see Tremayne raising the tempo, looking for the bite from one of the Thornberrys. Which one was going to crack first? Geoff, if he did, was a big man, not so easy to hold down.
‘Clive came from an affluent family, a generous family, dependable, polite, and was someone who’d not let you down. Has he helped you financially since the divorce?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Shame on my part for what had occurred. He would have helped, I’m sure of it, but after the divorce I moved north to Manchester. I met Geoff some time after and we married.’
‘The same passion that you had with Clive? The same lifestyle?’
‘You must understand that times were hard. I refused Clive’s money, even at the divorce. Up here, I worked in a factory, lived in a squalid bedsit. I saw it as my punishment for what I had done.’
‘Self-imposed?’
‘It took several years of counselling before I was stable. Geoff was there with me for most of it.’
‘Thanks for your honesty,’ Clare said. ‘This must be painful for you.’
‘It’s more painful for Geoff. He knows the truth of our relationship, the same as I do. Unspoken, we can deal with it, but raw emotions are now exposed, emotions which will be difficult to quell. No doubt after you’ve both left, we will talk late into the night.’
‘The outcome?’
‘We’ll weather the storm; we always do.’
The red-faced Geoff Thornberry was on his feet. His fists were clenched. ‘Are you accusing my wife of murder?’
‘I’m accusing no one,’ Tremayne said calmly. ‘Either you sit down, or we’ll reconvene at the local police station.’
‘My wife is not guilty of murder.’
‘I don’t think that Mr Thornberry can remain calm,’ Clare said to Tremayne.
‘He will,’ Tremayne replied. Thornberry may fume, but he was sure the man had had his moment of revolt at the line of questioning. From here on in, he would be mute, biting his tongue, saying nothing, just exhaling loudly, puffing out his chest, and getting redder.
‘I didn’t kill him. Clive could have killed him, I suppose,’ Grace said.
‘So far the dates don’t match; you would have been married to Geoff by then and living in Manchester. Although, Richard could have found out where you were, made a play for you.’
‘Is that it?’ Geoff Thornberry said. ‘You come in here, upset my wife, accuse her of being a tart, a murderer, and God knows what else? Is that how you conduct a police investigation?’
‘It’s a murder enquiry. No stone must be left unturned, no person excused from the investigation purely because they are a good person or they’re ill, even if they’re dying. I apologise. We will leave you now.’
Outside the house, Clare spoke. ‘You were rough in there.’
‘What option did I have?’ Tremayne replied. He had instinctively put his hand in his jacket pocket to pull out a cigarette packet. ‘Damn you and Jean. I could do with a cigarette right now.’
‘It’s for your own good, Jean will tell you that. You didn’t like doing that in there, I know, but it had to be done. There’s only one problem. The burial mound. What’s its significance?’
‘Clive Grantley’s the glue between the two women and the burial. He’s not off the hook yet. Focus on Richard Grantley: aliases, business dealings, bank accounts, residential addresses.’
‘That’s what we have a team for. They’re busy finding out what they can, but there’s not a lot.’
‘Find more, and you’ll need to follow up on Liz Fairweather’s colleagues. Did she have a love affair with someone before Clive or after? Did she somehow meet Richard?’
/> ‘Any possibility of anyone else dying or dead?’
‘Check, but there often is,’ Tremayne said. ‘I need a pint of beer.’
‘After that, you can have two,’ Clare said. She wouldn’t tell Jean that he had broken his alcohol limit, not this time.
Chapter 13
The chieftain that Gerard Horsley and his team had recovered from the burial mound had a more complete history than Richard Grantley. DNA had been extracted, and oxygen isotope analysis of his tooth enamel found he was a native of the region, not like the ‘King of Stonehenge’ who was shown to have come from what is now modern Switzerland. Radiocarbon dating of the grave confirmed that he was laid to rest circa 2300 BC, which gave the number of years to the present time as approximately four thousand three hundred years. His age was ascertained to be between thirty-five and forty-five years old, and he had been in reasonably good health for the period. That was not an assessment that would be given to a modern man as Horsley’s chieftain was shown to have one arm weaker than the other, and probably of minimal use. His dentition showed a good set of teeth and one abscess which would have caused him pain. There was no sign of trauma to explain his death, and failing further information, he was believed to have died of natural causes. The items recovered with the man were still being collated, and a permanent display, with Horsley’s name prominent as the archaeologist responsible for the find, was in preparation, a date two months later for the unveiling of the prize exhibit.
The irony of the work done on the ancient body and how much was known about him was not lost on Tremayne. It had been a long day, mainly in the office, as the leads had dried up.
Clare was still following through on Richard Grantley, trying to find out more about him. Clive had opened up with more about his brother’s return from overseas to the family home at the age of twenty-one. It had lasted for three months, enough time for him to detox, and then one night he had left again, a note on the kitchen table telling his parents not to worry about him and that another adventure beckoned.
Clare spent time with Kim Fairweather, believing that the young woman had more sway with her parents than anyone else, and Kim had shown that she wasn’t as reticent as they were. Clare was full of admiration for how the woman conducted herself, but not for what Kim had said: ‘I’ll not say anything without their permission. I believe in their innocence unreservedly, and in time the truth will come from another direction.’
Neither Tremayne nor Clare could break through the barrier, and the interviewing techniques which Tremayne had honed, and Clare was continually improving on, whereby the pressure was maintained and the questioning became faster, shotgun staccato, trying to bewilder the interviewee and to confuse them, wasn’t going to work with these three.
Clare had broached Liz Fairweather’s radicalism when she was younger with Kim, the possibility that she had mixed with unsavoury elements, possibly committed illegal activities.
‘My parents were extremely conservative as I was growing up. If either of them had acted unwisely when they were younger, then I have no knowledge of it. My mother always ensured that I was home at a reasonable time, ensured that I didn’t skimp on chores around the house and that I did my homework on time. Sometimes, especially in my early teens, that irritated me, but that was my mother, and when my father was there, we’d have long talks about it. They kept me from making a complete fool of myself. I can’t believe that my parents have dubious pasts, not the two people that I know.’
‘They’re determined to have us charge them,’ Tremayne said as he wandered over to Clare’s desk. The day was drawing to a close when additional information came in about Richard Grantley.
It was Liz Fairweather on the phone. ‘Kim’s phoned me,’ she said to Clare. ‘There’s a side to my history that I’d prefer forgotten, but you’re not going to let this rest until you’ve solved Richard’s death, are you?’
‘We can’t. If you or Clive are guilty, we’ll find out in time, and you’ll be charged. You do understand that?’
‘There was a period in my student days. How much have you researched about me?’
‘Grade A student, rebellious, took part in a few demonstrations, mildly promiscuous from all accounts, even while you were burning your bra. Does Kim know all this?’
‘There are no secrets between us. What she doesn’t know are the names of some of the men I may have been involved with.’
‘May? What does that mean?’
‘We experimented with mind-enhancing drugs, a higher level of consciousness. Mild by the standards of today: magic mushrooms, LSD, some others. Sometimes I’d know who it was I slept with, sometimes I didn’t, not until the drugs had worn off.’
‘Do we need to come up and see you?’
‘I’ll give you two names. Check them out and give me a call. I’ve spoken to Clive. He’s not comfortable with my doing this, but he understands.’
‘I’ve got pen and paper in front of me,’ Clare said. Tremayne stood to one side, the phone on speaker.
‘Des Wetherell. You’ve heard of him, no doubt.’
‘The firebrand union leader and professional agitator.’
‘He was a polite young man back then, more extreme in his views than most of us were, but not the person he’s become. We had a bit of a fling, nothing too serious, but he did become fixated on me, became a nuisance later on. No violence, just persistent phone calls, hanging around where I was. In the end, I told him that it was over, firmly the last time. He never came near me again.’
‘He spent time in jail for manslaughter, the sentence overturned on appeal,’ Tremayne whispered into Clare’s ear.
‘Don’t worry. I can hear your senior alongside you. It pains me to mention his name. And there’s one other. Monty Yatton. He’s a professor at Dundee University now. He specialises in ancient British history. He was a vain, mildly eccentric student back then. Always dressed bizarrely, a dandy he would have once been called. He went around in a top hat and tails, a pair of jeans and a faded Ban the Bomb tee shirt. You know the type, with the CND symbol on it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about them before?’
‘I’m after a promotion here as well as a grant to conduct a dig on a location outside of Athens. It shouldn’t matter that I’m indirectly implicated in a murder. Of course, those making the decisions about my future will say it doesn’t, but we all know the reality. Recounting my past, having it opened up to scrutiny, is not what I wanted. And besides, I’d prefer Kim not to know of some of the sordid details, what a cheap lay her mother was once.’
***
The revelation about Des Wetherell and Monty Yatton understandably put new impetus into the murder investigation. One was well known to the general public, the other wasn’t.
Clare spent time in the office checking up on Wetherell, a man with a fearsome reputation, a man who had maintained his strong socialist convictions, his belief in the power of the trade unions, his commitment to the working man. He was a man that many regarded as out of touch with modern-day reality, and whereas many had suffered under the onslaught of Margaret Thatcher and her emasculation of the trade unions, others had prospered, and the twenty-first century was not like the eighties of the previous century. Most people were more prosperous, and the politically ideological differences of the left-wing and right-wing political parties in Westminster were not so obvious. But Clare knew, as did others, that change was inevitable, and the recent waves of migration, the separation from Europe, the threats to the prosperity of the individual were all combining to give Wetherell a platform on which to debate – and debate the man did.
Wetherell was no cloth-capped working man from a coal mine nor a steelworker who had risen up through the ranks of unionism, starting as a shop steward calling the workers out on strike for whatever petty grievance could be levelled against the corrupt bosses. Nor had he spent time as a regional organiser, swapping the cap for a suit. He had instead taken a position with the Public Services Union,
with a membership of over eighty thousand. At that time, he was involved in setting up a credit union for the members, shaping union policy, drafting submissions to the left-wing Labour Party in power at that time. With the change in government, a reflection of more prosperous times, he had become more ardent, taking part in panel shows on the television, banging his fist on the table occasionally for effect, but always, behind the persona of strident socialism, the well-spoken, immaculately dressed and urbane Wetherell.
His detractors, and there were plenty, referred to him as a ‘Champagne Socialist’ on account of his wealth – he lived in a five-bedroom house in Surrey – the Jaguar he drove, the fact that he preferred wine from his extensive cellar to a pint of beer at the local pub with his fellow comrades. He was an anachronism; Clare could see as she compiled a dossier on him. He was also, according to Liz Fairweather, a former lover of hers. A man who could be involved in the death of Richard Grantley, a man who had been known to revert to violence in his younger days at university, once spending three months in jail for assaulting a policeman by knocking him to the ground. And then sentenced to two years, out after six months, for manslaughter after he had thrown a rock during a demonstration, inadvertently hitting an opposing protester on the other side of the road, causing the woman to fall to the ground, smashing her head against a kerbstone as she did so, eventually dying as a result.
The trial had been flawed from the start. The evidence presented showed that the rock had caused the woman’s death. The defence team on appeal had ordered another post mortem where it was shown that the rock had not been responsible for rendering the woman unconscious; it had been the kerb, the impact with it enhanced by the milling mob around her accidentally pushing her as she fell down, increasing the impact pressure.
The verdict was tossed aside, an enquiry was ordered into the travesty of justice, the results of which were brushed under the table. Some said it was a cover-up by the government of the time; others said the legal system was prejudiced against a firebrand and political agitator who spoke a lot of sense and could argue against the inconsistencies in their treatment of the more disruptive in society, the good people as Des Wetherell would see them.
Burial Mound Page 11
