Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

  Veronica Langley, what can you tell us?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ The clipped speech of the woman was distracting, as though she affected her speech to impress.

  Lilith Hempel’s husband sat by her side. He was in poor health. Compared to his wife he looked fifteen to twenty years older, but the difference was only four. His complexion was pallid, and a walking frame was close by.

  To Tremayne, the man had the look of impending death. George Hempel did not take part in the conversation.

  ‘Whatever you can,’ Ong said.

  ‘Very well. We used to meet, a group of us, every Wednesday for tennis. She was an attractive woman, but then she changed.’

  ‘Only on Wednesdays?’

  ‘Most weekends at the club as well, but I can’t say I knew her, not really.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She had hidden depths to her. She was a smart woman, though. If you wanted to know about geography or history, even archaeology, she would be able to tell you what you wanted to know. If we ever had a game of Trivial Pursuit at the club, I’d want her on my side.’

  ‘Tell us about the archaeology. It was never mentioned at the time of her disappearance; not at the inquest after her body was found.’

  ‘A dreadful business,’ Lilith Hempel said. ‘Dying like that.’ She leaned over and wiped the dribble from her husband’s chin. ‘He’ll never see England again,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You spend life striving, trying to improve yourself, guiding your children, hoping they’ll make good decisions with their lives, and then, what you see with George. Regressing back to his childhood.’

  ‘You must be upset,’ Ong said.

  ‘My husband will not be here for much longer, and then I’ll go and live with my sister in England. Sadness doesn’t enter into it.’

  Tremayne reflected that but for Jean and Clare, his life would be close to its end, but in Singapore, the sun beating on his back, he felt better than he had for a long time.

  ‘Were you interviewed when she disappeared?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. One day she was there; the next she wasn’t. We always thought it was to do with the marriage.’

  ‘What about the marriage?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Veronica had issues.’

  ‘Substance abuse?’

  ‘She was a drinker, even on our Wednesday get-togethers. I asked her once why she drank so much. Her reply, “because it makes me feel good”.’

  ‘Was that a sufficient answer?’

  ‘It was the only one I was going to get. The expatriate community was insidious; plenty of unusual characters with hidden backgrounds, stories that would never be told. If Veronica didn’t want to say more, that was fine by me.’

  ‘Anthony Langley?’

  ‘He was always polite, charming and generous. He’d buy the drinks at the weekend. We didn’t see as much of him after Veronica disappeared. We heard he had a girlfriend somewhere, but we never saw her.’

  ‘Coming back to Veronica. What else did you know about her?’

  ‘Why the interest? You never said.’

  ‘We have reason to dispute the circumstances surrounding her death.’

  ‘George could have told you more about Anthony, but I’m afraid he’s beyond telling you anything now.’

  ‘What do you believe your husband would have told us?’

  ‘He would have told you that Anthony was tolerant in accepting his wife’s behaviour. George didn’t like Veronica.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘It wasn’t for me to judge. As I said, expatriate communities are insidious. Everyone has a tale to tell, skeletons they’d rather keep hidden.’

  ‘Why the tolerance? You’ve said she was a drinker; we know she was more than that.’

  ‘She was involved with Raymond Alston.’

  ‘Involved?’

  ‘An affair, screwing the man, whatever you want to call it. Everyone knew, but no one ever said anything.’

  ‘You said she was smart. Tell us about archaeology.’

  ‘She was always reading books on the subject, watching documentaries on the television. God knows why, but that was Veronica, a frustrated academic, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re aware that Raymond Alston, although his real name was Richard Grantley, is dead?’

  ‘It’s not been mentioned before. How?’

  ‘He was murdered. Anthony Langley is in Singapore.’

  ‘We’ve not heard from him. Why’s he here?’

  ‘We intend to exhume his wife’s body.’

  ‘But why? She committed suicide. She sometimes spoke about the futility of her life, especially after a few drinks. Do you think Anthony killed Raymond Alston?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Ong said. ‘What else about archaeology and history?’

  ‘She used to put pictures on her wall at home of ancient sites in England.’

  ‘Stonehenge?’ Tremayne asked, more intensely focussed than before.

  ‘She had this hideous one of a burial mound. I don’t know why; none of us liked it.’

  Tremayne took out his phone and scrolled through the photos. He showed the picture of the burial mound to Lilith Hempel. ‘That’s it. Positively hideous, so depressing.’

  ‘She gave it to Richard Grantley, sorry, Raymond Alston.’

  ‘It’s not much of a present.’

  ‘It was on the back wall in his office. He didn’t like it either.’

  Chapter 26

  Tremayne and Ong visited the Choa Chu Kang Cemetery Complex in the west of the island of Singapore, close to the Tengah Air Base, and now the only place that allowed burials in the island state.

  Veronica Langley’s grave was located in the Christian section, a small marble plaque with her name and dates inscribed on it. There were no other inscriptions, no mention of ‘beloved wife’ or ‘sadly missed, never forgotten’.

  It was, to Tremayne a sad grave. Fresh flowers rested on top of it.

  ‘Langley’s been here,’ Ong said.

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘I’ve got a person keeping an eye on him. Very discreetly, but from what we heard from Lilith Hempel and from what you’ve told me, the man must be frightened.’

  ‘He would have been better staying in England. We can’t prove that he killed Richard Grantley, and if it’s found that Veronica Langley’s death is a result of foul play, then extradition from England to Singapore would be difficult and could take years.’

  ‘Even if we find proof of foul play, it doesn’t mean that he was responsible. Quite frankly, I reckon we’ve got our job ahead of us.’

  ‘Where is Langley now?’

  ‘The Fullerton Bay Hotel on Collyer Quay. Way out of our salaries. He’s taken a suite. He may be on a mission, but he’s not going to do it on a shoestring.’

  ‘His legal team?’

  ‘The best. They’ll hold up the exhumation for as long as they can. And then if we have proof of murder, they’ll drag it out in the courts.’

  ‘Which means he’ll have to stay in Singapore.’

  ‘Not necessarily, and besides, what are we going to confront him with? His wife disappears, she’s subsequently found dead. She’s an alcoholic, into recreational drugs, and she had a history of illicit love affairs.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘A smart lawyer will raise the possibility. From what I’ve found out, there was Grantley, and then after he left, another man.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘One of her old friends may know.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Tremayne asked. It was good to have someone to bounce ideas off. In Salisbury, it would have been Clare, but she was back in England.

  ‘We’ll go and visit him,’ Ong said. ‘Lay the facts on the table, see what his reaction is.’

  They found Langley on a recliner at the side of the hotel’s infinity pool. He did not appreciate the intrusion, but he
remained cordial.

  Tremayne introduced Ong to the man, a shaking of hands.

  ‘My lawyer is dealing with the matter,’ Langley said. Which to Tremayne meant that he didn’t intend to say too much.

  ‘Do you need him here?’ Ong asked.

  ‘Not at this moment. I regard the desecration of Veronica’s grave with alarm. I will object to it strenuously.’

  ‘That is your legal right,’ Tremayne said. ‘However, we have uncovered more in the last couple of days that should be of concern to you.’

  ‘Such as?’ Langley said. Tremayne had met the man before; he knew of his arrogance, his self-belief. The man shouldn’t be speaking to him and Ong, but it appeared that he was going to. A waiter walked by, Langley ordered a drink for himself, ignored the two police officers. It was to Tremayne a sign of implied strength, similar to sticking out the chest to make a person to look stronger than they actually were. It was a wasted exercise. Neither he nor Ong wanted to spend time drinking pina coladas with a man who was more than likely a murderer.

  ‘Veronica was interested in history and archaeology.’

  ‘In her more lucid moments. That’s true. Is it relevant?’

  ‘On the wall of your house, you had several pictures. One of them was of Stonehenge, a burial mound in the foreground.’

  ‘I don’t remember it, but it may have been there.’

  ‘Richard Grantley was buried in a burial mound. There’s a significance in that, wouldn’t you agree?’ Tremayne asked. He paused to allow Langley to digest what had just been said.

  Langley took a sip from his drink, stood up from the recliner and dived into the pool. Tremayne and Ong did not move from where they were sitting, although they wished they could. The sun was beating down on their heads, and it was uncomfortably hot.

  If Jean had been there, she would have made Tremayne move under a shade nearby. ‘You’ll get sunstroke, and then what will we have,’ she would have said. Tremayne was glad she was not there, not when Langley attempted to act nonchalant; he and Ong intending to press the advantage.

  Langley returned after five minutes and lay back on his recliner. ‘Sorry about that. I needed to cool off.’

  ‘And how long do you intend to stay in Singapore?’ Ong asked.

  ‘As long as necessary. My business will continue without my constant input. Now if you don’t mind, I would appreciate being alone.’

  ‘Lady Langley, is she well?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘She is in England. This does not concern her.’

  ‘It will if you are arrested for murder, won’t it?’ Tremayne had crossed the line between questioning and intimidation. He expected Langley’s reaction to be immediate and for the man to retreat from the pool and to the security of his room.

  There was no visible reaction as Langley calmly said, ‘Are you accusing me of killing Grantley?’

  ‘I’m more interested in Veronica,’ Ong said. ‘After Grantley left, why did you and she stay together for so long. Her affair with the man was well known, and you must have been a laughing stock.’

  ‘You will find out, or maybe you know already, that I am not a man who cares what other people think of me. Veronica had her faults, we all do, but I had loved her, still do.’

  ‘Lady Langley?’

  ‘The current Lady Langley knows her place. I hope that you two do.’

  ‘Veronica gave a picture to Richard Grantley, or as Inspector Ong knows him, Raymond Alston. I put it to you,’ Tremayne said, ‘that you are a vengeful man, and that murder is not only the act, but it is also a statement. You’re also a man who cares what other people think, regardless of your insistence to the contrary.’

  ‘This is nonsense. Please leave,’ Langley said as he picked up his phone.

  ‘I would suggest you hear me out. This act of indignation does you no credit. You want to know where we stand with the investigation into the two crimes. You want to make decisions based on facts. Facts that we have.’

  Ong did not like the direction that Tremayne was taking. He respected the English police inspector, but a confession made under duress would not hold up in Singapore, and a poolside interview would be discredited, any information obtained deemed inadmissible.

  Ong’s concerns did not worry Tremayne. He was on a roll; he was not going to stop.

  ‘Richard Grantley had dented your invulnerability. You had watched Veronica transfer her affections from you to him. You did nothing, waiting for the ideal time to act, not sure what to do. And then the man left Singapore, his departure at short notice. It may be that you were somehow involved with that.’

  ‘He was gone; Veronica was back with me. We staggered on for a long time, but she was a weak person. She would drink and take drugs, but that’s already known and on the public record. And yes, I was angry with the man, wished him harm. But that’s a long way from murder.’

  ‘Not that far. Grantley’s gone, but not forgotten. Somehow, you must have discovered his true name. You find him in England; you exact your revenge. That awful picture that no one liked, but which Veronica had, and which she had given to Grantley, the poetic justice that you craved.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘As you say, it makes no sense, not unless the murderer is a control freak. Are you that sort of person? Would the current Lady Langley agree with my definition of you? Would Veronica have? Is that what drove her to destroy herself, to have an affair with Grantley? We know the man could be charming, but he was not a decent person. He was callous and unfeeling, and to him, Veronica was just a plaything, the affair something to rub your nose in. He would have enjoyed seeing your friends, business colleagues, laughing at you behind your back. Anthony Langley, tell us straight, did they laugh?’

  ‘Of course they did. There is one factor that you’ve not taken into account. I loved Veronica. We were together during the early days when we had no money, only a lot of ideas.’

  ‘The connection between you and Grantley has been made; the picture of the mound the final link. It is only your confession that is needed.’

  ‘You have no proof, and let me reiterate, I did not kill the man. I hated him, but that’s not murder, and you know it.’

  Tremayne did. All the evidence pointing towards Anthony Langley as the murderer of Richard Grantley was circumstantial. It would have been enough to bring the man into Bemerton Road Police Station for questioning. However, without concrete proof, the progression to a murder trial would never occur.

  ***

  Clare met with Kim one day earlier than planned. A phone call from Singapore had convinced both her and Tremayne that Clive Grantley and Liz Fairweather were innocent of the murder of Kim’s long-dead uncle.

  It was premature, Clare realised, and further evidence could well come forward to point the murder investigation in another direction, but the need for her to unburden herself of the past was paramount.

  With the turning down of Harry’s photo on her dressing table at home, with the guilt she had felt over his death finally lifted, with the need to move on with her life, the time was right for her to tell someone. She was pleased that it was Kim.

  The two women met in the Pheasant Inn, where they had met before. Clare had left her car at the police station; she would be too inebriated to consider driving. She felt emotional yet nervous. A sense of trepidation, a sense of fear about what she was about to reveal. The dark clouds, the lightning, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the deaths that had occurred, still fresh in her mind.

  Kim had also chosen not to drive, although the walk from her father’s house in the Cathedral Close was a lot closer than Clare’s home in Stratford sub Castle.

  For some time, the women just spoke in general terms. Kim about how her mother was dealing with the confinement in Salisbury, away from where she wanted to be in Cambridge with her books and her students, in her untidy house.

  Clare told Kim about her life growing up in Norfolk; a father that she was fond of, a mother who she care
d for, but not with the love that she thought she should have for her. How her mother was always matchmaking, telling her to stop wasting her time with an old man, to stop being a police officer and to accept that the normality of a home and a family were more important than chasing after criminals.

  Kim listened attentively, aware that today was not for her to talk about herself and her blossoming romance in Salisbury; the fact that she thought it was love, and if it was, then it would be the white wedding.

  It was on the second glass of wine that Clare started to talk. A pub lunch was on its way, and Clare was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. She realised that the drink had been a crutch; she didn’t need it now. She put her wine to one side.

  ‘It was my first case with Inspector Tremayne,’ Clare said. ‘A body in a house up on Castle Road. You may have read about the case.’

  ‘There are plenty of references to it on the internet; even to you. It’s your story I want to hear, though.’

  ‘The body wasn’t there, just the legs. The man had been a heavy drinker and a smoker, obese as well. The verdict was that he had set himself on fire and because he was old and infirm, and clearly overweight, he had just burnt out. You would not believe the temperatures involved.’

  ‘But nothing else was burnt.’

  ‘Nothing. The man had burnt from within. It wasn’t my first dead body, but it was the one that affected me the most. It was during the investigation that I met Harry. He was the landlord of the Deer’s Head. At first, I thought he was just working behind the bar that night, but it turned out that he had inherited it from his parents. It was Inspector Tremayne’s favourite pub at the time.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Neither of us enters it. After the first death, there were murmurings of strange rituals, pagan beliefs.’

  ‘Did you believe them?’

  ‘A total sceptic, at first; but then there were blasts of cold air when they weren’t expected, the lightning striking the house of an old lady that I had become fond of. She was murdered, face down in a water trough at the back of her house, a few days later.’

  ‘Avon Hill?’

  ‘How much have you read?’