‘I’m sorry about that. You said he had been killed, I remember that. It’s strange, lost memories flooding back.’
‘We now believe he was murdered, not far from Salisbury.’
‘And you suspect Clive?’
‘Your reaction is surprising,’ Clare said. ‘We would have thought you would be more concerned with Richard’s death than with Clive.’
‘Clive couldn’t harm anyone. He was the most decent man I ever knew, my one regret.’
‘Murderers come in all shapes and sizes, some clearly violent, others ardent pacifists.’
‘Clive loved his brother. Why, I don’t know, considering how badly he treated him.’
‘Clive loved you, but you let him go.’
‘Who knows, he may still feel a fondness for me in his own way. Not that we’ll ever know, will we? I’ll never see him again.’
‘You don’t surf the internet, look up old friends? Most people do.’
‘I never do. Should I?’
‘Clive is the mayor of Salisbury. He’s on the Salisbury City Council website.’
‘Show Mrs Thornberry,’ Tremayne said.
Clare took out her smartphone, entered ‘Clive Grantley’ into the search engine. The council website came up, a picture of Clive in his mayoral robes, the chain of office around his neck.
Claire handed the phone over to Grace Thornberry who looked at it for over a minute. ‘He looks well,’ she said when she handed the phone back to Clare. ‘Did he remarry, children?’
‘Never.’ Clare did not intend to mention Kim Fairweather, partly because it would serve no purpose, but mainly because the beauty of the relationship between father and daughter would be soured in the presence of Grace Thornberry, a woman who although obviously ill, did not engender strong feelings of compassion in either of the two police officers. A woman who by her own admission, had turned a good man away for his rogue brother.
***
Clive Grantley remained a conundrum. On the one hand, he appeared to be the least likely person to have murdered his brother; on the other, he clearly had a love-hate relationship with Richard, and from what they had gathered from Grace Thornberry, former wife of Clive, former lover of Richard, the dead man had few redeeming characteristics.
‘Who else can help?’ Tremayne asked Clare as they drove back from Manchester, a four-hour trip; Clare as usual in the driving seat.
‘Did Kim Fairweather’s mother ever meet Richard or even Grace? Clive Grantley never mentioned that she did.’
‘He wants to keep her out of it. Understandable, and any other time, we could respect his wishes, but we need to know the truth.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘We visit her.’
‘It’ll have to be tomorrow. We need to check on the murder weapon, talk to Kim about what we intend to do.’
‘Have it your way. You talk to Kim, heart-to-heart, woman-to-woman. Just let her know that we need to talk to her mother, either at her place or a neutral location, keep it low-key, conversational.’
Clare dialled Kim Fairweather on hands-free. ‘Kim, Clare Yarwood, can we meet tonight for a talk, nothing formal, just your perspective.’
‘Clive told you?’
‘He did in confidence.’
‘That’s Clive. Sorry, I don’t call him Dad for obvious reasons, and besides, I never did, not even when I was young.’
‘We’ll respect that confidence as much as possible, but it’s still a murder investigation. It may come out at some stage.’
‘Sometimes I wish it would, but that’s Clive, always reticent, a closed book to everyone except my mother and me. Seven o’clock, the Pheasant Inn?’
‘See you at seven.’
‘Clive’s ex-wife?’
‘We’ve seen her, but that’s in confidence. It’s a police matter so I can’t say much.’
‘He still keeps a photo of her next to his bed. Still carries a flame, although he loved my mother as well.’
‘She doesn’t look the same now. Don’t ask any more, Kim, please. I don’t want to tell you that it’s not your concern, not now.’
‘Seven o’clock. First drinks on me.’
The phone line went dead.
‘I like her,’ Tremayne said. ‘She’s like you in many ways.’
‘The first compliment of the month,’ Clare said cheekily.
‘Watch it, Yarwood, any more smart-arse remarks from you and you’ll be on a disciplinary.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Clare’s reply, both enjoying the repartee.
The final report on the retrieved knife was waiting at Forensics on Tremayne and Clare’s return to Salisbury. Louise Regan handed it over to Tremayne with due ceremony, a slight tipping of the head, as if he was bestowing honour on her by his presence.
‘It’s interesting reading,’ she said. ‘The knife is an Italian Godfather Mafia Stiletto Pocket Knife. An 11-inch blade as I told you before, an acrylic handle. They sell it as a camping and hunting knife. They can be purchased in Salisbury, even today.’
‘Its age?’
‘The model went out of production twelve years ago. Recent examples have a slight design change. It was also produced in quantity. Why anyone would want such a weapon for camping is beyond me, but there you are. It’s also foldable, in that the blade folds into a recess in the handle. It is capable of killing a man.’
‘Yarwood, get some people on to it. A long shot, but a sporting shop may remember or have kept records of knife sales,’ Tremayne said, although he realised that although they may have the murder weapon, putting a person’s name to it would be unlikely.
Clare left Tremayne and Louise Regan and went back to Homicide. She entered the day’s events into her report, checked her emails, passed on the knife details to those charged with seeing if they could find out who could have purchased it, and then jotted some notes for the next day’s activities. She briefly went home to freshen up, a change of clothes, before meeting Kim Fairweather.
She found Kim sitting in the far corner of the pub, two glasses of wine in front of her. ‘I saw you parking your car, assumed you were a wine person.’
‘I am. Tremayne’s into beer, but he’s cutting down.’
‘I like him,’ Kim said. ‘Gruff, plays it cool, uncaring, but I don’t think he is.’
‘He’s not, but don’t tell him. He works hard on his image. It wouldn’t help for you to destroy it for him.’
‘You’ve tried?’
‘As often as I dare.’
The two women laughed. Clare had to admit that Tremayne’s statement that the two women were very similar was true.
‘I take it that our meeting here is not strictly social,’ Kim said.
‘We need to meet your mother.’
‘She can’t help you.’ Kim visibly tensed, distanced herself slightly from Clare.
‘I can understand your reluctance, but it’s a murder investigation. We need to meet with all the people who may be involved or on the periphery. We’ve met with your father’s ex-wife.’
‘Clive, please.’
‘Why the reluctance to tell people about the two of you? There must be strange looks at you two from others, misreading the signals.’
‘There are, but Clive’s intensely private. He does not want attention focussed on him at this time, and he told you about me to abate your curiosity and to show that he was attempting to be as honest as he could.’
‘But he also indicated that he knew more, but he wasn’t willing to tell us.’
‘We do not discuss his past, and definitely not his brother’s. In fact, until you phoned to say you were coming to the office, I didn’t know about a brother. Sorry, that’s not altogether true. I had seen references at Clive’s house to his family, a mention of Richard, but I never spoke to him about it.’
‘Why?’
‘It wasn’t my business. He has been a great father to me, and while he wasn’t there all the time, he was there when it mattered. If I had a pro
blem, I would phone him up, and he would never let me down. I won’t let him down now by telling you more than he would be comfortable with.’
‘It’s an unusual relationship,’ Clare said, remembering that her father and mother were there all the time, and while her father could be distant, her mother could be intrusive and always matchmaking, which explained why mother and daughter rarely spoke and met only on special occasions: Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries.
‘It was a wonderful childhood. My mother is a remarkable person, a university professor. You would like her.’
‘Do you live with Clive?’
‘I have a small place in town, not far away, although I’m at his house most days, mainly on business, and we sometimes have a meal together. He’s a great cook, and he’s got a great wine cellar. Sometimes I drink more than I should, and I spend the night at the house. No doubt the local gossips have a field day, the staid and tired mayor and his personal assistant.’
‘Questions must have been raised.’
‘The truth of our relationship would only set more tongues wagging.’
‘You’re remarkably well-balanced for your age,’ Clare said.
‘My parents always included me in their conversations. I learnt from their wisdom, but I’m still young, still inclined to fall into foolish love, to drink more than I should if given a chance.’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘Not recently. One day, I hope to find someone, but Clive has set the bar high. Can anyone reach that far?’
‘You will find someone eventually, but they’re rare and far apart. Another glass?’
‘Of course. At least I won’t be done for drunken driving, not with you here.’
‘You won’t be driving if you’re over the limit. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘Are you married?’
‘My bar was set high. No one has come close since then.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘One day in the future if you want, and I’m drunk enough, I will tell you about it. But not now, and not today.’ Clare took out her tissue and held it to her eyes.
Kim put her arm around her. ‘It’s not only Clive who keeps secrets, is it?’ she said.
‘Sorry about that. Sometimes the past is best left unspoken, even forgotten.’
‘Not so easy, not always.’
‘We need to meet your mother tomorrow. You will need to explain to her that it’s a formality. Will she understand?’
‘She will. But remember, for many years our family secret has remained just that, a secret. She will be as reticent as Clive has, possibly more so. Can you go on your own, not take Inspector Tremayne?’
‘I can.’
‘Good. Then please do. My mother will be open with you, especially if I tell her that you’re my friend and I trust you.’
‘Two glasses are your limit if you’re driving. Another one if we stay another hour or two and have something to eat,’ Clare said.
‘I insist on paying,’ Kim said, as she asked for a menu to be brought over.
Chapter 11
Clare couldn’t help but notice the smell of old books in Liz Fairweather’s office. It was incongruous given the modern decor and the view from the window overlooking a quadrangle and the modern buildings of one of the newer Cambridge University colleges. The early morning drive from Salisbury had taken just over three hours, and she had enjoyed the tranquillity of not having her senior with her. He had understood the need for her to go on her own, trusting her to ask the pertinent questions, to dig deep if needed, to apply pressure if required. Clare hoped that she would not have to revert to bullying tactics, although she knew that both Clive Grantley and his daughter were skilled at not answering certain questions.
Withholding evidence was an issue with both of them, and Clare was sure that it was going to be no different with Liz Fairweather, a Professor of Ancient History.
‘Ancient Greek mainly, although other members of the academic staff focus on Ancient Rome.’
‘Bronze Age Britain?’ Clare asked. She was glad that Tremayne was not there with her, not because Liz Fairweather would be less open and subjective when dealing with anyone involved with the Grantleys, but because an academic’s lair, surrounded by old books, was not the kind of place where he would have felt comfortable.
Kim Fairweather’s mother was elegantly dressed, her hair cut short, but stylish, not with the severity of Clive Grantley’s ex-wife. Clare noticed the high-heel shoes that she wore and which Clare had wanted to purchase in Salisbury, but had deemed the price just too much for a police sergeant.
‘You do know why I’m here, don’t you?’ Clare said.
‘Kim told me, and apparently our little secret is out in the open.’
‘Inspector Tremayne and I know. So far, we’ve had no reason to divulge it to others.’
‘You will, I’m sure. All part of the investigative process and now you want me to open up, tell you secrets about the three of us and his delinquent brother.’
‘Delinquent?’
‘Reputedly. I never met him, although what little I know of the man, he was trouble with a capital T.’
‘That appears to be the consensus. Our knowledge of him is minimal, only through people who knew him, or, in your case, what Clive has told you.’
‘Which is not very much. You know Clive well enough to know that he is intensely private.’
‘Strange that he should be the mayor of Salisbury, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Not at all. Clive regards his giving to the community as important. He takes these sorts of things seriously. What do you think he’d do if he weren’t involved with the council in Salisbury?’
‘Reclusively hiding away in his house, counting his money.’
‘Reclusive, I’d agree. The money is not his driving force, and he's given a lot to charity.’
‘He never mentioned that.’
‘And he never will. I’ve met men of note: Nobel Prize winners, brilliant academics, political leaders and many others. None are of the character and the substance of Clive.’
‘You make him out to be a saint,’ Clare said, a little tired of hearing of the great and beneficent Clive Grantley. The man must have some vices, a dark secret too shameful to reveal. Everyone else does, and there’s always a skeleton in the cupboard, something never revealed, not even to Liz and Kim Fairweather, the two closest to him.
‘Kim asked me to be open with you. I will tell you what I know, but I’m afraid it will only be a character reference for Clive. I never met Richard, so I can’t help you there.’
‘Then please, from the beginning. How you met Clive. The relationship between you two now and Kim.’
‘I had just graduated, a PhD in Ancient Greek. I’d been to Greece on several occasions, but armed with my knowledge of the culture, as well as being able to read Ancient Greek, I had travelled to Athens to test out my skills. I was there, not far from the Parthenon, close to where Socrates had died. I was reading some inscriptions, jotting them down in a notebook that I always carried, when Clive, not that I knew who he was then, came up behind me and read them in English to me from a book in his hand. He thought I was just a tourist attempting to soak up the history of the place, not aware that I knew more about the history of the country than most Greeks.’
‘Clive is not the sort of person to approach anyone,’ Clare said.
‘He was clumsy in how he did it, gave me quite a start, and if it had been anywhere else, then maybe I would have told him to clear off, not in those words though. I may have been able to converse in Ancient and Modern Greek, but I could swear like a trooper.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘His apology was so articulate it startled me.’
‘Why?’
‘I had spent a long time at university, a hotbed of ferment, political extremism, ardent feminism. Even I in my earlier years was involved. We may have been smart, most of us, but we couldn’t see the world as it really is,
its foibles, its injustices, its beauty, its malevolence. I thought that student revolt, indignation and protesting about everything wrong was the way forward.’
‘And now?’
‘Intelligent debate, rational and constructive action, not that the youth of today believe that. Socrates, if you’ve ever read him, or, more correctly, what others wrote about him. There is no written word from Socrates’ hand, plenty from others. He was the great orator, the great debater, the man who showed the validity of discussion and clear thought.’
‘I’ve read Plato’s account of his death,’ Clare said. She did not mention that she had attempted other works by the man but with little success due to the complexity of the text.
‘That’s in your favour. I can see why Kim likes you. Anyway, Clive and I start talking, and before either of us realise it, it’s late at night, and we’re sitting in a small restaurant drinking and eating and enjoying ourselves. After that, for the next five days, we were inseparable, although at night, separate rooms, his choice not mine.’
‘Why his choice?’
‘At the time, I didn’t understand it, although it was another of his endearing characteristics. At university, the men assumed that if they had bought you a drink, the women were expected to offer themselves by way of thanks.’
‘Did you?’
‘Too often, I’m afraid. And here’s Clive, educated, articulate, polite, asking nothing in return except my company. You can’t believe what an aphrodisiac all of it was. Excuse my bluntness.’
‘It’s refreshingly honest. Does Kim know this story?’
‘She does, and she also knows why we never lived together, never married.’
‘Then you have more to tell me.’
‘I’ll open the window first. The air’s not good here, old manuscripts, no doubt a few too many dust mites. If you feel itchy afterwards, blame them.’
Clare was not feeling uncomfortable sitting in the office, because the conversation was engrossing and she had to keep reminding herself that she was there for a murder enquiry, not a social occasion.
Retaking her seat, Liz Fairweather continued. ‘We returned to England, and I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks. I was smitten by then. The former communist, the former ardent ‘burn your bra’ feminist, the former believer in the rights of the individual over the fat cats controlling the country. I wasn’t any of what I just said when I met Clive, but I was still in sympathy with some of those views.’
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