‘Inspector Tremayne?’ A tall man with a strong Scottish brogue approached their table. He was dressed in a suit, white shirt, a blue tie and black shoes. Clare knew instantly who he was, although Tremayne who had drunk more than he should have the last night did not – he was a police officer.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
‘I found your card at a crime scene, your address at the Premier Inn written on it. Your mobile’s not answering.’
Clare knew why not. He had switched it off to stop Jean phoning to check on him. She would have known by his slurred voice that he had been drinking.
‘We’re here to interview a Monty Yatton, a lecturer at the university,’ Clare said.
‘Mind if I take a seat. The name’s Inspector Roddy Wallace. I’m afraid you’ll not be interviewing Mr Yatton today.’
‘Why’s that, Inspector?’
‘Roddy’s the name. Your Mr Yatton had an unfortunate accident last night at his flat. He’s dead.’
‘We saw him yesterday at the university,’ Tremayne said, his breath still stale from the previous night’s imbibing. Clare thought that Roddy Wallace wouldn’t mind, as she suspected from the ruddy complexion, the bulbous nose, that he and Tremayne were a matched pair – old-style policemen, heavy drinkers, smokers, not too keen on office paperwork and suspicious of computers.
‘We weren’t informed.’
‘It’s a murder enquiry in Wiltshire, not far from Stonehenge, a Richard Grantley.’
‘We keep abreast of what goes on around the country. I’ve heard of it. Was Yatton a suspect?’
‘No proof and probably not involved. It was a line of enquiry we were following through with him. We intended to meet him one more time, see what else he could tell us and then catch a flight from Edinburgh later tonight.’
‘We’ve got an airport here.’
‘The connections are difficult, better for us to drive to Edinburgh. Now, what’s this with Yatton, an accident?’
‘Clepinton Road, a good area, not more than five minutes’ drive from the university. His flat went up in flames last night. We found a bottle of whisky and the man had been smoking cannabis.’
‘Can you prove it was an accident?’
‘I can’t, the crime scene team can. They’re there now. After you’ve finished, we can go up there, and you can tell me more. Whether we should regard his death as suspicious, or just a middle-aged space cadet who should have known better.’
Clare followed Roddy Wallace’s car to the crime scene. Tremayne made a phone call to Jean to tell her that he was fine, his voice no longer slurring, and then another phone call to Superintendent Moulton to update him on the latest development. Moulton did not hold Tremayne long, only asking him to make a full report on his return.
On Clepinton Road, the signs of last night’s drama; excess water from the fire hoses still sitting on the pathway and round the drain at the side of the road. From outside the flat, the upper floor of a converted terrace house, the burnt curtains were visible, as was the shattered glass from the windows. The glass had probably been broken by the fire brigade as they hurried up a ladder, the fire hose at the ready. A police officer stood outside, the crime scene tape running along the front garden fence, the obligatory onlookers confined to the other side of the street.
‘You know the drill,’ Wallace said as he handed over the coveralls, the overshoes, the gloves.
An elderly woman was vigorously complaining to a police sergeant about the damage to her flat. Clare could sympathise as the fire brigade would have been concerned with protecting lives, putting out the fire, not with the damage caused to property. She hoped the woman had adequate insurance.
Inside the flat, space tight on account of the number of people, was the body of Monty Yatton.
‘Smoke inhalation, more than likely,’ one of the crime scene team said.
Apart from charring around the body’s left leg and burn marks on one side of the chair, the immediate area where Yatton sat was unscathed. Over towards the kitchen, the damage was extensive.
‘The smoke detector would have been connected directly to the fire station,’ Wallace said. ‘They would have been here within five to ten minutes.’
‘Foul play?’ Tremayne asked the crime scene examiner.
‘Initially, it was considered, but he’d been cooking, probably forgot about the frying pan and the oil in it, died of smoke inhalation when the kitchen caught alight. He was lucky he wasn’t burnt alive.’
‘Not so lucky,’ Clare said. ‘He’s still dead.’
Outside the flat, the three police officers stood on the street. Roddy Wallace had lit up a cigarette, offered one to Tremayne who had declined, knowing full well that his sergeant would see him, and that she would be reporting back to base, back to Jean.
‘Accidental death,’ Wallace said, hopeful that it was, and that the paperwork could be quickly dealt with.
‘Keep us up to date on the post mortem and forensics,’ Tremayne’s reply. He could understand Wallace wanting the death wrapped up clean and easy. However, Tremayne wasn’t so sure. To him, it was too convenient.
***
Liz Fairweather was devastated on learning about Monty Yatton’s death. ‘I could have been responsible,’ she said on the phone to Clare.
Clare knew that if the man’s death was foul play, then she probably had been. Not that any of this mattered at the present time. Emotions were raw, people were dying, intentionally or otherwise, and if Yatton had been targeted, then the person who had focussed attention on him was also under threat.
Tremayne saw it as the time when the pressure is raised, when people make mistakes, when hidden truths are revealed. His money was still on Clive Grantley and Liz Fairweather, the diversionary tactic of Liz Fairweather just that.
‘She’s drawing us away from the truth. The three of them, the compact modern-day family, expecting nobody to question them too much, never wanting to reveal the inner turmoil in their lives, the skeletons that lie hidden, and expecting us to respect their wishes. Yatton was the first; he’s not the last, and Clive and dear Liz are in the thick of it.’
Clare wasn’t sure if Tremayne was serious or he was taking the war to her, expecting her to pressure Liz and her daughter, Kim. Or whether he was going to sit Clive down in an interview room and sweat a confession out of him.
Not that Tremayne had to worry for too long. It was Clive Grantley who appeared downstairs at Bemerton Road Police Station at four in the afternoon the next day. ‘I want to make a confession,’ he said to the constable at the desk.
Clare brought the man up to Homicide, settled him in the interview room.
Tremayne came into the room, took one look at him and said, ‘Grantley, what’s this all about?’
The police inspector was surprised, not because the man wasn’t guilty, but because he was confessing. He had held on to the secret for a long time, and now when there was no proof, and other potential murderers were being lined up for further investigation, he had in a moment of contrition and remorse decided to come forward.
‘I’m guilty. Read me my rights, lock me up.’
Tremayne had no option but to follow through, explain the procedure. Grantley declined legal representation.
‘Let us go back to the murder,’ Tremayne said.
‘We’d had a row, Richard and me.’
‘What about?’
Clive Grantley sat solemn-faced, answering when asked, keeping quiet when not. Clare sat to one side of Tremayne, observing Grantley’s face, his body language.
‘He was belittling me, pointing out my faults.’
‘You were a grown man by then, not a child around the Christmas tree, playing in the garden. What could he say that would bring you to violence?’
‘There is more than one way to raise a man to violence, you must know that.’
‘We do, but you’re the mayor of Salisbury, a respected citizen, not a worthless drunk. Tell us how and what was said.’
>
‘He accused me of taking the family home from him, of altering the will.’
‘We’ve checked the will. It’s on the public record. Your parents had given you the house, and left a substantial bequest to Richard. He was not ignored in the will, and he could have purchased a similar house with what he had been given.’
‘He wanted the family home, to maintain the legacy.’
‘We’ve not seen any evidence that Richard was interested in such matters,’ Clare said. ‘On the contrary, he was an adventurer, and as long as he could indulge his fancy, go where he liked, seduce any woman including your ex-wife, Grace, then what did he care?’
‘Was it about Grace?’ Tremayne asked bluntly.
‘Not this time, but I had never forgiven him.’
‘Was it about Liz? Had he made a play for her, threatening to weave his magic, take her away from you, the same as he had with your other women? Is that it? What’s the truth? This is about Liz, isn’t it?’
‘She never knew him; never knew what an insufferable lecherous waster he was. If he had known of her, he would have felt the need to take the challenge, to show her how much better he was than me.’
‘You’re protecting her,’ Clare said. ‘You disagreed with her telling us about Des Wetherell and Monty Yatton, and now one of them is dead. The other’s a powerful man. You suspect Liz’s past is catching up with her, and that she was involved in criminal activities, activities that Wetherell wants to stay hidden.’
Clive Grantley said nothing, only looked away and up at the ceiling.
‘You believe that Wetherell had Yatton killed, don’t you?’ Tremayne asked.
Yet again, no response from Grantley.
‘Please, Mr Grantley,’ Clare said, ‘you’ve come here to deflect focus away from Liz, but it’s already there. She knows more than she’s telling us, and if Yatton was murdered, a possibility we’d have to agree, then she’s the next target.’
‘Not if I’m here charged with the murder of my brother, she isn’t.’
‘Do you want to confess to blowing up a polling station while you’re here?’ Tremayne said.
‘Whatever it takes to save Liz.’
‘Nothing will save her or you, even Kim. If Yatton was murdered and your brother was placed in that burial mound by who knows who, they’re not going to back off now just because you’ve offered yourself up as the sacrificial lamb. Okay, we can lock you up, hold you for twenty-four hours, longer if needs be, but then what? We’ve got a half-baked confession from you, while Liz is up in Cambridge, alone and vulnerable, and Kim is here in Salisbury. People who kill witnesses while two police officers are sleeping are not the sort of people to fall for your cheap trick. Admit you’re hoaxing us, telling lies to protect those you love.’
‘This is not helpful,’ Clare said. ‘If you were honest with us, it would be productive.’
‘I’ve said all I’m going to say. Type up my confession, and I’ll sign.’
If Clive Grantley weren’t such a prominent and upstanding man in the community, Tremayne would have said he was mad. To him, Grantley’s action was illogical. The belief that murderers are deterred by someone else making a false confession made no sense. Not that Tremayne believed that Grantley was innocent of Richard’s murder. It was just that Clive had given no new facts, no satisfactory evidence, no clear understanding of why the burial mound was significant.
It was a confession from a man who could be a murderer, but it wasn’t an honest confession. Yet Tremayne knew that he had no option but to charge the man. He knew that trouble was afoot, the sixth sense again, the twitch in his knee, not just from the increasing pain, but from a feeling that something was wrong with the murder investigation, something he couldn’t get around, something that was in plain view, yet he was still missing it.
Clare left the interview room twenty-five minutes later, Clive Grantley duly charged and in the holding cells at the police station. A statement would be issued by Tremayne, another one from the Salisbury Council expressing their belief in the innocence of Mayor Clive Grantley and their wishes for a speedy resolution and his return to his mayoral duties at the earliest opportunity. One statement was factual, the other was not. Factions and dissent would soon rise amongst the remaining councillors; the chance to wear the robes of office, the opportunity to enjoy the perks foremost in their minds.
***
Questions started to be asked about Des Wetherell’s suitability for the high office of Deputy Secretary General of the Trades Union Congress. A newspaper article mentioned his dubious past, the manslaughter conviction later quashed on appeal, his possible links to anarchist groups that had openly railed against the ruling elite of the United Kingdom.
‘How and why?’ Wetherell asked. ‘You were meant to slap restraints on anyone hostile, threaten them with libel.’
‘The newspaper is favourable to you; the editor’s a personal friend,’ Nigel Nicholson said. It was late, Wetherell’s favourite time. He looked out at the River Thames from his penthouse, a large glass of brandy in one hand.
‘It appears his control on content is not as strong as it was.’
‘You can’t deny the past. It’s on the public record, and everyone knows about it, even the TUC.’
‘Know is one thing, but if it goes too far, they’ll not be able to ignore it. Where do we go from here?’
‘We need to stop your past causing you more problems. Is there more than I know? I can’t halt a police investigation.’
‘What do we know about the officers looking into the death of Richard Grantley?’
‘Inspector Tremayne, crusty, determined, honest, not in good health. His offsider, Sergeant Clare Yarwood, thirty-four. Bright, articulate, and as determined as Tremayne.’
‘Any chance of waylaying their enthusiasm until I’m elected?’
‘North of the border is a possibility. Inspector Roddy Wallace is the investigating officer into Yatton’s death. He’s an alcoholic, mildly competent, likes a gamble.’
‘Successful?’
‘He’s in debt to the tune of ten thousand pounds.’
‘Make it twenty,’ Wetherell said.
‘It was pure luck about Yatton,’ Nicholson said.
Wetherell did not respond. He didn’t know if what had happened to Yatton was a coincidence or something else; the truth was best left unspoken.
‘What about Liz Fairweather?’ Nicholson asked.
‘What’s the dirt on her? Why did she mention Yatton and me?’
‘She has a daughter. Richard Grantley’s brother is the father.’
Wetherell knew that Nigel Nicholson’s web spread far and wide. He might be a prominent lawyer, but he was also a networker, a man who had the dirt on a few, could find out about the rest. And he knew people who knew people. None of it linked back to him, but he could fix anything, even death. Wetherell did not need to know the details of Nicholson’s activities, only that he was on his side, primarily out of friendship, but equally important to the lawyer, his own benefit. The two men complemented each other admirably.
‘Did he do it?’
‘Clive Grantley’s confessed to the murder, although the evidence is flimsy. He’s being held for twenty-four hours, but the police don’t believe he’s telling the truth.’
‘Then what’s he doing?’
‘What he’s always done. He’s protecting his privacy and that of others.’
‘It’s a diversionary tactic, to lead the police away from Liz Fairweather, to lead us away from her,’ Wetherell said. ‘Are we leaving Liz alone?’
‘What do you want? Her wellbeing, or your position with the TUC, your political aspirations?’
‘Nigel, what do you think?’
‘You don’t care about anyone if they get in your way. Liz Fairweather’s a tricky situation. She’s very visible, and her daughter is sharp. Also, Sergeant Yarwood is sticking close to her.’
‘Act if necessary,’ Wetherell said. He held up a cigar box and
offered Nicholson one of its contents. The man took the cigar, rolled it in his fingers. Wetherell followed suit. The two men lit up, poured themselves another brandy each.
Yatton’s death had been fortunate, both men knew that. It would never be mentioned again by either of them.
Chapter 17
The concern was that Liz Fairweather had become inexorably linked to the death of Richard Grantley. Either she and Clive had killed him, or Wetherell had with or without the assistance of Monty Yatton.
Whichever way the investigation turned, Liz Fairweather sat fair and square in the middle.
Clive Grantley bided his time in the cells, hopeful that Liz would survive, angry with his brother yet again after so many years. As he had said to Tremayne, who visited him in the cells, ‘The man was bad news when he was alive. In death, his legacy lingers on.’
‘I’m letting you go after twenty-four hours whether you like it or not. If you think this was all worth it, then fine. Sergeant Yarwood’s up in Cambridge with Liz and her mother, aiming to get to the bottom of this quagmire that you’ve created.’
Tremayne could see that Clive Grantley was the type of man who’d go over the top on a battlefield, risk his life for his fellow soldiers, show bravery that few could muster. How the man rationalised his actions, he couldn’t say, but Tremayne thought that somewhere, somehow, the man was probably right. He was buying time, taking the emphasis away from Liz Fairweather. But time wasn’t bought forever. There was to be a reckoning, and it was hours away, possibly days, but no more. Either someone else would die, or he, Inspector Tremayne, would solve the murder of Richard Grantley.
In Cambridge, the spectre of what had happened, what could occur, weighed heavily on Liz Fairweather’s mind. With her were Clare and Kim, both were equally disturbed. Kim, on account of her mother and what she could have set in motion, her father languishing in a cell, rapidly being ostracised by the people of Salisbury and those who had feigned friendship over the years; Clare because she realised that Monty Yatton’s death was too suspicious to be regarded as just an accident.
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