Inspector Roddy Wallace had been on the phone, calling Clare before Tremayne, but she had become used to that by now. Somehow the overweight, red-faced man thought in his arrogance, his incompetence as well, that he was attractive to female police officers.
Clare was not impressed when he phoned. ‘Pathology states that the man died of smoke inhalation, and he had consumed a large quantity of alcohol, and had been smoking cannabis,’ he had said.
‘We knew that already from the crime scene,’ Clare replied. ‘Any more?’
‘That’s about it,’ Wallace said. He had wanted to talk; Clare had not. She had ended the phone call and then phoned Tremayne to update him. He could get the official case report sent down by email; she had more pressing issues to deal with.
‘I killed him,’ Liz said. She was sitting in the kitchen of her small house. Kim was at her side, an arm around her.
‘It was an accident, Mum,’ Kim said.
The closeness of mother and daughter was apparent, something that Clare could not say about her relationship with her own mother. Two nights previously, she had been on the phone. ‘It’s time you found yourself a nice man and settled down. You’re too fussy and running with that old man isn’t going to help your prospects, and now you’re ferreting around for the murderer of someone who died years ago. What kind of life is that?’
A great life, Clare had wanted to say but didn’t. Contradicting her mother when she was on a roll was counter-productive and only led to one or the other slamming the phone down. Best just to let her go on for ten minutes, and then politely say that duty called. And as to the reference to the old man, Tremayne had more life in him than her mother.
The ‘nice man’ had not been appreciated either. She had had a nice man, a doctor at Salisbury Hospital, the type of man her mother would have approved of. However, it had become evident that his idea of the happy family was him at work, the wife at home looking after the house and the children, ensuring that the evening meal was prepared when he came home.
Idyllic apart from being stranded in the home. Clare was determined to remain in the police force. And if there were a child, then she’d devote the time necessary, take advantage of the generous maternity leave offered. Of course, with a baby, there would be constant intrusion by her mother, something she would deal with when the time came.
Kim could see that her mother was not faring well. Clare could see the hounds of hell unleashed if Wetherell decided to act.
With Des Wetherell mentioned by Liz and what Clare found out when researching him, it was clear that he had had a chequered career. A man sentenced for manslaughter, even if he had been cleared on appeal, was still the man who had thrown the rock. It would have been enough to thwart the career of a lesser individual, but Wetherell was still riding high.
Such men, Clare knew, do not leave things to chance. Wetherell was a man who made things happen, criticism vanish, people cease to have relevance. Not necessarily by murder, but by destroying their credibility, ensuring they are thrown on the scrapheap of life.
Liz Fairweather was in for a fall, yet she and Clive Grantley acted as though they were naïve in such matters.
‘Why did you bring Wetherell and Yatton into the investigation?’ Clare asked.
‘Have you spoken to Des Wetherell?’ Liz asked, ignoring Clare’s question.
‘Not yet. We’re meeting him tomorrow. In the meantime, you need to tell me more. What about the acts of anarchy? What about Richard Grantley? Had you ever met him or someone similar? Is there a doubt in your mind?’
‘Doubt, regret, yes.’
‘Then tell me. We can’t leave Clive where he is, we can’t have him carrying the guilt. We need the murderer of his brother, and somehow you’re the key.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Mother!’ Kim interjected. ‘Tell Clare about the other men.’
‘Very well. There were men I can’t remember, men at some march or other, a demonstration here and there. I was a tart, Kim knows that, and one of those men could have been Richard. I wouldn’t know.’
‘And he may have bragged to Clive that he had slept with you, given him personal details, insulted you. Do you believe that Clive murdered his brother?’
‘I don’t want to,’ Liz reluctantly said.
‘Proof? Where’s the proof?’
‘When we met, Clive and I, he mentioned his brother on a couple of occasions. How much he disliked him.’
‘Wished him dead?’ Clare asked.
‘Not in those words, but yes. To me, Richard sounded fine, but then I never met him.’
‘Did you ever meet Grace Thornberry, Clive’s ex-wife?’
‘Clive came with me to Manchester once to a presentation by a scholar on Greek philosophers. It was before I became pregnant. We were sitting in a restaurant when a woman came and sat down with us. She shook my hand, smiled at me. She leant over to Clive and whispered in his ear. She then left. Afterwards, I asked him who she was. He told me. It put a dampener on that weekend, I can tell you.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘Never, and I don’t think Clive has. He would have told me if he had.’
***
Des Wetherell weighed his options very carefully. Nigel Nicholson told him that there was nothing to worry about, all loose ends had been taken care of.
Outside, waiting to enter the plush office, Inspector Keith Tremayne and Sergeant Clare Yarwood.
Wetherell was not so confident that Nicholson was right in this instance. ‘What do you have on the two outside,’ he asked.
‘I gave you a summation before. Tremayne, crusty, heading to retirement, old school policeman.’
‘The type that doesn’t listen to their seniors when they tell them to back off, incorruptible, never taken a backhander in his life?’
‘That’s our Inspector Tremayne. He likes to have a flutter on the horses, not very successfully, though. He’s not in good physical condition, either. A health scare sometime back, and he’s currently off the cigarettes, cut back on beer.’
‘Life’s pretty miserable for him,’ Wetherell said. He could sympathise with Tremayne on the cutting back. His prostate was giving him trouble, his libido was down, and he was missing out on his ego-boosting escapades.
‘Sergeant Clare Yarwood, competent, admires Tremayne, friendly with his wife. Attractive, I’ve just seen her outside.’
‘Tremayne, gambling on the horses, compulsive?’
‘A moderate loser, a few pounds each way, nothing to hold the man with.’
‘Inspector Wallace?’
‘He’s under control. Anything of concern, he’ll keep us updated.’
‘No connection back to me.’
‘Of course not. I’m not a fool. How are you going to handle our visitors?’
‘Lay it on thick. A friend of the police, a fine job they’re doing. Good old Liz, I haven’t seen her for a long time.’
‘I hope you don’t,’ Nicholson said. ‘Tremayne will see through that in a flash.’
‘I’ll play it straight and professional. What about Liz Fairweather?’
‘She’s trying to protect Clive Grantley, maybe even herself. Why she mentioned you and Yatton still makes no sense.’
‘A tactical error?’
‘I doubt if she knows much about tactics.’
‘She knew about other things when I knew her.’
‘Don’t mention that to the police, don’t ridicule her.’
Wetherell pressed a button on his desk, it was answered from the other room. ‘Would you please ask Inspector Tremayne and Sergeant Yarwood to come in?’
Inside Wetherell’s office, the man stood to greet Tremayne and Clare. He shook Tremayne’s hand first, placing his free hand on Tremayne’s shoulder, an approach Clare had seen him do before on the television.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Yarwood,’ Wetherell said as he shook Clare’s hand, no hand on the shoulder, no broaching the invisible barrier be
tween respect and intimidation.
Wetherell looked over at Nicholson, a brief handshake from him. The man did not smile although he maintained a pleasant demeanour.
‘What can I do for you?’ Wetherell asked. Clare looked around the office, the luxury of it.
‘We’re investigating the murder of Richard Grantley,’ Tremayne said.
‘I heard about it, not sure why I’m of interest.’
‘We follow up on every lead, no matter how remote. Your name has been mentioned as someone from the time when the man died.’
‘My client is not going to answer questions for which he has no answers,’ Nicholson said calmly. ‘He is an important man, well-respected in the community, influential.’
Clare knew that Nicholson had erred. If the words ‘influential’ or ‘friends in high places’ were ever mouthed, it meant something was hiding in the shadows.
Tremayne ignored Nicholson’s statement.
‘Mr Wetherell, you were a university student along with Liz Fairweather and Monty Yatton, is that correct?’
‘A tragic loss, Monty. I read about it, burnt to death, they said.’
‘Smoke inhalation. At this time, we’re treating his death as accidental, although we may revise that to murder subject to our investigations.’
‘We’re not here about Mr Yatton,’ Clare said. ‘Your association with a radical element at the university, your subsequent membership of an anarchist group, concerns us more.’
‘We were all idealistic back then. It was Liz who mentioned my name. I don’t know why.’
‘Are you denying that you belonged to an anarchist group determined to overthrow the legitimate, democratically elected government?’
‘Sergeant Yarwood, may I remind you that Mr Wetherell is not on trial here,’ Nicholson said. ‘He’s not been accused of any crimes, apart from foolishness in his youth. If your belligerent questioning of a man who has done a lot for the working man in this country continues, then I will be forced to end this meeting.’
‘My apologies,’ Clare said. She looked over at Tremayne, knew that he’d be pleased she had rattled the chains.
‘I’ll forgive your outburst,’ Wetherell said. ‘I was involved with a radical group at university. We saw communism as a better option for this country. Mostly we theorised, debated, made banners, drank, smoked. Not a lot more than that.’
‘And got laid.’
‘As you say, got laid. Why has Liz mentioned my name? She’s a respected university professor now, an expert on Ancient Greek history. Back then, she was not the same person.’
‘We are aware of her past, her involvement with you, with Monty Yatton.’
‘And a few more besides. Has she been candid with you?’ Wetherell was gently taking down Liz Fairweather’s credibility, an approach postulated by Nicholson. It was not going to work.
‘She slept around. Sometimes with men she knew, you and Monty Yatton, sometimes with men she didn’t. She has told us that she was promiscuous, and she has no regrets from that period.’
‘Then why myself and Yatton? You’ve not explained your reason for being here.’
‘Richard Grantley remains a mysterious character. We believe that for some years he was involved in undercover work, infiltrating anarchist groups, radical university elements. He may have come into contact with you and Yatton, as well as Liz Fairweather,’ Tremayne said.
‘If he were undercover, he wouldn’t have used his real name, so how would I know?’
Clare pushed a photo across the desk. ‘This is what he looked like in his twenties.’
Wetherell looked at the photo and then pushed it back. ‘I can’t say I recognise the man, but it was a long time ago. I can’t remember anyone suspicious.’
‘A polling station was blown up, no loss of life. It was around the time that you were at your most radical.’
‘My client is not here to discuss anything other than the death of Richard Grantley,’ Nicholson said. He had risen from his chair to emphasise the point. ‘He has made it clear that he never knew the man, that he’s not involved, and this assertion that he was involved in an act of violence is not acceptable.’ Nicholson sat down again, a look of disdain on his face.
‘We believe that Monty Yatton was involved,’ Tremayne said. ‘We also know that the intended target was a man with extreme right-wing views.’
‘Half the country was against him. He wanted to bring back capital punishment,’ Wetherell said. ‘There were demonstrations, banner-waving up and down the country, a few in support, most against.’
‘Someone went further than sounding off, someone made a statement, exploded a bomb.’
‘And Liz thinks it was that silly little man and me.’
‘You didn’t like Yatton?’ Clare asked.
‘Not at all. Not enough gumption to stand up for himself and to tell the world he was gay. It’s not as if society was too condemning back then, and it wasn’t illegal. Sure, he would have received a few comments, a few offers probably. Why hide it?’
‘He still slept with Liz Fairweather.’
‘He was always trying to blend in, appear more macho than he was. If you pop enough pills, you can manage anything. That’s what it was with Yatton. He was game for anything.’
‘Addicted?’
‘He couldn’t keep away from them. Not totally addicted, not like heroin. The great philosophical debates we had when we were high.’
‘Richard Grantley, are you sure you never met him?’ Tremayne asked one more time.
After the two police officers had left, Nicholson came close to Wetherell. ‘Don’t give me any more nonsense about how you were a harmless bystander. You recognised that photo, didn’t you?’
‘It could have been the man who sold us the explosives. But I’ll state it again. We didn’t explode our bomb, someone else did it before us. I’m innocent of the crime, not the intent.’
Chapter 18
Clive Grantley was released from his cell at Bemerton Road Police Station. He had protested vehemently to Tremayne, yet was not willing to confide more if there was more to be told. Tremayne was not sure on that point. He knew one thing, he wasn’t going to hold a man in a cell when he had offered no proof of how he had killed his brother. Not even a where and when, nor how he had managed to dig a hole into a burial mound at night unseen, and to have concealed it in such a way that none of the hikers who regularly traversed the area had seen anything suspicious.
‘I’m guilty,’ Grantley protested as he was removed from the police station. Outside Kim sat in the driving seat of her small Audi; in the rear, Liz Fairweather. It was her first time in Salisbury for over twenty years, the first time that she publicly acknowledged the relationship with Grantley.
It had happened late the previous day, the revelation that Clive Grantley was indeed the father of Kim, his personal assistant.
Tremayne was sure it was the handiwork of Nigel Nicholson, Wetherell’s lawyer. He had met his sort before, the man who could fall into a pigsty and come up smelling of roses. Wetherell was guilty of crimes, Tremayne knew that, although which ones he couldn’t be sure. But the man was connected, and he’d make sure to keep his distance, not say anything out of turn in case it was misinterpreted and to discredit those who could throw stones at him, such as Liz Fairweather and Monty Yatton.
Yatton was dead, and the erstwhile Inspector Roddy Wallace was holding to the story that death was accidental, and the case would be wrapped up tight soon enough and filed away.
Liz Fairweather, if not discredited, was a person with a history, a probable anarchist, the mother of a child born out of wedlock, a secret lover. None of these individually was condemning, but seen as a whole they would weaken any story she wished to weave against Wetherell and anyone else.
A media crew were at the police station, their microphone and camera thrust into Clive Grantley’s face, another crew were shouting through the closed windows of Kim’s car, scratching the paintwork, annoying Kim, f
rightening Liz.
A uniformed constable came over and moved the crews away. Clive Grantley got in the front passenger seat; Kim drove off. Clare was one car behind as the vehicle headed towards Grantley’s house in the Cathedral Close.
Grantley said little on the short trip, occasionally glancing around at Liz, not speaking, attempting a smile.
At the house and with the door closed, he was more vocal. ‘Liz, you exposed yourself to danger to protect me. Why?’
‘I had to, you know that. If the police were looking elsewhere, they wouldn’t be focussing on you.’
Kim Fairweather stood to one side. At any other time, she would have been glad to see them both in the house, the acknowledgement, now public knowledge, that she was indeed their daughter, but she could not feel any pleasure in the situation, the calmness that such a revelation should engender. In short, she was frightened for them both. Two people that she loved dearly.
‘We’ve got to be united,’ Kim said. ‘One of you can’t do something without telling the other. And how are we going to handle the television crew outside? You both need to make a statement.’
‘Why?’ Clive said. ‘Our lives are private. They belong to us.’
‘Father,’ Kim said, the first time that she could ever remember saying the word, ‘our lives are public property now. The privacy you relish can only be restored by an acknowledgement of the facts, being open with the police, an arrest of someone else for Richard’s murder. You must see that now.’
Kim could see that her father – the only word she would use from now on to refer to him – was wrestling with the concept. Her mother, more open, could see that it was the only way forward.’
‘One time only,’ Grantley said. ‘I will speak for all of us.’
‘You shouldn’t have mentioned Yatton and Wetherell,’ Kim said.
‘Your mother had my best interests at heart,’ Grantley said.
‘I will speak as well. As the daughter, it is important that I am portrayed as a sensible and well-brought-up woman.’
Kim set to work with her laptop. She sent an email to the television stations, the major newspapers in the country, as well as the local paper, the Salisbury Journal. She also phoned Clare to advise her of what was intended.
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