‘Veronica Langley?’
‘I don’t remember the name, but he wasn’t the sort of man to be satisfied with one. He enjoyed the chase, the capture, the seduction. Whoever she was, she wouldn’t have lasted long.’
‘Inspector Tremayne’s contact in Singapore came up with the name.’
‘Married?’ Liz asked.
‘Yes,’ Clare’s response.
‘That’d be Richard,’ Clive said. ‘The more elusive, the more exotic, the more desirable, then he’d be there. What about the woman’s husband?’
‘Anthony Langley. Do you know him?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
Clare sensed that Clive had not been candid with her. She didn’t know why and it troubled her.
‘Why is this important?’ Kim asked. Fifteen minutes earlier, as she had left the council offices, she had been happy; now she was not. It was as if a blanket had come down over her.
‘Veronica Langley was fished out of the water in Singapore, the verdict given as suicide,’ Clare said. The focus was the woman’s husband: his reaction to his wife’s affair with Richard, the death of his wife and how he had taken it, whether he could be implicated.
‘Richard?’
‘It wasn’t Richard. It was years after he had left Singapore. The woman had a history of alcohol and drug abuse. The verdict of suicide would have been correct, given that there were no other extenuating circumstances. But now, with Richard and Veronica Langley, the net gets tighter. If the woman’s death was not suicide, then who killed her and why? And there was a picture in Richard’s office, a burial mound, Stonehenge in the background.’
‘Where is this leading?’ Kim asked.
‘To the truth, I hope,’ Clare said. She was feeling uncomfortable, concerned that she should not have revealed a new avenue of enquiry, especially if Clive and Liz were involved. And now, Kim was interceding, asking questions that could not be answered.
‘The woman died, but when?’
‘It was years after she had finished with Richard, and she had stayed with her husband, the loving wife in public, the wild woman at home. If Anthony Langley had arranged for his wife’s death or had hired others to deal with her, he could also have had Richard killed. It would answer the uncertainties that we have, but your father is still the most likely suspect.’
‘Father would never do such a thing.’
‘A daughter’s belief in her father will not help in court. Proof of who is responsible is what we need.’
‘Very well,’ Clive said. ‘Richard did mention the woman on one of his drunken phone calls.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it? Why lie?’
‘He was serious about her, or so he said to me. Not that you could ever place faith in what he said. He had made a career out of deception.’
‘You’ve not answered why you lied.’
‘Because it would further prove my guilt.’
‘Why?’
Liz and Kim sat mutely watching Clive shift uneasily in his seat. He stood up and moved closer to the large window; its curtains were drawn back to let in the sun.
‘She was another woman that Richard took from me.’
‘In Singapore?’
‘What do you know about Veronica Langley?’
‘English, born in Bristol, grew up there. Her surname back then was Cuthbertson.’
‘We were boarded there, Richard and I. An exclusive college in our early teens.’
‘You knew Veronica?’
‘We both did, but we were younger then. She was my friend more than Richard’s. Our friendship was prepubescent, harmless and sweet. Nothing overtly sexual.’
‘Love?’
‘Childish make-believe, the sort that does not harm. Pledging each to the other until eternity.’
‘What happened?’
‘We left there after eighteen months and returned to Salisbury, went to Bishop Wordsworth’s grammar school.’
‘And what of Veronica?’
‘We kept in contact by letter for a few months, and then she stopped writing. I never thought any more about her, not until Richard phoned up, bragging as he always did, putting me down, giving me graphic details of him and Veronica.’
‘What did you do? What did you say?’
‘He had come across her at a function. She was married, a plus in her favour, she was someone who had preferred me to him, although we weren’t much more than children then, and her husband was a powerful man. The challenge would have been irresistible.’
‘You never answered my question. What did you do?’
‘Nothing. I let him have his say.’
‘Are you telling me that you felt nothing that he was charming a woman who had loved you, admittedly a childish love, still important though. He was sleeping with her, using her for his own gratification, not caring for her, a woman you had cared for.’
‘I was angry. I’m sorry to hear of her death.’
Clare left the house confused and concerned. The visit had not helped to clear Clive Grantley; instead, it had further condemned him.
***
A sweeping driveway, a grand mansion at the end of it, reflected the success that Anthony Langley had achieved for himself.
Tremayne was impressed with the man, dressed as a country squire, who welcomed them. Langley was in his early sixties, yet his head of hair was still full and not totally grey, only streaking at the edges. Clare thought it was a contrived look, designed to impress those that knew the man and those that didn’t.
‘Inspector Tremayne, Sergeant Yarwood, please come in. It’s always a pleasure to meet members of our excellent police force’.
The silver tongue, the elegant manners, the fashionably decorated mansion, the trophy wife, all contrived to convey the aura of success.
Clare looked at Langley’s wife, Lady Sally Langley, her husband having been tapped on the shoulder for services rendered to charity.
‘Sir Anthony, you’re aware of why we’re here?’ Tremayne said, a cup of coffee in one hand. A butler stood nearby awaiting further instructions.
‘Sadly, it’s to do with Veronica.’ The right air of sorrow shown by Langley.
Clare recognised that he was attractive, but distrusted him. The man’s wealth, the aristocratic accent, the ‘butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth’ demeanour may have convinced many; it did not convince her.
Prior to the trip down to St Austell – Clare had driven as usual – she and Tremayne had read up on Sir Anthony Langley: his humble working-class background, the son of a train driver and a shop assistant, his scholarship into one of the best schools in the country, his academic success, the two degrees in economics and finance, both honours. And then at the age of twenty-four, he had struck out on his own. First in real estate development, making a fortune, going broke when the market collapsed. And then at thirty-four moving to Singapore, finally returning to England after Veronica, his wife for nineteen years, committed suicide.
Lady Langley sat quietly, smiling as she was expected to. She was younger than Clare and was dressed in designer labels. Her history was well known: a successful model, she had walked the catwalks of the major fashion houses of Europe, minor parts in three movies.
The butler, resplendent in tails, continued to hover.
‘We need to talk about your time in Singapore,’ Tremayne said, lifting his head in the direction of the butler.
Langley dismissed the man. ‘I’m an open book. Ask me what you want.’
‘Your wife?’ Clare asked.
‘My wife can stay. There is nothing hidden in my past, and most of it is in the public record. No doubt you can tell me more about myself than I can,’ Langley said convincingly.
‘Very well,’ Tremayne said. ‘Veronica, your first wife died. A tragic accident, or…’
‘Suicide, Inspector. Don’t try to make it out to be anything else.’
‘Did you know Richard Grantley?’
‘I knew a Raymond Alston, although
your sergeant told me that was the name he was using there.’
That was something Tremayne and she hadn’t considered, Clare realised. If Veronica had known the man as Richard Grantley as a child, then why had she accepted him as Raymond Alston in Singapore.
‘They are one and the same.’
‘Then I knew him. I liked him at first, but then I realised he was an opportunist, always pushing, aiming to get an edge on other people.’
‘Including you?’
‘Including me, but he never succeeded. I played hard but fair, more profitable in the end.’
‘Tell us about him.’
‘A good-looking man, confident, an air of authority about him. A man you instantly like, but in time, some see through the veneer.’
‘Your wife never did.’
‘My wife had issues. A loving woman and we were happy, but she was weak of spirit. Life had dealt her a bad hand.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Let me tell you the events leading up to her disappearance,’ Langley said, an attempt to deflect the conversation.
‘I’d prefer to focus on the time that Richard Grantley was in Singapore. Both you and your wife knew him.’
‘We did, as a business colleague on occasions; as a friend on others.’
‘Do you want me to spell this out, or do you wish to explain the relationship between Grantley and Veronica?’
‘My wife was weak.’
‘You’ve already said that.’
Langley took no notice of Tremayne’s impatience, only taking a casual sip of his coffee, looking at his second wife, glancing back to the police inspector. ‘Veronica always needed crutches in her life. Not that I ever knew why as her parents were perfectly sensible people. In her childhood, she had her school and her circle of friends. In her later years, a boyfriend, a casual lover, always something to keep her steady.’
‘Did you know Richard’s brother?’
‘I never met him, and remember, we didn’t know him as Richard Grantley, only as Raymond Alston.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ Clare said, as anxious as Tremayne for Langley to get on with it.
‘I was a few years older than Veronica when we met. I had only just arrived in Singapore. She was upset due to a lost boyfriend. We hit it off, moved in together after three weeks, married in six months.’
‘You’re in Singapore. What then?’
‘I went into business. I didn’t have much money, but I had contacts. Within a year I had an office, a staff of eight. Veronica had been the receptionist, accountant, even the tea lady for the first couple of months. I made a few good calls on the market, made several people richer than they had been before. After two years we had enough to splurge out on a penthouse flat. Life was good, we were good, but then Veronica, who had had a full life, had time on her hands. She took to the shops and then to the golf course or whatever diversion she could find.’
‘Drink?’
‘She always drank more than I did, but with her life of leisure, the drinking became heavier, and then it was cocaine. Soon her life was spiralling down, and there wasn’t much I could do. After all, I couldn’t use her in the office again.’
‘Richard Grantley?’ Tremayne asked.
‘An alcohol and drug-dependent person always needs the next fix. I ensured that Veronica didn’t progress to heroin; my efforts, however, did not stop her from becoming involved with the man.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do? I had no option but to continue with the business. I became a workaholic, only coming home when the desk was clear, no loose ends. I couldn’t stand to see what Veronica had become; powerless to stop it.’
‘Did you try?’ Clare asked.
‘I did the best I could. Not the best excuse, I know, but what else was there for me to do. She hung onto Grantley, discreetly, although everyone knew, and if we needed to attend somewhere as the loving married couple, she’d stop the alcohol and the drugs for a few days before.’
‘She wasn’t addicted?’
‘An event to attend, and she had the distraction. I don’t think she saw Grantley at those times, and then he was gone. She was inconsolable, not because she loved him, but he had become one of her three crutches.’
‘Your marriage continued?’
‘For a long time. The same routine as before.’
‘Another lover?’
‘There was one. By then, I had come to realise the reality. There was no point in trying to stop her.’
‘And then she committed suicide?’
‘She disappeared. No one knew where she had gone, and for months, I did what I could. I thought she had gone overseas, but nothing. Life eventually moved on, and I continued with my business.’
‘The day your wife was found?’
‘There wasn’t much to identify. She always wore a necklace that I had given her, so that gave them the first clue. DNA checking confirmed it was Veronica. That’s all I can tell you about Veronica and Grantley.’
‘A sad story,’ Clare said.
‘Sad, as you say, but life goes on; it must.’
Clare could agree with Langley’s outlook on life, although he had not convinced either her or Tremayne as to his innocence in the deaths of two people.
Chapter 24
Not only had Justin Ruxton phoned Roddy Wallace’s mobile number, Ruxton’s number visible in the received calls list, but after checking into a hotel in France under a false name – no one was checking passports – he had started using his English credit cards.
It was Clare who received the first call about him, from a town in the south of France. Ruxton was spending time enjoying the hospitality of the French police, his confinement at the police station a result of the APW that Clare had organised in England. It applied equally well in France, and while Ruxton had not been charged with any crime, he was still a person of interest in the cases of Monty Yatton and Liz Fairweather.
Inspector Fiona McAlpine in Dundee had secured an open verdict on Yatton, the final police report stating that there was no evidence to confirm that the man had died as a result of criminal activity.
The man’s death was suspicious, however, and it was believed that Montgomery Yatton, a timid man, would in time have revealed all that he knew.
Ruxton, from what Clare had deduced, was of the same ilk: a smart man, but not strong-willed and indeed of a nervous disposition. And now he was in France, and no charge could be levelled against him. Phoning a police officer was not a crime, only what he may have said or done.
Ruxton’s detention caused elation in one place, fear in another.
Nigel Nicholson was concerned. It had been him that had instructed the young lawyer to deal with the police inspector in Dundee.
It was clear to Tremayne that Ruxton needed to be interviewed and soon. Liz Fairweather was heading back to Cambridge, Anthony Langley was using his wealth to secure a team of lawyers in case the police needed to speak to him again, and Clive Grantley was more visible in Salisbury. Amongst the people identified, one, probably two, were murderers.
Moulton had given his approval, the tickets had been purchased, the flight was later that day. Tremayne knew that he’d have to break it gently to Jean that the trip to the south of France was not a holiday and she wasn’t going. He knew she’d understand, but she’d been the one wanting to travel, him resisting. So far, he had been to Singapore, and now France, and all she had had was a trip to the supermarket of a Saturday.
Clare was ambivalent about the trip. She had travelled around Europe with her parents, and then on school trips. Cultural tours to visit art galleries, a chance to immerse the pupils in the local languages. The pupils had seen it differently, and whereas most of them had been interested in the culture and the languages of the places they’d been to, the highlight for most had been getting drunk on the local wine, flirting with the local youths, one or two experiencing a cold marble floor underneath them, a more intimate exchang
e of cultural values.
Clare could admit to the first two, not the third, although her friend had had a rude awakening of cultural values when, nine months later, she had given birth.
***
Anthony Langley, calm when meeting Tremayne and Clare, did not stay that way for long; not after receiving word from Singapore that the reopened case into the death of Veronica, his first wife, was likely to head into hitherto unexplored areas.
The veneer that he had developed to protect himself would crack under the modern surveillance techniques used to look into financial dealings. He had known Raymond Alston for the villain that he had been, having sussed out the man early in his time in the former British colony. Not all of Langley’s contacts were above suspicion. One of them, a casino owner in Macau, had a gruesome record of dealing with those who opposed him, a reputation of benevolence towards those who helped him.
Langley pondered the situation at his mansion in Cornwall; his wife nearby dutifully honouring her part of the deal. Pretty though she was, he had to respect her too; she was as mercenary as him.
If his dealings with the casino owner and one or two others became known in England, his credibility would be threatened. That was why he had passed them over to the man the police now referred to as Richard Grantley; forty per cent of a great deal was better than nothing.
Grantley had played his part; played it well, up until he had seduced his wife, Veronica, with his charm and wit. Langley had known that it had hurt him, not emotionally, not as much as it should have, but because he was the man they laughed at behind his back. The man whose wife would be there with him at the various functions, at Government House, at home when they were socialising. The perfect hostess, the attentive wife, the trollop who lay on her back for Grantley, the two of them not aware that he noticed their exchanged looks, the gentle touching when they thought no one was looking. But he, Anthony Langley, always was.
He had decided to rid himself of her, but then Grantley made the ultimate error; he had become arrogant, and with arrogance comes sloppiness, failure to grease the correct palms, inattention to detail and failure to keep the records of who and what he was dealing with as secret as they should have been.
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