And then, no Grantley, only a distraught wife who had seen love. A reconciliation, professional help to deal with her loss and then her drinking and drugs. The marriage had lingered on; the intimacy no longer possible.
For him, the solution had been a succession of lovers, trips out of the country, the rendezvous where they would not be seen; Veronica oblivious to what he had been doing.
A private investigator had revealed that she had found someone else to take Grantley’s place.
Her disappearance one night had caused a panic. A phone call to a chief inspector of Langley’s acquaintance had ensured a thorough police investigation into the woman’s movements, eventually leading to the water’s edge, her handbag in a rubbish bin, the coat she had worn discarded at the scene, the open verdict recorded as suicide, though no note had ever been found.
Langley, suitably bereft and full of sorrow, had stayed another eight months in Singapore before relocating to England. A move that on reflection had been worthwhile, but now came the re-examination of Veronica’s death, the questions, the suspicion, and Grantley dead in Salisbury, supposedly in a location where he should have never been discovered.
‘Don’t worry, Anthony,’ Lady Langley said as she came over and sat by him, kissing him on the cheek.
‘It’s one more complication I don’t need,’ Langley’s reply. He saw his second wife as decorative, and her comment, encouraging or otherwise, was not needed. She had a purpose in the relationship. As long as she kept to that, then she could stay. If she did not, then to hell with her.
Anthony Langley, for all his piety, was not a good man. He knew that Grantley had suspected it, Veronica had not cared, and his current wife neither had the intellect nor the wisdom to see the truth.
Langley picked up the phone and made a call.
***
Justin Ruxton never met Tremayne and Clare. He had been released on his own surety with explicit instructions to remain at his hotel. He had agreed, a French lawyer arguing his case.
The suicide letter found in his room stated that he was sorry, but he could not go on. He felt worthless, isolated and lonely. His struggles with bipolar and mood swings were documented: the depths of depression, the periods of normality, and as his letter stated, ‘It all seems so pointless’.
Tremayne, as he sat in the hotel restaurant, saw it as further justification for the view that Des Wetherell was a murderer.
If Wetherell and Nigel Nicholson were guilty of murder in Dundee and a faked suicide in Nice, France, then that was a matter for the authorities in those two locations.
Ruxton’s body was discovered later that day at the bottom of a cliff no more than five hundred yards from where Tremayne sat. Clare phoned Kim to find out about her mother.
‘She’s on the way to Cambridge. I’m with her,’ Kim replied.
‘Turn around, go back to Salisbury now,’ Clare said forcefully.
‘Mother won’t be deterred.’
‘Another person has died. The man worked for Wetherell.’
‘Murder?’
‘It’s murder, we’re sure of it, but there’s a suicide letter. We must assume duress was applied. Stay with your mother if she won’t listen to common sense.’
‘I will, not that I can do much. Are you sure about this? Is it this dangerous?’
‘It’s dangerous in Salisbury, but I can ensure some protection at your father’s house. I also suggest that you hire a security company. Not a cheap one out of the phone book, only the best.’
‘Do you have a suggestion?’
‘I’ll text you one,’ Clare said. ‘Now, get your mother to turn around. This is serious. I don’t want her dead, not now.’
With Liz returning to Salisbury, Clare rejoined Tremayne. With him was Inspecteur Michel Villedo, a smartly-dressed man who shook Clare’s hand. His English was perfect, with a soothing French accent. He was an impressive man next to Tremayne, who after the flight and the disappointment sat in the early afternoon heat in his crumpled suit, his tie askew, although Clare wouldn’t have changed him. The man was what he was, take him or leave him, and he was still the best investigative police officer she had met and the most dogged at following through to the conclusion of the murder enquiry.
‘The body has been recovered,’ Villedo said. ‘The circumstances are suspicious.’
‘Proof of murder?’ Tremayne asked.
‘There are signs of a scuffle at the top of the cliff, and the dead man had been drinking.’
‘Is the drink relevant?’
‘I phoned the local police where he lived in England. They checked, and Justin Ruxton, it has been confirmed, never drank alcohol, not even when he was at his most depressed.’
Both Tremayne and Clare were impressed by Villedo’s proactive style of policing.
‘Is the man’s identity confirmed?’
‘We phoned when he became of interest to us. His body had not been found then. His passport was in his room, and the face is still recognisable. It is him, even before we conduct the formal identification. I am afraid, Inspector Tremayne, that you and your sergeant have had a wasted trip.’
‘It’s not been wasted. The man was killed to stop him talking to us. It confirms our suspicion that Montgomery Yatton was killed on orders.’
‘Do you know by who?’
‘By who, no. For who, we do. The murder investigation will be with you and the Dundee police, an Inspector Fiona McAlpine,’ Clare said.
After Inspecteur Villedo had departed, once again shaking Clare’s hand, even kissing it gently, she phoned Fiona McAlpine to pass on the details and Villedo’s contact number. She would feel flattered by the French inspector; Clare was sure of that.
Chapter 25
It had been five days since Tremayne and Clare had returned from France, and the Grantley murder case was stagnating. Outside Bemerton Road Police Station, the weather was poor, and a mist hung over the city.
Liz Fairweather was back at Clive Grantley’s house and not enjoying it there. Clive was more visible in the city, having attended another council meeting, Kim by his side.
On the streets of Salisbury, the almost universal belief was that Clive could not have been responsible for his brother’s death: ‘such a nice man’, ‘a lovely daughter, so well brought up’, ‘the best mayor we’ve ever had’ were the comments most often heard.
Fiona McAlpine had been down to the south of France to meet with Inspecteur Villedo, Clare teasing her after the woman had had her hand kissed as well.
‘Yatton’s not so easy to prove,’ Fiona said.
‘You’re meeting with Des Wetherell?’
‘The French police will be; I’ll be with them. We can’t prove a case against anyone for the death of Montgomery Yatton. Sorry, but that’s the truth, and no one’s likely to confess. Even the French police are not sure where to go with Ruxton’s death. They’ll try, of course, but what can they do at the end of the day?’
‘Any clues as to who pushed him off the cliff?’
‘According to Inspecteur Villedo, finding someone to commit murder is not the issue; not if you’ve got money.’
‘Which Wetherell has. It appears that the man will remain free.’
‘It’s not the first time, is it?’
‘More crimes are committed by those who make the laws than those who break them. The way of the world, unfortunately, but you and I will not change that. We still have the question of who killed Richard Grantley.’
‘Another unsolvable crime?’ Fiona said.
‘Inspector Tremayne will never give up,’ Clare said.
Tremayne, even though he had not been privy to the phone conversation between Clare and Fiona McAlpine, was considering the options. Wetherell and Nigel Nicholson were unlikely to make any mistakes that could link them to Grantley’s death, and Clive Grantley had adopted an air of innocence which seemed unshakable; his earlier confession to Richard’s murder was filed in the ‘too stupid to be true’ cabinet.
&n
bsp; And as for Liz Fairweather, she was anxious to get back to Cambridge and her academic work, not to be confined to a house in Salisbury, a security company ensuring the premises were secured, the woman inside safe. She had spent her time compiling course notes, preparing lectures, discussing with her students over the internet.
Clare had met with Kim socially on one occasion, but not for long. It was still not time for Clare to tell Kim what had happened to Harry; that was for another time.
***
It was Inspector Ong who provided a breakthrough. His brief conversation with Tremayne was succinct. ‘Get out here as soon as possible,’ he said.
Tremayne had been sitting in the office, his knee troubling him on account of the damp weather. He remembered how much better he had felt with the heat on his body the last time in Singapore.
‘What is it?’ Tremayne asked.
‘The investigation into Veronica Langley’s death was badly handled. We’ve re-examined the case files, found inconsistencies. We’re exhuming the woman in two days. It would be best if you’re here while Pathology and Forensics check it out.’
‘Is there much they can do after so many years?’
‘You saw the photos after she was fished out of the harbour. But we’ve got modern technology on our side. It’s worth a shot.’
Superintendent Moulton reluctantly agreed to another trip for Tremayne.
Tremayne left the police station at three in the afternoon and drove down Wilton Road towards his house and Jean. He found her in the kitchen.
‘Pack your bags. We’re going on a trip.’
‘Where? For how long?’
Tremayne sat her down and explained that it wasn’t customary to take the family along on a police investigation, but he had suggested it to Moulton, who had agreed. Ong had made it clear that Jean would be looked after by his wife while they were involved on official business.
Jean was excited, gave her husband a hug before rushing upstairs to pack. The flight to Singapore was at four in the afternoon the next day, the cost of Jean’s ticket paid by Tremayne. He was pleased that she was going, but worried that her presence could encumber the investigation, although Inspector Ong was adamant that it would not.
Clare learnt of the trip after Jean had been told; she was delighted.
Not only was Tremayne taking Jean, but there was a possible breakthrough. Clare phoned Kim, more confident than ever that Clive was innocent. They arranged to meet at the weekend. Clare intended to drink more than she should.
***
Anthony Langley reacted with alarm at the news of the exhumation of his first wife. He had been informed officially as the next of kin.
His second wife tried to console him. It had not worked. Langley knew that for all her faults, Veronica had been a woman of substance who in her lucid moments he could turn to for advice. But the second wife, as pretty as she was, could offer no intelligent comment. Langley knew that he had married her out of loneliness, the need to have a woman in his life.
Sally Langley realised that she was only the icing on the cake, the adornment of a wealthy man, the country squire’s wife.
She was trapped in a marriage where the love of one for the other was now a pretence; her husband had revealed the truth. Unable to rationalise the situation, she walked out of the front door of the house, got into her car and drove away. There was only one solution, she knew of: shopping. It would make her happy; it always had in the past.
Langley, free of the house, walked around the grounds of the mansion. He checked that the expansive garden was well maintained; he checked on the deer that roamed freely, the sheds where the gardening implements were stored, the outside of the mansion, but mostly he thought. He thought about Veronica and when they had first met. He remembered setting up the business in Singapore, how hard she had worked, and then the success, the wealth. But mostly he thought back to the later years, when he had been too busy to give her the attention she wanted, and then the drink and the drugs. And finally, Richard Grantley.
Langley looked around at all that he had. He wondered whether it had all been worth it. Life was a journey; a journey he had started on his own, a journey that he would end in a similar manner. He grabbed a small bag, his passport, and got into his Mercedes. It was a long drive to London, but it was quicker than taking the train.
***
Des Wetherell acknowledged the applause at the TUC general meeting. It was his first meeting as Deputy Secretary General; his last if the incumbent Secretary General stood down within the next year.
Wetherell had made an impassioned speech in defence of unionism and how it remained the buffer between the injustices of the past and the future: the children down the mines and in the sweatshops, always at the mercy of the money-grabbing and uncaring, ruthless aristocrats and landowners, the mine owners, the mill owners, the savage landlords who bled them dry, left them to rot. He spoke about the Tolpuddle Martyrs, humble agricultural labourers who in the nineteenth century had protested against the gradual lowering of agricultural wages, only to be sent as convicts to Australia for making an oath of allegiance to each other and their cause.
He spoke of Thatcherism and the ongoing battle to reduce the influence of the unions, to make them irrelevant when they were needed more than ever, as the living standards of many were threatened by a weakening economy, cheap imports, the restrictive trade practices of other countries.
Wetherell spoke for almost an hour, the audience riveted as the man told stories of the past, of the injustices committed against many, the sacrifices of some of them, the gains made by a few. Each and every time he hammered home a point, he paused to allow those listening to show their appreciation of him.
An astute observer of people and the lost identity of the United Kingdom, Wetherell had structured his speech accordingly. To him, it was not only a speech for the faithful; it was a party political broadcast, he the only candidate. It was to show the union movement that he was the man to succeed the Secretary General; it was to show that the choice of a safe seat for him to enter Parliament was critical. He had set himself one year, two years at the maximum with the TUC, another year as a member of her Majesty’s loyal opposition, and then a cabinet post or the prime ministership.
As he sat down and took a sip from the glass of water in front of him, he realised that loose ends still needed to be dealt with. He messaged Nicholson from where he sat high above the membership, isolated from those whose support he needed. He despised many that he could see down there waving their banners, talking amongst themselves, working themselves into a fervour.
Wetherell knew that he was a political animal and that an animal uses whatever he can. Unionism would serve him well. It would give him what he wanted; it would give him what he had fought all his life for.
***
As fate would have it, while Tremayne and Jean were back in economy on the flight to Singapore, eating their meal off a plastic plate, at the front of the plane in first class, Anthony Langley ate the gourmet meal placed in front of him, a glass of champagne beside him in a champagne flute of the finest crystal.
It should have been Langley who was enjoying the flight the most, but it wasn’t. It was Jean who was excited about the places she intended to visit, the shops she planned to explore. Tremayne was pleased for her, but full of trepidation that caution might be thrown to the wind and his meagre finances would be left with a hefty bill to pay afterwards.
He had become absorbed by her enthusiasm, although she was to see the beauty of Singapore, he was not. He was to see the long-dead remains of a woman, not a pleasant sight at any time.
Tremayne had seen Langley at London Airport as the first-class passengers were boarded first. He had looked his way, seen Tremayne standing there, a brief nod of the head from both men.
There was no reason for Langley not to be making the trip, Tremayne understood. It was, after all, his wife that was being removed from her resting place. Tremayne had no idea of what import
ance to attach to Langley. Whether he was innocent or whether he had been responsible for Veronica’s death. The truth would be revealed soon.
On arrival, Langley left in a chauffeur-driven limousine; Tremayne and Jean were met by Ong. That night they dined at Ong’s house, Tremayne once again attempting to eat with chopsticks, Jean accomplishing it successfully.
The two men spoke of their respective investigations; the women spoke of what they were going to do the next day.
Tremayne had already had a brief encounter with the heat in the country and he handled that first day with Jean better than she did, although by the next morning, she was ready to get started, pleased that she was in the country.
Tremayne left with Ong for a brief visit to police headquarters to coordinate activities from the time of exhumation to completion.
At the headquarters, the news that Langley had obtained a court order delaying the exhumation of his wife’s body. It was not unexpected.
There was only one action, Tremayne knew; he and Ong had to meet the man, attempt to instil in him that delaying tactics were just that. There was no way that he would ultimately succeed in holding up the exhumation by more than a few days.
That wasn’t the exact truth, both Tremayne and Ong knew. If the man claimed a religious prerogative, a wish to maintain the dignity of his wife intact, a smart lawyer could string out the delay of the exhumation for months.
Before meeting Langley, Tremayne and Ong decided to visit some of Veronica Langley’s friends. The only ones they could find, due to the expat nature of a lot of the English in Singapore, were a retired businessman and his wife.
They met them in their modest flat not far from the hotel where Tremayne and Jean were staying.
‘We decided to stay on. The climate’s good for my rheumatism,’ Lilith Hempel said. She was a woman in her seventies, well-tanned, her skin taut on her face. Tremayne thought she had had a facelift.
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