Death of a Friend (28 page)

They stood side by side as Barty telephoned Dorothy and gleaned some limited details about Hannah’s state of mind. ‘She has only been here a little while,’ said Dorothy. ‘She hasn’t told me much yet.’

With some reluctance Barty gave a brief account of Clive’s breakdown, again making no reference to Charlie’s death. ‘Someone will have to go and visit Mandy,’ he said. ‘And it sounds as if you’ve got your hands full.’

Dorothy gave a tight laugh. ‘You could say that,’ she said. ‘You might try Val and Polly. Or Miriam.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Barty, squaring his shoulders.

Miriam had obviously been thinking. ‘That young detective – the one who’s investigating Charlie’s death – he asked me if I rode – horses, not bikes. I presume he asked everybody that.’ Barty nodded. ‘Well, Clive rides, doesn’t he? He spoke about it once at Meeting. How it clears his head and makes him feel at one with nature.’

‘He borrows my Hotspur when he wants a really good gallop. We never made too much of
it at Meeting – with all you animal rights people making every sort of fuss. He rode to hounds the day Nina Nesbitt died. He didn’t expect anyone to see him. Never thought there’d be a protest that day.’

Miriam pouted thoughtfully. ‘So
Charlie
saw him,’ she said. ‘Which must have been awkward for Clive. What a silly thing to do.’

‘Worse than silly in Charlie’s eyes. Though he wasn’t Mr Sensible himself when it came to the hunt.’

Miriam withdrew slightly. ‘Hunting is indefensible,’ she said primly. ‘Barbaric in this day and age.’

He shook his head. ‘If you take hunting away, there’s precious little left to us,’ he said obscurely. ‘I mean – mankind is already living too much inside its own head. People have moved too far away from the land, from muck and pain and a sense of how it all fits together. The hunt is primitive, I grant you. Maybe even barbaric. But it isn’t wicked or evil. Those arguments of Charlie’s were beside the point. And it isn’t about jobs or culture or any of that. It’s about …’ He shook his head again helplessly. ‘It’s about denying our place. Human beings are hunters, just as tigers and wolves are hunters. If we forget that, we don’t deserve to be here in the world at all.’

Miriam’s mouth opened and closed twice more. Then she went back to her chair and sat down slowly. ‘I don’t really understand,’ she admitted hesitantly. ‘But I can tell it’s something you believe deeply. I never heard you talk like that before – with such passion. I just thought, of course you were a farmer, you’re bound to have the sort of opinions a farmer would have. But Barty, you sound more like a philosopher than a farmer to me.’

He laughed. ‘Maybe a man can be both,’ he said, almost flirtatiously.

She wagged a finger at him. ‘You got us off the subject,’ she chastised. ‘We have to think about Charlie and how he died. Did the policemen last night say anything about him?’

‘Quite a lot,’ he said heavily. ‘They’re sure to be thinking it was Clive that did it.’ The words brought relief and sadness. ‘He more or less told me he did,’ he added, reaching again for Miriam’s hand. 

Den was one of the last to hear when Frank Gratton was apprehended and taken in for questioning. He didn’t know about Clive Aspen’s evening adventure, either, until nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Detective Sergeant Danny Hemsley, back from his course and anxious to catch up with developments, phoned him and told him to cancel all plans for the day, thanks to unfolding events. ‘We’ve got two contenders for the hot seat now,’ he said. ‘And they’re both in a right old state. The Aspen chap only just escaped being sectioned last night – the doctor was within a whisker of signing the doings, when something made him think twice about it. Said we should wait till morning. And of course Mr A. is all
sweetness and co-operation today. His wife’s sitting in reception making a nuisance of herself. You should be here, Den. This is your bag more than anyone else’s.’

‘I was coming in anyway,’ said Den. ‘I’m down for the rota today.’

Frank Gratton was first in line for questioning. DI Smith was doing the honours when Den arrived. The interview lasted thirty minutes, with Den waiting impatiently for the outcome.

The Inspector emerged, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. ‘Morning, Cooper,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Den, a little disgruntled. ‘I need to do a bit of catching up. Any luck with Brother Frank?’

‘Yes and no, as they say. Yes, he freely admitted he was Charlie’s biological father. Seemed quite glad to get it off his chest. He said he’d tried to tell the Cattermoles, when Charlie took up with Alexis, but they wouldn’t listen. And no, he did not kill the lad – and
lad
was the word he used. He seemed almost amused at the suggestion, actually. His manner’s odd, but then I’ve never interviewed a chap who’s slept with his mother before. I wasn’t sure what to expect.’

Den did not smile; the jokes were too obvious, the idea too uncomfortable; the implications too unhappy. Smith grew serious,
as if remembering the circumstances, but Den felt wary. It was not a good idea to present yourself as morally superior to the man above you on the ladder.

‘Did you ask him to explain? I mean, the stuff with his mother?’

‘He was only too keen to tell me,’ said Smith. ‘Not that he made a lot of sense.’ Den waited as the Inspector gathered his thoughts. ‘You were right that it was at least as much her as him. He never really thought of her as his mother, in the usual way. She flirted with him, played with him – you know, with his winkle when he was little. He thought it was the same for everybody until he got a bit older and had a few rude awakenings at school. He learnt then to keep it all secret, pretending it wasn’t happening, even to himself. But he loved her. Being around her got him all excited. When he was fourteen it got deadly serious. She’d come into his room at night.’ Smith sighed sadly. ‘It’s not so different from the usual story with fathers and daughters, when all’s said and done. She was the adult and he was the child. You have to see it that way – she abused him.’

‘But she got pregnant and she drowned herself,’ said Den. ‘Makes you wonder just who the victim is.’

‘They’re
all
victims,’ growled the DI. ‘Which
tends to be true in most of these family tangles.’

‘And how is he now he’s unburdened himself?’ asked Den.

‘Like a man waiting for execution. As if nothing matters any more.’

‘But you think he’s guilty, in spite of what he says?’

‘I’m not sure he is, damn it. It all fits too neatly and life isn’t neat, in my experience. The man’s grief-stricken about old Bill. Maybe about Charlie as well. He’s too bloody
decent
,’ he burst out, greatly to Den’s surprise. Smith clenched his fists and shook them in mock rage. ‘I don’t mind telling you I’d love to be able to pin this on him and go home for a nice relaxing Easter, but I’ve just spent ninety minutes with a man I wouldn’t object to spending a week in a small tent with; a man I’d be happy to call
friend
. Sorry, Cooper, but there it is.’

Den followed a stray lateral thread. ‘Exactly where was he when you went to find him? It must have been pretty early.’

‘Oh – haven’t you heard? He was in church at 7 a.m. The vicar found him weeping and when he approached him, Frank said he wasn’t fit to be in such a place.’

‘And the vicar called us?’

‘No, no. They don’t do that sort of thing. But the church had a burglary recently, and some
woman across the village green saw him going in and raised the alarm.’

‘Poor Frank.’

‘Yes,’ said Smith.

Den rallied first, after a few moments of gloom. ‘Then it’s Clive Aspen,’ he said. ‘It fits him just as neatly.’

Smith shook his head, the thick neck creasing as he did so. ‘Watch your logic, son,’ he advised. ‘It’s not an either/or situation. Frank’s not off the hook, Aspen’s a basket case, and there are others to be borne in mind. First priority is to have a thorough look at the Ashburton place. Forensics are on their way, and I want you and Phil to join them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Den heavily.

‘But first you can come with me to talk again to Aspen. His wife’s getting on everybody’s nerves, sitting there like some sort of plaster saint.’

‘What happened exactly? More ructions at the Meeting House? Danny says he came close to being sectioned.’

‘Much better than that. He went to the home of a Mr Bartholomew White and more or less confessed to killing Charlie Gratton. All hearsay, obviously, and he was in a highly disturbed frame of mind, according to the chaps who brought him in. Probably not responsible for his words or actions. The interesting question is – what set
him off? Why did he go there and say what he did?’

‘Has he got a solicitor with him?’

‘Insists he doesn’t want one. Says he can handle it all himself. The doctor’s seen him again this morning, and he’s calmness personified. Come on then, see if you can help open him up. He knows you.’

‘Which may or may not be helpful,’ said Den ruefully. ‘He and I haven’t formed much of a relationship. I think I’d rather spend a week in a deep, dark cave than in a tent with Clive Aspen.’

‘Keep an open mind,’ said Smith. ‘You might discover his better side.’

Clive sat upright at the small table, chin resting on folded hands, arms propped on his elbows, the picture of a patient man. There was something clerical about him, or martyred. He looked up trustfully at Inspector Smith, ignoring Den completely.

‘Mr Aspen, I’m sure you know we’re investigating the death of Mr Charlie Gratton. I understand you’ve already been questioned by Detective Constable Cooper here and that he was called to your home again yesterday after a domestic disturbance. We are also aware of a question mark over the alleged abuse of a young boy called Clement Nesbitt, who is part
of a family with which Charlie Gratton was very closely connected. Now these are matters on which we would like you to cast some light. Last night you are reported as making some admissions to Mr White of Hill Farm Bungalow, which if true will perhaps make you reconsider your decision not to have a legal representative.’

‘What exactly are you asking me?’ said Clive with a faint frown.

Inspector Smith smiled gently and lifted his chin in a display of confidence. ‘We know Mr Gratton was deliberately killed, and we know that you’ve been very disturbed by this occurrence, in recent days. We’d like you to fill us in and explain the connection, if you can, sir.’

Clive blinked twice. He took his chin away from his hands and brought his fingertips together, the picture of a university professor – or a psychiatrist. The sense of a game being played out between the two men was acute. Den remembered how Smith had been with Gerald Fairfield, Master of Foxhounds, and began to understand the Inspector’s style of working. And how enjoyable it must be: there was a twinkle of relish in Smith’s eyes.

Clive spoke calmly, if reluctantly. ‘I knew Charlie Gratton for three years, since coming here to take up the post of Warden to the Meeting House. I became aware subsequently
that he had argued against the selection of myself and Mandy on grounds I have never properly understood. He was a birthright Quaker, from a family of Quakers going back generations. Mandy and I are Quakers by convincement. We’ve been in membership for six years. We have been surprised at the level of involvement with animal rights organisations within the Meeting. At times it has seemed to us that it has been deleterious to the spiritual welfare of the Meeting and we have done our best to counterbalance it. You might deduce from this that I had a personal dislike of Charlie Gratton.’

‘Indeed we might,’ Smith agreed. ‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific. Is Mr White correct in stating that you made a confession to him last night? That you told him you rode his horse to High Copse and deliberately trampled Charlie Gratton to death with it?’

Clive Aspen smiled tolerantly. ‘I don’t believe I said any such thing.’

‘But is it true? Is that what you did, two Sundays ago?’

‘I rode Mr White’s horse in the general direction of High Copse, along a bridle path that I think borders their land and then goes off towards Cornwall. But I took a detour, avoiding High Copse altogether.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t want to meet any of them, not after Nina’s death. Not after Charlie abused me. I went as far as Bradstone Church. Do you know it, Inspector?’

Smith shook his head. ‘Is this what you tried to tell Mr White?’

Clive waved the question aside as irrelevant and continued his tale. ‘Bradstone Church is extremely beautiful,’ he said earnestly. ‘Inside, it’s as plain as any Meeting House. You can see the workmanship, you can feel the presence of the men who built it seven hundred years ago or more. St Nonna’s, they call it.’

Smith and Den itched to stop his ramblings, but were unable to interrupt effectively. Clive went on speaking regardless. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I had a conversion.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Smith spluttered. ‘A
what
?’

‘I was converted, there in the graveyard. I’m not a Quaker any more. That’s what I went to explain to Barty White. But it didn’t come out properly. It all connects, you see. Little Clem, Charlie Gratton, the horses, the church – it’s all part of one great picture, full of meaning. I went to him because I thought he would understand. But I was overcome with unhappiness for Charlie, who was so wrong-headed. He made me
very unhappy, you know. I hated him.’

‘But did you kill him?’

‘No, I did not. Of course.’

In the pause that followed, Den stirred impatiently and looked anxiously at the DI. ‘Cooper,’ Smith invited, ‘is there anything you’d like to ask Mr Aspen?’

‘There is, actually, sir. Just a small point, although I think it’s relevant.’ He faced Clive squarely. ‘What does a red ribbon on a horse’s tail signify?’

Clive was plainly thrown off course by the question. Then he shrugged. ‘It’s a courtesy thing, where horses are gathered together. It means the animal is liable to kick out without warning.’

Smith glanced quizzically at Den, who continued, ‘And I understand that on the day that Mrs Nesbitt died, you were mounted on a horse wearing just such a ribbon?’

Clive nodded impatiently. ‘Hotspur, yes. Barty White and I have an agreement that I can use him any time. It’s good for the horse. Without me, he’d probably have been sold by now. He’s very high-spirited, but he has always behaved perfectly with me. He’s an excellent mount. But to be on the safe side, I put the ribbon on him. I don’t really think it was necessary.’ His gaze returned to Smith. ‘But I was telling you what
happened to me,’ he persisted, as if Den had been a briefly irritating distraction.

‘Just bear with us a little longer,’ begged Smith. ‘How did Charlie Gratton react to your presence at the hunt on March the twenty-fifth?’

‘I didn’t see. I kept away from him.’

‘Might he have felt betrayed?’

Clive inhaled deeply. ‘It’s possible.’

‘And might you not therefore have felt embarrassed, even ashamed?’

Clive smiled scornfully. ‘Not enough to make me want to murder him. The very idea is ridiculous.’

‘We have reason to think that you believed Clement Nesbitt was being sexually abused,’ Smith said, with no change of expression. ‘And that you anonymously alerted the authorities to it, last September.’

Clive tensed and his face turned a shade paler. ‘How—?’ he began, before stopping himself. ‘That has nothing to do with anything, now. It’s all in the past.’

‘But you did make that phone call?’

Clive nodded.

‘I understand you have no children of your own?’

Another deep inhalation. ‘No, but I’m quite sure you’re aware that we had a little boy. He died in his cot when he was ten months old. He’d
be just nine now. Neither of us dealt effectively with the loss at the time, and that contributed to my illness.’

‘But you’re confident that you’ve dealt with it now? I note that you work on a voluntary basis at the local primary school?’

‘I love children,’ said Clive. Den shuddered at the mismatch between the words and their delivery: a strong statement of emotion expressed robotically. ‘I have a genuine commitment to their welfare.’

‘To the extent of watching for signs of abuse everywhere you go? Wanting to keep them safe from all the ills and dangers of the world?’ Smith oozed sympathy and understanding.

‘It’s every citizen’s moral duty,’ said Clive.

‘I suggest, Mr Aspen, that you believed Charlie Gratton to be the abuser of young Clement, and you took it upon yourself to punish him.’

‘By riding over him on Hotspur?’ Clive’s eyes flickered as if reading an autocue. ‘I assure you I did not do that, Inspector.’

Den indicated the need to ask another question, which Smith graciously permitted. ‘Why did you have a picture of Clem Nesbitt in your flat?’

Clive hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said, with some sign of agitation. ‘I can’t explain it to you.’

‘Please try, sir.’

‘Our baby – Daniel, he was called – had the same fair hair. The same pointed little chin. The likeness struck me. I took the photo at school one day. There’s absolutely nothing sinister about it.’ His explanation was identical to Mandy’s, Den realised.