‘Yarwood, we’ve got work to do,’ Tremayne said as he sat down behind his desk. He had brought a mug of tea with him. ‘Get one for yourself,’ he said.
Clare acceded to his command, although hers had no sugar, whereas his mug had two spoonfuls. ‘What’s the plan, guv?’ she asked.
‘We need to confirm Langley’s death as murder.’
‘But how?’
‘Mavis Godwin, she’s the key. She worked for the man for three years. She knows something or someone who may have had a grudge against the man.’
‘There’s something not right. You remember what I felt in the church.’
‘I can’t deal with that. Facts are facts, not the feeling that evil abounds. I don’t like those places at the best of times. Okay for weddings and funerals, I suppose, but you’ll never catch me in there against my will.’
‘And when you die?’ Clare asked.
‘Take me out to sea and throw me over.’
‘What do you want to do about Mavis Godwin?’ Clare asked. ‘You remember her husband last time.’
‘We need somewhere neutral.’
‘Not the church. I’m not going back there unless it’s vital.’
‘Yarwood, you’re a police officer, been to college, have a degree, and you’re still coming up with that. Seeing that body’s given you these delusions.’
‘I’m only saying it as it is. Maybe I’m wrong, and probably I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘Besides, the church is hardly neutral, not with the Reverend Harrison. I’ll grant you that he was creepy.’
‘What was he praying about while we were there?’ Clare asked.
‘Hell, how should I know? The man was a zealot, the same as Mavis Godwin. No doubt she prays to their patron saint every time she goes there. Maybe they pray together, holding hands, wrapped around each other?’
‘That’s a wicked thought,’ Clare said.
‘Why not? She can’t be getting much action from her husband. The woman’s frustrated, sees the church as her sanctuary, maybe the vicar as her consort. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘I know; I just don’t want to believe it.’
‘She’s made of flesh and bone and complex emotions, the same as everyone else. If those emotions aren’t being satisfied in one place, she’ll get them met somewhere else. Yarwood, we’re dealing with the real world here. People are people, good and bad, and we’re exposed to the worst of the bad. Just get used to it.’
‘I’ll keep an open mind. Anyway, we still need to talk to the woman again,’ Clare said.
***
‘You don’t understand,’ Mavis Godwin protested when Clare phoned her early the next morning. A local uniform had checked that the woman’s husband was out of the area.
‘I don’t want to do it, but I could make it official,’ Clare said. She could hear the nervousness in the woman’s voice at the other end of the phone.
‘Come to the house, but don’t bring your inspector.’
‘Give me twenty-five minutes,’ Clare said.
‘If you must.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Tremayne had been listening in on the conversation. ‘Record what she says on your phone,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some uniforms to keep a watch out for Trevor Godwin. He’ll no doubt get upset if he sees you there.’
‘If she’s got nothing to say, what’s the problem?’
‘Don’t be naïve, Yarwood. You know something’s going on, the same as I do. The woman’s involved. I don’t know how and why, but she’s involved, the husband as well.’
‘What do we know about him, guv?’
‘Not a lot. I’ve got some people compiling a dossier, but it appears that Mavis Godwin may be right. The man doesn’t seem to do much, just a few odd jobs, helps out on some of the farms, but hardly any that qualify as a regular job. She needed Langley’s money, that’s plain to see. And be careful.’
***
Clare was aware that Tremayne’s remark for her to be careful was out of courtesy, but she knew that danger existed. The woman who opened the front door of the thatched cottage may well prove to be innocent and harmless, but there were other forces at play. Clare had always been a sceptic, but that was being shaken now. Whenever her childhood friends had spoken of ghosts and evil spirits, she had passed them off as fanciful nonsense, but somehow the experience in the church had left her unnerved.
‘My husband won’t be back until late this afternoon,’ Mavis Godwin said. Clare could see that the woman was more relaxed without her husband keeping watch.
Both women sat down in the kitchen of the house, each with a cup of tea. ‘Mrs Godwin, we’re not satisfied with the death of Eric Langley,’ Clare said.
‘You ask me questions I cannot answer. Believe me, if I could, I would tell you all I know.’
‘Who scares you? Is it your husband?’
‘There are others,’ the woman said. Clare looked out the window. A storm was brewing.
‘Was Eric Langley murdered?’
‘You would not understand.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you sense it?’
‘A police investigation cannot proceed to a conclusion based on hearsay and superstition.’
‘It’s not superstition. It’s real.’
‘Are you talking about biblical text?’ Clare asked.
‘Don’t discount the good book. What it says in there is all true. I know it is.’
‘How?’ Clare asked, although she could sense the tension in the air. She put it down to the storm. It was almost dark outside, even though it was mid-morning.
‘Evil lurks around every corner,’ Mavis Godwin said. ‘I cannot tell you.’
‘And if you don’t, I’ll be going back empty-handed to an angry boss.’
‘But your life will not be in danger.’
‘Is yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can protect you.’
‘Not from those who want me dead.’
‘Who are they?’
At that moment, the storm clouds came in closer, enveloping the house. The sound of thunder could be heard.
‘Go now, please. I’ve said too much.’
‘It’s only a storm.’
‘Go, please go. I don’t want you to suffer.’
‘It’s my job to ascertain the truth. Mrs Godwin, I need to know the truth about Eric Langley.’
‘That’s as maybe, but the needs of the living are outweighed by the vengeance of the dead.’
‘Which dead?’
‘You would not understand. I cannot protect you.’
‘From what?’
‘From that,’ Mavis Godwin said, looking out of the window. At that moment, a lightning strike hit the cottage roof. ‘Don’t come here again,’ the woman said.
Clare did not need the warning. She had no intention of returning. She phoned Tremayne. ‘We’ll not solve this by regular policing,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ Tremayne asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m outside the cottage.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen,’ Tremayne said.
‘What’s the weather like up there?’ Clare asked.
‘Clear sky. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’
***
A group of villagers convened later that night: a group that could lay claim to a lineage stretching back over the centuries. One man, who spoke with the voice of authority, stood where once there had been an altar. ‘You, Trevor Godwin, have been found guilty by your peers.’
‘I intended to do it, but the police were always there.’
‘We know that you’ve lied. Your wife has spoken to the female police officer again. Do all those assembled agree with the verdict?’
Everyone shouted, ‘Let the sentence be carried out.’
‘No, please no,’ Trevor Godwin
pleaded. With no more delay, the man was bound with strong rope and dragged out of the building, his feet unable to support him. On the left-hand side of the church, the group entered a woodland. The anointed tree was chosen for its strength and its height, and not for the first time.
A rope was strung over the firmest branch. The other end was looped around Godwin’s neck. ‘Have you anything to say?’ one of the elders asked.
‘Spare my wife, please.’
‘Her fate is out of our hands.’
The strongest five of the group then took hold of the rope and pulled back, the other members joining in. Trevor Godwin was drawn up high into the tree, his legs thrashing, his face distorting as the rope bit into his throat, cutting off his ability to breathe. After a few minutes, he was let down. ‘They have been appeased,’ the senior elder said. ‘Bury him deep in the ground.’
A fine mist settled over the dead man’s body. ‘A good omen,’ one of the group said. The others expressed their joy.
Chapter 6
Clare had never been one for sitting in a pub of a night-time, but that was before she had met Harry Holchester. He was back in Salisbury and behind the bar. He had been pleased to see her come in and made the pretence of showing her around the pub, even where the beer barrels were stored, and had taken the opportunity to grab hold of her.
‘I missed you,’ he said.
‘Not as much as I missed you,’ she said. The last few days had been rough for her and Tremayne, although more so for her as she firmly believed there was more than human involvement. Langley’s death was still not confirmed as murder, and the police could not open a full-scale murder enquiry based on the aspersions of a woman who would only state that it was off the record, and then reluctantly.
Clare had phoned her up after the incident with the storm, and the woman was fine. ‘The damage is only minor,’ she said.
‘Your husband can deal with it,’ Clare said.
‘He’s not come back,’ Mavis Godwin admitted.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Sometimes he stays away for a few days. I’m not worried, glad of the peace to be honest.’
‘You were frightened when the storm came,’ Clare said.
‘Don’t you worry about anything I say. I’m just an old woman. Frightened of my own shadow sometimes.’
Clare knew the woman was lying. The woman had been terrified, the same as her.
‘Are you free tomorrow night?’ Harry asked.
‘It depends on Eric Langley,’ Clare replied.
Both were still down with the beer barrels. A voice could be heard from above. ‘We could do with some service up here.’
‘I’ll need to deal with them,’ Harry said. ‘Tomorrow, is that okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’
As they both emerged back into the bar, a cheer went up from the patrons.
‘I didn’t say a word,’ Tremayne said. He was holding a pint of beer in one hand, checking a newspaper for the form of the next horse that was to lose his money. He remembered that once he had bet on a horse that never made it to the finishing line; it had keeled over halfway around, and had been removed by a front-end loader. He knew it was a foolish pastime, but he was not addicted. Only twenty pounds here and there, and on the whole he only lost a small amount each week, no more than five pints if it was equated to beer money.
‘I’ll take your word,’ Clare said.
‘All good with the young lovers, is it?’ Tremayne said, barely lifting his head from his paper.
‘Fine, if you must ask.’
‘After you’ve calmed down, we can talk about the case.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘If that’s the case, just do up the top button of your blouse. It’s a dead giveaway.’
‘Is that why they cheered?’ Clare asked, embarrassed that there had been more than a kiss. If it had not been for the thirsty people in the bar, she knew where their unscheduled tryst would have ended.
‘No one saw. I’m trained to look for signs.’
‘What signs have you seen so far in the current investigation?’
‘I don’t hold with this idea of the supernatural,’ Tremayne said. He continued to study the horses as he spoke.
‘Nor do I, or I didn’t.’
‘It was just a freak storm, they occur from time to time. If you check with any weather forecaster, they’ll have a rational explanation for what happened at Godwin’s cottage. Any sign of the missing husband yet?’
‘We’ve got people keeping a watch out for the man.’
‘Good. When they find Godwin bring him in for questioning. What do you reckon to Spooky Sue in the 2.30 at Newmarket?’ Tremayne asked.
‘That’s the limit of your skills in picking horses? No wonder you've had such great success.’
‘Don’t go on, Yarwood. We’re off duty. And no, that’s not the limit of my horse picking skills. It’s just that the name seemed to sum up the situation. You’re spooked enough for the both of us.’
‘I’m not spooked. I saw something that can’t be explained. I saw a vicar almost comatose, a woman scared out of her wits.’
‘The world is full of crazy people. Whatever happened to Langley, whatever scared Mavis Godwin and turned the vicar into a fruitcake, there’s a rational explanation. There always is, and it’s up to us to find it.’
‘Yes, guv,’ Clare said, although she wasn’t so sure. She was only sure of one thing, she was falling in love with the friendly man behind the bar at the Deer’s Head. She looked over at him; he smiled back.
***
In another pub, not so far away, a group of men sat in one corner. All of them were locals in the remote and lonely village, all of them well known to each other and to the community in general. They were professional men, law-abiding citizens, even church-goers when needed. They were not interested in horse racing, or world events, or whether Eric Langley had died by foul means or fair. They were only interested in the malevolence of which they had undeniable proof.
‘Her fate is sealed,’ the more senior of the group, a doctor, said. ‘It is up to us to deal with Godwin’s woman.’
Of the others in the group, one was a vet, one a butcher, and the final member of the quartet, a local farmer.
‘And what of Trevor Godwin?’ one of the group asked.
‘His body has been given back to the soil,’ the doctor said.
‘We need someone to carry out the task,’ the butcher said. During the day, he would be behind the counter of his butcher’s shop dispensing meat to whoever came in: ‘Two pounds of pork sausages, Mrs Entwhistle’, ‘I’ve got some nice beef steak put to one side for you today, Mr White’. In that small pub only frequented by locals, others discouraged by the unfriendly clientele once inside, the butcher, a dour man, did not talk about the best cut of meat or the best way to prepare a meal. He only spoke of a woman’s death.
‘We will let them decide,’ the doctor said.
‘How?’
‘In the usual way.’
The word went around the pub. Silently the patrons filed out, carrying their glasses of beer. By the time they had covered the short distance to the abandoned church, their glasses were empty.
The doctor stood before the assembled group. He knew that they would support him whatever decision he made, and that dissension would not be tolerated.
‘Fellow believers,’ the doctor began, ‘we have need of someone to deal with the nonbeliever. Who wishes to gain their favour?’
Nobody nominated themselves, most took a step back. The doctor took note of those who had seemed the most anxious to remove themselves from the task.
‘We’ll deal with them another time,’ one of the elders said.
‘Then we will decide.’ The doctor pointed to a woman who had taken the first step backwards. All those close to her moved to one side.
The woman gently eased herself forward to the ce
ntre of the church. ‘I’m not the best person. I’m only a woman.’
‘You meet with her?’
‘We are friendly.’
‘You know what is required?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know the punishment if you fail to complete the task?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ the woman said.
***
It had been six days since the storm and lightning strike at Mavis Godwin’s cottage; almost seven since Trevor Godwin had been last seen. Clare Yarwood, as part of her responsibility as a detective sergeant, and also because she worried for the woman, kept in touch with Mavis Godwin, although she hadn’t been near the cottage. She had been there that once, and no matter how much Tremayne told her not to worry, she did.
After the fifth day, Clare had issued an all points warning to be on the lookout for Trevor Godwin. Mavis Godwin had told her not to bother. Clare wanted to know why. She knew the woman would not tell her over the phone, and she would not talk in the presence of Tremayne. She knew what she had to do.
This time, there was no need to station a uniform outside to watch out for Trevor Godwin. If he turned up while Clare was at the cottage, so much the better. Tremayne wanted Clare wired this time so he could hear the conversation, and if the unknown occurred again, he wanted proof.
Clare agreed, knowing that Tremayne would be sitting in his car no more than two hundred yards from the cottage.
At 2 p.m. she drove from Bemerton Road Police Station to Mavis Godwin’s cottage. She should have been thinking more about what was ahead, but she and Harry had met up again for a date, and that time she had not said farewell to him at her door; he had come in.
Mavis Godwin opened the door of the cottage. She was pleased to see Clare. ‘Please come in,’ she said. Clare saw that the woman was almost happy.
‘Your husband?’ Clare asked.
‘He’s gone,’ Mavis Godwin replied.
‘Where? Do you know?’
‘I honoured the man while he was alive. God knows how much I suffered, but now I am free.’
‘You sound as if you believe he is dead.’
Death Unholy Page 4