His wife had borne him three strapping boys, and two were anxious to stay and work the farm, one day inheriting it, which appeared as though it would be a long time off. Their grandfather had lived until one hundred and two, and their father looked as though he was good for a century. Not that it concerned them, as each had been given a house on the farm, large enough for a wife and two children. One of the sons had accomplished his task, the other was still to wed. The third son, his father despaired of him, was at university in Oxford, and he did not acknowledge the old ways. So far, he had revealed nothing, promised he never would, but the farmer knew the punishment for those who spoke against their protectors. Had that not happened to his cousin, Trevor Godwin?
‘It can only be with the police,’ one of the others said. His Bentley was parked outside. He was not a farmer, but a man who had travelled and obtained the necessary qualifications to allow him to practise as a doctor. He had led the group and the community for over twenty years, an honour handed down from father to son. ‘If only she had married me,’ he said.
The other two, a butcher and a vet, knew whom he was referring to: Mavis Godwin.
‘Why did she choose him?’ the farmer asked. ‘She had come here with their blessing to be your wife, to ensure the bloodline continued.’
‘Even then, she was unsure. She married Godwin out of spite for them. I would have treated her well,’ the doctor said.
‘Aye, you would have,’ the others acknowledged.
‘She had been promised to you,’ the farmer said. He could trace his ancestry back to that fateful day in 1351 when the village had been isolated by the snow and the decimating effects of the bubonic plague.
‘Mavis Godwin had told Harrison,’ the vet reminded the chief elder. ‘She would have told the police.’
‘Our secret must be kept safe. And now, the police have it.’
‘Is that confirmed?’
‘It will be.’
‘Then what must we do?’ the butcher asked.
‘We must do what is necessary.’
‘Another death?’
‘It is a small price to pay,’ the doctor said.
***
Clare was first in the office; Harry had dropped her off. Tremayne followed her within five minutes, with Vic Oldfield a close third. Neither of the two men was in the best of moods, whereas Clare was cheerful.
‘One of us looks happy,’ Tremayne said. Oldfield did not reply. He knew their DI was not referring to him, and besides, by the time he had arrived home the previous night, his girlfriend was fast asleep.
‘I am,’ Clare replied. She had brought some chocolates with her by way of a celebration. Tremayne chose first, the one that Oldfield would have chosen.
‘What’s the plan?’ Oldfield asked once Tremayne had finished with his chocolate.
‘Hughes and his people will be out at Harrison’s house by 8 a.m. I’m not sure we’ll gain much though.’
‘Why’s that, guv?’ Clare asked.
‘Fingerprints. Whoever went through Harrison’s bedroom is unlikely to be a criminal.’
‘Why not?’ Oldfield asked.
‘We’re dealing with strange people here, not criminals.’
‘Then what do we hope to gain with checking the place?’
‘More pieces of the jigsaw, that’s what,’ Tremayne said, tired of banal questions. He remembered when he had started out, a lowly constable. His DI back then, a dour Scotsman by the name of Campbell, would have chewed you out for constantly talking. The man had been autocratic, taught him a lot, even if his manner with those who he accosted was far from ideal. He’d have no trouble beating a confession out of a known villain down a back alley, an approach that Tremayne would still prefer to use on the occasional basis. Not that he was the man to administer the beating. In his twenties and thirties, no man could beat him in a fight, but now, though he stood six feet four and weighed nineteen stone, he was not as nimble as he once was.
That morning, the second in the last week, as he got out of bed, he had felt a twinge in his left leg. And at night he had woken up on a couple of occasions with a slight ache in the same leg. He knew it was arthritis, his father had suffered from it.
Tremayne looked over at Yarwood. ‘What do we know about this village?’
‘Nothing, guv.’
‘We know that Mavis Godwin used a false address. What about her husband?’
‘We know he was born in Salisbury Hospital to a Godfrey and Delilah Godwin.’
‘How?’
‘Hospital records.’
‘Was there an address?’
‘They gave an address in Salisbury.’
‘Have you checked it out?’
‘They left after two months.’
‘Forwarding address?’
‘It was nearly sixty years ago,’ Clare replied.
‘People can’t just disappear. There must be records of where they went.’
‘We’re checking.’
‘Then check harder.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Oldfield asked. He noticed the bond between the older man and his young sergeant. He knew he was still very much the outsider.
‘Get out to Harrison’s house and let me know if Hughes finds anything.’
***
Once again, Vic Oldfield found himself outside Harrison’s house. It was still dark, although the sun was attempting to make an effort to shine, not that he held out much hope.
Hughes and his team were still not there. Oldfield left the comfort of his car, a new Toyota Corolla. He still had the beat-up Subaru, but with Homicide came a police issue vehicle.
The uniform on the door appreciated the coffee that Oldfield had brought him.
‘Done well for yourself, Vic,’ Constable Hemmings said.
‘I’ve worked hard, you know that.’
‘You’re still a jammy bastard. That Tremayne’s a hard nut, though.’
‘He knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’ll grant you that. She’s a looker, that sergeant of yours,’ Hemmings said. Vic Oldfield had known the man since they had both reported to Bemerton Road Police Station eighteen months earlier. Hemmings had come from Liverpool, and he had a colourful turn of phrase. Oldfield also knew the man liked a drink, as they had been out on the occasional Saturday night when he had had to carry Hemmings into his flat and lay him out on the couch to sleep it off. There had been a warning in the past, and Oldfield was careful to keep his distance and not to say too much.
‘She’s just got engaged.’
‘I would have given her one,’ Hemmings said.
‘Don’t let anyone hear that down at Bemerton Road.’
‘Bunch of wankers, the lot of them. You must have fancied her.’
Oldfield chose not to comment. Of course he had fancied her, what man wouldn’t, but she was taken, and he had a job to do.
‘Anything to report?’ Oldfield asked as the two men stood in the front porch.
‘Too damn quiet for me.’
‘You’ve seen no one?’
‘Judging by the company around here, I don’t think so,’ Hemmings said. Oldfield knew what he meant. There was a slight breeze, and as the men spoke, the rain started to fall.
‘We can sit in my car for a while,’ Oldfield said. He knew that Hemmings had been standing outside the house for hours.
‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of heat,’ Hemmings replied, his scouse accent all too noticeable.
With both men located just eighty feet away, it was still possible to keep a watch on the house. Oldfield phoned for a replacement for Hemmings.
‘Look over there,’ Hemmings said.
‘Where?’
‘Behind that gravestone closest to the wall.’
‘What can you see?’
‘There’s someone there.’
‘Make sure the interior light doesn’t show when we get out,’ Oldfield said.
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll go down below him, you go around the back of the house and come at him from the other side,’ Hemmings said.
‘We’ll go now,’ Oldfield said. He left first, making sure not to slam the door of the car. Keeping down, he moved around the back of the house and positioned himself not more than twenty feet from the intruder. He looked for Hemmings, he could see him in position.
Oldfield crept forward, knowing that the exit points from the vicinity were limited. Where the intruder was positioned, there was a high stone wall to the rear. He knew he had the back of the graveyard covered, and Hemmings was in control of the front. Fifteen feet, ten feet. Oldfield edged forward carefully until he trod on a fallen branch; it snapped, the sound echoing off the headstones of the dear departed. The intruder, alerted, made a run for it. Vic Oldfield, a sprinter in his teens, rushed forward and grabbed the person.
‘Let me go, let me go. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Then why were you here?’
‘I saw the policeman. I was curious, that’s all.’
‘I’ve got him,’ Oldfield shouted.
‘We’ll put him in the car,’ Hemmings replied. ‘I’ve got some cuffs.’
‘Not me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ The intruder continued to squirm, attempting to get away.
Once they were in the car and with the intruder secure in the back seat, Oldfield took a closer look at him. ‘You’re just a kid,’ he said.
‘Too young for you to lock up,’ the young man said. Oldfield could see that he was in his mid-teens.
‘What’s your name?’
‘What are you going to do? Beat it out of me?’
‘Have you been in trouble with the law before?’ Hemmings asked.
‘I’m not talking without my lawyer.’
‘Another aficionado of American television,’ Oldfield said.
‘What’s an aficionado?’ the young man asked.
‘Someone who likes watching make-believe on the television. You don’t need a lawyer if you’re not guilty. If you are, I’ll organise one for you. Where do you go to school?’
‘I’m not telling.’
‘Suit yourself. A few days in the cells will loosen your tongue.’
‘My parents will get me out.’
‘Important, are they?’
‘My father knows people.’
‘Great. What’s his name?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘If he doesn’t know you’ve been arrested, then he can’t help, can he?’
‘I’m allowed a phone call.’
‘Then we’ll know your name. Stop being stupid and give us your name.’
‘Adam Saunders.’
‘Well, Adam, you’d better phone your father now. And then he can meet us at Bemerton Road Police Station.’
‘I can’t, not with my hands tied.’
‘Release him,’ Oldfield said. ‘And make sure all the doors are locked.’
‘No problem,’ Hemmings said.
***
Jim Hughes arrived thirty minutes later. By then, young Adam Saunders was friendly.
‘Check Adam Saunders’ shoe and finger prints,’ Oldfield said to one of Hughes’s assistants.
‘I’ve not been in there.’
‘It’s just a formality.’
Twenty minutes later, Oldfield arrived at Bemerton Road. Adam Saunders, no longer restrained but held firmly between the two policemen, was led into the police station and then to the interview room, after temporarily halting to let the boy visit the toilet.
The boy’s father arrived shortly after. He was combative. ‘How dare you arrest my son,’ he said.
‘He’s not under arrest,’ Tremayne informed the man. ‘He’s helping us with our enquiries.’
‘What’s the difference.’
‘No charges have been laid against him.’
‘He’s free to leave?’ Charles Saunders asked. Tremayne evaluated the man: educated, middle class, upright citizen.
‘I wouldn’t advise it. He was found in a graveyard adjoining a church where the vicar hanged himself. Coupled with that, one of the parishioners was murdered.’
‘Very well, but I want to be there when you interview him.’
‘That’s your prerogative.’
Tremayne watched the reaction between father and son; they did not appear to be close. ‘I didn’t do anything, Dad,’ the boy said.
‘We’ll talk about it at home,’ the father replied.
‘Adam, your story,’ Tremayne said. Clare sat on his left. She felt sorry for the teenager. Apart from the fact that he was in trouble, he looked remarkably like her brother at that age. He had been rebellious, always in some trouble or other; nothing criminal, but always pushing the boundary between being adult and brave and young and stupid. Adam Saunders appeared to be on the side of young and stupid.
‘I saw the policeman standing there. I was curious.
‘For how long were you there?’
‘One hour, no more. It was cold.’
‘We know someone has been in the house. Was it you?’
‘Are you accusing my son of breaking and entering?’
‘Mr Saunders, you must allow me to conduct this interview. I am not accusing your son of any criminal activity. Whether your son is honest with us or not will make little difference to the police investigation. We have sufficient shoe and finger prints to make a match. If your son was in that house, we will soon know. Just be aware that if he is subsequently found to be guilty of a criminal offence, his denial here will go against him. We have no record that your son has been in trouble with the authorities before.’
Charles Saunders turned to his son. ‘You’d better be honest,’ he said.
Adam Saunders sat upright. ‘I was just curious. I never went inside that house. I saw the policeman, that was all.’
‘Adam, you’re free to go,’ Tremayne said.
After the father and son had left, Clare turned to Tremayne. ‘You gave in easy there, guv.’
‘They were a great double act. The boy was not going to talk, not with his father present.’
‘You don’t believe he’s innocent?’
‘He may not have gone into the house, but he’s guilty.’
‘Guilty of what?’
‘We need to find out. We’ll talk further in my office.’
Outside, two people walked away from the police station. ‘Unfortunate that they saw you,’ Charles Saunders said.
‘I never got a chance. I tried, but that policeman never took a rest other than to pee on the garden.’
‘We’ll try another time.’
‘Not with me. They know me now.’
Chapter 15
Jim Hughes and his CSI team had little to report after checking the Reverend Harrison’s house. Apart from shoe prints, proven not to be Adam Saunders’, they had found nothing more. There was confirmation that whoever had entered had only been in the bedroom, having broken a window at the rear of the house. The only comment of any use was that they were amateurs.
They know the Bible’s not there,’ Tremayne said back in the office.
‘There’s one question we’re not asking,’ Oldfield said. He was standing close to the door. Clare was sitting down.
‘What’s that?’
‘How did they know about the Bible?’
‘You see, Yarwood. At least he’s on the ball.’
‘And I’m not?’ Clare replied indignantly.
‘You keep fiddling with your finger, wondering what kind of ring he’s going to buy you. There’s a jeweller next to his pub, and they’re not cheap. Don’t worry, Harry’s got plenty of money; he’ll buy you something special.’
‘Sorry, guv.’
‘Forget about him for now,’ Tremayne said, a wry smile creeping across his face.
‘Who told them about the Bible?’ Oldfield asked.
‘Mavis Godwin may have know
n but would she have told anyone?’ Clare asked.
‘It seems unlikely, so apart from Harrison and the woman, who else is there?’
‘Maybe they assumed that Harrison had written something down,’ Oldfield said. He had pulled in a seat from outside the office. Clare sat in her space, overshadowed by the two men.
‘Are we assuming there might be more in the house?’ Tremayne asked.
‘We still don’t know the name of the village,’ Clare said.
‘A job for you both. Recheck the house.’
‘But what are we looking for?’
‘Any reference to the village. Did the man have a laptop?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t use it much. We’ve checked it already.’
‘Did he have a library, some books? I remember there were books in the main room. Have you checked them?’
‘Not exhaustively,’ Clare said.
‘Then you’d better get your reading glasses on. I want every book checked. Take some help if you need it.’
‘We’ll manage,’ Oldfield said.
***
‘I suppose I’ll have to get used to this,’ Harry said.
‘It’s no worse than you down the Deer’s Head every night chatting up the women, drinking with the men.’
‘Alright. I’ll give up the women, but I still need to drink.’
‘Then that’s fine. If I finish early, I’ll give you a call,’ Clare said. She knew their phone conversation was the banter of two people in love, two people who had just pledged themselves to each other. She wanted to be with him, especially that day, but Tremayne was fired up.
‘The sooner we start, the sooner we finish,’ Oldfield said as he and Clare drove to Harrison’s house. He had heard one side of the conversation, imagined what the other side was. He’d been there in the past, a few years back, but the relationship had faded once he had joined the police force. She had not been able to deal with the irregular hours, and he was not willing to consider another profession.
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