‘A pub?’ Oldfield asked.
‘There’s one, but they were a strange group. If you weren’t a local, they sure knew how to make you feel unwelcome.’
‘We should go there, guv.’
‘I want to find out what went wrong with those cars first. I don’t fancy getting stuck down there with a bunch of murderers.’
‘You’re not starting to believe? Clare asked.
‘Careful, Yarwood. There’s a rational reason for them breaking down.’
‘What reason?’ Oldfield asked.
‘How the hell should I know?’ Tremayne snapped back. The man was on his feet and angry. He was aware both of them were hedging their bets.
***
Some of the people in the village saw the end as inevitable. The doctor, with his surgery in Salisbury, his Bentley in the driveway, was not one of them.
It had been his predecessor, his namesake, Edmund Wylshere, the young boy, who had stood up in the church seven hundred years previously. The same church where they now congregated and recited the forbidden words of a language long forgotten.
Doctor Edmund Wylshere, the name passed down from generation to generation and always given to the first-born male, stood in that same church in the same pulpit. ‘They will be here soon,’ he said.
Those assembled knew that he had spoken the truth: some were frightened, some were unconcerned, some were thinking of leaving. The exodus from the village had started fifteen years ago with the advent of modern technology. The pagan ways had been easy when people had been uneducated, but now all the children went to school, and they were easily swayed by other ideas, even forced to attend church services. One of them had eventually embraced Christianity, but he had been dealt with. The doctor, a life giver outside the village, had death on his mind that night.
‘They are looking for an offering,’ Wylshere said.
‘What kind of offering?’ one of those assembled asked.
‘A life.’
‘But we have none to give.’
‘The decision has been made.’ Wylshere kept the name to himself. The person was unpredictable. His fate was sealed.
***
Clare, persistent as usual, had obtained the mechanic's report for the two cars that had broken down. The first vehicle had suffered a major oil leak and seized, the second, driven by Constable Dyer, an electrical fault.
‘It can always be explained,’ Tremayne said. ‘The trucks that brought them back had no problems.’
Clare and Oldfield had been busy looking through the books they had taken from Harrison’s cottage. Oldfield had found no further reference to Avon Hill. Clare had found another book referring to the bubonic plague and the history of Wiltshire, but it shed no more light on why Avon Hill was integral to Mavis Godwin’s murder.
One of her neighbours had come forward to say that she had seen a car outside the Godwins’ house around the time of the woman’s death. She further stated that she had been away for a few days and that Mavis Godwin was a friend and they used to have a regular chat over the back fence.
‘Came as quite a shock, I can tell you,’ the next-door neighbour said.
‘What else can you tell us?’ Clare had asked when the woman had presented herself at Bemerton Road Police Station.
‘I’ve seen the car before.’
‘Any idea who the driver was?’
‘She was a relative.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mavis told me she was, but she never introduced me.’
‘What else?’
‘I can give you the car’s registration.’
‘Can you?’
‘Oh, yes. I always remember.’
‘Good memory,’ Clare said.
The two women were sitting at Clare’s desk. The woman was there of her own free will, she wasn’t involved, and a low-key approach seemed the best option.
‘Photographic, not that it’s much use. It certainly doesn’t pay the bills.’
‘Could I have the number please?’
‘JC84 KST.’
‘What make was it?’
‘I never looked. It was green.’
Clare passed the number to another person to make the necessary checks. The vehicle they had tailed from Harrison’s house turned out to be from the north of England. The last registered owner claimed to have no knowledge of the car, having sold it three months previously. He had the receipts to prove it, as well.
***
Tremayne was anxious to take a team to Avon Hill. Superintendent Moulton wanted proof before they went barging in. Both men were sitting in the DI’s office. Tremayne, as usual, did not appreciate the visit.
‘What’s your proof?’ Moulton asked.
‘We need to conduct a door-to-door, check around,’ Tremayne replied.
‘And then what?’
‘Everything points to this village.’
‘I’ve read the reports: ancient gods, sacrifices. You don’t believe that nonsense?’
‘Not me. Whoever is behind Mavis Godwin’s death and putting the fear up Reverend Harrison, they’re very mortal. And then there’s Langley.’
‘You’ve no proof,’ Moulton reminded his DI. He knew Tremayne was past his use-by date, and talk of ancient gods might be enough to get him out.
‘We know that Mavis Godwin was murdered, Reverend Harrison hanged himself because of what she had told him, and she told Yarwood and me that there were mysterious forces behind Langley’s death. There’s too much there not to believe that Langley’s been murdered.’
‘You’ll not prove it.’
‘Maybe, but I’m not giving in on this one.’
‘Suit yourself. If you make a fool of yourself, don’t blame me.’
Tremayne looked at his senior, knew full well that the man wanted him to make a fool of himself, but he wasn’t going to give him that pleasure.
‘Super, we know that Avon Hill is isolated, no more than seventy to eighty inhabitants. And it’s only been in the last fifty years that there’s been a road through there. Before that, it was a dead end. They could have been getting up to all sorts of monkey business down there.’
‘And you believe that someone will talk if you start asking questions?’
‘It’s a long shot.’
‘I’ll need more information before I approve,’ Moulton said.
‘It’s only a reconnoitre, sir.’
‘If what you are suggesting is true, they’ll not give in easily; it could get violent. I propose that you do some more research on who lives down there and if they’re involved.’
‘I’ll agree with you on that. I’ll get the team on to it.’
‘When do you want to go?’
‘Within the next two days.’
‘Make sure all your vehicles are serviced. I assume you believe the mechanic’s report.’
‘I do.’
‘Your team?’
‘They’re police officers. None of them believes the two vehicles breaking down was other than circumstantial.’
‘Then why didn’t Yarwood and Oldfield take up the pursuit?’
‘They had to get back here,’ Tremayne replied.
Chapter 17
Keith Tremayne believed none of it. The most he could see was that people’s wild imaginations were getting the better of them. Even Yarwood was susceptible, and he wasn’t sure about Oldfield. Both of them were trained police officers, not people who believed in fairies at the bottom of the garden; at least he hoped they didn’t.
There had to be a logical explanation for all that had occurred, although the first body, no more than a pair of legs, was very suspicious, and no one, not even the CSE, not even Yarwood, and she loved surfing the internet, had come up with anything to explain what had happened.
Tremayne sat back in his chair, not sure how to proceed, and not helped, he had to admit, by drinking more than he should have the previous night. And t
here was Yarwood in the office, full of cheer, ready to meet the day’s challenge, but then she had Harry at the end of the day. No matter how taxing the day had been, there was always an outlet for her, someone to soothe away the frustrations, but what did he have? Nothing, not even a cat.
He was not a man to dwell for too long on the injustices of life, but sometimes he could become melancholy reflecting on a life wasted. He realised that the chase of a villain was more exciting than pursuing personal relationships, but now in the twilight years, possibly months, of his policing career, he had to wonder what was the point. All that he had was an adequate police pension, although there’d be no trips around the world with it, not that he wanted that either, and the house he owned was nothing special. The only companionship in the house was a square box in one corner, and he knew that apart from the sports channels, it was inane and mind-numbing.
‘What’s the plan, guv?’ Clare asked. She had brought a cup of tea for him, one for her.
‘We need to visit Avon Hill.’
‘The place scares me.’
‘Why? Two cars break down on the way, and you’re frightened. Get a grip of yourself, Yarwood.’
‘It’s not that, it’s just…’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve been reading up on it.’
‘On what?’
‘Ancient gods.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Tremayne said. He could not believe how many times they had had this conversation, and still his sergeant kept going back to ancient mythology.
‘Not in the gods, but those who believe in them.’
‘Are you telling me that people still believe in this nonsense?’
‘Mavis Godwin believed in them, explains why she was so devout.’
‘Hedging her bets?’
‘More like she was looking for protection.’
‘It didn’t do her much good, did it?’
‘Not in the end, but what I’m saying is that if people do believe in these malevolent forces, then whether they exist or are a figment of someone’s imagination, they are very dangerous.’
‘What is it with Avon Hill?’ Tremayne asked. It appeared to him that Yarwood was rational. She had proven herself to be a competent police officer and the office was better for her being there. There was he with his grumpy outlook on life, and there was she, cheering the office up with her presence.
‘Those who believe in these gods, or at least worship them in some pagan ritual, will do anything to protect themselves. That’s why Mavis Godwin died and Reverend Harrison committed suicide.’
‘But why?’
‘They wanted him dead, the same as they did with Mavis Godwin.’
‘Are you saying that Harrison’s death is suspicious?’
‘We know he committed suicide by his own hand, and that no one else was involved, but how can we be sure?’
‘Hughes’s crime scene team went over the place. No one else was there.’
‘They must have driven him to commit suicide.’
‘I’m not with you on this one,’ Tremayne said.
Clare took a seat. ‘What could drive a man to commit suicide? The fear of the gods, or the fear of the people who believed in them?’
‘People kill, not ancient gods.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What are you getting at, Yarwood?’ Tremayne said.
‘Harrison had been with us, and we weren’t going to give up on pressuring him for more information. In time, he would have broken.’
‘Eventually.’
‘The man was damned whatever happened. Either he committed suicide, or they would have had him killed.’
‘We’ve agreed on that.’
‘And we know the woman in the graveyard was from Avon Hill.’
‘Proven?’
‘Not one hundred per cent, but where else could she have been heading? There’s not much else close to Avon Hill.’
‘Adam Saunders was not from there.’
‘We know where he lives.’
‘Where?’
‘No more than two miles from the village. We should interview him again.’
‘If his father is there, he’ll not talk.’
‘Then how do you keep him away?’
‘What school does he go to?’
‘Bishop Wordsworth’s.’
‘That’s where you interview him. I’ll leave it up to you and Oldfield,’ Tremayne said. ‘You two are more his age. Just keep it informal, no heavy-handed brow-beating.’
‘No roughing him up behind the toilet block, is that it, guv?’
‘It’s the easiest way to get the truth, but no, keep it friendly.’
‘Leave it to us,’ Clare said.
‘And if it doesn’t work, then the toilet block option. Whatever happens, find out something. We’re going to Avon Hill within the next two days, regardless.’
***
Adam Saunders proved to be elusive. Where he lived, where he went to school, even his friends were known, but the young man could not be found. Enquiries at Bishop Wordsworth’s Grammar School on Exeter Street revealed that he had not been seen for several days, which aligned with when he was caught at Reverend Harrison’s house.
Clare, always the optimist, was confident he would be found. Oldfield, more cynical, was not so sure, and Tremayne thought the young man’s disappearance was decidedly suspect.
His father, Charles, an accountant with an office in Wilton, a town close to Salisbury, was evasive when questioned. ‘He’s with family up north.’
Even with the police pressuring him, reminding him that his son was integral to the case, the father remained resolute. ‘He had a bit of a shock after you questioned him. He’s not been in trouble with the police before.’
Tremayne, when told of Charles Saunders’ hostile attitude, wanted to take further action, to summons the father to produce the son, but that would have taken time.
‘Give it a few days. We’ll keep looking,’ Yarwood said in the office.
‘He’s probably in Avon Hill,’ Tremayne replied.
Harry, her lover and now fiancé, had warned her about going there. ‘They’re a strange group of people down there.’
‘What do you mean?’ she had asked.
Harry’s explanation, not so convincing, was that the village had been isolated during the bubonic plague centuries earlier and that there had been some inbreeding.
Clare had checked up on the village’s history, only to find that it had been a time of isolation for many villages, as they isolated themselves from the plague outside. Avon Hill was not the only one, but Harry seemed adamant that it was an exceptional case. She didn’t know why, but she had not given it further thought. She had her man, her lover, and she was content in his arms or in his bed, which, given the demands of the case and Tremayne’s driven focus to bring the investigation to a conclusion, was not often. And, Clare thought, to prove to Superintendent Moulton that he was not ready for retirement, that he was not too long in the tooth, and that the old policing method of long hours, maintaining the pressure, pushing hard, leaving no stone unturned, was the way to solve cases.
‘Charles Saunders is involved. I’m certain of it,’ Tremayne said. It was late in the evening. Harry was waiting for Clare, but he would have to wait. Clare knew there was no way to leave her senior’s office when he was on a roll. Oldfield was equally fired up, but then neither he nor Tremayne had a Harry to go home to. Clare knew about Oldfield’s girlfriend; he had told her that much, but it did not seem to be much of a relationship, and Tremayne, she knew, lived alone. She imagined that behind the image he portrayed, self-sufficient, no need of a pet or a woman, he was a sad man, his only joy in life, policing. She could see that retirement would be the death of the man.
‘You’ll find Adam Saunders in Avon Hill, I’m sure of it,’ Tremayne said. He was leaning back in his chair, a cup of tea in one hand, a sandwich in the oth
er. It was past eleven at night.
‘What makes you so sure?’ Oldfield asked. He had not long been out of uniform, and he was revelling in working with Tremayne.
‘The boy may have pretended to be an innocent bystander, but he was in that graveyard for a reason. If you find him, there’s a good chance we’ll have a breakthrough.’
‘His father's a difficult man,’ Clare reminded him.
‘If we get the boy on his own, he’ll break.’
‘That’s what you said about Harrison,’ Oldfield said.
‘And then the bloody fool goes and hangs himself. What is it about this case that I don’t get?’
‘If they’re pagans, they see their beliefs are real.’
‘Haven’t we deduced this before?’ Tremayne said.
‘More or less, but they’re not mad,’ Clare said.
‘They are to me.’
‘They’re not mad, guv,’ Clare said. ‘Deluded they may be, but they’re not certifiably insane. There’ll be some, the more feeble-minded, who may believe, but there will be a core person or persons who realise that it is errant nonsense, but for some reason perpetuate the belief.’
‘Why?’
‘Personal gain. And then some people relish the macabre, the need to prance around stone circles in the middle of the night, to engage in orgiastic rituals.’
‘Mad, as I said.’
‘Okay, mad, but the core group could be educated, rational, well-respected members of the community. Charles Saunders for instance.’
‘And Adam Saunders is the son of one of these people?’
‘Why not?’ Clare said.
‘Assuming you're correct, how do they keep this quiet?’
‘They’ve kept it quiet since the middle ages, generation to generation.’
‘You realise what you’re saying, Yarwood?’
‘Avon Hill.’
‘Exactly. There’s an isolated community, and before the advent of the motor car, isolated for part of the year when winter came, and then by distance, and no doubt, education.’
As you say,’ Clare acknowledged. ‘And now they’re threatened. Their hold on the community is starting to wither. They’re becoming more desperate, more violent.’
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