Death Unholy

by Phillip Strang

  After they had left the pub, they found another, not more than two miles away. Tremayne remembered that one well enough. The beer was good, the company congenial and the next day he had woken up in a strange bed with a throbbing headache and an obviously willing companion. They dated for three months before he proposed. It was as if it was yesterday, but after five years of wedded bliss, they grew apart.

  Tremayne found that remembering his wife had left him a little nostalgic. It had been over twenty years since they had divorced, and he had not seen her since. He wondered what had become of her. For a couple of years they had kept in contact, as there was no malice on either side, but then she told him that she had met another man and they were getting married. After that, nothing. He thought that maybe he should contact her again.

  ‘Are you alright, guv?’ Clare asked. She had seen him looking wistful, an unusual condition for the man.

  ‘I was remembering the first time I came in here. It’s not changed much.’

  ‘It’s a depressing place. I don’t know how the young people can take it.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone under the age of fifty?’

  ‘Not in the pub.’

  ‘Leave the interviews to me. You can check out the car from the graveyard. Take a uniform in case they become awkward.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to a couple of the men that were in the bar,’ Clare said.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No. They just followed Wylshere’s line that it was a misunderstanding. From what I gather, they want for us to leave and to let them deal with it.’

  ‘You know what that means?’

  ‘With this lot? The Mavis Godwin solution, I’d assume.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Oldfield?’ Tremayne asked. The survivors, or at least those with minor injuries, were in another room in the pub. Jim Hughes and his team were kitted up and in the main bar sifting through the evidence.

  ‘Oldfield’s with Kathy Saunders. She’s talking,’ Clare said.

  ‘The full details?’

  ‘It appears to be. He’s taking her to Bemerton Road for a formal charging. Apparently, she’s not concerned.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The usual. And besides, her family’s been decimated. You can hardly expect her to be thinking straight.’

  ‘I’m surprised she’s still able to do anything. Most parents’ reaction would be to collapse into total despair.’

  ‘Ask Oldfield where Trevor Godwin is buried. We need to get the body exhumed.’

  Clare left and drove to the cottage where Oldfield had seen the car. It wasn’t there. She walked around to the back of the cottage after knocking on the door first. The uniform waited at the front. A face appeared through a gap in the curtain of the main room.

  ‘There’s someone here,’ the uniform shouted. Clare banged loudly on the back door of the house. It opened slightly. ‘What do you want?’ a voice said.

  ‘Sergeant Yarwood, I’ve some questions.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  ‘Where’s the car that was parked here last night?’

  ‘I don’t have a car.’

  ‘We know there was a car here last night, and there are tyre marks on the concrete. Either you can open the door and let me in, or I’ll ask the constable out front to break it down.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can and I will. This is a murder investigation. We have five deaths, and I have total authority to take whatever action is deemed necessary.’

  ‘Very well.’ The door opened to reveal a woman in her sixties. She was dressed conservatively in an ankle-length blue skirt and a matching jacket with a white blouse underneath.

  ‘Your name?’ Clare asked, once inside. The constable had been let in at the front door.

  ‘Elizabeth Grimshaw.’

  ‘Mrs Grimshaw.’

  ‘It’s Miss.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Grimshaw. The car that was parked outside, where is it?’

  ‘It wasn’t mine. It belonged to a friend.’

  ‘And where is that friend?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Miss Grimshaw, I was in a car following that vehicle as far as the turn off to Avon Hill. I saw the driver from a distance. There are others who were closer. I am confident you are the woman who was driving that car.’

  ‘I had to,’ the woman replied. She sat down on a hard chair in the kitchen. The air was musty, the kitchen was basic and scrupulously clean. An old dog was lying in the corner. It did not move when the two police officers entered the kitchen other than to lazily lift its head.

  ‘That’s Brutus. He’s deaf and old, same as me really.’

  ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘I’m old,’ the woman said.

  ‘Where is your car?’

  ‘They took it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Is it true about Kathy Saunders?’

  ‘What is it that you know?’

  ‘I heard the shots. They said it was her.’

  ‘Do you know why she did it?’

  ‘Is Dr Wylshere dead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘I can tell you no more.’

  ‘But you haven’t said anything yet. Are you a pagan?’

  ‘They killed Adam Saunders, such a sweet boy,’ Elizabeth Grimshaw said.

  ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They protect those who are loyal to them.’

  ‘It is your duty to assist the police in their investigation. If the interview is not concluded to my satisfaction here, I will be forced to take you to Bemerton Road Police Station for questioning.’

  ‘Is that where Kathy is?’

  ‘She soon will be.’

  ‘And Dr Tremayne? He still lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I will go with you to your police station. I want to be near to Kathy when they come for her.’

  ‘It’s a police station. No one’s coming.’

  ‘How little you know. You sit in your police station surrounded by your laptops and your mobile phones. You go about your futile lives believing in a Christian God, indulging in promiscuity and fornication, not knowing that your existence hangs by a thread.’

  Clare thought that the woman was either mad or frustrated, probably both.

  ‘He didn’t suffer,’ Elizabeth Grimshaw said.

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  ‘Adam Saunders.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I obeyed them.’

  ‘Are you saying you killed him?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere said I would not be as noisy as the others moving through Cuthbert’s Wood.’

  Clare took a seat. She had come looking for a car, and now she had another murderer.

  ‘I thought everyone was frightened to go in there.’

  ‘I had never been there before, but Dr Wylshere told me that it would be safe.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. What he says always happens.’

  Clare phoned Tremayne to update him. He said he’d be over in twenty minutes. He was occupied with those from the shooting, but as he said, he was banging his head against a wall.

  Clare resumed her questioning of Elizabeth Grimshaw. ‘Are you willing to make a full confession?’ she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It may assist in your trial.’

  ‘I am not answerable to your laws.’

  ‘Miss Grimshaw, you have committed murder. Do you realise this?’

  ‘I followed a command.’

  ‘Were you in the graveyard in Stratford sub Castle?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Clare suspected insanity, but then Miss Grimshaw wasn’t the only one in the case so far. Edmund Wylshere was a doctor, and if he
was the leader of the disparate group in the village, then he was certifiable as well. And then there was Kathy Saunders who had shot at a pub full of patrons. Clare thought she may be able to plead mitigating circumstances, although according to Oldfield she had no intention of doing so. Whatever it was in that village, it pervaded everywhere, even that small cottage with its semblance of normality – a television in the corner, lace curtains on the windows, an old dog curled up in its basket.

  Tremayne arrived later than he had said. Clare could see the frustration in the man’s face. They first spoke outside the cottage, the constable staying with Elizabeth Grimshaw.

  ‘What do you have?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘She admits to killing Adam Saunders.’

  ‘A written confession?’

  ‘She’ll write it down, even sign it, but it’s not a confession.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘A statement of fact.’

  ‘She’s the same as the rest.’

  ‘No luck down at the pub?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I’ve spent the last hour wasting my time. All I got was that it was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘What is it with these people? The woman shows no emotion, no concept of right or wrong.’

  ‘Living down here would make anyone slightly mad. Can’t you feel it?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Are you starting to believe, guv?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. What I’m saying is that it’s an isolated village at the end of the road, and it wouldn’t take much for some of them to believe in any nonsense.’

  ‘Some? It appears to be all of them.’

  ‘Kathy Saunders is willing to talk.’

  ‘So is the woman inside, but neither of them expresses any guilt for their actions.’

  ‘Okay, let’s wrap this up and head back to the police station.’

  Tremayne and Clare entered the house. Elizabeth Grimshaw was watching the television. ‘It’s my favourite,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Tremayne. Can we talk?’

  ‘Yes, if you like. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’ve told your sergeant all there is to know.’

  ‘You’ve admitted to killing Adam Saunders.’

  ‘I had to, you know that.’

  ‘I’m afraid that to us it’s murder.’

  ‘They’ll not let you leave here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They.’

  ‘Do they have a name?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere knows who they are. They talk to him.’

  Clare looked over at Tremayne. The man lifted his brow, a clear indication that he thought the woman was crazy.

  ‘Dr Wylshere is on his way to the hospital. At the present moment, he’s not able to talk.’

  ‘Then you have time.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To leave Avon Hill. They are at their strongest here. If Dr Wylshere wants them to deal with you, they will.’

  ‘Are you saying that he controls these forces?’

  ‘He knows how to summon them.’

  ‘Miss Grimshaw, you’re sitting here watching the television, and you’re telling us that you believe in paganism, ancient gods and sacrifices?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and I’ve got the internet. I like to keep myself informed.’

  ‘The night of Adam Saunders’ death. Can you please tell us what happened?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I saw him leave the cottage. It’s not far from here, and I’d been told to keep a watch out for him.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere.’

  ‘Did he explain why?’

  ‘I did not need an explanation.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Clare said.

  ‘I saw him walking up from the cottage towards Cuthbert’s Wood. I phoned Dr Wylshere, and he gave me instructions.’

  ‘Instructions to do what?’

  ‘To kill him.’

  ‘And you did not refuse?’

  ‘Why should I? I’ve killed others.’

  Clare sat back, stunned by the indifference.

  ‘Who else?’ Tremayne asked. Clare felt sick to her stomach.

  ‘I was there when Trevor Godwin died.’

  ‘Kathy Saunders has admitted to having been there as well.’

  ‘We were all there.’

  ‘Two people have died in the pub.’

  ‘They have served their purpose.’

  ‘What purpose?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere is still alive.’

  ‘When I first came here, you asked me if he was alive,’ Clare reminded the woman.

  ‘The Wylsheres have controlled our lives for centuries. Why should I want it to stop?’

  ‘Because you commit murder in his name,’ Clare said. She realised that she was becoming emotional, not an admirable trait for someone in Homicide.

  ‘We’ll continue this interview at Bemerton Road Police Station,’ Tremayne said. ‘I’ll return to the pub. I need to check with the CSE and see if anyone in this place is sane enough to talk.’

  ‘I can assure you that I am sane,’ Elizabeth Grimshaw said.

  Tremayne said nothing as he left by the front door. Clare could see him muttering to himself as he walked across the frozen lawn at the front of the cottage.

  Chapter 27

  Vic Oldfield, with Kathy Saunders in the passenger seat, pulled out from the car park at the Wheatsheaf Inn in Wilton. The roads were icy, more suited to the woman’s four-wheel drive than the car he drove, but he was taking a murderer to the police station, and it would have been inappropriate for him to take her vehicle. Besides, it was evidence in the shooting in Avon Hill.

  ‘What will happen?’ Kathy Saunders asked as Oldfield drove along King Street.

  ‘You’ll be asked to make a formal statement.’

  ‘I’ll need to arrange my son’s funeral.’

  ‘That may not be possible.’

  ‘You cannot stop me. It’s a mother’s right.’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done,’ Oldfield said, although he realised that it was unlikely that she would be given the necessary permission.

  The weather was bleak, the snow was starting to intensify, and visibility was being hampered. Oldfield put the windscreen wipers on full and blasted the hot air in the car up at the screen from the inside.

  He passed over the Minster Street roundabout and headed down Salisbury Road. He had less than two miles to go. The road cleared of traffic, and with the snow easing up, he increased his speed. The woman at his side started to cry.

  Delayed shock, Oldfield thought.

  Oldfield looked at the speedometer, realised he was travelling at over fifty miles an hour. He eased his foot off the accelerator: no effect. The vehicle continued to accelerate. He passed the turn off to Netherhampton, narrowly avoiding a motorcycle.

  ‘You’re going too fast,’ Kathy Saunders said.

  ‘I can’t slow down.’

  The vehicle continued to move at speed. Oldfield pumped the brakes, wedged his foot under the accelerator pedal in case it was jammed; it was not. Realising the urgency of the situation, he pressed the call button on his police radio.

  He outlined his current predicament. A police car set out from Bemerton Road Police Station, but Oldfield was already travelling at over seventy miles an hour on a road that was covered in ice. He pumped the brakes, flashed his lights, pressed the horn on the steering wheel. Vehicles up ahead moved to one side; he missed a slow-moving truck, caught the rear of another car, smashing its right-hand tail light.

  Kathy Saunders crossed her arms and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and relaxed in her seat.

  Oldfield continued to control the car, thankful that the road was at least straight, but he remembered that it bent to the left not more than two hundred yards ahead as it crossed over a railway bridge. He knew that at the speed it wa
s travelling the car would not make it round the bend. He had to stop the vehicle, but his options were limited. There was a mobile crane up ahead. He decided to allow his car to hit it at the rear.

  The crane was looming closer, closer – impact. The car shuddered as it hit.

  He looked at his passenger. She was still alive, the airbag having cushioned her as she was thrown forward.

  The mobile crane slowed down, its red stop lights visible inside Oldfield’s car. The woman alongside him looked over at him. ‘We’re not going to survive,’ she said.

  Oldfield focussed on the road ahead; he offered no comment.

  The mobile crane, now only travelling slowly, turned to its left to negotiate the railway bridge. Dislodged from its place of protection, Oldfield’s vehicle separated from it and veered over to the other side of the road. He saw the brick wall of the bridge. His vehicle was heading towards it, he could not stop it. There was a roadworks sign on the bridge: the wall was unstable and in the process of being repaired. He did not have time to look at the sign, only to see the wall, to hear the noise as the car impacted it. He remembered the car in mid-air.

  ***

  The mood at Bemerton Road Police Station was sombre when the news came through of the deaths of Constable Vic Oldfield and his passenger. The accident, no more than a four-minute drive from the police station, had hit Tremayne hard, Clare even more so.

  ‘We’ve got to continue,’ Tremayne said. He had experienced death too often to allow it to affect his determination to bring the case to a conclusion. Clare had not been able to continue at Elizabeth Grimshaw’s cottage, and it had been the woman who had consoled her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I warned you,’ she said.

  ‘But why?’ Clare’s response.

  ‘I told you what would happen. I have lived with this all my life.’

  Harry Holchester phoned soon after the news had circulated throughout Salisbury. He had liked Vic Oldfield, knew that he fancied Clare. ‘I’m coming out to Avon Hill,’ he said.

  Under normal circumstances Clare would not have appreciated his coming, but she was not in a fit state to continue.

  Tremayne was busy on the phone, firstly enquiring about Oldfield, secondly talking to Jim Hughes, the CSE. ‘Any more?’ he asked.