DI Tremayne Boxed Set
Death Unholy
Death and the Assassin’s Blade
Death and the Lucky Man
Death at Coombe Farm
Death by a Dead Man’s Hand
Death in the Village
Phillip Strang
Dedication
For Elli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.
Copyright Page
Copyright © 2018 Phillip Strang
Cover Design by Phillip Strang
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.
Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com
Dedication
For Elli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.
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Death Unholy
PHILLIP STRANG
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 1
‘What do you know about spontaneous human combustion?’ Detective Inspector Keith Tremayne asked.
‘You mean when someone catches on fire for no apparent reason?’ Sergeant Clare Yarwood replied. They had not been together for long as a team, the gnarled and worn-out inspector heading towards retirement and the fresh-faced twenty-six-year-old.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Nothing. I’ve read about it. Who hasn’t?’
‘I haven’t,’ Tremayne replied, which did not surprise his sergeant. In the time they had been together, she had come to realise that he was a man who had little interest in the world. A cigarette in his mouth, a beer in his hand and a murder to solve was about the happiest she ever saw him, and even then he could hardly be regarded as one of life’s most sociable. And as for reading? The occasional police report, an early morning newspaper, the back pages for the racing results.
‘Why the interest?’
‘We’ve got one.’
‘Where?’
‘Up Castle Road.’
‘And who says it’s spontaneous human combustion?’ Clare Yarwood responded more brusquely than she would have six months previously, but that was how DI Tremayne liked his conversations.
He had made three facts clear when she had been first foisted on him: firstly, he had told Superintendent Moulton that he worked alone, secondly he did not need a wet-behind-the-ears female holding him back, and thirdly, if she had anything to say, to get to the point, no peppering the conversation with fancy words.
Regardless, she had warmed to the man behind a gruff Cornish exterior: he had grown up in St Ives, nearly two hundred miles to the west of the cathedral city of Salisbury, where he now lived. She had been naïve when she had first entered the police station on Bemerton Road, but he had soon put her straight. Clare was a tall, dark-haired woman, and most men came up to her shoulder which made it hard for her to find a boyfriend. She had taken a shine to one of the young detective sergeants, but so far he had not responded to her hints. She knew the problem: her upbringing in a wealthy family in London which had instilled the virtues of being ladylike, not imposing herself on others. She wanted to go up to the DS and tell him that he was missing out on a good thing, namely her.
‘That new crime scene examiner, that’s who said it was spontaneous human combustion. Another one who is wet behind the ears,’ Tremayne replied.
The young sergeant knew who he was referring to. She knew it was DI Tremayne’s Cornish humour, but it still carried an insult. She shrugged her shoulders before replying. ‘He’s been to university, got a degree.’
‘What bloody use is that? We used to keep the law, sort out the villains without any fancy piece of paper. Back then, kick up the arse and a slap round the head. Now I can’t even talk to them without receiving a reprimand.’
His partner smiled quietly to herself. She knew his idea of talk: pinning a hapless individual, threatening to slam him in jail and throw away the key if he did not confess. She also knew that most did, as Keith Tremayne was an imposing presence at over six feet four inches and solidly built; not fat, more like a rugby team’s prop: muscular, square and intimidating.
Tremayne and Clare made the trip out to Castle Road. It wasn’t far, only a few miles, but it was mid-afternoon and the traffic was building. Tremayne remembered when he had first come to Salisbury, a small country town of just over thirty thousand people, the centre overlooked by the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, the tallest in Europe. Back then everyone seemed to know everyone, but now with the high-speed rail link to London, it was full of people making the daily commute up to the capital after being forced out by the exorbitant price of property, not that Salisbury was much cheaper. Most people visiting the city back then, even today, did not know much about it other than it was only eight miles from Stonehenge, a Neolithic monument to an ancient people. Tremayne had visited it, only seen a pile of big stones, but then he had no interest in the past, other than when it related to a horse he fancied that was running.
Tremayne knew what he was and it did not bother him. The others may be there with their laptops and their smartphones SMSing each other using their disjointed language, but if you wanted to talk to him, you phoned his old Nokia. He’d read the messages, but he’d never send one back. Clare Yarwood had tried to bring him up to date, but she had given in soon enough, and she was a tenacious woman.
‘Where’s the body?’ Tremayne asked once he had entered the house, a substantial two-storey detached building.
‘Upstairs in the bedroom,’ Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, said. He was a young man, a few years shy of forty, and although he had blended in well at the police station, Tremayne still had his reservations; anyone younger than fifty was suspect to him.
‘Are you up to this, Yarwood?’ Tremayne asked. She had told him to call her Clare, but that wasn’t his style. She knew th
at he liked her in his own peculiar way, but there was no way he intended to let his guard down.
‘If you are, guv.’
‘It might turn your stomach,’ Hughes advised.
‘Not me,’ Tremayne replied with his typical dismissive manner towards juniors, especially juniors who were drawing a bigger salary than him, which excluded Clare Yarwood as she was paid a pittance, barely enough to pay the rent on her one-bedroom flat and to feed two cats. Still, she had no intention of complaining. Her parents had given her the opportunity to join the family business, a hotel they owned, but she had declined. The idea of sitting behind the reservations desk, ensuring the linen was regularly changed, was anathema to her. She had avidly watched the British cop shows on TV ever since she was young, and she was where she wanted to be, even if balancing the budget could be difficult, and another dead body would give her the creeps. She remembered a body they had fished out from the river three months earlier; accidental drowning as it turned out, but it had been trapped in the reeds that lined the banks on either side. After two weeks, the once pretty female was not easy to look at, and then to add insult to injury, Tremayne had insisted that she accompany him to the parents’ house to tell them that they had found their daughter.
‘You can do it,’ he had said on the way over.
‘I’m not sure if I can.’
‘I’m throwing you in the deep end on this one. It’s not all fun in the police service. We’ve all learnt to do it.’
She remembered how she fumbled, how her legs shook and her stomach rumbled when she told the parents. The mother broke down in tears; the father remained stoic.
Outside, Tremayne gave his assessment. ‘You did well. Better than me the first time. From here on it’s your job.’
Clare had smiled meekly in return. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’
The two police officers at Castle Road ascended the stairs, the CSE in front.
‘What can you tell us about the deceased?’ Tremayne asked.
‘The man’s name was Eric Langley. Not a lot more to tell at the present moment. Reclusive by all accounts.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The man had a nurse. She found him.’
‘Where is she?’ Clare asked.
‘She’s next door.’
‘Uniform with her?’
‘Of course.’
At the top of the stairs, the three turned to their left. A smell of burnt flesh pervaded the air. Clare held a handkerchief to her nose.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Hughes said. ‘Wait until you get in the room.’
Tremayne entered first. ‘Jesus,’ his first word. ‘I’ve not seen anything like it before.’
‘I warned you.’
‘Yarwood, you’d better not come in if you're squeamish,’ Tremayne advised.
Even from where she was, Clare could smell death, and it was not pleasant. She knew what her reaction would be before she entered, but she was a police sergeant, and it was her job. She intended to go in regardless of her inspector’s warning. She rounded the door into the room. In front of her was a large four-poster bed. It looked antique. To one side there was a dressing table with various medicines in bottles on the top. A portable oxygen tank stood on the floor close to the bed.
‘It’s over here,’ Tremayne said.
Clare looked around at a bay window with a view overlooking the park. She could see a comfy chair.
‘You need to come around here,’ Hughes said.
Clare walked around the chair, subconsciously averting her gaze, consciously unable to. ‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed.
The back of the chair had looked relatively intact, although old and worn. At the front, all that remained of the man was a residue of greasy and fetid ashes.
‘Have you looked down yet?’ Tremayne asked.
Clare knew she had intended to be brave but was failing. ‘Not yet.’
‘You’re here. You can’t avoid it.’
The young police officer looked down. ‘Oh my God. It’s too horrible.’
‘At least you haven’t thrown up,’ Hughes said.
‘Did you?’ Tremayne asked.
‘One of the others did, and the nurse was in a frightful state.’
On the floor in front of the chair, perfectly positioned, were a pair of shoes and black socks. And in the socks and shoes were two white legs, but further up nothing except ash and an offensive odour. Clare noticed that even the shine remained on the black leather shoes.
‘Spontaneous human combustion. Is that your professional opinion?’ Tremayne asked.
‘That’s what it’s described as, although I don’t hold with it.’
‘Why?’
‘No scientific proof.’
‘Can we talk somewhere else?’ Clare asked.
‘You called it spontaneous human combustion,’ Tremayne said when they were back outside the house.
‘It’s the only explanation that fits,’ Hughes admitted.
‘What do you mean?’ Clare asked.
‘Firstly, it’s rare. Maybe one or two cases worldwide every five to ten years, no more than two hundred in total, so there’s no precedence, at least to conduct forensics.’
‘Why?’ Tremayne asked.
‘This is what I reckon happened,’ Hughes said. ‘The man fell asleep with a lighted cigarette. The cigarette then dropped down and set his clothes alight.’
‘That would burn the room down,’ Clare said.
‘It depends on the clothing.’
‘Okay, he burns to death, but what we just saw?’
‘What you saw was the result of the man’s subcutaneous fat acting as a candle wick. Do you have any idea of how hot the temperature would be?’
‘You’re the scientist. You tell us,’ Tremayne barked at the man.
‘There was one case in America where they recorded the woman’s temperature at around 3500 degrees Fahrenheit. What they believe happens is that the clothing catches on fire which triggers the release of the body’s fat, and the body effectively smoulders at incredible temperatures. As you can see, there’s no sign of bones, not even a head. Teeth will disintegrate at around 1800 degrees Fahrenheit.’
‘Which means,’ Tremayne said, ‘if it were a cigarette, there wouldn’t be any evidence.’
‘Precisely. What do we know about the man?’ Hughes asked.
Clare, who had been listening intently, attempting to forget what she had witnessed upstairs, answered. ‘We’re going to interview the nurse, but the little we’ve gathered is that the man was in his seventies, mainly bed-ridden.’
‘Obese, alcoholic?’ Hughes asked.
Judging by the size of the gin bottle in here, he was probably a heavy drinker,’ Tremayne said.
‘It’s classic.’
‘What is?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Virtually all documented cases involve someone who is either chronically alcoholic, obese or elderly. In this case, we probably have all three.’
‘Fair enough. A preliminary report on my desk tonight. Is that clear?’ Tremayne said.
‘No problems, but I won’t be able to tell you more than I’ve said already. We’ll conduct the standard tests, but don’t hold out hope for too much.’
‘Is it murder?’
‘Impossible to say, but I’d say no. I could be wrong there, of course, but what you saw is not easily planned. And then why? The man was old and immobile, a pillow over the face would have done the job.’
***
‘I didn’t like the man, so don’t go offering your condolences to me,’ Langley’s nurse said.
‘What can you tell us about him?’ Tremayne asked. They had met the nurse in the front room of the house next door.
‘He smelt, never took a bath, and his manners were atrocious,’ Mavis Godwin, the nurse, said. Clare estimated her to be in her mid-fifties. She was matronly in appearance, her hair tied in a severe bun at the back.
‘How long were you his n
urse?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Three years.’
‘Why did you stay if you did not like the man?’ Clare asked.
‘Someone’s got to pay the bills. Every time I went near him, he wanted to start grabbing me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Pushed him away, but he was strong.’
‘We’re told that he was obese and bed-ridden.’
‘Obese like a pig and bed-ridden, I suppose he was.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could find his way to that chair, and if I had relented, he would still have managed.’
‘Sexually active?’
‘Not with me he wasn’t.’
‘With others?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Do you live in the house?’
‘Not me. I’ve got a cottage down in Stratford sub Castle.’
‘We need to meet with anyone who he came into contact with. Do you know who visited him?’
‘You don’t want to meet them.’
‘Why?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Nobody’s told you?’
‘Told us what?’
‘I’m regular every Sunday at church. What you’re asking me to talk about is evil,’ Mavis Godwin said.
‘We need to ascertain the cause of death.’
‘It’s them, that’s what I reckon.’
‘Them. What do you mean?’
‘I’m saying no more. They could do it to me.’
‘One last question. Did Eric Langley smoke?’ Tremayne asked.
‘The only thing we could agree on,’ the nurse replied. ‘He hated them as much as I did.’
Chapter 2
‘You went easy on the woman,’ Clare said back at Bemerton Road Police Station. It was late afternoon, and she was sitting in her senior’s office. She had heard him complain about the size of it enough times, but it was better than hers; all she had was a desk in an open-plan office and a laptop.
‘What did you expect me to do?’ Tremayne replied. ‘We questioned the woman, saw the body, or at least what remained, and spoke to the CSE. And what do we have?’
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