‘Not with a spade, I hope.’
‘Where we’re going may be dirtier.’
‘8 a.m. I’ll be there,’ Clare said. She could see that Tremayne had no intention of giving up even if there was no evidence, no gain to be made other than the personal satisfaction of a job well done.
***
Trevor Godwin stormed up and down the kitchen in the small thatched cottage. The man was livid. ‘You know what happens to those who speak,’ he said.
‘It’s a sin against the Lord.’
‘That’s as maybe according to you, but you know how they think.’
‘I only worked for that man out of financial necessity.’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense. I pull my weight round here.’
‘If you weren’t so preoccupied.’
‘Don’t say it; don’t ever say it,’ Trevor Godwin said.
Mavis Godwin cowered in a corner, aware of what her disobedience would entail. She knew that she had not been so religious once, but now she could only place her trust in the Lord. She knew that he was her only saviour, not her husband, the man she now despised.
‘I was upset.’
‘With what?’
‘With seeing that horrible man like that.’
‘You were told to keep away, but what did you do? You disobeyed, and for that there is no excuse.’
‘It is for you to protect me.’
‘I can offer no protection. Those who disobey are destined to be judged.’
‘Did that man?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I’m not one of the elders,’ Trevor Godwin said. ‘I’m only a humble servant.’
‘A servant to what? A malevolence that has no pity.’
‘At least mine has form whereas yours is rooted in bronze age mythology.’
‘Mine is benevolent; yours only controls by evil and mayhem.’
‘We are a warrior race, forged in battle, not people who are subservient. We are the only true way. One day, when you have suffered enough, you will understand.’
‘I’m suffering now,’ Mavis Godwin said.
‘Suffering comes from pain.’
The woman retreated from the room, knowing full well that the husband she had once loved, had relinquished all responsibility for her. She knew that her fate, whatever it was, would be determined by others.
The woman sat quietly for ten minutes before turning on the television. It was a programme about holidays around Britain. On the screen, it showed happy families going about their business.
If only they knew the truth, she thought.
***
For once, Harry Holchester was not to be found behind the bar at the Deer’s Head. He knew that Clare was special, which was why he had brought her to the Silver Plough in Pitton, a small village, five miles from Salisbury, along the London Road.
‘I used to come here with my parents as a child,’ Harry said. ‘Back then, you could sit outside and have a ploughman’s lunch, warm bread with a slab of cheese and pickled onions.’
‘You have a restaurant at your pub,’ Clare said. She had worn her best dress for the occasion and styled her hair. She knew she looked good: the intended effect.
‘I'm greedy. I don’t want to share you with anyone else.’
Clare felt a tingle throughout her body. She knew this was the man for her; she hoped the feeling was reciprocal. Both ate a traditional fish pie and drank a French Pinot Noir. By the end of the meal, both were over the legal limit for driving.
‘If I drive, you’ll have to arrest me, won’t you?’ Harry said.
‘If I drive, I’ll have to arrest myself,’ Clare said in reply.
The evening was going well. Harry had told Clare that he had no one in his life; had not for several years. Clare told him that she had had a serious boyfriend when she was younger, but after two years they had drifted apart. Harry briefly touched on the night his parents had died, which brought tears to Clare’s eyes. Harry had wiped them away, lingering long enough to kiss her gently on her lips.
The two left the restaurant after ten at night and strolled through the small village, aiming to sober up, attempting to prolong their time together. Harry dropped Clare off at her place at midnight. They parted with a long and intense kiss. She wanted him to come in but did not ask. She had had casual flings in the past; she did not want this relationship to be the same. She wanted this man long term.
Chapter 4
It was 8 a.m. and neither of the two police officers was in the best of shape, although Clare was the better. She had spent a sleepless night thinking about Harry; Tremayne had drunk a few too many beers the previous night and was feeling the after-effects.
Jim Hughes had filed his official report into the death of Eric Langley. Tremayne knew it was only a matter of time before Superintendent Moulton saw it. Tremayne knew he had to come up with something quick if he was to keep his sergeant with him, and himself focussed on the case.
A murder had been committed, a perfect crime with no motive, no apparent way of destroying a body, but somehow, someway, it had been achieved.
‘Yarwood, you’re always looking at that laptop. What do we have on Langley’s death? Any other cases, any ideas on what we can do to prove this?’ Tremayne said. His head throbbed, a sign of ageing, not that he was willing to admit it. In the past, he would have downed eight pints and been up the next day fresh as a daisy, but last night he had only drunk six, or maybe it was seven. It had been a good evening, he knew that. He had been sitting in the Greyhound Inn out in Wilton, not more than two hundred yards from his house. The television in the bar had been switched to the racing channel. He remembered placing a few bets, the one benefit of his phone. He had won on two races, lost on the third. Tremayne realised that with success comes celebration and he had probably drunk over his quota.
‘There’s not much on spontaneous human combustion. Several of the cases were found to have been caused by a naked flame catching the clothes on fire; other causes of death have been classified as unknown. None that I can see has resulted in a murder conviction,’ Clare replied. She was glad to be back at work; her mind distracted from the publican at the Deer’s Head. He had sent her an SMS that morning thanking her for the night, hoping to meet up soon. She hoped it wasn’t the brush-off as the message had been brief and to the point; more the message of someone thanking out of politeness, not pleasure. She attempted to focus on the rasping voice of her senior. She could see he had had a hard night; yesterday’s shirt testament to the fact.
‘The man was murdered. Mavis Godwin knows that, and she’s not talking. Any idea of what is frightening her?’ Tremayne asked.
‘You were there. What do you reckon?’
‘No idea and that’s the problem. What do we know about this woman? Any levers we can use to make her talk?’
‘We could try pleading to her God,’ Clare said. ‘A word from him and she’d talk.’
‘Get real, Yarwood. He’ll not speak to me anyway.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Too much sinning,’ Tremayne replied.
‘Drinking too much and throwing your money away on horses are hardly sins.’
‘Don’t go lecturing. You’re not my mother.’
Clare looked over at the man, knew that her outburst would cause no damage to their relationship. Tremayne, she knew, appreciated a partner who spoke back to him. The man did not like subservience. He had made that clear over the last few months when he had asked for her advice. He wanted her to question his analysis on a case, to throw in an alternative possibility
She knew one thing, that if she were his mother, she’d march him down to the barbers for a good haircut as well. She remembered how Harry Holchester had looked the night before: clean-shaven, his hair cut, a white shirt with a jacket. She looked over at Tremayne: his shirt collar skewed, his suit jacket hanging like a bag of potatoes, his two-day stubble showing.
If their detective
superintendent came in, he’d have something to say. The man, Clare knew, was a stickler for punctuality and presentation, and whereas Tremayne was never immaculate, his appearance as he sat across from her was definitely seedier than usual.
‘Anyway, coming back to my question before you started going on. How do we contact the woman’s God?’ Tremayne asked. He had enjoyed their banter, although he was not intending to give Yarwood the satisfaction of knowing that.
‘We can talk to her vicar.’
‘Good idea. Where is he?’
‘I know she attends a church not far from where she lives.’
‘Great, let’s go. You’re driving. Just take the long route via my house. I need to clean myself up. After an evening with the wondrous Harry, I must look to be a major disappointment.’
‘You’ve not asked,’ Clare said.
‘It’s none of my business. You’re both over twenty-one, just. And besides, I can tell how it went by looking at you, all doe-eyed and dreamy.’
‘Let’s go,’ Clare said. She did not want to indulge in further conversation on her love life, if indeed there was to be a love life. She knew she wanted to see Harry again, but he could not make it for another two nights. There was a publican’s convention in London, and he needed to go.
***
Clare had to admit that the change in Tremayne’s appearance had not been miraculous; he still looked the worse for wear, but the man smelt clean and the shirt was ironed, although the tie was still hanging at an unusual angle.
‘How do I look?’ he asked.
‘You look great.’
‘Up to Harry Holchester’s standard?’ Tremayne asked. Clare did not rise to the bait.
To the Reverend Jonah Harrison, a man in his sixties with greying hair combed to one side to cover a balding patch, St Lawrence’s church represented sanctity, respite from a troubled world. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked after the two police officers had shown their identification.
‘We’re investigating a death,’ Tremayne said. He stood next to a bust of St Lawrence. Clare had read the plaque.
‘Eric Langley?’ the vicar asked.
‘You knew him?’
‘Not as a parishioner, but I’ve met him over the years.’
‘What can you tell us about him?’ Clare asked.
‘Not a lot. I met him on various committees over the years.’
‘Are you sad to hear of his death?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I am sorry to hear of one of God’s children passing on.’
‘We’ve been told that the man was not religious. In fact, he seems to have harboured some extreme views.’
‘The Lord will forgive him for his pagan beliefs,’ Harrison said. Tremayne could see where Mavis Godwin’s religious zeal came from.
‘Mavis Godwin said more or less the same. Where did she get this idea that telling us the truth about Langley would end in her death? From you?’
‘She is a true believer in the one true God. She will be rewarded in heaven,’ Harrison said. He stood close to the bust of St Lawrence and said a silent prayer.
As they stood there, Clare believed that she could feel the church walls closing in; the Reverend Harrison moved from holding the bust of the patron saint to clutching, and then grasping.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Clare said quietly to Tremayne; not that it mattered as the Reverend Harrison was no longer listening.
***
‘I need a drink,’ Clare said as soon as they were outside the church.
‘Coffee?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Not this time. I need a stiff drink, whisky at least.’
‘What is it?’
‘Didn’t you sense it?’ she asked.
‘He wasn’t my idea of a parish priest. I’ll grant you that.’
‘The atmosphere in there. As if there was evil present.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Clare asked. Fifteen minutes earlier she would have agreed with her senior, but now…
‘In there, believe me, there was something, and it was evil.’
‘Two stiff whiskies, Yarwood. You’re scaring me now.’
***
A group of men met in another church, long since disused for its original purpose. It was night-time, and the village, no more than two hundred yards away, was shrouded in fog.
Trevor Godwin did not want to be there.
‘Godwin, the police have spoken to your wife,’ the senior elder said. Godwin looked up from his prostrate position to see the man who had spoken.
‘She did not reveal what she knows,’ Godwin said.
‘What did your wife tell the police?’ the third elder asked.
‘I was not there.’
‘Why?’
‘I stayed in the garden.’
‘We should make an example of both of them,’ another of the elders said.
‘She did not say anything. I’m certain of it.’
‘The police have spoken to the priest.’
‘Is he safe?’ Godwin asked.
‘We only kill out of necessity.’
‘But you killed Eric Langley?’
‘It was necessary.’
‘What had he done? My wife asked.’
‘You have spoken to her?’ the second elder asked.
‘No, but she suspects.’
‘Godwin, the punishment has been decided.’
‘It was decided before I came here, wasn’t it?’ Godwin said.
‘How dare you come in here and question us.’
Trevor Godwin stood up and sat on a chair placed there by someone behind him. Godwin realised as he sat that he had not made much of his life. He knew he was trapped and that he had no option but to carry out their command.
Chapter 5
Thankfully, Keith Tremayne did not get called up to Detective Superintendent Moulton’s office too often. Virtually every time it was a complaint or an ear bashing about his style of policing, or, as on the last occasion, to discuss an early retirement package.
He had dealt with all of those with his usual manner of deference coupled with a firm resolve, especially with the retirement package. Even Tremayne had been stopped in his tracks on that one, generous as it was, but as he had told his disappointed senior, what need did he have for retirement, and what was he going to do with his time.
His superintendent had suggested golf, fishing, travel. Tremayne had responded that he had no interest in walking around in the rain with a stick in his hand, and sitting by a river bank dangling a line held no allure. And as for travel, he’d been to France on a couple of occasions, and the last time he had come back with a nasty dose of food poisoning after eating some dodgy-looking frogs’ legs. The superintendent had insisted with the early retirement package, but Tremayne had contacted the police union, and they had taken up his case. As far as they were concerned the retirement age for the general population was slowly moving up to seventy years of age. Tremayne thought that was a good time to retire. A time when he’d be happy to sit in the pub all day, or in front of the television at home, a beer in his hand as he watched the racing.
‘Tremayne, what are you doing with this Langley case?’ Moulton asked, after a perfunctory handshake.
‘The CSE can’t give a precise cause of death.’
‘So, you assume it’s murder?’ Moulton was sitting behind his desk, Tremayne on the other side. Neither man liked the other, and they were not good at disguising the fact.
‘I know it’s murder,’ Tremayne said.
‘You’re not going to tell me after your years of experience you can tell whether it’s murder or not.’
‘That’s what it is.’
‘But where’s the evidence? You have an overweight old man with a dicky ticker and an affinity for alcohol. Why can’t you accept that he died of natural causes?’
‘Did you read Hughes’s report?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I read the salient facts. The man fell asleep, his c
lothes caught on fire and he burnt to death.’
‘With all due respect,’ Tremayne said but didn’t mean it, ‘the man did not smoke, we found no evidence of any matches or lighters, and what about the body?’
‘I read that. What does it mean?’
‘I think it was evident enough.’ Tremayne realised he was close to being impertinent.
‘It said that the body had been consumed by the flames,’ Moulton replied.
‘Did you read that the body had been reduced to grease and ash?’
‘That made no sense,’ the Superintendent admitted.
‘I saw it, along with DS Yarwood. The man wasn’t there, only the bottoms of his legs with his shoes and socks still on. It wasn’t natural.’
‘Hughes explained that it’s occurred before.’
‘True, and he’s right there. Yarwood checked on the internet, and there have been a few cases where no explanation was possible.’
‘And this is one of these cases?’
‘I believe so, sir. I need time on this one.’
‘Against my better judgement stay with it, but if another murder comes in, I want you and Yarwood onto it. Is that agreed?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tremayne left Moulton’s office pleasantly surprised. He had expected an order to leave Langley’s death to others to investigate, but the man had acquiesced to his request. He did not know why.
***
Tremayne made the trek back from his senior’s office with its view of Salisbury Cathedral. For once, he would not refer to his office as the broom cupboard. He had had a win, and he was in a good mood, so much so that Clare almost made a comment.
‘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.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 3