The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘They slept in separate beds?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Separate rooms.’

  ‘Are you sure that Mavis Godwin and the vicar weren’t…’

  ‘Positive. I’ll bring some soap for you to wash out your mouth tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t bother. You know I’ve got to ask.’

  ‘From what we can gather, the Reverend Harrison was celibate.’

  ‘He was Church of England. Are you sure?’

  ‘Not certain, but it appears that way.’

  ‘Have you checked his house?’

  ‘We’re planning to do it today, guv.’

  ‘Okay, get on with it.’

  ‘What about the other two?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Langley’s still an unknown. I got nowhere with Hughes on that.’

  ‘And Trevor Godwin?’

  ‘See if you can trace his movements on the day he disappeared. In fact, find out anything you can about him.’

  Chapter 11

  It was evident to Clare when she entered the Reverend Harrison’s house next to his church that the man led a bachelor’s life. There were none of the feminine touches: no flowers in a vase, no attempt at cleaning other than a rudimentary dusting. The house was two storeys, and if it had been in good condition and not tacked on the rear of the church, very desirable.

  Forensics would go over the house later, but for the moment there was nothing suspicious about Harrison’s death. Clare had brought Constable Oldfield with her. She could have conducted the search on her own, but she still had some trepidation, even though the house felt calm, as had their first port of call, the vestry. Oldfield had checked in the church; the man’s body had been removed, although the rope remained in place. Clare did not look.

  ‘Constable, you know what we’re looking for?’

  ‘Call me Vic, everyone else does.’

  ‘Fine, I’m Clare.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to call you sergeant?’

  ‘No. Clare’s fine.’

  ‘What’s the deal here?’ Oldfield asked.

  ‘We know the man committed suicide because of something he did not want to tell us.’

  ‘The supernatural, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And we’re looking for anything we can find that relates to his reasons?’

  ‘Yes. If Harrison committed suicide, then so be it. Mavis Godwin was murdered, and we don’t know by who. Also, her husband is missing, and then DI Tremayne doesn’t believe the open finding on the death of Eric Langley.’

  ‘Real can of worms, Clare.’

  ‘As you say.’

  The vestry had revealed nothing other than a few prayer books, the priest’s robes, a mouse trap in one corner of the room which seemed to have achieved very little as the evidence of mouse activity was apparent. An old half-eaten sandwich in a bin to one side of the table in the room had signs that other teeth had been at it.

  The house was dusty when Clare and Vic Oldfield entered. Both had put on foot protectors and gloves before entering. Clare put on a mask as well, although Oldfield did not.

  ‘You take the kitchen and the main room. I’ll start upstairs. Take a photo before and after you leave an area. And make sure everything is placed back where you found it,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  Clare walked up the stairs which were close to the front door, leaving Vic in the kitchen; not that she expected much there as all that was in the refrigerator was some old bread, a tub of butter and a jar of honey. The pantry wasn’t much better, and it was evident the man did not eat well.

  Upstairs there were four doors. Clare looked in the first at the top of the stairs. It was the bathroom. She checked in the cabinet above the wash basin. The usual: toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving equipment, a few headache tablets. She left the room and entered the second; it was a bedroom, although the bed was not made up and apparently not slept in. An old wardrobe, with creaking hinges, revealed nothing more than an old blanket and a guitar without any strings.

  The third room turned out to be a cupboard, although it contained very little other than a suitcase and an old vinyl cover for the guitar.

  Entering the fourth room, the room where she thought the best opportunity would be of finding something of interest, Clare looked around. She had a sense of foreboding.

  ‘Vic, can you come up here,’ she shouted.

  One minute later, the constable joined her. ‘What is it? Have you found anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet, but this room is giving me the creeps.’

  ‘The whole house gives me the creeps,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘I’ve seen things, things that can’t be explained, and this man had, as well.’

  ‘Tremayne?’

  ‘He was there once, but the man’s too stuck in his ways. To him, everything has an explanation.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Vic said.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘The DI wants it in black and white, not shades of grey.’

  ‘Can you feel the cold coming from Harrison’s bedroom?’

  ‘You want me to go first?’ Vic asked.

  ‘If you would.’

  ***

  Vic Oldfield entered the room slowly. If Clare’s intuition was right, there was a good chance of finding something. Vic had completed an inspection downstairs. Apart from the dining room, which was devoid of anything other than a wooden table with four chairs and an old sideboard that contained at most ten plates and an assortment of cups and saucers, the only other room was the main sitting room. He had looked in there. The furniture was old and in poor condition. A television sat in one corner and a bookcase in the other. He had looked through the books, mostly religious in content, some on Islam and Buddhism as well. He had been preparing to look through the books in detail when he had received the call from upstairs. He had known that the sergeant was jumpy when they had arrived at the cottage, and so was he. He was a man who liked open spaces, not dark, dank and depressing places, and the Reverend Harrison’s house qualified on all the negatives.

  To one side of the bedroom was a single bed. It was unmade, although the sheets appeared to have been slept on. An oil-filled heater was still on, its electrical cord snaking away to a wall socket. Oldfield placed his hand on the top of the heater; it was warm, yet the room was cold.

  ‘No insulation in these old places,’ he said to Clare.

  ‘Is it cold in there?’

  Vic slowly moved around the room, almost on tiptoes. He did not know why, but he did not want to be there. ‘Come in if you want to,’ he said.

  Clare entered with the same trepidation as Oldfield. ‘Can you feel it?’ she said.

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘As though we’re somewhere we’re not wanted.’

  ‘It’s just a depressing old house, that’s all,’ Oldfield said.

  The window rattled, a mouse scurried across the floor.

  ‘We’re not welcome,’ Clare said.

  ‘We’re here to do a job. Let’s wrap it up and then I’ll treat you to hot coffee.’

  Clare smiled, although she did not feel any contentment. She moved further into the room, felt the heater, withdrew her hand and touched the wall above the bed. The room should have been warm, but it was not.

  She saw a Bible by the bed. She picked it up and ran the pages through her fingers, looking for something, anything. She wanted to leave, but could not. She was riveted to the spot. Outside the weather was calm. A tree rustled its leaves in the wind. She saw a robin sitting on the fence, cows in the field at the back, even a deer, which was rare enough at the best of times. Outside the house, she could see normality; she wanted to be there.

  Oldfield continued to look on the other side of the room. He had checked out a small wardrobe, found nothing except the reverend’s clothes. He had checked the man’s underwear drawer: all in order.

  ‘Are you finished?’ Clare asked. She was already cl
ose to the door.

  ‘There’s something underneath the wardrobe. I need to check it.’ The constable knelt down and peered underneath for a better look. ‘It’s a wooden box.’

  Gently he eased it out. There was no lock at the front, only a metal catch. He undid the catch and opened the box. Clare had moved closer.

  ‘There’s a book in here, an old Bible,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Check it out, and then we can leave.’ A blast of freezing air gusted through the room.

  ‘It’s in there. I know it is,’ Clare said.

  Oldfield placed the Bible on the bed.

  ‘Don’t open it, please,’ Clare said. She was shaking. She remembered back to that time in the church with Tremayne and the Reverend Harrison. She remembered back to the time with Mavis Godwin in her cottage when the daylight had turned to night, and a ferocious storm full of thunder and lightning had filled the sky.

  Oldfield felt compelled to listen to her, but he knew what he had to do. He lifted the leather cover. The heater sparked and shut off.

  ‘Get out of here before it’s too late,’ Clare screamed.

  ‘It’s our job. We’ve got to do this.’

  ‘Look out the window.’

  ‘The weather’s changing, that all,’ Oldfield said. ‘We can either read it here or down at the station,’ he said.

  ‘Do it there.’

  ‘There’s some writing.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Clare, believing the worst, asked.

  For those who read this be warned.

  ‘Close it,’ Clare said nervously. ‘Can you hear it? The chanting outside.’

  ‘It’s the wind blowing through the trees.’

  ‘What about the cold in here, the heater?’

  ‘Do you expect us to tell DI Tremayne that evil lurks here?’

  ‘Does it?’ Clare asked. She was standing outside the door.

  Oldfield chose not to answer. He closed the Bible, put it under his arm and left the room.

  The two police officers hurried down the stairs and out of the front door.

  Chapter 12

  Clare had known Tremayne for almost eight months, and it was the first time she had seen him pensive.

  ‘That’s the story,’ Clare said. Vic Oldfield stood beside her.

  ‘I’m with you on this one,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘With me on what?’ Tremayne said, looking up from the Bible placed in front of him. ‘Are you telling me that the whole sorry saga of why a vicar hanged himself is in this?’ He tapped the cover of the book. Clare eased back slightly.

  ‘We only read the first line,’ Clare said.

  ‘And then hightailed it out of there like little children, is that it?’ Tremayne said.

  Clare remembered how she and Oldfield had acted after leaving Harrison’s house. Both of them had not liked it there, but once distant from the area, they both agreed or maybe they’d convinced each other that what they had experienced up at the house was no more than the result of a fertile imagination.

  In Tremayne’s office, she knew that she could not let the man see her fear. ‘Maybe it’s best if you open the Bible and read what it says,’ she said.

  Oldfield said nothing. He was angling for a position in Homicide, a chance to get out of uniform and on with his career. Tremayne, he knew, was the best in the business, not only by reputation but because Clare had told him as well. He had to admit he liked her, would have asked her out, but he had heard her mention Harry and his pub. He knew he didn’t have a chance. All he had was a constable’s salary and a beat-up old Subaru, whereas the man she wanted drove a Mercedes and owned a pub. In Vic Oldfield’s estimation, heaven, but he knew he was not cut out to run his own business. He needed stability and a secure job as well as the satisfaction of a job well done, but he still fancied Clare.

  ‘And you, Oldfield?’ Tremayne asked. ‘What do you reckon to these stories of ancient gods?’

  ‘Not for me, guv,’ Oldfield said. Clare knew one thing, he was a more convincing liar than her.

  ‘And you want to join the department?’

  ‘I sure do.’

  ‘I’ll talk to your superior. See what can be done. Maybe you’ll be able to convince my sergeant that whatever she believes in is nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t believe it anymore,’ Clare said.

  ‘Rubbish. You ran scared from that house, and Oldfield’s covering for you.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What’s in this Bible that’s so important?’ Tremayne said as he opened the front cover. Both the junior officers took one step back.

  ‘Oldfield, you’re as bad as her.’

  For those who read this be warned.

  ‘More mumbo jumbo,’ Tremayne said as he read the first line. Clare looked out of the window.

  ‘You’d better read on,’ Oldfield said. Clare sat silently, uttering a prayer under her breath.

  Here in the Lord’s book, I have inscribed all that Mavis Godwin, one of my parishioners, has told me. Her statement of forces beyond the control of mere mortals needs to be recorded, and if what she says is true, then woe betide any who threatens them.

  ‘I’m not reading this nonsense,’ Tremayne said. ‘Yarwood, you can read it.’

  ‘If I must.’

  Clare moved over to where the Bible was placed and looked at the words written by the hand of the Reverend Harrison. She imagined bolts of lightning and darkened skies, but nothing happened.

  Mavis Godwin, a believer in the one true God, came to me with a dilemma. She was aware of forces that could not be explained, forces so malevolent that they require total loyalty or else they would seek retribution, they would seek death.

  She has known, so she told me, of these ancient gods since an early age. There are, she said, a significant number of people, law-abiding people, respected and beyond reproach, who have given themselves over to them.

  She said that she has witnessed in her youth their beneficence: the crops, the livestock, the wealth that has ensued. She also stated that she had seen their malevolence and what had happened to those who did not adhere to their strict code.

  As a young woman, she had started to doubt them. For many years, she has remained separated from the others who follow these gods.

  Her story was told to me over a period of several years, and finally I have summoned the courage to write it down in this Bible in the hope that the truth will be protected in the Holy Book.

  Clare stopped reading from the Bible. ‘That’s it,’ she said.

  ‘But she’s said nothing,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘I told you the man was certifiable,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘There must be more,’ Clare said.

  ‘The Bible was secured in a hidden place,’ Oldfield said. ‘There must be more. Clare, look further in the book.’

  Clare leafed through the Bible, looking for more, hoping not to find it. All the work that Tremayne had done to convince her that it was nothing other than the imagination playing tricks, and then Harry backing up the DI’s opinion, had had little effect on her. She knew something was not right.

  Maybe the heater sparking and shutting down could have been an electrical wiring fault in the house. And as for the cold, yet again, poor insulation and no central heating. She could see how anyone, including the Reverend Harrison, could have started to believe in the supernatural when it was quiet and icy cold. She had been there for no more than fifty minutes and the place had left her uneasy, and the vicar had been there for ten long years. No wonder he had started to doubt his faith, she thought. And her doubts in Tremayne’s office were doing nothing to help her career, and Harry was taking her out that night.

  Clare took a deep breath and looked through the Bible. ‘There’s more here,’ she said.

  ‘What does it say?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘It’s next to a Bible text.’

  ‘What text?’

  ‘Deuteronomy 4:35.’

  ‘What
does it say?’ Oldfield asked.

  You were shown these things so that you might know that the Lord is God; beside him, there is no other.

  ‘What did Harrison say?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Sounds like he was hedging his bets,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Whatever.’ Tremayne was clearly agitated. The fingers on one hand were tapping his desk. The man looked as though he was ready to blow.

  Clare looked at what Harrison had written on the blank page next to the text. She knew she had to get on with it.

  Mavis Godwin had grown up with a belief in paganism, and that her family had a connection to those who practised their worship in the name of three ancient gods. She said their names were Teutates, Esus and Taranis, and whereas they were benign as long as they were honoured, they were ruthless and without mercy to those who threatened them. When she had first come to the Salisbury area, she had lived in a village where everyone believed. A village no more than ten miles from Salisbury. She said that to visit the place was to understand. There, she said, the crops were good, the livestock was healthy, and the people had an air of tranquillity.

  ‘Why did she leave if it was so damn good?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘There’s more,’ Clare replied.

  She had met Trevor Godwin, a fellow believer, in the village. Their mutual belief turned to love and they married. After some years, she had become disillusioned. During a time when the weather had not been favourable, the elders determined that a sacrifice needed to be made. She was working in Salisbury at the time as a registered nurse and had seen that the conditions in the village were no better, no worse than elsewhere. Also, she had started to read the Bible, a forbidden activity.

  With economic hardship about to encompass the village where she lived with her husband, a decision was made by the chief elder. On the appointed day, she and the others in the village were called to their meeting place. The senior elder made a speech, praised the gods, offered the sacrifice. The victim, suitably drugged, was then drowned in the centre of the church in an old water tank.