The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  Vic Oldfield always knew that Charles Saunders coming clean about Avon Hill and the deaths was a long shot. Even after such a short time with DI Tremayne and Clare Yarwood, he realised that the boundless optimism which had accompanied him when he was in uniform was starting to tarnish. He could see himself in his fifties in Tremayne’s seat in the corner office, full of the cynicism of having been there, seen it all.

  Oldfield had to give the DI his due though; the man knew what he was talking about, and he was rarely wrong. He was adamant that Eric Langley’s death was explainable, although no one, certainly not the CSE, had come up with a satisfactory cause. All the other deaths were explainable, however, and Charles Saunders was the man who had promised to bring the pieces together.

  As Oldfield drew up to the Saunders’ house, a substantial mock-Tudor two-storey house midway between Avon Hill and Salisbury, it was clear that something was wrong. The front door was wide open, there were suitcases in the driveway, and a car was being loaded by a woman in her late forties.

  ‘Constable Oldfield,’ he said, as he showed his identification to her. It was evident she had been crying and that she had made no attempt to make herself presentable. Oldfield assumed her to be Adam Saunders’ mother.

  ‘He killed him, that bastard,’ the woman said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That son of a bitch killed our son, and all because of that stupid village.’

  ‘Avon Hill?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Your husband was going to reveal all that he knew,’ Oldfield said. The woman continued to load her car.

  ‘He’ll not talk. The elders kill our son, yet he still protects them.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Indoors, feeling sorry for himself.’

  ‘I’ve not heard the elders mentioned before.’

  ‘You’re the police. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Once we have enough evidence, we will bring to justice those responsible.’

  ‘You know who it is?’

  ‘We have our suspicions.’

  Charles Saunders came out of the front door, took one look at Oldfield and returned indoors, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘They’ve been on the phone to him.’

  ‘They?’ Oldfield asked again.

  ‘The elders.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘Every one of them. Pillars of society, they’d call themselves. Murdering savages who kill old women and children to protect themselves and their crazy beliefs.’

  ‘Do you mean Mavis Godwin?’

  ‘She’s not the only one they’ve killed. They killed her husband as well.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I was there. I saw him die.’

  ‘Do you know where he is buried?’

  ‘I could take you there.’

  As Oldfield and Adam Saunders’ mother stood outside the house, a crashing sound could be heard from inside. Vic Oldfield rushed to the front door, attempted to break it open with his shoulder. It did not budge.

  ‘It’s double-locked,’ Mrs Saunders said. ‘Let me.’

  With no apparent attempt to hurry, she unlocked the door and entered the house.

  ‘Where is he?’ Oldfield asked. He noticed clothes strewn in the hallway. They looked to be a man’s. ‘Was he leaving?’

  ‘What do I care. He’s upstairs.’

  Oldfield bolted up the stairs, covering two steps at one stride. Mrs Saunders took her time. Oldfield, unsure of which way to go, waited for the woman on the upstairs’ landing. ‘His office is down the end of the hall, to your left,’ she said.

  The door was locked from the inside. This time Oldfield’s attempt at shouldering the door was successful, and it gave at the first attempt. ‘Don’t come in,’ he said.

  Too late, Mrs Saunders was in. ‘The coward. He took the easy way out,’ she said.

  Charles Saunders was hanging from a large beam, an attempt at pseudo-Tudor architecture. Around his neck was an electric cable, the other end secured to the beam. The cause of the crashing sound, a wooden chair, was lying on its side.

  ‘Help me to get him down,’ Oldfield said. He looked around, the woman was gone.

  On closer inspection, it was clear the man hanging from the beam was dead. Oldfield phoned DI Tremayne and Clare. ‘Charles Saunders is dead.’

  Vic Oldfield realised that had he not been engaged with Mrs Saunders downstairs, the man would have still been alive. As he passed on the information to his fellow team members, he heard the sound of tyres on the gravel driveway outside. He looked out of the window to see Mrs Saunders driving away.

  ***

  ‘Are you telling me you were here when he committed suicide?’ Tremayne asked after he had arrived at the Saunders’ residence. The man was angry, not that Oldfield blamed him. He had been responsible for seeing that the man reached Bemerton Road Police Station, not to officiate at his suicide, and that was clearly what it was.

  ‘I was downstairs with his wife. She was leaving. I’d seen Charles Saunders briefly.’

  ‘With you and Yarwood, I’ve got a pair of idiots. Not only do you believe this nonsense, but now you let people kill themselves when you’re meant to be looking after them.’

  ‘Mrs Saunders was talking. She knows what is going on. She even admitted that she had seen Trevor Godwin die, and she knew where he was buried. I couldn’t leave her, and besides, how was I to know that her husband was going to kill himself?’

  ‘How am I going to explain to our superintendent that you were distracted? He’ll have my guts for garters.’

  ‘I’ll take the blame,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’ll get a kick up the arse, I’ll be hauled over the coals. That miserable sod may even force my retirement.’

  Clare stood to one side. She could see that Oldfield had acted correctly, although she was doubtful that others would see it that way. She thought Tremayne was acting harshly, although she could feel his frustration, the same as hers. And now Harry was starting to become annoyed with her extended hours away from him. The previous night when she had arrived home late, he had not been pleased, had given her the cold shoulder, not even a kiss to welcome her back home or to say goodbye when she left later. It had not concerned her at the time; it did now.

  ‘Yarwood, find out where that damn woman’s gone,’ Tremayne said. ‘I hope our man here has got the registration number.’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Oldfield replied.

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘None that I could see. He only had a few minutes from when I saw him to when he was dead.’

  ‘That’ll look good on your police record. “Witnesses commit suicide when they see him”,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘That’s not fair, guv,’ Claire said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Tremayne admitted, ‘but it’s a first. Don’t expect to be the police officer of the month down at Bemerton Road, will you, Oldfield?’

  ‘I know it’s not good, but his wife knows what’s going on. She told me more in the time I was talking to her than anyone else has.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘She admitted that Trevor Godwin had been killed, that Mavis Godwin was murdered, and she was not the first old lady according to her account. And then there are the elders she mentioned.’

  ‘Any names?’

  ‘None, but she said they were pillars of society.’

  ‘Dr Wylshere?’ Claire asked.

  ‘It’s probable. We still need to bring him in. First off, see if you can find the woman and her car.’

  Clare left to instigate the search for Kathy Saunders. Tremayne and Oldfield entered the house after donning protective clothing. The CSE had been adamant that they followed the process, even though there had been no one else involved and it was evident what had happened.

  ‘Nice house,’ Jim Hughes said when he arrived with his team. He, like Tremayne, was unmoved by
the sight of a man suspended from a beam. Oldfield fixated on the body, remembered the look of the man at the front door not more than sixty minutes previously.

  Oldfield realised that the man had decided not to talk, and that suicide was preferable to a police interview. The elders, whoever they were, were dangerous, and the fear they instilled into those who followed them was extreme.

  Oldfield knew they were probably being watched, and if he or Tremayne or Clare got in their way, then their well-being was at stake.

  ‘Not much to see,’ Hughes said. ‘Oldfield saw the man downstairs, there’s no sign of forced entry or coercion. Whatever it was, it drove the man to kill himself.’

  ‘No one else in the room?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘We’ll check but we’ll probably find nothing. If his son was murdered yesterday, and his wife was moving out, then I’d say that he committed suicide while his mind was disturbed.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tremayne said. ‘Oldfield, check on Yarwood. I want the dead man's wife today.’

  ‘Her son and her husband have both died within fifteen hours. Shouldn’t we give her some time to mourn?’ Oldfield said.

  ‘You tell me that she had witnessed the death of Trevor Godwin. Does that sound like a woman I should show some compassion to? She may well be upset, but she’s been a witness to a murder, possibly a participant, and you want me to go easy. Not a chance.’

  Chapter 24

  Kathy Saunders drove aimlessly around the area. After her husband had told her that their only child had become a victim of Wylshere and Avon Hill, she had not been able to think straight. Her son Adam was dead, and she knew who was responsible.

  Her life was over, she knew that, and what did it matter.

  As she drove into Avon Hill, the woman could only feel numb. She could see Wylshere’s Bentley parked outside the small pub where he and his inner circle of elders made their plans, where they drank their pints of beer and decided who was next to die.

  Kathy Saunders had believed them once, but now they had killed her son. A youth who had kept the village’s secret safe, yet they had not trusted him. She realised that Edmund Wylshere was not the benign and caring leader that he professed to be. The man was evil, and if others would not do it, then she would ensure that the gods could have him as well. She reached into the glove compartment of the car as she was pulling into the car park at the rear of the pub and took out a hand gun. She purposely parked behind Wylshere’s car.

  He’s not getting away, she thought.

  She switched off the car engine, calmly taking her time. Outside the car she went around to the back and opened the rear door. A shotgun lay on the floor. She took it and walked towards the back door of the pub.

  Inside the group of twelve led by Wylshere discussed what to do next. Wylshere, a man used to total obedience, listened to their arguments. There had been dissent in the past, but it had been minor compared to what he experienced now. Before dissenting voices had been in private, but now, he realised, of the eleven who stood or sat around him, six were wavering.

  ‘If you hadn’t killed Mavis Godwin,’ one of the group said.

  ‘What was I to do?’ Wylshere said. ‘Trevor Godwin was a true believer, yet we agreed that he needed to die.’

  ‘The man was a simpleton,’ Grayling, the publican, answered. ‘Don’t make out that he was anything else. When he was alive, we all made fun of him and his simple ways, and he allowed his wife to control him.’

  ‘Yet he never spoke to anyone outside of this village about what went on here.’

  The back door of the pub swung wide open, its brass handle banging on the wall inside. ‘You bastard,’ Kathy Saunders said. Her shotgun was held up and pointing directly at Wylshere.

  ‘Kathy, calm down,’ Wylshere said as he attempted to move away from the line of fire.

  ‘You’ve killed Adam, and now Charles is dead.’

  ‘I’m not responsible.’

  The others in the bar moved to one side. None appeared to be too keen to be involved. Grayling used the bar as a shield.

  ‘I am your leader. Help me,’ Wylshere pleaded. He knew then that he was a coward.

  ‘She’s right,’ one of the group said. ‘You killed them, the same as you killed the Godwins and the others. Kathy, do what is necessary. We will not stop you.’

  Dr Edmund Wylshere, the man who had led them with almost total obedience for over twenty years, knew that his sway over the community was coming to an end. He retreated into his shell and started to mouth secret incantations, the same ones his ancestor had spoken out loud seven centuries before in the church where they held their ceremonies.

  ‘They’ll not save you,’ Kathy Saunders said. The others in the bar were not so sure: the lights were flickering, their beers were frothing in their glasses, clouds were forming outside.

  ‘Stop it, Wylshere,’ Grayling said. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

  Wylshere continued to incant, the clouds growing more menacing, a streak of lightning momentarily lighting up the sky

  ‘You’ve brought them here,’ Kathy Saunders said. Her shotgun was loaded and still pointing at the doctor, now in a trance.’

  ‘You’ll not get any sense out of him,’ one of the group said.

  Kathy Saunders pulled the trigger. The recoil thrust her back against the wall. Of the twelve in that small area, two were severely wounded, another seven received minor injuries, and two were killed. Only two remained uninjured: Dr Edmund Wylshere and Kathy Saunders.

  Wylshere looked around at the carnage and then up at the woman. ‘You’ll not survive.’

  The woman took out the small gun in her jacket pocket and pointed it at Wylshere. She could see the look of horror on his face. She pulled the trigger.

  The bullet hit him in the chest, and he bent over and collapsed on the floor.

  Kathy Saunders, forced under extreme circumstances, had shot the man, a man she hated and had revered, a man who could summon the malignancy of pagan history. She knew she was damned.

  Albert Grayling lifted his bloodied head from behind the bar. ‘Kathy, go,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope that we survive.’

  ‘I will not,’ she said.

  ***

  Kathy Saunders was oblivious of her surroundings as she drove away from Avon Hill. She only knew one thing, Edmund Wylshere was dead. She had seen the bullet enter his body, seen the blood, seen him collapse onto the floor of the old pub. She vaguely remembered someone telling her to leave, but her recollections of the event were blurred. There had been a son and a husband, but even they were no longer clear in her mind. Unsure of where she was heading, she just drove. The narrow road leading away from the village was winding and treacherous at the best of times, but with the pelting rain and the dark clouds she had been forced to put on the car lights. Another streak of lightning, a rumble of thunder, a fox dashing across the road in front of her.

  As she started to distance herself from what had happened, as she came closer to the normal world, she began to reflect. With Wylshere dead, she knew that Avon Hill would be safe, and if he could not summon the deities, so would she. A feeling of sorrow washed over her. When her husband had told her that her son had died, she remembered that she had not been conscious of what he had said, almost as if it was a dream.

  She knew about the cottage where he had been ensconced, and about his hovering in a graveyard waiting for the opportunity to enter the vicar’s house to look for a book. Even she had agreed with that action. Hadn’t her family prospered over the centuries due to the Wylsheres?

  She had witnessed Trevor Godwin’s death, even chanted with the others, even stabbed him with a knife. Why, she wondered, was she so committed then, so abhorred now? She did not know, only that she needed to cleanse her spirit.

  Death was what she sought, but first there was unfinished business. Wylshere had a family, and they could carry on in his place, subverting other people, committing murder, pretending it was an offering. She knew she had to stop it
. She knew that the police, ineffectual as they would be against the gods, could at least deal with the mortal man.

  She remembered the young police constable at her house, how he had wanted her to help him cut down her husband, how she had dashed out of the house and left. Her husband had been a weak man. She stopped the car, checked in her handbag; the card was there.

  ‘Constable Oldfield, it’s Kathy Saunders here,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Saunders, we’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘You need to send some ambulances to Avon Hill.’

  ‘Why?’ Oldfield asked. He was in the office at the police station in Salisbury, with Tremayne and Clare listening in.

  ‘I’ve killed Edmund Wylshere.’

  Clare was on speed dial to the ambulance service, Tremayne was immediately into action and preparing to leave for the village.

  ‘We need to meet,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Meet me at the Wheatsheaf Inn in Wilton, thirty minutes. I will tell you why.’

  ‘I believe we know that already, but it’s still murder.’

  ‘You don’t know the whole story, and besides, I’ll never see the inside of a prison.’

  Chapter 25

  ‘Yarwood, now what do you say?’ Tremayne asked. They had both arrived in Avon Hill. The first ambulance was already there, another two were on their way. Some uniforms from the nearest police station were establishing the crime scene.

  ‘No engine problems this time,’ Clare replied.

  It was the second visit to the local pub for Tremayne, the first for Clare. Outside in the car park several wounded men stumbled around or sat hunched over on the ground.

  ‘Don’t go inside,’ the medic said.

  ‘Bad, is it?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘We’ve removed the wounded. There’s two others, but they’re dead.’

  ‘Did you come across a Doctor Edmund Wylshere?’

  ‘Dr Wylshere, he survived. He was shot in the chest, luckily it was off centre and exited on the other side of his body.’