The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I’m not suggesting, I’m saying. We need help, and within the next hour, otherwise that bunch of lunatics will be down here.’

  ‘They’ll kill us?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Why not? What have they to lose? They know, or at least Wylshere does, that after tonight no one in this village will be free of suspicion. Once we start diving into the underbelly of this community, we’ll find at least those in the bar guilty of murder, and then there’ll be an explanation of how Eric Langley died. Wylshere’s going down for a long time, as is his wife, and we’ve seen all those up at the pub.’

  ‘What about the other people in the village, the women and the children?’

  ‘Have you seen any of them?’

  ‘None, other than Elizabeth Grimshaw and her neighbour.’

  ‘I don’t get it with these people, but it doesn't matter now,’ Tremayne said. ‘We need help, armed help, and it needs someone to cut out across those fields.’

  Eventually one of Hughes’s CSIs agreed to go. Tremayne had rejected an offer from one of the uniforms as they were trained in unarmed combat and they had also had weapons training, and he needed them.

  Two hours later, it was into the early hours of the morning, and Clare was hopeful that the night would pass uneventfully. Tremayne had posted one of the uniforms on guard duty to keep a watch on the pub. Most of the CSIs were sleeping or attempting to. Clare was dozing, dreaming of Harry, trying to think pleasant thoughts. Tremayne could not rest, and his eyes were focussed on the pub and the village of Avon Hill; only the pub had lights, everywhere else were ghostly outlines. He wondered how anyone could live in such a place, even when there was no threat of mayhem and evil. He was, he knew, a man who needed movement, whether it was people or cars, and some noise, but in that village, there was nothing. He could see why Clare felt scared there. He had to admit to himself that the place scared him as well and that anyone susceptible to a fertile imagination could see things that weren’t there, believe in things that had no foundation in reality.

  The one certainty in the whole sorry saga of Avon Hill was that Dr Edmund Wylshere was certifiable, and those that followed him were misled or equally mad.

  ‘Yarwood, wake up,’ Tremayne said, shaking Clare’s shoulder. ‘Something’s up.’

  ***

  Edmund Wylshere could see there was dissension and conflict, so much so that some in the pub were openly defying him.

  Disregarding those dissenters, Wylshere made his plan. The first stage was to deal with those down at the church. He knew that would not be difficult.

  ‘Wylshere, you’ve condemned us,’ one of the elders said, his face covered in a mask.

  ‘The gods are always stronger after we have made a sacrifice.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Tomorrow those that come will find nothing.’

  ‘And us?’

  ‘We will not exist.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The elder was confused. He had agreed with the death of the others, necessary in his estimation, but now their leader was plotting wholesale carnage.

  With Wylshere not willing to give an answer, the elder moved away. He, even as one of the most fervent, did not understand the logic of the man. He would support Wylshere, but he had a feeling the night was not going to end well. He wished it could be different, but decent people who had meant no harm to anyone were to die for something they did not understand. He knew that was how it had always been – the weak destroyed by the strong.

  He looked out of the window at the church. So near, yet so far, he thought. He regretted that he had not dealt with Wylshere before. But they would all be condemned for their murderous activities, those condemning not knowing the truth of the matter. He had seen their power when they had brought the heavy snow down on the road out of the village, and then the cold that had frozen the one who had mown down the people outside the pub. He remembered the first of the police officers, Constable Dallimore, and how he had looked when he had struck him across the face, the sight of his blood as he lay dying, and then the look of the second officer as he lay freezing, his back against a tree.

  The elder knew he was damned, as were the others, equally as guilty as Wylshere. The decision had been made, he would comply.

  Chapter 34

  Tremayne’s initial concerns about the tenuous situation in Avon Hill proved to be ill-founded. Not only did the anticipated assault on the crime scene not eventuate, but they received a visit from one of its inhabitants.

  ‘Who are you?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘They will come for you tonight. You must leave.’

  ‘We’re police officers, sworn to uphold the law, not people who will scurry away at the slightest provocation.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Their strength comes from the quality of the offering.’

  ‘If they’re looking for a virgin to sacrifice, they’re too late,’ Tremayne said in a moment of rashness.

  ‘You will all make ideal offerings, especially your partner.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clare asked. The man in front of her was making her scared, not that he needed to try very hard. He had a menacing tone in his voice, the voice that she would expect death to use.

  ‘They’re too late for the virgin,’ Clare said.

  ‘What are you here for?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘You must leave now.’

  ‘There is no way to leave. The road is blocked.’

  ‘Then you must walk out.’

  ‘We’ve already sent someone to go for help,’ Clare said.

  ‘He did not make it.’

  ‘There are some at the pub who do not want this to continue. They have asked me to tell you to leave.’

  ‘Are there many of you who feel the same way in this village?’ Clare asked.

  ‘There are others.’

  ‘Elizabeth Grimshaw?’

  ‘She followed their orders.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police with this knowledge?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Would you have believed us?’

  ‘That there were pagan worshippers in the village of Avon Hill; regular people by day, murdering heathens by night? Probably not.’

  ‘That is why no one came forward. We live in fear here.’

  ‘You could always leave.’

  ‘No one leaves without their permission.’

  ‘Whose permission?’

  ‘Edmund Wylshere and the other elders.’

  ‘If, as you say, they are coming for us, will you and the others in this village give us assistance?’ Clare asked.

  ‘No one will help. We have only come to warn you. Leave this place.’

  ‘This is a crime scene. We cannot.’

  ‘Then you have been warned. Tomorrow, when it comes, we will see what remains.’

  ‘What do you expect to see?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Unless the two of you leave immediately, you will both be dead.’

  ***

  Tremayne, left confused by the unexpected visit, did not know what to say. He checked the gun in his pocket; it was still there, although it would not be enough to hold off a mob intent on mayhem and murder, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to shoot someone.

  Clare, suitably frightened by the ominous villager, wondered what they should do. The villager had recommended that they all bolt for it: the crime scene investigators, the patrol car drivers, the uniforms, as well as her and Tremayne. She knew that would never happen, and besides, how could they explain it back at the police station. They’d be laughed out of the police station, her and Tremayne, as two people who had allowed their fantasies to get out of hand. And she knew that her DI would never back off.

  ‘The situation’s grim,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Clare asked.

  ‘There’s not much we can do. We can’t get the people out, and besides reducing the numbers would make our situation more precarious.’

  ‘Have you ever come across a situation like thi
s before?’ Clare asked.

  ‘In Wiltshire, never. In London, when I was starting out, there was a riot. That was violent, some people were hurt, but there we had tear gas and backup; here we’ve nothing. He mentioned the last person we sent out to get help is dead as well, which means these people have killed two police officers and one crime scene investigator since we’ve been here. They’re not going to stop now.’

  ‘They’ve no reason to,’ Clare said.

  ‘I suggest we prepare our line of defence.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘We’ll block the entrance with the vehicles.’

  ‘They’ll be on foot. They’ll just walk around them.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘We barricade ourselves in the church until daylight. Then we can reassess the situation. They’re bound to come looking for us in due course.’

  ‘That could be twenty-four hours.’

  ‘They’re not as strong during the day.’

  ‘Not that ancient gods nonsense again, Yarwood.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but the people up at the pub believe it.’

  They positioned the five remaining vehicles as best they could to obstruct any unwelcome visitors.

  Tremayne, unable to relax, positioned himself outside the main entrance to the church, his eyes focussed on the pub. Clare, not wishing to be outside, knowing that it was her responsibility to be with Tremayne, could see occasional flickering lights in some of the houses.

  ‘There’s no one asleep up there,’ she said to Tremayne. He had a cigarette in his mouth, the red when he inhaled giving an eerie glow. Clare, not a smoker, could only watch as he found solace in the nicotine.

  A hush fell over the crime scene area, only disturbed by the muffled sound of a generator inside the church. ‘I don’t like it, Yarwood,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare knew what he meant. The mist was swirling, the temperature was still dropping, and up the road a malignant group of individuals waited to carry out their master’s bidding. She imagined herself as the sacrifice, tied to a cross in the woods while they stoked the fire beneath her. She could imagine herself screaming in sheer agony while those watching relished the moment.

  Tremayne broke the silence. ‘There’s movement up at the pub.’ Clare looked and could see the men milling around the front door, its light casting a shadow over some of them.

  ‘They’re dressed up,’ Clare said. Even though it was some distance, she could still make out the shapes.

  ‘How long to daylight?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Long enough for them to do what they want.’

  ‘Hours, not verbiage.’

  ‘Three hours.’

  ‘Long enough for them to cause trouble. How are we placed to defend ourselves?’

  ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘We’re not. I’ve got a loaded gun, but it’s only good to take down six.’

  ‘You’d use it, guv?’

  ‘For warning them to back off.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’ve no gun. And I’m not about to shoot them dead the moment they cross the line.’

  ‘But they would kill us.’

  ‘They’ve already killed tonight. A few more won’t make any difference.’

  ‘Then you know the answer,’ Clare said.

  ‘I can just imagine Moulton’s reaction if we get this wrong.’

  ‘He’s not here facing a bunch of murdering imbeciles, is he?’

  ‘If they cross the line, I shoot to kill, is that it?’

  ‘What option do you have? Everyone here will back up your story.’

  ‘No one will believe us. They’ll put it down to mass hysteria. Even if they believe us, do you think they’ll want to admit that there is a bunch of paganists worshipping ancient gods, committing murder in their midst?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s not the first time?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Not that I know around here, but these cults occur from time to time.’

  The activities near the pub began to intensify, the chanting became more audible. Jim Hughes came out from the church, took a deep breath as he felt the blast of cold air. ‘There’s some that want to make a run for it,’ he said.

  ‘Are you one of them?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘It’s better than sitting here. My people have been in the woods. We’ve seen the graves, two of the bodies. That group coming down here are not the local Boy Scouts.’

  ‘It’s your decision, but it leaves us exposed.’

  ‘I’ll stay, the others can go if they want to,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Then tell them to go now and to send help for us.’

  ‘How long?’ Hughes said, referring to the chanting mob walking towards the church.

  ‘Five minutes before they’re here, another ten while I remonstrate with them, fire my gun in the air a couple of times.’

  ‘That’s a waste of two bullets,’ Clare said. She looked up towards the mob, their bizarre uniforms and masks now more visible. Some, she could see, were carrying staves, others were brandishing knives. ‘They're going to cut us up,’ she said in a sheer panic.

  Hughes took one further look at those approaching and moved back inside the church. Two minutes later, six of the crime scene examiners left from the rear of the church. Tremayne and Clare looked up at the mob. ‘They’ve seen them,’ Tremayne said. ‘Two of the mob are going after them. I hope our people can run faster than the locals.’

  ‘Can they?’ Clare asked.

  Tremayne did not answer her question. ‘How many in that mob now?’

  ‘Seventeen or eighteen.’

  ‘We can’t hold them off. It might be better if you make a run for it.’

  ‘And leave you defenceless?’ Clare replied.

  Up the road, the mob continued to move forward, their chanting more rhythmic, louder. They did not appear to be in a hurry. A sound of anguish came from behind the church. ‘They’ve got one of ours,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘We should help,’ Clare said.

  ‘How? And what would it achieve? We need to make a stand against this lot here.’

  Jim Hughes returned to join Tremayne and Clare. ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘We heard.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ the crime scene examiner asked. Clare could sense his fear. It was clear that all three, as well as the others remaining, would not see the morning sunrise, and she, for one, would not feel Harry’s arms around her. She started to cry. Tremayne handed her a handkerchief.

  Chapter 35

  A lonely road, a group of men clothed in their ceremonial robes, an opposing force at the church. Edmund Wylshere had always known that this day would come. He relished the fact that he, as the chief elder, the only man entrusted with reciting the words that his ancestor had spoken seven hundred years previously, would wake them from their slumber.

  It was not often that he did so. Most times the mention of their names would be sufficient to ensure the total obedience of the narrow-minded, simple folk in Avon Hill. Enough to scare those that doubted, to ensure the deaths of those who reasoned or debated or questioned.

  Wylshere was aware of the old, the infirm, the women and the children hidden behind the twitching curtains, their only safety lying in their compliance, their obedience and their ability to keep all that had occurred a secret.

  Once the decision had been made in the pub to retake the church, those who had gathered on the other side of the bar had been given an ultimatum: you’re with us or else.

  Not one of those who had doubted Wylshere’s authority refused to join the mob as they commenced their march towards the church. Wylshere had seen them hanging back, hoping to be spared any involvement in the fight that was to come, although when the cannon fodder was required, they would be thrust forward.

  Only the elders, five in total, wore the masks of office: Edmund Wylshere, the bull, the other four a ram, a goat, a stag, a bear. ‘Maintain the chant,’ Wylshere cried o
ut as they marched slowly, keeping a rhythmic beat that disturbed the still night.

  Saxby, the farmer, walked alongside Wylshere, his robes scarlet, as befitted an elder. Those who were not elders wore ankle-length robes of blue.

  Saxby was not comfortable with the situation. He had managed to live a decent life, free of worry, with plenty of wealth to sustain him and his family. If that came as a result of the occasional sacrifice, it was a small cost, but with Wylshere over the last few years it had become more malevolent, more sinister, and he did not like it. He knew that Wylshere directed their activities and his need for more controversial deaths had become obsessive: Mavis Godwin had not deserved to die, nor had her husband, a man of few words and little intellect. Trevor Godwin, Saxby well knew, was one of the most devout, second only to Wylshere. And then Adam Saunders, a child. What was the worst he could do? Talk to his friends in the schoolyard?

  Saxby knew that the night would end badly. There were another three hours before daylight, and even they could not hold that off.

  The third elder, Mike Carter, the only one who could not claim ancestry in the village, and now its sole butcher, walked alongside Saxby.

  James Slater, the vet, had been born in the village, as had his parents and their parents before them. No such doubts flowed through his veins. One of his predecessors had been in the church when Wylshere’s ancestor had climbed into the pulpit and uttered the words. Slater knew there were others who would protect them, as did Wylshere. He had been the most vehement in his opposition to allowing Mike Carter, the butcher, into their group, but Wylshere had opposed him. Slater, a man steeped in the old-fashioned ways, still believed that what they had in the village was unique and no one else should have been invited into their community.

  The fifth elder, a man who did not say much, his secret not known to many, walked down the road with the others, his chanting muffled. He was a man who had seen the world, and he knew that whatever happened, the night would irrevocably change the future of all those present, villagers and police. He, more than the others, could see a nexus where the forces of modernity and civilisation would confront the forces of the middle ages and paganism. He did not know which of the two was the greater, but he did not concern himself with that, other than to maintain a detachment.