The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It’s very clever. Those that retracted did no harm; the murder weapons when pressed hard did.’

  ‘So afterwards, it would have been possible to identify which blade killed the man.’

  ‘They were covered in blood or red paint up at Old Sarum. There was no way to tell up there.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Inconclusive.’

  ‘How many of the daggers had real blood on them?’

  ‘Most of them, as they had all stabbed the body a few times. They would have picked up at least some blood on the outside of the man’s robe. What I can tell you is that you have two murderers. Those daggers that had entered the body had substantially more blood than the others, consistent with entry through the flesh.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Pathology will conduct the autopsy. They’ll be able to tell you the extent of the wounds, and which of the daggers killed the man, but you’ve still got two potential murderers.’

  ***

  ‘Dreadful business, Tremayne,’ Peter Freestone said. The man, someone that Tremayne occasionally drank with, was in his office in Salisbury, perilously close to Minster Street and Harry Holchester’s pub. Tremayne, sensitive to his sergeant’s fragile nature, had attempted to deviate around the area, distracting her as they drove past the end of the road. It had not been successful as she had looked, seen the pub sign hanging over the door, not that there would be much of a welcome, closed as it had been for some months. There had been a couple of offers since to buy the place, but none had come to anything.

  Freestone sat in his office at the far end of Guildhall Square. Tremayne thought the room had a warm and cosy feel; Clare did not like it. Freestone, an accountant, was successful by all accounts, in that he lived well, had a big house not far from Salisbury, drove a late model Mercedes, and smoked a pipe in the office.

  Tremayne liked the idea of the pipe, Clare did not, the smell permeating the office. ‘Sorry about the smell,’ Freestone said as he opened the window.

  ‘It’s fine by me,’ Tremayne said. ‘Okay by you, Yarwood?’

  ‘Fine,’ Clare replied, which it was not, but they were there to discuss a murder, not to debate the offensive smell.

  ‘None of us slept last night,’ Freestone said.

  ‘Did anyone admit to killing the man?’

  ‘I can’t believe that one of us killed him.’

  ‘Someone did,’ Clare said.

  ‘But why? We act for the love of theatre, not for an opportunity to commit murder.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Tremayne said, ‘but some of your group killed the man.’

  ‘Some?’

  ‘There were seven in that assassination scene, seven who stabbed Gordon Mason. Two of you had lethal weapons.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We know how. We still don’t know who. What can you tell us about the other six?’

  ‘I was Brutus. Then there’s Casca, Cassius, Cinna, Ligarius, Metellus, and Decius Brutus.’

  ‘Maybe you can start with Casca?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Trevor Winston. He has a hairdressing salon. He would like to act professionally, but he’s not good enough. He knows that, so I’m not talking out of turn.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’s effeminate.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘He tries to downplay it, but yes, he probably is. He wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘We’re not dealing with flies here,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sure they are all fine, upstanding people, but two wanted Gordon Mason dead. Any ideas as to why?’

  ‘Not that I know of. The man was competent, active in the dramatic society. He could be blunt sometimes, especially with Trevor Winston.’

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘Mason was a strict Baptist. He didn’t hold with homosexuals.’

  ‘Reason enough for Winston to bear a grudge?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. They tolerated each other, worked well together on stage, and besides, Winston’s harmless.’

  ‘You’ve already said that.’

  ‘Apologies. Who else do you want to know about?’

  ‘The assassins.’

  ‘Cassius, the villain of the piece.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I thought you knew your Shakespeare,’ Tremayne said. Clare ignored his barbed comment. She much preferred the philistine to the educated man that her DI had temporarily become.

  ‘Cassius was the one who convinced Brutus that Caesar wanted to wrest control from the Senate and to pronounce himself King,’ Freestone said.

  ‘Who played that part?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Geoff Pearson, an archaeology student, very bright, talented actor.’

  ‘Local, is he?’

  ‘Born and bred. He’s studying at the university in Southampton, drives there and back every day.’

  ‘Any aggravation with anyone else in the cast?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Not Geoff. He gets on well with everyone.’

  ‘Cinna, what about him?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Gary Barker.’

  ‘Profession, age?’

  ‘He’s an easy-going person, mid-thirties, not very ambitious. He’s a good actor though. Cheryl Milledge, his girlfriend, played Portia, Brutus’s wife. She likes to drink, so does Gary.’

  ‘Decius Brutus?’

  ‘Len Dowling. You must have seen his signs around the city.’

  ‘The estate agent?’

  ‘I thought I recognised him,’ Tremayne said. ‘He gave me a lousy valuation on my house a couple of years back. He was desperate to sell it for me.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No way. He showed me what I could buy instead. I was better off where I am, and besides, I like it where I live. Apart from him being a sharp operator, what more can you tell us about him?’

  ‘He’s very keen on the theatrical. He’s a competent actor, agreeable with everyone, although he can be overbearing. His wife, Fiona, played Calpurnia, the wife of Caesar.’

  ‘Is Dowling capable of murder?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘How would I know?’ Freestone replied. ‘How does anyone know if someone else is capable of murder?’

  ‘Metellus, what about him?’

  ‘Bill Ford. He’s a funeral director. He’s not an affable man, but yet again, enthusiastic. Always puts in a good performance. He keeps to himself, lives on his own.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Unlikely. I can’t see him being close to anyone, male or female. He comes to our rehearsals, knows his lines, and he’ll always be here on the night. Apart from that, I can’t tell you much more about him.’

  ‘Apart from you, that only leaves Ligarius,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Jimmy Francombe. He’s only young, no more than eighteen. He’s exceptionally keen, impetuous, always wanting to hog the limelight, reckons he’s better than the parts we give him.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Probably, but he needs to mature. Sometimes, he’ll turn up with a throbbing headache and a hangover after a night on the town. We can’t trust him with the major parts until he grows out of it.’

  ‘What about Mark Antony?’

  ‘Phillip Dennison.’

  ‘Friends, Romans and countrymen,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Dennison, wealthy, thinks he’s superior to all of us, but he’s reliable, and he enjoys acting. His wife’s a handful.’

  ‘Any reason why you say that?’

  ‘You’ll judge for yourself when you meet them. Phillip’s in his late fifties, his wife’s twenty to twenty-five years younger, trophy wife.’

  ‘Is she? Clare asked.

  ‘I might be wrong, but that’s how I see it. Mind you, she’s beautiful. I can’t blame the man. That’s the cast for the scene, apart from me. I played Brutus. I only stabbed Gordon once.’

  ‘A clear t
arget to the heart, though,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Not me. I had nothing against Mason. He could be a killjoy, orange juice at the pub, but apart from that he was a good solicitor, used him myself on more than a few occasions.’

  ***

  Tremayne and Clare left Freestone to his pipe and his spreadsheets. They walked across Guildhall Square, Tremayne aiming to walk in one direction, Clare walking in the other.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I doubt if I’ll ever be ready, but I can’t be in Salisbury and do my job if you keep driving down other streets, trying to avoid Harry’s pub.’

  ‘It’s still raw?’

  ‘It’s better here, and now we’ve got another murder to deal with. I’ll be better, believe me.’

  Tremayne was not sure; his sergeant still looked emotionally disturbed to him, although he could not blame her. He had liked Harry Holchester, always thought him to be a decent person, and he had been equally surprised when he had turned out to be one of the pagan worshippers.

  The two police officers rounded the corner. There, in front of them, the Deer’s Head, the pub where Tremayne had often enjoyed a pint, where Clare had first met Harry. Tremayne, a man who rarely showed emotion, let alone felt it, looked at Clare.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ she said.

  Tremayne felt sad for her. ‘We’ve got work to do,’ he said.

  ‘Give me a few minutes on my own.’

  Tremayne walked away, took out a cigarette and lit up. He kept a watch on his sergeant, saw that she was just standing there, not moving, not crying. She reminded him of a porcelain statue. He didn’t know why he had made that analogy; he wasn’t a man who delved too deeply into the romanticism of a moment, but for some reason, he did that day.

  Clare looked over at him. ‘I’m fine now. I just had to deal with the rush of emotions. In future, if driving down past Harry’s pub is the quickest way, then we drive down there. No more diverting up this road and down that. Clear?’

  ‘And from here on, no more inviting me to watch boring plays. Clear?’

  ‘There’s still a murder to deal with,’ Clare said.

  ‘We need to interview the others.’

  Chapter 4

  Tremayne did not like Len Dowling, having met him before. To him, the man was too brash, too pushy, and above all, intent on distorting the truth, telling a vendor their house was worth more than it was, telling a purchaser that it was a bargain.

  That was what had happened to him when he had let the man show him a few houses. On the one hand, he was there attempting to convince him that it was a steal, the owner desperate, and with a little bit of TLC he’d clean up financially on this one, and then with the vendor, singing another tune.

  Tremayne remembered when he had allowed Dowling to show a young couple around his house in Wilton. The estate agent was priming him to expect an imminent offer, and then Tremayne had overheard him telling the young couple that the owner was desperate to sell: financial difficulties. As far as he was concerned, the man they were going to talk to was guilty of crimes against decency. It was not the ideal situation, Tremayne realised, to harbour prejudices.

  ‘Sorry, busy day,’ Dowling said. For a man with so much energy, he did not look healthy. His skin was pallid, his weight was on the heavy side. He wore a suit with a red tie, although even Tremayne had to admit he wore it well, handmade probably, whereas Tremayne was strictly an off-the-rack sort of man.

  ‘We’ve some questions,’ Clare said.

  ‘In my office,’ Dowling said.

  Inside were the pictures of houses sold, the advertising leaflets on the floor, the awards on his desk. ‘Business good?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Booming market, interest rates are low. It’s never been a better time to buy.’

  ‘Or sell?’

  ‘I remember your place. I could get you a good price.’

  ‘We’re here to discuss a murder, not my house.’

  ‘Understood. I get wound up sometimes. We never slept last night, Fiona and I.’

  ‘Calpurnia.’

  Tremayne knew that Dowling was not a man who would have any trouble sleeping.

  ‘You played Decius Brutus?’ Clare said.

  ‘I wanted to play Caesar.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Fiona was playing his wife. I thought it would be fun, great for the business.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d ensure an article in the paper. Local estate agent and his wife take leading roles in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.’

  ‘Instead of a local estate agent takes a minor role, while his wife gets the plum female part.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ Dowling said. Clare thought the man was awful, the same as her DI, judging by the way he looked at the estate agent.

  ‘Caesar died,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘In the play.’

  ‘Outside of the play as well.’

  ‘Yes, but that was Mason, not Caesar.’

  ‘Was it? What if someone wanted to make a statement, or they were jealous that they did not get the part?’

  ‘Whoa. Are you accusing me of murder just because I didn’t get to play the lead?’

  ‘People murder each other for the strangest of reasons, jealousy is as good as any.’

  ‘It wasn’t that important. Granted that Gordon Mason wasn’t the most jovial of men, but a part in the local dramatic society’s production is hardly a reason to kill him.’

  ‘What would be?’

  ‘He was a good solicitor.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that you use him as well.’

  Clare could see that Tremayne was baiting the man, attempting to get past his supercilious grin.’

  ‘I’ve never used him. My brother is a solicitor in Salisbury.’

  ‘What would be a good enough reason to kill Mason?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Can there be any?’

  ‘You’ve got your finger on the pulse of what goes on in this city. Any rumours of suspect property transactions, criminal activities?’

  ‘There’s always rumours, but nothing specific, and besides, Gordon Mason was a strict Bible-bashing Baptist. He’s hardly likely to be the type of person to be involved in anything criminal.’

  ‘Dodgy property transactions, rezoning industrial into residential, may not be illegal, only fraudulent. Are there any such activities?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘You’d tell us if you knew?’

  ‘Inspector, I gild the lily, portray myself as Jack the lad, everyone’s friend, but basically, I’m a decent person. Mason may have been involved in shady deals, he may have been obstructing some, but I don’t know any more than you do. I can’t say that I’ll miss the man. I didn’t know him that well, and maybe I’ll get a crack at Caesar next time, but I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve answered our questions,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You gave an honest reply. Murderers invariably defend themselves by effusing excessively about the victim, a great loss to society, loved his wife, loved animals.’

  ‘He’ll not be missed much,’ Dowling said. ‘Now can I get back to what I do best?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tremayne and Clare left Dowling’s agency, the man back into ingratiating mode – it’s a bargain, we’ll get you a good price – with an elderly couple who had walked in the door.

  ‘They’ll see through him soon enough,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Will they?’ Clare said.

  ‘Not really my concern.’

  ***

  ‘Yarwood, you can deal with Jimmy Francombe. He’ll open up more with you,’ Tremayne said.

  The two had just had a break, discussed Len Dowling. Both agreed that the man was a typical salesman, but it was hardly a reason to become a murderer.

  ‘Why me?’ Clare said.

  ‘You’re more his age. He’ll clam up with me.’


  ‘What do you mean? He’ll see me as a bit of fluff, attempt to chat me up.’

  ‘Yarwood, you know I didn’t say that. You’re getting touchy. What I meant to say is that he’ll see me as an old man, more like a father figure. With you, he’ll see you as his age. No doubt he’ll fancy you, what young hot-blooded male wouldn’t, but that’s not the reason.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Clare said. ‘You know how to compliment people.’

  ‘That wasn’t a compliment.’

  ‘It was to me.’

  ‘Anyway, you deal with Francombe.’

  Clare found Jimmy Francombe at his school. As it was a murder investigation, she had contacted their administration department, who had pulled him out of his class.

  ‘I’ve a few questions,’ Clare said, once they were sitting in a small office at the school.

  ‘I saw you up at Old Sarum. Did you see me?’

  ‘On the stage and when I took your statement.’

  ‘I’m better than them.’

  Clare could see that the young man, who looked older than eighteen, more like twenty-two to twenty-four, had the arrogance of youth, the infallibility of the young, and the raging hormones of an adolescent teenager.

  ‘You played Ligarius?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Caesar or Gordon Mason.’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the death scene?’

  ‘It was as we had rehearsed it. Casca, that’s Trevor Winston, he stabbed Caesar first.’

  ‘Do you like Trevor Winston?’

  ‘He’s not a bad person; he’s gay.’

  ‘Has he tried it on with you?’

  ‘He knows I’d give him a thump if he tried it.’

  ‘Are you violent?’

  ‘Not me. With Trevor, it’s a few laughs, make a few gay jokes, but the man likes a drink occasionally. I see him around the city with his gay friends sometimes, that’s all.’

  ‘After Casca?’

  ‘Do you know the story?’ Francombe asked. Clare could see that he was looking her up and down. She was not much older than him, and with her fresh-faced look and his mature, slightly-lined face, complete with a two-day stubble, they looked as if they could have made a couple, not that she was interested in younger men, or men in general, at the present time. And she resented his piercing eyes. She regretted that she had worn a white blouse that day, see-through if the sun was shining in the right direction.