The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘He’s an older man,’ Clare said.

  ‘As you’re the police and you can check me out, it’s better if I tell you. Phillip plays the financial markets in a big way. The man has an ego that allows him to take risks. I have to admire him for that. That ego needs feeding.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m part of the ego. Don’t get me wrong. I know what I am, what other people see me as, especially that Mason. He looked me up and down, had me stripped naked there in front of his beady eyes, trying to look down my cleavage.’

  ‘You must have come across that before. You’re not a shrinking violet,’ Clare said.

  ‘I don’t make a pretence. I set out to snare Phillip, I don’t intend to let him go.’

  ‘And the women at the dramatic society?’

  ‘There was one, a bit rough around the edges. I didn’t mind her nor her layabout boyfriend. The man in charge, what was his name?’

  ‘Peter Freestone,’ Clare said.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. He was polite, as was the funeral director, although he wasn’t a cheerful person, the job I suppose, looking at dead bodies every day. The young kid fancied his chances, and Trevor Winston, he’s a good hairdresser and certainly not interested in me. He would have fancied the young kid, given half a chance.’

  ‘Jimmy Francombe’s not homosexual,’ Clare said.

  ‘He’s tried to chat you up?’

  ‘He’s tried.’

  ‘He’s got plenty of nerve, I’ll give him that. I couldn’t get rid of him.’

  ‘Was that an issue?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Not really. The boy was harmless, and he behaved himself, not like some others.’

  ‘Mason?’

  ‘He sees me walk in the door, pretending to turn up his nose, made some disparaging comments about me to the others.’

  ‘What sorts of comments?’

  ‘I couldn’t hear, but I can tell you what they were: old man’s fancy, gold digger, tart, hawking herself for an old man’s money. I’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘Does it upset you?’

  ‘Sometimes. It’s not all true. I’m fond of Phillip, the same he is of me. He’s a few years older than me and lonely, I was poor and attractive. Please, that’s not false modesty. I’m honest as to what I am, how men see me, especially men like Phillip who’ve spent a lifetime chasing money, failing to settle down, bring up a family. I’m the substitute reward, although what he really wants is to relive his life, the same as everyone else, but it’s too late for him.’

  ‘Too late for you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I’m not wired that way. I’m not into domesticity and children. If it’s not Phillip, I’ll find someone else, until I’m old and no longer desirable.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Retire to a convent,’ Samantha Dennison said.

  ‘Would you?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Not likely. I’ve got a small house in the Caribbean. I’ll move there and surround myself with animals, the eccentric old woman in the house up the end of the road.’

  ‘What were you doing before you met your husband?’

  ‘I was working in an office, being ogled by the manager, pawed by the office boy if he got half a chance, squeezing me against the photocopier. One day, Phillip comes in, we get talking. Three months later we were married on a beach in Antigua.’

  ‘You’ve been honest with us,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’ve no reason not to be. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve made Phillip happy; he’s made me happy. Is there anything else in life?’

  Clare wanted to say the unconditional love between two people but decided not to.

  ‘What can you tell us about Geoff Pearson. You’ve met him, I suppose.’

  ‘The university student?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Clare said.

  ‘He was polite, but he wasn’t interested in me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s screwing the estate agent’s wife. Sorry about the language, but that’s the truth.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I’ve got two eyes. I could see them making sure to avoid eye contact, and in the rehearsal, when he has to hold her, he’s not holding her tight, pretending to be impassive.’

  ‘Did anyone see this?’

  ‘If they did, they never mentioned it.’

  ‘You deduced that they were involved purely by observation.’

  ‘I was the impartial observer. I picked it up straight away.’

  ‘You’ve told your husband.’

  ‘I’ve told no one, only you.’

  ‘What did you make of Len Dowling, the estate agent?’

  ‘Not much. He sounds off a lot, but there’s not much substance. Geoff Pearson doesn’t say much, but he’s certainly getting on with it, at least with that woman.’

  ‘You didn’t like her?’

  ‘I saw through her. The affected accent, the mannerisms.’

  ‘You saw that?’

  ‘A kindred spirit, competition under different circumstances.’

  ‘You were hard on your husband the last time we were here,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘He thrives on it. I act like a bitch, but that’s what he wants. He wants to be dominated.’

  Clare did not believe the woman. Samantha Dennison was, by her own admission, a gold digger. By Clare’s definition, a bitch.

  ‘We’ve not discussed Gordon Mason in detail,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘He told Phillip what he thought of me, not that it stopped him undressing me. Phillip reacted, pushed Mason to one side, causing the man to fall over.’

  ‘What did the others say or do?’

  ‘It was outside. I don’t think anyone saw it.’

  ‘And your reaction?’

  ‘I kicked the man on the ground.’

  ‘What did Mason do?’

  ‘He swore, called me a whore. Phillip didn’t see that. We left soon after. Phillip was upset for a while, but I calmed him down.’

  ‘How?’ Clare asked.

  ‘You’re a smart woman, you figure it out.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Dennison. If your husband asks, we were just following up on our enquiries.’

  ‘I’ll not tell him. He’s in his own little world down there.’

  ***

  Fiona Dowling attended the all-important meeting with her social friends, even conducted herself in her typical effusive manner. Once free of them, she was on the road.

  Geoff Pearson was surprised to see her outside in the street when his last lecture for the day concluded. ‘Fiona, what are you doing here?’

  ‘The police. They know about us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I never told them. Who else knows about us?’

  ‘We were always discreet, careful where we met, and you being here doesn’t help. You could be seen.’

  ‘In Southampton? Get real, Geoff, I can’t afford to lose Len, nor you. I need you both.’

  ‘One to provide you with the money, the other to satisfy you,’ Pearson said.

  ‘I made Len what he is, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, and you’d have me jumping through the same hoop if you had half a chance.’

  ‘You’ve never loved me, it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fiona, you’ve always known what it was. I’m a struggling student, you’re a bored housewife. It’s been fun, still is, but don’t get carried away.’

  ‘I trusted you, and you told the police.’

  ‘I never told them, that’s the honest truth. Others have suspected, but I’ve never admitted to anything,’ Pearson said, knowing full well that Cheryl had seen them that one time and Gary Barker knew as well.

  ‘You’ve got to do something.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? The police suspect that we’re having an affair. There’s no proof.’

  ‘I admitted it to them. I was flustered, they were determined, and I needed to get out of the house.’

  ‘You stupid,
stupid woman. Don’t you know anything? Always deny. What do you think Len will say when he hears about this? He’ll divorce you, take away your car and your house, even claim custody of the children.’

  ‘I love you, Geoff. I want to be with you. He can’t take the house and the car, they’re in my name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tax avoidance. It’s legitimate, sort of, and besides, he’ll not divorce me. The man’s weak without me, but I need you, I love you.’

  Geoff Pearson could see difficulties, difficulties he did not want. He was a man destined for greatness; he did not need a clingy and neurotic woman. He needed to get rid of her. ‘Fiona, this can’t continue. You need to go back to Len, beg his forgiveness if it comes out, but you can’t rely on me.’

  ‘What was I, just another screw? I was better than all those young girls you take out, more mature, more able to guide your career, your life.’

  Pearson was panicking, he knew it. It had been fun, the older woman, the meetings at the out-of-town hotels, the back of the Range Rover with the seats folded down, but now the situation was serious. He had exams coming up, a potential new girlfriend in his year at university. He no longer needed the distraction, although when they had first made love, one night after rehearsals when she had given him a ride home in her car, it had been fun, and Fiona, he had known, was lacking the attention that she needed.

  Then it had been a bit on the side for her, a substantial boost to his male prowess, but now she was in love, desperate love, and he did not want it. ‘Sorry, Fiona, it was fun, but it’s over. I wish you well, but that’s it.’

  Pearson left the car and walked, almost ran, away from the scene. Fiona, heartbroken but still resolute, spoke to herself: You bastard, you’ll pay for this.

  She then turned the ignition key of her car and pulled out from where she had been parked. She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her blouse.

  Chapter 11

  Clare, feeling better than she had for a long time, joined Tremayne for a drink. This time, the Bridge Inn in the Woodford Valley. It wasn’t the first time they had been there; the last time she had been drinking whisky.

  Tremayne remembered that night well, the clouds, the roar of thunder, the lightning over Mavis Godwin’s cottage, but neither of the police officers wanted to discuss that case: too many unpleasant memories, especially for Clare.

  Tremayne had a pint of beer in his hand, Clare was sticking to orange juice.

  ‘What do you reckon, Yarwood?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘The motives to kill the man are not strong. I can understand their dislike, but murder hardly seems justified. For sure, Fiona Dowling’s a case, what with her airs and graces, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth attitude, but she’s more concerned with her place in society. Languishing behind bars wouldn’t suit her image.’

  ‘Samantha Dennison?’

  ‘The woman was refreshingly honest. She made no attempt to conceal what she was, what her husband was. She might fleece a man for his money, but there’s no percentage in murder, and besides, she wasn’t at Old Sarum.’

  ‘The perfect alibi.’

  ‘But why would the others have wanted Mason dead?’

  ‘This angle on him blackmailing Fiona Dowling? Do you give it any credence?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘Geoff Pearson, her accomplice?’

  ‘Only if she had had a chance to knife Mason, and then that’s hit and miss. What if Pearson had missed the heart on stage? Mason would still be conscious, and he wouldn’t have lain down still.’

  ‘And remember Mark Antony had time on the stage, the Senate scene where Brutus and his fellow conspirators leave to address the mob. Mason wasn’t moving then, and Mark Antony, or should I say Phillip Dennison, did not have a chance to stab him. The man was dead on that stage after the conspirators had stabbed him. I’m discounting Dennison, the same as I’m discounting the women.’

  ‘Then you believe it’s two of the conspirators,’ Clare said.

  ‘Peter Freestone is an accountant, serves as a city councillor, and Len Dowling’s an estate agent.’

  ‘Too predictable: a rezoning, privileged information, buying up land for a steal, selling it on afterwards.’

  ‘We’re not looking for the obscure here, just the murderers.’

  ‘Freestone and Dowling were both on stage, both had a clear target. It could be them, but we never checked how far Mason staggered after the main assault. If there were thirty-three stabs before the final stab of Freestone’s, then four would have penetrated his body, one of them at least in his heart.’

  ‘How do we find out?’

  ‘We can’t ask the actors in case of collusion.’

  ‘Yarwood, you interviewed the audience, took names and addresses. We’ll need to talk to them.’

  ‘I’ll set it up.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll have another pint. Are you sticking to that orange juice?’

  ‘Someone needs a clear head.’

  ***

  ‘We often go to one of their productions. They’re not bad for amateurs.’ Tremayne and Clare were standing in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Derek Wilkinson, the manager of the wholesale electrical supplier, was a man with similar tastes in clothing to Tremayne, judging by his tie off to one side, his shirt marked with a felt pen. To Clare, the two men were similar in looks as well, apart from the fact that Tremayne was well over six feet and Wilkinson was a short man, almost dwarfish.

  ‘We were there, but there’s one crucial scene that we’re unsure of,’ Clare said.

  ‘Ask away. It was a shame that it ended suddenly. Poetic, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No disrespect for the dead, but it was meant to be a play, fake daggers, fake blood, a fake death, and there is Gordon Mason dead on the floor.’

  ‘Did you know the man?’

  ‘In passing. I can’t say I liked him, but he was competent, honest as well.’

  ‘And some are not?’

  ‘Not really, but you always hear stories about solicitors and estate agents, city councillors.’

  ‘Have you heard about any of those recently?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘In the past?’

  ‘There was a subdivision, about a dozen blocks of land that had been zoned industrial.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was looking for somewhere to build this warehouse, and the price was reasonable. At the rear, there was a floodplain.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was rezoned residential, the price shot up. Not that it did any good for those who built their houses there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You remember when it rained solidly for two weeks, a few years back?’

  ‘I remember,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Half of the houses were flooded out, the insurance companies rejected their claims, said it was an act of God. Serves them right.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘A good solicitor, a few checks, would have found out about the potential of flooding.’

  ‘Who was the solicitor?’

  ‘For the vendor, or for the purchaser?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Len Dowling sold the land. Joint ownership with his brother, he’s a solicitor.’

  Tremayne looked at Clare: a motive.

  ‘Let’s get back to the play,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Wilkinson asked.

  ‘When Caesar staggered over to Brutus.’

  ‘I remember it.’

  ‘Did he stagger?’

  ‘It wasn’t far, but yes, he staggered.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Six feet, maybe eight.’

  ‘And then, did he utter Et tu, Brute?’

  ‘It was weak, but yes, I heard him say it.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s all we need to know.’

  ‘A motive that
holds up,’ Tremayne said to Clare once they were outside the warehouse.

  ‘It still raises more questions,’ Clare said.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If someone is stabbed in the heart, or in the body, it can’t be guaranteed that they will still be able to stagger. The man could easily have collapsed on the spot.’

  ‘The dramatic effect would have been lost, but the man would still have been dead.’

  ‘And if he were, then Peter Freestone would never have had a chance to stick his dagger in, no immortal line from Caesar.’

  ‘Are you saying that Freestone’s not guilty?’

  ‘He could still be guilty, but it’s illogical. You have two lethal weapons, why would you leave it to chance to use the second one?’

  ‘Are we discounting Freestone as one of the murderers?’

  ‘I think we are,’ Clare said. ‘We’re assuming that he was involved in a possible fraudulent rezoning, and maybe he was, but he’s not one of the murderers.’

  ‘I’ll make a good police officer out of you yet, Yarwood,’ Tremayne said. ‘I thought we had the case sewn up in there, but now it’s obvious that it’s still wide open.’

  ***

  With the preliminary interviews concluded, the most potent motive was that Peter Freestone, Len Dowling, and Dowling’s brother had been involved in a fraudulent land deal. And that Gordon Mason had knowledge of the fraud, either through involvement or through investigation, and the man was about to reveal what he knew. The weakest motive was that Trevor Winston had objected to the treatment meted out in rehearsals, and Mason’s continuing bias against him because of his sexual orientation. The other motives, the blackmailing of Fiona Dowling for sexual favours or for money, seemed a long shot, but yet again the two police officers were clutching at straws.

  Tremayne was sure there was more depth to the motives. Clare was not sure how to proceed. The one interview she did not want her and Tremayne to conduct was with Len Dowling’s brother, Chris. She knew the day would come when she’d have to confront a return to Harry’s old pub, or next door, which was where Chris Dowling had an office, on the first floor.

  ‘If you’d rather not,’ Tremayne said, but Clare knew that was not possible. She was a police officer, not a schoolgirl crying over being dumped by her boyfriend; she was a mature woman, rapidly becoming an experienced homicide detective, not that Tremayne said so, but then she knew the man gave compliments sparingly.