She was aware that he was looking to her, not only as a sounding board for his analysis of the case, the direction to move forward, but also to bring new ideas into the discussion, and she had. She had been the one who had seen the possibility that Peter Freestone, the last assassin up at Old Sarum, could not have been one of the murderers, and if that was the case, then the motive of the suspected rezoning fraud may not be correct. Regardless, it wouldn’t be the first time that murder had been committed over money.
If Clare’s preliminary checks were accurate then the change from industrial to rezoning had increased the value of the land from half a million pounds sterling to two million pounds sterling, and the owner before and after, Len Dowling. The necessary legal ownership had been dealt by Chris Dowling, and the city council meeting where the decision had been made for the rezoning chaired by Peter Freestone. Gordon Mason’s involvement was not so clear, as the council had their own legal team, and the change from industrial to residential was an internal matter.
Minster Street was busy as Tremayne and Clare walked down it. They had parked their car in the Guildhall Square and walked past the Poultry Cross, another ancient building, before turning right towards Chris Dowling’s office.
Clare looked at the pub, Harry’s pub, their pub, as she had loved it as much as he had. She saw the first-floor window of the room where they had made love. Even imagined the cellar where the beer barrels were stored, and where they had almost made love that first time, only to be interrupted by the anxious patrons upstairs, and then the gentle rebuke from Tremayne about the buttons on her blouse being undone.
‘Doesn’t do to dwell on the past, Yarwood,’ Tremayne said in his typically blunt manner.
Clare knew that the man cared, even if he wouldn’t admit to it, and since the events in Avon Hill his choice of favoured pub varied from night to night; sometimes he had even spent a quiet evening at home.
They were ushered into Chris Dowling’s office by an efficient woman who asked them to sign a book on her desk recording times in and out before she opened the door to the solicitor’s office to let him know that they had arrived.
‘Come in, please,’ Chris Dowling said. Clare could see that he bore no similarity to his brother.
‘We’re here investigating the death of Gordon Mason.’
‘Tea, coffee, Detective Inspector, Sergeant?’
‘I’ll have tea, milk, two sugars,’ Tremayne said.
‘No sugar for me, thank you,’ Clare said.
‘What can I do for you? Gwyneth will only be a minute with the tea.’
‘Your brother, Len, said that you handle all his legal work.’
‘Step-brother, but yes, that’s true.’
‘Not far from here, off Churchfields Road, there was some land that was rezoned from industrial to residential.’
‘It happens from time to time.’
‘Only this time, the guidelines relating to the floodplain were ignored. Subsequently, some houses were flooded.’
‘Are you saying this was a possible motive for Mason’s murder?’
‘If there was fraud, then your brother, and possibly Peter Freestone, stood to gain.’
‘And me. I’ve a twenty per cent interest in Len’s business.’
Clare could see that the two brothers were not alike in mannerisms either: one was loud and extrovert, the other was careful in what he said, not wishing to incriminate, not wanting to make a firm denial of anything untoward. She was not sure which of the two she preferred, or even if she liked either. Len Dowling was a salesman, his brother was possibly devious, and if there had been something underhand, the man would have covered their tracks well.
‘You are aware of the land in question?’ Tremayne said.
‘It may be best if you do your research before you come here, Detective Inspector.’
‘Why?’ Tremayne said. Clare could sense the atmosphere becoming frosty.
‘At the time of the flooding, some of the residents contacted the local newspaper. There was an article in there, a subsequent special meeting held in the council chambers. In the end, the council agreed to put in place measures to prevent another flood, and compensated all of the affected houses with a rates reduction.’
‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the rezoning may have been fraudulent.’
‘Heavy words, legally prejudicial against my brother and myself, not to mention Peter Freestone and the other members of the Salisbury City Council,’ Dowling said. Tremayne sat quietly, taking in the man who had gone from pleasant to aggressive in no more than a few minutes.
‘Mr Dowling, I believe that your attitude is counter-productive,’ Tremayne said. ‘We did not come here to be confrontational, we never accused anyone of any wrongdoing. A man has been murdered. It is for us to follow up on any innuendo regardless. If, as I infer by your attitude, you are threatening us with legal action if we persist, then you should think again.’
‘Very well, but I should warn you that I team up with Superintendent Moulton at the golf club out on Netherhampton Road every Saturday afternoon.’
Clare visibly sat back at Dowling’s oblique threat.
‘Mr Dowling, with all due respect, you could be teaming up with the Almighty, it does not impact on the fact that Sergeant Yarwood and I are conducting a murder enquiry. Our visit here today, our questioning of you, is within our rights as police officers. I suspect that you have not been involved in a murder enquiry before, I have, and Superintendent Moulton will not interfere with how I run this investigation. Now, getting back to our previous questioning. What do you know about the rezoning of this land? Did anyone benefit financially?’
Dowling did not speak for several minutes. Tremayne knew the man wasn’t used to being put in his place. ‘Len benefited,’ Dowling finally said.
‘Who else?’
‘Apart from the additional revenue to the city council, no one.’
‘The rezoning application, did you prepare the submission?’
‘Yes, but it was all above board. We brought in an expert, well-respected in his field, who said the chance of flooding was a once in a one-hundred-year event.’
‘What happened?’
‘Three years after the last house there had been completed, we had the one-hundred-year flood. It probably won’t happen again, at least not in our lifetimes.’
‘Any payments to Peter Freestone?’
‘None. I ensured the necessary council fees were paid, that was all.’
‘And Gordon Mason?’
‘He acted on behalf of some of the purchasers, nothing more.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dowling. We’ve no further questions.’
Tremayne and Clare left the office without their cups of tea.
‘What do you reckon, Yarwood?’ Tremayne asked.
‘I didn’t like him.’
‘A slimy individual, worse than the brother.’
‘Was there any illegal activity?’
‘With the rezoning, almost certainly. It still doesn’t tie in Mason.’
‘We don’t know if he was involved, or just became aware of it, threatened to take action, or was blackmailing them for other reasons.’
‘The motive is strong, even if unproven. We’ll need to keep a watch on Solicitor Dowling. Estate agent Dowling’s not as sharp as that man.’
Chapter 12
Jim Hughes was in the office on Tremayne and Clare’s return to the office. ‘I’ve been working with Forensics on the daggers.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Some. The retractable daggers are an exact copy of an original that was discovered fifty years ago in an archaeological dig in Rome.’
‘Does that help us?’
‘It does. Up till then, the exact specifications were well known, but the look and feel were vague. Once this dagger had been found, some companies in the USA started making exact replicas. There’s demand for knives, daggers, and swords around the world.’
‘Here in England?’
Tremayne asked.
‘There are collectors here, although our laws are strict on the importation, unless they’ve been blunted or you’re a registered collector.’
‘Are there many collectors?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘In America?’
‘They’re easy to obtain there.’
‘What are you telling us?’
‘It would be possible to obtain metal blades in the USA and to change them with the plastic blades on the fakes.’
‘Dimension, fitting into the retracting mechanism?’ Tremayne asked.
‘If an example was sent. Not too many questions would have been asked. We’ll keep checking, but as I see it,’ Hughes said, ‘the person who purchased the fakes is probably not the person who purchased the metal blades.’
‘How do we find out?’ Clare asked.
‘That’s up to you. You’re the investigators, but don’t go looking for names. It’s almost certainly an online transaction, PayPal, maybe a bank transfer, but if someone were intent on murder, they’d have covered their tracks. Anyone smart enough?’
‘There are several who spring to mind,’ Tremayne said.
***
It was known that Peter Freestone, as the dramatic society’s current president, had purchased the fake Roman daggers. The man had proof, and he had already stated that they had remained in his possession up until the staging of the play at Old Sarum.
Tremayne was willing to give Freestone the benefit of the doubt concerning his placing the fakes on a makeshift table at Old Sarum. If that was correct, then how were they changed, and by whom? It was Clare who suggested it first: a re-enactment.
Clare realised afterwards that getting everyone up there at the same time as the previous performance was not going to be that easy. For one thing, she needed the cooperation of the heritage society, then there was Len Dowling who was busy, Fiona, his wife, who was socialising, and Trevor Winston who was involved with the ladies in his salon.
Gary Barker and Cheryl Milledge were keen. ‘Can we come in costume?’ Cheryl asked.
‘It’s up to you,’ Clare replied. She thought that it would have helped, but getting all the people there was one thing, getting the others in costume would have been nigh on impossible.
Geoff Pearson was reluctant, what with exams coming up, but Clare had leant on his good nature, not on an official summons. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I wanted to avoid Fiona.’
‘Lover’s tiff?’
‘You could say that. She’s a vengeful woman. She could even tell Len out of spite.’
‘Would she?’ Clare said.
‘With Fiona, who knows?’
‘We’ll be there. If there’s an issue, we’ll deal with it. We know about you and her.’
‘She accused me of telling you.’
‘She’d not believe you,’ Clare said. ‘You were playing with fire there.’
‘It was fun for a while.’
‘No guilt about her husband?’
‘None. The man is not the type of person who’d garner respect from me.’
‘Any reason?’
‘No substance, no backbone. His wife screws around. Maybe he doesn’t know about me, but there would have been others.’
‘Would there?’
‘What’s your honest opinion of her?’ Pearson asked.
Clare wasn’t sure if she should divulge too much, but the man was talking, and he seemed to have his ear to the ground. ‘Someone said that Cheryl Milledge is what you see, what you get.’
‘It may have been me, not sure, but yes, with Cheryl, she’s transparent. With Fiona, she’s deep. I never knew when she was pretending or when she was honest.’
‘You’ve broken up with her?’
‘She came to Southampton; it got very nasty. Never trust her.’
‘Could Mason have had some dirt on her?’
‘She’d do anything to protect her reputation.’
‘Murder?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that, but she could be violent. I got out of her car fast before she started hitting me.’
‘The scar on your face?’
‘Not a woman. An accident as a child, that’s all. I’m not a bastard, just a young guy indulging a fantasy.’
‘The married, more mature woman?’
‘Sergeant Yarwood, if you must know, she’s a passionate woman.’
‘Nymphomaniac?’ Clare asked.
‘Not far off. I’ve got a girlfriend down in Southampton. I hadn’t intended to return to Salisbury for some time.’
‘You need to be at Old Sarum.’
‘I’ll be there, maybe I’ll bring the girlfriend.’
‘If you want a catfight.’
‘I’ll take a chance.’
Clare realised that it had been an illuminating phone call, in that Geoff Pearson had revealed more about Fiona Dowling’s nature. She knew that they needed to talk to Cheryl Milledge at some stage to see if there was more in her previous friend’s background than they were aware of.
Phillip Dennison was willing to attend the re-enactment. Clare could hear his wife in the background, complaining. The woman had said that her husband needed to be bossed around, a defect in his personality. Clare thought that she was playing a dangerous game, and unless she had a sharp solicitor, she could find herself back in an office being pressed up against the photocopier by every young lothario.
Bill Ford was willing, although it was inconvenient, needed some rescheduling, but, as he said, the dead don’t keep to any timetable, and he would be there.
Jimmy Francombe was excited to hear from Clare, wanting to know if the hot date was still on, maybe after the re-enactment. Clare had to admit that she liked the young man, good-natured, willing to have a joke at himself. He took her put-down in good heart. ‘I’m still working on you,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, Jimmy, not a chance,’ Clare said.
***
Gordon Mason’s body was eventually released and sent to Bill Ford for burial. The funeral was held in a Baptist church close to Salisbury. A pastor conducted the ceremony, Peter Freestone made a speech praising the man’s commitment to the dramatic society, another woman, identified as an older sister, spoke on behalf of the family. Everyone in the dramatic society attended. Cheryl Milledge was for once dressed sombrely, Gary Barker in a suit. Clare noticed that his hands were clean, and there was no dirt under his fingernails. Len Dowling had appeared agitated, wanting to message on his phone, only to have Fiona, dressed to the hilt with a large black hat, chastise him to put it away.
Trevor Winston sat with Jimmy Francombe and Geoff Pearson. Pearson was keeping a low profile, hoping to avoid a face-to-face confrontation with Fiona Dowling. Clare could see her furtive glances as she looked for him. He had positioned himself behind a pillar, arriving late, hoping to leave early. All seemed suitably sad at the passing of the man that no one had liked.
Tremayne remembered the last funeral he had attended: a detective inspector colleague of his, younger than him by a few years, who had suddenly keeled over when he had been at a crime scene. The diagnosis was a massive heart attack brought on by too many drinks, often with him, too many cigarettes, and too many hours. Tremayne had recollected, in the church watching the congregation, the pastor conducting the funeral, strict Baptist, that he was as guilty of all the offences that his colleague had indulged in. For a few minutes, in the tranquillity of the moment, he had promised to himself to turn over a new leaf: no more getting drunk, cigarettes down to ten a day, and a stiff walk around the block every morning. Once the service concluded, and they were out in the fresh air, he had taken out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. To hell with it, he’d thought.
Clare, observing her senior indulging his favourite pastime, apart from beer and horse racing, left him and walked around the churchyard. Mason was not to be cremated but buried in the graveyard next to the church. She looked back at the church, its similarities to the church in Avon Hill undeniable
. She thought that within a few weeks, once the current case was wrapped up, she would visit Harry’s grave in the church where the pagans had conducted their rituals.
Harry had never mentioned other relatives, but it appeared that there was an uncle who had surfaced in Salisbury two days after his death. Apparently, his solicitor had known about him and his family but had not been authorised to reveal the details unless Harry was dead.
The uncle had turned out to be a Christian, dismissive of Harry and his parents’ foolish ways, fully cognisant of who and what they were. Clare had spoken to the uncle briefly. At least the man had had the civility to ask her opinion of a Christian burial; she had agreed, but she had not attended the funeral, the grief had been too raw, although now she wished she had.
A graveyard outside a church was too much for her; she walked away and out to the road. ‘Sergeant Yarwood,’ Geoff Pearson said.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ Clare said.
‘I had to do the right thing. The man was not easy to get on with, but he was genuine enough.’
‘And the dramatic society?’
‘It’s hard to say. Once we’ve completed the re-enactment, I’ll move to Southampton on a longer-term basis.’
‘Fiona Dowling?’
‘I was wrong, no need to lecture me.’
‘I’m a police officer. I only want to solve this case.’
‘Look around. There’s the murderer.’
Clare turned her head, could only see the dramatic society members, the pastor, and Mason’s sister. ‘It doesn’t help. Has she seen you?’
‘Fiona, she sees everything.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Who knows. I’ll honour Mason here today, attend your re-enactment and then make myself scarce. Hopefully, Fiona will find someone else.’
‘Young and virile.’
‘Young, at least. If you’ll excuse me, Fiona’s heading this way. You can deal with her.’ Pearson jumped into his car, a female in the passenger seat, and left at speed.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 37