The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘He’s a miserable bastard. Don’t go falling for him,’ Fiona Dowling said, the brim of her hat attempting to fall down over her face in the wind. She took hold of it and held it high with one hand.

  ‘He’s a witness to a murder. I’ve no need of him, and even if I did, he’s too young.’

  ‘He was a great lay, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Was that all it was? Nothing else?’

  ‘Why should it be? I need some excitement in my life.’

  ‘And he was the excitement?’

  ‘It was better than playing tennis.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Play tennis? Of course I do. I’m on their committee.’

  ‘Your husband’s here. Aren’t you concerned that he’ll find out about Pearson?’

  ‘I’ll deal with it if it happens.’

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Mrs Dowling.’

  ‘I’m determined, never let anything get in my way. If Len is not up to it, I’ll find someone else.’

  ‘What are you referring to?’

  ‘Business, screwing, whatever.’

  ‘Would you kill for your lifestyle?’

  ‘I’d kill for my children, not for that. If I want the lifestyle, I just have to wiggle my arse, flash some cleavage.’

  ‘The other day you were complaining about your age.’

  ‘Some days down, some days up.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Self-doubt. We all suffer from it. It’s not always easy maintaining the pretence.’

  Clare wondered if there was something more, something medical, that could change a vain and driven woman into a killer.

  ***

  Tremayne had not gained much from the funeral, apart from how easy it was for the dramatic society to pretend to have liked the man when apparently none of them did. Peter Freestone had admitted to a grudging respect for him as a solicitor, and as an actor, and Cheryl Milledge had said some kind words about him at the wake. The last wake, Tremayne remembered, had been awash with alcohol, but this was Baptist, and it was teetotal, not that it stopped Bill Ford reaching for a small flask hidden in the inside pocket of his suit.

  ‘I need to keep myself warm while they’re in the church,’ he said to Tremayne when he had been spotted. ‘Most times at a funeral, I’m out in the cold.’

  Tremayne had no issues with the man imbibing; he wished he’d brought a stiff drink as well. He was not a churchgoer, he knew that, though he’d attended enough funerals in his time. If it weren't for the murder, he’d not be there at all. He had to admit to feeling a little out of it, almost the relative who receives an invite out of kindness but isn’t expected to come. However, this was the first opportunity to see all the suspects gathered in one place; to see the interactions, endeavour to pick up the nuances, the gestures, differentiate between genuine and feigned friendship.

  As he stood to one side, observing, he could see that Cheryl Milledge and Fiona Dowling had acted correctly: a warm hug on meeting, a complimenting of each other’s attire, a willingness to sit next to each other on the church pew. Tremayne wasn’t sure what to make of the two women. Len Dowling, once he had stopped fiddling with his phone, had spoken to the pastor, as well as to Mason’s sister. His wife had circulated, even pausing to have a chat with Jimmy Francombe.

  Phillip Dennison was there, the Aston Martin parked in a prominent position for everyone to admire, but his wife not present. ‘She’s out shopping again,’ he said with a sigh of exasperation. Tremayne felt for the man, though he wasn’t sure why he did. He remembered that his wife had been the opposite, excessively frugal, always looking for the bargain. He had tried to explain that even though he was a humble police officer, they weren’t destitute, and it’s not a bargain if you didn’t want it in the first place.

  ‘You’ll never understand,’ she had said, as if there was something that he didn’t get. He wondered what it was with the disparate group in that church and its graveyard that he didn’t get with them.

  ‘Tremayne, have you figured out which one of us is the murderer?’ Freestone said as he came over to him.

  ‘You purchased the daggers?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘A company online, remarkably cheap.’

  ‘Realistic?’

  ‘Considering the price, they are.’

  ‘Who took responsibility for them?’

  ‘I did initially, although the others would take them home occasionally if they wanted. The ones I purchased were harmless. No doubt Dowling’s children had fun with them.’

  ‘You’d trust a child with them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t know about Dowling, he may have.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Not sure about her. I’m not always sure what she’s thinking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing in itself. I’m not judging anyone.’

  ‘We still think it’s two murderers. Just a question, off the record.’

  ‘With you, Tremayne?’

  ‘With me.’

  ‘You’re never off duty.’

  ‘The land on the floodplain. We’ve people checking whether it was above board.’

  ‘Are you insinuating that there may have been graft and corruption?’

  ‘It’s been mentioned.’

  ‘Mason thought there was.’

  ‘Did he say anything, do anything?’

  ‘He would have, but there was nothing to find. There was an expert opinion, a rezoning unanimously agreed to by a quorum of councillors, a sign-off from our building inspector.’

  ‘Dowling would have made plenty of money.’

  ‘No doubt he did, but that’s down to his good judgement in buying the land overpriced and then changing the zoning. He was close to the wind financially on that one, but it set him up.’

  ‘The submission was backed up by experts?’

  ‘And our building inspector. He’s not a man to be easily swayed.’

  ‘And the councillors?’

  ‘We make our decisions based on advice received.’

  ‘And if the advice is incorrect?’

  ‘That’s why we have people working for the council, people who check these things. I’m an accountant. I can tell you if it’s financially viable, the tax implications, but don’t ask me about floodplains, how to put one brick on top of another.’

  ‘You’re not handy?’

  ‘I can barely fix anything.’

  ‘Is there anyone that can?’

  ‘In the dramatic society?’ Freestone asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No idea. Geoff Pearson is good with tools. He fixed up our backdrop once, started one of the cars after rehearsals when it had a flat battery. Apart from that, I wouldn’t know. Any reason to ask?’

  ‘Someone modified the two daggers.’

  ‘Is that what you think happened?’

  ‘Would you have known if they had been changed?’

  ‘On the night? Up at Old Sarum? Probably not. I don’t think any of us would have been looking too closely. We were all tense, worrying about our lines, listening to our cue.’

  ‘Cheryl Milledge works for the council, doesn’t she?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘In our building approvals department. You don’t think…’

  ‘I don’t think anything. I just observe, ask questions, look for answers.’

  Chapter 13

  Tremayne organised a team to check into the land rezoning that appeared to be flawed. He liked Cheryl Milledge, earthy as she had been described by Phillip Dennison, and now she was possibly the one person who could have changed the documents that were presented to council, and as they had been approved, then the building inspector would have been in on the fraud too. He had no time for Dennison’s wife, the gold digger as he saw her, but she was honest about what she was, her purpose in the marital arrangements with her husband. And besides, she had not been up at Old Sarum that night when Mason had died, a plus in her favour, Tremayne had to admit.


  Apart from a couple of wins on the horses in the last couple of days, Tremayne realised not a lot was going his way. Superintendent Moulton, the honeymoon period over following the success of the previous murder enquiry, was back into his attempts to retire Tremayne. He knew what it was, an effort to bring the average age of the police force in Salisbury down; most of them already looked to him as though they were just out of school, but they weren’t, he knew that. Moulton saw a modern computer-driven procedural force, always smiling, or at least that’s what was shown on the posters erected on Bemerton Road, the latest public relations exercise to instil confidence in the force, to encourage others to join.

  Tremayne’s gut instinct told him that the death of Mason was only the calm before the storm, a hornets’ nest prodded, its occupants restless, waiting for the opportunity to strike and inflict their wrath on their victims. Yarwood, he could see, was coming over to his style of policing, but she was still young, susceptible to Moulton and his ideas. He hoped he could convince her in the long term to stay strong, but he wouldn’t be around forever, and she was still vulnerable. He could see in her face at times the fragility after her fiancé’s death. He assumed that once she left work and was back in the cottage that she was renting, the memories would return to her. He wanted to help but knew he could not. The best he could do was to keep her busy.

  Tremayne realised that he had been sitting in his office for forty-five minutes, reminiscing, thinking. Too long for him, he realised, and there was a time when he would not have been able to do that. He envied Yarwood her ability to be in the office first thing in the morning, wide-awake and bushy-tailed, ready for the day ahead, yet as he pulled himself up from his chair, he could feel a twinge in his hips, tenderness in both of his knees. He cast a glance at his reflection in the glass partitioning that separated his office from the larger office beyond. He looked for the tell-tale signs, the signs that stared back at him every day as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror: the thinning hair, the lines in his face that weren’t there before, the marks of ageing. The glass partition, an imperfect surface, showed what his mirror did, and he did not like it. He had been willing to accept the ageing process as inevitable, and now it was on him and he was not sure how much longer it would be before health problems started to set in.

  Some of his work colleagues had passed on, his brother had gone, as had a cousin, a couple of drinking pals, even the bookmaker at Salisbury Races, and that man had had every reason to live, seeing that he had taken enough of his money.

  Tremayne sat down. He made a phone call. ‘Jean, let’s meet in the next couple of weeks, go away for the weekend.’

  ‘If you like,’ his ex-wife replied.

  Tremayne put the phone down and walked out of the office, the pains in his body temporarily forgotten.

  ***

  Clare had not expected to run into Samantha Dennison, and if she had known that she would be in Trevor Winston’s hairdressing salon, she would not have gone in.

  ‘Sergeant Yarwood,’ said Samantha’s voice from under a hairdryer.

  ‘Mrs Dennison,’ Clare said.

  ‘Call me Samantha. Us girls have got to stick together.’

  Clare was not sure what the ‘us girls’ referred to, but let it pass.

  ‘I thought I’d see how good Trevor Winston is,’ Clare said.

  ‘Sergeant Yarwood.’ The unmistakable voice of Trevor Winston, the flamboyant clothing, the effeminate walk in the salon, although not outside in the street. Which was as well, Clare thought, as there was a rough element in the city, the legacy of the army bases in the area, the large number of men from more deprived parts of the country who saw violence as a solution, prejudice as a way of life. An effeminate man would have suited them fine to exercise their frustrations.

  ‘I could do with a quick wash, style. Can you fit me in?’

  Clare realised that she may be placing herself in the hands of a murderer, but she did not believe that he was, and it was unlikely that he’d inflict injury in his salon.

  ‘No worries, just sit down next to Samantha, and I’ll be right over.’

  Clare turned to Samantha Dennison. ‘How long have you known Trevor?’

  ‘Ever since that time Phillip dragged me along to the dramatic society’s rehearsal. Trevor gave me a card, the only good thing to come out of that evening.’

  ‘Is Trevor a murderer?’ Clare asked, knowing full well that she was using Tremayne’s technique of baiting, hoping to elicit a response.

  ‘He’s skilled with a pair of scissors, but killing someone, I don’t think so, and why?’

  ‘Everyone has reasons, even you.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, I wasn’t there that night.’

  ‘You don’t go along, support your husband?’

  ‘Why should I? I’m an open book, a rich man’s trophy. I’m under no illusion, neither is he. I admitted this before to you and your detective inspector.’

  Clare knew she had an unexpected opportunity to see if the woman would open up, though she wasn’t sure if there was anything more to be gleaned from her. Clare had to admit as she sat alongside the woman that she was attractive, the object of many men’s fancy, in that she wore her skirts high, her blouses tight, her lipstick red and applied with care.

  Trevor Winston was in the background, discussing with his assistant, another gay man, what style they should give Clare. She had wanted to spend no more than thirty minutes in there, a quick wash and blow dry, and then out to follow up on the team checking out the land deal. She messaged the team to tell them she would be late; she then messaged Tremayne to let him know that she had inadvertently run into Dennison’s wife, and she’d take the opportunity for some gentle prying.

  Tremayne had smiled on reading the message. She’s learning, he thought. It was a technique he had often used over a pint of beer. The formal interview resulted in considered answers, carefully thought out, but no scurrilous rumours, innuendos, no dirt. Tremayne knew that Dennison’s wife would be into all three. He was pleased that Yarwood was with the woman. He was interested to hear the results.

  ‘Who else did you speak to that night when Trevor gave you his card?’ Clare asked Samantha.

  ‘The men were friendly, apart from that bastard.’

  ‘Gordon Mason?’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘Were you upset when your husband told you that he’d been murdered?’

  ‘Phillip, he came in at four in the morning, babbling about it.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  ‘At that time? Nothing, I wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Someone is murdered, and you show no interest?’ Clare said.

  ‘Why? Phillip’s always threatening to do me in.’

  ‘To kill you?’

  ‘He’s all mouth and trousers.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘All talk, no substance. You’ve not heard that saying before? Where have you been living?’

  ‘Norfolk.’

  The two women laughed. Clare warmed to the woman.

  ‘They used it all the time where I grew up. Phillip’s all boast, no substance. He can threaten, but he’ll do nothing.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Clare asked.

  ‘He’s had plenty of provocation, and all he does is rant and rave, pace up and down, occasionally throw something down hard on the floor, but he’s never touched me.’

  ‘We’ve always seen your husband as benign.’

  ‘He is, but he’s got a temper. He hit Gordon Mason that time.

  ‘Would your husband be capable of murder?’

  ‘Of Mason?’

  ‘Of anyone.’

  ‘I don’t see it, but who knows what anyone is capable of. I grew up as the child of a devout family. I even took the pledge to remain a virgin until married.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Hell, no. The young man was just on sixteen, I was fifteen. He never knew what hit him, nor did I.’

  ‘Afte
r that?’

  ‘I could have screwed for England.’

  ‘And with your husband?’

  ‘I’m faithful to him, not that he wants me much.’

  ‘Why’s that? You’re a beautiful woman.’

  ‘With Phillip, the same as other men, the pursuit is what they want, not the ownership. Before he made it rich, he drove an old bomb, now he drives an Aston Martin, or at least I do. And what do I hear? How much fun he had with the old bomb. He owns an Aston Martin, he wants a Roll Royce.’

  ‘He’s got you. Does he want to trade up?’

  ‘Trade me in for a younger version, is that what you think? Of course he does, but I’ve got a sharp lawyer. If he tries it, I’ll sue him for half his assets, and I’ll win, mark my words. And I’ll take his precious Aston Martin, even the Rolls Royce, and he knows it.’

  ‘A good enough reason for murder,’ Clare said.

  ‘Of me, yes.’

  ‘Would he?’

  ‘Phillip, I’m not worried about him. All mouth and trousers, I told you that.’

  ‘But he laid out Gordon Mason.’

  ‘He hit him, but not that hard. I had my leg out behind him. The man fell hard, banged his head on the road, nothing more. Don’t tell Phillip, he thinks he was the macho man defending his wife’s honour.’

  ‘You’re not all mouth and trousers,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m a mean bitch who says it as it is. I neither liked nor disliked Gordon Mason. I love my husband conditionally because he treats me well, let’s me buy lots of trinkets.’

  ‘And if he didn’t?’

  ‘I’d find another man. I’ve told you all this before. Think what you want of me. Phillip knows this.’

  ‘Would you be capable of murder?’

  ‘I wasn’t at Old Sarum when the man died.’

  ‘Hypothetically?’

  ‘If my life was being threatened. If my children, assuming I had any, then yes, I could kill, and I’d have no guilt.’

  ‘Would you have killed Gordon Mason if he had persisted with his derision?’

  ‘That night he insulted me? Not a chance. If Phillip hadn’t pushed him, and if Mason had come too close, I’d have kneed him in the groin, slapped him across the face.’