The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  Trevor Winston came over, too early for Clare. ‘How are you, ladies? A glass of champagne?’

  ‘I’ll have one,’ Samantha said.’

  ‘So will I,’ Clare said. The woman was talking, she did not want her to stop.

  ‘Sergeant, you’re an attractive woman, why do you mess around playing cops and robbers? You could snare a man, enjoy life.’

  ‘I had a man.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He died.’ Clare did not want to elaborate.

  ‘Then get another one.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way with me.’

  ‘Idealistic, is that it? I was once, thought I’d get married, have a few children, and live the sweet life in the country.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I wised up. In another ten years, the looks will have faded, and then it’ll be hard.’

  ‘That will happen to you.’

  ‘I know that. That’s why I’ve got a sharp lawyer and a place in the Caribbean.’

  ‘Are you content, living the life that you do?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Are you?’ Samantha Dennison asked.

  ‘Not totally.’

  ‘Neither am I, but with me, I’ll be able to make the best of it. With you, it’s work until you’re in your sixties, then retirement in a place that you can barely afford, looking for the bargains in the supermarket. If my life is not perfect, it’s better than yours.’

  ‘We’ll agree to disagree,’ Clare said. She had to admit that although life was not good at the present time, it had been with Harry. She was sure that there would not be another man in her life. For the first time in several days, she felt sad.

  ‘All done, Sergeant Yarwood,’ Trevor Winston said.

  Clare looked in the mirror; it was a vast improvement on when she had come in, but no one would appreciate it. Samantha Dennison had someone, even if it was not love, but Clare knew she did not envy the woman her superficial life.

  Clare left the woman still being pampered and continued with her police work.

  Chapter 14

  Tremayne met Peter Freestone at the Pheasant Inn on the corner of Salt Lane and Rollestone Street. It was only a ten-minute walk for Freestone, and there was parking opposite for Tremayne. The pub was five hundred years old and wearing its age well. The half-timbered inn, a reminder of the time of Shakespeare and Elizabeth the first. Tremayne liked the pub, thought that it may become his favourite now the Deer’s Head had closed.

  Freestone was already seated in the corner closest to the fire on Tremayne’s arrival. He had purchased two pints of beer: one for him, one for Tremayne.

  ‘I’ve ordered a steak for both of us,’ Freestone said.

  ‘Fine,’ Tremayne said. ‘I thought we should get together before the re-enactment, run through some of the finer points.’

  ‘Is there any suspicion that I’m involved?’

  ‘It’s a murder enquiry. I can’t exonerate you just on the basis that we have the occasional pint together.’

  ‘I understand,’ Freestone said.

  ‘Will the dramatic society survive?’

  ‘Unlikely. I intend to leave anyway.’

  ‘Because of Mason?’

  ‘That’s the catalyst, but the whole affair has brought out the worst in the people. Before, the members would meet, enjoy the moment, and then we’d go our separate ways, but now there is suspicion and doubt. There are unpleasant truths about all of us that we would prefer not to confront.’

  ‘Such as?’ Tremayne asked as he drank his beer.

  ‘That two of us are murderers seems as good as any.’

  ‘You realise that this land deal we’re investigating is a strong motive.’

  ‘I’ll give you my word that I was not involved,’ Freestone said.

  ‘I’ll accept your word, but we’ve got professionals checking it out.’

  ‘Sure, I’ve made certain that the roads near where I live are in good condition, the local park is well looked after, but I’ve not taken money. My conscience is clear on this one.’

  ‘The re-enactment,’ Tremayne said, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s all arranged. Everyone will be there. How do you want to do this? And remember, we have no Julius Caesar.’

  ‘Can you arrange a stand-in?’

  ‘It’s possible, but if we can’t, you’ll have to take part.’

  ‘We need the full production. I can’t learn the lines, and besides, I can’t act.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll find someone.’

  ‘If anyone feels like chickening out, let me know, and I’ll organise a police car to pick them up.’

  ‘And for the daggers? The ones up at Old Sarum are with you as evidence.’

  ‘That’s where they’ll stay.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll organise some more. You can check them before we start.’

  The two men ordered another pint. It was still early in the afternoon, and Tremayne knew he’d be working for a few more hours yet, at least until nine or ten in the evening. By that time, he’d arrive home, a quick brush of his teeth, or maybe not, before he collapsed into his bed. He thought about his ex-wife as he ate his meal and drank his beer. He remembered when they had first met, how he had woken up next to her the following morning, not remembering if they had made love, the months they had spent together before they had married, the drifting apart over the next few years, as he became a detective inspector.

  The final straw had been when he came home in the early hours of the morning to find her sitting on the corner of the bed, dressed, two suitcases in the hallway downstairs.

  ‘Sorry, Keith. I want a normal life, children, a dog in the garden.’

  Tremayne remembered that day vividly. It wasn’t as if the love between the two had waned; it was his devotion to his police work that had come between them. He could have said there and then that she was more important than his career, but he hadn’t, couldn’t, and then she was gone.

  For over twenty-five years they had not spoken apart from the occasional phone call for the first couple of years after she had walked out, but she had met someone else, and then nothing.

  He had contacted her after their previous case, and found she was widowed with two adult children. Their first meeting after so many years had been awkward and it had not been successful, but now there was a weekend away, and he was hopeful of a reconciliation. He realised that would impact on his policing. He knew he may have to make a decision: the ex-wife he still felt strongly about, but not sure if it was love, as that seemed more for Yarwood’s age group.

  There had been a few women over the years, but they had only been dalliances, no more than a passing attraction. One had moved in, wanted to change him, moved out within two months after realising that the man was an immovable object and it was either her or him. Apart from that, there had been very little love in his life. He regretted that as he sat with Freestone, a man who had been married to the same woman for nearly forty years, a man he may have to charge with murder within the next week.

  He hoped it wasn’t the accountant that he regarded as a friend. If it were, Tremayne would do his duty, he knew that.

  ‘Who do you suspect?’ Freestone asked.

  ‘You’ve got a motive if we find anything underhanded,’ Tremayne said. Peter Freestone was an intelligent man, so there was no point in telling him otherwise.

  ‘Apart from me?’

  ‘Who would you suspect?’ Tremayne asked. ‘Who do you think would have a violent streak? Who would have a reason to want the man dead?’

  ‘Have you checked Mason’s records?’

  ‘Not in detail. The man was methodical, we know that. We’ve found no illegal dealings, nothing untoward.’

  ‘He was tough as a solicitor. He must have ruffled a few feathers, put a few noses out of joint.’

  ‘Enough to kill for?’

  ‘Check with Len Dowling’s brother.’

  ‘Do you know anything?’

  ‘Have y
ou met Chris Dowling?’

  ‘Yes. I met him with Sergeant Yarwood.’

  ‘Aggressive?’

  ‘He wanted to be.’

  ‘I like Len,’ Freestone said. ‘Not his brother.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘I don’t trust him. He’s too smart for me.’

  ‘Any dirt on him?’

  ‘Nothing specific.’

  ‘Fiona Dowling?’

  ‘My daughter went to school with Cheryl Milledge and Fiona Dowling. They used to come over to the house at weekends.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Fiona was pretty, Cheryl was not. My daughter was friendly with them for a couple of years, and then they stopped coming.’

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘Nothing special. It’s not the sort of conversation you have with your children. I was aware that Cheryl had changed, as had Fiona. Our daughter, thankfully, got through her adolescence without too much trouble. She came home a few times drunk, no doubt experimented with the boys, but not too much.’

  ‘Your daughter told you that?’

  ‘She’d speak to her mother, who’d tell me, not that I wanted to hear that our daughter was not the vestal virgin, no father wants to hear that.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about Cheryl and Fiona?’

  ‘Only titbits from our daughter. Cheryl started sleeping around, an unwanted pregnancy at one stage.’

  ‘What happened to the child?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She may have aborted it or had the child adopted. I don’t know the answer. I certainly didn’t ask questions.’

  ‘Fiona Dowling?’

  ‘I used to see her around with Len Dowling. They were both no more than children then, and I was friends with Dowling’s father.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He went overseas, chasing the sun. I’ve lost contact with him.’

  ‘What did the father say about Len and Fiona?’

  ‘He was very fond of her, saw her as a good influence.’

  ‘Is she?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘She can be bossy, always wanting the lead female role. There’s only two in Julius Caesar: Calpurnia, Caesar’s wife and Portia, Brutus’s wife.’

  ‘Does she justify the lead role?’

  ‘Most times, but Cheryl doesn’t see it that way. To be honest, Cheryl is keen, but she’s heavy on her feet. Calpurnia is assumed to be attractive, vivacious, not that anyone knows for sure.’

  ‘Why do you mean?’

  ‘We always assume that successful and powerful men have beautiful wives, that’s all. Calpurnia could have been ugly for all we know, but she lived two thousand years ago.’

  ‘Dennison qualifies on the successful and the beautiful wife.’

  ‘The lovely Samantha.’

  ‘Sarcasm or a genuine reflection of the woman?’

  ‘Sarcasm, I suppose. She’s a knockout, no doubt keeps Dennison happy, but she’s not my type.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She’s high-maintenance.’

  ‘A driven woman?’

  ‘Fiona is. Samantha Dennison would be as well. Fiona portrays herself as a socialite, into charitable causes, always there supporting her husband. Samantha makes no pretence of what she is.’

  ‘Are you saying that Fiona is tarred with the same brush.’

  ‘As I said, a driven woman.’

  ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘How would I know? It may be something you’re used to, Tremayne, but the majority of us live our lives oblivious to the harsh realities. I’ve seen death, who hasn’t at our age, but I’ve not experienced murder before. All I’ve said is that Fiona and Samantha are determined.’

  ‘And Cheryl Milledge?’

  ‘She’s latched on to Gary Barker. That man’s not going far.’

  As far as a profitable garden centre on the outskirts of Salisbury, Tremayne thought but did not mention it to Freestone.

  ***

  Tremayne and Clare met back in the office. It was dark outside, and it was close to eight in the evening. Tremayne wanted an early finish, Clare did not. In the office and during the day, she was fine, but the nights still remained difficult. It was hard not to think of Harry.

  She had to agree that Trevor Winston and his team had done a great job on her hair, but who was it for? Harry would have complimented her on how lovely she looked; Tremayne wouldn’t even notice. Still, she was better in Salisbury, in that the tears were slowly drying up. Back with her parents, her father had wanted to distract her from her recollection of Harry; her mother had told her to get out into the dating market again, find a good man, a good Christian, an every Sunday at the church man. The only every Sunday at the church man she knew in the current case had been Gordon Mason, a misogynist bigot. No thanks, she thought.

  If another man came into her life – and she felt almost guilty that she even considered it, so soon after Harry’s death – she wouldn’t care what he was as long as he was kind to her. Harry had been, but love was not about choosing the perfect mate based on a set of criteria. Samantha Dennison had done that, and hers was a pretend happiness. Fiona Dowling had evaluated her mate and then moulded him into what she wanted. No, Clare knew it would be love, the only criterion that mattered, and she would not try to change the man.

  She knew it served no purpose to think of the past when the present was all around her, and when there was an active murder case about to be burst open. The motives, the skeletons, the rumours, were all coming together.

  ‘Yarwood, what do we have?’ Tremayne said. He had seen his sergeant drifting off into memory land. He had given her a few minutes while he collected his own thoughts.

  ‘We’ve not found any wrongdoing at the council offices so far. Cheryl Milledge was there, helping us.’

  ‘She’s the one who could have made the changes, you do realise that?’

  ‘She’s an administrator. She may have been involved, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If the documents were altered, it would need someone to prepare them, the building inspector to see them, and then someone to register the change.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think we may be chasing a red herring here.’

  ‘I still don’t trust Len Dowling, nor his brother,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Neither do I. If I’m buying a property in Salisbury, I know where I’m not going.’

  ‘If you can find an agent who’s any better, let me know.’

  ‘You’ve met Peter Freestone,’ Clare said. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He knew Fiona Dowling and Cheryl Milledge as schoolgirls.’

  ‘Any observations?’

  ‘Fiona, he reckoned, is driven; Cheryl rolls with the punches.’

  ‘Cheryl’s a smart woman, don’t underestimate her.’

  ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She’s smart, devoted to Gary Barker from what I could make out.’

  ‘Her records at the council?’

  ‘Considering the condition of that awful bedsit they share, her files were correctly labelled, and her work area was spotless.’

  If we’re discounting the land deal, then what is the motive?’

  ‘It has to be blackmail.’

  ‘There’s Fiona Dowling’s affair. Did the man have some dirt on Dennison or his wife? He’d acted inappropriately towards Cheryl Milledge.’

  ‘Dennison’s wife may have a history. According to her, she had a background.’

  ‘Background of what? By the way, your hair looks nice.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’

  ‘I’m not good with compliments.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s appreciated.’

  ‘Can we get back to the case instead of going on about your hair?’

  Clare could see that the man was embarrassed at showing kindness. She liked him even more for his saying the right thing.

  Tremayne leant back on his chair;
Clare rested her back against the office wall. The day had been long; both were tired.

  ‘Samantha Dennison said that I should find myself a rich man,’ Clare said.

  ‘That’s not your style.’

  ‘I know that, but if Dennison’s wealth was threatened, he knows that Samantha would be off very quickly.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Mason could have impacted Dennison’s wealth?’

  ‘It’s possible, although I’m not sure how. Gordon Mason was financially comfortable, lived frugally. Why would he care about Dennison?’

  ‘He had insulted Samantha, had an altercation with Dennison. Maybe Mason bore a grudge.’

  ‘That’s possible, but how could he have an impact on Dennison?’

  ‘Check it out,’ Tremayne said. ‘Dennison’s playing the financial markets, no doubt using offshore bank accounts to hide his money from the tax man. There’s also the possibility of insider trading. That’s a criminal offence, time in jail. That’s a motive, even better than a fraudulent land deal.’

  ‘I’ll look into it tomorrow,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m off home, fancy a pint on the way?’

  ‘I’ll drink orange juice.’

  ‘Yarwood, there’s no hope for you. A police officer who can’t drink a pint.’

  ‘I had a glass of champagne with Samantha Dennison.’

  ‘You don’t want my definition of champagne, do you?’

  ‘Not tonight I don’t.’

  Chapter 15

  Bill Ford seemed to be the only one of the dramatic society who had no skeletons, no axe to grind. According to Freestone, the man attended rehearsals and the performances, put in a solid effort, and would have a drink afterwards at a local pub, but apart from that he did not socialise, abuse the women, threaten the men.

  Freestone acknowledged that he and his wife would take the man out for the occasional meal, more out of sorrow for him after the death of his wife. But even then, he couldn’t say that he knew Bill Ford in that he said little about his life.

  Years of experience had told Tremayne that no one is without some misdemeanours, something they regretted, a wrong turn in life. He knew that he needed to find out, see if the man had an Achilles heel that would turn him from passive to active, something that could be construed as a motive.