It was cold in the back room of the funeral home where Ford was preparing an old man for his funeral, the coffin open for his nearest and dearest to say their fond farewells. Tremayne knew the deceased, having run him in on a couple of occasions for grievous bodily harm. He thought that he’d have no one crying over him, but according to Ford, the man’s family were paying for the full treatment.
‘Mr Ford,’ Tremayne said, oblivious to the man continuing to work. Clare thought it disrespectful, but said nothing. ‘We’ve interviewed everyone so far in depth apart from you.’
‘I’ve spoken to you on a couple of occasions.’
‘That we understand, but so far we know very little about you.’
‘What’s to tell? I do my job, go home, go to London on a regular basis.’
‘Our problem still remains with a motive.’
‘Mason wasn’t the easiest man to get along with.’
‘But murder?’
‘Who knows what goes through the minds of people.’
‘Which people, anyone in particular?’ Tremayne asked.
Bill Ford continued to prepare the dead man. ‘Sorry, but I’m working to a schedule here. The relatives will be here within the next two hours.’
Tremayne knew that some of those coming would not be pleased to see him. They were a family of villains, but apparently with money, judging by the meticulous care that the funeral director was taking with the body.
‘You mentioned people. Anyone in mind?’
‘I joined the dramatic society to get out of the house after my wife died. I didn’t join to pry into anyone else’s business.’
‘But you’re an astute man, you must have seen something.’
‘The one thing about my regular friends is that they say very little, they mind their own business, and they don’t become involved,’ Ford said, nodding his head in the direction of the dead man.
‘We’re very much alive, we’re police officers, and we do become involved. It’s unfortunate, but I must continue to probe. Gordon Mason died for a reason, a reason that still remains unclear.’
‘The man wasn’t popular.’
‘It’s not a reason for murder. Did you like him, Mr Ford?’
‘I neither like nor dislike anyone. I’m friendly with Peter Freestone and his wife. Gordon Mason was a fellow actor. We’d meet with the group, discuss the script, assign the roles, practise our lines. Apart from that, I rarely spoke to the man.’
Tremayne could see that the conversation was going nowhere. He looked over at Clare. She knew that he wanted her to become involved.
‘Mr Ford, we are aware of reasons for your fellow actors to dislike Gordon Mason, but none seems strong enough to want him dead,’ Clare said.
‘Look at this man,’ Ford said, pointing to the dead man. ‘He was loved.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘I’ve met his family, I know some of his past, yet he was loved. Gordon Mason was not loved, certainly by nobody that I knew of. Why do you think that is?’
‘I’ve no idea. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think. It’s just strange that a person can have a life devoid of any affection, that’s all.’
‘It’s hardly a reason for murder. Tell us about your fellow actors.’
‘As long as I don’t miss my deadline. My client isn’t concerned as to time, but his family is.’
‘Okay, brief, single sentence answers.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Peter Freestone?’
‘Decent and honest.’
‘Phillip Dennison?’
‘Wealthy, likes to show it off, attractive wife.’
‘Any more to say about Samantha Dennison?’
‘No. It’s not my concern that she’s a lot younger than her husband. That’s between her and him.’
‘Jimmy Francombe?’
‘Young, keen, always cheerful.’
‘Geoff Pearson?’
‘Ambitious man. The women like him.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘I don’t become involved.’
‘It’s a murder enquiry, Mr Ford,’ Tremayne said. ‘If you know anything, it’s your civic responsibility to tell us.’
‘Fiona Dowling liked him.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Mason suspected something.’
‘I thought you didn’t speak to him.’
‘Once or twice he’d want to talk. He assumed I was a religious man, the same as him.’
‘Are you?’
‘I believe, but that’s all. I’ve not seen anything to make me a fervent believer like Mason. My religion is private, moderate, and above all else non-critical. If Pearson and Dowling’s wife were involved, it’s between them and her husband. Mason didn’t see it that way.’
‘How did he see it?’
‘He saw it as a sin against the Lord.’
‘Did he tell Len Dowling?’
‘He didn’t like him.’
‘But did he tell him?’
‘You’ll need to ask Len Dowling.’
Clare pressed on, aware that the man was non-committal with all his answers. It appeared to her that was how the man lived his life: a cold fish who neither loved nor hated, expressed anger or joy. Clare assumed it was as a result of spending too much time with the dead, being soulful and understanding with the relatives. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. To her, life was for the living, not standing for hours in a windowless room with only a corpse for company. She wanted out of that foreboding place and some fresh air.
‘Gary Barker?’
‘Easy-going, drinks more than he should.’
‘I thought you weren’t concerned about other people.’
‘Drink himself under a table as far as I’m concerned, but he drinks and drives, that’s all. One day, he’ll have an accident, and then it’ll be him in here or someone he hit.’
‘Cheryl Barker?’
‘Strong-willed. Keeps Gary under control.’
‘Capable of losing her temper, capable of hate?’
‘I’m not sure about hate, but she has a temper.’
‘Any examples?’
‘Her and Fiona Dowling don’t get on.’
‘They went to school together.’
‘I know that.’
‘How?’
‘I took Fiona out once or twice before she met Len.’
‘You’re a few years older?’
‘Only five or six.’
‘It’s eight actually.’
‘Anyway, we went out together.’
‘And what happened?’
‘We were in our teens, or at least she was. I was in my early twenties. It was fun for a while.’
It was the first time that Ford had even referred to the possibility of fun. His countenance all the times they had encountered the funeral director rarely showed emotion and never a smile.
‘Does Len Dowling know this?’
‘I’ve never told him, and I doubt if Fiona has.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Dowling knows of his wife’s wild behaviour in her teens. I doubt if she wanted to elaborate on it. She’d rather forget, no doubt.’
‘But you’re a remembrance.’
‘I was just one of many. I don’t intend to denigrate Fiona. I’ve some fond memories, one of the few times in my life when I felt free.’
‘You don’t feel free now?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I couldn’t do what you do,’ Clare said.
‘Family tradition. Someone had to carry on with the business.’
‘Coming back to Fiona. Did Cheryl know about you two?’
‘There was one night when she came out with us.’
‘And what happened?’
‘The three of us ended up in my bed,’ Ford said. Tremayne looked up in shock, Clare felt like sitting down. The man with no apparent vices, no joy, had a past.
‘Why have you told us?’ Clare as
ked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to relive another time when I wasn’t a funeral director.’
‘Did Gordon Mason know about this?’
‘I may have told him.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I get melancholy, feel like standing up on the roof and shouting.’
‘You’ve spent too long in here with these bodies,’ Tremayne said.
‘It’s a family tradition. The Fords have been funeral directors in Salisbury for the last one hundred and ten years.’
‘You need to get out of here more often,’ Tremayne said.
‘I can’t end the tradition.’
Tremayne and Clare left the man to his work. As they left the building, Tremayne could see some villains coming their way. He took hold of Yarwood’s arm and steered her into a café nearby.
‘What do you reckon?’ Tremayne asked.
‘The man has a macabre personality. Too long with those bodies has affected him.’
‘Capable of murder?’
‘Capable of anything. The only spark in him was when he spoke about Fiona and Cheryl.’
‘That came as a shock.’
‘It’s a motive, especially if Mason knew. Fiona’s not his murderer, though.’
‘She wouldn’t want it bandied around that she had indulged in a threesome. Her social set would accept that she had been wild in her youth, but a threesome has connotations of perversion. She would do anything to protect that information.’
‘What about Cheryl?’
‘Would she care what people think of her? Her past is an open book.’
***
Tremayne and Clare returned to Bemerton Road Police Station. On Tremayne’s desk, an official letter marked private and confidential.
‘Important, guv?’ Clare asked. She had seen Tremayne looking at it with contempt.
‘It’s Moulton again, trying to intimidate me into retiring.’
‘He can’t do that.’
‘He can intimidate, keep up the heat in the hope that I’ll cave in.’
‘Will you?’
‘What do you reckon, Yarwood?’
‘Can he force you?’
‘No.’
‘Then why ask me? Just ignore him. We’ve got a murder enquiry to deal with.’
‘Yarwood, you’re becoming pushy.’
‘I’ve had a good teacher.’
‘I suppose so,’ Tremayne replied, a smile on his face.
‘Bill Ford, what do you reckon?’ Clare asked.
‘How did he become like that?’
‘Life takes turns you least expect. It’s certainly had some effect on him, and he’d be inured to the sight of death.’
‘A potential murderer?’
‘They all are.’
‘As I told you, Yarwood, everyone has skeletons in the cupboard. Everyone is capable of causing harm to another if their life or their families are threatened.’
Tremayne looked around his office, realised that he had paperwork to do, but not today. Yarwood, he could see, was all the better for being busy. The man wanted out of the office and soon.
As the two prepared to leave a familiar if not welcome face appeared at the door. ‘A moment of your time, Detective Inspector.’
Clare could see the look on her senior’s face, the look of determination on Superintendent Moulton’s.
‘What can I do for you?’ Tremayne asked. Clare thought Tremayne was brusque in his reply.
‘You’ve seen my letter?’
‘It’s not the first one.’
‘And not the last, either.’
‘I thought we’d resolved this.’
‘The Police Federation have, I realise that, but there’s a directive from senior management to bring in fresh blood,’ Moulton said. Tremayne knew that the directive was a recommendation, not an order. He had contacts in other police stations within the region that were going through the same exercise. Some of his contemporaries had accepted, some hadn’t.
‘It’s a generous package,’ Moulton said.
‘I never said it wasn’t, but I’m comfortable. The house is paid off, I’ve no debts.’
‘Put your feet up, enjoy yourself.’
Clare, who should not have been listening, but was only eight feet away at her desk, realised that Moulton did not understand. The man was career-driven, Tremayne was results-driven, and he was enjoying himself. She had to admit that she was, as well. She hoped the feeling of a job well done, the satisfaction of a result, would not leave her. If it did, she knew that she may as well be back at her parents’ hotel as manager.
She had considered it for a time while she was consumed with grief, but it had not helped. There were too many times to reflect back to Harry, too many hours between the guests leaving and their replacements arriving. She knew that with Tremayne and a murder enquiry it was full on from morning to night, and then exhaustion once she made it back to her cottage. The cats that Harry had had an issue with would be waiting for her, a warm bed that she would share with them. She had heard the rustling of the branches, their scraping against the roof, an owl hooting in the distance, even deer in the field behind, but she had felt no fear.
In fact, the place was coming up for sale. She needed Tremayne and his Homicide department, the security of the police force, for the finance. Her parents, she knew, would have lent her the money, but she did not want their input; it would come with conditions, and her mother would be down at the cottage advising on what colour to paint the walls, the style of furniture, the need to find another man.
Tremayne, the cantankerous detective inspector, would never offer advice, would always be there for her. Clare realised that she appreciated his company more than that of her parents. She thought it was wrong somehow, but she could not alter the facts.
‘Yarwood, are you ready or are you going to sit there all day?’
‘Superintendent Moulton?’
‘He’ll leave us alone. The man’s a pain, always worrying about his key performance indicators, whatever they are.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I know what they are. I just don’t understand the relevance. He talks about lowering the average age of the people in the station, reducing expenditure, and only hiring degree-educated people.’
‘They’re important. Maybe not the age issue.’
‘The man means well, I suppose, and we always need people in Administration.’
‘Administration? He’s a police officer.’
‘Administration. He doesn’t understand villains. Probably never met one.’
‘He was out on the street once,’ Clare said.
‘If he was, he’s forgotten what it was like. He wanted to give me a lecture on how to conduct a murder investigation. The man’s probably never seen a murder victim.’
‘I’m sure he has, guv.’
‘Yarwood, let me have my two minutes. The man irritates me, and I’ve got to call him sir. I know what I’d call him if I had half a chance.’
‘He can’t make you retire, correct?’
‘Not for another couple of years.’
‘Then why worry about him?’
‘You’re right, Yarwood. What’s next? Who haven’t we interviewed?’
‘We’ve interviewed everyone. They’ve all got reasons to not like Mason, but none has admitted to killing him.’
‘Do they ever?’
‘The re-enactment’s this weekend.’
‘We’ll go and see Freestone, check that it’s all organised.’
Chapter 16
Phillip Dennison had gone short on the exchange rate between the American dollar and the English pound when he should have gone long. Most days he read it right, but it had been three in a row now, and he was worried. His wife was continuing to spend as if there was no tomorrow, which in her case, he thought may be possible.
He didn’t know why she was that way. When they had met, she had been beautiful and genuinely des
irable, but since he had joined the dramatic society as a way of reducing his stress, she had become difficult, unable to listen to criticism, unwilling to curb her spending when the finances were precarious. He knew it could not continue. He needed out.
Dennison made a phone call.
‘What can I do for you?’ Chris Dowling asked on picking up his phone.
‘We need to meet.’
‘My office, forty-five minutes.’
Dennison left his laptop on, the negatives in his account visible on the screen. He left the house and drove to Salisbury. The Aston Martin was with his wife; he took a BMW. It was her car really and when he had bought it for her, she had been delighted, but now it was a never-ending cycle of increased spending on cars and holidays and clothes that remained in the bags that she had brought them home in. His situation was desperate; Chris Dowling was his way out.
He found Dowling in his office. He’d seen the Aston Martin parked next to one of the most expensive shops in the city on his way there. He remembered her in that office when they had first met. How he had lusted after her. He had seen the young men with their eyes peering at her, taking every opportunity to be close to her, but it had been him with his wealth who had won her.
She wasn’t the first that had succumbed, she wouldn’t be the last, although the next time he’d be more careful. Or maybe he wouldn’t, he knew that. When the market was running, and he was on a winning streak, the money would flow in. He needed an outlet. The dramatic society had provided it for the last couple of years; before that, it had been expensive cars and expensive women. Now, one woman was causing him aggravation. That day, as he entered Chris Dowling’s office, he was down over one hundred thousand pounds, and that was likely to increase by at least another two thousand by the time his wife had finished exercising her gold credit card.
‘Look, Dowling, I’m desperate. The woman’s bleeding me dry.’
‘I said at the time that she was going to cause you trouble.’
‘I know. I didn’t listen.’
‘I told you to put an agreement in place, but what did you do?’
‘I loved her.’
‘Dennison, you may be a hotshot money man, but you’re clueless with women. It’s one thing to seduce women like Samantha, it’s another to keep them. What do you think she finds attractive in you: your good looks, your good manners?’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 40