And now he was dead. Tremayne knew the questions would start to roll. And why was he lying on the Altar Stone at Stonehenge, naked, with his throat cut? Clare Yarwood had seen the body as well, turned away initially at the sight of it, but had taken a deep breath and stood alongside Tremayne. ‘Nasty one, guv,’ she said.
Time had moved on since Harry Holchester, her fiancé, had died the night he had saved her from the pagan worshippers in Cuthbert’s Wood, not more than five miles from where they were now standing.
‘It can’t be the Druids,’ Tremayne said. ‘They’re into communing with nature, smelling the flowers and whatever.’
Clare Yarwood knew that her DI would, as usual, affect ignorance, yet she knew the man well enough. They had been working together almost two years; she, the young officer in her late twenties, he, the curmudgeon going on sixty. Apart from the few months that she had been on compassionate leave after the death of her fiancé, she had stayed in the Homicide department at Bemerton Road Police Station in Salisbury.
Tremayne knew that the national media would soon be on the scene and the gossip mill would be working overtime in Salisbury and the surrounding area: local boy makes good, comes to a sticky end. Not that Tremayne was surprised about the man’s demise, having seen his behaviour in the time since he had been feted locally and nationally as the man who had beaten the odds. How he had been struggling to make ends meet, how his mother, ailing and infirm, was going to have that long-overdue holiday in Europe, and so on.
Tremayne had heard it all before, read about it enough times, and he knew the problem with Alan Winters’ life before he had bought that one ticket in a newsagent on the way home from the pub of a Saturday lunchtime. The man, a labourer for Salisbury City Council, was bone idle, did nothing much as far as Tremayne could see except for getting drunk once too often.
And as for Winters’ mother, ailing and infirm, Tremayne knew her story well enough. The Winters, Tremayne knew, were not battlers, struggling to make ends meet; they were the flotsam of society who drifted along from one disaster to another, one fractious relationship to the next. The ailing and infirm mother had seven children, including the lucky man. Two were in prison, one was selling herself around the area, another was married and living in Southampton, and as for the other children, Tremayne knew their stories as well.
At Stonehenge on a cold morning, the wind rattling across Salisbury Plain, he realised that it was not going to be a straightforward murder investigation. There was a story here, he could see that, as could his sergeant, Clare Yarwood.
Tremayne knew that he could not bring himself to call her Clare; it was always Yarwood, although he had relented when he had gone with her to Avon Hill to visit the grave of her fiancé, who had been publican of his favourite pub. She had proved herself to be resilient on her return to Salisbury after compassionate leave, even attempting to enter the dating scene again: disastrous, according to her. All they wanted was a few drinks, a decent meal, and then back to the man’s place. These were facts that Tremayne did not want to hear, but for whatever reason, he had become the one person that she could open up with.
Tremayne remembered the visit to Harry’s grave, the almost pleasant look of the village as they passed through it. After the paganists had been dealt with, the church authorities had been quick to re-consecrate the old church and had soon installed a new vicar. He had hovered around the two of them in the graveyard until Tremayne had taken him to one side to allow his sergeant time to reflect over the man who was buried there.
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Clare had said.
Tremayne had understood and had put his arm around her. He had watched her standing next to the grave, cleaning the weeds growing around the edge, touching the headstone, even seeing her name as the beloved – she had to thank Harry’s relatives in Salisbury for that. Clare knew that if he had lived, he would not have been free. The evidence against him was overwhelming, and he had been party to multiple murders, including the deaths of two police officers, who had attempted to leave Avon Hill that night to bring help.
Tremayne remembered the only words she had spoken when they had driven back to Salisbury: ‘Now’s my time to get on with my life,’ she had said.
Not that he believed her. He knew that she was an emotional woman, and it would be a long time before she detached from Harry, a long time before she was emotionally stable. One thing he knew above all else: he’d always be there for her.
For once, Stonehenge was closed to the general public, not that the visitors were allowed to get too close anymore, and the tourist couches were lined up in the park across the road. Tremayne realised that if they enclosed the crime scene, the tourists would have something else to send home on their smartphones – an actual murder at the ancient moment. And Stonehenge had never been a place of death, although even after thousands of years the history of the site, the people who had built it, what they had worshipped, even its significance, were still hotly debated by academics, and the archaeologists were conducting another dig not more than three hundred yards away.
Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, and his team were at the scene, busy as usual, impervious to the dead body, conducting their investigation. ‘His throat’s been slit,’ he said.
‘Stating the obvious,’ Tremayne replied.
‘Is this a sacrificial slaying?’
‘I hope not. Did you know the man?’
‘I’ve seen him around the city, showing off, flashing his money. I was not impressed by what I saw.’
‘I knew him even before he won all that money. If there was anyone less deserving, it was Alan Winters. I can’t say I liked him. Some of the villains, ne’er do wells, and the plain useless can be charming, but he wasn’t.’
‘It didn’t stop him having plenty of friends.’
‘That wouldn’t have lasted long the way he was burning money. He would have been back in a council house before long, pleading for a handout.’
‘Instead of that place he bought.’
‘Instead of that. It hasn’t pleased the police too much. Every weekend the parties, the drunkenness, the abuse of the neighbours if they dare to complain.’
‘Any ideas as to who might have killed him?’ Hughes asked as he continued with his investigation, oblivious of the tourists in the distance.
‘There’s no shortage of suspects this time.’
‘Relatives?’
‘More than you and I ever had, but that’s not surprising the way the Winters spread their seed around the area.’
‘And Winters didn’t care that some were bleeding him.’
‘With over sixty million pounds, what do you think?’
‘I’d certainly care,’ Hughes said. ‘Mind you, I’d not agree with any publicity.’
‘That’s because you’ve had money, know how to handle yourself. Alan Winters never had any, just enough to get drunk and cause trouble. I’m surprised he lasted long enough to be murdered.’
‘Regardless, he was, but what’s the significance? I’d say there were at least two people up here, possibly three.’
‘That many?’
‘Whoever brought him up here, even if he were unconscious, would have had to carry or drag him. We’ll try to be more specific, but two to three people.’
‘Any chance of fingerprints?’
‘We’ll try, but don’t hold out too much hope. The murderers, are they likely to have a criminal record?’
‘Judging by the company the man kept, a few suspects would. We’ll work our way through his known associates. It may take some time. It’ll keep Yarwood busy. She’s been taking it easy lately, decorating her cottage, wanting to decorate my house as well.’
‘I’ve given up on yours,’ Clare said.
***
On Tremayne and Clare’s return to Bemerton Road Police Station, the welcoming presence of Detective Superintendent Moulton, the last man that Tremayne wanted to see. They had been at a freezing murder site, and now the one m
an who never gave up on trying to retire the detective inspector was in his office.
‘What’s the situation?’ Moulton asked. Tremayne knew it was the opening salvo leading up to the inevitable.
‘Alan Winters, forty-eight, a council worker, or he was until he won the lottery.’
‘The fancy cars, the raucous parties?’
‘That’s the one. He’s been murdered up at Stonehenge, spread-eagled across the Altar Stone, his throat cut.’
‘Is there a religious significance?’
‘Not that we know, and besides, although the Altar Stone is the name given to it, there’s no history that it was ever used for any religious purpose, pagan or Christian.’
Tremayne could see the superintendent was lingering, waiting for an opportunity to offer a comment. He did not intend to give him a chance. ‘If you’ve got no more questions, Yarwood and myself have got a busy day ahead.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Moulton asked.
‘I’ve still a few more years in me if that’s what you mean,’ Tremayne said with a brusqueness verging on insubordination. He’d already received a rap over the knuckles for talking disrespectfully to his senior. ‘Apologies, sir, but this case has legs, and plenty wanted the man alive, not so many who would want him dead.’ Tremayne hoped his last sentence had defused the tension that was building between the two men, and if it hadn’t, then the man could go to hell. He had a murder to deal with, and even after so many years, so many deaths, the freshness of a new one always excited him.
‘Don’t be reluctant to take on help. You and Yarwood make a good team, but this man had a lot of acquaintances. It may take you some time to get around to them all.’
‘I may be on this case until my retirement, is that it?’
‘I hope not. Tremayne, you’re a fine detective, but I’ve got a job to do, you know that.’
‘So have I, sir.’
‘You’re a hard man, Tremayne, I’ll grant you that.’
‘You know what happens with one murder.’
‘At least with yours.’
‘The man died for a reason. He was likely to kill himself within the next year with his drunken driving, not to mention his alcoholism, the greasy food that he consumed, and the women he went around with.’
‘Okay, I relent. I’m off, but don’t take too long with this case. A prompt conviction always looks good.’
‘The man never gives up,’ Tremayne said to Clare after Moulton had left.
‘You two were almost friendly there.’
‘Never,’ Tremayne said, not wanting to be seen as anything other than difficult to deal with.
‘Regardless of your new-found friend,’ Clare said, aiming to rustle Tremayne’s feathers, ‘Alan Winters must have a lot of relatives. Where do we start on this?’
‘His wife, has she been notified?’
‘Probably, but we should go there first. I didn’t know he had a wife, or one that was still with him.’
‘She’s the first person we’ll talk to. When we get back, start compiling a dossier of all his relatives, all of his friends, where he drank and ate, who he gave money to.’
‘We’ve got a department of people who can do that.’
‘Then delegate. Regardless, before anyone goes home tonight, we need a board up on the wall with a list of all the salient facts.’
‘It’ll be there. Let’s go and see the grieving widow,’ Clare said.
‘Grieving? The Winters? I doubt it.’
Chapter 2
Alan Winters, it was known, had, before his big win, lived with his wife in an area to the west of the city, in an enclave populated by the least motivated, the least educated, the most likely to be in trouble with the forces of law and order.
‘I’ve spent too much time up there,’ Tremayne said.
Clare, who had only driven through the area on the occasional basis, could not see what he was referring to. Sure, the old cars jacked up on wooden blocks in some of the driveways, the abundance of graffiti, the children aimlessly wandering around the streets were all a little disconcerting, but at least the weather was pleasant, and even the worst day always looked the better for the sun’s rays. ‘Have there been many murders up here?’ she said.
‘It’s normally wanton violence, the husband beating the wife, that sort of thing, or the local hooligans vandalising the toilet block in the park.’
‘So why were you up here?’
‘It’s where I first lived when I came to Salisbury. A group of us from the police station clubbed together to pay the rent. Back then vacant accommodation was hard to come by. Alan Winters was in his teens then, but he was starting to become a nuisance.’
‘Did he cause you any trouble?’
‘A houseful of four junior police officers? I don’t think so. Everyone gave us a wide berth, and we were all fit back then, not averse to giving anyone a smack if they played up.’
The Winters had moved on from the small terraced house that Tremayne had shown Clare, and after his win, Alan Winters had purchased a substantial six-bedroom home in Quidhampton, a small village between Salisbury and Wilton.
Tremayne and Clare drew up at the entrance to the house. Two men were standing in front of the secured gate. ‘Who are you?’ Tremayne asked as he flashed his ID.
‘Security.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘With the money here, what do you think?’ the tougher-looking of the two said.
‘We’ve come to see Mavis Winters,’ Tremayne said.
‘She’s already been told. You’re not welcome here.’
‘Don’t give me any of your nonsense. I know you well enough.’
‘And we know you, Tremayne. Unless you’ve got a warrant, you’re not going in.’
‘Now look here, Gerry, your brother’s been murdered, and I’m in charge of the case. Unless you want to put yourself down as a suspect, or I haul your sorry arse into the police station, in handcuffs if you resist, you’ll open that gate and let us through.’
Gerry Winters moved away and made a phone call.
‘You know this man?’ Clare asked.
‘The man’s vermin, but don’t let Superintendent Moulton know that was how I referred to his villains.’
‘Okay, you’re free to progress,’ Gerry Winters said. ‘And don’t go upsetting Mavis. Her husband has just died. You know what will happen if she’s upset?’
‘And what’s that? You’ll be making a complaint down at Bemerton Road, is that it?’
‘Not me, but I’ll come into the house and deal with the situation.’
‘Lay one hand on either my sergeant or me, and you’ll be in the cells.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Tremayne. You’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Petty crime verging on stupidity is not my area of responsibility.’
‘I’m not involved in any crime.’
Clare could see the heavily-tattooed man getting agitated. She could also see that Tremayne was doing nothing to calm the situation. The gate swung open, and she drove in, parking behind a Bentley.
‘Why did you bait the man?’ Clare asked.
‘Gerry Winters, the prime suspect.’
‘Is he?’
‘Alan Winters was a braggart, argumentative, drunk, worthless. So’s his brother, except with Gerry, he can be violent,’ Tremayne said.
‘Mrs Winter’s husband has just been murdered, she’s hardly likely to be in a mood to talk to us.’
‘She’ll be interested in the money.’
‘It would belong to the wife surely?’
‘That’s what we would assume, but they were independent most of the time; she’d go her way, he’d go his. The money has to be the motive, but who has first claim to it? It’s important, you know that.’
‘If he was killed for his money, then those who killed him must be certain of not being caught.’
‘That’s what doesn’t make sense. Why kill the man at Stonehenge? Maybe it’s nothing
to do with his money? Maybe it’s something to do with the belief that the man’s luck is transferred by his death, not that I’d believe in such nonsense. Anyway, there’s another problem up ahead,’ Tremayne said.
Clare could see what Tremayne was on about. From out the front door of the house, a woman was approaching and fast. ‘You bastard, Tremayne. In my hour of sorrow, and you’re here raking over the coals. Can’t a woman mourn in peace?’
‘If I believed in your sadness for one minute, I’d leave you alone, but I don’t, so don’t try to get me on the sympathy vote. This is Sergeant Yarwood, by the way.’
‘She’s just a child. What are you doing? Training them young or is she there to look pretty, make you feel important?’
‘You’ve got a foul mouth, Mavis, so let’s just cut out this nonsense. Your husband’s been murdered. I don’t believe that you did it, but someone did, and if it was for his money, then you could be next on the list.’
‘Okay, Tremayne, come on into the house and bring your sergeant. If you drink a beer with me, then we can talk. However, it doesn’t stop you being a bastard.’
‘Thanks, Mavis.’
Clare leant over to Tremayne. ‘You were rough there, guv,’ she said.
‘If you want respect from these kind of people, you’ve got to talk in a language they understand. Your fancy educated Norfolk accent, your polite manners, are not going to cut much mustard with this these people. I’ve known them long enough, and I can tell you one thing about Mavis Winters, she isn’t grieving.’
‘Involved in the murder of her husband?’
‘It’s possible, but I’d discount it for now, and besides, we need her cooperation. She’s the key to the motive for her husband’s death, and remember, the woman can be coarse, so you’ll need to be.’
***
To Clare, the house was staggering in its beauty, although the interior, no doubt initially resplendent when the current occupants had moved in, was showing the signs of wear and tear. In the first room to the left, apparently the main room of the house, a stereo blasted gangster rap and a couple of drunken men gyrated to the music, a female lying sprawled across the couch. ‘That’s Bertie and some of his friends,’ Mavis Winters said.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 49