The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘There were others.’

  ‘And why are they so important? Your father is dead, your mother needs your support. You should be with her.’

  ‘Why? She doesn’t care if my father’s dead,’ Bertie said as he puffed on his joint. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Clare said. She’d tried it at boarding school once, everyone had, but she had not enjoyed the experience, and besides drugs were not her thing, and sitting down with Bertie Winters did not appeal. It was clear that the lottery win had helped some people, Mavis and Rachel Winters, in particular, but it had destroyed or was about to destroy others. Alan Winters had died because of his money, and Bertie, the son, was a sure-fire candidate for premature death in the next few years, even if he went back to drug rehabilitation, moved back into the mansion in Quidhampton. The man was lazy, as had been the father, as was Cyril, and even with an old Toyota, he was bound to have an accident at some stage.

  ‘Your uncle? Where is he?’

  ‘Down the pub, I suppose. He likes to drink.’

  ‘The same as your father.’

  ‘Maybe, not that he’ll be able to impress any of the women.’

  ‘Mr Winters, did you kill your father? Would you kill your mother if she does not give you what you want?’

  ‘Are you mad? Why would I do that?’

  ‘For the money. Without your parents, the money would be yours and Rachel’s.’

  ‘Would it? It’s a good idea.’

  ‘I’m a police officer, yet you continue to smoke an illegal substance.’

  ‘You’re uptight, and besides, you want to find out who killed my father. Arresting me for a minor misdemeanour won’t help your investigation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve seen things, know things.’

  ‘It’s a maximum of five years in jail if I arrest you.’

  ‘What’s the point. Mum, even if she won’t give me what I want, she’ll ensure that I have the best lawyers.’

  ‘It’s clear that you are not without some intelligence. Was your father intelligent?’

  ‘He could be. He was lazy, the same as I am, and then he was rich. I’ll be rich one day.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve just told me. If my mother dies, then I get half of what’s left. It’ll be enough for me.’

  ‘Your mother could disinherit you, give it all to your sister.’

  ‘She can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, she can.’

  ‘Then I’d take her to court.’

  ‘With what? You’ll have no money. You’ll not win. Mr Winters. I’ll put it to you again, did you kill your father because he would not buy you a better car? Are you planning to do the same with your mother? Are you aware of any will?’ Clare knew that she was using a trick of Tremayne’s in throwing rapid-fire accusations at the person, knowing full well that it would test their resolve to deflect the answers, and would confuse and divert them.

  Bertie Winters stood up, made for Clare, attempted to grab her. She took one swipe at him, causing the man to fall back onto his bean bag. ‘You bitch, I did not kill my father. He was a lovely man, the only one that cared. That Rachel, with her stuck-up manner, her ambition. That bitch can go to hell. If my mother dies, then I’ll take it all for myself, I’m telling you that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Winters, you’ve told me all I need to know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you are a weak excuse for a man and that you have not killed your father.’

  ‘How dare you insult me.’

  ‘I’ll do what I want. What are you going to do? Complain to the police?’

  ‘I’ll remember, that’s what I’ll do.’

  ‘And that’s all. You should be grateful that I’m not arresting you today. Another day I might not be so generous. You did not kill your father, you’ll not kill your mother.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because you’re like your father, like your uncle. They are, were, both lazy, boring and fat men, full of bravado with a few pints in them, but up at Stonehenge on a cold night, a knife in their hand, they’d be running home to their mother, the same as you will eventually once the money runs out. Cocaine, marijuana, beer, they all cost money, and you don’t have enough, or do you?’

  ‘I’ve got some.’

  ‘Enough to register the car? Enough for drugs? Enough to keep you here in this depressing little council house when there’s a beautiful house not far from here? I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you weren’t a woman…’

  ‘Then what? You’d take me outside and kick my arse, is that it?’

  ‘That’s it. I’ll not let any man talk to me like that.’

  ‘But you’ll let a woman, you’ll let your mother. I suggest you get yourself back into rehab before your brain is totally addled.’

  Clare left the house, phoned Tremayne. ‘Bertie Winters did not kill his father,’ she said. ‘He’s a drugged-out reprobate of no consequence, but not a murderer.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘We can never be one hundred per cent certain, but I pushed him hard, rapid-fire questions. He’d have let slip something if he was guilty, and besides, he’d still need an accomplice. Alan Winters’ death needed forethought and planning, and Bertie Winters is capable of neither.

  ***

  Liz Maybury, under mild sedation for ten days, was slowly brought back to full consciousness. The private ward, the specialist treatment, were paid for by Mavis Winters on legal advice. The woman’s death or incapacity would reflect poorly on her if Mavis had not ensured the best medical care.

  Liz Maybury’s parents had taken turns to be at her bedside since the injury; Polly, her friend, visited every day. Liz’s parents had not been pleased when interviewed by Tremayne and Clare, upset when told the reason for the altercation.

  Polly was still living in the flat supplied by Alan, a possible payoff from Mavis if necessary. As for the furniture store, it was closed and up for sale, at a bargain price if anyone was willing to pay.

  On the eleventh day, Clare was let into the ward, as long as she was willing to keep her questioning low key, no loud voices, no anger, and nothing that would disturb the fragile condition of the patient. Tremayne was not given permission; his presence was deemed not agreeable.

  ‘Liz, Sergeant Yarwood. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine, I think. They told me I’ve been here for nearly two weeks.’

  On a chair in the far corner sat Liz Maybury’s father.

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  ‘The woman went crazy, accusing Polly and me of seducing her husband, telling us to get out and on the street. We’re not like that, really.’

  Clare looked over at the father; he seemed uncomfortable about his daughter’s revelations, although he had already been told, as had his wife, of Polly and Liz’s relationship with Alan Winters. Clare could only feel compassion for them, as they seemed to be good people with a good daughter who had been swayed by the lure of an inordinate amount of money and luxury and a bad influence, namely Polly Bennett.

  Clare had had to agree with them, it seemed to be the only right thing to do, but her investigations pointed to the woman in the hospital bed as the worst influence.

  ‘Did she slam you into the wall intentionally?’

  ‘It was an accident. She was angry, we all were, and Gerry, he stood there and did nothing, only held Polly’s arm. Alan’s wife, she was crazy, crazy angry. I suppose I can’t blame her, but he didn’t love her.’

  ‘Did he love you?’

  ‘Not us, but he was going to see us right.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Not really. He was okay, but he was not an attractive man.’

  ‘Only rich.’

  ‘As you say. I’ve no regrets, neither has Polly.’

  ‘And your relationship with Polly?’

&
nbsp; ‘We’re friends, that’s all.’

  ‘Lesbian?’

  ‘Not me, not Polly. We like men.’

  ‘Richer the better?’

  ‘Maybe, and now Alan’s dead.’

  ‘We’ve spoken about this before. Are you sorry that he’s dead?’

  ‘Not really. When can I leave here?’

  ‘That’s not up to me. You need rest.’

  ‘There’s a place at home with us,’ the father said.

  ‘Not there. I want to be with Polly.’

  ‘She’s still at the place that Alan gave you.’

  ‘That’s what Polly said. Why? I thought his wife wanted us out.’

  ‘You would be if you weren’t here. Mavis Winters is paying for your treatment, did you know that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Guilty conscience, legal advice. Whatever the reason, be thankful.’

  ‘And after I’m out of here?’

  ‘You’ll need to talk to Mavis, not me.’

  Outside the ward, the father spoke to Clare. ‘Is it true? Liz and her friend were trading sexual favours for the place where they live, the cars they drive, the furniture store?’

  ‘You’ve been told this before.’

  ‘I know we have, but I need to check again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Maybury, but yes, Polly Bennett and your daughter were doing just that.’

  ‘It’s not something you expect to hear about your children. A daughter who is no more than a prostitute.’

  ‘I can’t offer you any words of consolation, I’m afraid. We’re conducting a murder investigation. I can’t ignore certain facts which are relevant to the case in an attempt to hide the truth, protect the feelings of loved ones.’

  ‘I understand,’ Maybury said. Clare left a sad man talking to his wife.

  ***

  Tremayne and Yarwood met in the office at Bemerton Road. The Homicide department was not busy, a sure sign that Superintendent Moulton would be on the warpath soon. There was another letter from Human Resources with an improved retirement package on the desk. Tremayne pushed it to one side.

  ‘It’s worth considering,’ Clare said, although she didn’t know the amount specified, only noted her senior’s look when he had seen the figures.

  ‘And leave you here on your own. Not a chance.’

  ‘We need to talk about this case. What do we have so far?’

  ‘A motive.’

  ‘The money. Can there be anything else?’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s this Stonehenge connection that I don’t get. A death up there must be symbolic, but what is it?’

  ‘Who are we discounting as the murderers?’

  ‘Cyril Winters, too lazy, and nothing to gain. He’s received some money; no doubt would have received more from Alan if he had asked. Mavis won’t be so easy.’

  ‘I’m discounting Bertie Winters, the son, for the same reason, although with the mother dead, he’d inherit. But he’s still lazy, not enough energy to cross the road let alone drive up to Stonehenge,’ Clare said.

  ‘Mavis Winters has the strongest motive, but she’s smart enough to know she’d be a primary suspect. And she’d still need an accomplice.’

  ‘No one has an immediate motive; no one was going to gain in the short term.’

  ‘Dean Winters. He says he’s not interested in the money, but he’s angry enough to want their lives destroyed.’

  ‘He’d still need an accomplice.’

  ‘If it’s Dean, then who could be his accomplice? His wife maybe. We didn’t interview her, saw no point at the time. If Stan and Fred, the two brothers, were not in prison, I’d consider them as potential murderers.’

  ‘What about the man who raped Margie? The other live-ins of the mother? Did they kill them or frighten them off?’

  ‘Raping their sister? I’d say they killed that man, not that you can blame them.’

  ‘It’s still murder.’

  ‘I know it is, and I’d arrest them if there were a case, but it’s not part of the current investigation. Could either of the two brothers have been capable of organising Alan Winters’ death from behind bars?’

  ‘What would they have to gain? Assuming Alan Winters is dead, then the money goes to his wife, then his children.’

  ‘And what about Alan Winters’ father? What happened to him?’

  ‘The mother may know.’

  ‘We’ll interview the mother today. I’ll arrange to meet up with Stan and Fred later in the week.’

  Chapter 8

  The house in Quidhampton was abuzz with decorators on Tremayne and Clare’s arrival. They had phoned ahead, spoken to Mavis Winters, told her the reason for coming.

  ‘You’ll not get much out of Alan’s mother,’ Mavis Winters said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Inconsolable grief, although it’s too little, too late. She should have thought about her children when they were young.’

  ‘She’ll talk to us?’

  ‘She’ll talk, not that she’ll make much sense.’

  Tremayne could see an angry woman, remembered a girl of sixteen. It was as if she was two separate people, but then he had changed too. Back then, when they had made love, or more accurately fumbled around in the dark, somehow consummating the relationship, he had been young and dark-haired, with a sideways profile that was as flat as a board. She, he remembered, had been firm and tender, and compliant in his arms. And now she was rich when she had been poor. He was not rich, never wanted to be, although the offer from Human Resources was indeed generous, certainly more than enough to redecorate his house to allow Jean to move in, even if it was only on an occasional basis. He kept thinking of her, knowing that she was a good woman, loyal to a fault, comparing her to the Winters. They may be as rich as Croesus, but they had nothing that he wanted. The lottery win, all sixty-eight million pounds, had transformed their lives, not enhanced them. Alan had died, Mavis was in despair over her son and worrying about who was after their money. The only one who was immune appeared to be the daughter, Rachel. Yarwood had admitted to liking the woman, believing her not to be involved, but she, it was assumed, was in for a half-share of a fortune when her mother died; enough to turn a saint into a sinner, and Rachel Winters was no saint, only a woman of flesh and bone.

  Alan Winters’ mother was upstairs in her room. Clare could see that it was large enough, although its condition was far from ideal. The woman did not look after herself. In the bathroom, clothes were hanging from the shower curtain rail. ‘I’m not going down there,’ the woman said.

  ‘Your name is Betty Winters?’ Tremayne said. The three were sitting on some chairs close to the window. Clare wanted to open the window to let in some fresh air, but did not. Betty Winters sat on the edge of her chair, her feet barely touching the ground. Tremayne remembered her vaguely from years ago, had seen her in the house since her son’s death, but he had not realised how haggard she was. Before, downstairs in the kitchen when she had been preparing a meal, with Mavis Winters abusing her, the woman had seemed upright and hard-working. Now she was bent over, wearing just a pink-coloured dressing gown. On her feet, she wore a pair of slippers.

  ‘She killed him, the bitch.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?

  ‘Mavis?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Yes, her. She never liked him, always screwing around she was.’

  ‘We’ve found no evidence of that,’ Clare said.

  ‘I know her type. String a man along, milk him for all he’s worth and then dump him.’

  Clare thought it sounded like an apt description of the woman they were talking to.

  ‘Tell us about Alan,’ Clare said.

  ‘He treated me well. He was my favourite.’

  ‘Why? Because he let you live here? Because he had money?’

  ‘She wants me to go and live with Cyril.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘What option do I have? Cyril hates me, they all do, a poor old woman.’<
br />
  Clare could not feel any sympathy for the woman if what they had been told was true. ‘We’ve been told that your husband moved out of the house.’

  ‘After he’d given me seven mongrel children.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to all of them, except for Stan and Fred. Have you seen them?’

  ‘Not them. They’re ashamed of their own mother, and there they are, in prison. They’ve no right to stick their noses up at me.’

  ‘We’ve been told that after your husband left, you had a number of men.’

  ‘I was still young.’

  ‘We’re not criticising; we just need to ascertain the background to this investigation. To see if your children’s upbringing has any bearing on the investigation.’

  ‘I was on my own. I did the best I could.’

  ‘What about the men who abused your children? What about the man who raped Margie?’

  ‘Margie was a tart, even back then.’

  ‘Margie was an adolescent. It was up to her mother to protect her,’ Clare said. Tremayne could see that his sergeant was becoming upset, imagining the horror that the woman’s daughter had gone through.

  ‘Mrs Winters, Margie was a child in the eyes of the law. It was your responsibility to have her checked out by a doctor and for charges to be laid against the man. Why didn’t you?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I used to see her, short skirts, stuffing toilet paper down her bra. What man can resist?’

  ‘Were you abused as a child?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Who wasn’t, but we didn’t end up on the street as a prostitute. Margie was always weak.’

  ‘You knew, yet you did nothing. Was the man more important than your daughter?’

  ‘I hated them all. I only cared for Alan. He was the only one who looked after me.’

  ‘What happened to the man who attacked Margie?’

  ‘He disappeared. I don’t know. They never lasted anyway, too many children for them to care about.’

  ‘You neglected the children, blaming them instead of your husband. What happened to him? Where can we find him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Ask Dean, he may know.’

  ‘Why Dean?’

  ‘He’s the smart one, not that he cares about me, never a birthday card, never a phone call.’