The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You’ll never understand. You with your perfect childhood, your perfect family. Didn’t your father ever make a fool of himself, chase your mother’s friends after a few drinks?’

  ‘He never drank in his life. It would be a sin against the Lord.’

  ‘It’s Alan’s funeral this weekend. I expect you to attend.’

  ‘I’ll be there. I will do my duty. And don’t expect to get drunk afterwards.’

  Winters sat silently; there was no more to be said, no more that would serve any purpose. He knew why he had married her. He was a weak man who needed a strong woman. For the first few years of their marriage, it had been gentle encouragement coupled with love; now it was with force, and her approach was of anger and hatred towards him. They had started sleeping in separate beds a year before, her idea, and whereas he had agreed, he was still a young man. If only it had been him who had purchased that lottery ticket instead of Alan. What fun he could have had. But then Alan had died, and he was still alive. He wasn’t sure if he was the lucky one, or his brother.

  ‘Are you going to sit there all day? There’s work to do.’ A jolt of reality from the other side of the room. Dean Winters raised himself from his chair, taking care to push the chair back in position, conscious of the need to maintain a parallel spacing to the chair on its left-hand side, alignment with the chair on the other side. He walked away and headed off for whatever it was she wanted him to do.

  One of these days, I will strike back, he thought. He knew it would not be today.

  ***

  An all-points had been issued for the car that had struck Rachel Winters’ vehicle, not that anyone thought that anything would come of it, although if the damage were appreciable, then the other vehicle would be lodging an insurance claim. Clare, once she had left Salisbury Hospital, and after she had deposited Tremayne at Bemerton Road, struck out on her own for Avon Hill. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said to Tremayne.

  ‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Tremayne offered.

  ‘It’s personal, I’ll be alright.’

  Tremayne wasn’t so sure, but she was a grown woman, a seasoned police officer. He had no option but to comply. ‘Give me a call if it becomes too much.’

  ‘Two hours, and I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’ll send out the troops to look for you if you don’t return,’ Tremayne said in an attempt at levity. He could see it was not well received.

  Inside the station, the ominous presence of Superintendent Moulton. ‘Have you wrapped up that case?’ he said.

  ‘I thought you were going to talk about the other matter.’

  ‘Not every time. Sometimes I like to follow up on a case, check how my people are.’

  ‘I’m fine. Yarwood went out to visit Harry Holchester’s grave.’

  ‘Will she be alright?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. No doubt she won’t be too cheerful when she returns, but under the circumstances she’s handled Salisbury better than I expected. I never thought she’d come back.’

  ‘Any leads on who killed Alan Winters?’

  ‘There are some with motives, but so far not an arrest. His funeral’s this weekend. I’ll be attending, along with Yarwood.’

  ‘As representatives of the police?’

  ‘Not me. I’ve known the family for a long time.’

  ‘You’ll be keeping an eye out?’

  ‘Never off duty, you know that. There’s some tension behind the scenes. Whether it’s enough to murder the man with the money is to be seen.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  Tremayne phoned Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, a friend. ‘The two who carried Winters’ body from the road up to Stonehenge, male or female?’

  ‘Either. Adidas trainers, nothing special. You can purchase them in a dozen shops in Salisbury alone.’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘It’s in my report.’

  ‘I’m sounding you out. Yarwood’s not here.’

  ‘You’re feeling lonely, is that it?’

  ‘Not you as well. I get enough from Yarwood. She’s becoming good at the smart comment.’

  ‘She’s had a good teacher. Anyway, Adidas trainers. The grass was wet up there, muddy in places, so the sizing is not precise. But female is a definite possibility. It’d still require a certain amount of strength. Don’t go looking for a couple of weaklings.’

  ‘Thanks. Any more on the weapon?’

  ‘In my report. Nothing special, just a very sharp kitchen knife. We’ve got one at home that could cut a throat. I nearly sliced the top of my finger off with it the other day.’

  Tremayne opened his laptop, saw a few emails, a reminder of overdue reports. He checked the emails, one or two needed answering; the others included the usual reminders. Also, there was to be a change in administrative procedures. Not again, he thought. Another email to let all staff know that entry to the building would be by fingerprint recognition instead of a magnetic security card, with a transition period of fourteen days. If it was as good as the fingerprint recognition on his laptop, Tremayne thought, then it was going to be a disaster. He had been content when there was a key to the building, a person in reception, a book to sign in and out.

  Two hours to the minute, Clare walked back into the office. Tremayne felt as if he wanted to put his arm around her, give her a reassuring hug, but did not. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It was a nice day down there. I put some flowers, said some words and came back here.’

  ‘I’m glad that you’re back. We’ve got to put the lid on this case, or Moulton will be after me again.’

  ‘He’s been here?’

  ‘Remarkably pleasant.’

  ‘I’ve told you that he’s a decent man.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just that he keeps going on about my retirement.’

  ‘What does Jean want you to do?’

  ‘If we get together again, she’ll want to take trips here and there, but apart from that, she’ll not be demanding. We’re past the young and silly stage.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  ‘You’re not the cloistered nun type. You need to find yourself another man.’

  ‘They’re not so easy to find. Most of them want to buy you a meal and then back to their place.’

  ‘That’s not your style.’

  ‘Harry was my style, and that didn’t turn out too good.’

  ‘It’s like riding a bike; you’ve got to get back on it again.’

  ‘I will. Anyway, my love life is not what we’re here for, is it?’

  Both of the police officers helped themselves to coffee.

  ‘Jim Hughes reckons it could possibly have been two females up at Stonehenge,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Polly Bennett and Liz Maybury?’

  ‘What do we know about them?’

  ‘I would have thought we knew plenty,’ Clare said.

  ‘List them.’

  ‘Promiscuous, competent businesswomen, ambitious, not afraid of hard work, probably bisexual.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘But why kill Alan Winters?’

  ‘Maybe he was about to dispense with them, get some others.’

  ‘The man was making up for lost time. All his life he had been poor, unable to get a woman, except for Mavis,’ Clare said.

  ‘She was a good catch when she was younger.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. She’s still a good catch. If it doesn’t work out with Jean…’

  ‘Don’t go there, Yarwood. Stay focussed on the murder. Alan Winters dies on a slab of stone at Stonehenge. Who would benefit?’

  ‘I just don’t see how the two women would benefit unless they had an agreement with Mavis in place.’

  ‘Or Gerry?’

  ‘But why Gerry? The man’s got no money, and there’s no way that he’d convince Mavis to part with a share of hers.’

  ‘Why? He reckoned he was entitled to a half-share, and that it was Alan who was refusing due to Mavis. What if Alan would have reconsidered without Mavi
s?’

  ‘Then why didn’t they kill Mavis? She’d be the easier solution, and then, if she weren't around, Alan would have been looking for a shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘Or two shoulders?’

  ‘It’s a complicated plan. It could have backfired.’

  ‘If Liz Maybury had not hit that wall, then the two women would have ended up with nothing, and Gerry’s no closer to the money.’

  ‘I don’t like it. Too many uncertainties; too easy to fail.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you, woman to woman, maybe find out where they’re having a drink of an evening. See if you can slip under their guard.’

  What about Dean and Barbara Winters?’ Clare said.

  ‘Now there’s a woman that’s easy to read.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How do you sum her up?’

  ‘Aggressive, biased, a snob, a nagger, and someone who detests the Winters, even her husband probably.’

  ‘Then why marry him?’

  ‘She wanted her ideal husband. She knew she wouldn’t find anyone the normal way, so she decided to create her own.’

  ‘She’s done a good job.’

  ‘Not totally. There’s still some bite in the man.’

  ‘More a gnawing. He’s just about worn down.’

  ***

  Clare had to admit that her initial impression of Stan Winters had been wrong, and that, apart from his being a criminal, he was agreeable. The same could not be said for Fred, the oldest of Betty Winters’ seven children.

  ‘Tremayne, what do you want? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’ Fred Winters said on entering the interview room at the prison. Clare could tell from his bearing that he was a man who intimidated, a man who had a history of violence.

  Tremayne had warned her that the reception from Fred, closer in age to him than the other Winters’ children, would not be good. Fred Winters, taller than average, though not as tall as Clare, not as tall as Tremayne, bore the marks of prison life: the tattooed knuckles on both hands – love, hate – as well as tattoos on his arms. His sleeves were rolled up, indicative of the warmth in the room.

  ‘Fred, you know the drill,’ Tremayne said. ‘Your brother’s been murdered. It’s up to us to conduct interviews, investigate, arrest the person or persons responsible.’

  ‘Alan, he may have been my brother, but he was a fool.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look here, Tremayne, you were a pain in the rear end when you lived near to us, and you still are.’

  ‘Still smarting over that hiding I gave you, is that it?’

  Clare looked over at Tremayne, not sure what he meant.

  ‘I caught Fred vandalising a car once. I laid him flat on his back, gave him a black eye and a sore head.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do it again. From what I can see, you’re past it.’

  ‘I may be, but I didn’t arrest you back then, did I?’

  ‘Okay, Tremayne. We’ll declare a truce. I don’t forget people who’ve wronged me, but you treated us fair. We were troublemakers, still are, especially Alan. That man could upset people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He had a mouth as a youth, always shouting off, accusing someone of being gay, queer back then.’

  ‘Kept his distance when he was hurling insults,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘His only defence. He wasn’t the toughest kid, although he tried to pretend he was. He got a few smacks from me.’

  ‘You were violent back then, still are.’

  ‘I make no bones about it. I’m a hard case, always will be, and in here, no one gives me aggravation.’

  ‘This is Sergeant Yarwood, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Gerry said you were a looker. He wasn’t wrong.’

  ‘Yarwood is a serving police officer,’ Tremayne reminded him.

  ‘No disrespect, Sergeant. It’s not often I get to see a woman these days. I just said it as it is.’

  ‘No offence was taken,’ Clare said.

  ‘Gerry has been here?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘And Mavis.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Not really. Gerry sometimes comes, and Mavis occasionally. She’s a good woman, better than Alan deserved.’

  ‘What did they speak about?’

  ‘Alan’s death initially. It came as a shock to all of us, or his murder did. Alan was always an idiot. If he had died at the wheel of a car, then I would have taken it in my stride, but murder, and up at Stonehenge, I can’t go for that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It makes no sense. I know that he was showing off, and supposedly he was messing around with a couple of tarts.’

  ‘We know who they are.’

  ‘If it had been you who had won the lottery?’ Clare said.

  ‘No tarts, just one woman. And as for showing off, it doesn’t interest me.’

  ‘You’d not follow in your brother’s footsteps?’

  ‘I’d have kept the win secret, and if I couldn’t, I’d have bought myself a place in the country, settled down, even farmed the land.’

  ‘I never knew that about you,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Nor did I. In here they have a farm, or at least a few acres. There are chickens, a few pigs, a chance to grow vegetables.’

  ‘And you’re there?’

  ‘Every day. There wasn’t much chance where we grew up, although in Salisbury we were never far from the countryside. Now, all I want is the chance to farm.’

  ‘If you had money?’

  ‘That’s why Mavis was here. She’s worried that I’m going to cause trouble when I get out.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘A lousy one hundred thousand. Of course I am. The Winters’ family, or the children, look out for each other, always have, always will. Mavis’s idea of money is not mine. Alan would have given each of us a couple of million. He’d have still had plenty left.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘I’ve thought it through. I want two million, plus another three as a loan. I’ve done the sums, I know it’s viable. I’m not looking for charity, I only want what is mine.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Alan would have eventually agreed. Mavis is reluctant.’

  ‘Do you blame her?’

  ‘No, but she came from a decent family, we didn’t.’

  ‘Your father, any idea where he is? He’d have to be in his eighties.’

  ‘Dead I hope.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Dead are far as I’m concerned.’

  We’ve met Margie, interviewed your mother.’

  ‘My mother can go to hell, Margie is important.’

  ‘She’s not in a good way,’ Clare said.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been told. Mavis, I know, makes sure she is safe, and that she has food and medicine.’

  ‘You have a lot of respect for Mavis?’

  ‘A lot, apart from her wanting to hang on to the money. She’ll look after the family better than Alan ever did. He was a brainless fool, Mavis isn’t, you know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘She was keen on you once,’ Fred Winters said, ‘before you became old and grey.’

  ‘Still good enough to give you a hiding,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare could see a grudging respect between the two men: one a criminal, the other an officer of the law. There was a history between them that the years had not destroyed.

  ‘Your brother’s funeral, will you be attending?’ Clare said.

  ‘I would have liked to, but they’ll not let me out.’

  ‘Any reason, anything I can do? Tremayne said.

  ‘I lost my temper with another prisoner, a lifer. He walked on my vegetable patch, thought he was smart, although he probably fancied a few days in the prison hospital.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I gave him his few days.’

  ‘Any increase in sentence, restrictions placed on you?’

&
nbsp; ‘None. The warden, he’s not a bad man, he knew what had happened, and besides, some of the vegetables were for him. Anyway, they’ll not let me out, classified as violent.’

  ‘Are you?’ Clare said.

  ‘I defend my own. But yes, I’m violent. Not drunken violent, but if anyone gets in my way, I’ll push through or punch. Not many can stop me. Only Tremayne when he was younger. Now he looks as if he’ll struggle to get out of his chair.’

  ‘You’re not looking so great,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘Whatever you do, look out for Margie. There’s not much hope for her, but we all try.’

  ‘Mavis will do the right thing,’ Clare said.

  ‘You like the woman?’ Fred said.

  ‘Yes, I do. Very much, actually.’

  ‘I know she’s worried about when I get out, they all are, but it’ll be fine. With Alan gone, we’ll come to an agreement.’

  ‘Your brother Dean?’

  ‘You’ve met his wife?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘If she had the money, nobody would get anything.’

  ‘She portrays herself as charitable.’

  ‘Her, she’s a bitch. She hates us, we hate her. It’s mutual. Watch out for her. If there’s an opportunity, she’ll take it.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Poor Dean, the smartest in the family, now under her control. I doubt if he can go to the toilet without her permission. I nearly said that in the vernacular.’

  ‘What stopped you?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Lady present.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all, no doubt said it myself occasionally,’ Clare said.

  ‘Still, I must show some respect. Next time you can come on your own, don’t bring Tremayne. I’ve seen his ugly face enough times,’ Fred Winters said, a grin on his face.

  Chapter 13

  Clare had not been to many funerals: just her grandmother’s and a school friend who had died in a car accident. Tremayne had been to too many.

  Neither expected the horse-drawn hearse, the funeral director and his assistant dressed in top hat and tails. In the street the police had erected barriers. It wasn’t often that the county’s wealthiest inhabitant was buried, having been murdered.

  Tremayne knew that it would be magazine fodder within a week. The life story of an unremarkable man who by chance had become wealthy beyond belief, dead before his time, the victim of murder by persons unknown. He knew of the speculation: some wild and crazy, some logical.