‘And dead up at Stonehenge?’
‘Not me. I’m smarter than that.’
‘How?’
‘I just am.’
‘Do you know something. Something that you should tell me.’
‘Not really. I’m just making conversation.’
Clare left the man with his orange juice, sure that he’d be back into drugs once he returned to the house on a permanent basis. She felt unclean when she left him. She found Rachel, the sister, talking to her mother.
‘How are you?’ Clare asked. The mother moved away.
‘It’s a good send-off for my father,’ Rachel said. There was still some slight bruising on her forehead, but apart from that she looked fine.
‘Yes, it’s good. Are you pleased to see your family here?’
‘I’m pleased to see Uncle Stan.’
‘He’s a favourite?’
‘He always was. He always remembered my birthday, always bought me something silly. Inspector Tremayne helped to get him here?’
‘Your uncle was eligible to attend the church with a prison officer, but not the wake, and certainly not to be here drinking. DI Tremayne organised that.’
‘I’ll thank him later. He was a friend of my mum’s once.’
‘What do you know?’
‘My mum told me last night. It was just the two of us; one of those reminiscing about life, over Dad, mum and daughter things.’
‘How much did she tell you?’
‘She told me she was young, the same as him. There was a party, they’d both had a few drinks.’
‘And?’
‘The two of them in another room.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I laughed, we both did. My mum and the police officer. They’d make a good pair, even now.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Clare said.
‘Mum needs someone to help her. I know Uncle Gerry would like to be with her, but I can’t see it. With Inspector Tremayne, he’d deal with them all, including Uncle Fred.’
‘We’ve met him.’
‘None of us wants to see him.’
‘He’s coming back.’
‘We know. If Inspector Tremayne were with Mum, there’d be no trouble. He’s probably the only man who could handle him.’
‘That’s up to Tremayne and your mother.’
‘She’d be interested. I can’t think of anyone she respects more.’
‘He’s a curmudgeon, can be cantankerous.’
‘Mum can be awkward. See what you can do. We’d all welcome him into the family.’
‘Not after we arrest one of you,’ Clare said.
‘We’d understand. If someone is capable of murdering my father, then they’d be capable of murdering Mum, and then Bertie and me.’
‘That’s true. We’ve always thought that the money was the motive. What if it isn’t?’
‘It must be. What else? My father was inoffensive. He could get drunk, cause a ruckus at the pub, but apart from that he wouldn’t harm a fly.’
***
Tremayne and Clare continued to move around the house; the atmosphere was very congenial. Everyone was singing the praises of Alan Winters, the good fortune that he had had, the fact that he had struggled for years, barely making enough to live on. It didn’t move Tremayne.
Relegated to one beer and then orange juice, at least until Stan Winters was off his hands and back in the care of the prison officer, he and Clare, apart from Barbara Winters who was outside in her car, were the only totally sober individuals in the house.
Tremayne knew that in spite of the accolades accorded the recently deceased, he was a lazy individual of little worth, which was surprising considering that Mavis, his widow, Tremayne’s one-time lover, was full of energy. It was strange how two people so dissimilar in many ways could have forged a successful marriage, brought up two children, one smart, the other impacted by drug abuse.
Margie Winters had withered under drug abuse, apparently the result of her childhood experiences, but Tremayne wasn’t sure. He was convinced of the maltreatment, but maybe the woman had an addictive personality, was susceptible to drugs, the same as Bertie Winters, an inherited trait that passed some, affected others. Tremayne knew that he had tried to give up cigarettes many times, never succeeded, whereas his brother, younger than him, had never smoked. Not that it had helped him as he had keeled over in his early forties with heart disease.
Tremayne found Mavis Winters sitting on her own in another room. ‘I’ll miss him,’ she said as he sat down beside her. ‘He wasn’t much use, good at nothing, yet he was like an unruly dog. Good to have around but a damn nuisance.’
‘He was good at purchasing lottery tickets.’
‘We’re not happier for all the money. It’s just another responsibility. I remember the carefree nights at the pub, a singalong, everyone getting drunk. It was alright for Alan, he didn’t care, but now, if I go anywhere, they always look for me to pay, and then the shops want to show me the most expensive items. And as for the begging letters…’
‘Tough?’
‘Some of the letters break your heart, not that you’d know if they were genuine or not.’
‘You helped some?’
‘At first, but then the word got out that I was an easy touch. Once it was revealed, even though those we helped had signed a non-disclosure agreement, on the advice of our solicitor, there was a flood of letters.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Alan wanted to continue to give; I said no. They’d approach him down the pub, he’d give them five hundred pounds to go away, but with me, I’m not willing to give our money away that easy. You know the saying: a fool and his money are easily parted. Alan was the fool, I was the bastard who wouldn’t help. There were times when I wouldn’t go out of the door for fear of being hassled.’
‘But you do now.’
‘I couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, nor could Alan. He was burning more than a million pounds every three months. Can you imagine it, a million pounds? When we were young, we were lucky to have a pound to buy an ice cream, and there was Alan throwing it away.’
‘You’ve solved the problem now?’
‘Only because he died.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can’t help everyone. I’ve funded a cancer unit at Salisbury Hospital, a piece of equipment somewhere else. Not that it stopped Alan wasting the money, but he was under some sort of control.’
‘What sort?’
‘I was checking the finances.’
‘It didn’t stop him buying the furniture store for Polly and Liz.’
‘I know, and that still annoys me.’
‘But you’ll let them continue?’
‘For the time being. I’ve not forgiven them, nor Alan, and if I pull the plug, then that’s more money lost.’
‘You seem to understand finance.’
‘Understand, maybe, but I never expected to be dealing with this, and now I’ve got to pay out to the brothers.’
‘Two million each?’
‘And how long before they exhaust that? Cyril’s stupid enough to manage, but he’ll probably be evicted from the council house, and then he’ll want another place, and you’ve seen the price of property.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Tremayne said. ‘My place is worth three hundred thousand, and it’s not much.’
‘And if Cyril is evicted, do you think he’ll want to buy a place the same as yours? Look at this house, beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the problem. Even I look at this and think I’d like somewhere bigger, better, maybe with some history. Once we were happy with a ten-year-old Ford, now it’s a Bentley. There’s no end to desire, and Fred will cause trouble. He thinks he’s into farming, and two million pounds represents a compromise. That’s not Fred. If he sees something, he wants it, and if he can’t afford it, then he would steal it, but now, I’m the bank.’
‘You don�
�t want the responsibility?’
‘Quite frankly, others may call me stupid, but I’d go back to the life we had, difficult as it was. This wake, how much?’
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ Tremayne said.
‘And some. What with the funeral and the catering, there’ll not be much change from forty thousand pounds, and what do we have to show for it?’
‘It was a good send-off.’
‘For Alan? He wasn’t worth it. The family at the crematorium, a few drinks at the pub afterwards would have sufficed. It just never ends. Even with all this money, I’ll need to make compromises.’
‘It’s not a problem that has ever worried me,’ Tremayne said.
‘We’re very similar in many ways, you know.’
‘Maybe we are,’ Tremayne said, not certain where the conversation was heading. It was the woman’s husband’s funeral, and Mavis Winters was intimating something more. He was feeling uncomfortable, not sure what to say or do.
Tremayne looked at his watch. ‘It’s close to 10 p.m.’ he said thankfully.
‘Stan?’
‘It’s time for me to hand him over.’
Tremayne walked out to the other room, Mavis holding his arm. ‘Stan, are you ready?’
It was clear that the prisoner was not sober. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said.
‘Clare, give me a hand,’ Tremayne said.
With that, the two police officers escorted Stan Winters back to Prison Officer Marshall’s car and strapped him in, Stan attempting to give Clare a slobbery kiss, her avoiding it.
The others made their farewells, Tremayne signed off his responsibility, and wished Marshall well. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll soon be back safe and sound. He wasn’t meant to drink. I’m not sure how I’ll square it with the warden,’ Marshall said.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it if it’s an issue.’
Stan Winters left, Tremayne headed back inside for a beer. If Gerry were still sober, he’d find him; if he weren't, it would not make any difference. The detective inspector intended to enjoy the remainder of the evening. ‘What have you found out, Yarwood?’ Tremayne said to Clare who was sitting in one corner. The wake was coming to a conclusion, the caterers were packing up.
‘Bertie fancies his chances, Rachel’s a good person, the most likeable of them all, and Barbara Winters belongs on another planet,’ Clare said.
‘Stan?’
‘He’s okay, but he’s not the murderer.’
‘What about Dean?’
‘Judging by the condition he was in when he left, he’ll be doing penance for some time.’
‘Self-flagellation?’
‘Either he’ll be whipping himself, or she’ll be doing it for him.’
‘The man’s life must be miserable.’
‘He chose which bed to lie in. Not really our concern, unless it’s relevant to the investigation.’
‘Yarwood, I’ll make a detective out of you yet,’ Tremayne said. He looked around the room, saw those who remained, Cyril and Gerry were close to comatose, their eyes closed. Rachel was helping her mother, and Bertie had taken off with his friends into town. Tremayne knew that would represent trouble, and he was only on temporary leave from the place that was treating him for his drug addiction. Margie sat outside in the garden, even though it was cold. Tremayne could see that she was shivering. He and Clare walked out through the French doors and put a coat around her shoulders. The woman gave no sign of recognition.
‘Are you okay, Margie?’ Clare asked. A feeble nod of the head.
‘She needs medical treatment,’ Tremayne said.
‘She needs heroin,’ Clare said.
‘That’s what I meant. I can agree with a doctor, the same as you. Neither of us can prescribe an illegal drug.’
‘I want to go home,’ Margie said. Apart from a few words at the church, they were the only other words she said that night.
‘Mavis will have a room,’ Clare said.
‘I want my home, my cats.’
Tremayne knew that what she really wanted was her stash of drugs. Clare walked back inside, found no one able to drive her. She returned. ‘I’ll take her,’ Clare said.
‘I’ll leave the same time as you.’
‘Not drinking?’
‘Not on my own, I’m not.’
Tremayne made his farewells, as did Clare. Mavis and Rachel gave Tremayne a big hug. Clare received a hug and a kiss as well. Margie was already in Clare’s car, her seat belt buckled. Mavis held her for a long time as she sat there. Fifteen minutes later, Margie was back with her cats, twenty minutes later her shivering had stopped.
Clare phoned Tremayne. ‘I’ve dropped her off.’
‘She’ll not last long, neither will Bertie.’
Chapter 15
Tremayne had barely had time to climb into his bed at his house in Wilton when the phone rang. It was Mavis. ‘It’s Alan’s mother.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead, upstairs.’
‘I’ll be right over,’ Tremayne said. He pulled himself up, rubbed his eyes to wake up and walked to the bathroom. For someone who had only drunk two beers, he was not feeling good. He looked for a toothbrush and toothpaste, took a quick shower, and left the house. The night had turned colder. He called Clare.
Upon arrival at the Winters’ house, Tremayne found an ambulance and Yarwood’s car.
‘You were quick,’ Tremayne said.
‘I had just arrived home, not even opened the front door when you phoned.’
‘Not like me.’
‘I can see that. I suggest you button your shirt.’
‘Thanks, Yarwood.’
Rachel Winters came outside. ‘It’s grandmother, she’s dead.’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs, her old room,’ Rachel said. Tremayne and Clare hurried up the stairs; they knew the way, having interviewed the woman there once before. In the room was a medic, and Mavis, sitting to one side, looking at the body.
‘If only I hadn’t sent her to live with Cyril,’ Mavis said.
‘Who found her?’ Tremayne said.
‘I did. I was going to get Gerry to take her home, not that’s he in a fit condition to drive. I may have let her stay here for the one night.’
‘Any idea how she died?’
‘Old age, grief. I don’t know. I found her on the bed, the same as you can see her now.’
The medic stood nearby. ‘Heart failure probably, but it’s not for me to say,’ the medic said.
‘Pathology will tell us,’ Tremayne said. He could see the woman, thought she looked peaceful, even saintly. Her arms were folded across her chest as if she knew her end was near. Clare found a clean sheet in a cupboard and placed it over her, only leaving her face showing. Rachel came into the room, kissed the dead woman’s forehead.
Clare could see that the young woman had been crying. Even she could feel a lump in her throat.
‘Don’t say too much,’ Mavis said. ‘None of us liked her.’
‘Please, mother, not now.’
Tremayne understood where Mavis was coming from; Rachel and Clare, younger and less cynical, less world-weary, did not. Tremayne had known about the Winters’ mother back from his days when he lived nearby, the gossip about what went on in their house all too prevalent. He’d not heard about Margie. If he had, he was sure he would have taken some action, and now Margie had to be told that her mother had died. He’d leave that to Yarwood.
Jim Hughes arrived. The death of the old woman did not seem suspicious, but she had been the mother of a murdered man. Hughes was not pleased to be disturbed close to midnight. He set himself up near the bed, pulled back the sheet, took some photos. Another crime scene investigator checked the room, looking for anything suspicious. Mavis waited downstairs with Clare and Rachel. Cyril slept on a sofa in the living room; Gerry staggered around drinking black coffee, trying to sober up.
In the dead woman’s room were Hughes, another CSI a
nd Tremayne. ‘You’re not going to start asking me questions before I’ve finished, are you, Tremayne?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You’re going to be a nuisance until I’ve given you something.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Okay, a woman in her late seventies.’
‘She was seventy-nine,’ Tremayne said.
‘Average height, marginally underweight, in apparently reasonable health for her age.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘No immediate signs of injury to the body, a broken arm when she was younger. The body still retains some elasticity. Dead for two hours.’
‘Conclusive?’
‘Nothing’s conclusive until I’ve finished and the pathologist’s conducted his examination, you know that.’
‘Is the death suspicious?’
‘At seventy-nine, the funeral of her son? I’m not sure, but there’s no sign of drugs in the room, no sign of injury to the body. Unless my examination and the pathologist reveal anything unusual, I’d say the woman died of natural causes. Nice house, by the way.’
‘With their money, you’d expect it to be.’
‘They can keep it. Too many hassles for me.’
‘And for me,’ Tremayne said.
‘You know my next sentence?’
‘Clear off and leave you to it.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Okay, I’ll be downstairs.’
‘Give me two to three hours, and we’ll transport the body to Pathology. You can talk to the pathologist after that.’
‘Thanks for coming.’
‘It’s better than having you on my back. Anyway, this soon after the death is always preferred.’
***
Downstairs, the mood was sombre. ‘Poor granny,’ Rachel said. Her mother sat to one side of her, her arm draped around her daughter.
‘It was her time.’
Tremayne moved over close to Yarwood. ‘How are they taking it?’
‘Rachel’s upset. The others are making all the right sounds.’
‘A good woman, it’s a shame, so young…?’
‘Sort of. Cyril’s still asleep; he’s not been told yet.’
‘Dean?’
‘Mavis phoned him.’ Clare said.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 61