The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘And Stan?’

  ‘He’s been told, but he’s still heading back to Pentonville. He’ll need to apply for compassionate leave again.’

  ‘I’ll organise it,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Someone will need to tell Fred, as well as Margie.’

  ‘You’ll not get much sense out of her tonight. You can visit her in the morning,’ Tremayne said.

  Tremayne walked over to Gerry, offered his condolences ‘It’s strange,’ Gerry said. ‘None of us liked her, but now she’s dead, we feel sad. Why is that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Part of the grieving process, I assume.’

  ‘I should get over and see Margie. She needs to know.’

  ‘Will she be upset?’

  ‘With Margie, who knows? We always thought she’d be the first to go, never considered that our mother would die, too mean-spirited to consider leaving us in peace. Cyril will not be upset. He had her back in his house, and she was giving him hell.’

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘He’s got enough to deal with as it is. You saw his wife, the holier than thou bitch,’ Gerry said.

  ‘Yarwood had a talk with her.’

  ‘Not in here.’

  ‘Out in her car. She was not complimentary of your family.’

  ‘A truly awful woman, even worse than our mother. Our mother only cared about herself, didn’t aim to change us; we could have all gone to hell as far as she was concerned.’

  ‘Why was she like that?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Maybe it was something to do with our father; maybe that was her nature. We never knew, but then we were children. We survived, looked out for each other.’

  ‘Except for Margie.’

  ‘When she goes, there’ll be a lot of sorrow.’

  ‘For your mother?’

  ‘Not much.’

  Tremayne walked back upstairs, standing to one side as a stretcher was brought into the house. Jim Hughes came down the stairs. ‘Pathology,’ he said.

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Nothing else to report, if that’s what you want. I could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘In the kitchen. You’ll find the family, but they’re fine.’

  At 2 a.m. Clare and Tremayne left the house, along with Jim Hughes. Cyril was staying the night, Dean was coming up in the morning. Clare wondered if his bruises would be showing. Tremayne didn’t care either way; he had a bottle of whisky at home, he’d have a couple of drinks before he went to bed. It had been a long day, a long night. He missed Jean.

  ***

  To the south of Salisbury, a house, the same as all the others in the street. Inside a warring couple.

  ‘She’s my mother,’ Dean Winters protested. His head still throbbed, it was three in the morning, and the woman was still going on about his condition when he had left his sister-in-law’s house.

  ‘I don’t care. You’re not going back there. You’ve got a job here, responsibilities, a wife.’

  ‘What kind of a wife are you, sleeping in a single bed, denying me?’

  ‘We’re too old for that,’ Barbara Winters said.

  ‘Alan was older than me, and he never had any problem.’

  ‘With that Mavis Winters, his tarts? What do you expect? The man was debased, not cognisant of his responsibilities to his religion, to his family. There’s that whore of a sister, I saw her there, the needle marks in her arms. Your nephew, that Bertie, what a disreputable individual he was, and as for your niece…’

  ‘Don’t say a word about Rachel. She’s holding down a steady job, and she was polite to you.’

  ‘I could see through her. It was only an act. No doubt she’s screwing whoever she fancies.’

  ‘Just because you were too pure to have children, not wanting to soil your hands changing their nappies, feeding them, don’t insult my family, don’t insult Mavis or Rachel.’

  ‘If you like them so much, why don’t you go and live in that big house with all their money?’

  ‘It’d be better than here. I’m afraid to sit down in case I crease the fabric, and as for you...’

  Barbara Winters came forward; she hit her husband across the face. Dean, inflamed, for once in his life hit her back, and hard. ‘You bastard, how dare you?’

  ‘Shut up and sit down, will you.’

  ‘I will not. I’m off to bed.’

  Dean Winters sat down after she had left, not caring if the chair was out of symmetry with the others. He felt good. He picked up the keys of the car, even though he was still sobering up, and left for Salisbury.

  ***

  Polly Bennett and Liz Maybury, both fast asleep, both in the same bed, did not expect a knock on their door. It was past two in the morning, and they had to be at the shop by eight.

  ‘It’s Gerry,’ a voice through the door.

  Polly opened the door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My mother died.’

  ‘The same day as Alan’s funeral?’

  ‘Yes. I saw you and Liz there.’

  ‘He did right by us, the same as you. You’d better come in.’

  Gerry entered the flat, saw Liz sitting up in bed. ‘Sorry, I just wanted to see a friendly face.’

  ‘Stay here tonight,’ Liz said. ‘There’s room for three.’

  Polly brought a coffee: black and strong. She also turned on the shower. ‘You stink of alcohol. You’ll need a shower if you want to be with us.’ Gerry took off his clothes and opened the shower door. He was pleased to be welcome.

  In the morning, he would remember their kindness, attempt to put in a word with Mavis about how well the shop was going. That night, he would enjoy the distraction of Polly and Liz.

  ***

  Clare slept for a few hours, waking up at six in the morning. She fed the cats and left her cottage. By six forty-five she was outside Margie’s place. She thought it was too early, but decided to knock on the door anyway. After ten minutes Margie opened the door.

  ‘My mother’s dead,’ Margie said.

  ‘You’ve been told?’

  ‘Cyril phoned me.’

  ‘Has he been here?’

  ‘No one comes here.’

  ‘How are you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I’m not sure what I feel,’ Margie said. Clare realised that it was the first time that the woman had spoken other than in monosyllables.

  ‘Are you high on drugs?’

  ‘I was last night, not now.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ Clare said. Standing outside on the doorstep discussing a dead mother did not seem right to her.

  Clare thought the woman to be much improved from the previous times she had met with her.

  ‘She’s was my mother, but I hated her. Is that wrong?’

  ‘It’s unfortunate.’

  ‘Do you love your mother?’ Margie said.

  ‘She drives me mad sometimes, but yes, I do.’

  ‘I never loved mine. Did they tell you?’

  ‘Your brothers are all concerned, so is Mavis.’

  ‘I like Mavis and Rachel.’

  ‘So do I,’ Clare said, ‘Very much. Do you want to be with them?’

  ‘Today, I would. Will you take me to their house?’

  It was a remarkably verbose conversation with a woman who had barely uttered a word before. Clare was pleased that she had come so early.

  At the Winters’ house in Quidhampton, a warm welcome. Mavis thanked Clare, pleased that Margie was in the house, hopeful that she would stay. Clare knew that was unlikely. Bertie was still not home, and Mavis was worried.

  ‘He was meant to report back for his treatment,’ Mavis said.

  ‘If I see him, I’ll send him back,’ Clare said, although the man was in his twenties, and there wasn’t much she could do. Rachel, diligent as always, was back at work.

  Margie thanked Clare as she left, even gave her a kiss on the cheek, demonstrative for a woman who had been lacking any emotion before the death of her mother, even before her brother’s death, although Clare though
t that the mother’s death had brought memories flooding back, memories long suppressed.

  ***

  Clare had never imagined that she would ever re-enter the Deer’s Head, Harry’s former pub, but Tremayne had been adamant. He’d had a tip-off that Bertie Winters was to be found there.

  ‘Sorry about this, Yarwood. It was bound to happen at some time,’ Tremayne had said.

  Clare knew that he was right. She couldn’t be a police officer in a city as compact as Salisbury and avoid places because they upset her. Inside, she found the pub had changed little, apart from a touch up of some flaking paint. The pub had been there for centuries, and it was the old-world charm that people wanted, not a modernised square with a poker machine in one corner, a bar in the other, a charmless landlord. The new publican, Clare had to admit, was not charmless; quite the opposite. ‘Evan Bassett,’ he said on introducing himself. ‘First time in here for you,’ he said to the two police officers.

  ‘We’ve been before, often in fact,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Apologies, I was insensitive.’

  ‘You know?’ Clare said.

  ‘Not in detail, although I’ve heard the stories, and some of the regulars used to come in here before.’

  ‘You’ve got Bertie Winters here,’ Clare said, changing the subject. She looked around the bar, noticed the steps down to the cellar where she and Harry had almost made love, the stairs leading up to the small bedroom where they had. The table in the corner where Tremayne had usually sat was occupied. At least she was pleased that her senior, a man of habit, wouldn’t have the chance to resume his usual place in the bar.

  ‘Over there, sleeping it off.’

  ‘Thanks. You know who he is?’

  ‘I came from up north, never heard of the Winters family before I came here. One of the locals told me who he was. For someone with so much money, he doesn’t look anything special.’

  ‘He’s not,’ Clare said. 'One ticket and you could have what his family’s got.’

  ‘Not me. I’ll keep to the occasional bet on the horses.’

  ‘What do you reckon for the 2.30 at Newmarket?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Sonny Boy.’

  ‘I fancy Flash Comet.’ Clare sighed; another horse racing aficionado. She could see the Deer’s Head becoming Tremayne’s favourite pub again. She was there as part of her job, she did not want to linger.

  ‘Let’s get Bertie Winters and get out of here,’ Clare said.

  ‘Excuse us, Evan. We need to take the young man back to his family.’

  ‘I read that his father had been murdered.’

  ‘We’ve not apprehended his murderer yet.’

  ‘It must be hard coming in here, unpleasant memories,’ Evan Bassett said to Clare.

  ‘It is. Excuse me if we grab Bertie Winters and leave.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Tremayne and Clare grabbed Bertie by the collar and walked him out of the pub. The man was semi-conscious. Tremayne, Clare knew, wanted to stay and discuss horse racing. She knew that he would have to come back on his own. She had entered the pub once, she did not intend to enter it again.

  Once they were back in Quidhampton, Mavis called for a doctor. Tremayne thought it a waste of money, as all the man needed was a good sleep and solid food.

  Tremayne and Clare were surprised to see Dean Winters eating a steak with gusto, a newly-hired cook preparing food for the family. ‘Too long on salads,’ Winters said.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Not here. She’s back in Southampton.’

  ‘You’ve got a black eye,’ Clare said.

  ‘She hit me fair and square.’

  ‘It took you long enough to stand up to her,’ Mavis said.

  ‘Either she’ll come around, or it’s over.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Clare said.

  ‘You’ve spent time with her. What do you think?’

  ‘She has some very firm views on certain subjects.’

  ‘The Winters family,’ Mavis said.

  ‘It was biased.’

  ‘Her father was an unpleasant man, constantly haranguing his staff, paying them a pittance,’ Dean said.

  ‘Then why did you marry her?’ Mavis asked.

  ‘The same reason any man gets tied up with a woman when they’re young and in love: rose-coloured glasses.’

  Tremayne did not need to be told why. He had married Jean for the same reason, although she had been an agreeable woman, still was. They had broken up because of his policing, but he was about to reunite with her, not out of a youthful reason, more out of a need for companionship.

  Gerry Winters walked in the door. ‘You’ve been with them,’ Mavis said. ‘I hope they’re making a good job of my business.’

  ‘They are.’

  Tremayne and Clare left for Bemerton Road. The Winters family was united in the one house, except for Stan and Fred. Tremayne phoned up both of their respective prisons, spoke to both men. Fred was derogatory about the woman who had died; Stan was more conciliatory. ‘No chance before the funeral,’ Tremayne said to Stan’s immediate request for compassionate leave.

  ‘Do your best,’ Stan said. ‘I’ll miss Alan, not her, or not as much as I should.’

  Chapter 16

  Neither Tremayne nor Clare was in the best of moods. There was still a murder to solve, and emotional involvement with the primary suspects did not help.

  Clare left the office early, an appointment to meet up with Polly and Liz at a pub. It had been Tremayne’s suggestion to meet them where their guard would be down, to see if there were hidden depths to the women, a reason for them to want Alan Winters dead and Gerry Winters in their bed. It was clear that they did not need to be with Gerry, and there was no great love affair there, so why were they bedding him? His smile as he had entered the Winters’ house earlier indicated that it had been full on with them. Even Mavis had smiled at the cheek of the man.

  Tremayne remained in the office; there wasn’t much for him at home. Superintendent Moulton paid another visit, the usual, but he was not pushing hard for a retirement. Tremayne thought the man may be suffering from his problem, so much time policing that it had taken over his life at the expense of family.

  ‘Your reports are late again,’ Moulton said. For once he had taken a seat in Tremayne’s office, seemed content to stay.

  ‘We’re struggling with a breakthrough in the Winters’ murder,’ Tremayne admitted. ‘We’ve suspects, but so far we’ve not been able to tie them together.’

  ‘Do you need additional manpower?’

  ‘Not really. It’s a case of finding the significance of Stonehenge, and why the wealthiest man in the area had to die. It’s not as if he wasn’t generous, he certainly was to those he liked. His widow is not going to be such an easy touch; she’ll want legal guarantees for any money given, payment schedules for money lent, and she’s not about to throw it away on young lovers.’

  ‘Alan Winters, he was into women?’

  ‘It was in one of my reports.’

  ‘I know that. I’m making conversation, just going through the case with you,’ Moulton said. ‘I know you see me as a pen pusher, but I was a regular policeman once.’

  ‘On the beat, sir?’

  ‘The same as you, the same as all of us. Sometimes I miss dealing with the criminals, being out on the street.’

  ‘I thought you were a procedures man, enjoyed being in the office.’

  ‘That’s true, but it’s no different from running a large business. The concern over budgets and KPIs. And then there’s the constant battle about staffing levels.’

  ‘And retirements?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s not you in particular. The modern police force is run along business lines. We’re expected to be financially viable, and obtaining the necessary money to run this place, a yearly headache, is not easy.’

  Tremayne realised that it was the first time that he and Moulton had sat down for a conversation. In the past, it had alwa
ys been a letter on his desk, a discussion about retirement, a quick chat about the latest case.

  ‘We think there’s another element to this case,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘There are some crazy people out there with crazy ideas.’

  ‘We’ve got one of those.’

  ‘Any possibility there? You dealt with the paganists in Avon Hill, and they were rational people under normal circumstances.’

  ‘This one’s not,’ Tremayne said. ‘The woman breathes flames; her husband’s life must be hell, although he walked out yesterday.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Not for long. Some men want to be told what to do.’

  ‘Not you, Tremayne.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to push me around.’

  ‘Not even me.’

  ‘Not even you, sir. I’ll retire when I’m ready.’

  ‘That’s how I see it. Outside of this place, you’re not sure what you’d do.’

  ‘That’s true enough. I only go home to sleep, watch the sports channel. I rarely eat there, maybe the occasional frozen pizza in the microwave, but nothing else.’

  ‘Yarwood, how is she?’

  ‘A good police officer; she should be an inspector.’

  ‘She will be, but that wasn’t the question.’

  ‘I know that. She’s bought a cottage in Stratford sub Castle; she’s even been into Harry Holchester’s pub. She’ll pull through.’

  ‘No man in her life?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let me know what you need,’ Moulton said. ‘I’ll not talk about your retirement for a couple of months.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The quotas have been met. Until there’s another push, I’ll leave you alone.’

  Moulton left. Tremayne sat in his chair, somewhat stunned after his visit. He looked out of his office door and into the department beyond. Apart from a cleaner, the place looked depressing. He knew he needed company. He needed to discuss horse racing over a couple of beers.

  The Deer’s Head, the one place that Yarwood had not wanted to enter, although she had in the line of duty, and the one place he had never thought he would either, was welcoming.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ the publican, Evan Bassett, said on his arrival. Tremayne remembered to duck his head as he entered. The pub had been built when people were a lot shorter, and the lintel above the door would have hit him in the centre of his forehead.