‘The sixth sense?’
‘Whatever it is, it just doesn’t feel right.’
***
Tremayne drew up outside Dean and Barbara Winters’ house. In the driveway, a Mercedes. ‘I’ve not seen that car before,’ Gerry said.
‘Spending the money already,’ Tremayne said.
The two men walked up the driveway, passed the car. Tremayne rang the doorbell, the chimes audible inside the house. No answer. He rang again. Still no response. The two men walked around to the back of the house; the lights were on, indicating that someone was at home. Tremayne knocked on the kitchen window, and then the back door. The sound of a car at the front. He rushed around the house to see the Mercedes reversing at speed from the driveway, clipping his vehicle as it went, breaking a tail light. In the driver’s seat was Archie Garrett. His sister was in the passenger seat. Tremayne, realising the urgency of the situation at the house, dialled Yarwood. ‘Mercedes SL350, YA16 UMS, late model, one or two years old, dark green. Put out an all-points, use Dean and Barbara Winters house as the reference. Instruct them to stop and detain two occupants: Barbara Winters and Archie Garrett.’
‘What else.’
‘Just do it, Yarwood. We’re busy.’
Tremayne pushed up against the front door of the house with no success. Gerry assisted, the lock broke, and the two men entered the house. Inside, everything was spick and span. ‘Dean,’ Gerry shouted. No response. Tremayne headed for the rear of the house, Gerry ran up the stairs.
‘He’s down here, Gerry,’ Tremayne shouted.
In the corner of the kitchen lay Dean Winters, black and blue from a severe beating. He was naked and unconscious. Tremayne dialled the emergency services.
‘Dean, Dean,’ Gerry said, sitting his brother up. Tremayne found a sheet in the utility room next to the kitchen and covered the man.
‘What kind of bastards are these people?’ Gerry said to Tremayne, as his brother slowly came around.
Six minutes later, there was an ambulance siren and a medic came into the house. ‘What’s happened,’ the woman asked.
‘The man’s taken a severe beating. Severe lacerations across his back.’
A police car from the local station arrived. Tremayne showed his badge; they held back although it was in their jurisdiction and they would need to file a report.
‘Is this what you’ve suffered all these years?’ Gerry asked his brother.
‘No, not like this,’ Dean said. He was weak but conscious, the medic applying ointment to the exposed wounds, administering a painkiller.
‘He’ll need to go to the hospital,’ she said. ‘No broken bones from what I can see, but he’ll need to be observed for a few days.’
‘Before, Archie left us alone, but with the money he became inflamed. It corrupts, it always has. It’s killed Alan. And now it’s almost killed me.’
‘You’ll be alright, Dean. We’ve put out an all-points for them.’
Tremayne looked at Gerry; he understood. Margie’s death would be kept secret from Dean for the time being.
Chapter 21
Dean Winters’ injuries were not life-threatening, although he would be in Southampton hospital for several days, and then convalescing for a few weeks. As expected, Mavis came to the rescue with the best medical care, the counselling required after such a traumatic occurrence. Also, a room was being prepared for him at the house in Quidhampton.
As for the man himself, Dean was profoundly ashamed to admit the level of abuse that he had suffered over the years, mainly mental, sometimes physical.
‘What can you tell us, Dean?’ Tremayne asked him. Clare was with him, having driven down from Salisbury. Outside, waiting to visit him, were Mavis, Rachel, Gerry, and Cyril. Tremayne had briefly let them in to see Dean, or at least, Mavis, the undisputed matriarch of the family now. It was a police investigation, the two absconders not seen since they had reversed out of their driveway. The car was found abandoned less than five miles away.
The two of them had vanished. Tremayne was worried. Two people with no criminal records, apart from Barbara’s pending trial, had clearly flipped, and he knew that people in their state of mind were no longer responsible for their actions. Caged animals facing imminent starvation will attack another and eat it; trapped humans will react in a similar manner. They had to be regarded as very dangerous, to be approached with caution.
‘It was always Archie. You don’t know what their childhood was like,’ Dean said.
‘That’s not an excuse,’ Tremayne said.
‘Barbara’s innocent.’
Clare could see that the man, no matter what was said or done, would continue to support his wife.
‘What happened?’ Tremayne asked. He had been forewarned by a trauma counsellor at the hospital that asking the patient too many questions could have a deleterious effect on his well-being, not that Tremayne needed to be told. He had encountered people during his career who had been subjected to severe mental and physical abuse, some who had nearly died at the hands of another.
‘I had to be disciplined, don’t you see? I had sinned.’
Clare stood to one side of the bed, wondering what it was with people who felt the need to harm others, to harm themselves, to believe that life was a set of rules: break them and it was eternal damnation or the need to self-punish.
‘Did they kill Alan?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Not Barbara. She only did what Archie told her to do.’
‘Have you been beaten like this before?’
‘No. It’s the first time. Barbara would hit me sometimes, lock me in the cupboard for my own good, but nothing more. It’s Archie, I’m telling you. He’s the one who controls.’
‘But why?’
‘Don’t you understand. Their father controlled them, blamed them for the death of their mother.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. The man was always pleasant to me, but Barbara told me things; things that no child should endure.’
‘Such as?’
‘Physical disciplining, psychological conditioning, a house without entertainment where all three would sit around the table reciting biblical passages. And then Barbara was not allowed to socialise: straight to school, straight home. It’s a wonder she survived.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if she did,’ Clare said.
‘I was working for her father; he deemed me suitable. Sometime afterwards, Barbara and I married.’
‘Deemed?’
‘Oh, yes. I had to ask his permission. But I knew I wanted Barbara, still do.’ Dean moved in his bed, attempting to ease the pressure on the bandages wrapped around his upper body. His face was swollen, the first signs of bruising starting to show.
‘We need to find your wife and her brother. Any ideas?’
‘None.’
‘Do they have any money?’
‘I withdrew eighty thousand pounds for them.’
‘Why?’
‘For their charitable work.’
‘And you believed this?’
‘Barbara would not lie to me.’
‘But you say she’s controlled by Archie. Why, Dean, why? You’ve had a good education, better than anyone else in your family, yet you defend your wife’s actions. Didn’t you enjoy your time away with Mavis? The chance to do what you want? The chance to get drunk and overeat?’
‘It was sinful. I see it all so clearly.’
‘Barbara will be arrested, you know that?’
‘I’ll not testify against her.’
‘That’s your right. What about her brother?’
‘He was right to do what he did. I understand.’
Tremayne and Clare left the man in his private room at the hospital. Outside, Tremayne spoke to Mavis. ‘He still believes in her.’
‘After all he’s been through?’
‘Stockholm Syndrome,’ Clare said.
‘What’s that?’ Mavis asked.
‘It’s conditioning whereby the hostag
e develops a psychological allegiance to their captor. That’s what has happened with Dean. They’ve done this to him, and he still sides with them.’
‘Is it permanent?’
‘Probably not, but it will take time. He can’t have any association with his wife.’
‘Did they kill Alan?’ Mavis asked.
‘It seems possible, although why?’
‘Maybe they realised that Alan would never give his brothers any more money? Maybe they assumed that I would be more generous?’
‘It’s possible. Devious, but a risk on their part,’ Tremayne said.
‘Am I in danger?’ Mavis asked.
‘We don’t know. Until we find them, we’re all in danger. This pair is desperate; their actions will not be rational.’
***
Tremayne and Clare returned to Salisbury. The local police in Southampton had a full description of the missing pair, as had their counterparts in Salisbury. The possibility remained that they had killed Alan Winters. The case file for his murder would now have the name of Samuel Garrett’s two children on it.
Archie Garrett, well respected, bachelor, a senior captain for British Airways, remained an enigma. The man was highly regarded for his skills, and not once, not even after psychological tests had been conducted at British Airways, had he shown anything other than a man with moderate views, calm under pressure.
Tremayne knew that he was a dangerous individual. A weak man, such as Dean Winters, would be panicking, but not Garrett. He’d been calm, ensuring that he and his sister remained hidden, planning the next move.
Superintendent Moulton, briefly in Tremayne’s office on his return, was excited that another murder was about to be solved.
‘A change in the man,’ Clare said.
‘He blows hot and cold. Not to worry; he’ll be back to form soon enough. What do you reckon, Yarwood? Do we have Alan Winters’ murderers?’
‘I’m not ready to concede that yet.’
‘The right answer,’ Tremayne said. ‘Granted that they would have hated Alan Winters, but it’s not conclusive.’
‘The plan, if it is that, is full of too many variables. How would they have known that Mavis would give the money to the brothers, and why did they refuse the first offer?’
***
After three days there was still no sign of Archie Garrett and Barbara Winters. Dean, able to be moved from his hospital bed, had relocated to Salisbury, a nurse hired to look after him. Clare met up with him after one day back, noted that he seemed fine. It was early, and he was eating a full English breakfast. Mavis was busying herself arranging Margie’s funeral, Dean having been told of her death.
The pathologist had issued a report that the woman’s death had been as the result of a heroin addiction and her general poor health.
Clare sat down next to Dean, the cook serving her a full English breakfast as well. She had been trying to cut back, as a few extra pounds were creeping on, but she would not refuse. ‘How are you?’ Clare asked. She could see that the swelling on the man’s face was going down in places, still black and blue in others.
‘It’s impossible to say. I loved my wife, but now it’s over. Whatever happens, we could never be the same again.’
Clare could sympathise. After all, she had loved Harry Holchester, and he was dead. It was difficult, always would be, but life moves on. She was, she knew, a strong personality, and that she would rise above it. Dean Winters was not; the man would suffer.
‘Margie?’ Clare asked, not sure if the man was up to the question.
‘It’s probably better for her.’
Clare thought his answer was rational. She finished her breakfast and went and spoke to Mavis. ‘Barbara Winters and her brother, Alan’s murderers?’ Mavis said.
‘Did you see what they did to Dean?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. How did they know the money would come to them eventually?’ Clare said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you give any indication that you would be more generous to the family if Alan weren't around?’
‘I suppose I may have. Alan had never experienced money, assumed it would never run out, but there were enough rogues out there wanting to take it.’
‘The charity in Liberia,’ Clare reminded her.
‘You don’t need to go to Africa to find rogues. There are plenty here. We gave fifty thousand to a committee in another village to organise food for the aged.’
‘What happened?’
‘They went on a fact-finding tour overseas.’
‘And the aged?’
‘Still hungry.’
‘And with Alan alive, there’d be no attempt to deal with these people?’
‘He’d get angry, but that was all. And, besides, he was occupied.’
‘Polly and Liz?’
‘He also needed to help out the local publicans.’
‘Violent when riled?’
‘Not with me.’
‘And Dean? What are you going to do with him?’
‘He’ll not change. I’ve become the mother now.’
‘You’ll do a better job than she ever did.’
‘I’ll do it, but it’s not a job I want. Bertie’s enough for me, and now there’s Dean, and Cyril will need help.’
‘Why?’
‘The same old problem. Before, his financial situation kept him in check, but now he’s got money, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.’
‘The same as Alan?’
‘No doubt, but I had to give the brothers a reasonable amount, otherwise if I showed favouritism to one over the other, there’d be jealousy, and me having to listen to them. If Cyril spends his share, then I’ll ensure he has somewhere to live.’
‘What are you going to do about Bertie?’
‘I hope he’ll grow out of it.’
‘Will he?’
‘I hope so, but I’m not optimistic.’
***
Archie Garrett knew that he had been foolish. He thought of the father, the man who had destroyed their lives. The savagery of the man who had beaten his children for the slightest infraction. And now that man was dead to the world, locked in his own mind, not conscious of those around him. And still Archie could find no sympathy in his heart, only a feeling of hatred for him and for those who had impacted his life.
He had loved his sister, the only person who knew what went on in their childhood home. He had loved her until she had tired of him and had wanted another. He remembered the first time that she had introduced Dean Winters to him. Their meeting had been uncomfortable. He had been polite but resented the man who had usurped his sister’s affection, distorted her, and there they were, exchanging smiles, knowing smiles, holding hands. He knew then that she had given herself to him, the one person that he had wanted. He remembered the day their mother died. It had been cold that day, ice on the path at the rear of the house. He and Barbara, wrapped up against the cold, only ten and eight respectively. Their mother, loving as always, shouting from the kitchen to keep themselves warm, not to catch a cold.
As their mother watched, he remembered Barbara calling for her to come outside and to help them to make a tree house, although it was only two feet off the ground. And then their mother coming out of the back door, slipping on the path, cracking her head on the concrete as she fell, the blood oozing.
It had been him, the more sensible of the two children, who had rushed next door to summon help. He remembered the ambulance and then the time in the hospital waiting for news, only to be told that their mother had died.
The two of them had attended the funeral, a hundred people there, a sign of how much she had been loved. And then the grieving process, the decline in their father’s stability, his need to express his anger in violence, his extreme belief in the Bible, the Old Testament in particular. In time Archie understood that their mother’s death had driven the man to despair, not that anyone outside the house would notic
e, not from him or from his children. They were too scared to tell anyone, too young to stand up to his bullying.
And in time he understood his father, his sister’s inability to give herself entirely to her father’s beliefs, her need to dress in the latest fashion, the need to have friends. He had not wanted friends since then, and whereas the pretence was complete, with the hearty bravado of a night out with the boys, even the occasional woman, he did not want any of them on a permanent basis. For him, he would prefer to spend his evenings with the good book, reading it page by page, memorising it, trying to learn from it.
As he and his sister sat in a room in a hotel in Portsmouth, not far from Southampton, not far from where Charles Dickens had lived, he knew that the future would need to be an affirmation of their father’s teachings, a need to show that the Garretts were a pious and honourable people. Dean Winters came from a family of sinners, even before they had won the devil’s money. Archie Garrett looked over at his sister, saw that she was desperately sad. He considered their options.
Chapter 22
For two weeks there was no sign of Archie Garrett and Barbara Winters, but time enough to conduct Margie’s funeral. Not this time the horse-drawn hearse, the floral bouquets; instead, a funeral held in the chapel at the crematorium. Tremayne and Clare attended, on this occasion as friends of the family. Clare was glad to be invited, sorry that it was to commemorate the life of one of the fallen. Apart from the immediate family and the two police officers, there was no one else. Mavis read from the Bible, Dean, improved but still not fully recovered, gave a eulogy, long on the good parts of her life, short on the degradation that she had experienced in later life. Even Tremayne, at the request of the family, had agreed to read a short passage from the Bible. Clare was grateful that she had not been asked. There had been too many sad moments over the last year; she was overcome with emotion, so much so that it was Mavis, the stalwart, who had comforted her.
Rachel Winters also rose and spoke about her aunt, as did Stan and Fred Winters. Stan had been released from prison three days before the funeral on strict conditions: no visiting the local pubs, no causing trouble. He adhered to them, not venturing from Mavis’s house in Quidhampton other than to deal with Margie’s funeral. Fred arrived ten minutes before the funeral service started, a prison officer at his side. Once the ceremony was over, he would be going back to prison. Tremayne had spoken to him on his arrival, found out that he wasn’t happy about the restrictions but pleased that he was present.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 67