‘Now what?’ Gordon asked.
‘Our crime scene team will continue their investigation. Afterwards, please make yourselves available for further discussion and interviews. Also, we’ll need copies of fingerprints, as well as a complete check of this house, and any weapons that may be here or nearby.’
‘But why?’ Claude Selwood’s widow said.
‘You know why,’ Gordon said. ‘Somebody didn’t agree with our father’s plans.’
‘You didn’t,’ Tremayne said.
‘Maybe, I didn’t, but my father changing his will while he had dementia? They’d throw it out in court.’
‘I’ll fight you all the way to protect this family,’ his mother said.
Clare observed the Selwood family, thankful that her parents were boringly normal. They’d argue, like any married couple, but there was never any dispute over inheritance, no issues about the division of assets.
But in this farmhouse, a war was about to break out.
Chapter 2
Back at Bemerton Road Police Station, the inevitable visit of Superintendent Moulton. ‘Another one, Tremayne,’ he said.
‘A warring family, and enough money at stake to make them all potential suspects,’ Tremayne replied.
‘Never the easy ones for you, is it?’
‘We’ll deal with it.’
‘I know that, and besides, I’m not after your retirement this month. Maybe after you wrap up this case,’ Moulton said. Clare could see the uneasy truce between the two men.
Clare settled down at her desk, paperwork to do. Tremayne opened his laptop after Moulton had left, took a cursory look at his emails, opened up the reporting template and closed it again. Jim Hughes walked into the office holding a mug of coffee. ‘The horse trod on his throat, crushed his windpipe,’ he said.
‘Could he have survived?’
‘The horse was spooked. He could have trodden anywhere, even missed the man.’
‘Shooting at the man and his horse is not rational, even if it was only a warning.’
‘Pathology will conduct an autopsy. Maybe they’ll come up with something else.’
‘Claude Selwood’s health?’
‘A little overweight, but I’d say he was fit.’
Clare came into the office. ‘We’ve got an unknown,’ Tremayne said.
‘What is it?’ Clare said.
‘According to Hughes, the man’s death may have been accidental.’
‘That’s not conclusive. If he hadn’t died, then whoever was shooting the pellets could have taken him out with a bullet. There’s no shortage of weapons up at the farmhouse,’ Hughes said.
‘There were some single-shot rifles at the farmhouse,’ Clare said.
‘No doubt every farm in the area would have one or two.’
‘Did you check those at the house?’
‘We checked the serial numbers, the ammunition, nothing more.’
‘Had they been used recently?’
‘That wasn’t our concern. We were looking for the weapon that shot the pellets,’ Hughes said.
‘Any luck there?’
‘The pellets are in Forensics. Matching them with a gun will be difficult. We’ve taken all the pellet guns we could find at the farmhouse for testing, not certain we’ll find much. Whoever fired the shots would have been wearing gloves on account of the weather.’
Jim Hughes left Tremayne’s office. Clare took his seat. ‘It’s still murder until proved otherwise,’ Tremayne said.
‘Judging by the animosity in the Selwoods’ house, it’s not the last one.’
‘Check out the family, give me a breakdown on each of them. I didn’t like Gordon Selwood, but that doesn’t make him a murderer, and Selwood’s widow, what’s with her? It’s not often you see that intensity of feuding between mother and son.’
‘Isn’t it?’ There’s a lot of money at stake.’
‘Not with my wife and me,’ Tremayne said. ‘Mind you, we barely had two pennies to rub together. How about you, Yarwood? Would you be tempted?’
‘My parents have more than two pennies, but no. There’s a pub in the village where the Selwoods live. It may be a good idea to have a pub lunch there, see what the mood is, what people think of the family.’
‘Yarwood, you’ll make detective inspector yet.’
***
‘Claude Selwood, you’ll not find many around here who’ll be sad at his passing,’ the publican at the Coachman’s pub said.
‘Why’s that?’ Tremayne asked as he drank his pint of beer and enjoyed his steak, well done, as usual. More like burnt, to Clare, who was eating a salad and drinking a glass of white wine.
‘Are they titled?’ Clare asked.
‘There was a lord in the past, ended up dead for treason, and then another one who ingratiated himself to the next king and reclaimed the fortune. Nowadays, there’s no title, although Claude used to come in here sometimes expecting us to bow and scrape. I’ll give the man his due; he certainly made a success out of that farm. Some swear he had made a pact with the devil. Each and every year, his cattle would win prizes at the agricultural shows in the area, and his crops would always command premium prices.’
‘The devil?’ Clare said.
‘I’m just talking. We had some in another village who believed in ancient gods. Did you ever get over there?’ the publican, a short, jolly man, said. Tremayne realised he was the typical publican, ready with a story while the patron continued to drink and spend money.
‘We both were,’ Tremayne said.
‘Nasty business. Around here they can be superstitious: no walking under a ladder, seven years bad luck if you break a mirror, but that’s it.’
‘What else can you tell us about the Selwoods?’
‘Marge, his wife. She’s not a bad sort, didn’t come from around here. She can be aloof, but she means well.’
‘The sons?’
‘Gordon, he’s a layabout, only wants to spend the money. Nicholas, a quiet lad, sensitive, and then there’s William.’
‘What about William?’
‘Polite, well-intentioned. You’ll not hear a bad word about him around here. The only ones the village had problems with were Claude and Gordon.’
‘Were Claude and Gordon close?’
‘After a few pints maybe, but otherwise, Claude thought Gordon wasn’t fit to take over from him, but he’s the hereditary male. I heard that Claude was thinking of isolating his son, giving it to the other children.’
‘To his wife?’
‘That’s the same thing. She’s close with Nicholas and William, remote with Gordon. Strange when a family can be so dysfunctional that a mother does not like her son?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Tremayne said. ‘Old Ted, what can you tell us about him?’
‘He’s lived here since he was Baby Ted. I doubt if he’s been further than two miles from this village for the last seven years since his wife died.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Ted’s wife, no way. She was a small woman, almost as round as she was tall. Always a cheery disposition. One day she’s out on the street talking to a group of women, the next minute she keels over, heart attack. A big turnout at the church that day. After that, Old Ted’s been in his own world. I’ll give Claude Selwood his due; he did make sure the man kept his cottage, rent-free until his death. I don’t know what will happen now.’
‘Old Ted kept working for them.’
‘Not really, but if there’s something needs doing, he’ll be there. His family and the Selwood go back generations. Old Ted reckons it’s over three hundred years, but that may be him thinking it did. Anyway, he’s always been around here, popular too. He rarely comes in here, but when he does, my wife always gives him a free lunch.’
‘Generous.’
‘Not really. Every week or so, there are two dozen eggs on our back doorstep from him.’
‘Coming back to the Selwoods,’ Tremayne said. ‘What about this feud between mother and
son; have you heard about it?’
‘Gordon, he likes to drink a few too many sometimes. He starts talking. We all know his plans. Once he’s got control, he’ll sell it to the highest bidder, and he’ll take off for God knows where with his latest floozy.’
‘He was with a Cathy up at the house.’
‘She’s been around for a while. I heard that she married him.’
‘She has. What do you know about her?’
‘She turned up about six months ago and moved in. I can’t see her being serious about Gordon. Apart from his claim to the money, he’s not got much going for him. He’s certainly not a farmer, not much of anything really. When he was young, he was a hooligan, graffitiing around the place, attempting to seduce the local girls.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Back then, son of the biggest landowner in the district? He wasn’t a bad-looking teen, so I’ve been told, the sort the girls go for. There was one, the daughter of the doctor, she disappeared and never came back. Her father left soon after.’
‘Any reason?’
‘It was believed she was pregnant with Gordon’s child, but nothing more was heard. If she were, the child would be sixteen, maybe seventeen now. No doubt a claim to the property through its father, if its proven.’
‘It’s a long bow to stretch, that one. The others would have a stronger claim than the illegitimate child of the eldest son.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. The farm has passed male heir to male heir, the son of the previous for generations.’
‘Could the right of an unknown child take precedence over the other sons?’
‘I don’t know,’ the publican said. ‘Around here, the old ways still apply, but the law may say otherwise. It’s just a thought.’
***
Clare had found the village of Coombe to be attractive; Tremayne enjoyed its pub. Neither of the two officers felt the need to linger. Claude Selwood’s death by the horse could not have been guaranteed, although there was no doubt about the intent of hurting the horse and the man. The question was, who had fired the shots. ‘It could have been someone young,’ Tremayne said to Clare on the drive back to Salisbury. She was driving as usual, not that she minded.
‘According to Jim Hughes, the pellets had hit the horse and Selwood, and both were moving around. It would have taken a good shot.’
‘They’re a strange bunch.’
‘There’s a lot of money at stake,’ Clare said. ‘His widow showed no emotion. That’s illogical, even if she despised the man.’
‘It can’t be much fun, the wife of the eldest son and the matriarch under the same roof.’
‘It could be a lot of fun, especially for Gordon.’
‘You think he’s a man who enjoys watching the fireworks?’
‘I’m sure he does. He doesn’t seem to be interested in much else. He’s the most likely culprit at the present moment. Maybe a warning to the father not to change his will in favour of the mother.’
‘We never understood what Gordon did for a living. It’s clear he has money, judging by the wife and the car outside.’
‘They live in the house; it’s big enough for the warring factions to keep apart.’
‘It still doesn’t explain what the eldest son does with his time. He’s not a stupid man, and he had the most to lose if his inheritance was placed in doubt.’
‘He said he would fight a new will in the courts.’
‘That costs money, and if it’s all tied up in the farm, and his mother has control, he’ll not stand a chance.’
Tremayne leant back in the passenger seat to mull over the case. Clare looked across, knowing that before they arrived at the police station, he would have dropped off for a few minutes. She knew that she was fond of the man, even if his penchant for gambling on three-legged horses, and his predilection for pints of beer and cigarettes, were not to her taste.
Her relationship with her parents, especially her mother, was loving, yet formal. With Tremayne, she could let down her guard, occasionally get angry, even answer him back when he was talking nonsense or heading down the wrong track with his analysis. With her mother, it was a case of remembering your place and doing the right thing. Clare was old enough to be independent, yet her mother treated her as a child, and there was always a man of her age invited to dinner whenever Clare went home: her mother’s matchmaking.
‘It’s time to get over Harry,’ her mother would say. ‘You need to get yourself married, have a few children and to forget this foolishness about being a police officer, and spending all your time with that old man.’
Clare wanted to say that the old man, as her mother disparagingly referred to Tremayne, was important to her, professionally and personally. It had been he who had snapped her out of the melancholy after her fiancé’s death, not her mother, who would only talk about moving on. But moving on wasn’t easy, Clare knew that; her mother would never understand. She had not been there when the man that she loved had been snatched from her and thrust up into the branches of a tree. She had not heard the last gasps as he had died.
It had been long enough since his death, and Clare knew she should have forgotten him, but she hadn’t. She was confident she never would, not totally, but she also knew that her biological clock was ticking and she wanted children, but with a man she loved.
Back at the station, Tremayne retreated to his office, Clare to her desk. She switched on the laptop and entered the name of Claude Selwood into the search engine.
Chapter 3
A family that should have been united in grief, but wasn’t, sat around the table in the kitchen of the farmhouse.
‘Does she have to be here?’ Marge Selwood said. She was looking over at Cathy, Gordon’s wife.
‘If you want me to be here,’ Gordon said. His other brothers were sitting upright; he was lounging back attempting to project his seniority.
Gordon, everyone knew, was a man who had spent too much money and time on women and fast cars, not enough as a farmer. The despair of his father in his later years, the bane of his mother’s existence.
‘Is our father’s death suspicious?’ Nicholas Selwood said. He was at the head of the table, his mother at the other end.
‘His actions, as well as those of our mother, have created tensions,’ Gordon said.
‘What do you mean?’ Marge Selwood said.
‘This attempt to alienate me made no sense.’
‘The farm must survive, so must the name of Selwood. You would have wasted the inheritance.’
‘That’s a lie, and you know it,’ Gordon said.
‘It’s not,’ his mother said. ‘When have you contributed to this family? When have you put in a good day’s work on the farm?’
‘When I was younger, I did my fair share. You live in the house, the same as our father did. When was the last time the two of you ever went further than the local pub? All that money wasting away, and why do we have employees? They can do the work; we can issue the orders.’
‘This is a working farm; it needs a manager. Your father, even though his health was ailing, maintained that position.’
‘I’d prefer to do something else.
‘Tell us, Gordon. What is it that you’d prefer to do, and we’ve heard you and Cathy enough times in this house, so don’t say screwing.’
‘How dare you insult my wife.’
‘Your wife? She’s here for the money, what else?’
‘I happen to love Gordon,’ Cathy said.
‘What were you before you latched on to my son? A stripper in a club in London?’
‘I was a professional woman.’
‘Professional, my foot. You were a tart, selling yourself to whoever would pay. It may be best if you ditch Gordon and take up with Nicholas or William. They’ll be running this farm, not Gordon, although he intended to sell it. How much for? Ten, fifteen million pounds.’
It had always been the same, Marge knew that. She had married Claude out of love, and back then, he had been
the eldest son of the owner of Coombe Farm and moderately wealthy.
It was just before Gordon was born that they had moved into the main house. It had been Claude who had taken the farm and had built it up, even acquiring additional land when it became available in the district. Back then, and up until the first signs of Claude’s forgetfulness, later diagnosed as early-stage dementia, the man had run the farm with a firm hand, upsetting a few, gaining the begrudging admiration of others, and now the man had been killed.
Marge Selwood had seen it some months earlier. His decisions for the farm were not as good as before. Sure, every day he was out there, rain or shine, dispensing orders, advising the farm hands, but the edge wasn’t there. There was hesitancy in the man, and deliberating, when, in the past, his decision making had been immediate and not open to dispute. One of the farm hands had even answered him back once, and Claude had not reacted with his usual invective.
She knew that decisions needed to be made. The farm wasn’t just there to generate money, it was what made the Selwood family. A land bequeathed by a grateful king in the distant past, it represented heritage and stability, something the village of Coombe needed.
It had been a fateful decision, Marge knew, when she had decided that her eldest son, Gordon, wasn’t capable of running the farm, and especially after he had arrived at the house that Saturday night six months before, a woman on his arm.
‘This is Cathy. We were married last week.’
And that was it, Marge remembered. The woman had given her a hug, thanked her for letting them stay in the house until they found somewhere else, but never did, and then the veiled threats to have her out of the house once her husband died.
Marge had summed up the blonde woman with the slender figure and the pumped-up breasts for what she was, even hired a private investigator to check her out.
Two weeks later, and with her bank balance two thousand pounds lighter, the investigator came back with his report.
Cathy Franks, born in…
Marge skipped the first page, went straight for the second, and there it was: Cathy Franks, part-time model and professional escort.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 73