The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘With Old Ted, not a chance. The man was always non-committal. He was, I believe, totally loyal to the family. It would be a tragedy if one of them killed him.’

  ‘It would be. Any ideas who?’

  ‘Not me. Apart from Marge, everyone else is placid.’

  ‘Would you let her back in the house?’

  ‘Not now, too much has been said, but there are other places on the farm she could live. Old Ted’s cottage, it’s not big, but it’s charming. I’m sure Gordon would fix it up for her, but never in the big house. It was hers for too long; she would interfere, and we need the opportunity to live our lives, to bring up our children.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘I’m pregnant, or at least, I think I am.’

  ‘No horse riding?’

  ‘Maybe you could take Napoleon for a ride when I have to stop?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Clare said. She did like the horse, and to have come out at the weekend, or on a balmy summer’s night when it didn’t get dark until after ten in the evening would be idyllic.

  Chapter 6

  Inside the house, Tremayne continued with Gordon Selwood. ‘What are your thoughts on Old Ted’s death?’

  ‘I’m sorry to see him killed,’ Selwood replied.

  ‘Who could have killed him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it was nothing to do with this family?’

  ‘The man had no interest outside of serving the Selwoods. It’s something to do with this house and this farm. Old Ted knew something, and he was likely to tell someone what it was.’

  ‘Not Old Ted. He’d never be disloyal to us.’

  ‘Then why was he killed? You know something.’

  ‘If you’re trying to get me to say something, you’re wasting your time. My mother’s upset, causing trouble, but Cathy and I are fine. She wants to stay here; I’m willing to go along with her.’

  ‘You’re aware of your wife’s background?’

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘It could be. What if she has skeletons, people from her past?’

  ‘My mother had her checked out, you know that. I saw the report, not that it changed my mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was in love with Cathy. Her past belonged back there. I wasn’t about to be judgemental.’

  ‘Most people are.’

  ‘Most people are hypocrites, looking for the worst in others. Cathy had a bad period in her life; she did things she’s not proud of. We never speak about it, although my damn fool mother is telling everyone around the village.’

  ‘Have you told her to stop?’

  ‘My mother is a one-woman juggernaut. Once she’s got a bee in her bonnet or a cause, she’ll pursue it to the bitter end.’

  ‘And your wife is the cause?’

  ‘I’m running a close second. The black sheep of the family, the generational throwback. I’ve heard it all and more.’

  ‘Does it upset you?’

  ‘It’s water off a duck’s back.’

  ‘Did you fire those pellets at your father?’

  ‘Is it a crime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then no, I did not. I could have, but I didn’t. My father was a tyrant, a self-satisfying sanctimonious bastard. He had no trouble to get out his belt to us when we were children.’

  ‘And towards your mother?’

  ‘She went to bed with the occasional black eye.’

  ‘This has not been mentioned before.’

  ‘There’s no need to hang out our dirty linen in public.’

  ‘But it’s a murder enquiry.’

  ‘My father’s death was not.’

  ‘Old Ted would have known all this.’

  ‘No doubt he did, but he never mentioned it to anyone.’

  A knock on the back door of the house. Selwood opened the door. ‘DI Tremayne, is he here?’ Jim Hughes said.

  ‘Come in, wipe your feet.’

  ‘What is it?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘We’ll need to take all the rifles in the house, Mr Selwood.’

  ‘You checked them before.’

  ‘Only the types and the serial numbers. This time we’ll need to check to see if they’ve been fired recently and whether the bullets match with the gun.’

  ‘Anyone apart from your mother who could shoot?’

  ‘We could all shoot. William is a good shot, so is Nicholas.’

  Outside the house, Tremayne and Hughes spoke. ‘Any possibility that the pellets and the bullets were fired by the same person?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s possible, probably not verifiable. We know where the latest shooter was when the first shot was taken.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘There’s an old wooden shed up there. You must have seen it.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘The person was propped up there; we found some footprints.’

  ‘Identification possible?’

  ‘Most of them belonged to Old Ted. He kept some farm equipment in there, fence mending tools, some fencing. We’ll not be able to get a positive ID from there. We never ascertained where the pellets were fired from due to the lousy weather and the mud. It could have been from the old shed. Don’t place too much credence on it being the same shooter.’

  ‘Claude Selwood wasn’t liked, whereas Old Ted was liked by everyone. This investigation is illogical.’

  ‘When were your cases anything other?’

  The two men walked over to the stables. They could see Clare and Cathy Selwood talking. ‘Leave them to it,’ Tremayne said. ‘Yarwood will find out more in there than in an interview room at Bemerton Road.’

  ‘She’s a good police officer,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Don’t you ever tell her, but, yes, she is.’

  ‘Any romances since Harry Holchester’s death?’

  ‘None that matter.’

  ‘A woman her age, on her own. It’s not natural.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t, but there it is.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place here,’ Hughes said as they walked around to the front of the house. Before them a manicured lawn, a fountain in the middle. To one side of the house, a large garage for the various vehicles, Gordon Selwood’s Jaguar concealed under a sheet. The other vehicles, two Land Rovers, a Toyota for Cathy, and an old tractor were there as well.

  ‘I could live in a place like this,’ Hughes said.

  ‘A lot of work, and now Selwood is not selling it.’

  ‘You had him down as a possible suspect before.’

  ‘He’s the one who’s gained the most from all this, but why Old Ted? What did he know?’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’

  ‘Any chance of identifying someone? It’s still someone in the family, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Always the same, isn’t it? These people have got it made, yet they get involved in petty squabbles, instead of living a life of plenty.’

  ***

  It was six in the evening before the three, Tremayne, Clare, and Jim Hughes, were ready to leave the farm. ‘Fancy a pint?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Why not?’ Hughes said.

  ‘I would have thought you’d have had enough after last night,’ Clare said.

  ‘Don’t go on, Yarwood. You’re not my mother.’

  ‘If I were, I would have disowned you by now.’

  Hughes smiled at the banter between the two officers. Others may have seen it as close to impertinence on Clare’s side, abuse on Tremayne’s, but Hughes knew that it came with affection from both of them.

  ‘You can keep to orange juice if you like, and besides, the local pub after a murder is a good place to find out more.’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of wine, and one of their pub meals,’ Clare said. She took out her phone and called her next-door neighbours to feed her cats.

  Inside the pub, it was busier than usual. A momentary hush came over the place as the three police officers entered. For thirty seconds, they were the focus of all the eyes in the plac
e as they went and claimed their seats in one corner of the bar. In another corner, Marge Selwood. Tremayne went to the bar to place their orders; Clare went over and sat next to the woman.

  ‘It’s sad,’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s not unexpected.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Old Ted, not so old when I first came here, was a man who saw plenty, said little. He’d have the dirt on half of the people in this village.’

  ‘They seem to be law-abiding.’

  ‘Most are, but some, those who’ve come down from London to buy their holiday cottages, they get up to some monkey business.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Parties, carryings-on.’

  ‘Drugs, women?’

  ‘Old Ted would have known.’

  ‘So would you, Mrs Selwood. There’s not much that goes on around here, that you don’t know about.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true, but I’ve kept it to myself.’

  ‘So had Old Ted and now he’s been murdered. Could it be you next?’

  ‘It’s always possible.’

  ‘So why have they not dealt with you before, if, as you say, there are secrets that some would have preferred to stay hidden.’

  ‘It depends on the secret. There are the affairs, even wife-swapping a few years back, but I don’t know anything more than that. Not a lot anyway, and I don’t think anyone would kill me for what I know.’

  ‘Do you think Old Ted knew something more?’

  ‘It’s possible. We didn’t talk about it. Rarely talked to each other, if the truth is known.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason really. We were civil, but that was all.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your son since you left?’

  ‘We speak. Our relationship was always strained.’

  ‘But why? He seems a decent man, even if he’s not interested in the farm or much anything else.’

  ‘The mother-son bond never existed. We sent him away to boarding school from the age of seven, and he’d only come home for long weekends and holidays.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That was what landowners did then. Nicholas and William went to the local school until they were eleven, and then Bishop Wordsworth’s Grammar School after that. With them, I’m fine; with Gordon, it’s impossible.’

  ‘He’s not thrown you on the street, but you’re telling everyone he’s the villain, you’re the victim.’

  ‘Maybe I was angry.’

  Clare sipped her wine, Marge Selwood, her vodka. The meal that Tremayne had ordered for Clare was delivered to her. Clare looked over at Tremayne, could see that he and Hughes were speaking to some of the locals.

  ‘Tremayne, he seems to be a decent man,’ Marge said.

  ‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He likes to portray himself as gruff and difficult, and sometimes he feigns ignorance, but not much gets past him. He’ll solve Old Ted’s murder.’

  ‘Is this going to be the last one?’

  ‘What do you know that I don’t?’ Clare said.

  ‘His death could well stir up a hornet’s nest. There are people here with secrets, and maybe they’ve nothing to do with killing Old Ted, but it could make them nervous.’

  ‘We’ve seen it before, all too often.’

  ‘I know of your history, Avon Hill,’ Marge said.

  ‘Painful memories. It’s best if you don’t go there. What’s your background?’

  ‘You’ve checked me out?’

  ‘To some extent, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

  ‘There’s not much to say. My father was an army officer, and we spent a lot of time overseas, more of an empire back then. One of his last commissions was at Bulford, the army camp not far from here. I met Claude at a dance in Salisbury when I was twenty-two, and he was twenty-three.’

  Clare knew she had not been told the full story; Cathy Selwood had suspected it in part, and subsequent checks by the police had proved that at the age of eighteen, expelled from school for disruptive behaviour and improper conduct, Marge had left the family home and had spent time in London. Up there, the records showed clearly that she had vacillated between working in a shop, on her feet all day, or flat on her back at night; the latter being the more profitable. Marge Selwood was a fraud, a woman who professed her virtuous credentials to the local ladies at the church and to the landed gentry in the area.

  With no more to say for the present, Clare left the woman and went back to where Tremayne was indicating that he was ready to go.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘She lied about her past.’

  ‘Not something to be proud of, is it?’

  ‘She must know we would find out.’

  ‘She’s probably been living a lie for so long, she doesn’t even remember what she was, and besides, who are we to judge. Cathy Selwood was open about her past.’

  ‘Old Ted must have known.’

  ‘He would have, but he kept it to himself. No reason to see her secret as a motive.’

  ‘On the face of it, no, but we’ll keep it as a possibility.’

  ***

  Clare arrived home at ten in the evening to find her next-door neighbour sitting in her kitchen. ‘It’s one of your cats,’ he said.

  ‘Boris?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but he died. We were here with him, my wife and I. It wasn’t long ago, and we knew you were on the way.’

  Clare sat down and cried; in her arms, the cat wrapped in a blanket.

  ‘You should bury him in the garden. Would you like me to dig a hole for you?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Clare sat there with the cat; it had been getting progressively older for some months, its rear legs struggling to support it, and now it was gone. She was pleased it had passed away at home, instead of her having to take it to the vet, and yet, she was very sad.

  She thought back to Old Ted, realising that she had felt sorrow at seeing the dead man, but not the sadness she felt for an animal that clawed at her furniture and left its fur everywhere. Old Ted was not the first body she had seen that had died needlessly, although she had seen worse, even her fiancé.

  She wondered if she was becoming inured to death and violence, as Tremayne was, as Jim Hughes appeared to be. She was sure she was, and she did not like it.

  Outside in the garden, the neighbour, a man older than Tremayne, older than Old Ted, dug a hole for Clare. She carried the animal out of the cottage and lovingly placed it in the hole, the blanket still wrapped around its lifeless body. The other cat, younger and more agile, was nowhere to be seen. A few words were said, the neighbour shovelled soil over the hole, Clare patting the ground until it was firm. She then placed a flat rock on the grave and went back inside.

  Even though she had already drunk two glasses of wine, she opened a bottle.

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you, or do you want to come and stay at our place?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Clare said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  She then went up to her bed, a glass of wine in her hand. Upstairs on her bed, the other cat, the one who usually lay down at the end of the bed, was lying on the pillow.

  Clare turned on the television, a depressing movie. She turned it off and put the glass of wine, still untouched, on the table at the side of the bed and switched off the light.

  It had been a long day, culminating in more sadness. Within five minutes, she was fast asleep.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Now look here, Gordon,’ Nicholas Selwood, the older of the two younger brothers, said at the farmhouse. ‘Our mother is staying in that pub, while you’re up here lording it up, and what about your wife?’

  ‘What about Cathy?’

  ‘This is our mother’s house, not hers, and there she is redecorating the place.’

  ‘And doing a good job, don’t you agree?’

  ‘That’s not the point. Our mother looked after this house for forty years,
and you kick her out.’

  ‘For one thing, she wasn’t kicked out. Cathy and our mother cannot be in the same house, it’s fireworks when they’re together.’

  ‘We know that, but our mother? How could you?’

  ‘Decisions needed to be made. We’re staying, not selling. You two will have free run of the place, and our mother has a cottage if she wants it.’

  ‘A farmhand’s cottage? What is that compared to this house?’

  ‘It’s the only compromise, and you know it.’

  ‘If we run the farm, where do we live?’

  ‘Nicholas, you’re the financial manager. You don’t need to be here all the time. You can even keep your accountancy firm in Salisbury. We can always build a place for William. There’s no shortage of land.’

  The two younger sons could see the hand of Cathy. Gordon, they knew was a weak man, susceptible to a pretty face and a good story. His life had consisted of very little, and now he was acting decisive and resolute, whereas his past history would have indicated that he would have taken the money and run.

  Nicholas and William, both still relatively young, had come up with a proposal that would allow them to pool their financial resources with their mother’s and to buy Gordon out, but now there was a fly in the ointment: Cathy.

  It grated, they both knew, as they sat there and listened to their brother. The farm was big enough for them and their mother, as well as their wives and children in the future, and Old Ted’s farm cottage, if modernised and extended, was excellent accommodation, although they did not intend to let that be known at this time.

  Down in the pub, Marge Selwood waited for an update, hopeful that the result would be positive, aware that it probably would not. She had known what Cathy Selwood was from the start, an opportunist who had latched on to a weak man. Wasn’t that what she had done with Claude. He had been picked by her as a suitable subject, been made strong, almost too strong for even her to handle.

  In London and in her early twenties, she could see there was no future in the life she had been leading. Always a smart woman, she had checked out where she wanted to go and who she wanted to ensnare. Salisbury seemed the best place for her, having lived in the area as a young woman.

  She remembered a young man she had met when she was fourteen; they corresponded by mail for a few months afterwards; he, the son of a wealthy landowner, she, the daughter of an army officer. He stayed in the area; her father was posted overseas.