‘Mr Selwood, I’ll be honest,’ Tremayne said. ‘We’re no closer to solving who killed Old Ted and your sister-in-law.’
Clare realised that the admission of honesty by Tremayne was the prelude to some tough questioning.
‘What do you want me to do? I wasn’t in Coombe, and besides, I don’t make a habit of shooting people.’
‘That’s as maybe, but you have a vested interest in the farm, and you wouldn’t have been happy with Cathy usurping your mother.’
‘Not totally.’
‘What does that mean? You are, or you aren’t?’
‘Mother can be a bitch.’
‘It’s not a word we would expect to hear from her son,’ Clare said.
‘She’s changed since our father died.’
‘Since your father died or when she moved out of the main house?’
‘The latter.’
‘At least you’re honest,’ Tremayne said. ‘We never saw much in the way of sadness when your father died. In fact, not much from any of you.’
‘There wasn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re cold people, not easy for us to show our emotions.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Clare said. ‘You were not interested in how your father died, only in a game you were playing on your phone, or maybe you were letting your friends know about the good news. What is it? Did you care for your father?’
‘Not a lot. We were always close to our mother, but now…’
‘But now, what? What are you trying to tell us? What has your mother done?’
‘Nothing. She’s changed, that’s all.’
Clare looked over at Tremayne. ‘Go and get us three coffees, will you?’ she said. Tremayne understood the ploy. She wanted to question Selwood on her own, to get under his guard, to use her feminine guile.
Tremayne left and walked over to the cafeteria. It was only a short distance away, but he’d not be back until he received a message on his phone.
‘William, you appear to be a decent person,’ Clare said.
‘I like to think I am.’
‘What is it? And please, the truth. Your mother is a strong woman, and strong people sometimes do things that are not good or decent. We know more about your mother than you probably do.’
‘Such as?’
‘It’s not relevant at this time. What is, though, is that Gordon is in the main house, Rose Goode is in the village, and her son is Gordon’s legitimate son. How desperate were you for the farm?’
‘It’s not so much the money, more the life. Of the three sons, I’m the only true farmer. Gordon’s not interested, Nicholas prefers accountancy, but I’m a farmer. It’s in the blood.’
‘Would Gordon let you run the farm?’
‘He would, but he’ll make wrong decisions to finance his frivolous pursuits.’
‘Such as?’
‘Cars, women, and whatever else takes his fancy.’
‘And you?’
‘I only want the farm. I’ve no need of travel or fast cars.’
‘Women?’
‘A good homely woman, that’s what I want. There’s one or two close to Coombe.’
‘Level with me, William. Do you suspect your mother of killing Old Ted and Cathy? And please, don’t try to protect her. We’ll find out eventually.’
‘I don’t think so. She wanted Cathy out of the way, that’s for sure.’
‘Did she dislike her?’
‘I think my mother liked her. She never said that to us, or to her, but sometimes our mother would let her guard slip. She’s tough, our mother, but her interest has only ever been in the family.’
‘And Cathy was not family?’
‘My mother never trusted her motives. You know Gordon, you knew Cathy, what do you think?’
‘Agreed, the two of them didn’t seem a matched pair, but in fact, they were. You knew of Cathy’s past?’
‘I heard from my mother. Was it true?’
‘Fundamentally it was.’
‘And Gordon knew?’
‘Cathy loved Gordon because he forgave her past, and he treated her well. She would never have left him, never strayed, and she loved the farm as much as your mother, even the family history. I liked her very much,’ Clare said.
‘So did I,’ William said. ‘I can understand my mother wanting to take control of the farm, but I can’t accept her method. It came as a shock to Nicholas and me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not something I want to think about.’
‘Either you tell me, or we’ll find out through other means. Our discretion is assured, you know that. Is it something that you don’t want to become general gossip?’
‘If it does, my mother will not be able to deal with the shame.’
‘Your mother, when did she care what other people thought of her?’
‘Not when she was in the main house, and besides Nicholas and I care as well.’
‘What is it? What is your mother up to? If she didn’t kill Old Ted and Cathy, we need to know why?’
‘She’s going to disinherit Gordon from the farm and the house.’
‘But how?’
‘By proving that Gordon is not our true brother, that he is another man’s child.’
Clare sat back in her chair. She messaged Tremayne to return.
With Tremayne back with the other two, Clare repeated what William had just said.
‘Is it possible?’ Tremayne asked.
‘Our mother is getting his DNA checked.’
‘Did he give his permission?’
‘No. Mother falsified the documentation, obtained a toothbrush, some dried blood.’
‘Illegally?’
‘Yes.’
‘What part did you have in this?’
‘I helped Nicholas to pick up certain items in the main house.’
‘Why are you telling us this?’
‘If the results are in the negative, she’ll obtain a court order to force Gordon to allow testing of his DNA by a laboratory in England.’
‘Your reaction when she told you of this possibility?’
‘What do you think? We’d always worshipped our mother, and then to find out that she had been with other men.’
‘Parents have history, the same as their children,’ Clare said.
‘Is it possible that Gordon is not our father’s son?’ William said. ‘You’ve checked into my mother’s history, the same as all of us.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’
‘Maybe it’s not, but what is more important? Clearing your mother of murder or learning the truth?’
‘Is she clear?’
‘Nobody’s clear, not even you. You were right to tell us the truth. Whatever the outcome of our investigation, it’s been assisted by your openness.’
‘It’s a mess, isn’t it,’ William said.
‘It’s always those left behind who suffer the most. Murder always exposes the raw emotions, the unpleasant truths, the skeletons in the cupboard.’
Chapter 24
Molly Dempsey, a woman who had been born in Coombe, and rarely left it, had loved the village. Her actions to protect the village were criticised by some, admired by others, but she had never expected to die for it, but that was apparently what had happened.
In the back garden of her house was a small pond with a few fish swimming around, the woman’s head immersed in it.
Tremayne and Clare were at the house within fifty minutes of receiving a phone call. They had just left William Selwood and were heading back to Salisbury. Tremayne put on the car’s flashing lights; Clare, as usual, driving. ‘Put your foot down,’ Tremayne said.
For once, Jim Hughes and his crime scene team were at the cottage before the two police officers arrived. Outside, a crowd of onlookers, amongst them Marge Selwood.
‘Mrs Selwood, I never expected to see you,’ Tremayne said.
‘I was h
ere earlier. I may have been the last person to see her alive, apart from the murderer.’
‘You’d better come in the house. We’ll take a statement from you first.’
Marge Selwood waited in the house with a uniform while Tremayne and Clare checked out the crime scene. ‘I’d say three to four hours,’ Jim Hughes said, pre-empting the question that Tremayne always asked first.
‘How?’ Clare asked.
‘She was held under the water till she drowned. There doesn’t appear to be any signs of a struggle.’
‘Which indicates?’
‘Nothing at this moment. We’ve still got a few more hours of work yet. I’ll let you know what we find.’
Tremayne knew Jim Hughes well enough to ask no more. The man knew what he was doing, and he knew what Tremayne wanted: evidence of another person near to the crime scene.
Inside the house, Clare looked up at a clock on the mantlepiece. It was showing 5.36 p.m., the same as her watch. Elsewhere in the house, some of the CSIs were conducting a check.
‘Mrs Selwood, when was the last time you saw Molly Dempsey?’
‘I left here at around 11.30 a.m., just in time for lunch at home.’
‘Around?’
‘I never took much notice. I left my house in the morning at 9 a.m. I remember the time, as I didn’t want to knock on Mrs Dempsey’s door too early.’
‘Can this be proved?’
‘I met Rose in the village. She’ll be my witness.’
‘Were you friends with Mrs Dempsey?’
‘Not really. We had a common cause, that’s all. I offered my support.’
‘For what?’
‘The opposition to the development of Coombe Farm. She had the enthusiasm but not the ability to stop it.’
‘But you did?’
‘I could put forward a cogent argument, present the necessary facts.’
‘Are there some facts?’
‘There are always facts. Whether they’re good enough to stop it, I can’t be sure.’
‘You’re willing to go against your son?’
‘It’s not against my son. It’s for the farm and this village. Mrs Dempsey needed help, so did I.’
‘What help could she have given you?’
‘Moral support, not much more.’
‘You don’t seem upset by her death.’
‘I barely knew the woman.’
‘Why?’
‘We had nothing in common before. She was a busybody. I was with Claude at Coombe Farm. We’d be civil to each other, but until I came in here earlier today, we had never had a conversation.’
‘That sounds unusual,’ Clare said.
‘Maybe it does to you, but the people in this village know their place.’
Outside in the garden, Tremayne could see Hughes beckoning.
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve found some footprints on the path. They’re not good,’ Hughes said.
‘What can you tell us?’
‘Size 8 boot, probably male.’
‘You can’t be sure? Whoever it was, they would have been seen in the village, or their car would have.’
‘There’s an open field at the end of the garden. It looks as if the person came from there, and the hedgerow around it would have given sufficient coverage. It’s probable that you’ll not find anyone,’ Hughes said.
‘The woman inside?’ Tremayne said.
‘Is it likely?’
‘I don’t think so, not for this murder.’
‘The others?’
‘No proof.’
‘Any sign that the woman was dragged from the house?’
‘There’s no sign of other footprints near the back door. I’d suggest the woman knew her murderer.’
‘That doesn’t help much. Molly Dempsey knew everyone in the village.’
‘I can’t help you much more. I’ll file my report, Pathology will conduct an autopsy, although they’ll confirm what I’m telling you. The woman was held under the water until she drowned. There’s no sign of force, although with a woman her age, she wouldn’t have been able to resist anyway.’
Tremayne returned indoors. Clare was still talking to Marge Selwood.
‘Anything?’ Clare said.
‘Only that she would have known the person,’ Tremayne said.
‘Mrs Selwood, why was she killed?’
‘Why ask me? I didn’t do it.’
‘My question was not accusatory.’
‘You know why.’
‘Len Dowling and your son.’
‘Gordon wouldn’t kill anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s my son. I know the man, all his strengths, all his weaknesses.’
‘You don’t appear to have a lot of affection for your son,’ Clare said.
‘Have either of you ever had children?’
‘No.’
‘I thought so. I carried him for nine months, wiped his bottom, and then fed and cared for him until he was an adult. And now, he kicks me out of my house. He’s my son, that’s a biological fact, but as someone to love? I don’t think so, not at this time anyway.’
‘And your objection to Gordon developing Coombe Farm?’
‘I’ll fight it with every breath in my body.’
***
It was 8 p.m. by the time Tremayne and Clare left Molly Dempsey’s cottage; time for a meal at the pub and a drink. Clare phoned her neighbours, more out of courtesy than anything else, knowing that if she weren’t home by six in the evening, which was most days, they’d feed her cat for her.
Inside the pub in Coombe, the inevitable grilling by the publican; the non-committal answers.
‘I can’t say I knew Molly Dempsey,’ the publican said.
‘She was against any more development in the village.’
‘A lot of people are, although, give her due, she was the only one who was willing to stand up and be counted.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘A few more people in the village wouldn’t do me any harm. I’m only paying bills at the present time, although your murders buck up trade for a couple of days.’
‘Why Molly Dempsey? Any ideas? Agreed she could stick her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but it’s hardly grounds for murder. It’s the same with Old Ted. The man was inoffensive, said little, and he dies.’
‘Maybe it’s someone who’s not right,’ the publican said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone mental.’
‘Not in Coombe. Whoever’s committing these murders is as sane as you and I,’ Clare said.
‘Don’t include me. Staying here with this pub is hardly the act of a sane man.’
‘Why do you?’
‘I like it, that’s the trouble. I could go and work with my brother in his engineering firm. Plenty of money, but it’d bore me to tears.’
‘It’s hardly a reason to stay.’
‘It’s like policing to you. It gets in your blood, the same as running a pub does for me. And anyway, another year of Gordon Selwood and Len Dowling, and this place could be viable.’
Tremayne thought the man to be optimistic but did not comment.
‘What do we have?’ Tremayne said after the publican had left. Clare could see that Tremayne was onto his second pint and he would not be stopping until they left the pub.
‘It always comes back to Marge Selwood.’
‘That’s the problem, too easy. And as we know Marge Selwood only visited Molly Dempsey today.’
‘Rose Goode confirmed that Marge Selwood was in the village just after nine this morning and she was heading in the direction of Molly Dempsey’s cottage.’
‘So why kill Mrs Dempsey? If Marge Selwood was going to assist the woman, then she’s the target.’
‘She’s family. If it’s one of her children, no matter what they may think of her, they’re hardly likely to kill her.’
‘Killing Molly Dempsey is one way to deter the mother.’
‘No one in the Selwood family or in Coombe doubts the mother’s resilience. Only a fool would believe that Marge Selwood could be deterred by someone else’s death.’
‘Or someone young.’
‘Crispin?’
‘We’re here. We should confront him now,’ Tremayne said.
‘You’ll need a walk around the village first and some strong mints. You can’t go questioning people with stale beer on your breath.’
‘You’re in charge, Yarwood.’
‘I hope it’s not the son.’
‘What you hope is not important. If someone has committed a crime, then it’s up to us to arrest the person, as simple as that.’
‘I understand, guv, but…’
‘There are no buts. We do our job impartially.’
***
At Rose and Crispin’s house, the lights were ablaze, loud music blasting. Tremayne knocked hard on the front door. After three minutes, Clare phoned Rose.
‘I’m up at Gordon’s. Crispin’s got some friends staying the night. I left them to it.’
‘What time did Crispin get home?’
‘Six in the afternoon with two of his friends.’
‘And before that?’
‘He was at school. Any reason?’
No, that’s fine. Are you free?’
‘If you can stand a couple of people after a bottle of wine, I am.’
‘We’ll be right up.’
Clare ended the call and spoke to Tremayne. ‘I’ll check tomorrow, but Crispin was at school when Molly Dempsey died. It can’t be him unless he could somehow get from Salisbury to here and back within two to three hours.’
‘It seems improbable, but check it out anyway. What now?’
‘Rose and Gordon are into the wine at the main house. We’ll go up there.’
It wasn’t far, no more than a six-minute walk, but Clare drove the short distance. In the kitchen, Rose and Gordon. On the table, two bottles of wine.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ Gordon said.
‘We’re on duty,’ Tremayne said.
‘You’re not in the army, and we’re not going to tell.’
Tremayne and Clare accepted the offer. Tremayne would have preferred a beer, but he’d put up with wine on this one occasion.
‘Why the celebration?’ Clare asked.
‘No reason. Crispin’s got friends over. We just thought he’d enjoy the place to himself.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 89