The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  He was a tough-looking individual, sporting an unkempt beard and shoulder-length hair, unwashed for some time from what Clare could see.

  ‘What did you reckon to your father’s death?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘The woman is Detective Sergeant Yarwood,’ Clare said. ‘And I’m not some bit of fluff for you to casually disrespect.’

  ‘No offence intended,’ Mitchell said. ‘It’s not much fun locked up waiting for the judge to send me down for a couple of years.’

  ‘You were caught red-handed. What did you expect?’

  ‘Nothing more. What possessed my father to be in that church?’

  ‘We don’t know. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘That’s where the twins used to go as children.’

  ‘The twins?’

  ‘That’s what they’ve always been called in our family. Most people couldn’t tell them apart, but Martin, he was more aggressive. My father was easy to anger, easy to calm down.’

  ‘Why did you break into the jeweller’s?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Just bored and it seemed easy.’

  Tremayne looked at Clare. ‘Gerry’s a habitual criminal.’

  ‘Tremayne, you don’t change. I’ve been straight for the last year, apart from the jeweller’s, and you’re bad-mouthing me to your sergeant.’

  Clare could see the young Mitchell fancied himself as a ladies’ man, judging by the wink in her direction. The last thing she needed in her life was a criminal who was not even good at his chosen career.

  ‘Why break into somewhere knowing you were going to be caught?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Your mother could do with you by her side, but I can’t get you out on bail.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’s got Bob.’

  ‘Your sister believes he’s a good man.’

  ‘He is. Mind you, we used to have some fierce arguments, but he was right, I’m my father’s son.’

  ‘So why follow him, if you know he’s in jail for murder?’

  ‘It’s not one of those things you can control,’ Gerry Mitchell said.

  Clare thought him a weak excuse for a man, always blaming his lot in life on others.

  ‘You don’t seem concerned that your father is dead,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’m not. I used to visit him in prison occasionally. Marcia, she was keener than me on seeing him.’

  ‘You visited him, but you’re not upset?’ Clare said.

  ‘I don’t have the luxury of being sad, do I? I’m locked up here, going down for two. My father knew it was poison to come back to Salisbury, but what did he do?’

  ‘Why was it poisonous?’

  ‘He’s still got all that gold stashed somewhere. There’s no way he was going to be left alone.’

  ‘But someone killed him,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Maybe someone didn’t want questions being asked.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing more than I’ve told you.’

  ‘Gerry, whoever killed your father wasn’t interested in the gold.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The person didn’t have time to communicate anything. We’ve checked with the vicar. He left the church thirty minutes before your father’s death, and returned three minutes after he was shot.’

  ‘None of us have it. If we did, I wouldn’t be breaking into a jeweller’s, would I?’

  ‘You would. It’s in your nature.’

  ***

  Tremayne remembered Selwyn Cosford as an eccentric man in his sixties at the time of the gold heist. Back then, he had sported a ponytail with a balding pate and an attractive wife of his age. Now he was in his eighties, and the ponytail was gone.

  ‘Tremayne, good to see you,’ Cosford said as he warmly shook the inspector’s hand.

  ‘This is Sergeant Yarwood.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Tragic about Mitchell. I saw it on the television.’

  ‘The man took off with your gold.’

  ‘It was insured, no point taking a risk.’

  ‘There were some who thought it may have been insurance fraud.’

  ‘The gutter press mainly. You’re the police, and you never found anything. And why would I bother? Money’s not my problem, never was.’

  Tremayne knew it wasn’t, so did Clare. After all, who hadn’t heard of Selwyn Cosford, the maverick financier. Not only was he making a fortune buying and selling stocks and shares, but he was also hosting a weekly programme on the television advising the average person how to invest their money, how to structure their funds for a financially secure retirement.

  ‘You’re looking fit,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Every day, one-hour workout. I’ve got myself a personal trainer. She puts me through hell.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘No longer here. We were married for a long time, but she wanted a quieter life. She’s back in London with her friends, I’m down here.’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘No way. We were together through thick and thin. She’s getting on a bit now, I’m not.’

  ‘You’re on your own?’

  ‘Not me. A man has got to keep chasing the women or else he gets rusty. How about you, Tremayne? Still on your own?’

  ‘My wife’s back on a semi-permanent basis.’

  ‘You’ll need to bring Jean up here in the next month, a party I’m organising. You as well, Sergeant Yarwood. Bring someone with you.’

  ‘I’ve no one, not at the present time.’

  ‘Come anyway. There’ll be lots of eligible bachelors, plenty of money as well.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ Cosford said to Clare. ‘We used to run into each other at the pub on an occasional basis. I’ve known Tremayne for nigh on twenty-five years.’

  ‘Back then, you were living well.’

  ‘Life’s been good, and I intend to live a lot longer yet. How about you, Tremayne?’

  ‘No fortune, just a modest house in Wilton.’

  ‘Salt of the earth, that’s what you are. While I was out there grubbing in the dirt, doing deals, staking all my money, you were making sure it was safe for us to walk the streets.’

  ‘Mr Cosford, the missing gold?’ Clare said. She could see the two men reminiscing ad infinitum. She needed focus.

  ‘The insurance covered it, and I bore no grudge at those who had taken it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Ethan and Martin Mitchell’s father, I used to go to school with him. I take it you read my history before you came here?’

  ‘The son of a train driver, born and educated in Salisbury. A financial wizard, first million at the age of twenty-five, bankrupt at twenty-six,’ Clare said.

  ‘That was a great year,’ Cosford said. ‘Plenty of wine, women, and song.’

  ‘Rebuilt your fortune by the age of twenty-nine. Since then, no more bankruptcies.’

  ‘I sailed close to the wind on a few occasions. After that, the television appearances, the wealth and this house.’

  ‘A stately home,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Seventeenth century. A gift from a king to one of his courtiers. I bought it cheap and fixed it up. A guided tour, Sergeant Yarwood? Or is Clare acceptable?’

  ‘Clare’s fine, and yes, I’d like to look around.’

  Clare had to admit she was impressed by the man. He was, as known, in his early eighties, but he maintained the sprightliness of a man in his sixties. If Clare had not known, she would have said Tremayne was the older of the two men, although Cosford was older by more than twenty years. The house was excessively large, so much so that at the end of a twenty-minute tour Clare was exhausted.

  On her return, Tremayne whispered in her ear, ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘The house was built in 1650. It has seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and it cost over two million pounds to renovate.’

  ‘A
part from your poor attempt at humour, what else.’

  ‘He’s a rogue who fancies himself as a modern-day lothario.’

  ‘Did he try it on?’

  ‘He was the perfect gentlemen, although his conversation was peppered with innuendo.’

  ‘Could he have been in on the theft of the gold?’

  ‘You know him and the case from back then. What do you think?’

  ‘We could never make the connection. We came to the conclusion that the man was not involved.’

  ‘Although he had a dubious reputation for some shady deals.’

  ‘That’s it. The man’s always pushing the envelope between right and wrong. That’s recorded, something he’s proud of. We never found any wrongdoing on his part, and we tried, so did the insurance company, and they don’t give up easily.’

  ‘The man doesn’t need the money now, judging by this house,’ Clare said.

  ‘Appearances are deceptive with these sorts of people. A lot of it is on credit, not much owned.’

  ‘Is that the case with Cosford?’

  ‘Who knows? What have we gained here?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘The man’s a charming rogue, old enough to be my grandfather.’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘We can’t rule him out as a possible suspect, and if he was involved in an insurance fraud that went wrong, he could have wanted to silence Ethan Mitchell.’

  ‘The letter, the voice, the church?’

  ‘With the money that Cosford has, it’s possible. It’s a damn sight more convincing than the dead brother coming back from the grave.’

  Cosford, temporarily occupied on a phone call, returned. ‘Have you decided if I’m the villain or just one of the idle rich?’

  ‘You could be both,’ Tremayne said. Clare was always astounded, even after four years as his sergeant, at how many people he knew, whether they were a minor criminal or a lord of the realm, or a man who had more money than Midas.

  ‘And I could be neither,’ Cosford said.

  ‘Your benevolence towards the Mitchells is unusual.’

  ‘Not really. Life rolls its dice, none of us knows which side it’s going to end up on. Ethan’s and Martin’s father was an ambitious man, although he never had much success. I did. And if my first big deal, the one that ultimately sent me bankrupt, hadn’t worked, I could be living in a rented house, getting by on a meagre pension.’

  ‘The first deal sent you bankrupt. How could that be good for you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘It showed me its flaw. The next deal I struck, I made sure to cover that oversight. I’ve made some great decisions over the years, some not so good, but you gain from them all. That must be the way with you, Tremayne. The same with you, Clare.’

  ‘I’ve no mistakes to gain from yet,’ Clare said.

  ‘On your own at your age is one mistake.’

  ‘What were you two talking about when you were gone?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Life in general. I know about your sergeant’s history, yours as well.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The internet, a research company in London. As soon as Ethan Mitchell was killed and I read that you were back on the case, I found out all that I needed to know about Clare and Holchester.’

  ‘It’s some years since he died,’ Clare said. ‘The memories are still painful.’ Cosford was right, she knew, and even though the love of her life had turned out to be a murderer, she still loved him. After three years, she had yet to meet another man to equal him, and her once regular visits out to his grave had reduced to no more than one every couple of months. Her conversation with Selwyn Cosford, a man with a refreshing outlook on life, had left her melancholy and a little sad.

  ‘So was losing my first million, but you don’t wait or give up. You need to get out there again.’

  ‘Cosford, why did you want to keep so much gold here?’ Tremayne said. He knew how Clare felt about Cosford’s advice. He had been there when Holchester had died, pinned to a tree, one of the branches piercing his chest. He had heard his dying gasps, and whereas, for Clare’s sake, as much as his own, he had dismissed the night that it had occurred, it still occupied his dreams occasionally. He assumed that with Clare it was almost a nightly occurrence. It was a subject they rarely discussed, but Cosford, it was apparent, did not believe in bottling up the past. His weekly programme on the television about life, about wealth, about a positive attitude, never regretting, only learning, was watched by millions.

  The man’s advice to Clare, Tremayne knew, was correct. He had seen her daydreaming sometimes. If her fiancé hadn’t died, she would have been married by now, a child in her arms, instead of a cottage in the Woodford valley and a cat.

  ‘I was pushing hard, another deal, and the banks were wanting to tie up my assets, have access to my bank accounts. I knew I could hide some of them, and there was no way I was going to let them have this house as security.’

  ‘I can understand,’ Clare said.

  ‘I was certain of the deal I was working on, yet, there are always the unknowns.’

  ‘Unknowns?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘A financial downturn in America, talk of a recession, a banking crisis. These happen all too often, more so these days. As I said, if the worst happened, and I’m never a believer in accepting that possibility, then I would have had this house and enough money in gold to survive and to rebuild my empire. Gold never loses its value, and I’d built a vault underground for it. The insurance company had checked it out, given it the all clear.’

  ‘If the insurance company is so pedantic, how could a security van be stopped, the driver and the guard overpowered?’

  ‘We’ve been through this before,’ Cosford said. ‘Eighteen years ago to be precise.’

  ‘I’m just bringing Yarwood up to date.’

  ‘It was my gold, my choice of a security company. I had used them before, not for gold, but for antiques, valuable paintings, and they had been fine.’

  ‘But they were not.’

  ‘That’s painfully clear. Another of life’s lessons learnt.’

  ‘If it was a second-rate security company, how were you able to arrange insurance for the gold?’ Clare said.

  ‘Their security rating was high enough. The insurance was not a problem.’

  ‘The company now?’

  ‘They’re still operating.’

  Tremayne and Clare prepared to leave. Cosford took hold of Clare’s arm. ‘Tremayne’s right to be suspicious of me, but he’s wrong. I’m innocent of all crimes levelled against me. I hope you believe me,’ Cosford said with an obsequious smile.

  Outside the house. ‘What do you reckon to him?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘A charming man.’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘Who would know? One thing’s for certain, we’ll be at his get-together.’

  ‘Don’t go for any more walks around the house with him.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘He’s a reputation to maintain. A police officer would be another notch on his belt.’

  ‘Then maybe you should go for a walk with him,’ Clare said. ‘You’re more his age bracket.’

  ‘Don’t get smart, Yarwood. I could have you up on a disciplinary.’

  Clare looked at her DI and smiled. He replied with a grin. They both knew it was the harmless banter of two people who respected each other.

  Chapter 5

  Bob Galton had worked hard to achieve the position of production manager at the small engineering company where he worked. He knew he was no high-flyer, not as his brother had become, but he was a good man, his beliefs tempered in those that his parents had instilled in him. They had warned him about marrying Betty Mitchell, the lady who worked in Accounts. Not because they did not like her, they did, but because she came with baggage: two young children, a dead brother-in-law, and a recently-divorced husband who was in prison for his murder.

  Bob knew one thing, it was love, and no amount of opposition f
rom his parents would stop him. He remembered the day they married, Betty’s two children as page boy and page girl. Ethan, Betty’s first husband, was in prison and pleased that his children and his wife were in safe hands. Bob had visited him a couple of times in the first months of the marriage. The meetings between a murderer and an honest man had gone well. But Bob, an unadventurous man, in that he had never travelled far from Salisbury, had known that the return of his wife’s first husband would present difficulties. He had spoken at length to her about what they would do if he appeared at their door one day. Could they slam the door in his face, or would they have to do what was charitable and to invite him in, offer him a bed until he could find his way? Neither had been able to come up with a satisfactory solution to the dilemma, but now it was moot as the man had died in the church, apparently at the hands of his dead brother.

  ‘I’m sorry he’s dead,’ Betty said in the kitchen of the small house she occupied with Bob and Gerry. Marcia had moved out some months previously, found herself a place with her boyfriend of two years.

  ‘If he had come here, he would never have left, you know that,’ Bob said. He looked across at his wife, as lovely as the day he had met her. To him, she was the world, yet life had dealt her two cruel blows, Ethan and Gerry. Bob knew he had tried with Gerry, even attempted to engage with him on sport and outdoor activities. Gerry, he knew, wore a chip on his shoulder, no doubt a genetic trait, although it had been tough for him after his father had been sentenced for murder, and it wasn’t unusual for the young Mitchell to enter the family home with a bloodied nose and a black eye.

  ‘What about the other boy?’ Bob would say.

  ‘He’s worse than me. You’ll need to square it with the headmaster. I’ve been suspended again.’

  And that was how it was for most of the young man’s schooldays: periods of study, periods of suspension. The end result was that Gerry had become a competent street brawler with no qualifications and a disjointed education. Marcia, on the other hand, had breezed through school and had left with a rounded education and an academic record of achievement.