The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  Clare parked her car next to the Bentley. Inside, at reception, was the woman from their previous visit.

  ‘Morrison,’ Tremayne said. He felt no need to refer to the man by his Christian name. Villains don’t deserve that respect, and the police inspector smelt a rat, a rat so big that it was going to make a few bars of gold look small time.

  ‘Mr Morrison’s in a meeting. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Tremayne and Sergeant Yarwood.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you both from the last time.’

  The two officers took a seat. ‘She’s not pleased to see us,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Last time you almost accused her of stalling us.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Not directly, but you were rude.’

  ‘Me, never.’

  Morrison came out from his office. He was effusive. ‘Get our guests a cup of tea each,’ he said to the receptionist. He gave her a wink.

  ‘Not another one,’ Tremayne mumbled to Clare.

  ‘A wink doesn’t constitute a raging love affair. If it did, I’ve been having it off with half a dozen men down at Bemerton Road.’

  ‘Not a bad idea, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I do. And focus on Morrison. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Playing hunches. This man’s worried, can’t you see it?’

  ‘He looks to be busy.’

  Inside Morrison’s office, utilitarian but comfortable, Tremayne and Clare sat on one side of his desk. On the other side, Morrison sat behind a large monitor. He moved it to one side.

  ‘What is this about, Inspector Tremayne?’

  ‘You phoned me up.’

  ‘I dialled the wrong number. I hope you haven’t come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘You wanted to tell me something, I know that.’

  ‘Believe me, it was a mistake. I sometimes do it, in too much of a hurry most of the time.’

  The receptionist came in, another wink from her boss, a thank you from Clare, a nod of the head from Tremayne.

  ‘Morrison, I know when someone’s lying, always have. You’re in trouble. It may be financial, possibly criminal, but you’re weighing up the options. I’m here to make sure you make the right decision.’

  Clare took a sip of tea. She looked over at Tremayne, then at Morrison. It was two men sounding off against each other. It was not swords or duelling pistols, purely the intellect and cunning of one, the years of policing with the other. This was Tremayne at his finest, she knew that.

  ‘My dear inspector,’ Morrison said. Clare knew the man had lost it when he started to become over friendly. Tremayne was nobody’s ‘dear’.

  ‘I’ve got you and Cosford pegged for the hijacking of forty bars of gold. Your company had been up and running for a few years by then and making decent money. After the gold, not that Cosford would have paid what he owed you, seeing that he didn’t have the forty bars, your business flourished. Either it was due to your business acumen or probably, as I suspect, smuggling, and I’m not talking about fake Gucci handbags out of China.’

  ‘This is fanciful nonsense,’ Morrison said. A wrong word to use with Tremayne, Clare knew.

  ‘Let me tell you, I’ve known Selwyn Cosford for longer than you’ve had this business. The man’s sharp, and he pushes the boundaries. Never criminal from what I know, but I’m leaning towards him as a major villain, and you as his lieutenant. Am I getting close?’

  ‘I need my lawyer here.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Okay, you go and phone him. We’ll wait.’

  Morrison left the office. Tremayne picked up his cup of tea. ‘I could do with a cigarette,’ he said.

  ‘You’re doing fine without it. Do we have anything on Morrison?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This could backfire. A smart lawyer could ask you to put up proof.’

  ‘He could.’

  ‘And you don’t care, do you?’

  ‘Not today. I want an arrest. This man is as good as any.’

  ‘He’ll not admit to anything in this office.’

  ‘I know he won’t, but if I ride him enough, he’ll make mistakes.’

  ***

  It was close to twenty-five minutes before Morrison returned, long enough for the receptionist to bring Tremayne and Clare another cup of tea, as well as some biscuits. Clare did not eat the biscuits, Tremayne did.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Morrison said. ‘A problem with one of the trucks.’ Tremayne knew he was lying, so did Clare.

  ‘Your lawyer?’ Clare said.

  ‘He can’t make it. You’ll have to deal with me.’

  ‘You did not check on one of your trucks,’ Tremayne said. ‘You went outside and made a phone call to a number in East London.’

  Clare knew that Tremayne had contacts in London who’d help him, but a phone tap required more authority, and Morrison was not accused of any crime.

  ‘A truck in East London, where’s the problem in that?’ Morrison said. The calmness that he had displayed on entering the room after the break was gone.

  ‘You have three trucks in Calais, am I correct?’

  ‘Two or three, that’s possible. But how do you know this?’

  ‘Mr Morrison, I’ve been a police officer for over thirty years. In that time, I’ve made a lot of contacts: some villains, some police officers. I have contacts with customs and border control. What do you want to tell me, or do you want your lawyer this time?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘You made a phone call to a Terry Wright.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  Clare was interested to know as well.

  ‘Terry Wright is under surveillance. It was pure luck that we were here when you phoned him. His phone conversation was overheard. I’ve just received a message.’

  ‘I asked him to look into the problem with the truck.’

  ‘Wright is a major villain,’ Tremayne said, ‘and you have been bringing drugs into this country. You have three trucks in Calais. They will be taken down to the chassis if necessary. If there are any women in the back of them, then that will be an additional charge.’

  ‘There are no women,’ Morrison said. Clare could see that he was shaking, and there was perspiration on his forehead. She didn’t know how Tremayne had done it, but it was a masterful interrogation.

  ‘Yarwood, phone the local station, get some uniforms over here,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’ve not committed any crime. I demand to have my lawyer present.’

  ‘I gave you the opportunity, you declined. It’s on record.’

  ‘Mr Morrison, an officer from Serious and Organised Crime Command will be here to arrest you. Once the uniforms arrive, we’ll leave you to them. We will talk again about the gold bullion.’

  On the way back to Salisbury, Clare asked for an explanation.

  ‘I repaid a favour to someone in Serious and Organised Crime Command. He can take the credit for the arrest. Terry Wright was pure luck. As for the trucks, an SMS on the way up to London. They found drugs in one of the trucks at Calais, although Morrison’s involvement was still unsure. His phone call to Wright sealed his guilt. Sorry I didn’t let you know beforehand, but I wanted you to look surprised as well, to add to the tension.’

  ‘You were brilliant,’ Clare said, realising that for once she had broken the cardinal rule that existed between them: she had paid him a compliment.

  ‘Pull over here. I need a cigarette.’ Clare could only smile at her boss as he stood outside in the cold. She messaged Jean. Give him a good feed tonight. He’s deserved it.

  Chapter 26

  Gavin Mitchell’s funeral was less emotional than his brother Ethan’s.

  Tremayne sat in a pew at the back of the church. ‘Where’s Sergeant Yarwood?’ Eric Wilson said as he sat down beside him. It was still early; the service had not started.

&nb
sp; ‘She’s coming, just wrapping up in the office.’

  ‘Gavin was a strange bird,’ Wilson said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His being up at Emberley. What sort of man goes searching around with a metal detector and a spade?’

  ‘It takes all sorts,’ Tremayne said. He did not appreciate the intrusion by Wilson, a man he did not like, although there was no suspicion against him, and he had made a success of his life. Maybe that was it, Tremayne thought. His retirement was coming, and what did he have to show for it? A house in need of TLC, a police pension. It wasn’t much – sufficient for him – but now he had Jean, and she deserved better.

  ‘I saw O’Connor the other day. He spoke highly of you.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got a job at Longmore House. The building’s nearly three hundred years old, and it needs some renovations.’

  ‘Good money?’

  ‘The money’s good, but the expenses are a nightmare. I need to be careful, or I could run into a cost overrun, and it’s heritage listed. It’s not a quick in and out. This time, I’ve got to bring in inspectors from here and there to check that I’m renovating it correctly. The newer materials are better, but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘What do you think of the house?’

  ‘Impressive, but not that I’d want it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The maintenance. It would be a nightmare.’

  ‘You could rent out the rooms, help to pay for the upkeep,’ Tremayne said. ‘We suspected O’Connor for a while.’

  ‘He’s another strange one.’

  ‘Lord Linden trusts him.’

  ‘Even so, all that money, and not far away.’

  ‘The gold or the main house?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. It would have to be a temptation, not that I got to look around the whole house, but there seemed to be plenty worth taking.’

  ‘I’ve been around it. There is.’

  ‘Who took you?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Linden.’

  ‘It’s that innate charm of yours.’

  ‘A big house and plenty of money doesn’t make anyone better than the next person.’

  ‘You should try telling that to Julie. She came from nothing, and you’d think she’d be glad with what we’ve got. The best house in the street, the latest car, and I can’t tell you how much she spends on clothes. Wears them once and then they hang in the wardrobe. I’d rather see my money in assets, not throwing it away on some nonsense.’

  Tremayne could not get a handle on the man. Was he trying to imply that business was tough, or that his marriage to Julie, Martin’s widow, was on the rocks? Or was he just a man who complained a lot? Whatever it was, Eric Wilson was the sort of man who would have been interested in the gold, would have known what to do with it.

  ‘Have you found out who killed Gavin?’ Wilson said.

  ‘Not yet. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I was there when Betty offered it to us. Why would Gavin go looking on his own? It makes no sense, and he’s not the adventurous type, scared of his own shadow most of the time.’

  ‘I always saw him as decent,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I can’t say I thought much about the man. Apart from family gatherings, all too often in the last month, he kept to himself. But out there in Emberley? The man must have been desperate or stupid.’

  ‘He wasn’t smart like you.’

  ‘And why in the wrong area? According to Betty, it was some distance away.’

  ‘Not that far, and our crime scene investigators missed it.’

  The coffin appeared at the entrance to the church. Wilson left and scurried back to his place with the family.

  ‘What did he want?’ Clare whispered in Tremayne’s ear.

  Tremayne turned around to find his sergeant one row behind. She was dressed in black.

  ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘Some of it. The man’s just fishing.’

  ‘That’s what I reckoned.’

  Tremayne and Clare’s conversation was cut short by the arrival of the coffin at the front of the church. Sandra made a speech, so did Marcia. Gerry was there again, a prison officer nearby. Betty clung to Gerry during the service. Eric Wilson looked at the young man with sideways glances – disapproving from what Tremayne could make out. Bob Galton, Gerry’s stepfather, spoke to him, although the conversation was muted and consisted of Bob saying something, Gerry nodding his head.

  The relationship between stepfather and stepson was known to be cordial, although the responses from Gerry did not indicate that to be the case. Tremayne assumed it was the occasion, the hushed atmosphere.

  Neither Gerry nor Bob was considered as a serious candidate for any of the crimes, Gerry having the most reliable alibi of all, he was in police custody. Bob Galton, a man who had achieved middle management but lacked the drive to go further, was similar to Gavin in many ways, although he was more communicative.

  Tremayne knew that was what he was, middle management. Not a bad place to be, but the future was unclear. Another visit to the doctor, another diagnosis, less than ideal. He knew that Jean’s exercise routine and healthy living were not going to do the trick. He could see an early end to his life, and it would not necessarily be pleasant. He had spent a sleepless night a few nights back. He had lain in bed, Jean at his side. There had been a movie on the television that he had watched to while away the time; an old English farce, the actors, all famous names from his youth, all long dead, and the movie a series of calamities, a love affair – no nudity back then – and weather that was always idyllic, a far distance from reality, and everyone was smoking.

  And now the doctor was telling him to stop smoking.

  ‘It’s ten years if you don’t, maybe twenty if you do. Emphysema, not a pretty sight, with a ventilator at your side, you lying there. And what about your wife?’

  ‘We’re not married, used to be,’ Tremayne had said, the doctor checking his heartbeat, his blood pressure.

  ‘Considering the abuse you’ve subjected your body to, you’re in fair condition, but there are clear signs that your lungs have been affected. No doubt you drink more than you should.’

  ‘I like a pint.’

  ‘More than a pint, and too often. It’s up to you, but I’m giving you fair warning.’

  ‘I’ve got a few murders to solve. Sometimes a pub’s a good place to get people to open up.’

  ‘It’s your future.’

  ‘Thanks, doctor,’ Tremayne said as he got off of the examination table and put on his shoes. ‘I can’t give you any more of my time.’

  He walked out of the doctor’s surgery feeling worse than when he had gone in.

  Maybe once the current investigation is wrapped up, I’ll give up the cigarettes, Tremayne thought, but he was not convinced. He had spent his career as the grumpy, cigarette smoking, beer drinking police officer. Anything else wouldn’t be him.

  ***

  It was coming down ‘cats and dogs’; that was how his mother had described it, Tremayne remembered. It was early morning, and it was raining heavily, almost torrential, so much so that the rescue team had not been able to secure a chain to the sunken car.

  ‘Confirmed?’ Tremayne shouted out of his car window.

  ‘It’s a Bentley, late model,’ one of the divers said. He was wearing a wetsuit, oblivious to the rain. Tremayne and Clare were not.

  ‘Is there a body in there?’ Tremayne shouted again.

  ‘It’s hard to tell.’

  The phone call had come through three hours earlier. An early morning jogger, even before the sun had risen, and before the rain had set in, had seen the car roll down the boat ramp and into the river. He had watched it sink, unable to do much.

  Ten minutes after his call, a patrol car had arrived, seen the car’s tyre tracks, raised the alarm. The jogger’s description of a Bentley, a make of car owned by a man of interest and in the police database,
had caused the local police to phone Bemerton Road, Homicide. Clare had taken the call, picked up Tremayne at his house.

  A two-hour drive, and now they waited.

  ‘Give us another hour, and we’ll try again. The conditions are too difficult for the divers,’ a young constable from the local station said. ‘With the rain, the river flow could pick up, make the conditions too dangerous. If it weren’t for your interest, we’d mark the vehicle and come back when the weather’s better.’

  ‘How far down?’

  ‘Twenty feet, more or less. The visibility’s zero. Good car, was it?’

  ‘It was, and very expensive.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why people do it. Joyriders see it as fun.’

  ‘Joyriders don’t steal Bentleys. We can’t find the owner,’ Tremayne said.

  The local police had checked out Colin Morrison’s home, his office, all the regular haunts. His wife had not been able to help, nor his children.

  ‘He was heading north, a business meeting in Manchester,’ his wife had said.

  ‘It’s our man,’ Clare said as she rubbed her hand over the inside of the windscreen. The vehicle was misting up; the heater was trying its best, but not coping.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Tremayne said, knowing that he couldn’t smoke in the car, and outside was impossible.

  ‘We’ll be back in one hour,’ Clare said to the occupants of the vehicle alongside hers.

  ‘Give it two. We’ll not pull it out until you’re back.’

  Tremayne and Clare found a café; inside it was warm and inviting, outside it was sheltered and cold. Tremayne chose the latter. ‘I needed that,’ he said, as he exhaled the smoke from his first puff of the cigarette.

  ‘Disgusting habit,’ Clare said.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m trying to quit. I hope you’ve packed an overnight bag.’

  ‘There’s always one in the car. You never know what’s going to turn up. Why did they release him?’

  ‘Not sure, no doubt a technicality, posted bail.’

  ‘But he was involved with transporting drugs.’