The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It was only that call to Wright that nailed him. Men such as Colin Morrison have access to the best legal teams, and if he was as big as we suspect, then who knows.’

  ‘We’ll check?’

  ‘Once we know what’s going on, we’ll check with Serious and Organised Crime. A trip into Central London, maybe take in a show, get a few drinks, go dancing.’

  ‘Your attempt at humour is lousy,’ Clare said. ‘I’ll treat you to a hot chocolate.’

  As the two sat in the café, a phone call. ‘The weather’s improved. We’re going to attempt to get a chain onto the vehicle in the next ten minutes.’

  ‘We need to go,’ Clare said to Tremayne. ‘Another drink to take?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll pay this time.’

  At the river, the divers were already in the water when Tremayne and Clare arrived. The rain had stopped enough for the two officers to get out of Clare’s car.

  ‘I could have done with one of them,’ the young constable said, eyeing the hot chocolates.

  ‘Here, have mine,’ Tremayne said. ‘I’ve not touched it.’

  ‘Just joking. We always make sure we’ve got hot drinks on days like this. Thanks for the offer. You’d be surprised how many stand gawping, but never offer.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘If they can, the divers will secure a chain to the underside; failing that, they’ll smash the windows and run a cable through the car. The roof on a Bentley should be strong enough.’

  ‘And then you’ll pull it out?’

  ‘Not with a regular tow truck. We’ve got a bulldozer coming from a local hire company. The car won’t look so good afterwards, a write-off.’

  ‘The car’s not important.’

  A local crime scene team was standing by. Two uniforms had secured the site. A few onlookers were gathering.

  Tremayne paced around, taking out his packet of cigarettes, putting it away. The third time, he shouted over to Clare who was standing near to the front of her car, the heat of the engine permeating through the bonnet. ‘I tried,’ he said, as he took a cigarette and put it in his mouth.

  Clare said nothing.

  The bulldozer, once it had arrived, tensioned the chain the divers had secured the sunken car with, and then moved back. The sunken vehicle slowly emerged from the water.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Clare said.

  ‘Have you phoned Jim Hughes?’ Tremayne, who had finished his cigarette, said.

  ‘He’ll not come up until there’s confirmation. The local CSE wouldn’t appreciate an interloper.’

  ‘That’s what we are.’

  ‘I’m surprised the local Homicide are not here.’

  ‘They will be if we find anything.’

  Another fifteen minutes, a couple of pauses while the bulldozer moved to one side of where it had been. There was a mud embankment, slightly lower on one side than the other. At the third attempt, the Bentley cleared the water and rested on the grass.

  Tremayne moved closer, the water still coming out of the vehicle soaking his shoes and the bottom half of his trousers below the knees.

  ‘Not until you’ve kitted up,’ a voice close by said.

  ‘It’s Hughes. He’s here already.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Clare said.

  ‘Nuttall, local CSE. I’ve had Jim Hughes on the phone. Apparently, you’re a legend for entering crime scenes without following the correct procedure.’

  Clare had liked the ‘legend’ reference. Indeed, that was what Tremayne was.

  ‘We need to see if there’s a man in there.’

  ‘If there is, he’s dead, unless he’s got a pair of gills. I’ve not seen anyone around here with them, but back in your part of the world, maybe they do.’

  ‘You’re worse than Hughes,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Some say better looking, but I’m not so sure about that.’

  Clare liked the man’s humour, and no, she decided, he was not better looking than Jim Hughes. For one thing, he was Tremayne’s age, and he looked like a drinker. He was the sort of man that Tremayne liked.

  ‘Yarwood, the rear of your car and be quick about it.’

  ‘You’ve got your sergeant trained, I see.’

  ‘Like a performing seal.’

  ‘That’s what he thinks,’ Clare said, returning with two sets of coveralls, two sets of overshoes, and two pairs of gloves.

  ‘Okay,’ Nuttall said. ‘Where do you think the man will be?’

  ‘Try the boot. Inside the car, there’s not much.’ Clare looked, all she could see was a crayfish moving.

  ‘American Signal,’ Nuttall said. ‘A failed attempt by our government to introduce them to UK waters. They thought they could export them to the Scandinavian market.’

  ‘What happened?’ Clare said.

  ‘They were carriers of the crayfish plague. It’s immune to it, our native white-clawed weren’t.’

  ‘And the exports to Scandinavia?’

  ‘It never got off the ground.’

  No more water could be seen coming from the vehicle. Around the back of the car, one of Nuttall’s team was attempting to open the boot.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘They make these vehicles tough.’

  ‘It’s yours. You can lift the lid,’ Nuttall said to Tremayne.

  Tremayne lifted the lid slowly, as the boot still contained water. Floating in it, some clothing. The CSI who had broken the lock put his hand in the water. ‘There’s a body.’

  ‘Colin Morrison,’ Clare said.

  ‘Phone Hughes,’ Tremayne said. ‘I want him working with Nuttall on this one.’

  ‘Fine by me. A major player, the body?’

  ‘Drug trafficking, insurance fraud, and whatever else.’

  ‘Shame about the car,’ Nuttall said.

  ‘Yes, shame,’ Tremayne said, but his mind was elsewhere. A body in a sunken car was not there by accident. It was murder, and he had his suspicions.

  Chapter 27

  Tremayne and Clare were standing outside New Scotland Yard. Inside, Detective Chief Inspector Brian Constanza, the man they had come to see.

  ‘The Mitchell family seem to be small fish now,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Is Cosford the big fish?’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘Losing your touch?’

  ‘How can anyone function on a starvation diet? The brain needs nutrition, cossetting, not macrobiotics or detox or whatever else.’

  ‘You’ve been reading up,’ Clare said. ‘Do you intend to have a cigarette now or later?’

  ‘You’ll not tell Jean?’

  ‘Not this time. We’re heading into the big league. I don’t want you standing there with your tongue hanging out, gasping for a smoke.’

  ‘Be careful with these people, they’re sharp.’

  ‘Degree-educated?’

  ‘Painfully so.’

  ‘My kind of people,’ Clare jested.

  Clare had insisted on Tremayne sucking on some strong mints to conceal his ashtray breath. She had even paid for them.

  ‘Tremayne, good to see you.’ Costanza, a tall, imposing man, stepped forward and shook the detective inspector’s hand vigorously when they met. ‘Good to have you on board. And this must be Sergeant Yarwood,’ he said.

  ‘Clare will be fine,’ Clare said. It was either a charm offensive or a good start to the meeting, she couldn’t be sure which, and Tremayne had taught her well enough: reserve judgement for later.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. You’ve both stirred up a hornet’s nest. A cup of coffee? Tea? We’ve got it all here.’

  ‘No budget constraints?’ Tremayne said. He was glad of the mints.

  ‘Some, but we’re a growth industry, and the villains are getting smarter. Morrison came as a surprise to us. We keep a database, and he was down at one on a scale of one to ten. He didn’t seem the type, and his background showed hard work and a capable mind.’

  ‘We weren’t investigating him,’ Cla
re said. The three had taken a seat in the conference room. It was well equipped: video-conferencing, wireless connection to the overhead projector, internet.

  ‘Better than what we’ve got,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You’re dealing with local crime. Up here, it’s national, and nowadays, international.’

  ‘A lot of travel?’ Clare said.

  ‘Some. We need to meet up with our counterparts occasionally. The phone and the video are fine, but face-to-face always helps.’

  ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Some others are coming to the meeting. Give us ten minutes, and we’ll kick off.’

  Constanza excused himself and left the room.

  ‘What did you reckon?’ Tremayne said to Clare after the man had left.

  ‘Full on.’

  ‘That’s Brian. We met a few years back. A drug syndicate were distributing into the west of Salisbury. They used a factory unit out at Greenfields to store merchandise.’

  ‘Homicide?’

  ‘A nosey local. The criminals had found him inside the unit, it was late at night. The next day he was fished out of the river, his throat cut.’

  ‘Rough justice.’

  ‘Any rougher than what happened to Morrison?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Two more people came into the conference room with Constanza. ‘This is Inspector Ashcroft, and the man at the end, the one who looks as though he’s had a rough night, but hasn’t, that’s Sergeant Johnny Johnson.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ Johnson said. ‘I’ve been up all night keeping a watch on Morrison’s trucking depot.’

  ‘Anything?’ Clare said.

  ‘Nothing to report, although those involved will keep a low profile for a while. No point checking any of the man’s trucks for the next ten days.’

  ‘The drugs will still need to come in,’ Inspector Ashcroft, a woman in her forties, said. Clare liked the look of her: professional, well-prepared, a laptop in front of her. It was clear she had been nominated or lumbered with keeping the minutes.

  ‘They’ll find another way, they always do.’

  ‘No chance of stopping the flow?’ Clare said.

  ‘You’ve no idea who we’re dealing with, or what lengths they’ll go to,’ Johnson said. Clare thought he was dismissive of her. He, the seasoned sergeant; she, the sergeant from the sticks.

  Constanza knew that Johnson’s reply was not as it should be. ‘Take no notice of Johnny,’ he said. ‘He spent a few years undercover. He’ll tell you it’s a jungle out there, and any politeness or any weakness is tantamount to a death sentence.’

  ‘Sergeant Johnson is correct,’ Tremayne said. ‘We’ve seen our fair share of murders, but organised crime, that’s something different.’

  ‘I had a problem with you coming on board. I’ve raised it with DCI Constanza,’ Johnson said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Whoever killed Morrison didn’t care about the police. He or they wanted to send a message to us, the drug syndicate, competitors, or whoever else. This is what we’re dealing with. People who kill and maim with impunity. To them, we are no more than a mosquito that needs swatting.’

  ‘If you’re worried about us…’

  ‘I am, and anyone else who gets involved. We’ve decided to fight these people the best way we can. Constanza, he’s divorced, no children. Ashcroft, her children are grown up and have left the nest, and as for me, I’m single, always have been.’

  ‘Yarwood and I are aware of the potential danger, count us in,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘That’s cleared the air,’ Constanza said. ‘It’s going to be a rough ride. Tremayne, an update from you.’

  ‘We’ve put together a few slides. Yarwood, roll the slides as I speak.’

  Tremayne stood up and moved over to the screen on one wall. ‘Ethan Mitchell, just released from prison after serving seventeen years for the murder of his brother, a dispute over stolen gold. A successful security van hijack, forty bars of 400-ounce gold bullion. A lot of money in today’s currency. He was shot dead in a church; a letter is found telling him to be there. It’s from his long-dead brother. It’s a good forgery, and whoever it was knew it would be enough to lure the brother to the church. After that, Gavin, the elder brother, was stabbed to death, close by to where half of the gold was hidden. Soon after, Tony Mitchell, a relative, is shot. He’s got a detailed map to where some of the gold is buried. He’s had it for eighteen years but had never used it. Betty, Ethan Mitchell’s widow, also had a map, a rough sketch given to her by Ethan. Yet again, she had never used it.’

  ‘Relevant?’ Ashcroft said.

  ‘It is. Let me continue. The gold was being shipped to Selwyn Cosford, a man I know. He’s a local man made good. No doubt you’ve seen him on the television.’

  ‘We have,’ Constanza said.

  ‘I had been the arresting constable for Ethan Mitchell eighteen years previously, by the way. We went out to see Cosford, he welcomed us in. He lives in a Georgian mansion, looks like Buckingham Palace. He was paid out by the insurance company for his loss on the stolen gold, but he’s aiming to take them on again, as the value of gold has risen way in advance of inflation. Later on, he offered me a sweetener if I assist in his claim.’

  ‘Anything specific?’ Johnson said.

  ‘Nothing specific, but I’ve known the man for long enough to know that he’s generous.’

  ‘Tempted?’

  ‘I’m a plodding policeman. If I had wanted a bit extra on the side, there have been plenty of opportunities.’

  ‘That’s a no?’

  ‘It is. We’re suspicious of Cosford. That’s when we decided that Morrison was worth a visit. It had been one of Morrison’s trucks that had been carrying the gold.’

  ‘You had your suspicions about the heist at the time?’ Ashcroft said.

  ‘Back then, I was a junior officer. I did, my DI didn’t.’

  ‘You could have followed up on your own,’ Ashcroft said.

  ‘It was forty bars of gold, and twenty had been retrieved. No one had died apart from Martin Mitchell, and we had his brother in custody for murder, a signed confession. One week after the gold had been taken, there was a double slaying at a farm not far from Salisbury. That was more important than the stolen gold,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Point taken. No doubt you were understaffed as well.’

  ‘We were, still are. It was only after Ethan Mitchell’s death that we started investigating the case further. That’s when we started to delve deeper, that’s when Cosford and then Morrison became suspects. We started to apply pressure, find the weak spots, and then Morrison went and made that phone call, and you intercepted it.’

  ‘It’s not Cosford who worries us,’ Constanza said. ‘It’s those who supply the drugs.’

  ‘Russian, Bulgarian?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Them and others. We found drugs hidden in one of Morrison’s trucks, and then we got a record of Morrison’s phone calls. Not hard to get permission if drugs are mentioned. It was a coincidence that you were there in the man’s office when he phoned Terry Wright. We knew about him, a middleman, but the connection between him and Morrison was tenuous, and Wright doesn’t keep the same phone number for very long.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Clare said.

  ‘Your CSE is with Nuttall,’ Johnson said. ‘I’ve just got the word.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A bullet in the head, his throat cut.’

  ‘You see what we’re dealing with,’ Ashcroft said. ‘If they can do that to one of theirs, what do you think they could do to us.’

  ‘We’ve accepted the risk,’ Clare said.

  ‘We’ll follow up here with Morrison’s murder,’ Constanza said. ‘For your part, pressure Cosford. We’ll have surveillance on him, though you’ll not see it, and we’ll be monitoring his emails, also his phone conversations. You just need to make him sweat.’

  ‘We’ve still got three other murders to deal with,’ Clare
said.

  ‘You can focus on them as well, but remember, Cosford’s the mark. He could lead us to those who killed Morrison.’

  ‘He’s not one of them?’ Clare said.

  ‘Not with these people. He’s still small fry, and if the whale senses the minnow is becoming too friendly with the law, you know what will happen.’

  ‘Another murder.’

  ‘Collateral damage can be expected.’

  ‘Are you saying that if they attempt to kill Cosford, they’ll go for us?’ Clare said.

  ‘Do you still want to be involved?’ Ashcroft said.

  ‘We’re police officers. We’ll do our job.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll both be issued with weapons before you leave, and advanced training. One day should be sufficient.’

  ‘What show do you want to watch?’ Tremayne said to Clare.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Johnson said.

  ‘I’ve offered Yarwood a show and a dance, but she’s not so keen on my size nines.’

  ‘Humour, is that it?’ Ashcroft said. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  Chapter 28

  Tremayne had hoped to get back to Salisbury after meeting with Constanza and his team, but then he and Clare had stayed the night as planned. A decent hotel, well within Superintendent Moulton’s budget directive, a good meal with Clare and him sharing a bottle of wine, and then an early night. There was to be no show and no dancing. Jean had dragged him along to a production of The Sound of Music in Salisbury once, and no matter how many mountains there were to climb, he had fallen asleep within ten minutes. And as for dancing, Jean, who could dance, always preferred to sit it out rather than to be dragged around the floor by a man with no sense of timing.

  The following day, a further meeting with the Serious and Organised Crime team, and then to the shooting range. Yarwood proved to be the better shot, although Tremayne had done better than he had expected.

  It was nine in the evening when Clare dropped Tremayne off at his house, another twenty minutes before Clare walked in the door of her cottage. Her cat was waiting for her. She picked it up and gave it a hug. A voice from over the fence: ‘We’ve fed him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Clare said. It was good to be home, she knew that. On her phone, a message: This Saturday?