The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  At 1.30 a.m. both Tremayne and Jean were woken by his phone ringing. Jean answered, hoping not to disturb her sleeping partner. ‘He’s asleep,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Jean,’ Clare said. ‘You’ll have to wake him. I’ll be there in ten minutes. There’s been another one.’

  Clare picked up Tremayne as she had said. It had taken twelve minutes, not ten as she had initially said. Not that it was long enough for Tremayne, who staggered out of his house and sat in Clare’s car, dragging the seat belt across and buckling it.

  ‘It’s Bert Blatchford,’ Clare said. ‘Dead and in with the pigs.’

  ‘Did you ever watch Silence of the Lambs,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘The scene where one of Lector’s victims was fed to the pigs? Not for me. I prefer something gentler, Mary Poppins. Anyway, I don’t think he’s been in with them for that long, just a few hours. His wife found the body, phoned us straight away. I’ve phoned Jim Hughes. He’ll have his crime scene team down there as soon as possible. He was about as happy as you were with being woken up.’

  ‘Yarwood, you need to get a life. You seem to be revelling in my misery and this murder. Blatchford, not one of life’s most agreeable men. How did he die, by the way?’

  ‘According to his wife, there’s a big knife in his back. Drunk, according to her. It appears that his getting drunk on weeknights, then singing the Lord’s praise on Sunday and asking for forgiveness, is not an uncommon experience.’

  ‘I can’t deny that he’s got his priorities right,’ Tremayne said. ‘There was a time before you and Jean ganged up on me when I could have a drink of a night.’

  ‘And end up in Salisbury Hospital. The next time, Superintendent Moulton will have you out on your ear. Plenty of time for drinking then.’

  The drive took twenty-three minutes, a better than average time for the trip out to Compton. At Blatchford’s farm, a group of onlookers had gathered. There was a cold chill as they got out of their car, Tremayne’s and Clare’s breaths visible as they exhaled. Crime scene tape was tied off around the pigsty.

  Tremayne walked over and looked in. The pigs were not there. ‘I moved them,’ Sheila Blatchford said.

  ‘What can you tell us?’ Tremayne asked. It was clear that the pigs had walked around and over Blatchford, but there was no sign of additional damage to the body, although if he had been killed there, there would be very little for the CSIs to find.

  ‘Hughes and his team will be here in five minutes,’ Clare said.

  Sheila Blatchford appeared to be suffering delayed shock. She was still dressed in a dressing gown, and was pacing around nervously. Clare took hold of her arm to escort her back inside the farmhouse. ‘It’s him,’ she said, pointing over to Rupert Baxter. She moved forward, holding a piece of wood. Clare grabbed her before she could go too far, and with both her arms wrapped around the woman took her inside.

  Tremayne picked up his phone, called for a doctor; a sedative was needed. Baxter, initially standing nearby, retreated back to his pub; Tremayne watched him go. The man had not shown himself to be a great fisherman, although as a murderer he may have been more successful, and he had the strongest motive. Tremayne was not convinced, though. James Baxter had died a long time ago. Why wait until now to kill those who had approved of his death? And if Sheila Blatchford was still alive, would she be next?

  The tranquil village, Tremayne knew from experience, had more intrigue, more secrets hidden in dark recesses, more reasons for people to die. He hoped that Bert Blatchford would be the last, but he knew that he probably was not.

  Inside the farmhouse, Clare tended to Mrs Blatchford. The woman was still agitated, fluctuating between anger for the man she believed had killed her husband and sorrow for Bert.

  Outside, the crime scene team had arrived, an ambulance not far behind. There would be questions later on as to why the ambulance with its medic had taken so long, but for now, the body took precedence.

  ‘Why can’t you get these to happen during civilised hours?’ Jim Hughes said. Tremayne knew that Hughes’ comments were not made with malice. He, along with everyone else at Bemerton Road Police Station, knew that irregular hours came with the job.

  The CSIs kitted up, as did the medic. It was clear the man was dead, so no need for the medic who had come late to jump over the fence and rush to aid him where he was lying, his face covered by the mud and the excrement of the pigs. Tremayne donned the protective gear: coveralls, gloves, overshoes, and a mask. The smell was not pleasant, even from ten feet. It was going to be worse close up.

  ‘Was he killed in there?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘If he was, there’s bound to be plenty of footprints, although the pigs have probably destroyed them, let alone dirty clothes that the murderer would have been wearing. Find someone who’s been doing some late-night washing, and you’ll have your murderer. Although it appears he was murdered outside and pushed through the gate to the pigs.’

  Hughes knelt down next to the body, another CSI taking photos, the flash lighting the area. A floodlight was being set up outside, another CSI running the power cord over to the farmhouse. Two CSIs were following the route from the farmhouse to the pub looking for clues, realising that the onlookers had sullied the area at the farm and the road close by. Tremayne was curious as to whether that was an intentional ploy or circumstantial.

  ‘Knife wound to the back, deep enough to kill him, and then face down with the pigs, holding his face in the mud,’ Hughes said. ‘The back’s not the best place. In front and into the heart would have been better. I’ll assume the person wasn’t proficient at their chosen task.’

  ‘What about the pigs?’

  ‘Good for bacon, not reliable as witnesses.’

  Tremayne knew that humour, even at the worst murder scenes, was one of the ways that those there in the aftermath managed to stay rational and detached. Hughes could do it, so could he, but Clare was likely to get emotional. Tremayne knew that in time she’d get over it.

  Inside the farmhouse, the widowed woman was sitting down, her two hands clasping a mug of hot tea. ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘That’s why we're here. First Gloria Wiggins, now your husband. Is there anyone who hated them that much that they would kill them?’ Clare said. She was also holding a mug, an attempt to empathise with the woman.

  ‘Rupert Baxter. He hated Mrs Wiggins. He hated Bert and me.’

  ‘Apart from him?’

  ‘They all hate us, even the Reverend Tichborne.’

  ‘Why would he hate you?’

  ‘We never liked him nor his wife.’

  ‘She died five years ago,’ Clare said.

  ‘She was always preaching about loving thy neighbour, even more than he did. Gloria Wiggins couldn’t stand her, told her to her face, even hit her once.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Nine, ten years ago. I can’t remember exactly. The reverend’s wife, a tall, skinny woman, head and shoulders above her husband, was berating Mrs Wiggins for criticising the previous vicar and his brother, saying that they were both as bad as each other.’

  ‘Is Rupert gay?’

  ‘Not him, but that was the woman. She didn’t care much for the truth. She had a go at us once, thought we spent too much time with animals, and she sure hated pigs, thought they were unclean, and we did not devote enough time to the Lord.’

  ‘We were under the impression that you and your husband were as devout as her.’

  ‘We are, or we were, but now Bert’s dead and I’m on my own.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Bert wasn’t much for children, and I couldn’t have them anyway. The doctor said it was something genetic. Anyway, we got along, Bert and me. He wasn’t much of a provider, but we never went anywhere, only up to the pub, sometimes into Salisbury. I used to like having a meal there when we went, a walk around the cathedral, tallest spire in England, did you know that?’

  ‘Is it?’ Clare thought feigning ignorance of the fact was probably the
best approach, although how could she not know. Every tourist leaflet in the city pronounced the fact.

  Tremayne knocked on the door and entered. ‘The doctor is here. Is there anyone who can come and stay with you?’

  ‘I don’t need anyone. I’ll miss him, but there’ll not be a lot of grieving. And besides, the animals still need looking after, and then there are the chickens and the eggs to collect. I’ll not have time to feel sorry for myself, and as for the sedative, I don’t need it.’

  Sheila Blatchford picked herself up from her chair, changed into her work clothes – heavy boots, a pair of men’s overalls, a thick jumper, and a heavy jacket – and left the house by the back door. Tremayne and Clare watched her as she walked past the cows and the chickens, before leaning over to talk to the pigs. Neither of the police officers was sure whether she was admonishing them for walking over her dying husband, or whether she was thanking them.

  ‘She’s a suspect,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘She’s a hater, that one. She could have killed Gloria Wiggins.’

  ‘Her husband could have as well. It’s not the end of the murders unless we find the culprit.’

  ‘In this village? And what about Rupert Baxter? If he’s killed two, he could still kill one more.’

  ‘Too obvious,’ Tremayne said.

  Chapter 6

  Gloria Wiggins had died a violent death; a full autopsy was required. She was on the pathologist’s table, a white cloth covering her. Tremayne was present. Jim Hughes and his crime scene team had not found much more that was of value. It had been confirmed that Stephanie Underwood, the next-door neighbour, had not been in the garage, her prints only on the right-hand door of the garage. It was old, and it still had its two wooden doors, neither of which fitted well, as both had distorted with age. There was a set of footprints on the driveway and in the garage. The rope and the pulley had been placed in position before the woman’s death, no fingerprints on either. And the killer had premeditated the woman’s death, which led to the possible conclusion that the death had not been as a result of hatred, but as a result of a disturbed mind. Tremayne was aware that some in the village might qualify on that count, but unless a full audit was conducted, then the latter possibility would be hard to prove. And Bert Blatchford’s death did not have the characteristics of being premeditated; more spontaneous, with a quick thrust of a knife, at least a nine-inch blade, very sharp and serrated, and then a shove through the gate to where the pigs had been.

  The CSIs had found evidence of someone else in the vicinity of the farm at the time, but no witnesses and no clues other than someone who would have had dirty clothes and shoes afterwards.

  ‘Are you going to stay?’ Stuart Collins, the forensic pathologist, said. Clare knew that the man did not appreciate being watched as he worked, not that Tremayne cared.

  ‘Tell me about her death, and I’ll leave you in peace,’ Tremayne said. Out there in Compton was where the action was, where a murderer lurked in plain view, no doubt acting with all the innocence of committing a justifiable act, possibly a righteous act. Whoever it was, sane or otherwise, had serious psychological issues, Tremayne knew that.

  ‘Preliminary observations indicate that the woman was conscious,’ Collins said. ‘We’ll conduct analysis for signs of drugs. With the person soon becoming unconscious on being lifted off the ground, the full weight of the suspended part of the body fell against the rope, creating enough pressure to restrict air flow through the trachea. She would have lasted no more than a few minutes. Body temperature at the time of investigation by the CSIs indicates that she had been dead for five hours. A full autopsy will be conducted, the report forwarded to you in due course.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s all we need,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I understand there is another one on its way,’ Collins said. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of this.’

  ‘Visiting you or sending bodies?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee the second.’

  ***

  Clare realised that the weekend date with the doctor wasn’t going to happen. She phoned him to let him know that a murder investigation took precedence over her personal life, not sure if it was the end of the romance or an interlude – not sure which she preferred. Her mother would have said she was foolish, rejecting a doctor, an educated man, for a grizzled and seedy old police officer, but Clare would never agree on that analysis of Detective Inspector Keith Tremayne. To her, he was her boss, her mentor, her friend, although neither would admit to the fondness each felt for the other. It was only Jean, Tremayne’s partner, who would mention it, invariably over a glass of wine, embarrassing them both profoundly, but then, that was why she did it. She was as fond of Clare as was Tremayne, having had two sons with another man, never a daughter. And to her, Clare was fulfilling that function, so much so that often she and Clare would meet up for a meal and a good chat.

  In the village of Compton, an uneasy truce. In one corner of the pub, Rupert Baxter, the genial host: dispensing witticisms, discussing the weather, the upcoming harvest, the price of livestock. In the other, Sheila Blatchford, a glass of sherry in her hand. With her sat two other women, one man. The interaction between the man that she had accused and her was guarded and tense, but it hadn’t prevented her giving her order, him bringing it to her table.

  Tremayne sat to one side, observing. For the duration of the investigation, the Compton Arms would be his local, the best place to see all, hear all, and most importantly, observe all. And what had he seen? A woman who believed Rupert Baxter had murdered her husband, yet could talk to him, albeit without any sign of pleasure. To Tremayne, it didn’t make sense, none of it did. Bert Blatchford was lined up for an autopsy with Stuart Collins, and the village acted as if nothing had happened.

  Barry Woodcock walked into the bar, acknowledging Tremayne as he passed, a nod of the head. He ordered a pint, exchanged a few words with Baxter, and then headed over to Sheila Blatchford, offering his condolences at the tragic loss of her husband, and what a good man he had been, and how difficult it must be for her. The village was incestuous, definitely in its behaviour, possibly in its history. The Baxters could count three generations in Compton, the Blatchfords four, and the Woodcocks appeared to have lived in the village for over two centuries, probably longer. Clare had researched it for Tremayne and had passed over the details to his phone, one of the rare occasions when he used it. His sergeant was crazy for the thing, always talking to someone or another, but he kept it simple. A phone call when it was necessary, a received message when it was vital, a vibrating tone when he was in a meeting or interviewing someone.

  Tremayne could see that Baxter was not talking to anyone, not serving either. He got up from his seat where he had been able to observe everything and moved to a stool round the other side of the bar where the beers were pulled.

  ‘Another beer?’ Baxter said.

  ‘Just the one. I’m driving,’ Tremayne said.

  With two beers on the bar counter, one for Tremayne, one for Baxter, a brief ‘cheers’ and a clinking of the glasses, Tremayne spoke. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘What don’t you get?’

  ‘Two people are murdered. You accuse Gloria Wiggins of causing your brother’s death, along with the Blatchfords. Sheila Blatchford calls you a murderer, and here you all are acting as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘We’re a tight-knit family, that’s all. We can hate, but we cannot ignore. And besides, we’re used to helping each other.’

  ‘It still doesn’t make sense. Barry Woodcock, what about him?’

  ‘James liked him, but you know that.’

  ‘I do, but now he’s talking to Sheila Blatchford and three others. Who are they?’

  ‘The woman sitting down, looks as though her cat’s been run over, that’s Margaret Wilmot, dead for ten years some would say.’

  ‘She’s a miserable looking woman, I’ll grant you that, but why the ten years.’<
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  ‘She suffered a heart attack back then, her heart stopped, but somehow after a few minutes, then managed to get it beating again. There are some that reckon she never came back, and what you’re looking at is a phantom.’

  ‘A ghost?’

  ‘It’s nonsense, but she lacks any charm. The only reason Sheila Blatchford tolerates her is that they’re united in their hatred of Tichborne.’

  ‘He’s an enlightened man,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Not to them. Those two are all for fire and brimstone, strictly Old Testament, stone the sinners, raze the land of the Canaanites.’

  ‘The other two?’

  ‘The man sitting to the other side of Sheila, looks as if someone pushed his face in?’

  ‘Your description, not mine,’ Tremayne said. He had downed his pint, Baxter gave him one more.

  ‘Hamish Foster. Scottish mother, English father. He had a nasty accident with a tractor when he was young. It rolled, smashed him up really bad. He still walks with a limp, and he had to have facial reconstruction. It’s not that noticeable now, but it was bad once. We used to call him names when we were young, not very charitable I know, but that’s what children do. Apart from that, he’s not a bad man, certainly nothing like the others sitting there. The other woman, knitted top, flowery skirt, that’s Foster’s wife, Desdemona. Her parents watched a production of Shakespeare once, Othello. Supposedly she was conceived that night. It’s her story, and she tells it well. Very pleasant if you get to know her, but she’s susceptible to lost causes, stupid people. That’s why she’s talking to Sheila.’