Clare knew that solid alibis were always open to conjecture. Being at home watching the television was not sufficient, and being at the cinema in Salisbury, about a twenty-minute drive away, was not either.
‘Where were you?’
‘In London, at our son’s. He’ll provide our alibi.’
Stephanie Underwood walked into the pub. Tremayne and Clare realised she was a nosy woman, and if it was information that she required, then where better than the pub. She ordered a drink and sat down at the bar. Clare could see her ears pricking as she strained to listen to the various conversations in the pub.
Tremayne looked over at the woman, then at Clare, a slight lifting of his eyebrows. Clare understood. If her hearing was that good, how come she had not heard the commotion from next door when her neighbour had been murdered. Even if Gloria Wiggins had been unconscious, it would have required some effort to move her to the garage, unless there were two people, but Jim Hughes and his CSIs had discounted that possibility.
Clare left where she was sitting and moved over to the bar. She was still holding her first glass of wine, Tremayne was on his third pint of beer. It was good that she was driving, and not him.
‘Sergeant Yarwood, I’m surprised to see you here,’ Stephanie Underwood said.
‘DI Tremayne always reckons the local pub is the best place for candid conversation,’ Clare said. Baxter came over, interested to know if either of the ladies wanted another drink; both declined.
‘I don’t come that often, but the mood in the village is strange. Even at home, I could feel it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Impending doom. As if it’s not over yet.’
‘Someone else will die, is that it?’
‘It’s a small village with big secrets.’
‘Most villages in the area have them, and once the equilibrium is broken, then emotions run unchecked, deaths occur.’
‘Gloria, I could understand, but Bert, he wasn’t so bad. Why did he die, do you know?’ Stephanie asked.
‘We were looking for a common motive, but maybe there isn’t one,’ Clare said. ‘Murder’s a serious crime committed by people for a myriad of reasons. Gloria’s may have been for her venomous denouncing of others in the village, but Bert makes no sense. A drunk, and a zealot, but, by and large, he minded his own business.’
‘Bert was whatever Sheila told him to be. Outside of their farm, he pretended to be in charge, but he wasn’t. For whatever reason, he was devoted to Sheila, not that she deserved it, but each to their own, I suppose.’
‘How about you?’ Clare asked. ‘No man in your life?’
‘Never has been. Not that I wasn’t interested, especially as a teen at school in Salisbury. A few turns around the back of the bike shed, but it wasn’t something that drove me. After school, I realised that I didn’t need a man, and I’ve been content to just stay here. Too many people rushing here and there, getting ulcers, destroying their lives by chasing the wrong person, sleeping with the wrong one on occasion. You know about Rupert and Sheila?’
‘We do.’
‘I remember his father, a likeable rogue.’
‘Any problems with him?’
‘He used to look me up and down when I was in my teens, but no, nothing more. Rupert and his brother, both decent men, as well. I fancied Rupert when he was younger, back of the bike shed with him once, but it was a long time ago, I doubt if he remembers.’
‘You can be certain he does,’ Clare said.
‘I was attractive back then, and it was what teens did, even if they weren’t too keen. I remember Rupert’s wife, a severe woman, not a lot of humour about her. I don’t think I ever saw her smile once, and their son, he was only young then, but he wasn’t what you’d call a lovely baby, but I suppose parents see them differently.’
‘They do.’
‘And how about you, Sergeant?’ The patter of little feet back at home?’
‘Not for me, not yet,’ Clare responded, realising that she had sat with the woman to gain information, not to discuss her life. ‘Tell me more about Gloria Wiggins? What was she like as a neighbour? As a friend?’
‘As a neighbour, she was fine. I like everything to be in its place, and with her, there were never any disputes over one of us not tidying up or having loud parties. I don’t think she had a true friend in the world, and certainly not me. She may have been friendly with Sheila Blatchford and her people, but that was only because of a united cause.’
‘What cause?’
‘The malignant kind, the sort that upsets people. Sheila revels in it, so did Gloria.’
‘Did she believe all that she s said?’
‘She did. Rupert’s brother was on the end of it once, and they’ve been into Rupert on more than one occasion, but he’s a stronger character than his brother. Effeminate, he was, but then you must know that.’
‘Homosexual?’
‘They called him a sodomite, more damning than the words they use today. It used to upset him, and Rupert used to tell him to stand up to them, but that wasn’t his nature. His motorbike was probably the only sanctity that he could find, unfortunate that it killed him in the end.’
‘Who else have they levelled their vindictiveness against?’
‘Everyone who’s upset them, which in this village has meant virtually everyone. At least they’re democratic.’
‘And you?’
‘They’ve tried, but I’m made of sterner stuff. That’s why I got on with Gloria. I didn’t like her, nor her me, but we could sit down over a cup of tea and have a chat.’
‘We found her husband,’ Clare said. Stephanie Underwood paused before speaking again.
‘We always thought him to be a creation of her imagination. Tell me about him.’
‘He’s alive and married. They were married for a short time, and he only visited this village once, and then only for a few minutes. Could it have had any bearing on her death and that of Bert Blatchford?’
‘Why? Should it?’
‘I was asking the question,’ Clare said. She broke her cardinal rule and ordered another glass of wine, prosecco for her talkative companion.
‘Everyone called her Mrs Wiggins, whether they believed that she had been married or not. It made no difference to the people here, only to her. Is he coming here? Did he leave her? What was he like?’
‘A lot of questions, Miss Underwood.’
‘Stephanie, please.’
‘Very well. Stephanie. I can tell you that she left him and subsequently divorced. They were not married for very long, and after so many years, he does not have any strong feelings for her one way or another. It is unlikely that he will come here, and he has an alibi for the time that she died. Unless we receive information to the contrary, he is not part of our enquiry.’
‘Then it’s someone in this village.’
‘It probably is. Why didn’t you hear any commotion next door?’
‘Gloria was always rattling around in her place. Ten in the evening and she would still be making a noise. Not the sort you could complain about, but it was the time for quiet, not banging this and that. Over the years, I’ve tuned her out. Maybe I did hear a commotion, but my subconscious would have muted the sound. It’s the same as with a barking dog. It drives you crazy at first, but then after a few months, you can barely hear the animal.’
Clare could not fault the reasoning behind the woman’s answer. Stephanie Underwood, fuelled by new gossip regarding the mysterious husband, left and walked up the road to her cottage. Clare knew she’d be stopping on the way to pass on the latest news.
Leaving the bar, Clare walked over to Tremayne and Eustace Upminster. She could see that the two of them were showing the early effects of one-too-many pints of beer. Over in the other corner, Sheila Blatchford was still holding court, her attentive admirers giving her attention. Hamish Foster looked as though he was bored with what was being said, although his wife, Desdemona, was still enthralled.
> Clare could see an uneven matching in the Fosters. The husband was tall, physically strong, not the sort of man to tolerate a bigoted woman such as Sheila Blatchford, not the kind of man to be hanging onto his wife’s apron strings, which appeared to be the case. Gladys Upminster, a woman in late middle age, and still attractive in an earthy, fresh-aired way, with the look of someone who lived in the country and spent a lot of time outside, sat calmly, focussed on Sheila, casting the occasional disparaging glance towards her husband, the sort of look that Clare recognised as a ‘wait till I get you home and give you a lashing of my tongue’ look.
Chapter 9
The news that Gloria Wiggins had been married spread like wildfire in the small community of Compton, so much so that Clare had some reservations in the following days as to whether it had been a good move on her part to tell Stephanie Underwood. Tremayne saw it differently. As far as he was concerned an unknown element had been brought into the investigation, and although Cuthbert Wiggins had only visited once, and as he had said, only for five minutes, it raised speculation. The local gossips were in full flow discussing the unexpected titbit, some stating that they had seen him more than once in the village. If that was true, and Gloria Wiggins’ former husband had been in the village on more than one occasion, then he had lied, and he was a prime suspect.
Apart from the man who professed to have loved the woman once, no one else was coming forward in Compton with anything other than derision and scathing comments about a person who caused more harm than good, who had a sharp tongue and the ability to make the most righteous and fair-minded villager sound akin to a devil worshipper.
Tremayne sat pensively in his office, a sure sign that he was reviewing the case.
Clare gave him five more minutes before she entered and sat opposite him. ‘What’s the plan?’ she said, knowing full well that her senior was never short of an idea on how to proceed.
‘We’re focussing on Gloria at the expense of Blatchford,’ he said.
‘She’s the catalyst.’
‘Even if Wiggins had visited the village on more than one occasion, even if he had killed Gloria, it doesn’t tie in with Bert Blatchford, or does it?’
‘What do we know about Bert, about bank manager Wiggins, about anyone? We only know what they let us see. Maybe Wiggins had spent time there, and Gloria knew this.’
‘But why? You’ve checked out the divorce from her husband. What he said was true. She cleaned the man out, so why would he keep in contact?’
‘He could have visited without her knowing,’ Clare said. ‘Still more unknowns, another village with more secrets than people. The answers lie in the village, not at the police station.’
‘Too many variables. Cuthbert Wiggins is still a long shot at this time. Let’s focus on the village. There are enough people who didn’t like the dead woman, more than enough that didn’t like Bert Blatchford.’
‘There are even more who didn’t like Blatchford’s wife. She could be the next victim.’
‘We’d better go and talk to her, let her know the situation.’
Tremayne, glad to be out his office, did not like the Blatchfords’ farm. He was a city man, and even though Salisbury was small, centred on a twelfth-century cathedral and a modest population, it still represented normality to him. Traipsing around in the mud, even up to the front of the Blatchfords’ farmhouse, did not improve his mood. He had met enough narrow-minded people over the years, and he knew that Sheila Blatchford was not going to be an easy woman to question.
Clare knocked on the door, although not expecting a reply, assuming that the woman would be out on the farm. It was not large, no more than fifty acres, and was scruffy with a down-at-heel look. Over on one side, closer to the road that passed the village, stood the pigsty where Bert had died. On another side, one hundred yards from the road, an old and rusty tractor decayed. One of its tyres was flat, a sure sign that it had not moved in a long time. A barn door was open next to it.
‘She’s probably over there,’ Clare said. She had grown up near the countryside in Norfolk. She liked being on a farm, even one as unappealing as the Blatchfords’. She savoured the smell in the air, the chickens walking around the farm, the ducks over in one corner, the geese, raucous at the best of times, deafening at others. And now they were in full chorus, enough to wake the dead Tremayne would have said, if asked.
The two police officers walked across to the barn and peered inside. The smell of hay and animals, but no sign of the woman in question.
‘She’s not here,’ Tremayne said.
‘Her car’s outside. She’ll not be far,’ Clare said.
Clare walked around the barn, taking care to avoid the animals’ calling cards that littered the floor. Up high on one of the rafters, two pigeons. The barn was dark and damp, and Clare felt unease as she continued to look. Tremayne had left the building to look around outside, but primarily because he was in need of a cigarette. With Clare and Jean in his ear, he had cut down to five a day, yet the need for more remained.
Tremayne lit his cigarette and walked around the farmyard. Inside the car, he could see the keys, the woman’s handbag on the passenger seat. Nothing unusual in itself as people still left their doors open in Compton. He completed a circuit of the outside of the barn before returning to its door.
‘Yarwood, are you still in there?’ No answer. He called again, this time louder. ‘Are you still in there?’
‘Over here,’ a weak voice replied. ‘Come quick.’
Tremayne walked through the barn, faster than his usual pace, stepping in horse manure, cursing at the time, concerned about what Yarwood had found or what she was up to. He found her sitting on a bale of hay; she had vomited.
‘Too much farm air,’ he said flippantly as he saw her discomfort.
‘Around the back. Take a look, if you can.’
Tremayne pushed through the bales of hay where Clare had indicated. It was a tight squeeze for him to get through. He saw what had caused his sergeant to vomit. He could feel the bile in his throat, and he took out his handkerchief to hold against his mouth and to press against his nose to moderate the smell. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
At his rear, Clare stood, not looking directly at the scene in front of them. There on the floor, the remains of Sheila Blatchford.
‘How can anyone do this sort of thing?’ Clare said.
Tremayne, who had seen more than Clare in his thirty-plus years with the police force, knew the answer. People are capable of anything, although this was the work of a sadist or a person feeling extreme hatred. The body of Sheila Blatchford had been carved up with a chainsaw that was lying to one side. The area was full of blood and it squelched underneath their feet. Flies, large and voracious, were settled on the body, the air alive with more of them. The two police officers retreated back down the narrow alley by which they had entered. Clare took out her phone and called Jim Hughes.
‘Blatchfords’ farm,’ she said.
‘Another one?’ Hughes’ reply.
‘Sheila Blatchford, or at least we think it is.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘She’s been butchered, and she’s been stewing in the barn for some time. Don’t bring any of your juniors. It’ll turn their stomachs.’
‘Yours?’
‘Mine, and DI Tremayne’s looking green around the gills.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes; the team should be there within ninety. You’ll be establishing the crime scene?’
‘I’ll get a couple of uniforms to set it up. Tremayne and I will be here on your arrival. Be prepared to be shocked.’
Outside of the barn, Tremayne lit another cigarette. It was over his quota, but Clare didn’t offer any comment; now was not the time for light-hearted repartee. It was now a crime scene, and whereas both Gloria Wiggins and Bert Blatchford had met violent deaths, they were nothing compared to the savagery inflicted on Sheila Blatchford.
‘Was she alive when whoever it
was started?’ Clare asked, more by way of affirmation that she was not, rather than seeking a precise answer.
‘That’s up to the crime scene team and the pathologist to tell us. Judging by the blood, it’s a possibility.’
‘Someone in the village?’
‘But why reserve that for her? It looks as if the fire and brimstoners are the targets, which can only mean that anyone else associated with them is a possible victim. Once we’re finished here, we’ll bring them together at the pub. Judging by the village, no one else has sensed what’s going on.’
‘They will once the crime scene investigators arrive. I could do with a drink to calm my nerves,’ Clare said.
‘Phone up Rupert Baxter, get him to come down with a couple of hot drinks.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Kitting up in coveralls and shoe covers, the same as you. No point in making our presence any more visible than it already is.’
Baxter arrived within ten minutes, a flask and two cups in his hands. He had parked a hundred yards back and walked down in accordance with the instructions he had received. Clare could see a crowd forming closer to the pub.
‘News travels fast,’ Baxter said.
‘It does if you tell them,’ Tremayne replied.
‘You phoned the pub. It was busy, some of the locals overheard. And besides, what is it?’
‘Sheila Blatchford. She’s been murdered.’
‘After Gloria and Bert, it seemed a possibility.’
‘That’s what we thought. That’s why we came looking for her, to warn her.’
‘Too late, I assume.’
‘Too late.’ Clare could see Baxter fishing for information, something to take back to the pub. A police car arrived, two uniforms set to work securing the area. Jim Hughes was not far behind. He took one look in the barn and came out, not smiling as he had been when he had entered.
‘That’s too much for me,’ he said.
Baxter, all ears, took in what was being said. ‘This is not for repeating at the pub,’ Tremayne said, knowing that it would be.
‘They’ll ask.’
‘Tell them that Sheila Blatchford is dead. No mention of what Hughes just said.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 121