The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘We’ll be up later to talk to those who were part of the woman’s inner circle.’

  ‘Some are not here.’

  ‘Who and where?’

  ‘Hamish and Desdemona Foster went into Salisbury this morning.’

  ‘Yarwood, make a phone call. Get them back here. Baxter, you have their phone number?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Very well. Give it to Yarwood. Forty-five minutes at the pub, and that doesn’t mean the whole village, just those closest to the woman, is that understood?’

  ‘I’ll arrange it,’ Baxter said.

  No longer were they looking for a murderer, now they were looking for a psychopath, someone capable of extreme barbarism, and worst of all, someone who was a valued member of the community. Tremayne realised that they were dealing with the most dangerous of individuals, someone with the mental acumen to confuse a police investigation.

  Once again, a single murder had brought out a serial killer, someone who kills for a reason, although that reason still remained unclear.

  Hughes and his crime scene team mobilised at the Blatchfords’ farm. Tremayne and Clare received a preliminary report from Hughes to confirm that Sheila Blatchford had been killed before being butchered, a cord around her neck showing that she had been strangled. Also, the time of death had been estimated at twenty-four to thirty-six hours previous to the body’s discovery, the time based on the temperature of the body and the congealing blood, as well as the flies. Jim Hughes was hopeful of tightening up on the hour of the death, and Pathology still had to complete a thorough investigation of the body.

  At the pub, Sheila Blatchford’s group sat in their usual corner and Rupert Baxter was behind the bar, with Stephanie Underwood perched on the other side. Baxter had made sure that everyone had a drink and had paid for it. Clare looked at those assembled. Margaret Wilmot maintained her impassive facial expression: dull, disinterested, eyes focussed forward and not at the police officers. Gladys Upminster was in tears, not unexpected in that she had used Sheila Blatchford and the two others who had been murdered as her support after the death of her son. Her husband sat where he had been when he and Tremayne had drunk a few too many beers. Hamish and Desdemona Foster sat one table distant from the other fire and brimstoners. Yet again, Desdemona was in a floral dress, although her face did not reflect the sunny disposition of her clothing. Hamish Foster sat back on his chair; he was holding a pint of beer.

  If Clare and Tremayne had had to take a guess at what his face was hiding, it would be that he was not too upset that a woman had died. However, both of the police officers knew that appearances could be deceiving. Sheila Blatchford had shown little distress at her husband’s death, although they were apparently very close, yet they were known to argue at times, even hitting each other on more than one occasion.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Underwood, not this time,’ Clare said, as she ushered the woman out of the pub. The local gossip would have to find out from a third party if she wanted to tell the village, and Rupert Baxter was not beyond spreading the news.

  The death of Sheila Blatchford was common knowledge in the village, with a crowd down by the farm, a few more outside the pub. Tremayne took a long, hard look at all those in the pub, attempted to see any signs of arduous scrubbing of their bodies, the typical reaction of most people after being confronted by so much blood. He could see none.

  Tremayne sat down with those assembled. ‘Sheila Blatchford has been murdered,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve been told,’ Margaret Wilmot said. It was the first time that Tremayne had heard her speak. The detective inspector remembered Baxter saying that she was back from the dead.

  ‘Was it violent?’ The woman spoke for the second time.

  ‘It was. We’ll need your alibis and separate interviews and statements.’

  ‘He did it,’ Margaret Wilmot said, turning around on her chair and pointing at Rupert Baxter.

  ‘Just because I don’t hold with them and because of James and his leanings, they always want to blame me,’ Baxter said.

  ‘It’s him, I’m telling you,’ Margaret Wilmot said. She was on her feet, moving towards Baxter.

  If looks could kill, he’d be dead by now, Clare thought.

  Clare moved into the woman’s path. ‘Please sit down. We’re conducting a murder investigation here, not indulging in idle accusations. Or do you have proof?’

  ‘I’ve seen him down there when Bert wasn’t around. I know what was going on.’

  ‘If what you are saying is true, and that Mr Baxter and Mrs Blatchford were having an affair, why did you side with her? Both would be equally guilty of sin.’

  ‘Sheila’s heart was pure; Rupert Baxter’s is not.’

  ‘You didn’t forgive James Baxter. Surely he must have had a pure heart.’

  ‘To err is human, but not what he was doing with Barry Woodcock. I saw the two of them that day, both naked, indulging in sin, mocking the Lord, and not far from the church. It was wicked, inhuman, worthy of burning at the stake. Sheila Blatchford was a righteous woman, seduced by a known lecher. Oh, yes, I know about his father and Sheila’s mother. We all did, not that you’d know if you ever met them in the street.’

  ‘You’re willing to forgive Sheila, but not Rupert. Why is he the murderer?’

  ‘She was getting clingy, wanting to leave Bert, move in with him behind the bar. We know what he is like. Others had fallen for his charm, erred onto the path of evil.’

  ‘Have you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I cannot answer that question,’ Margaret Wilmot said.

  ‘It’s either here or down at the police station.’ Clare looked over at Rupert Baxter, saw that he was trying to stay out of her direct view. ‘Mr Baxter, the truth. Were you involved with Sheila, with Margaret Wilmot?’

  ‘She’s right on one count,’ Baxter said.

  ‘You were involved with Sheila Blatchford.’

  ‘No. But I was with Margaret when we were younger. Not such a sour old prune back then and attractive in a wholesome way. We were lovers, although she’d rather forget, and I’ve never said anything since then about it to anyone.’

  ‘Sheila Blatchford?’

  ‘You know of my relationship with her, so does everyone else in this bar. She was my half-sister. There was a bond between us. I used to go and see her occasionally, just to talk, to reflect on life and the different paths it had taken us. I did not like the woman, nor could I hate her. It was the same for her, the typical dysfunctional family.’

  ‘If she hadn’t been related?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Take away the nonsense she used to spout, she was a good woman, hardworking, loyal, and she deserved better than Bert Blatchford. The man was a worthless lump of lard.’

  ‘Yet, Mr Baxter,’ Tremayne interjected, ‘you do not seem to be concerned that she has died violently. Why is that?’

  ‘For now, one of the persecutors of my brother is dead. My emotions are confused. I should be sad, but I am not. And as for Margaret, a lovely woman in her time, she was nothing compared to Sheila. For a while, I could see a future with her, but then she went and married Chris Wilmot, a timid man, nagged him into his grave. Thankfully, I missed out on married bliss with Margaret. But let me say this, Margaret is a woman who can hate, and don’t assume that she or any of those in the corner is innocent of murder.’

  ‘You were Gloria’s age,’ Clare said.

  ‘When Gloria was younger, the same as with Stephanie, the same as with Margaret, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Mrs Wilmot, have you anything to say?’ Clare said.

  ‘No, not for now. I want to go back to my house.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we need to take statements,’ Tremayne said. The meeting at the pub had gone better than expected. The inevitable skeletons were surfacing, yet there were more, Tremayne knew, and if one of those who were sitting in the pub was the murderer, then he or she was playing with them, and enjoying every moment.


  Chapter 10

  Apart from a friendship with James Baxter in the past, Barry Woodcock gave no hint that his leanings were anything other than aimed at his wife, a woman who exuded an earthy countryside charm.

  Tremayne and Clare arrived at the Woodcocks’ small farm early in the morning. The air was crisp and the grass, with an early morning frost on it, crackled as they walked over the lawn to the front door. The house had a lived-in look, and apart from a broken window pane in one of the upstairs windows, it was not unattractive.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Gwen Woodcock shouted from the front door. She was dressed in clothes suited for indoors, and her arms were wrapped around her body to keep warm.

  ‘A few questions, Mrs Woodcock,’ Tremayne’s reply. There was no need to state who he and Clare were, having met the woman in the village before, although then it had only been an introduction. Now, it was time to interview her.

  ‘Very well, come in. Barry’s out in the fields.’ A cigarette drooped from the woman’s mouth, its ash about to drop off.

  Inside the house, neat and tidy, the furniture was functional, the décor rudimentary, although the air was heavy with the smell of tobacco. The two police officers took off the heavy coats they were wearing. A roaring log fire burnt in the hearth of the open fireplace. The youngest child played with its toys, the other two children were not visible.

  ‘Mrs Woodcock, we need a statement from you,’ Clare said.

  ‘Gwen. Mrs Woodcock makes me sound old.’

  ‘Very well. Three people have died so far, and your husband has stated that he was with you on all three occasions.’

  ‘That would be correct, but if you’re looking for proof, there isn’t any. We’re not great socialisers, although Barry has the occasional drink at the pub; apart from that, we don’t travel far.’

  ‘Did you have any reason to hate any of the three that have died?’

  ‘Not really. Gloria was an interfering busybody, but I gave her no credence. She said some scurrilous remarks about Barry and James Baxter in the past, and the Blatchfords were hardly the salt of the earth. Bert was harmless most of the time, although a bad drunk, and Sheila, a good worker, made good jam. She kept Bert on the straight and narrow and I wouldn’t have given you tuppence for her, but murder, that’s something different.’

  ‘Are you sad that they’ve died?’ Tremayne asked. He liked a person who said their mind and wasn’t always politically correct. With Gwen Woodcock smoking in the house, he felt inclined to light up, but he did not.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You grew up around here, the same as them.’

  ‘Apart from what they said about Barry and the vicar, I tried to ignore them. I focus on my family; anyone else is on the periphery, at least as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘The strongest motive for their deaths is revenge, which makes your husband the primary suspect,’ Tremayne said.

  So far, Gwen Woodcock, even if she was not a person to warm to with her offhand manner, had been straight with Tremayne and Clare. Outside in the yard, Barry’s old Land Rover. A dog slept close to the fire, its breed indeterminable.

  ‘I know my husband,’ Gwen said. ‘We went to school together, and then when we were old enough, we were dating, not that there was anywhere to go of a night. The cinema on a Saturday night, and we were still too young for the pub, although I’m not keen on alcohol, but Barry sometimes has one or two more than he should, but then, men always do.’

  Tremayne knew what she meant. He was rationed to three pints of a night, and he still hankered after five and twice as many cigarettes. But after the scare when he had drunk too much, smoked too much, and no doubt eaten too much, and then the night in the hospital, the doctor had made it clear that it was either moderate his habits or a wooden box six feet under. Tremayne had reluctantly chosen to follow instructions, though he didn’t have many options, what with Jean at home and Yarwood in the office, and the two of them comparing notes.

  ‘No truth in the rumour, is that what you’re saying? You must realise that the truth will come out eventually,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m not defending my husband from scurrilous gossip. Those who indulge in character assassinations are not as clean as they pretend to be. I could tell you about some of them, especially Sheila Blatchford. But she’s dead, and it doesn’t pay to talk badly of the departed.’

  ‘Why would someone kill them after so many years?’

  ‘How would I know? I remember when James Baxter died. Barry was upset, but then he had been friends with the man, and he was at the church every Sunday, the same as I was.’

  ‘Nowadays?’

  ‘Not often. The children were baptised there, and the eldest two are at Sunday school. Does them no harm and the Reverend Tichborne is a decent man.’

  ‘Why not every Sunday?’

  ‘We’re too busy, what with the children and the farm. As you can see, we’re not exactly brimming with money, and a day off, even a Sunday morning, is not on our schedule. We’ll make an exception to take the children to the doctor if it’s needed, but apart from that, our lives are too full. And besides, Tichborne can make a sermon sound like a dirge, and as for Gloria and the others, they would only make veiled comments about the rest of us. Barry took no notice, but I did. Gloria had money but she never gave it to anyone else, yet she was thick with the Blatchfords, and look what it got them, Bert with a knife in his back, Sheila cut up with a Ryobi chainsaw.’

  ‘We never mentioned the make of the chainsaw,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Lucky guess, and anyway, what other make is there if you want to do some serious sawing?’

  ‘Do you have a chainsaw?’

  ‘Under lock and key. I caught the eldest fooling around with it one day. He thought it was a lightsabre or something else silly. Too much nonsense on the television, not that they watch it often.’

  ‘How often?’ Clare said.

  ‘At the weekends, Saturday afternoon. I know it’s not ideal for them to watch, but they’re good children so I give them some slack. The boy, he’s into science fiction, the girl, she likes silly and soppy. The baby doesn’t care for either, but he enjoys being there with them.’

  ‘Coming back to your chainsaw,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Under lock and key, not that we use it much. Barry’s keen on the old ways, and he takes part in those log sawing competitions that you see at the agricultural fairs. He’s won a few prizes over the years. He’s good for firewood for the fire and the stove in the house.’

  ‘Can we look at your chainsaw?’ Clare asked.

  ‘It’s in a shed out back. No one's been in there, and it hasn’t been used for over a year.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we’d still like to see it.’

  Tremayne sensed a hesitancy in the woman. There was no reason to suspect her of any crime, but the savagery inflicted on Sheila Blatchford showed a person skilled at wielding a chainsaw, a person such as Barry Woodcock.

  Outside the house a track led over to an old wooden shed. In keeping with the farm in general it was functional, sturdy, but had no beauty about it, even though it was over two hundred years old. The double doors at the front were secured by a large padlock. Gwen Woodcock turned the key in the lock. She placed the lock to one side and opened one of the doors, its hinges creaking.

  Inside, a musty place of damp and decay. An old plough rusted to one side, an old bench stood on the other, complete with tools, mostly old and no longer usable.

  The woman indicated a big metal chest. However, it was not locked. Clare made a phone call to Jim Hughes and his crime scene team to come out to the Woodcocks’ farm as soon as possible. Tremayne put on a pair of gloves that he carried in his pocket. He opened the lid of the chest to find it empty.

  ‘Now we know where the chainsaw came from that chopped up Sheila Blatchford,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It can’t be Barry. He’s not capable of hurting anyone,’ Gwen said.

  ‘I’m afraid this
doesn’t look good for your husband. Not only is your chainsaw the probable murder weapon, but your husband has the strength and the ability to wield the instrument. You, Mrs Woodcock, are not strong enough.’

  ‘Barry will have an explanation, I know he will.’

  ‘You defended him over his relationship with James Baxter. Are you now going to defend him if he is a person with a motive and the ability?’

  ‘I’ll always defend him. It’s called loyalty, but he didn’t kill any of the three. I know it.’

  ‘Do you, Mrs Woodcock?’ Clare said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If your husband is guilty of the murder of Sheila Blatchford, it presents a complication,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gwen said. She was sitting on an old chair, looking at the empty chest. If, as she had said, she trusted her husband implicitly, did the missing chainsaw indicate another side to the man, an unknown element, violence, a need for revenge? Clare had trusted a former lover in much the same way, only to find out that he was a murderer who had then died while trying to save her. Was Gwen Woodcock in the same situation? A woman misled by a husband, a man she thought she knew, but now wasn’t so sure about.

  ‘Gloria Wiggins was lifted up using a pulley system. If your husband is a murderer, the murderer of Gloria Wiggins, then why would he have used the pulleys? He’s a strong man, more than capable of pulling the woman up with his bare hands.’

  ‘Two murderers?’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s possible. A family united, is that what the Woodcocks are?’ Tremayne said, fully aware that he was baiting a woman who was visibly stunned by what had been found in the old shed.

  Chapter 11

  Barry Woodcock was not pleased when told of the harassment his wife had been subjected to over the missing chainsaw. Jim Hughes and his team checked the chest where it had been stored, confirmed that the oil residue found in the empty space and the oil found in the murder weapon were one and the same. Tremayne knew that raised additional questions, especially for Barry, who would gladly have hit Tremayne if he hadn’t been a serving police officer. It had been Barry’s wife, temporarily distracted by her husband’s anger, who calmed the situation. One of the children wandered into the room due to the commotion and immediately went to its mother. Gwen Woodcock gave the child a hug and took it back to its room.