The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

Tichborne installed himself on a stool at the bar and ordered a rum. His hands were shaking, not unexpected under the circumstances. Murder, especially when it’s someone you know, affects people in different ways. Some pretend to act normally, others act distraught and start crying for the dead person, eventually the crying turning to anger at the perpetrator.

  Clare entered the room where Tremayne and Eustace Upminster sat.

  ‘Nasty bump on the head,’ Upminster said. He shifted uneasily on his seat. Clare had taken a few courses on body language, on how to interpret a person’s actions. She was putting them to use now, but Upminster wasn’t giving much away.

  ‘I’ll be alright. My head’s not the issue, is it? Who hit me on it is more relevant, who strangled Stephanie Underwood.’

  Tremayne cleared his throat. ‘We’ll be recording this, is that acceptable?’ he said to Upminster.

  ‘Fine by me,’ Upminster replied.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Eustace Upminster.’

  ‘Stephanie Underwood’s been murdered. No doubt everyone knows how and where.’

  ‘Don’t tell Rupert Baxter if you want to keep a secret, and besides, it’s not unexpected.’

  ‘What do you mean? Apart from being a gossip, the woman did not appear to have any particular views on anyone, and she was not one of Gloria Wiggins’ group.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, but she kept her ear to the ground. If anyone knew who had killed the three, it would be her.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she knew?’

  ‘It’s possible, although she may only have surmised it.’

  ‘She never confided in us her suspicions,’ Clare said.

  ‘She was devoted to this village. I can’t remember the last time that she wasn’t here, and if she knew something, she wouldn’t necessarily have told you.’

  ‘What would she have done?’

  ‘She would have let the village deal with it.’

  ‘Taking the law into your own hands is a criminal offence.’

  ‘Nothing as melodramatic as that. She would have adopted the view that these things sort themselves out in time.’

  ‘Even if that meant more deaths?’

  ‘Even. But that was Stephanie. A believer in fate, that’s all. Not a bad way to live, saves all the hassle of worrying.’

  ‘A bad way to die,’ Clare said. She found Upminster’s comments glib and inane. A woman had been murdered in her own home, watching her favourite programme on the television, yet Eustace Upminster was acting as if the woman had gone missing for a couple of hours.

  Upminster left after a few more questions and Tremayne glanced down at the message on his phone. He dialled the sender.

  ‘Yes, got it. Are you sure?’ He ended the call, looked over at Clare. ‘Get some juniors out here to take the statements. We’ve got a trip to meet up with someone.’

  ‘I can’t drive. The medic gave me some medicine, and besides, I’m not feeling so good.’

  ‘I’ll go on my own if you’re not up to it,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’ll sleep, you can drive. I can rest later, but today’s important. I’m with you.’

  ***

  Cuthbert Wiggins sat forlornly in the interview room at the police station close to his bank. He was not a happy man.

  ‘He came quietly as a lamb,’ the young sergeant at the station said.

  ‘Any charges?’ Tremayne asked. It had been a ninety-minute drive, and Clare had dozed most of the way. She felt better but not by a lot.

  ‘We’ve cautioned him. We thought you’d want to deal with the charging. Nasty bump on your head,’ the sergeant said. Clare had heard the comment a few too many times now, and it was starting to wear thin.

  Tremayne took hold of a coffee that the station sergeant gave him; Clare kept to a glass of water. She realised that she was close to passing out. She excused herself and headed to the ladies’ toilet. Inside, she splashed water on her face and steadied herself against the wall. She took a deep breath, went out and resumed her position alongside Tremayne. The two of them entered the interview room. A uniform stood to one side.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Wiggins said.

  ‘We’ll follow this by the book, Mr Wiggins,’ Tremayne said. He cautioned the man again and followed the correct procedure. Cuthbert Wiggins was no longer a person of interest; now he was intimately involved after Jim Hughes had found damning evidence against the man.

  ‘Mr Wiggins, we have incontrovertible evidence that you were in Stephanie Underwood’s cottage at the time of her death,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I know it looks bad for me,’ Wiggins replied, ‘but she was dead when I arrived. I found her there, dead, still warm.’

  ‘You’ll not make a criminal if what you’re saying is true. They found a monogrammed handkerchief, your initials.’

  ‘My wife gave me a dozen for my last birthday. She likes to do things like that.’

  ‘You dropped it.’

  ‘I took it out when I was checking the woman.’

  ‘The full story,’ Clare said.

  ‘Very well,’ Wiggins said. ‘I told you before that Gloria took plenty of my assets when we divorced.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘When we first married, we drew up wills naming each other the beneficiary in the event of our deaths. I’ve changed mine obviously to my current wife’s name. Gloria, I have since found out, did not, or if she had, she had not registered the will. If that is correct, then I am the beneficiary of her estate, the cottage and any money she may have had.’

  ‘Why Stephanie Underwood?’

  ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. Gloria hadn’t registered a subsequent will, but she may have written another. I needed to know, and I didn’t want to wait, and I thought Gloria’s next-door neighbour might have known something.’

  ‘Why would she?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I don’t know. It was just a hunch, but if there were money that I could claim, then I would. In her death, there may have been some redemption for what she did. I drove there, parked some distance from the village and walked through the fields and up to the back of the cottage. No one saw me, and apart from that handkerchief, you wouldn’t have known that I’d been there.’

  ‘We would have. There are fingerprints in the cottage, no doubt yours when we check. Also, a walking stick, the end of which you had held when you hit Sergeant Yarwood over the head.’

  ‘I panicked. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I knew that if I had been seen there, I would be charged with murder.’

  ‘Mr Wiggins, you may be a fool, and you may have hit me, but you’re not a murderer,’ Clare said. ‘There has been another person in that cottage, and there is evidence that that person strangled Stephanie Underwood.’

  ‘She looked so peaceful there. I sat with her for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just seemed the right thing to do. Nobody should die like that.’

  ‘You didn’t care when Gloria died.’

  ‘Not as much as I should, but the next-door neighbour deserved better.’

  ‘Had you met her before?’

  ‘No. I saw her that one time I came to the village, but it was many years ago, and she never saw me. Gloria said who she was.’

  ‘How did you get into the cottage?’ Clare asked.

  ‘The door was open. I found her sitting there, a cable around her neck. That’s the truth, and I’m sorry, Sergeant. I panicked.’

  ‘Mr Wiggins, you’ve committed a crime. You’ll be charged with assault and leaving the scene of a crime.’

  ‘My wife will worry if I’m not at home tonight.’

  ‘You’ll be allowed to phone her to let her know. For tonight, you’ll be held at the police station. Tomorrow, you can apply for bail.’

  ‘Even from the grave Gloria causes trouble. I only wanted what was mine, and I’m sorry the next-door neighbour is dead.’

  ‘So am I,’ Clare said.

  Tremayne drove back to Clare’s
cottage, Jean was at the door on their arrival. ‘I’m staying the night,’ she said to Clare. ‘You need someone to fuss over you. Tremayne told me what happened. It must have come as a big shock.’

  ‘It did,’ Clare said, although all she wanted to do was to go to bed and sleep.

  Chapter 15

  Tremayne, on his own for once, forsook the opportunity to have a few drinks at his local pub, and returned to Bemerton Road Police Station. On his arrival, he made for his office by way of Superintendent Moulton’s. Tremayne knew the man would be interested in how the murder investigation was progressing, and Clare’s well-being after she’d been hit on the head.

  In Moulton’s office, Tremayne updated his senior, even having a cup of coffee with him. This time no mention was made of retirement, or how long it would take to solve the case.

  Tremayne left Moulton’s office, and walked down the two flights of stairs to his own office. Waiting for him were two officers, both sergeants. Kyle Sutherland, degree-educated, ambitious, the taller of the two and very capable, had been looking for a berth in Homicide for some time. The only problem for Tremayne was that Sutherland was full-on, with no perceptible sense of humour, a man who ran marathons for the fun of it. Tremayne knew Sutherland would irritate him, and besides he was soon to be an inspector and he’d want to be the senior investigating officer in Homicide. As far as Tremayne was concerned, the job was Clare’s when he decided to retire.

  The second of those waiting in his office, Danny Woo, was older than Sutherland and more experienced. Tremayne liked him, although the man eschewed any further attempts at gaining professional qualifications. Clare had the necessary degree, so did the marathon runner, but Woo, Chinese but born in England, did not. And as he had freely admitted to Tremayne, he was content to remain a sergeant, and his life was okay. A small house in the country, a wife, two children, and a cat were all he wanted. Tremayne had to agree with the man, as he had had the opportunity to become a chief inspector on more than one occasion but he had never pushed for it. There was always another murder to solve, another pub for a drink, and the higher echelons of the police force demanded more responsibility, setting an example, and neither had appealed.

  Danny Woo stood as Tremayne entered his office; Sutherland remained sitting, a sign of arrogance, Tremayne thought. Deference to a superior, even if not a requirement, always showed a mark of respect; Sutherland not willing to grant that.

  ‘You both stayed out at Compton and interviewed those in the pub,’ Tremayne said. ‘Any inconsistencies, anything untoward?’

  ‘Our reports have been sent, full transcripts as well as the audio recordings,’ Sutherland said in a tone of indifference.

  ‘I’m sure they’re thorough. Just give me your impressions of the people, their body language.’

  ‘Could we get an update from you first?’ Danny Woo asked.

  ‘Sure. We’ve charged Cuthbert Wiggins with hitting Sergeant Yarwood. He admitted to that crime, and Yarwood is going to be fine. She’s tough and she will be in the office tomorrow. Wiggins claims that he entered Stephanie Underwood’s house purely because he wanted to see what she knew about any later wills that Gloria Wiggins may have written. He stated that he found Miss Underwood dead, and that he panicked when Yarwood entered the cottage. That’s when he hit her. He then fled across the fields, avoiding me and anyone else in the village.’

  ‘He was seen,’ Sutherland said.

  ‘Wiggins did not murder Stephanie Underwood,’ Tremayne continued. ‘Jim Hughes and his crime scene investigators found evidence of another person. Just a smudged fingerprint on a door handle, and evidence that someone had scuffed a wooden floor with a muddied boot. It looks as if the murderer was a man, but it’s not certain.’

  ‘And Wiggins?’ Woo asked.

  ‘He’ll probably be bailed tomorrow. No doubt his bank will suspend him, but he did not murder the woman, and unless we come up with something conclusive, he did not kill Gloria Wiggins either.’

  ‘Very well,’ Sutherland said. ‘Sergeant Woo and I conducted our interviews. The only alibis from anyone that we spoke to are not irrefutable, purely each corroborating the other as to where they were. Barry and Gwen Woodcock were at their farm, not proof in itself. The Fosters, Hamish and Desdemona, were at home, as was Margaret Wilmot. Eustace and Gladys Upminster were tucked up in bed, according to them, although Gladys was crying most of the time during the interview.’

  ‘She has some psychological issues,’ Tremayne admitted.

  ‘So we gathered from your and Sergeant Yarwood’s reports,’ Sutherland said.

  ‘The Reverend Tichborne?’

  ‘At the rectory. A strange man, he kept quoting parables, but nothing untoward. Supposedly he was a nuisance at the crime scene.’

  ‘He wanted to get close to the body, say a prayer. He wasn’t allowed, and he got angry. How about Rupert Baxter?’

  ‘He claims that he was upstairs in the pub,’ Woo said.

  ‘Claims?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘That’s in our report,’ Sutherland said.

  ‘Okay, remiss of me for not reading it, but I want your impressions, not written words.’

  ‘Outside of the pub, it was a couple of hours later, Barry Woodcock came up to us. He was with his wife, Gwen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘According to them, and they were anxious not to be seen to be telling tales or casting slurs, but they said that Rupert Baxter was with Margaret Wilmot, tucked up together at her manor house.’

  ‘What!’ Tremayne exclaimed, almost jumping out of his seat at the news.

  ‘An unusual pair,’ Sutherland said. ‘Baxter’s a jovial, easy-going man. Margaret Wilmot is not. Rather severe in her manner, and definitely not a woman to be trifled with. She was tough in the interview, answered what was asked, said no more. Emotionless.’

  ‘Those two bring an unknown into the investigation. You’ve not quizzed either of them about this disparity?’

  ‘We conducted the interviews as required,’ Woo said. ‘And besides, you and Yarwood have a closer understanding of the village of Compton and its occupants. We believed we were correct in leaving it to you and Sergeant Yarwood to follow up.’

  ‘Great job, and yes, you’re correct. Although why the Woodcocks never told us about Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter before is of concern, and if the two young lovers are involved, how does this impact on the investigation?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Young?’ Sutherland said.

  ‘Maybe not so young, but they’ve kept their distance before, and now we are informed that they may be cavorting up there in the manor house. The problem is that everyone protects everyone else, and it’s almost impossible to find the truth. And what is it with Tichborne? We’ve never heard him reciting passages from the Bible before.’

  ‘Not so many parables, but he mentioned Lazarus rising. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘It’s an oblique reference to Margaret Wilmot.’

  ***

  Clare slept well that night. The medic came over at one stage to the cottage, although by then Clare was upstairs, so she spent an hour with Jean, chatting and drinking tea. The next morning, Clare enjoyed a home-cooked English breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, and toast. Tremayne, left to himself, managed to pour cornflakes into a bowl and add milk.

  In Compton a light mist had settled over the place, as if a forewarning of doom. Clare liked Stratford sub Castle where her cottage was, but Compton left her cold. Even on a bright day it had little charm, but with a mist, it looked eerie and unloved.

  The Woodcocks had made the aspersion about Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter. They would be the first to interview. After that, a visit to the manor house.

  Tremayne thought that Barry and Gwen were stupid or naïve, or they were playing a game where not only their fingers would get burnt.

  Gwen opened the door on their arrival, her expression clearly saying that they weren’t welcome. ‘Come in if you must,’ she said. She was w
earing a blouse and a skirt, tidy for her as she was not a woman to dress up, not even for the pub. She still wore no makeup, and Clare could see that her attempt at brushing her hair had left her with a somewhat wild look.

  Tremayne took a seat in the kitchen. Welcome or not, there were questions to answer, proof to be given. ‘We’ve received an update from Sergeants Woo and Sutherland,’ he said.

  A pregnant pause while no one spoke. Eventually, ‘What we said about Margaret and Rupert, is that it?’

  ‘We need the truth,’ Clare said. Apart from a slight headache, she was back to normal.

  ‘We don’t lie,’ Gwen said.

  ‘We need to know why you have decided to reveal it now, and what proof do you have?’

  ‘Barry will be back soon. He’ll be able to answer for both of us.’

  ‘You and your husband have a habit of not telling the truth,’ Tremayne said. He fixed the woman with a steely look, not sure what to make of her.

  ‘We don’t indulge in gossip.’

  ‘And Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter are not gossip?’

  ‘It seemed appropriate to mention it to the other two. I saw them up at her house, very friendly they were. She was even smiling.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they were involved.’

  ‘It does to Barry and me. Margaret doesn’t smile that much, and with Rupert, she was like a little child. I could see them holding hands. I knew what was going on.’

  Barry Woodcock came into the house. ‘I saw your car pull in.’

  ‘You took your time coming,’ Tremayne said. There was no friendliness in his voice.

  ‘I was ploughing the field over the other side of the farm. Once you start, you’ve got to finish.’

  Tremayne wasn’t sure if it was a satisfactory answer but did not comment.

  ‘You and your wife felt the need to inform Sergeants Woo and Sutherland that Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter are romantically involved,’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s none of our business, but it’s true.’

  ‘Because your wife says so?’

  ‘If my wife believes it, then so do I.’

  Clare looked over at Tremayne and could see that he was ready to move on. There were chains to rattle, people to put on edge, tempers to raise, and above all mistakes for the villagers to make. Both police officers could tell that the place was incestuous, not necessarily in the biblical sense, although Rupert Baxter and Sheila Blatchford had shared a father, but in the behaviour of all concerned.