The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Margaret Wilmot likes to surf the internet, nothing much of interest, apart from renovations of heritage-listed properties and finance. Hamish Foster’s into farming and his wife is interested in fashion. Gladys Upminster appears to have a morbid interest with death and the occult and the loss of a loved one.’

  ‘Makes sense that she’d be into that,’ Tremayne said. He had taken a seat to one side of Clare and had put on a pair of glasses to focus on the monitor. It was still blurred: another visit to the opticians was on the cards.

  ‘Eustace Upminster is the main one of interest,’ Clare said. Tremayne could see that she had a smug look on her face. ‘He’s been using false names to log on, but his IP’s a giveaway. He’s been checking out sites related to his wife’s issues.’

  ‘That’s to be expected. What else?’

  ‘YouTube videos on police investigative techniques, how to commit the perfect murder, how to avoid leaving evidence.’

  ‘No doubt a few in the village have been doing that as well. Have you checked on Rupert Baxter?’

  ‘After what you told me on the phone driving back to the office, I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We knew about the degrees, and yes, the man is involved with academia. I tried to read one of his published papers, gave up not long after I read his name. Mathematics was never my strongest subject, but he’s way ahead of anything I understand. Possible murderer?’

  ‘They all are. Anything else from Baxter?’

  ‘He’s checked out what we’re doing, following up on unsolved murders, how to avoid a jail sentence, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Upminster, capable with computer technology?’

  ‘About average. If he was good, he would have blocked his use of the internet, made it difficult for us to trace him.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Is that me, or a general question?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I probably could to some extent. An expert could work his way through, discover it was me, and the internet into Compton is not extensive. Elimination of potential users could trace it back to him.’

  ‘It could be his wife.’

  ‘It could, but I’m discounting her for now. The questions and the subjects are more male-oriented.’

  ‘How do you read Eustace Upminster, a gut feeling?’ Tremayne said. ‘His wife can’t be a bundle of fun.’

  ‘Not like Margaret Wilmot from what we’ve been hearing.’

  Tremayne sat back on his chair and took out a packet of cigarettes. He realised that it was an automatic reaction, and neither the police station regulations nor Clare approved of his habit. ‘Outside,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your feeling about Eustace Upminster?’ Tremayne repeated the question that had not been answered due to his need to light up. He had tried to moderate his smoking and had had some success, but the need remained, especially in a time of stress, and that was what they had in bucket-loads. Not only was Baxter in line for further questioning, so were Eustace and Gladys Upminster.

  ‘A decent man with a troubled wife. Not sure how anyone deals with the death of a child, even if he was wild. It’s taken me years to get over Harry’s death, but time moves on. You never forget though, the quiet moments. I’d rather be at work than at home, even after so long. Even now, I have trouble going past where he lived, the pub he owned, the places we visited together.’

  ‘But you’ve managed.’

  ‘Gladys Upminster’s a worrier, a woman who constantly remembers the past, afraid to let go. That’s why she’s with the fire and brimstoners. They take her out of herself, remind her that it was not her fault.’

  Tremayne smoked half his cigarette, stubbed out the remainder on the bin, and took a mint from his pocket.

  ‘They’ll not do you much good after you’ve smoked that old weed,’ Clare said.

  ‘Don’t go on, Yarwood. One of life’s small pleasures. You can’t begrudge me that.’

  ‘It’s no pleasure for me, and what does Jean say when you get home of a night?’

  ‘No smoking back there. She’s worse than you.’

  Chapter 19

  The Upminsters’ farm was calm, although not for long, as a gaggle of geese came from around the back of the barn at the sound of Tremayne and Clare’s arrival.

  ‘They’d wake the dead,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘No shortage of those in Compton,’ Clare said glibly.

  The farmhouse was neat and tidy, an old dog sleeping close to the front door. It took no notice of the visitors. Tremayne knocked on the door, the first time a gentle tap, the second time more heavily. Eventually, the door opened, and Gladys Upminster stood there. She was dressed as if she was about to go into town.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Gladys said.

  ‘We want to see you both,’ Clare said.

  ‘We had an argument.’

  ‘A common occurrence?’

  The woman did not answer the question. ‘There were a few home truths at Baxter’s pub. I never knew about Baxter and Margaret, I swear that I didn’t,’ she said instead.

  ‘How did it affect you?’

  ‘I placed great faith in Gloria and Sheila. I saw some worth in Margaret, but she’s disappointed me. All that proselytising, and what is she, a fornicator, and not even a ring on her finger, and with that horrible man. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘They’re over the age of consent,’ Clare said.

  ‘I place great faith in one man, one woman, and the marital bed. How can I respect a woman who behaves in such a way?’

  ‘You accept people for what they are, good and bad,’ Tremayne said. ‘Can we come in?’

  Inside the house was not much warmer than when they had been standing on the doorstep. The two police officers made no comment. Clare thought the temperature was the same as the woman’s heart.

  ‘And where is your husband?’ Clare said. She had her hands in her jacket pocket to overcome the cold rising from the stone floor.

  ‘He’s around somewhere.’

  ‘Do you use the internet?’

  ‘I’ve got an iPad. Eustace spends more time than I do, but he’s got a computer upstairs.’

  ‘Is the farm profitable?’

  ‘It is, but that’s not why you’re here, is it?’

  ‘We’ve been checking on the internet usage in Compton,’ Clare said. ‘We know about what you view, mostly related to the death of a loved one, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And Eustace?’

  ‘Some farming, but there are other sites he’s visited which are related to police investigations, murder. Do you know about this?’

  ‘Most in the village would be guilty of checking up on what you’ve been trying to do, not very successfully judging by the results.’

  ‘These investigations can take time,’ Tremayne said by way of defence.

  ‘We speak amongst ourselves, curious as to who it may be. We’re all scared, although not many of us are showing it. Eustace is one of those who’s worried.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Death would be a blessing. I only hope it’s quick and painless when it comes.’

  ‘An unnatural reaction,’ Clare said. ‘Time has moved on since your son died. It is for you to come to terms with it, and to look back on him with fondness, to remember the good times, to forget the bad.’

  ‘I can’t. I hated him, I always did. A malevolent weasel of a child, a vicious, argumentative and lazy man later on. That car he was driving, we gave it to him, hoping that he’d get out and find a job, a good woman, but what does he do? He kills himself in it. If we hadn’t given him the damn thing, he’d still be alive and blighting our lives.’

  ‘Does your husband feel the same way?’

  ‘He’s done what you suggested, moved on. He now talks about him in loving tones, not something he could do when he was alive. There was evil in that child, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Biblical?’

  ‘I don’t know. I j
ust know that I found some solace with Gloria and the others, even Margaret, and look at what she has become.’

  ‘A jaundiced view of the world, Mrs Upminster,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘An honest view. I am not long for this world, I know that. And Eustace, he won’t care much.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Clare said. ‘We believe that he cares for your well-being more than you give him credit for. It doesn’t seem that you respond to his concerns.’

  ‘Where can we find your husband?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘He’s outside somewhere. He left over an hour ago.’

  ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘Eustace was telling me it was time to move on, the same as you. I’m afraid that I called him a few names that I shouldn’t, accused him of murdering Gloria and Sheila.’

  ‘How is Eustace with a chainsaw?’

  ‘He’s capable. He doesn’t say much normally, but he’s tough. He’d been in the military and seen active service. He killed then, he could kill now.’

  ‘We’re aware of his military record,’ Clare said. ‘Some medals, but he was not on the front line.’

  ‘He won’t talk about it, but I’ve seen his record upstairs. There are things in there that you wouldn’t want to see. Oh, yes, Eustace is a killer, and I wouldn’t put it past him being a murderer, not that I’d tell you normally, but he said things that no man should say to his wife.’

  ‘It may not be my position to comment,’ Clare said, ‘but you are not a nice person. Married couples have arguments, the same as other people, but they control that anger, put it in context. You, Mrs Upminster, have an unnatural reluctance to face reality, whereas your husband may have grieved as much as you in the past.’

  ‘I don’t need to listen to you telling me what to do and say.’

  Fired up and furious, Gladys Upminster grabbed a knife from the kitchen sink and lunged at Clare. She moved to one side, the blade harmlessly moving into fresh air, and with Tremayne grabbing the woman’s wrist and wrenching the knife from her clenched hand.

  ‘Well done,’ Tremayne said to Clare.

  He looked over at Gladys Upminster who was now sitting on a chair. ‘It appears that you are capable of violence. You may not have killed the women, but Bert Blatchford was murdered with a knife, very similar to the one you just used.’

  ‘She had no right to speak like that to me.’

  ‘She had every right to know what you were capable of. Everyone in this village hides their true feelings well. No one tells us the truth, yet they expect us to find the murderer. This is a small village. You must have your suspicions.’

  Clare put on the kettle and found some tea bags in a cupboard and milk in the fridge. She gave a mug of tea to Gladys Upminster. The woman responded weakly with a smile and a thank you.

  ‘Eustace killed Gloria, I’m sure of it. That’s what the argument was about,’ the man’s wife resignedly said. Clare was not proud about how she had riled the woman, but she and Tremayne had agreed that pussy-footing around was not going to provide results and that the village community had locked them out of their innermost secrets. With one person opening up, the others would do as well. It had been a hard-fought battle, and now they had a woman at the end of her wits, a woman who was capable of anything, even murder.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of her hold over me. Because he was sleeping with her, and she wasn’t going to let him go.’

  ‘We’ve no record of any relationship between your husband and Gloria. All indications were that they did not like each other.’

  ‘It’s Compton. Who hates and who loves don’t apply. Secretive they were, thought that I didn’t know, not that I can blame Gloria. He was a good catch, and there was no way he was coming near me after our son had died.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Long enough. Eight to nine months, probably. I could smell her on him, and the way they didn’t look at each other in the pub and on a Sunday at the church. It was the same with Margaret and Rupert. My husband’s right, I’m not a good person to be around, but after he had killed Gloria, then the village changed. Before that we were a fractious community, but somehow we survived, but her death alienated people, brought into play tensions that had been subdued. Margaret may have been the money in this village, but Gloria was the glue. No doubt you don’t understand, but that’s the way we’ve always been. Apart from the Reverend Tichborne, hardly any other families had come into the village. We’re the same families that have lived here for generations.’

  ‘Why are you now telling us that your husband is guilty of murder?’

  ‘So that you’ll understand why I killed him.’

  ‘When, and where is he?’

  ‘Outside, behind the barn where the geese came from.’

  Tremayne left the house, making a phone call for a patrol car to come to Compton, and for someone to stay with Gladys Upminster. Whether she was guilty of murder or not, she could not be left on her own. A full appraisal of her medical and mental health was needed. Another phone call to Jim Hughes to forewarn him that the crime scene team may be required. Before ending the call, Tremayne took one look in front of him. ‘Confirmed,’ he said.

  Tremayne moved to where the body of the dead man was, a knife in his back, the same as it had been with Bert Blatchford. Tremayne gently prodded the body with his hand. The man moved, a muffled groan.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Tremayne said. A stupid question he realised. A person with a knife in the back was not going to be okay, but he still had a chance. Tremayne phoned for Emergency Services to send an ambulance, briefly describing the condition of the man on the ground. Clare took instructions from Tremayne and cuffed the man’s wife before putting her in the back of her car. She had not been charged as yet, but Tremayne needed Clare free to assist, not burdened with a psychotic and disturbed woman who had knifed one person, had been willing to knife another and would perhaps try for a second time.

  Twelve minutes later, a patrol car. They took responsibility for Gladys Upminster as well as establishing the crime scene, not that there was any doubt as to who the guilty party was. A medic, the same woman who had attended to Clare when she had been attacked at Stephanie Underwood’s house, stabilised Eustace Upminster and transferred him to Salisbury Hospital.

  Rupert Baxter appeared within minutes, closely followed by the Woodcocks. Margaret Wilmot, from her house over the hill, arrived after a call from Baxter.

  Gladys Upminster was not guilty of premeditated murder, although she was capable of anger and hatred, and a prejudice against anyone who did not fit her idealised notion of decency. But Gloria Wiggins’ death had required a stronger person than her, as would Sheila’s, and if the woman’s ineffective use of a knife on Clare and her husband was indicative, she did not kill Bert Blatchford either.

  Tremayne and Clare remained out at Compton until late. Gladys’s statement about her husband had to be checked. As expected the village clammed up on whether Eustace and Gloria had been involved. Clare’s opinion was that they were not, and the clearly mentally unstable woman had clutched at straws, taken one and one and made three.

  No one could ever remember Gloria expressing interest in any man, at least since her teens, when Rupert had admitted to being a bit of a lad in the village, and to have spent time with both Gloria and her next-door neighbour. Harmless adolescent hormones, had been his comment.

  ‘We still need to interview Gladys Upminster at Bemerton Road,’ Clare said.

  ‘She’ll wait for tomorrow.’ It was one in the morning, not unusual for the two officers. Tremayne was exhausted, dozing on the way home to Wilton, and Clare was not much better, but she was driving. Even though it was late, supper was on the table. Jean invited Clare in as well, and she fell asleep in a chair at the house. Jean put a blanket over her and left her there.

  ‘Two cooked breakfasts tomorrow,’ she said to Tremayne as they both climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

  Chapter
20

  Eustace Upminster briefly acknowledged Tremayne and Clare with a nod of his head as they entered his room at Salisbury Hospital. He was not sitting up in bed, which was expected after a knife wound in the back. Instead he was propped to one side, the area of injury cocooned by pillows. It was clear that he was sedated. The knife, as the doctor explained, had been deflected by the braces that Upminster wore under his jacket to hold up the loose-fitting trousers that he preferred to wear around the farm. If he had been coherent, he would have said that he relished the freedom they gave him, especially on a hot day when a belt around the waist would have chafed.

  ‘Gladys?’ the man weakly muttered.

  ‘She’s been charged with attempted murder,’ Clare said.

  ‘It was my fault. You can’t hold her, it’ll be the death of her.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the law’s the law,’ Tremayne said. ‘She’s committed a criminal act, but mitigating circumstances will be taken into consideration.’

  A nurse standing to one side attempted to intervene, although Tremayne brushed her away. Some questions needed to be asked, and whether the man was in a condition to be interviewed or not, those questions had to be answered.

  ‘Your wife made a damning accusation about you,’ Tremayne said. ‘Accused you of carrying on an affair with Gloria Wiggins.’

  ‘That’s Gladys, I’m afraid. Too much time on her hands, too much time to dwell on her life and our son,’ Upminster said.

  ‘This is too much,’ the nurse said. ‘Mr Upminster is in intensive care, his condition requires rest, not the two of you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we’ve got four murders, one attempted, and Mr Upminster’s right in the middle of it and his wife’s in jail. No doubt he’d want to see her comfortable and hopefully released on bail.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Upminster said.

  ‘It depends on you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘There was nothing between Gloria and me. Maybe when we were younger, just teens, but the woman changed as she got older. A tyrant at the end. I tolerated her on account of Gladys, but I couldn’t abide her, and now look what’s happened.’