The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  On the television, a movie of no great merit about a lone hero righting wrongs, pining for a lost girlfriend, finding solace in the arms of another. Tremayne flicked the switch on the remote to off. Fiction may be entertaining for the masses, but the taking of a life, cavalier in the case of the lone hero, was neither romantic nor necessary. To Tremayne, murder was a messy business fuelled by anger and frustration and greed, not by nobler reasons.

  Tremayne looked over at Jean who was nursing a stray cat she had found, and which had adopted the two of them. The police inspector had to admit to an affinity with the animal. It did not demand, it cared for itself, and as long as it was fed, it gave affection in return, and it didn’t need walking. Tremayne stretched his right leg which had previously been bent at an awkward angle. His knee jabbed, a grimace visible on his face.

  ‘You’re getting too old for long nights out in the cold,’ Jean said. The man knew she was right, but he was not ready. It had been his first time in front of that television for some time, and it was clear that being invalided and confined to watching it every day, every night, would be anathema to him.

  ‘I need a doctor,’ he said. ‘Someone who understands.’

  ‘Someone who understands that a silly old fool prefers to be out hunting down villains instead of spending his days at home in a warm house.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s the inevitable transition from police officer to retired police officer, and then what?’

  ‘We’ve all got to go sometime,’ Jean said. ‘No point collapsing on the job. There’s no credit in that.’

  Tremayne knew that Jean was right, and he had considered it, but not yet, and not while there were murders to solve. He got out of his chair, attempting not to show the pain, but Jean could see through him. She said nothing. She knew he was a cantankerous man, yet she still loved him, always had in her own way, even when she had been married to another, and he was on his own.

  ‘I’ll be thirty minutes,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘No doubt he’ll have something for you, not that you’re listening to me. We can survive financially now that I’ve sold my house.’

  ‘I need another year. Once Yarwood’s made up to inspector, then I’ll call it quits. Okay?’

  ‘Okay by me, but you’ll come up with another excuse.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Tremayne said as he closed the front door behind him.

  The doctor was sympathetic, a similar age to Tremayne. Society deemed them past it, but neither of them was ready, and a lifetime of experience with a fertile mind and a failing body suited neither. ‘These will help, two a day,’ the doctor said.

  ***

  Clare kept in contact with Doctor Warner, an attempt to meet up soon for a weekend away, but he was not pushing, she could sense it. She was sure that his ardour had moderated and that he had been looking for someone who fitted the mould: someone who wanted a child, and weekends and nights together, and regular hours.

  If that was the case, Clare realised that the weekend was off. She knew she’d have to pin him down before then, and they would have to meet somewhere neutral to thrash it out. She had to admit that either way she would not be upset.

  As Clare pondered the doctor and Tremayne nursed his knee, out at Compton a man who should not have been there was making himself comfortable in his bed. He would not admit that the idea of a ghost scared him, due to his sensitive nature and a mother who had believed in such things.

  Cuthbert Wiggins turned over in his bed and looked out of the small window, the panorama of the village laid out before him. Up high to one side, the cottages of Gloria and Stephanie, both dark and cold. On either side of them, lights blazed in the clear night. A mist was enveloping the valley. He realised that coming to Compton was a mistake and that no good would come of it, but he knew he could not leave. Gloria’s house contained a secret, a secret that he believed he had solved. He remembered her fastidiousness for keeping documents close to her and locked in a small metal box, and when they had lived together, it had been locked in a cupboard.

  Wiggins rose from his bed, the floorboards creaking. He had intended to wait, but time was of the essence. He crept down the stairs, his pyjamas under his shirt and trousers, and wearing a heavy jacket to keep warm.

  Downstairs, the pub was quiet and in darkness. He opened the back door and let himself out. Gloria’s house was within walking distance, and he walked up the road, keeping to the shadows, careful to ensure that none of the lighted windows of the houses he passed had a person on the other side.

  Wiggins halted outside Stephanie Underwood’s house and for a moment felt sorrow at having seen her dead in that chair. He climbed over the low fence at the front of her house and walked around to the back. A small fence separated one cottage from the other. He cleared it quickly and walked, almost tip-toed, to the back door of Gloria’s cottage, the crime scene tape visible across the door. Wiggins remembered her penchant for the security of her metal chest, but an ambivalence to locking the house, and her hiding a key near to a tree.

  And now Wiggins had espied two likely candidates. He put his hands into the ground and ferreted around the base of one tree, before moving to the second.

  ‘Voila,’ he said, almost audibly, as his fingers felt the metallic object enclosed in a plastic bag.

  Carefully pulling the crime scene tape on the door of the house to one side, he used the key and opened the door. Passing through the kitchen, he headed for the main bedroom. It was clear that the police had been over the place, yet they hadn’t known what they were looking for.

  He had only wanted to talk to Stephanie Underwood, to find someone who may have been able to help him, but he had been too late. Now, in that bedroom, he could see what he was looking for. Two of the floorboards underneath the bed had a cut across them, the torch on his iPhone picking it up. He crept forward on all fours and inserted the blade of a knife into the cut; the boards moved. He eased them upwards to reveal a cavity; the metal chest was there. He removed it, taking time to ensure that nothing else was disturbed, even remembering to blow dust from one area to the next as he replaced the floorboards. As he left the cottage, he ensured that there was no sign of his visit. Outside the cottage, he closed the door, repositioned the crime scene tape, and put the key back where he had found it, making sure that the soil was compacted as it had been when he had first discovered it.

  Wiggins retraced his steps to the pub. He was feeling elated. The metal chest, the same as he remembered, was no longer shiny and red. Now it was scratched and rusty, but when he shook it, the contents inside rustled. He knew that what he wanted lay close by, separated from him only by the lid and the lock.

  He was too excited to sleep, too conscious of waking Baxter who might start asking questions. Wiggins lay on his bed and imagined how his life and that of his wife would change with the contents of the box. Even if it contained another will, what did it matter? No one would ever find it. He thanked Gloria for her obsession of not entrusting her documents to the safekeeping of a bank, even though she had worked in one, and for not registering another will. He knew that it was all going to work out.

  Chapter 25

  Cuthbert Wiggins left the pub at eight in the morning following his sojourn up to Gloria’s cottage. He knew he couldn’t wait to get home before opening the small metal box.

  ‘No need to worry about breakfast,’ he said to Baxter as he paid his money and left.

  ‘It’s full English.’

  ‘Next time,’ Wiggins said. He walked out to the pub’s carpark and got into his car and drove away. Two hundred yards further up the road, he got out of the car and sat on a bench by the river. He took the box, and with his hands shaking, he inserted his knife into one edge of the lid and tried to pry it open. The blade was too weak and was bending as he levered. He looked around him, unable to find anything of use.

  When I get home, he thought to himself. As he raised himself from the seat, a person was standing behind him.

&nbs
p; ‘I saw you up at Gloria’s last night,’ a voice said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Wiggins said as he looked around to see who it was, a clear view not possible due to the sun in his eyes.

  ‘We don’t like outsiders in Compton.’

  This time Wiggins did not reply, his voice muted as the branch of a tree had been smashed across his head, causing him to tumble forward and into the river.

  ‘A job well done’ the voice said as its owner walked away, grasping the box.

  Wiggins, a strong swimmer in his youth, and before the weight had come on, did not die that day. He was severely stunned, yet the cold of the water revived him sufficiently for him to swim to shore. On the far side of the river, two hundred yards from where he had involuntarily entered it, he lay on the bank. On the other side of the river he could see the pub.

  ‘Help, help,’ Wiggins shouted, although no sound emanated from his mouth. He realised that he did not have the energy to swim back to the other side of the river. He sat up, peeling the wet clothes from his body. He was shivering, and hypothermia was setting in. Outside the pub, the familiar figure of Rupert Baxter. Wiggins, with one herculean effort, lifted himself up by holding onto a tree and stood up. He raised his arms to wave, and with one final attempt shouted across to Baxter.

  The man opposite looked Wiggins’ way and came over to the river. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I need help. I’m freezing.’

  After being retrieved, Wiggins sat in the pub. An electric heater was on full, a hot drink in his hand. Fifteen minutes later, his condition stabilised. ‘Someone hit me over the head.’

  ‘Why?’

  Wiggins was sure the truth would not be appreciated, and he said nothing. Baxter picked up his phone and dialled Tremayne. He told him to get out to Compton urgently.

  Wiggins realised the situation was precarious. His retrieval of the metal box had been flawless, his departure without raising undue suspicion had worked, but now he was front and centre, and the police were on their way. He knew he needed out.

  ‘I have to go,’ Wiggins said, knowing that questions were about to be asked for which he had no answer.

  Baxter realised that the police would have questions for him as well; namely, why he had not told them about Wiggins being in the village. Both of the men had reason to be concerned, and even though Baxter had phoned Tremayne now, it would only momentarily deflect further questions.

  Margaret Wilmot came into the pub, took one look at Wiggins, and moved over to where Baxter stood. She slapped him hard across the face, catching the man off-guard and causing him to take one step back. ‘You damn fool, Rupert. You were meant to keep a watch on him.’

  ‘It was you that hit me,’ Wiggins said, recognising Margaret’s deep voice.

  ‘You’d be dead if it were up to me,’ she replied. ‘You come in here causing trouble, stirring up a hornet’s nest, and after I had it under control.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Baxter said. He had seen a severe Margaret, a pious and sanctimonious Margaret, even a loving Margaret, but what he saw now was a departure from all three. This time Margaret was talking without due care and with anger.

  ‘I saw that silly little man,’ Margaret said. ‘Last night while you were asleep or getting drunk, Wiggins left the pub and broke into Gloria’s cottage. He found the box.’

  ‘Of what use is it to you?’ Wiggins said.

  ‘Shut up, you little toad. I’ve not finished.’ Margaret said. She turned to face Rupert. ‘What do you think the police are going to say when they find you sitting down with Wiggins? They’re going to put two and two together, and this time they might get it right.

  ‘I could have died,’ Wiggins said, hoping for sympathy.

  ‘And good riddance. Oh, yes, I know all about you and Gloria, even where you live now, and how many children you have and that scruffy little bank that you manage.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s my job to know what goes on in this village, and who’s sleeping with who, who’s cheating on their taxes, and why Gloria took your money.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ Wiggins said.

  ‘Not to me either,’ Baxter said. ‘What do you hope to achieve by all this? You’re guilty of attempted murder, and I can’t protect you. Wiggins is here, clearly concussed and still shivering. Tremayne’s no dummy and that sergeant of his is sharp. They’ll smell a rat if we come up with a lame-brained story.’

  ‘Wiggins, you were after proof that there was not another will, correct?’

  ‘Yes, nothing else. She owes me that.’

  ‘She owes you nothing. I wanted something else. Keep quiet about what has happened to you and we have a deal. I’ll give you a will if it’s there. If it is, then you can destroy it.’

  ‘You still would have killed me.’

  ‘If I had hit you harder, and the Good Samaritan here hadn’t rescued you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Your death would have been a blessing, and it’s not too late, is it?’

  ‘Okay, it’s a deal. When the police arrive, I’ll make up an excuse, tell them that I was standing by the edge, feeding the ducks.’

  ‘Rupert, make sure he keeps to his side of the bargain. And when the police are gone, come up to the house. I’ve something to show you.’

  Margaret Wilmot left as quickly as she had come, leaving by the back door of the pub. She walked through the garden at the back and opened a gate onto the road on the far side. She then drove to her house. She was angry but elated. She had been a long time looking for that box, and it had taken that awful little bank manager to find it. She hoped the box contained what she wanted.

  ***

  Tremayne didn’t like the look of Cuthbert Wiggins. Not only was the man wrapped in a large blanket, but he sat perilously close to the heater. A wound could be seen on the left side of his head, the blood congealing in his matted hair.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m telling you. If I hadn’t been leaning over, I wouldn’t have fallen and bashed my head on the way down.’

  Clare phoned for an ambulance and a medic. Baxter, ordinarily sociable and ready to chat, was morose and holding back. Wiggins, who shouldn’t have been in Compton, was coming up with feeble excuses.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Up the road, where I fell in.’

  ‘Why are you here, Wiggins? You’re on bail, yet you keep putting yourself forward as something more. What’s the truth, and don’t give me any of that wanting to see where Gloria had spent the intervening years and how you two could have been something more. Gloria maltreated you, I’ll grant you that, but you didn’t come to the village on a nostalgia trip. You came here for a reason. It’s the last will and testament of the woman. Did you find it? And the truth, not some half-hearted attempt at deflecting us. Quite frankly, Yarwood and I are tired of this village and its nefarious inhabitants. And you, Cuthbert Wiggins, are no better. You’d fit right in with this place.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say. I came here for no reason. Although I need to know if the cottage is mine. I’ve earned it, that’s for sure.’

  ‘For what? For not coming here before? What else do you know?’

  While Tremayne kept up the heat on Wiggins, Clare went out through the front door of the pub and walked up to where his car was parked. She then phoned Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner.

  ‘Compton. There’s been a development,’ she said.

  ‘Another body?’

  ‘He should be, but he’s still alive. We need you to check the man’s car and where he fell in the river.’

  At the pub, Tremayne kept probing. Too many years of policing had made him cautious. He did not like what he heard from Wiggins, nor Baxter’s reticence.

  ‘When did you arrive in Compton?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘And Baxter chose not to tell us, is that it?’

  ‘I asked him to keep it secret. I met no one else, and he’s the only one who kn
ows I’m here.’

  ‘Margaret knows,’ Baxter said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I told her this morning. She’s been here, seen Wiggins, and left. Angry, as well.’

  ‘Why the anger?’

  ‘She told me I was a fool for not telling you about Wiggins.’

  ‘At least someone’s got a brain. Baxter, you’re back as a major suspect, you realise that?’

  ‘I’ve killed no one, and any attempts by you or anyone else to prove to the contrary will not succeed.’

  Clare waited at Wiggins’ car. Twenty-five minutes later, Jim Hughes arrived.

  ‘It never ends, does it, with you and Tremayne?’ Hughes said.

  He kitted himself up, so did Clare; they moved over nearer to the car.

  ‘Where he fell in is clear enough, but you said a bump on the head. It’s just a muddy bank here, and there are no concealed rocks or branches that I can see.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here. We’re suspicious.’

  Three more members of the crime scene investigation team arrived. A patrol car followed shortly afterwards. In the vehicle, the patrol officers and two uniforms.

  Clare gathered the police around her. ‘Tremayne’s determined to crack this case today. We’ll need you to be prepared, and if necessary, to bring anyone of interest to us. No doubt tempers will be frayed, but you know what to do.’

  ‘Over here,’ one of Hughes’ team shouted.

  Clare walked over to where the man was standing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This branch, it’s been used as a weapon.’

  ‘A murder weapon?’

  ‘Not if he’s alive. We’ve also found footprints of another person. Wiggins’ shoe size we know from the Underwood cottage, but this is larger, a riding boot, I’d say.’

  ‘Female or male?’

  ‘If it’s a woman, she’d be a big woman, maybe taller than you.’

  ‘Any way to prove conclusively?’

  ‘Not here. We can try to match the shoe print to a manufacturer, and whoever wielded the branch was probably right-handed. Not sure if that helps much, but that’s what we can see at this time. There doesn’t appear to be much of interest in the car.’