Death at Coombe Farm
Phillip Strang
BOOKS BY PHILLIP STRANG
DCI Isaac Cook Series
MURDER IS A TRICKY BUSINESS
MURDER HOUSE
MURDER IS ONLY A NUMBER
MURDER IN LITTLE VENICE
MURDER IS THE ONLY OPTION
MURDER IN NOTTING HILL
MURDER WITHOUT REASON
DI Keith Tremayne Series
DEATH UNHOLY
DEATH AND THE ASSASSIN’S BLADE
DEATH AND THE LUCKY MAN
DEATH AT COOMBE FARM
Steve Case Series
HOSTAGE OF ISLAM
THE HABERMAN VIRUS
PRELUDE TO WAR
Standalone Books
MALIKA’S REVENGE
Copyright Page
Copyright © 2017 Phillip Strang
Cover Design by Phillip Strang
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.
Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com
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Dedication
For Elli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
If it hadn’t been for the circumstances, Detective Inspector Keith Tremayne would have said the view was outstanding. Up high, overlooking the farmhouse in the valley below, the panoramic vista of Salisbury Plain stretching out beyond. The only problem was that near where he stood with his sergeant, Clare Yarwood, there was a body, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.
‘What happened?’ Tremayne asked. He was a cantankerous man, he knew that, and he wasn’t in a good mood on account of the biting wind and the squelching mud underfoot.
‘I found him when I came up here to check on the livestock,’ the farmhand said.
‘At what time?’ Tremayne moved away from the body, attempting to find somewhere drier. The condition of the track up to the site was so bad that the vehicle sent to transport the dead man to the mortuary could not make it up. Even Tremayne and Clare had had to hang onto a tractor to get up the slope, and now the weather looked as if it were about to worsen.
Tremayne had never been keen on farms, and especially horses, although Clare loved them. Tremayne assumed she wouldn’t be so fond of the one that trampled Claude Selwood to death.
‘Just after five this morning,’ the farmhand said. ‘I always get up here early. It’s not something you expect to see, and Mr Selwood, he wasn’t in the best of health. God knows what he was doing trying to ride Napoleon. That horse hated Mr Selwood, always has.’ Tremayne assumed Napoleon was the horse in the next field.
‘Any reason?’
‘It’s not as if he treated the horse bad, no worse than some of the others, but Napoleon, he remembers.’
Tremayne had heard of elephants remembering, but a horse? It didn’t ring true with him, but he wasn’t about to dispute the matter with the farmhand, a man who looked as if he was too old for early-morning starts.
‘What can you tell us about Mr Selwood?’ Clare asked. Tremayne could see the fresh air suited her, but then she was a lot younger than him. The two had been together for over two years now; one, a gnarled and cynical man approaching retirement, although delaying it for as long as he could; the other, still in her late twenties, pushing thirty and definitely looking for a man in her life.
Tremayne knew he had fared better in the marriage stakes, although his record wasn’t enviable. His wife had left him years before due to his irregular working hours, his love of policing, but now she was back in his house, and if not on a daily basis, at least for a few days every couple of weeks.
Clare’s former fiancé had turned out bad, not that she had known at the time. He was dead now, having saved her from certain death when her life had been threatened. Even now, Tremayne could see she missed the man, and her subsequent attempts at romance had, until now, been disasters. She’d admit it to Tremayne, although he wasn’t sure he always wanted to hear, but then, the two of them had a shared history: their closeness to death over one year before in a wooded area not far from where they were now.
‘Mr Selwood, he was a hard man,’ the farmhand said. ‘I’d been with him for over forty years, and I’d got used to him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I knew what he wanted; I did it before he asked.’
Clare could see the farmhand had the reserved manner of a man who knew his place. ‘How was he with anyone else?’
‘Everyone calls me Old Ted.’
‘Okay, Old Ted. How was Mr Selwood with everyone else?’
‘He was a right bastard, begging the lady’s indulgence for using bad language.’
‘That’s not bad,’ Clare said, ‘and thanks for your politeness.’
‘Not that I know much about horses,’ Tremayne said, ‘but Napoleon, he seems harmless.’
‘With me, he is,’ Old Ted said, ‘but we understand each other.’
‘How?’
‘I talk to him; he talks to me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Napoleon, he’s smart. I take him something to eat, and occasionally I’ll give him a brush down. With me, he stands there and does nothing.’
‘With Mr Selwood?’
‘If he went near him, he’d likely rear up, even in his stable, and that’s small enough. He hurt himself once doing that. I had to send for the vet, and he charged Mr Selwood plenty.’
‘What was Mr Selwood’s reaction?’
‘He was angry with the bill. I remember he and the vet nearly came to blows.’
‘Are you saying that Mr Selwood was a violent man?’
‘Not with me,’ Old Ted said. Tremayne could see that the man had difficulty answering direct questions.
‘With other people?’ Clare asked.
‘Nobody liked him. He was always shouting and cursing, even threatened the vicar one Sunday.’
‘What for?’
‘The vicar gave a sermon he didn’t like.’
‘Isn’t that up to the vicar?’
‘Not around here.’
; Tremayne had seen it before. Salisbury, the largest city in the area, was cosmopolitan and modern, but in some of the nearby villages, the old-fashioned concept of the lord of the manor remained. Selwood, judging from what Old Ted had said, had occupied that position.
***
A typical village, a not so typical death; that was how Tremayne saw it. Clare, even after all that had happened since she arrived in Salisbury a few years earlier, still maintained an air of optimism, a belief in the goodness of man. Tremayne, older and wiser than her, did not. In some ways, she could understand, but before Salisbury and the police force, she’d led a sheltered life in her parents’ hotel in Norfolk, and she couldn’t remember any murders there.
But in Salisbury, a city steeped in history, not far from Stonehenge, not too distant from where the British Army trundled their tanks across Salisbury Plain and practised their war games, there seemed to be a surfeit of deaths, and none ever seemed to be straightforward. After all, it wasn’t usual for a horse to trample someone to death. An angry horse could throw the rider, even rear up at his approach before mounting, but to stay and walk over the man when he was down on the ground was unusual, but then the village of Coombe was strange in itself. Set off the main road from Salisbury to Warminster, another market town, it had an air of benevolence, yet, at the farm, the mood was distinctly chilly.
Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, was almost as cynical as Clare’s DI. He was much younger than Tremayne, more Clare’s age. ‘It’s perishing cold up here,’ he said on arrival at the murder scene.
Hughes looked around, clapping his hands in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Is that the horse down there?’ he asked.
‘That’s Napoleon,’ Old Ted said. ‘He doesn’t look much, but he’s got a temper.’
Clare looked at Old Ted and could see that the man was stooped, with a profound limp. He was a man of few words, and if he knew more, he wouldn’t speak, having learnt not to become involved unless it was necessary. Tremayne would have said the man wasn’t too bright.
Down below, the farmhouse looked more inviting. ‘We should go and interview the family,’ Clare said.
‘Good idea,’ Tremayne said. He turned to Hughes. ‘We’ll be down below. If you need any help, just call.’
‘I’ve got a couple of CSIs coming up here. They’ve organised themselves another tractor with a trailer to haul up the gear.’
‘Once you’ve got any information, let me know. For now, I’m off with Yarwood to interview the grieving family,’ Tremayne said.
‘There’ll not be much grieving down there,’ Old Ted said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘There wasn’t much love in Mr Selwood’s family.’
To Clare, Old Ted was a dull man, devoid of any highs or lows. A man dies, he shows no emotion. No doubt, if good fortune came his way, he’d act the same way, maintain the same routine. There’d be no offering of a round of drinks at the pub, no flashy car, no trips overseas. For him, it would be up at five in the morning to feed the animals, and then to occupy himself until his work was done.
‘Not much of a life up here,’ Tremayne said, as he and Clare walked down the muddy track towards the farmhouse.
‘It’s picturesque,’ Clare said.
‘Just like on a postcard, but it’s not for me. Old Ted, what did you make of him?’
‘He gave us the facts.’
‘And that’s all. Yarwood, this farm is full of intrigue and plenty of skeletons. Old Ted, he may pretend not to know, but he does. He just doesn’t want to be involved, can’t say I blame him. How much do you reckon this farm is worth?’
‘I’ve no idea. It must be a lot.’
‘I’d reckon over ten million pounds, and it all belonged to the dead man.’
‘Is his death suspicious?’
‘A horse killing a man, but why and how?’
‘I used to ride horses as a child,’ Clare said.
‘Have you ever heard of a horse trampling a man to death?’
‘Never.’
‘That’s why it’s not accidental. It’s murder, I know it is, and in that farmhouse, we’ll find some of the answers.’
***
Five people were in the farmhouse, a listed building, dating back to the seventeenth century. Clare liked it, Tremayne was ambivalent.
‘Don’t come in here until you’ve removed your muddy shoes,’ a woman in her late sixties shouted as they entered. ‘I’ve just cleaned the floor after the others.’
The kitchen was large with a bare wooden table in the middle. On top of it, some pheasants ready for plucking.
‘DI Tremayne, and this is Sergeant Yarwood,’ Tremayne said.
‘I’m Marge, Marge Selwood,’ the woman said. ‘Sorry about the shoes, but with this weather, it’s hard to keep the house clean.’
‘It’s a lovely house,’ Clare said.
‘We like it, at least we did until that fool husband of mine went and rode that damn horse.’
‘Are you saying he shouldn’t have?’
‘Claude was pig-headed, always doing what he shouldn’t.’
‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ Tremayne said.
‘Claude, a loss? I don’t think so. The man wasn’t likeable, have you been told?’
‘It’s been implied.’
‘Old Ted?’
‘He mentioned it.’
‘Don’t listen to him too much. He’s here every day. We’ve told him to take it easy, but he’s a simple soul, harmless.’
‘He’s still employed?’
‘Not him. He draws his pension, but each day he’s here helping out. If he wants to do something, it’s not for me to stop him.’
‘What can you tell us about your husband?’ Clare asked.
‘They’re in the other room, the loving family. You’d better meet them first. Tea?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
Tremayne and Clare were ushered through to the living room; it was impressive. On the walls, paintings, on the floor, a fitted carpet. A blazing wood fire heated the room.
‘Why the police?’ one of the seated men asked.
‘Remember your manners,’ Marge Selwood said.
‘Mother, I’m old enough not to need to.’
Clare studied the man, judged him to be between thirty-five and forty-five years of age. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a check shirt. His hair was long and straggly, shoulder length. Sitting alongside him, an attractive woman wearing designer clothes. She had her arm in his.
‘I’m Gordon, the eldest son, and this is Cathy,’ the man said.
‘Can’t wait, can you?’ Marge Selwood said bitterly. ‘Can’t wait to get me out of here, throw me on the street, you and your tart.’
Tremayne looked over at Clare. She knew what he was thinking.
‘Mother, we don’t go airing our dirty linen in front of the police, and certainly not today. Your husband, our father, has just died, and you’re worried about your fortune and besides, it’s not yours, it’s mine and Cathy’s.’
‘That tart you picked up. Over my dead body.’
‘Sorry about this,’ Gordon Selwood said, his bad manners changed for the better. ‘We’re a warring family, not the only ones in the area, but I suppose you’re not interested in them.’
‘Not unless someone else has died in mysterious circumstances.’
‘Is it mysterious?’ Cathy said. She was blonde, maybe late twenties.
‘You see, she’s more interested in herself than worrying about me,’ Marge Selwood said.
‘If you weren’t such a bitch!’ Cathy said. Clare looked at the young woman and her man. The woman was attractive and slim, even beautiful, whereas Gordon was not. The man carried a noticeable paunch, alcohol-induced if the man’s ruddy complexion was any indication.
In another corner of the room, two others sat. One was dressed in a suit; the other wasn’t.
‘And you are?’ Tremayne asked. He was drinking his tea, heavy on the sugar, as he addressed
the remaining two.
‘I’m Nicholas,’ the suit said. ‘This is my brother, William.’
Clare, having already taken a dislike to the older brother and his female friend, thought they were decent men compared to Gordon. Tremayne, she knew, had told her enough times that it was unwise to make instant judgements. A suit does not make a man, and uncouth and uncaring does not make a criminal.
Tremayne’s phone rang. He answered it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Hughes said. ‘There’s foul play.’
‘A full report as soon as possible.’
‘I know, tonight. You’re a slave-driver, you know that?’
‘A man needs a slave,’ Tremayne said. Clare, who was sitting close enough to Tremayne to hear both sides of the conversation, gave a smile. She knew the relationship that Hughes had with Tremayne, the same as she had with the detective inspector. A man who didn’t accept people readily, but once you were proven, the man would support and mentor you against all others, but never expect him to show it, and certainly don’t expect him to be condescending. The best way with Tremayne was to answer him back with a degree of sarcasm.
The phone call ended, and Tremayne refocussed on those in the room.
‘Nicholas Selwood, can you give us a brief profile of yourself?’ Tremayne said.
‘Okay. I’m the second son, twenty-nine years of age. I was born in this house, although I now live in Salisbury. I work for a firm of accountants.’
‘Not a farmer?’
‘Not for me. I did my fair share when I was younger, but I preferred city life to the country.’
‘He’s done well,’ Marge Selwood said.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Nicholas said.
‘William Selwood,’ Tremayne said.
‘I’m the youngest, twenty-seven years of age. I’m just finishing a degree in agriculture and advanced farm management.’
‘Then you’ll come back here?’
‘Not if Gordon’s going to take over.’
‘He’s not taking over,’ Marge said. ‘I’ll make sure it stays in my control.’
‘Not a chance. I’ll take you all the way to the High Court in London,’ Gordon, the eldest son, said.
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