The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘That’s murder,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s barbaric,’ Clare said.

  ‘Is there more?’ Oldfield asked.

  ‘Yes, but I’ll not read it.’

  ‘Give it to me.’ Oldfield took the Bible and continued reading.

  Mavis Godwin noticed that after the sacrifice, the weather changed for the better, and those with the strongest belief appeared to reap the most benefit, but outside of the village, others were also prospering. It seemed to her that it was not the gods but better farming, better land, that was more important. She read the Bible when she could. Eventually, her husband found her with it one day.

  I asked her what he did. She told me that he denounced her to the elders.

  ‘And?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I’m coming to it,’ Oldfield replied.

  A gathering of the villagers was held. There were those that wanted to show their disgust in the normal manner, but the senior elder said no. She was banished from the village on one condition: she was never to mention what she knew.

  By the time of this revelation, I had had the opportunity to study the subject of paganism and ancient gods. How these beliefs had survived, I could not understand. She told me that the senior elder, a professional man, was a distant relative. She would not say his name or the name of the village.

  ‘It’s awful,’ Clare said.

  ‘Awful!’ Tremayne retorted. ‘It’s murder.’

  ‘They sound like a cult to me,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘I agree,’ Tremayne said. ‘How people can believe this is beyond me.’

  ‘But they do,’ Clare said.

  ‘This is England, rural England.’

  ‘They still exist, guv,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Wherever they are we need to find them. Harrison mentioned a relative; any ideas, Yarwood?’

  ‘None. We never asked her when she was alive, and we’ve found none afterwards.’

  ‘Yarwood, you’ll need to work with Oldfield on this one.’

  ‘I’m on the team?’ Oldfield asked.

  ‘I’ll deal with it. You know as much about the death of Mavis Godwin as any of us now.’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’

  Chapter 13

  Clare felt the need to meet up with Harry. She had decided not to tell him about what she had read in Harrison’s Bible.

  She realised that Mavis Godwin’s earlier life before Stratford sub Castle was vague. As part of the standard procedures, a dossier had been compiled on the woman. It was known that she had grown up in Devon, not far from Ilfracombe. Clare remembered holidaying there as a child; she also remembered that it had not stopped raining, but apart from that, there was nothing sinister about the place.

  Mavis Godwin had mentioned a village close to Salisbury, but there was no reference in the Bible to its name.

  Harry had organised a stand-in behind the bar at the Deer’s Head that night. He picked Clare up from the office in his Mercedes. Oldfield saw him pull up for her to get in the passenger seat. Lucky bastard, he thought.

  All he had for the night was a bottle of beer and a lasagne to heat up in the microwave. Oldfield felt dejected, although he knew he had no reason to, other than that he and Clare had shared a trip into the unknown at Harrison’s house. Whatever it was at the house, it just didn’t feel right to him. He could not pinpoint the reason, but the coldness went right through his bones. He had grown up close to London, a secure middle-class life, done well at school and then university, obtained the necessary qualifications for a police officer. He had breezed through training, gained top marks in virtually every exam that he had taken, and he knew that what he feared was irrational and not conducive to a secure future.

  He put it to one side and opened the door to his Subaru. If he could make sergeant he would treat himself to a better car, he knew that. The car started on the first turn of the key, and he eased himself out of the station’s car park and onto Bemerton Road. He turned right and headed up the road to Wilton, and the one-bedroom flat that he shared with nobody, except a girlfriend, a sweet twenty-two-year-old local, who came over occasionally.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Clare asked as Harry headed down the road from the police station.

  ‘Your place first. I haven’t seen you for a few days.’

  Two hours later they left Clare’s place. She had changed into a white top and a pair of denim jeans.

  ‘Do you fancy fish and chips?’ he asked.

  ‘In Salisbury?’

  ‘It’s only thirty minutes to Bournemouth. We could drink a bottle of wine and sit on the seafront.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Clare had expected him to treat her to a slap-up meal, but fish and chips in a box and a bottle of wine suited her fine. She was glad just to be with him. She had to admit he was a generous man, always considering her, not withholding himself emotionally.

  It had drizzled on the way down, smearing the windscreen of the car, but when they arrived, it had stopped. Harry parked the car close to the seafront. ‘I often come down here,’ he said.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘On my own. I appreciate the solitude.’

  Clare knew that men as gorgeous as Harry did not stay on their own for long. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘No one of importance,’ he admitted. ‘Does it worry you?’

  ‘As long as you’re not seeing her now,’ Clare replied.

  ‘Not for a long time. I’ve found you now.’

  ‘And I’ve found you.’

  ‘We should make this more permanent,’ Harry said as he poured her wine into a glass he had brought from the pub.

  ‘What do you mean? Is this a proposal?’

  ‘I’ll go down on one knee if you like.’

  ‘I can’t think of anywhere more romantic than a chair on the Bournemouth seafront, fish and chips and a glass of wine.’

  ‘You accept?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yes. You knew I would.’

  ***

  Tremayne was a troubled man. There had been other cases over the years but none as baffling as the present one. In the past, always a clear motive, a logical path to follow; but this time, too many variables, too many unknowns. The man who could have broken the case wide open, the disturbed priest, had hanged himself from a beam in his church.

  And then the husband of Mavis Godwin had disappeared without a trace. Whoever, whatever was behind the deaths was smarter than him, and he didn’t like it. He knew the hand of man, not the devil or whatever Yarwood believed.

  He knew she was sitting on the fence on this one, and it was not productive. Oldfield had looked more sensible, but he doubted him too.

  He had heard it all before, living as he did so close to Stonehenge: tales of mysterious happenings at night, crop circles, ancient beliefs, druids.

  He had arrested a few druids over the years. They had professed to be communing with nature, at one with the birds and the trees, but the ones he had come across were stoned on narcotic plants.

  And as for crop circles, it wasn’t aliens, it was always found to be a few locals out for a bit of a laugh and notoriety.

  But in the main he knew these followers of ancient religions were, for the most part, harmless, even if a little strange. Trevor Godwin seemed to have been weird, although his wife had appeared rational. And how could a priest start to doubt his faith?

  Tremayne remembered he had seen lights in the sky late one night as he was driving home from the pub. The next day he found out it was a couple of weather balloons that had been released on Salisbury Plain. And as for mythical beings, he had never seen any sign of them, but somehow, it seemed clear, some people believed in them.

  Tremayne sat at his desk knowing that there was an itch he should scratch, something obvious that he was missing. Yarwood had been right, the church had been freaky, but what could you expect with Harrison’s talk of the unknown, and the house was probably depressing, but that was all.

  He decided he’d go out there as
well. Even though it was late, he grabbed the keys. He phoned Oldfield. ‘Are you up to a trip?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Sure, guv. Where to?’

  ‘Harrison’s house.’

  ‘We’ve checked it.’

  ‘There’s something not right with this case. Maybe another visit.’

  ‘Great night for a visit to an old church and a graveyard,’ Oldfield said as they drove away from the police station.

  ‘Old churches and graveyards and depressing old houses will make anyone feel uncomfortable, but there’s nothing to them,’ Tremayne said. ‘They're not welcoming places at the best of times, and you and Yarwood trying to conjure up evil spirits does no credit to you both.’

  ‘Still creepy, guv.’

  The two men arrived at Harrison’s house. Tremayne parked his car close to the church and next to the graveyard. Oldfield read the gravestone nearest to him: In loving memory of Eustace Martin. Erected by his loving wife, Mabel. The dates had worn off, and he wondered how many years it was since anyone had visited the grave.

  ‘Come on, Oldfield. Show some backbone. They’re dead. It’s not as if they’re going to come back,’ Tremayne said.

  Harrison’s house was cloaked in darkness. The wind rustled through the trees, a full moon hung in the sky. Tremayne turned the key in the lock; it was tight, but it opened.

  The door swung open as Tremayne entered, stooping to avoid banging his head on the beam above the door. ‘Not much of a house,’ he said.

  Vic Oldfield could only agree. Tremayne flicked the light switch; a single bulb in the hallway lit up.

  ‘Compared to this, my place is a palace,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘We’ve checked it.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but we need to know more. What with you and Yarwood running scared, you may have missed something.’

  ‘I don’t think so, guv.’

  Tremayne moved through the house, putting a light on as he entered a room, turning it off as he left. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. Oldfield trailed behind, not sure what the man hoped to achieve, hoping to gain experience by observing how the man moved, methodically checking this, checking that, looking for the unusual.

  ‘Plenty of books on early Celtic history,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You can’t avoid the Celts around here,’ Oldfield replied.

  ‘It’s unusual reading for a Church of England vicar.’

  ‘Why? You’ve been to Stonehenge, to the Avebury Circles, up to Old Sarum.’

  ‘A long time ago, when I first came here. Back then you were free to walk around Stonehenge, touch the stones. Now you have to be an American President or the assorted riff raff at the summer solstice. God knows how much damage they do.’

  ‘Not much, guv. I went up there a few years back. Most of them were harmless.’

  ‘It’s still weird,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Not as strange as a group of villagers who commit murder, if we’re to believe Harrison’s Bible.’

  ‘Sick bastards, the lot of them.’

  ‘Have you ever come across any, guv?’

  ‘We had one twenty years back who believed that God had commanded him to attack young girls, drag them into the bushes and rape them. Killed one of them as well.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I caught the bastard.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital.’

  ‘Still there?’

  ‘Up until five years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They reclassified him as no threat to society. Put him in a regular prison.’

  ‘One day he’ll be back out on the street,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘Not a chance. The first week in his new prison, he was set on by a group of five men. They beat him to death.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Nothing. No one saw anything.’

  Tremayne, temporarily distracted by Oldfield, continued to look around the house.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Oldfield asked as he pulled up the collar of his jacket. It was late, he was tired, and his girlfriend was coming over. He knew where he wanted to be.

  ‘What did Harrison’s writing tell us?’

  ‘The man believed in the supernatural.’

  ‘Apart from that?’

  ‘He mentioned a village.’

  ‘That’s what we need to find. We know that Mavis Godwin married Trevor Godwin in Wilton.’

  ‘I can’t see any cults surviving there,’ Oldfield said.

  ‘A few weirdos down the pub I go to,’ Tremayne said. ‘Show me where you found the Bible.’

  Vic Oldfield climbed the stairs first; they creaked under his weight.

  ‘It’s as quiet as a grave in here,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You’re not starting to believe, are you?’ Oldfield asked, aiming to release the tension that both men felt. He had to agree with his senior that the place was spooky, typical of an unpleasant, unhomely, unloved building.

  Oldfield opened the door to Harrison’s bedroom. ‘Someone’s been in here,’ he said.

  Tremayne entered and looked around. The mattress on the bed was upturned, the wardrobe’s contents tossed out.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Someone else knew about the Bible.’

  Tremayne took his Nokia out of his pocket. ‘Hughes, I need you down at Harrison’s house tomorrow morning first light.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ Hughes replied with a yawn.

  ‘It’s a murder enquiry, not a day in the kindergarten.’

  ‘Tremayne. You’re a hard man.’

  ‘Find the miserable sods who keep murdering people, then you can have a lie in, but until then…’

  ‘Point taken. I’ll phone the team now. They’ll be as excited as I am. What is it?’

  ‘Upstairs, Harrison’s bedroom. Someone’s been in here. We need to know who.’

  ‘’Okay. Make sure there’s a uniform outside before you leave.’

  ‘I know how to do my job. I just hope you know how to do yours.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Hughes said and hung up the phone.

  Hughes’s wife on the other side of the bed spoke. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Tremayne.’

  ‘Oh, him. Go to sleep.’

  ‘He’s right. I’ve got to organise for tomorrow.’

  Jim Hughes’s wife went back to sleep. He raised himself from the bed, put on a dressing gown and a pair of slippers and headed downstairs to his study.

  ‘Damn you, Tremayne,’ he said, his breath visible in the cold air.

  ***

  Clare, blissfully unaware of Tremayne and Oldfield’s visit to Harrison’s house, slept snuggled up to Harry. They were planning to buy a ring in the morning. Her phone rang, Harry answered. ‘Tell Yarwood she’s to be in the office by 6 a.m.’

  ‘We had plans,’ Harry said. Clare had woken up and was looking over at her fiancé. ‘It’s Tremayne,’ he said to her.

  ‘The man never gives up. Tell him I’m with the man I love, and he can keep all the murders to himself.’

  Tremayne, whose hearing was perfect, replied, ‘Tell Yarwood it’s 6 a.m. She’s yours till then.’

  ‘We’ve just got engaged,’ Harry said.

  ‘Congratulations. We’ll have a few beers at your place after we’ve dealt with the recent developments.’

  Clare took the phone away from Harry. ‘Sorry about that, guv.’

  ‘No need to explain. We’re all young once and in love.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Someone’s been into Harrison’s house.’

  ‘Any idea who is it?’

  ‘Not yet. Tell Harry he’s a lucky man.’

  Tremayne hung up the phone.

  ‘What did he say?’ Harry asked.

  ‘He paid me a compliment.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He said you’re a lucky man.’

  ‘He’s right.
Come here, you. We’ve still got a few hours left.’

  Chapter 14

  The elders met. ‘It was not there,’ one of them, a farmer, said. He was a well-built man in his sixties, fit as an ox, with the complexion of someone who spends a lot of time outside. He drove a Range Rover, but he was not a gentleman farmer. Besides, the car was a few years old, even carried the occasional sheep or pig, and while it was immaculate, as one of his farm hands dealt with that, it was also functional. As usual when meeting the other elders on a casual basis, he was dressed in a tweed jacket, a cravat around his neck.

  His farm was five hundred acres of prime agricultural land, carefully sown with wheat and corn, the crops rotating and changing as the soil required or which produce offered the best return. He also had a herd of cattle which always won best of breed at the agricultural shows in Salisbury. He had had a suitable education, at least for farming. The farm had been in the family for six hundred years, a land grant from a king for an ancestor’s services rendered. He no longer remembered the name of the king, but it did not bother him.

  His wife had borne him three strapping boys, and two were anxious to stay and work the farm, one day inheriting it, which appeared as though it would be a long time off. Their grandfather had lived until one hundred and two, and their father looked as though he was good for a century. Not that it concerned them, as each had been given a house on the farm, large enough for a wife and two children. One of the sons had accomplished his task, the other was still to wed. The third son, his father despaired of him, was at university in Oxford, and he did not acknowledge the old ways. So far, he had revealed nothing, promised he never would, but the farmer knew the punishment for those who spoke against their protectors. Had that not happened to his cousin, Trevor Godwin?

  ‘It can only be with the police,’ one of the others said. His Bentley was parked outside. He was not a farmer, but a man who had travelled and obtained the necessary qualifications to allow him to practise as a doctor. He had led the group and the community for over twenty years, an honour handed down from father to son. ‘If only she had married me,’ he said.