The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Nothing,’ Hughes replied. It wasn’t the first time that he and Tremayne had had a heated exchange, he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘Yarwood, who else do we know?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Apart from Charles and Adam Saunders?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve not found a tie-in between Charles Saunders and Eric Langley.’

  ‘Pressure the man. We need his son.’

  Chapter 20

  Adam Saunders spent the day in the isolated farm house. He missed his friends and his school, although he missed a reliable connection to the internet more. He knew why he was condemned to be in that place surrounded by fields and not much else. A more interested person would have regarded it as scenic, but he did not. He wanted out, but how? There were no guards, and it would be possible to walk out through the fields, and the wood at the top of the rise, not more than five hundred yards, but his father had told him the consequences.

  ‘We are under suspicion,’ Charles Saunders had said.

  Adam, educated, computer savvy, an avid user of Facebook and Twitter, had always obeyed the rules of his father’s community. But he lived closer to Salisbury, even walked through to Salisbury Cathedral for the occasional service with his school, and he could see no godly presence there, let alone in Avon Hill, which to him was devoid of any life, mortal or otherwise, apart from a dreary collection of old people.

  He had spent time out at the vicar’s house in Stratford sub Castle as a favour to his father: a bit of a lark, a few hours off school and the chance to rummage through the house had seemed like fun. But then the police had caught him, and apart from his grilling, another reason to brag to his friends, the rest of his time since then had been purgatory.

  Firstly, the inquisition by the elders, a fossilised bunch of old cronies who only ever talked about the old ways. He had wanted to tell them to wise up, get with the modern age, instead of dwelling on the past, dressing up in strange robes and wearing masks made of paper-mâché.

  He had seen them through the old church’s windows on more than one occasion. He knew that his father had seen him, but he had only ever told him to be careful.

  Adam, cheeky and full of bravado, as befits a teen on the verge of adulthood, could see that it was up to him to make a move. There was a sports day at the school the next day, and if he could not go to his father’s house, knowing full well that his loyalty to the elders overrode his loyalty to his son, then he would go to a friend’s house, not far from Avon Hill. It was only two miles away but separated by centuries of history. There, the internet worked, the television had all the channels, and the family were friendly and welcoming, not stuck in a rut, debating the ancient past and how Dr Wylshere’s ancestor had saved them all from the plague and ensured their prosperity. Not that Adam Saunders could see much of it. Sure, Wylshere drove around in a nice car, had a decent house, but then his friend lived well, and his family did not creep around an old church at night and conduct rituals deep in the forest.

  Grabbing his belongings, Adam left the cottage. It was past seven in the evening, and it was already dark. There was no moon in the sky, no stars. He struck out across the fields, through one that had a few cows, then through the second. Only one more to go and then he would have the protection of the wood.

  He had not been into the densely-wooded area, no one had. He knew it was irrational, as did the others in Avon Hill, but they had been warned on many occasions that the place belonged to others. He remembered the tales from his childhood, when his father, as well as his mother, had scared him as he tried to sleep. His friends at Bishop Wordsworth’s School would have said that he was mad to believe in such nonsense, but they had not seen the woods, not experienced the elders. He never knew why he did not speak to them about his childhood, the strange pagan beliefs, the ceremonies in the church, but he never had. That night, if his friend asked, he would tell them what he knew: that people had disappeared, some had been killed, some had had unexplained accidents, how his father had prostrated himself in that old church, purely because he, the son, had been caught by the police.

  And what was it with the police? He had no issues with them, but to the elders they were akin to the devil. Those that he had met were pleasant enough, especially Sergeant Clare Yarwood.

  He reached the edge of the wood, hesitated, listened to the wind rustling through the leaves. He tried to hear the voices, but he could hear none. His stomach was churning, his legs were shaking, but he put that down to the cold weather. A barbed wire fence separated him from the wood. He held the top wire down with his backpack and climbed over, one leg at a time. Once on the other side, he moved through the wood. It was only half a mile to the road leading to his friend's house, and the lights of the cars were visible in the distance. It was clear that no one had been in the wood for a long time, although there were some tracks, possibly deer.

  After five minutes of pushing through the undergrowth, he paused to look around him. The lights of the cars were no longer visible, nor were the lights from the cottage where he had just spent the last few days. He took out his phone: no signal. It had an inbuilt compass, so he checked the direction and then continued walking forward. The animal tracks were no longer visible, and the meagre light from his phone was all that he had. After another ten minutes, the battery of the phone finally expired. It was now dark, the dark of the dead, and he remembered his father’s warnings about not entering the wood; of how some had tried in times past, of how they had never returned. He knew it was pure superstition, at least he had until now. Regret at not listening to his father came to him; the wish that he was still back in that isolated cottage. He listened to the sounds around him: an owl in the distance, the leaves rustling, an animal scurrying somewhere near. He looked for the way out, any way out. Adam Saunders, a young man, educated, computer savvy, lover of Facebook and Twitter, was scared. He could feel the fear racing through his body; he knew it was irrational, yet somehow all that he had witnessed in that church, all that his parents had told him as bedtime stories came back to him. What if they were all true? What if the elders were correct when they spoke of ancient gods and offerings and sacrifices? Was this to be his fate, to be lost in a darkened wood, not more than a few hundred yards from civilisation?

  The young man looked up; all he could see was a perpetual darkness. He listened again: nothing. Not even the sound of an owl or a scurrying animal. No longer the noise of the leaves rustling in the trees. He felt a moistness on his cheeks. He was fifteen and in mortal fear of his life. He took out his phone. For some reason, it had gained some charge and a weak signal. He dialled his father.

  ‘Charles Saunders?’ the voice answered.

  ‘Father,’ Adam Saunders said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the wood at the top of the rise from the cottage.’

  ‘Get out of there now,’ an alarmed voice said.

  ‘I can’t. I’m lost.’

  ‘Stay there. I’m coming.’

  ‘It’s too late, father. They are here.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The phone went dead. Adam Saunders realised that he was no longer in an earthly place.

  Charles Saunders picked up his phone in panic; attempted to call his son, no answer.

  With no success, the father called Dr Wylshere. ‘Adam is in Cuthbert’s Wood.’

  ‘He was warned,’ Wylshere replied.

  ‘He needs to be rescued,’ Saunders said. He was talking on the phone as he drove away from his home. He was as scared as his son.

  ‘It is too late,’ Wylshere replied. ‘He had been warned. His guilt is your guilt.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to send people up there.’

  ‘No one will enter there. It is a forbidden place.’

  ‘But he’s my son.’

  ‘Then he is your responsibility. The consequences of his actions remain with you. You must take the burden, not us. If they deem him worthy, he will survive. Other
wise, his fate is sealed.’

  ***

  Charles Saunders, a man whose family had for generations followed the old ways, knew that his prosperity had come, as had others’, from the benevolence of the ancients, but now he was a father with a son. A son who had been given over to those forces. Charles Saunders had kept their secret safe, as had his son, and what had happened? He had been chastised by the elders for allowing his son to be caught by the police, and his son had been isolated, out of sight. He knew Wylshere and his strict code of obedience; he had even agreed to it. He had seen the need for Trevor Godwin and his wife to die, but now it was his son.

  Cuthbert’s Wood was so named after another person who had entered it centuries previously and had not come out. Since then, no one had entered there, no one would dare to, yet Adam Saunders had.

  In desperation, the boy’s father took the only action possible. ‘DI Tremayne, my son is in mortal danger.’ Charles Saunders knew that his life would be forfeit, but it was his son who was now threatened. If the elders decided to appease the gods with his body, then so be it, but for now it was his son that was more important.

  ‘Where is he?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Cuthbert’s Wood. It’s less than a mile from Avon Hill.’

  Tremayne called Clare and Oldfield into his office. With one hand over the phone’s microphone, he spoke to them. ‘Get some uniforms and get out to Cuthbert’s Wood. It’s near Avon Hill.’

  ‘What is it, guv?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Adam Saunders. He’s in trouble. His father is on the line.’

  ***

  Adam Saunders, unsure of his bearings, set off in the direction that had seemed the most promising. It was as dark as a coal mine, and he could barely see his hand in front of his face. As he moved, he could feel the undergrowth thickening beneath his feet. He stumbled, he lurched, he crawled on his hands and knees. In mortal fear he tried to run and fell over a fallen branch, twisting his ankle. Instead of walking, the most he could do was stagger. Up ahead a light, the light of a car.

  ‘I’m over here,’ he shouted.

  No answer. He pressed on towards the light until it disappeared. He opened his backpack, found a bar of chocolate. After a few bites, he felt better.

  Get a grip of yourself, Saunders, he said to himself. The light reappeared. He shouted to it again, inched himself forward. Yet again, the light disappeared.

  Frantically he screamed, hoping for a response. He could feel the cold air chilling his bones, the damp underfoot. He rechecked his phone; the battery was flat. He threw it away in frustration; wondered why he did, tried to find it again.

  The darkness continued to pervade the wood; a solitary owl in the distance. He thought he glimpsed the road off to one side, and cars moving along, their beams lighting up the sides of the road. He changed direction and moved towards them. The light he had seen before reappeared. He turned towards it, it turned off. He refocussed on the road he had seen up ahead before, but it was no longer to be seen. He could feel the tears of sheer panic streaming down his cheeks. He remembered all the night-time tales that his parents had instilled in him to ensure he did not mention Avon Hill and what went on there.

  He remembered that once he had followed the villagers into the wood alongside the church: seen them recite their chants, offer praise to Teutates, Esus and Taranis. He had wanted to laugh at them but did not. He had seen Dr Wylshere with the mask of a bull offer the sacrifice, and then a young child being led forward, dressed in a simple tunic.

  The night had been cold, and he assumed that the young girl had been drugged as she was oblivious to what was happening.

  Oh, ancient gods, our benefactors, we give you our offering in the belief that you will protect us as you always have.

  Adam Saunders did not know why he had remembered that night and that verse. He had only been eleven, and for some reason it had been blocked from his mind, but there in Cuthbert’s Wood it all became real again. He could see that he was to be offered to the gods where he stood.

  Behind him he could hear a rustling in the undergrowth. Too afraid to look back, too frightened not to, he froze on the spot. The next second he was on the ground, feeling the force of something or someone hitting him squarely between his shoulders. He lifted his face from the mud and looked around. There was nothing there other than a broken branch on the ground. He felt relief and lifted himself up, only feeling the soreness in his body. He took stock of the situation, looked around, this time with no trepidation. He knew that he was fifteen, on the cusp of manhood, and childish stories and a belief in pagan gods were pure folly.

  Ahead, in the distance, he could see clearly the main road and flashing blue lights. He knew it was the police, but he gave it no more thought other than to get to that road as soon as possible. Five minutes to the road, another five to his friend’s house, and then he could relax. He attempted to stop shaking but could not. He picked up his pace; the road in the distance had given him a bearing, the flashing lights momentarily showing him the way out of Cuthbert’s Wood.

  Another branch hit his back; he took no notice. Then a third, heavier than the previous two, and he collapsed to the ground. It was wet to the face; he realised that it was a small pond. Another branch and his face was under the water. Two minutes later the pressure of the branch eased, although this time Adam Saunders, a smart fifteen-year-old youth, did not raise his head to look around.

  ***

  This time, avoiding the need to enter Avon Hill, Clare and Oldfield reached Cuthbert’s Wood from a different direction. Two more police cars arrived soon after. The police, including Clare and Oldfield, all holding torches, entered the wooded area after first clambering over an old wooden fence.

  ‘You take the right-hand side,’ Clare said to Oldfield. ‘I’ll go to the left.’

  Both of the police officers took a couple of uniforms with them. Clare had seen the wood from a distance, and to her it represented evil. Oldfield, less susceptible, had to admit that it appeared to be a foreboding place, set up high above the road, but then, as children, he and his friends would have revelled in a spooky wood, and this was spooky, ominously so. Down on the road where they had parked their cars, it had been a balmy night, unseasonably so, but as they had approached the search area, Clare was sure of one fact – the temperature had progressively dropped. On the road, it had been jacket weather, but on entering the wood, it must have dropped at least ten degrees Fahrenheit.

  ‘These places are always cold,’ Oldfield said, but he had said it as much for his own benefit as Clare’s.

  Six people entered the wood, three went to the left, three to the right, their exhaled breath steaming in the cold air. The going was difficult, and even with the torches, it was proving hard to find their way.

  ‘Are you sure he’s in here?’ one of the uniforms asked Clare.

  ‘According to his father.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as though anyone’s been in here for a long time.’

  Clare had to admit it looked that way. There were no signs of human tracks, just of some animals here and there, but not much else. She looked up at the sky, could not see it. She looked forward, shining her light from side to side: nothing, apart from undergrowth and trees that seemed to be entwined with each other. She was frightened, yet not wanting to show it. The policemen with her were not helping. One was young and inexperienced, the other one older and should have known better.

  ‘You’ve heard the stories about this place?’ said the older one, a constable, still happy to drive a patrol car if he had been asked, not willing to take off the uniform and sit in an office.

  ‘What stories?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Maybe it’s just folklore. This close to Stonehenge, there’s always somewhere or other that has some story.’

  All three continued to move forward. The wooded area was not expansive, no more than three hundred yards across and five hundred yards in length. Clare realised that if Adam Saunders had entered the wood, he w
ould not have needed to spend long there, and whichever direction he took, it could not have taken more than fifteen minutes to traverse. The reason why he was in such a place was a question for later.

  ‘What story?’ Clare asked. She was sure she did not want to hear it, unable not to ask.

  ‘They say it’s the devil’s haunt.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I used to ride my bicycle as a youth past here. That’s what we always knew. As I said, it’s just folklore, an old superstition.’

  ‘Have you been in here before?’

  ‘Not likely. The place scared me to death then, even does now.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Clare said. ‘I’m scared enough for the both of us.’

  ‘It doesn’t worry me,’ the younger policeman said. ‘The imagination plays funny tricks on you.’

  ‘Enough talk,’ Clare said. ‘What have we found so far?’

  ‘Bugger all,’ the young policeman replied. ‘We’ll not find anyone in here.’

  ***

  ‘Vic, this is a wild goose chase,’ Constable Dallimore said.

  ‘Do you want to tell Sergeant Yarwood that you’re cold and you want to get back to the car, is that it?’ Oldfield replied.

  ‘Vic, it’s not that, but there’s nothing here. We’ve covered the area as requested. What more can we do?’

  ‘You may be right, but you know Tremayne, and Yarwood’s not a person to give up so easily.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take the left-hand side, you take the middle, and young Mike can take the right-hand side. Once we get back, that’s it. Agreed?’

  ‘And tonight the beers are on you if we find something.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Dallimore said.

  Oldfield took his phone out of his pocket, attempted to call Clare: no signal. He assumed it was the trees blocking the signal.

  The three, Oldfield, Bill and Mike, all constables, all drinking pals, spread out. They were no more than sixty yards from each other.