The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Come on, Yarwood.’ Tremayne repeated his previous command.

  The two police officers walked across the frozen ground towards the church; the gravestones, none more recent than two hundred years ago, loomed ahead of her as if they were sentinels warning her to progress no further. If she had been on her own, she would not have ventured in the graveyard.

  ‘Have you had a look inside here?’ Clare said once they were inside.

  ‘After you let go of me, I will,’ Tremayne replied. Clare released her grip, embarrassed that she had allowed herself to be so frightened.

  The two walked up through the centre of the church, where once an anxious bride had been escorted on the arm of her father, where a coffin had been borne by six men. But now there were no weddings, just plenty of funerals, although not with the Lord’s prayer being recited, but with a chant like the one that could now be clearly heard coming from the pub.

  ‘They’re summoning their gods,’ Clare said.

  ‘Those damn fools. Don’t they know the repercussions of what will happen?’

  ‘If they’re right, there’ll be no repercussions.’

  ‘Not much to see in here,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare could see the signs of their worship, the marks on the walls, the altar upturned, but she had to agree with her senior, and besides, she wanted out of there.

  Clare kept close to Tremayne as they walked through the graveyard and back to the crime scene headquarters. Hughes was there on their return. ‘We can’t do much more tonight,’ he said.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘We secure the site and come back tomorrow.’

  ‘With those up at the pub?’

  ‘We place the uniforms here. It’s the best we can do.’

  ‘Until we have armed support, you’ll need to stay,’ Tremayne said. ‘Yarwood, we need to send another vehicle to Wilton.’

  Clare left the relative warmth of the garage where they had been talking to Hughes and walked over to one of the police cars. ‘Any word from Constable Dallimore?’ she asked.

  ‘How? The radio doesn’t work,’ the patrol car driver said.

  ‘We need you to go to Wilton and bring help.’

  ‘Those idiots at the pub?’

  ‘Those idiots,’ Clare replied. The chanting from the pub echoed throughout the valley.

  ‘It’s almost musical,’ the driver said.

  ‘There’s nothing musical there; it’s evil.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘You know about this place, don’t you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Vic Oldfield told me before his accident.’

  ‘It was not an accident. You need to go now, and if any of those fools stand in your way, run them down. Do not stop until you reach the police station in Wilton, and if you can, head on to Salisbury and update Superintendent Moulton.’

  ‘Run them down?’ The driver looked perplexed.

  ‘Run them down. If Vic Oldfield told you the full story, those chanting up at the pub have killed four confirmed, another three possible, and dozens more once we exhume all the bodies in the woods.’

  ‘He said there were some mysterious deaths.’

  ‘Hopefully, it’s enough to convince you of the urgency.’

  Chapter 32

  At the pub, a group of men stood outside and chanted; inside, Edmund Wylshere considered the situation. He only hoped those he worshipped would see him as worthy. They had never spoken to him directly, only actions in response to his requests, but tonight they would need to intervene.

  Before, their actions had been subtle; that night they would need to act overtly. Edmund Wylshere knew the chant that was required: a chant so dangerous that it had only been used once before when the outside forces in the sixteenth century had wanted to destroy their community. It had been a time of ignorance and religious fervour; a time when they were at their most vulnerable.

  Edmund Wylshere knew all this because it had been recorded in the history of the family through the ages. The book was well hidden, unknown to any other, even his wife. He had shown his daughter once, but she had not been interested, only laughed at him for believing in nonsense, but he had seen them with his own eyes up there in Cuthbert’s Wood, behind the church, and their appearance had been menacing, with their black robes and their piercing eyes. Wylshere knew they were real enough; real enough to bring the snows early and isolate the village.

  ‘We wait,’ Wylshere said. Those in the bar knew that his word would be obeyed. The publican remained behind the bar, the others sat wherever they could. The chanting continued outside, its melodious tone echoing through the village. A rolling mist could be seen coming down the valley. Some saw it as a good omen, Wylshere saw it as validation.

  A car could be seen at the church, its headlights on full beam. ‘Stop it,’ Wylshere shouted from inside the bar.

  The men outside moved across the road, forming a human barrier. The car continued to accelerate, in part driven by fear, in part by the last words of Sergeant Yarwood. ‘If they get in your way, mow them down.’

  Constable Hopwood, a friend of Vic Oldfield, could see in his main beam the men across the road. Every one of them glared at the approaching car, not blinking, not averting their eyes.

  Hopwood was panicking. If he stopped the vehicle close to them they would attack; that was evident from the knives they were carrying; if he reversed, then the whole team would be under threat. A police officer, he was forced to make a decision that he should never have to make. He had been conditioned to uphold the law, protect the people, but now…

  With no option, Hopwood pressed hard on the accelerator. The vehicle, its engine still cold, was sluggish in responding. He hit the group that were hindering his path at fifty-five miles per hour, the thuds clearly heard inside the car. Hopwood drove on, not looking back at the carnage. The road ahead was clear, even though there was a thick mist. He glanced down at the speedometer; it was over sixty-five. Not caring about the fate of those he had hit, oblivious of all around him, other than the need to bring help to those trapped in the village, he kept up the speed. The first sign of snow came after one mile. Up until then, the roads had been clear, but then it had started to show on the road sides and up ahead. Two hundred yards ahead, he could see the other police car, its roof just visible above the snow.

  Hopwood, confused between the need to stop to help a fellow officer and the command of Sergeant Yarwood, chose the latter. Dallimore, the driver, was not visible, but it was clear to Hopwood that the man was not in the vehicle, and that he must have been dead as the temperature outside was ten degrees below freezing.

  Hopwood continued to drive forward, although the road was covered in snow. His vehicle was sliding across the road, and the tyres, designed for standard conditions, were not making traction. The car was revving, but his progress was slowing. Up ahead he could see the main road, the lights of the cars clearly visible. He could not see snow up there, but where he was, it was snowing heavily. He checked the inbuilt thermometer in the car; it showed fourteen degrees below zero. The engine stopped; the heating as well.

  The young constable, trained to maintain the law, not to deal with an Arctic climate, opened the door of the car and headed back towards Avon Hill. He did not consider those at the pub. He glanced over his shoulder. The main road was still visible, but the snow was heavier up the road. He knew he could not make it to there, but getting back to Avon Hill was a possibility. He checked the temperature. He continued down the road, hopeful of finding somewhere warm.

  After eight minutes, he was exhausted and delirious. He sat down at the foot of a tree.

  ***

  The events at the pub had been witnessed at the crime scene. Tremayne was up on his feet and heading over to his vehicle. Clare caught up to him soon enough.

  ‘DI, it’s Hopwood.’

  ‘He’s driven through them,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘That was his instruction,’ Clare reminded
him.

  ‘This is serious. We’ve got to help.’

  ‘Hughes, we need to get people up to the pub,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘We’re not doctors,’ Hughes’s reply.

  ‘That’s as maybe, but you’ll be able to help.’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ll get a few people together and head up there.’

  ***

  Edmund Wylshere cared little for those who had died, only for what was going to happen that night. Outside the pub, the seriously injured were lying on the ground, the dead had been hastily covered with a blanket or someone’s coat, and those who had only received minor injuries were inside the bar. Wylshere may not have been interested, but the others in the community were. To them, they were husbands, sons and brothers, and loved.

  The man alternated between a trancelike state and normalcy. ‘They had completed their task,’ he had said when told that two had died.

  ‘This is folly,’ Gerald Saxby said.

  ‘The gods will protect us,’ Wylshere replied.

  ‘Wylshere, you’re mad.’ Saxby, a man who had loyally served the community for over forty years, could see the madness in his leader. For Saxby, as for some others in the small bar, it had gone on long enough. Sure, there had been pleasant times over the years, but at what cost? Until Edmund Wylshere had ascended to the leadership of the group, the deaths had been few, but now it was anyone who opposed his will.

  Saxby had never believed in the gods, and only saw them as a figment of the imagination, an outlet for the frustration of living in an isolated village. He did not want to continue with the charade, he wanted to place himself in the hands of the law.

  Mike Carter, the village butcher, remonstrated with Wylshere for the callous manner in which he had disregarded the deaths as no more than a minor nuisance.

  ‘They did their part,’ Wylshere’s reply.

  Outside, the weather continued to worsen, and now the snow had started to fall in the village. ‘They are with us,’ Wylshere said. Across the other side of the room, a number of the men gathered. They watched the doctor’s behaviour, wondered what to do. Another group hovered close to their leader, the only person who could control the portal to the other world.

  Wylshere, the only trained medical practitioner, took no notice of those receiving medical assistance from Slater, the vet. ‘It will be soon,’ he said.

  ‘Soon for what?’ Saxby asked.

  ‘He intends to attack the police,’ a lone voice said from the other side of the room. The others, wavering about the way forward, moved away from the lone voice.

  Wylshere put his hand down and mumbled almost inaudibly. He spoke words they had heard before but did not understand. For five minutes, he continued to mutter. Eventually, he lifted his head. ‘They have spoken,’ he said.

  ‘And?’ Saxby asked.

  ‘They will deal with all those who doubt.’

  Saxby, along with Mike Carter, two of the community elders, realised that the man they had for so long admired was a fanatic only driven by self. Saxby regretted that he had been swayed, although he had prospered through his alliance with Wylshere, as had Carter. If Wylshere did not kill him, Saxby knew, then the police would arrest him, as they would everyone else in the pub, and then what? All that he had worked for would be gone in an instance.

  Outside, those injured lay in the snow, their moaning heard in the bar.

  One of the dead had been dragged under the police car for twenty feet, the other had taken the full force of the front of the car and been thrown over its roof and head first into a stone post outside the pub, his head cracking open on impact. The injured men, one a labourer, the second an accountant, the third a local shop keeper, moaned as the vet attempted to help. Even he could see that the prognosis for the three men was not good. Slater looked down the road, saw the lights of two cars approaching. He returned inside the pub.

  ***

  Jim Hughes was the first to reach the bodies lying in the snow.

  ‘Dead?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Two are. The others are in need of immediate medical treatment. We’ll need to get them into the pub.’

  Two of Hughes’s people picked up the stretcher that they always carried when at a crime scene. They loaded one of the injured men onto it, and carried it towards the pub; the door would not open. Tremayne came over and flashed his badge through one of the windows. ‘Police,’ he said.

  Still, the door would not open. One of the uniforms walked around to the back of the pub; the same response.

  ‘Men are dying out here,’ Tremayne shouted.

  ‘There’s only one now,’ Hughes corrected him. ‘He may pull through if we can get him to a hospital in time.’

  ‘That’s not likely,’ Tremayne said. Clare stayed inside one of the cars. Tremayne had told her to stay where she was and to record all that happened. If there was violence, he wanted her out of it, and when the men in the village were tried for murder, she would be able to give an accurate account of why a police car had driven through a group of people, killing some, wounding others.

  Tremayne continued to bang on the door. The lights were on inside the pub, and he could clearly see some of the men sitting down. ‘If this man dies, it will be on your consciences.’

  ‘It will be because of you and your police,’ a voice said from inside.

  ‘Dr Wylshere, do you know what you are doing?’

  ‘I am protecting this community. Something you are not able to do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The driver of the police car has been dealt with.’

  ‘You’ve killed him?’ Tremayne asked. Clare had wound down the window of her car and was listening to the conversation.

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘That’s murder,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You will not find the hand of man.’

  ‘Then whose?’

  ‘They.’

  ‘Not this nonsense about the gods again,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘They dealt with him, the same as they did with your colleague and Kathy Saunders.’

  ‘That was a car accident.’

  ‘How little you know. You sit in your police station, believing in right and wrong, the laws of the land, a Christian God, but you are all wrong.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘There is no threat, only fact. You and your people will not leave this village.’

  ‘Tomorrow, this place will be swarming with police.’

  ‘Tomorrow is a long time away. I suggest you return to your supposed crime scene. Take the man who was critically injured when your police car hit him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Prepare yourself for the inevitable.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Your death and that of your sergeant, Sergeant Clare Yarwood.’

  Chapter 33

  ‘You’ve heard Wylshere,’ Tremayne said. He, along with Clare and Jim Hughes, was back at the crime scene. The critically injured man they had brought back with them was in one corner of the garage.

  ‘He might live,’ Hughes said, glancing over at the man.

  ‘Constable Hopwood’s dead though,’ Clare said. She sat glumly, unsure what to feel. After so many deaths, including the murders of Vic Oldfield and Kathy Saunders, she could see that their remaining time in Avon Hill would be short.

  With Hughes’s team no longer working in the woods, most were huddled in the church vestry in an attempt to keep warm. The crime scene resembled a horror movie. There was the church, its spire looming high in the sky, the headstones in the graveyard standing to attention. Clare imagined she could hear noises other than the chanting. She wanted Harry, she knew that, but he was not contactable, and he’d be behind the bar at the Deer’s Head dispensing beers, sharing a joke and generally being his usual affable self.

  Clare knew one thing: if they ever left that village, Harry could have his wife at home looking after the children, ensuring there was a meal when he
arrived, her loving arms around his neck. If policing meant that she had to endure another Avon Hill then she did not want it. If it meant that she had to suffer the deaths of people who she had worked with, attached some fondness to, then the cost of policing was too much, and Tremayne, her mentor and a person she greatly admired, could have his Homicide department to himself.

  ‘Yarwood, what are you doing there?’ Tremayne shouted. Clare lifted her head and looked at him.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘No use sitting there feeling sad for yourself. We’ve got to do something. We still need help.’

  ‘But how? We’ll never get out by road.’

  ‘How far are we from civilisation as the crow flies?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Not far if you cut across the fields.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Not us, but someone’s got to go. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll ask,’ Clare said, ‘but everyone’s just waiting for the morning now.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘What do you mean, guv?’

  ‘You never saw inside that bar.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Clare asked. She had only heard the voices of Tremayne and Wylshere through the open window of the car.

  ‘They were getting dressed up in their robes. Some had masks on as well.’

  ‘The same as in the church?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s clear what it means. You heard Wylshere. What do you think he was saying?’

  ‘He was threatening, talking big when there was nothing else to say. The classic standoff.’

  ‘Yarwood, you’re sitting there hoping it will all go away. Well, let me tell you, it won’t. They were arming themselves in that pub. They are going to fight, and it won’t be an immortal or phantom spirit or eerie sounds from the woods; it will be twenty to thirty men armed and willing to kill.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, guv?’