The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘The realism. I thought I could deal with it, but it made me remember.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine. It’s an intermission. I’ll treat you to orange juice.’

  ‘I could do with a beer.’

  ‘After it’s finished, we’ll go to the Old Castle pub across the road,’ Yarwood said. She had wanted to say the Deer’s Head but corrected herself. That had been Harry’s pub, the memory still painful of how he had saved her, how he had renounced the pagans up in Cuthbert’s Wood and had come to her protection. She wanted to forget, but she could not.

  ***

  ‘Tremayne, have you got a minute?’

  Tremayne looked up from where he and Yarwood were sitting. ‘Freestone, how are you? This is Sergeant Yarwood, Clare.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Clare said. She realised that he had been one of the actors on the stage, still dressed in his Roman tunic.

  ‘It’s around the back. We’ve called an ambulance and the police. I didn’t realise you were here.’

  ‘It’s Yarwood. She’s into this sort of thing.’

  ‘At least one of you is not a philistine. Please come, it’s serious.’

  The two police officers got up from the grass and made their way around to the back of the stage, behind a cloth used as a backdrop.

  ‘It’s Gordon, he’s dead.’

  ‘Julius Caesar?’ Clare said.

  ‘They were meant to be fake knives. We’d purchased them especially.’

  Tremayne knelt down, steadying himself on a chair to one side. He lifted the robe covering the man’s face. ‘You’ll need to make an announcement.’

  ‘That’s what I was preparing to do. It has to be an accident, doesn’t it?’ Freestone said.

  ‘That’s not for me to say. Yarwood, make sure no one leaves until we’ve got their details and a brief statement.’

  ‘The audience?’

  ‘They may have seen something.’

  Chapter 2

  Peter Freestone handled the announcement reasonably well, Clare reinforcing his statement that the actor portraying Julius Caesar had unfortunately passed away.

  There were one or two in the crowd who took the news badly, expecting a refund of their admission fee. They were more upset when told that no one was to leave until statements had been taken.

  Tremayne didn’t care whether they liked it or not. This was a murder, he was sure of it. He had been around long enough to know the difference between blood and red paint.

  Clare was out front, trying to control the crowd, only one hundred and fifty or thereabouts. The sound of an ambulance could be heard as it hurtled up Castle Road towards the ancient site of Salisbury. Tremayne was around the back of the stage dealing with the cast. Freestone had returned to where the body was, leaving it to Clare and an employee of the Old Sarum Heritage Society to line up the people.

  Already Clare had had to warn some of the more inebriated that leaving the scene of a crime was a criminal offence, even if they were not guilty of any wrongdoing.

  The ambulance arrived, the medic rushing to examine the body of Gordon Mason, the actor who’d played Julius Caesar. ‘I thought they used fake knives,’ the medic, a petite woman, barely up to Tremayne’s shoulder, said.

  ‘I noticed the knife wounds. I’m assuming they killed him,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘That’s not my area. I came here to save the man’s life and to transport him to the hospital out on Odstock Road.’

  ‘He’ll need to go via Pathology first.’

  ‘I take it you want me to leave the body where it is for your crime scene people.’

  ‘You know the routine?’

  ‘Once or twice. And besides, the man is dead. There’s not much I can do.’

  Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, the man that Tremayne begrudgingly had to admit was competent, even if he was still on the young side, arrived. As Yarwood had told him on more than one occasion, Hughes was degree educated, as if that somehow helped. Tremayne knew that he was a cantankerous sod, always pushing those who did not push back, and Hughes had given as much as he’d taken.

  As far as Tremayne was concerned, strong-willed, competent, willing to challenge him with rational argument and a little sarcasm were plus points, and Yarwood was fast becoming the master, or should it be mistress, he wasn’t sure which of the two was politically correct. Not that he had a lot of time for those who expounded the virtues of talking nicely to one another, showing due deference. If the person was a villain, enquiring after their health wasn’t going to help, but a kick up the rear end and a few firm words, expletives included, would do more good.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Tremayne asked one minute after Hughes had commenced his examination of Gordon Mason.

  ‘He wouldn’t have lasted long as King anyway.’

  ‘You’ve lost me there.’

  ‘Didn’t you read the synopsis?’

  ‘Yarwood did. She gave me the gist,’ Tremayne said. He knew the plot as well as any of them, having had it drummed into him at school, but playing the uncouth policeman, ignorant of anything other than the racing results and a police report, maintained the image he wanted to portray.

  ‘Cassius convinced Brutus that Caesar was attempting to be the King of Rome, do away with the Senate. That’s why they killed him.’

  ‘As you were saying about Mason?’

  ‘Heavy smoker, overweight, and certainly no exercise judging by the tone of his muscles.’

  ‘You can tell all that by looking at him lying there?’

  ‘Not at all. Mason dealt with the purchase of our house. He was a solicitor, competent as far as we’re concerned.’

  ‘How many knife wounds?’

  ‘Daggers.’

  ‘Daggers, knives, what’s the difference?’

  ‘In this case, not a lot. I can see that the body’s been pierced in several places.’

  ‘They stabbed him at least thirty times on the stage.’

  ‘Did you count?’

  ‘No, but it’s thirty-three according to Shakespeare.’

  ‘You read that in the programme?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Tremayne said. He had almost slipped up; almost revealed a hitherto hidden area of his knowledge.

  ‘There’s not that many stab wounds, maybe four or five. There’s a couple in the area of the heart, two or three on the body. Pathology will be more precise, but I’d say that just one or two of them were fatal. The daggers? Are they here?’

  ‘I have them.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Okay, that’s the right number. Any chance of fingerprints?’

  It’s possible, but they’ve got lacquered rope on the handles, wooden pommels.’

  ‘Are the daggers safe?’

  ‘They’re all in the same area,’ Tremayne said. ‘I’ve already shown one of your team where they are.’

  ‘And the actors from the scene?’

  ‘They’re out the front.’

  ‘We’ll get their fingerprints first, and then see if we can get a match.’

  Hughes concluded his preliminary examination of the body. He and Tremayne walked around the area. ‘He was there when he was stabbed,’ Tremayne said, pointing to a rise in the ground.

  ‘Where Caesar was assassinated,’ Hughes corrected him.

  ‘He doesn’t look much of a Caesar back there, does he?’

  ‘You’re right. What else do we have?’

  ‘The other actors, although your people are dealing with them,’ Tremayne said. ‘The only thing that confuses me is how they came to be using real daggers. I thought they always used fake knives, plastic blades, blades that retracted inside the handles when they were pressed against a hard surface.’

  ‘That’s what we’ll need to find out. One other thing, whoever killed Gordon Mason would have known that his dagger was entering the body.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I’l
l confirm it once Forensics has checked the daggers, but yes, I’m certain. It’s one thing to push a blade into a body, another to jab, the blade retracting.’

  ‘One of the actors?’

  ‘I found four to five wounds. It’s one, maybe two actors.’

  ‘And the other actors? Wouldn’t they have realised that something was amiss?’

  ‘You’d think so, but they may have been focussing on their part, their lines.’

  ‘In that case, the murderer or murderers must have known which daggers to pick up. I never saw any markings to separate them.’

  ‘There’ll be something. I’ll get them checked, let you know.’

  Tremayne, an admirable man in many ways, had difficulty in accepting people unproven, but Hughes had won the blunt DI’s respect in their previous case in Avon Hill, as had his sergeant, Clare Yarwood. Tremayne walked over to her. ‘Okay, Yarwood?’ he said.

  ‘I’m just getting the details of the actors. Some of them are upset.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘It’s not an accident, a faulty prop?’

  ‘One, maybe two, of our thespians here is a murderer, and he or they know it.’

  ‘They’ll not admit to it, not up here tonight.’

  ‘If they can pretend to be someone else on a stage, I’m sure they can maintain the pretence of being innocent.’

  ‘The uniforms are taking the names and addresses of the audience, taking brief statements, but they’re unlikely to have seen anything.’

  ‘The same as us. We were out front, and we didn’t see it, and we’re trained to observe,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Can I tell the actors that Julius Caesar was murdered? Most of them think it was an accident. They keep telling me what a great guy Gordon Mason was.’

  ‘And a good solicitor no doubt.’

  ‘They didn’t mention that.’

  ‘Hughes did. I’ll tell them the truth. You watch for their reactions.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Detective Inspector Tremayne. I’ll be leading this investigation.’

  ‘We’re all upset. We’d like to go home,’ a woman said.

  ‘And you are?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Fiona Dowling. I played Calpurnia.’

  Clare leaned over towards her boss and whispered, ‘Caesar’s wife.’

  ‘Yarwood, I don’t need a lesson on Shakespeare. I’m not the fool you take me for.’

  ‘Sorry, guv.’

  ‘Miss Dowling?’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Mrs Dowling, I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Gordon Mason was murdered.’

  ‘But why? How?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Trevor Winston. I played Casca,’ a slightly built, effeminate man said.

  ‘The first assassin,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare looked at her DI in bewilderment. A man with no interest in anything outside of the police station, save for horse racing and pints of beer, and yet here was a man who knew his Shakespeare.

  ‘One or two of the daggers were either tampered with or exchanged for real daggers. Forensics will tell us in due course. In the meantime, all of the conspirators must remain suspects.’

  ‘But how would we know that the dagger was real? I’m Geoff Pearson, Cassius.’

  ‘Mr Pearson, the difference between stabbing a man with a fake dagger and a real one is noticeable. Unfortunately, one or two of you here, or should I say of the men, is a murderer.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ another woman said.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Cheryl Milledge. I played Portia.’

  ‘Brutus’s wife,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘You know your Shakespeare.’

  ‘I know what they drummed into me at school.’

  Clare realised that Tremayne may pretend that he was a simple man with few interests, but he was, in fact, more knowledgeable that he was willing to admit. She also realised that it was the first time that she had not thought about the events at Avon Hill when Harry had died.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Tremayne repeated, ‘one, possibly two, of the seven men who stabbed Gordon Mason here tonight is a murderer. We don’t know which of you it is, but we will in due course.’

  Clare spent another forty minutes dealing with the actors before returning to the other side of the makeshift stage.

  ‘Any reaction?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Apart from them all profusely protesting their innocence?’

  ‘Methinks thou dost protest too much,’ Tremayne said. ‘Hamlet, by the way. It’s not the correct quotation, but it’s the one people remember.’

  ‘You’ve been studying while I’ve been away,’ Clare said.

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Yarwood. Just because I remember a few lines of Shakespeare, it doesn’t mean I’m not the same cranky bastard that you know.’

  ‘I won’t, guv.’

  ‘After I told them that one or two of them was a murderer?’

  ‘A look of shock from all of them, nothing more.’

  ‘You’d never know with them, trained to cover their true feelings.’

  ‘They’re the local drama society, they’re hardly the Royal Shakespeare Company. I doubt if they’re that good.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s not important. We’ll wait for Hughes’s report before our next move.’

  ‘You’re not holding the seven?’

  ‘We know where they are. Let them go. And besides, I could do with a beer.’

  ‘Too late, guv. The pubs are all closed.’

  Tremayne looked at his watch; it was close to midnight. ‘Hell, Yarwood. Shakespeare, murder, and not even a pint. What a way to spend an evening.’

  Tomorrow, I’ll treat you,’ Clare said.

  ‘You know what will happen?’

  ‘Another murder, more evidence, longer hours in the office and on the road.’

  ‘And less time for a beer. I was hoping to go to the races this Saturday. I can guarantee I won’t be.’

  ‘For me, I’d rather be busy.’

  ‘At least one of us is pleased,’ Tremayne said.

  Clare knew that, regardless of his protestations, the man was pleased as well, and this case had intrigue, the sort of case that her DI, even she, liked.

  Chapter 3

  Clare hadn’t slept that first few nights back in Salisbury. She had leased a small cottage in Stratford sub Castle, not far from where Mavis Godwin, another victim of the pagan murderer, had lived. Her return to the city with its unpleasant memories had not been easy, but being back home with her parents, well-meaning but always trying to organise her life, convince her to take over as the manager of their hotel, had not been easy either. And besides, Salisbury had been where she had felt some contentment until that awful night when she had nearly died, and Harry, her fiancé, had. She had hoped to avoid the memories of him, the places they had visited together, but she knew that would not be possible, and now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

  He had turned out to be bad, but in the end he had saved her life at the expense of his. Tremayne would not agree, but he had not loved the man, she had, and her memories of Harry Holchester would only be good ones. He had been buried in the graveyard at Avon Hill, the church re-consecrated with a new vicar. Clare knew that she wanted to go out there, place some flowers on the grave, but she was not ready yet.

  At seven in the morning after the play, she was in the office at Bemerton Road Police Station. She could see that Tremayne was all the better for a night without beer, but then, the man always looked better when he had a murder case.

  ‘You’re looking smart, guv,’ Clare said.

  ‘Don’t think it’s because of you,’ the standard gruff reply. Clare had missed his abrasive manner, his self-deprecating comments, even their repartee. With her parents, sticklers for good manners, dressing for dinner, it had become boring, but with Tremayne, his shirt sometimes unironed, his tie off to one side, his attempts at picking t
he horses, she felt a homeliness in his company.

  ‘I didn’t think it was, guv.’

  ‘And besides, you look smart enough for the two of us.’

  ‘What’s the plan for today?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Unless Jim Hughes comes up with something, which I don’t think he will, you and I are out on the road interviewing the seven assassins.’

  ‘You don’t have much hope with Forensics?’

  ‘I hope we get something, but all the daggers were identical, visually that is.’

  ‘But there must have been a difference.’

  ‘There has to be, but they had been thrown on a table at the rear after the scene. I’m certain that other people came along afterwards and moved them. There’s bound to be plenty of fingerprints, but it’ll be difficult to find one set that identifies the murderer.’

  ‘Who do you believe is the most likely assassin?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Murderer, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, murderer.’

  ‘What do we know about Act 3, Scene 1?’

  ‘The assassination?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seven assassins, the first stab from Casca, then the others join in. The final stab from Brutus.’

  ‘Et tu, Brute.’

  ‘Brutus only stabs Caesar once, but Jim Hughes said there were four or five stab wounds,’ Clare said.

  ‘In that case, Peter Freestone, he played Brutus, is not guilty on his own.’

  ***

  ‘No luck,’ Hughes said, in Tremayne’s office.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tremayne asked. It was apparent that Hughes and his team, together with Forensics, had worked all night, as it was only eight thirty in the morning, and they had a report prepared.

  ‘Two of the daggers had been tampered with.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was clever. The retracting mechanism would work, but someone had drilled a small hole through the handle on each one. It’s not easy to see, but once we examined them under a bright light, we could see it.’

  ‘Are you saying that they were all dangerous?’

  ‘Only the two.’

  ‘Someone had taken them and fitted metal blades?’