‘Or enjoying the notoriety.’
‘There’s no notoriety if you’re not known.’
‘Maybe they enjoy the fact that they committed the perfect crime.’
‘In that they’ve stayed free.’
‘That’s it,’ Tremayne said.
***
Tremayne always appreciated a working lunch at the Pheasant Inn in Salisbury. For once, Clare had accompanied him, even agreed to a glass of wine.
Peter Freestone was already there. He was a busy man, the same as the two police officers, and he needed to be back in his office within the hour.
‘Do you have it?’ Tremayne asked.
Freestone handed over the recording that he had taken at the meeting in his office with the remaining members of the dramatic society. ‘Does that mean I’m no longer a suspect?’ he asked.
‘You’re not high on my radar,’ Tremayne replied as he drank his beer, almost downing the full pint in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said.
Clare had no intention of drinking more than the one glass of wine, and she was drinking it slowly.
‘It’s all arranged. This Friday night, eight in the evening, Dennison’s house.’
‘They’ve agreed to my idea?’ Tremayne said.
‘Whoever this person is they certainly have some nerve,’ Freestone said.
‘He’s enjoying it, or maybe it’s a she.’
‘And you’ve no idea?’
‘Motives, but no proof.’
‘Did Fiona kill Geoff Pearson?’
‘Unless she admits her guilt, there’s no way we can prove it. You’ve been up there at night.’
‘I still think it was intentional to push him over,’ Clare said.
‘Death was never certain,’ Freestone said as he ate his steak. Tremayne had ordered a steak, as well; Clare, a salad.
‘Agreed. It depends on how hard she pushed him. Maybe she just wanted to hurt him, but she’s out and about, somewhat of a heroine with her friends.’
‘Not my kind of friends,’ Clare said.
Tremayne ordered another pint, as did Freestone. Clare could see that the two men were firm friends, although one may have to arrest the other before the week was out. She continued to eat her salad, listening to the two men as they talked.
Clare had to acknowledge the similarities in the two men: both were in their fifties, both dressed in a similar manner, almost could have passed as brothers, although Freestone was at least six inches shorter than Tremayne.
‘We’ll run through the chain of events, the motives of each, the truth.’
‘Geoff Pearson and Dowling’s wife?’
‘Everything. Even Cheryl Milledge and her past, Gary Barker and the garden centre.’
‘What about Winston’s homosexuality, Jimmy Francombe’s drunkenness of late?’
‘Everything, warts and all. It’s a murder enquiry, and I intend to wrap it up. If there is to be anger and embarrassment, then so be it.’
‘Dennison and Samantha, and what Mason called her?’
‘Everything. It’s going to be a wild night. We’re not going to leave there without an arrest,’ Tremayne said. He ordered another beer; he was in no hurry to leave.
***
Tremayne was confident that a confrontation with all the possible suspects was the only solution. The case had dragged on too long, and as far as he could see, if the people remained in their comfort zones, there’d be no resolution, and it was a resolution that he needed. And then there was his ex-wife, Jean; they regularly spoke, almost as if they were in their twenties and newly in love, although Tremayne knew it wasn’t love. However, the idea of companionship appealed, even if only on an occasional basis.
Jean had booked a trip to southern Spain in three weeks’ time. He had looked it up on the internet. It looked hot, too hot for him, but they served beer there, and he had agreed. He never let on that he was pleased to be going, not to his wife who knew it would be out of character to show too much emotion, and not to Yarwood who would have a smart comment.
Tremayne knew he could only go if the current case were concluded, and he hoped the event scheduled for that Friday evening would give him a result. Clare, pleased to be busy, occupied herself with the preparations, compiling a scenario of how the night should unfold. She had struggled to reconcile herself with being back in Salisbury, but was finding it easier to deal with Harry’s death, even considering a date with another police officer. She would not see it as anything other than a night out, and she wasn’t sure about it, but she wanted to stay in the city with its history and its quaintness.
Her parents, especially her mother, continued to ask her to return to their hotel and Norfolk, but she knew she would not. Besides, it was only two weeks before she moved into her cottage, and she needed some time off to check out the local shops for furnishings.
Samantha Dennison was also occupied preparing for the evening, treating it as a social event rather than a police investigation. Clare hoped she wasn’t involved, as she had grown to like the woman, a person who had been blunt in her evaluation of what she was. Her openness was refreshing compared to Fiona Dowling, who had complained about the way Clare had confronted her in her house. Police intimidation, verging on brutality, was how it was described in the letter from her brother-in-law, the solicitor Chris Dowling.
Clare had to credit Superintendent Moulton in his support for her. He had worded a reply to Chris Dowling, and ultimately to his client, that Sergeant Yarwood was well within her rights to question a suspect, to apply pressure if required, and that it was murder, not a minor misdemeanour. No more was heard on the matter and the next time that Clare had run into Fiona Dowling in the city centre, not difficult in a small city, the woman had been polite and friendly.
Tremayne called Clare into his office. The investigative team consisted of just the two of them, as since the death of Vic Oldfield, their previous constable, there had been no replacement. Just the two of them, supported by a group of diligent professionals in the office, suited Tremayne and Clare, but they knew it would not be long before they’d be asked to take on additional investigative staff if there were any new murder cases.
‘Yarwood, are we ready?’
‘For the Friday night?’ Clare said. She could see that Tremayne was champing at the bit to get on.
‘What else?’
‘We’ll be ready. Are we taking uniforms?’
‘We’ll have a police car outside in the driveway.’
‘What are our chances of an arrest?’ Clare asked.
‘There’ll be an arrest.’
‘It could be the Dennisons.’
‘No one is safe from our questioning, not even them. The fact that it’s their house is inconsequential.’
Chapter 23
Phillip Dennison’s house, large and expensively decorated, was welcoming on the Friday night. Clare had arrived early, Tremayne was due within twenty minutes. On the dining room table, a buffet was laid out.
Clare had to admit that if the night were purely social, then it would have been enjoyable. She wasn’t sure if the dramatic society members understood the seriousness of the situation, as if they thought that Tremayne often took part in murder mystery nights, where amateur detectives dress up in Sherlock Holmes’ deerstalkers and period costumes, and act out the murder and then attempt to solve it.
It was strange, she thought, that all those invited were excited to come, but then, she realised, they were imbued with the love of acting, and the murderer was apparently the most accomplished in avoiding detection. And as for those genuinely innocent, they had nothing to fear, only the joy of being present at the event.
Even Clare had to admit to some excitement in that she would be required to play a part: the good police officer to Tremayne’s bad. One would be raising the heat, the other would be soothing, consoling, and gently pressuring to let the person confess.
Peter Freestone was the first member of the dramatic society to arrive, closely followed by Gary
Barker and Cheryl Milledge. The others came soon after.
The main room of the house was to be the setting. Everyone helped themselves to the buffet, and the alcohol. Clare noticed that Tremayne kept to a soft drink.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to offer our appreciation to Phillip and Samantha for making us all very welcome, but let me remind you that this is a police investigation, not a social gathering, and not something that anyone here should regard as frivolous. Sitting here in this room are two murderers.’
‘What do you reckon, DI Tremayne?’ Phillip Dennison asked. He was sitting on a sofa, his wife at his side.
‘We assumed initially that Gordon Mason was killed as a result of something he knew. In truth, we were looking for a motive.’
‘And now?’
‘There is an unknown factor. The possibility that the murderer or murderers kill for pleasure, or for the gratification that they are able to commit the perfect crime in front of an audience, surrounded by fellow actors.’
‘A sick individual,’ Len Dowling said. He was sitting on the other side of the room to Dennison. His wife sat nearby, holding his hand.
‘If I look around this room,’ Tremayne said, ‘I see no one that fits the description of sick or psychotic, quite the contrary, but believe me, someone here is in need of medical treatment.’
‘Then why would they be here tonight?’ Fiona Dowling asked.
‘The perfect crime requires it to remain hidden under the most intense scrutiny. The person responsible is laughing at us, sneeringly hiding behind a look of innocence,’ Tremayne said.
‘How will you find this person?’ Samantha Dennison asked.
‘I won’t. It’s your murder mystery night. You will identify the culprit. We will conduct this along the lines of a fictitious murder mystery, except this time there are real murders, those of Gordon Mason and Bill Ford.’
‘What about Geoff Pearson?’ Jimmy Francombe asked. Fiona Dowling said nothing, just stared at the young man. Her husband sat impassively.
‘Tonight, all facts relating to our murder enquiry will be revealed. Geoff Pearson’s death has been evaluated. The reason for his being pushed is known to most of you here, probably all, as you have no doubt discussed the matter.’
‘I object to you accusing my wife,’ Len Dowling said.
‘Let it go,’ Dowling’s wife said. ‘If they don’t know, then I’ll tell them. I was having an affair with Geoff. He had dumped me, I was angry. I confronted him at Old Sarum, pushed him, wanted to hit him, but he fell to his death. I panicked and left the area. I’m guilty of stupidity, not murder.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Dowling,’ Tremayne said. ‘There are others with facts that they would prefer not be revealed, but tonight no one will be spared.
‘Why do we have to endure this?’ Phillip Dennison said.
‘You know the answer to your question.’
‘Do I?’
‘I’ll explain so we are all clear where this night is heading. Gordon Mason has been murdered, so has Bill Ford. Geoff Pearson has died. We have possible motives for Mason’s death, none for Bill Ford. Our investigation of Ford indicates no negative marks against his character, no dislike of the man, no behaviour on his part that could be regarded as offensive. If that is the case, then Bill Ford was innocent of any crime other than that he was a member of the Salisbury Amateur Dramatic Society and that he was one of the conspirators who stabbed Caesar. If that is the motive, then you all know what will happen next.’
‘He intends to kill the remaining conspirators,’ Freestone said.
‘Exactly. Which one of you sitting here tonight will be the next to be stabbed in the heart? Does anyone want to question what we are trying to achieve here?’
No one spoke. All looked ready for the murder mystery to begin.
Clare stood up. ‘This is a summary of the mystery. A Shakespearean tragedy, Julius Caesar, was being acted out by an amateur dramatic society. The crucial scene acted in front of an audience was where Julius Caesar is stabbed to death by the conspirators, seven in total. A fictional slaying in that the knives were meant to be retractable and plastic bladed, only two weren’t. Of the seven conspirators, and the thirty-four stabs at the body on that stage, five stabs entered his body from two modified daggers.
‘Gordon Mason who played Julius Caesar died on that night. Since then two of his assassins have also died, Geoff Pearson and Bill Ford. That only leaves Trevor Winston, Gary Barker, Jimmy Francombe, and Len Dowling alive.’
‘Are you suggesting that those five are possible victims?’ Cheryl Milledge asked.
‘Or potential murderers,’ Tremayne said.
‘This is ludicrous,’ Winston said. ‘Why would anyone want to kill me?’
‘Why is it ludicrous?’ Clare asked. ‘You’re homosexual by your own admission, you were one of the conspirators.’
‘But I’m harmless.’
‘So was Bill Ford, unless anyone can tell us to the contrary.’
No one said anything. Tremayne looked around the room; he could see no facial expressions of someone trying to hide something. Cheryl Milledge excused herself and went and got some more food, as well as two cans of beer, one for her, one for Gary Barker.
‘We need to discuss the motives for Gordon Mason’s murder,’ Clare said.
‘Do we need to reveal everyone’s dirty laundry?’ Fiona Dowling asked.
‘Unfortunately we must, unless you want to go home tonight wondering if your husband is next, or whether he’s a murderer.’
‘That’s slanderous,’ Len Dowling said.
‘Dowling, shut up,’ Dennison said. ‘Tremayne and Yarwood are attempting to save us. Your bellyaching, your promiscuous wife, your lousy reputation are of little consequence.’
Dowling was up on his feet, heading over towards Dennison, ready to land a punch. Gary Barker interceded and pushed him back in his seat.
‘Sit down,’ Fiona whispered to her husband. ‘The police are baiting us all, seeing who will react.’
‘I’ll not have you insulted,’ Dowling said.
‘Very chivalrous, no doubt, but it’s a bit late in the day to defend my honour.’
‘I could hardly do it while you were screwing Pearson, could I?’
‘You bastard.’
‘If you two have finished talking,’ Freestone said, ‘I’d like to hear what Sergeant Yarwood has in store for us tonight.’
Clare continued. ‘There are some possible motives for wanting Mason dead. I will detail them, hopeful that no one will react vocally or violently. This is no time for false modesty or downright denials. The police work on facts, and I will reveal what we know, what we’ve investigated, and possibly what we conjecture.
‘We became aware of a possible fraudulent land deal which pointed to Peter Freestone, Len Dowling, and Gordon Mason working in collusion.’
Freestone rose from his chair to comment. Clare ignored him. ‘We have found no proof that fraud was committed. We know that Mason had often insulted Trevor Winston, made reference to his homosexuality. Also, Mason insulted Samantha Dennison, called her a tart.’
‘He called me a prostitute, selling myself to a rich man,’ Samantha said.
‘As I was saying, Mason called Samantha Dennison a prostitute. Phillip Dennison confronted the man and hit him. And finally, we also know that Mason was attempting to blackmail Fiona Dowling over her affair with Geoff Pearson.’
‘My bastard husband knew all along. It would have saved me screwing the odious man.’
Tremayne stood up, the others in the room focussed their attention on the woman’s remarkable admission. ‘Are you saying that you had sexual intercourse with Gordon Mason?’
‘It’s a night of truths, isn’t it? I don’t want to be the next victim of whoever killed Mason, although I wish it had been me. Of course I screwed him. The man was going to tell Len. That wasn’t such a big deal, but Mason could have spread the gossip around the city.’
‘And
now everyone here will tell,’ Cheryl said.
‘What does it matter? And besides, the reaction has been exactly the opposite of what I expected. DI Tremayne, or was it Sergeant Yarwood, said it correctly when they called my friends vacuous and empty-headed. To them, I’m the fallen woman redeemed, the woman who stands by her man, the woman who will not fail.’
‘It’s a good enough motive for murder,’ Cheryl said. ‘You would have had no issue with killing Gordon Mason, nor Bill Ford if he found out. Were you screwing him as well?’
‘Cheryl, please. I’m frightened of whoever this killer is, the same as everyone else here.’
Cheryl said nothing, nor did anyone else. Tremayne studied Fiona Dowling. He knew that she could have killed Mason and Ford, could have killed Pearson too, but that would require a confession.
‘We cannot rule out either Geoff Pearson’s or Bill Ford’s involvement in the death of Gordon Mason, nor can we prove that whoever killed Ford was also one of Mason’s murderers, but the connection is indisputable.’
But why Bill Ford?’ Winston asked. ‘He was a decent man.’
‘There’s one more motive that we need to mention,’ Clare said. ‘It may not be known that Gary Barker is to inherit his parents’ garden centre. It may be that most of you do not know that where he works is his family’s business. The bad relationship between parents and son is exacerbated by his relationship with Cheryl. They see their son as incapable, and Cheryl as manipulative, only using Gary as a means to get their property.’
‘Their view of me is worse than that. They hate me with a passion,’ Gary Barker said. ‘My father is in the hospital now; he’s unlikely to last the night.’
‘You should be there,’ Samantha said.
‘If he was a decent father, then maybe, but he’s not. He’s a vindictive, evil-minded hypocrite, the same as Mason. It was Mason they were using to prevent my inheriting.’
‘Did he succeed?’ Francombe asked.
‘No. It’ll be mine within the week, and then I’ll move in with Cheryl.’
‘What about your mother?’ Clare asked.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 46
