The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  Tremayne noticed that at the hearing Barbara Winters never mentioned that the money came from evil. She was careful to keep her extremist views in check. The woman was intelligent, in that she was capable of portraying the loving housewife, the friend of little children and animals. Tremayne knew there’d be trouble, and with instant millionaire status, how long before the woman cracked? Everyone has a price; he’d heard that before, not sure if he did, but what would have happened if he had had a run of wins on the horses, the money multiplying up into the thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands? Would he have looked at his house disparagingly, sought to buy a better one?

  He thought he wouldn’t, but now there was a woman with two million pounds. He was sure they had not heard the last of her.

  ‘What about Gerry? He’s still with Polly and Liz,’ Tremayne said. Mavis had picked him up from Bemerton Road in the Bentley. He had to admit the car was magnificent, but it wouldn’t have fitted in the garage at his house. Mavis had let him drive it, although he hadn’t wanted to. He never let on, but his eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be, and at night he was finding it hard to focus on the road, especially if it had been raining, and the headlights of the other cars would sometimes dazzle him. They had settled themselves at a restaurant in Harnham, not far from where Alan used to go with Polly and Liz. As he drove, more like cruised, past Alan’s favourite pub, the woman in the passenger’s seat had not commented. Tremayne made no mention of it either.

  If Gerry’s got the money, they’ll be friendly to him.’

  ‘What’s your feeling towards them?’

  ‘Ambivalent. I was angry at first, but now I maintain a cordial relationship with Polly. I also needed to ensure my investments are sound. Alan won sixty-eight million pounds. If I cashed in now, sold the house, the furniture store, the car, and put it together with the money in the various banks, I’d be down to forty-two million, and now there are six children, including Margie, that’s twelve off the total. That still leaves thirty million. It sounds a lot to us. I used to think that if I had a hundred pound in my pocket, I was rich, and now I talk in millions.’

  ‘It is a lot,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘There’s always someone hassling for a handout. You can’t believe how popular you are when you give it; how despised when you refuse to give more, or none at all.’

  ‘Some problems?’

  ‘Alan gave a million to a charity in Africa. The man who came to the house gave a spiel about schooling the children in Liberia, though I hadn’t heard of the place.’

  ‘It’s in West Africa,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Anyway, we gave him the money, a bank transfer. I’d checked it out, it seemed above board.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The next we heard, the man’s driving around in a Jaguar, having built a few tin huts in a couple of villages. He was possibly well-intentioned, the same as us, but once the money hit the charity’s account, greed took over.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘I learnt my lesson, Alan didn’t. Polly and Liz are a prime example.’

  ‘They’re hard workers.’

  ‘They are, but there were other women before them. Not that I ever knew who they were. He used to go up to London with Gerry, extended visits, spend the night there, have a few drinks, watch a show.’

  ‘Alan, a show?’

  ‘As long as the women were scantily clad.’

  The two friends laughed at Mavis’s comment. Tremayne had to admit that he enjoyed her company. If she had been older, if he had been more mature all those years ago, they may have made a go of it, but now he felt comfortable with Jean, and besides, playing two women, not that he ever did, was for a younger man, not someone in his late fifties.

  ‘Gerry, you never answered about him, not fully.’

  ‘He’s not a total fool, and he’s devoted to the family. I’ve no interest in him either, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Tremayne hoped he hadn’t walked into a trap.

  ‘It was inferred that you had someone with you when Polly and Liz came visiting.’

  ‘Not me. All I had was a hot water bottle and a rogue of a husband.’

  ‘Why didn’t you object?’

  ‘Alan had the money. It was all in his name, the house, the cars, the bank accounts.’

  ‘But you had money.’

  ‘I always had plenty; he wasn’t tight with me, but not total access. There was one bank account in my name, a few million pounds, but the bulk was in his name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His solicitor, someone he’d known from his schooldays. He told him to do it.’

  ‘Good advice?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to cheat Alan. No, it wasn’t good advice, but then, this fair-weather friend charged him close to two hundred thousand to set it all up.’

  ‘How much were they worth, his services?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty thousand. You see, that’s what happens. Everyone wants to bleed you dry, assuming it’s a pot of gold with no bottom.’

  Mavis ordered fish, Tremayne ordered a steak, well done. A bottle of wine between the two of them. The place was expensive, and regardless of how much money Mavis had, he was paying. He was not going to be one of those who took advantage.

  ‘What about you, Tremayne?’ Mavis asked. It was only Jean who called him Keith.

  ‘I’ll keep working.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Content would be a better word. I don’t have your wealth, but then, what use is it to me? I can afford to buy what I want.’

  ‘What do you want to buy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. What about Clare?’

  'You like her?’

  ‘She’s sad. I sometimes see it in her eyes, but yes, I like her very much.’

  ‘You know her story?’

  ‘I’ve always known, never mentioned it to her. Time heals, they say.’

  ‘A lot of time in her case.’

  ‘She needs to find someone else, move on.’

  ‘She will, in time.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve got Jean.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘We get on well. We meet up occasionally, glad of each other’s company.’

  ‘She’s got herself a good man with you.’

  ‘I’ve mellowed in my dotage,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Dotage? You’re still a difficult man. How does Clare deal with you?’

  ‘Don’t tell her, but I’m fond of her. Never let her know.’

  ‘I won’t. Now, what do you fancy for dessert, and not me. I’m off the menu.’

  ‘I never presumed, besides…’

  ‘No besides, you’re not my type. Too old for me. I’ll find myself a toy boy.’

  ‘You can afford one,’ Tremayne said, realising that Mavis was joking with him.

  Chapter 20

  Dean Winters sat in the corner of the kitchen. The chairs were lined up. He was sitting upright, shoulders back. ‘We’ll be alright,’ Barbara said. Her brother stood next to her, both looking at the man who was waiting for instructions.

  Dean realised that he had made a mistake in returning to Southampton.

  ‘You will sign over the money to Archie, is that understood?’

  ‘I thought we were going to use it for good?’

  ‘We are, but Archie will take control. You will do what you are told. Is that understood?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, it is understood.’

  ‘Why did you marry this imbecile?’ Archie said. He was no longer in his airline pilot’s uniform but casually dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans. The brother and sister had the man where they wanted him.

  ‘He does what he’s told.’

  ‘But he is still one of them.’

  ‘That is why I have never bred with him, my dear brother.’

  Dean looked at the pair standing next to the kitche
n sink, knew what they were, knew that there was no escape. He had been happy in Salisbury in Mavis and Alan’s home, he had even got drunk on a couple of occasions, and nobody had complained. But here, in this house of horrors, subjected to physical and mental abuse, there’d be no respite.

  He knew about Barbara and Archie’s childhood. The father who would lock them in a cupboard for days on end for the merest infraction, who’d beat them with a leather belt, who’d make them stand for hours at attention, all the while spouting fire and brimstone at them, eternal damnation for their being alive when their mother was not. Dean had sympathised with his wife, understood the pain she felt after the hold of the father had lessened. Back then, when they had met, she had been kind and gentle, at least with him, not his family, but she had changed. The father confined to a nursing home, the son taking on the mantle, subjecting his sister to abuse if she deviated from the one true course, blaming her for choosing love over righteousness, for seeking the pleasures of the flesh over abstinence.

  Dean knew that he needed out and to be back in Salisbury, although if he made an attempt to move, they would restrain him, lock him in the cellar, while they sat upstairs and decided what to do with the money.

  Dean knew that whatever it was, it would not be for the benefit of the deserving.

  They had arrived back from Salisbury the day before. On the trip down, Barbara had spoken about a new beginning and how she was going to devote her life to her husband. Once at home, they had retreated upstairs and made love. For that night and the morning after, they had been as newly-weds, until Archie arrived at the front door with two large suitcases. He did not bother to knock, he had a key. He found the two of them embracing.

  ‘I’ve taken three months’ leave,’ Archie had said.

  ‘This is my house. Get out,’ Dean had shouted, but to no avail. He had received a punch in the face for his impertinence.

  ‘You’re a miserable little worm. You will learn obedience. You will learn that total obedience to the Lord, to me, is the only way. I will guide you on your journey.’

  ‘You’re an evil bastard,’ Dean had said, only to be thrust into a cupboard for a few hours to cool down. On his release he had found his wife and her brother in deep thought, deciding on their future, not his.

  They had spoken about following the path of righteousness, of helping others, but he had not been swayed by the desire to do good. He knew that they intended to help themselves the way their father had, a businessman who had no issue about preaching goodness while doing anything and everything to increase his wealth. And now the family that they both abhorred had given them the easy way.

  ***

  There were always two certainties in the Winters family: one, that the mother, Betty, would not die, and two, that Margie would.

  The first certainty had proved to be incorrect, the second had not.

  Clare was the first in the office to receive the news. Gerry phoned her. ‘It’s Margie.’

  Clare phoned Tremayne who phoned Jim Hughes. Clare was the first at Margie’s place. Upstairs, a medic as well as Mavis, Gerry, and Cyril. Rachel was on her way. Sprawled across the bed was the lifeless body of Margie Winters. Gerry and Cyril had tears on their faces, Mavis was resolute and in control. ‘We just came to check on her. We hadn’t heard from her for a couple of days.’

  ‘We’ll need our people to check out the room, conduct an autopsy,’ Clare said, a lump in her throat. The woman had been doomed for most of her life; her death should not have come as a surprise, yet it hit home hard.

  ‘We had always hoped,’ Gerry said, ‘that somehow she’d come back to us, and now, she’s lying there.’ Clare put her arms around him. He seemed better for her sympathy.

  ‘Why?’ Cyril asked. He was no better than Gerry, as he held a handkerchief to his eyes.

  ‘We’ll find out,’ Clare said.

  Tremayne entered the room, looked at the dead woman, put one of his arms around Mavis’s shoulder. ‘It was bound to happen one day,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ Mavis said.

  Tremayne spoke to the medic. ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘It’s a possible drug overdose.’

  ‘Intentional?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tremayne said. He realised that the medic would be non-committal. It was not the man’s function to say what had happened; that belonged to Jim Hughes and his crime scene team, as well as Stuart Collins, the pathologist.

  ‘It would be best if we leave the room,’ Tremayne said.

  At his suggestion, everyone moved to the hallway outside. Jim Hughes arrived, kitted himself up and entered the room, accompanied by Tremayne, who had also put on protective gear. ‘What’s the situation?’ Hughes asked.

  ‘Margie Winters, forty, drug-addict, a prostitute.’

  ‘Is the death suspicious?’

  ‘Not in itself but her brother was murdered. We’ll need to see if this is related.’

  ‘I’d hazard a guess that she’s overdosed.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Don’t hold me to it. There are no apparent signs of a struggle, even though the room’s a mess. The woman was clearly not healthy, probably under-nourished.’

  ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘A few hours. My team will check it out, see who else was here. Was she actively prostituting herself?’

  ‘We don’t think so. She was looked after by her family, the best they could.’

  ‘Not very well by the look of this place.’

  ‘That was her decision. There was a firm offer for her to move into the Winters’ home in Quidhampton, all the medical help she could ever want.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She refused it all.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll do our job and then send the body to Pathology. You’ll have a verbal report later today, a written one tomorrow. After that, you can check with Pathology.’

  Outside, Tremayne spoke to the assembled family. Rachel had just arrived. ‘Margie will be transported to Pathology in the next few hours. It appears not to be suspicious, although we’ll confirm later. We’ll need to take statements from those who were here. Rachel, you’ve arrived later, so we don’t need your statement. Yarwood, can you go back to Quidhampton and deal with it?’

  ‘Yes, DI.’

  ‘I’ll phone Stan and Fred,’ Mavis said.

  ‘I’ll contact Dean,’ Gerry said.

  ***

  Tremayne sat in his car outside of Margie Winters’ flat, realising that the Winters family were part of his life story. Even though there had been years when he had not seen them, he had occasionally bumped into one or another of them, always guaranteed a warm welcome, and now Margie was dead.

  He had seen it before: one murder and then a string of deaths, some violent, some not. Betty Winters, the mother, dead from old age, Margie, the youngest of the seven children, died because of her mother. Tremayne hoped that no one else would die.

  He turned the ignition in the car, prepared to return to the police station. His phone rang. ‘Tremayne,’ he answered.

  ‘Stan Winters here. Mavis just phoned me. I want to be with the family.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m not sure it’s possible.’

  ‘I trust you, Tremayne. If you can’t, I’ll understand.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘You know the answer to that question.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do for you. No promises.’

  ‘That’s understood.’

  ‘I’ll not be able to get Fred out, not until the funeral.’

  ‘He’ll know that.’

  Tremayne prepared to leave for the second time, the phone rang again. Tremayne recognised the number. ‘Gerry,’ he said.

  ‘Mavis has phoned Fred. He took it bad. He’ll be looking for you to arrange for him to come to the funeral.’

  ‘I can do that. I’ll try and get Stan out before. He’s already phoned me.’

&nb
sp; ‘We’ll not forget what you’ve done for us.’

  ‘I must admit to feeling upset over Margie.’

  ‘Your sergeant’s here with Mavis and Rachel. All three are in tears, especially your sergeant.’

  ‘That’s fine. She’ll take the statements in due course.’

  ‘One other thing. We can’t contact Dean. I’m driving down there.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Tremayne said. ‘I’ll meet you in Guildhall Square, ten minutes. We’ll use my car.’ Tremayne knew that something was amiss. There was no evidence, no reason, but he felt a sense of foreboding. Whatever it was, he needed to be in Southampton at Dean and Barbara Winters’ house.

  Ten minutes later, Gerry arrived in Guildhall Square. He was driving the Bentley. If it were purely social, Tremayne would have gone with him, but it was not. ‘We’ll use my car,’ he said.

  Gerry parked the car, phoned for Cyril to come and pick it up. It didn’t pay to leave an expensive motor car standing idle for too long. The hooligans, the envious, would see it as a target for vandalism.

  ‘Not much of a car,’ Gerry complained as they drove down to Southampton.

  ‘We may need it.’

  ‘You’ve got your suspicions?’

  ‘About Dean’s wife and her brother, yes.’

  ‘And Dean is there. As children, he was a damn nuisance. If it were Cowboys and Indians, he’d be the Indian tied to the post.’

  Tremayne phoned Yarwood. ‘What’s the mood there?’

  ‘Sombre. We’ve not seen Bertie. Supposedly he’s coming to the house.’

  ‘Get some uniforms from Bemerton Road to find him.’

  ‘I’ve already done that.’

  ‘Mavis and Rachel?’

  ‘Rachel’s taking it badly. What about Jim Hughes?’

  ‘It’s a possible OD, probably unintentional. If it’s not, I’ll talk to Stuart Collins to say it was.’

  ‘The family will understand. If it’s suicide, then declare it.’

  ‘Okay. We’re nearly at Dean Winters’ house. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’