‘Hell, Tremayne. Some of us are mortal, some of us need our beauty sleep.’
‘I’m beyond worrying,’ Tremayne said. Clare wanted to offer a comment but did not.
‘Make it six,’ Louise Regan said. She then ended the phone call.
‘Yarwood, 6 a.m. with Forensics.’
Tremayne turned to Betty. The man was on a high, Clare could see that. She knew she wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night. ‘Betty, this is serious. Your husband is right. You couldn’t have kept this concealed any longer, and your life is in danger if anyone suspects you know where the gold is.’
‘I’ve told you what I know. My life isn’t threatened now, is it?’
‘If the gold’s there, it’s not.’
‘I’ve not been near it. Ethan told me in confidence. He wasn’t sure what to do, and he loved his family. He always wanted our lives to be better, but all I wanted was for him to be here with us. This place is not palatial, but we survive. But Ethan, he was always there looking for the big chance.’
‘And the big chance killed Martin, and ultimately killed Ethan. What did Ethan expect you to do with the gold?’
‘I don’t know what Ethan thought. Maybe he thought I’d find a way to dispose of it, and that way, our lives would be better. But I’ve no idea, and I had no intention of asking anyone for advice.’
‘Gavin, your brother-in-law, said that he would have known how to dispose of it.’
‘Knowing and doing are two separate things. Gavin’s an honest man. He’d not jeopardise his freedom for the gold.’
‘He could have sold the information to someone, the same as you could have.’
‘There were a few who accosted me in the months after Ethan’s arrest, one of them was very threatening. Even said that he would grab Marcia and that I’d never see her again.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I did nothing, only made sure to protect my children the best I could.’
‘You could have told us, shown us the location,’ Clare said.
‘I had made a promise to Ethan that I would never reveal what I knew.’
‘But why?’
‘A promise is a promise. I did what I thought was right, what I still think is right.’
‘Betty, we’ll locate this gold tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll consider what you’ve done.’
‘Will you take action against Betty?’ Galton asked.
‘Your wife’s got enough to deal with at the present time.’
Outside, it was raining more heavily than before. Tremayne lit up a cigarette.
‘Will we arrest Betty Mitchell?’ Clare said.
‘It’s unlikely, but she was foolish holding onto the directions for so long.’
‘The man she loved had asked her to keep it secret. She had no option.’
‘Yarwood, your notion of right and wrong is clouded by romantic notions. You don’t sit at home reading Mills and Boon novels every night, do you? This is the real world. If Betty Mitchell has committed a criminal offence, it’ll make no difference that her first husband has been murdered, her son has been remanded for the break-in at a jeweller’s shop.’
***
Louise Regan was in her office at six in the morning, as agreed with Tremayne. Clare apologised on entering ten minutes later. ‘I didn’t get to bed until after two this morning.’
‘That’s what you get when you work with Tremayne.’
Clare took the piece of fabric from the evidence bag and handed it over to Regan. ‘It’s in reasonable condition,’ the forensic expert said.
‘We could just about make it out last night, but one or two of the directions are faded.’
‘Give me thirty minutes, help yourself to a coffee,’ Regan said. Clare could see why Tremayne respected the woman. She was professional, direct, and she knew what she was doing. She was also in the office at six in the morning, when others in the building would have told Tremayne eight. Clare sat down, still tired. She closed her eyes, only to be woken up with a start.
‘Here’s a printout,’ Louise Regan said.
Clare studied what it said and then phoned Tremayne. She realised he had taken the luxury of sleeping in for a bit longer than her. ‘We need a team this morning,’ she said.
‘In my office, thirty minutes. Grab a few constables from the station, make sure they’re kitted out,’ Tremayne said.
‘The crime scene investigators?’
‘Let Jim Hughes know. After so many years, there may not be much to find, but if someone’s been there since it was hidden, then who knows.’
Clare phoned Hughes. ‘I’ll be there,’ his reply.
Clare knew it was not necessary for him to come and he could have delegated his responsibility, but the lure of buried treasure intrigued everyone.
After a briefing in Tremayne’s office with Clare and three uniforms seconded to assist, the police convoy headed off in the direction of Emberley, a small village not far from the hijacking site of eighteen years previously. Following the instructions given, the team turned left after entering the village and headed to the intersection leading up to Longmore House.
As the police vehicles stopped alongside the gatehouse at the entrance to Longmore Park, a few of the locals appeared. ‘They won’t like it, your parking there,’ one of them said.
‘Who won’t?’ Tremayne said.
‘Lord and Lady Linden, they’re up at Longmore House. You should let them know you’re here.’
Tremayne looked over at Clare. ‘Go up there and let them know.’
Clare left, taking one of the locals with her. She returned within ten minutes.
‘That was quick,’ Tremayne said.
‘They were very polite. I explained the reason, and they said to carry on. It’s a magnificent house, they’ve offered to show me around when I’m free. It’s not often I get to meet with the aristocracy.’
‘They put their trousers on one leg at a time, the same as us,’ Tremayne said.
Clare knew what he meant, but she also knew why he had sent her. She had been educated in an exclusive school, spoke with a refined accent. Tremayne, she knew, still had a Cornish accent, endearing in its way, but explaining to the landed gentry was more for her than for him.
‘According to the directions, there’s a ruined outhouse, ten feet from the back of the gatehouse,’ Tremayne said.
The uniforms slowly moved forward, removing the undergrowth as needed. Jim Hughes and his team stayed close, making sure that no vital evidence was disturbed.
‘I’ve found it,’ one of the uniforms shouted.
‘Stay where you are,’ Hughes said. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘At the left of the outhouse, there’s a small pit with a metal grille. It’s about five feet from where you are.’
‘Found it,’ Hughes said. ‘It’s overgrown. It’ll take us some time to clear it away and check inside. What was it for?’
‘No idea. Something to do with the outhouse, I suppose,’ Tremayne said.
Clare and Tremayne kept their distance. The locals were curious about what was going on. Tremayne gave them enough information to satisfy them.
‘The grille’s off,’ Hughes shouted. ‘There’s space down here.’
‘I’ll be up,’ Tremayne said. He had already kitted up in coveralls with overshoes and gloves.
‘I’ll go down first,’ Hughes said. ‘I don’t want you destroying the evidence.’
Two minutes later. ‘Yarwood, we need you up here. Hughes is packing a few pounds, and I’m creaking in the knees. You’re the only one slim enough.’
Clare was surprised by her senior’s admission that he was not one hundred per cent fit. She was glad that Superintendent Moulton wasn’t around to hear it.
At the entrance to the hole in the ground, Clare could see the problem. A tree root which had probably been smaller eighteen years previously had expanded and was impeding an easy entry.
‘We’ve lowered a light for you, and t
here seems to be something down there. If you confirm it’s the gold, we’ll cut the root away.’
Clare lowered herself into the hole, Hughes and Tremayne assisting; more hindering if she had been truthful. She knew from her childhood that dark and confined spaces did not excite her, and the area under the ground was restricted, although not dark with the light that the crime scene team had placed in the hole.
‘It’s full of spiders,’ Clare said from inside.
‘They’re harmless,’ Tremayne shouted back, his voice echoing around the chamber.
‘Harmless they may be, but they’re crawling over me.’
‘Any gold?’ Hughes shouted.
‘It’s here,’ Clare said. ‘I can see ten, maybe twelve, bars.’
There’s twenty, or there should be,’ Tremayne said.
‘You can cut that branch and get someone else down here. They’re too heavy for me to lift and I’m not staying down here indefinitely.’
‘Okay, up you come. The gold solves one problem, opens up more questions.’
‘You can tell me over a cup of coffee. Do they have a coffee shop in the village?’
‘We’ll find one soon enough,’ Tremayne said.
Chapter 9
The Plough Inn in Emberley, as with pubs up and down the country, was no longer serving just beer and snacks. Now a full gourmet meal was available, or in the case of Clare and Tremayne, a coffee each.
‘The most excitement we’ve seen for a while,’ the publican said. He was a weathered man on the wrong side of seventy, with a red nose and a ruddy complexion.
‘Looks like he’s his own best customer,’ Tremayne said to Clare, who was looking the worse for wear after being in the hole in the ground. ‘What was the hole for?’ he said.
‘I’d say it was something to do with the outhouse.’
‘Outhouse being a polite word for a toilet?’
‘I suppose so. The smell wasn’t too good down there either, although it must be a long time since anyone used it.’
Tremayne remembered back to his childhood and the walk down the garden to the outside toilet in the middle of winter. Back then, it was cold baths, and not too often, toilets that were none too hygienic, and insects. He had to admit he appreciated the modern facilities at his house, and with Jean in semi-residence, the smell of lavender, and clean towels.
‘Is all the gold there?’
‘I didn’t stay down to count. I saw ten, maybe twelve, and someone had thrown down some old clothes to cover them.’
‘Clothes, that makes little sense,’ Tremayne said. He was glad it had been his sergeant in the hole, not him. He would not admit it, but he had a lingering fear of confined spaces, as a result of a childish prank of climbing down a well at home when he was a child. He and his brother had dared each other, Tremayne being the bravest. He had entered the well, eased himself down for three feet, fallen another ten. It had been his father who had pulled him out, and it was him who had administered the belt to the bare backside of both the young boys.
‘Clothes, rags? I couldn’t see that well, and I wasn’t picking them up to check.’
‘Why?’
‘There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat in there.’
‘We’ll leave it up to Jim Hughes and his people to check it out. How does this impact the murder investigation?’
‘It might prevent further murders.’
‘Or create more tension.’
‘It would need someone small enough to get down that hole.’
‘Ethan wouldn’t have been able to, nor would anyone in his family. Selwyn Cosford, a likely candidate for swindling an insurance company, isn’t particularly small either.’
‘Then why that hole, and who knew it was there? Even eighteen years ago it was remote, and not the sort of thing anyone would stumble on easily.’
‘It has to be someone with local knowledge,’ Tremayne said. He called over the publican.
‘Another coffee?’ the publican said.
‘One for yourself, as well. We’ve a few questions.’
‘Coffee, that’s for the visitors. I’ll have a pint. Are you sure you don’t want one, Inspector? You look to be a drinking man.’
‘It’s alright, guv,’ Clare said. ‘I could do with a glass of wine.’
It was still not midday, yet the three in that pub were content to indulge themselves: the publican because he was alcoholic, Tremayne because he appreciated a good quality beer and the pub sold his favourite, and Clare because she was feeling less than her best after spending time in the bowels of the earth. She was also not willing to admit that she had felt scared in that hole as if its surrounds were pressing in on her.
‘What do you want to know?’ the publican said as he sat down next to Clare.
‘Has the local gossip filtered up to here yet?’ Tremayne said.
‘The gold you’ve found.’
‘That’s it.’
‘I received a phone call not so long ago. Is it from that van that was hijacked?’
‘Almost certainly. What do you know about it?’
‘Nothing really. The van was stopped not far from here. I remember one of the hijackers was killed.’
‘Martin Mitchell.’
‘There’s a Tony Mitchell in the village.’
‘Where do we find him?’
Two doors down. A small bungalow, white picket fence. He’s getting on a bit, and he doesn’t go far. He’s here every lunchtime. You could set your clock by him.’
‘Where we found the gold, what can you tell us about it?’
‘Not a lot. They don’t like people on their land, not that I can blame them. I’ve been up to Longmore house once, a special invite. They wanted to bring their wealthy friends down here to sample a traditional English pub. They wanted to check me out before they came. To make sure the pub and our food were up to their standard.’
‘Was it? Were you?’
‘They changed the menu, improved it actually. Apart from that, I was traditional enough. They came down here a few days later, a few famous faces. Everyone had a great night, and we all got to meet a few celebrities. Apart from then, they keep to themselves, and they like Longmore Park to be left alone.’
‘Tell us about Mitchell?’
‘Nothing to tell really. The man’s retired, minds his business. He comes in here, has a couple of pints, a chat with everyone, and then goes back to his place. He’s a keen gardener, often wins a couple of prizes at the annual fete.’
***
‘If it’s about what they found at the gatehouse, you’re wasting your time,’ Tony Mitchell, a sprightly man dressed in a white shirt and a pair of navy trousers said.
‘DI Tremayne, and this is Sergeant Yarwood, we’d appreciate a few words with you.’
‘Very well, come in, and don’t mind the dog. His bark is worse than his bite.’ Clare looked at the dog on the other side of the gate leading to the front garden. All she could see was a tired terrier-like animal of indeterminate breeding.
Outside the small bungalow, the garden was immaculate, the borders of the small lawn precise. The flowers, not blooming due to the season, were all in a line, as were the vegetables in the rear garden. It was clear that a guided tour around the garden was the price for some of the man’s time. Tremayne wasn’t into gardening, Clare was.
‘It’s important to talk to them,’ Mitchell said as he discussed with Clare how to grow prize-winning marrows.
In the bungalow, small and quaint, the three sat down. Mitchell chose an old wooden chair, the two police officers made themselves comfortable on a sofa.
‘I don’t have much to do with the family,’ Mitchell said.
‘You know why we’re here?’ Tremayne said. The man was familiar, although he couldn’t place him. Over the years, he had got to know all of the Mitchells, good and bad, but this man was proving difficult. He had the look of a Mitchell, the thin nose, the drooping shoulders, the weak chin, but he didn’t seem the same. ‘Have w
e met before?’ Tremayne said, unable to rack his brain further.
‘Martin’s funeral, that’s the only time I can remember. Mind you, you were a few years younger then, so was I.’
‘Why did you mention the gatehouse when we arrived?’
‘Two and two make four. In my book it does.’
‘Which means?’ Tremayne struggled when people made oblique remarks as if they knew something that he should know as well.
‘I saw the police cars up at the gatehouse, figured you were looking for the gold.’
‘Did you know it was there?’
‘Not me. And as I told you, I don’t have much to do with the rest of the family.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Martin and Ethan, they’re nephews of mine. Their father was a second cousin. I suppose that makes them third cousins, but that sounds wishy-washy. Best just to call them nephews, and they always called me uncle. When they were younger, their mother used to bring them out here. She had this idea that the country air would do them good, help to control their errant ways.’
‘How old were they?’
‘The twins, maybe ten or eleven. They came a few times, and then they didn’t.’
‘Any reason?’
‘They thought riding a bicycle over my vegetables was fun, I didn’t. I put them on the bus within half an hour, and that was that. I’ve not seen them since, apart from funerals.’
‘Again, why did you mention the gatehouse when we arrived?’
‘Missing gold, Ethan and Martin, police cars. Did you find it?’
‘We did, but why did you make the association?’
‘I’d never thought about it before, but the twins were into all sorts of mischief. I know they had been into Longmore Park on a couple of occasions. The estate manager brought them back once, gave me an ear bashing about irresponsible children and it was up to the parent to discipline them.’
‘You weren’t the parent,’ Clare said. The dog, unattractive as it was, was sitting close to her. She didn’t know why it was that wherever she went with Tremayne, the animals gravitated towards her, and not him.
‘Not that the estate manager cared. He had to answer to those up at the main house, and the one thing they didn’t like were unwelcome visitors, especially children bent on mischief, on their land.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 99
