The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh. James Baxter received his punishment.’

  ‘He wasn’t guilty of any more than a need to be loved. He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘Gloria Wiggins did not deserve to die, but Rupert Baxter killed her. Talk to him if you want the truth. He knew what his brother was.’

  Chapter 4

  As with any murder, the paperwork was not far behind. Tremayne missed the good old days before computers and key performance indicators. He could remember when the first computer had entered Bemerton Road Police Station; it had been heavy and clunky, and definitely not user-friendly. He remembered the superintendent, a young, enthusiastic, degree-educated man who had embraced it, not that Tremayne had liked him very much with his smug, holier-than-thou attitude. He was gone now, promoted up to London, and the current superintendent, still young, and always after Tremayne’s retirement, was at least personable. Tremayne would admit to liking the man, but not to his face, and certainly not to anyone else.

  That was how Tremayne operated. To his sergeant he was firm but caring, to his superintendent he was respectful but never condescending, to any criminal, murderer or otherwise, he was singular in his determination to apprehend them and to shut them up tight behind iron bars.

  ‘These will revolutionise the police force,’ the computer-loving superintendent had said all those years ago. ‘No more offices filled with reams of paper, no more filing cabinets jammed full of cases.’

  Fine words, Tremayne reflected as he sat in his office, two filing cabinets to one side, a laptop in front of him, and twenty feet from where he sat, an alcove with three printers. Their function, it seemed, was to pour out reams of paper.

  Tremayne looked at his laptop, saw that he needed to enter the date, generate a case number. He knew he could manage, but it did not interest him. He closed the lid and went outside to talk to his sergeant, someone who did enjoy laptops and reports. He had tried, but she seemed to be at home with them, even admitting to being on Facebook, as well as reading book after book on the thing. He could only relate to a book if it came from a bookshop and it had a hard cover. There were some that saw him as a Luddite, he knew that, but it wasn’t true. Progress was fine, so was technological advancement – if it assisted. But to him, paperwork at the start of any murder investigation, a mandatory requirement, was counterproductive. Out at Compton, there was a murderer, quite possibly a person who would not stop at one, and there were people to interview, people who may give a clue, not knowingly, but one comment leads somewhere else, and time was of the essence. So far, they had a woman hanging from a beam, a publican who blamed the woman for his brother’s death, a next-door neighbour who disliked the woman, yet seemed to have maintained a cordial relationship with her, and a couple of less than charming people who hated her but still respected her.

  There were close to one hundred and fifty people in the village. So far he and his sergeant had only spoken to four, and each of them had a motive.

  ‘Yarwood, we’ve got a murder to solve,’ Tremayne said. In the years he and his sergeant had been together, only once had he called her Clare. The time he had referred to her by her Christian name had been when her fiancé had died tragically, saving her life, ending his. It had been six months since his name had been mentioned by either of them. Tremayne hoped she had moved on, and the doctor she had been seeing had done her a world of good.

  ‘Paperwork, it’s important,’ Clare said. She looked up at Tremayne, could see him champing at the bit. ‘I’ll do it later. Compton?’

  ‘There are a few we need to talk to.’

  ***

  The Reverend Jasper Tichborne was a man of moderate height, shorter than either Tremayne or Clare. They found him close to the church, dressed in a pair of old jeans and a grey jumper, and wearing heavy boots. Clare had to admit that he was not a bad-looking man, not exactly handsome, not ugly either. He stood from where he had been tending to his small garden when he saw the two of them arrive.

  ‘Tragic,’ Tichborne said.

  ‘I thought you would be administering your pastoral duties at this time,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘We will be holding a service later today in her memory, not that many will come.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She was a good servant of the Lord, a devout parishioner, but…’

  ‘But she was an unforgiving woman with a malicious tongue who nobody liked,’ Clare said.

  ‘It is not for me to talk of Mrs Wiggins in such a manner,’ Tichborne said.

  ‘True though?’

  ‘It would be uncharitable, even unchristian, for me to agree with you.’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Tremayne said. ‘We deal with the truth, not whether it’s uncharitable or otherwise. Reverend Tichborne, if you believe she was not a good person, then say it. And if there are people in the village who would have harboured grudges sufficiently strong to have wished the woman dead, even murdered her, then tell us who. Nothing is to be gained by your reticence. If one woman has been killed, others may be at risk. We’ve met the Blatchfords. They seem to be tarred by the same brush as the dead woman.’

  ‘Yes, Detective Inspector, she was all that you say. I had spoken to her on several occasions about loving thy neighbour, turning the other cheek, forgiveness, but I’m afraid it always fell on deaf ears. And yes, the Blatchfords are, as you say, tarred with the same brush.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who knows? Some would say it was tempered by the good book. I can only tell you that Gloria Wiggins was a woman it was easy to hate, but murder?’

  ‘Murder is usually committed by someone the victim was close to. Did she have such a person?’

  The three moved away from where the reverend had been tending his garden and into the small rectory nearby. After cleaning his hands, the man of the cloth put on the kettle and made them each a cup of tea. Clare looked around where they were sitting, saw it to be lacking any feminine touches: no flowers in a vase, no attempts at arranging the furniture, no apple pie cooling on the windowsill, no patter of little feet. The rectory was functional and warm, nothing more.

  ‘You live on your own?’ Clare said, remembering full well that James Baxter had lived alone, and for a reason.

  ‘My wife died five years ago. Since then, it’s been the church and me.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve raised unpleasant memories.’

  ‘No need to be. We had a good few years together before the Lord summoned her.’

  ‘Coming back to Mrs Wiggins,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Mr Wiggins, but no one has ever met him. She has lived in this village all her life, apart from a few years when she had lived in the north of England, something to do with her job.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘She always said it was secret, although who knows?’

  ‘And the husband?’

  ‘According to her, they had met in the north, got married, honeymooned in the Lake District, and then one day, he upped and left her. She was strong in telling everyone, don’t know why. There was some in the village who reckoned he was better off, but whatever the truth, he’s never been here.’

  ‘It could have been him who killed her,’ Clare said.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ the Reverend Tichborne said, ‘Although I’ve no idea where he is. According to Mrs Wiggins, she hadn’t heard from him for a long time, and others in the village never even believed the story, only that she embellished the truth, and that she was a frustrated woman who caused trouble. Whatever, she was a person who could polarise the village.’

  ‘The Blatchfords didn’t like her, but they supported her, especially in the matter of James Baxter,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘And your view of James?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I take a more liberated view. I wasn’t here, you realise. Gloria Wiggins was wrong in what she did, but as for his death, it was an accident, nothing more, and certainly nothing to do with divine intervention. The God that I beli
eve in is benevolent and forgiving.’

  ‘Mrs Wiggins’ and the Blatchfords’ God?’

  ‘He has an edge to him that I do not believe exists. Rupert Baxter certainly hated the woman, not the only one, either.’

  ‘And where do we find these people?’

  ‘Just ask around. They have a tendency to say their mind. No hesitancy to tell me when my sermons drone on.’

  ‘And do they?’ Clare said.

  ‘Sometimes I tend to get carried away.’

  ***

  Rupert Baxter was insistent with Tremayne that he had a pint of beer on the house.

  ‘Later,’ Tremayne said. ‘Yarwood and I have got work to do. Two orange juices for now.’

  Clare smiled when her senior’s face grimaced as he drank the juice. The pub was warm, an excellent place to discuss the case, and there was no superintendent who wanted to be updated, no reports to be filled in.

  ‘The husband?’ Clare said.

  ‘Find out what you can. If he exists, we’ll need to establish his alibi, interview him if necessary.’

  ‘Not many believe that he ever existed.’

  ‘What they believe is not important. Find out what she was like before she left the area, talk to those who were her contemporaries, people she socialised with.’

  ‘Stephanie Underwood is a few years younger.’

  ‘Check on her while you’re at it. This not leaving the village except for the rarest of occasions is weird. And what about her parents? How did they die? Stephanie was nineteen, and since then, any romances, indiscretions? Find the facts on her, and then dig up the dirt. See if there are any inconsistencies.’

  ‘They’ll all have skeletons,’ Clare said.

  ‘Then find them. Bring in help if you need it. Superintendent Moulton is not going to leave us for long on this one. No doubt the media will be down here at some time asking stupid questions. I’ll deal with them if I have to.’

  The burly man that Tremayne and Clare had seen on their previous visit to the pub came in the door. He moved over to where Baxter was serving drinks. He took hold of his pint and came and sat down in the chair alongside Clare. ‘You need to talk to me,’ he said. ‘My name’s Barry Woodcock.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’m the one that the Wiggins woman made the aspersions about.’

  ‘The holding-hands friend of James Baxter?’

  Clare could see that he was a farmer: the calloused hands, the overalls he wore, the smell of hay. Not that she found the smell unpleasant, as she had spent time around horses and farms in her youth.

  ‘James was a good man, and regardless of what the woman said, we were just friends. I suppose for a time I was enamoured of the man. He was worldlier than me, better educated. He lent me books to read, and we’d discuss them for hours. He even introduced me to my wife. And as for what the Wiggins woman said, it was just lies. Maybe James, if he weren’t a priest, would have wanted to take it further, but I never did. He was good to me, I was kind to him, but nothing ever happened. Not that I’ve got anything against those who do. I grew up here, so my views were clouded to the outside world, but James told me that people should live their lives as they see fit, as long as they don’t harm anyone.’

  ‘Mrs Wiggins did not believe in that concept.’

  ‘I’m not sad to see her go, but she wasn’t responsible for James’s death. It was an accident, and he did like to ride fast. I went on the back of his motorbike once, scared me too.’

  ‘Could you have killed her?’ Clare asked.

  ‘At the time of James’s death, I was angry enough with her for what she had said, was saying, but no, I did not kill her.’

  ‘We’ll need to check your alibi.’

  ‘At home with my wife and the children. It’s not the best alibi, but it’s the only one I can give you.’

  Chapter 5

  Finally, Tremayne could see that he had no option but to return to Bemerton Road Police Station and deal with the paperwork. He was pleased that he and Clare had travelled out to Compton, found a few more facts to add to the puzzle of the murder of Gloria Wiggins. Her body was now in Pathology and ready to be examined. Forensics had the rope used, as well as the pulleys that may or may not have hoisted her, although Barry Woodcock would have been strong enough to manage on his own.

  Outside it was dark as Clare opened her laptop. A competent typist, she wanted to be out of the office by 10 p.m. and to enjoy a relatively early night. At home, her sole remaining cat would be waiting for her, as was a cold lasagne which she would probably heat in the microwave. It wasn’t much of a life, she knew, compared to her friends back in Norfolk, who had all married young, had children, although two of them were already divorced. Feeling a little melancholy, she phoned Steve Warner, her paramour and a doctor at Salisbury Hospital, and a man who wanted commitment, something she could still not give.

  ‘This weekend?’ he said. He was still at work, the same as her. An emergency for him, a murder for her.

  ‘I’ll try. We’re busy again.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It was on the news, or maybe it was social media. Wherever it was, I know it’s Compton and an old woman.’

  ‘Not that old. She was only fifty-five.’

  ‘Point taken. I’ve got to go,’ Warner said. ‘Someone’s come in with acute appendicitis. We need to prepare him for surgery. Love you.’

  ‘The weekend, I’ll try,’ Clare said as she put the phone down. She knew that she should have said ‘love you’ in return, but she couldn’t. She enjoyed the man’s company, even enjoyed sharing his bed, but love, she wasn’t sure. If it was fondness, then she could give it. If it was spending time together, then fine, but the idea of a lifetime, she knew she wasn’t ready.

  Tremayne sat in his office looking at the screen. The instructions, self-explanatory, were there, the procedure to follow was clear enough, but he could not see the point. The reporting was fine when they had a culprit charged and locked up in the cells below; a confession, hopefully, irrefutable proof if not. With one finger of each hand, he commenced the process: name, date, crime, witnesses, and so on. He would give it two hours, and then he would go home to Jean. She’d be asleep by then, but he knew she would wake up for him, make him a cup of hot chocolate, listen to how his day had been, and if he was hungry, ensure that he had something healthy and nutritious; not necessarily what he really wanted, though. He smiled at the thought of her when they had been married, only not to see her for nearly thirty years after their divorce, while she had taken off and married another man, had a couple of children, been widowed. Now she was back with him. And what had he, Detective Inspector Tremayne, done? A few live-in girlfriends, a few one-night stands, but apart from that, a house in Wilton, three miles from Salisbury, nothing special in itself, and a police pension. He knew that Jean would never complain, but he felt regret that two people who should have spent their lives together, hadn’t. Tremayne looked over at Clare, saw her busy with her report. He looked back at his and continued with his typing, slow and rhythmic, but with no melody. One hour, no more, he thought.

  ***

  An uneasy atmosphere settled over Compton, a village that had existed since the time of Magna Carta in the thirteenth century. And now it was about to be torn asunder, according to Bert Blatchford as he sat, or slightly swayed, in his seat in the village pub. The man was drunk, a not uncommon occurrence. Rupert Baxter could only see a man he did not like, but then Blatchford did not have a straightforward manner about him. He had made a career out of narrow-mindedness and a modest income from farming: a few dozen pigs, a dozen cows that gave milk, and over a thousand free-range chickens that gave him eggs which were sold at a premium price in the area. Also, each Saturday, outside the front gate of his farmhouse, there would be a stall with his produce, as well as his wife’s home-made jams.

  Baxter had to admit that the vociferous Mrs Blatchford could make excellen
t jam.

  ‘Mark my words,’ Blatchford slurred, making sure that the other patrons heard what he had to say, even if they did not want to, ‘Gloria Wiggins’ death will be avenged. And you, Baxter, the brother of that man, are in the firing line. You and the others, you all watch out.’

  ‘Bert, you’ve had enough. It’s time to go home,’ Baxter said. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Not you. And let me tell you, I’ll never come in here again, never. Do you hear me?’

  ‘It’s not the first time, is it?’ Baxter said. ‘What about the time I criticised you over your pigs getting out from your farm, and what about that bad egg I bought off you. One word against you and you’re not coming back. But here you are, about to fall over, and you’re repeating yourself.’

  In the bar were eleven people, and most were looking in Blatchford’s direction. Baxter moved over to Bert and helped him out of his seat. ‘I’ll take him home,’ he said. ‘Five minutes and I’ll be back.’

  ‘Don’t you touch me,’ Blatchford said, pulling away. ‘Not after what your brother did.’

  ‘He got himself killed, no thanks to you.’

  ‘Him and Barry Woodcock, the two of them up there in that field, late at night, I saw them with my own two eyes.’

  ‘Come on, Bert,’ Baxter said. What the man was saying wasn’t right, he knew that, but it still hurt to hear him say it. He wanted to hit him to shut him up, but he would not.

  ‘I’m going and on my own.’ With that Bert Blatchford walked out of the pub and headed the short distance to where he lived.

  ‘Instincts of a homing pigeon, has Bert,’ Baxter said. ‘He’ll find his way.’ The others in the pub smiled, some gave a subdued laugh. Baxter poured himself another pint.

  ***

  Tremayne slept peacefully. He had arrived home at 11 p.m. Later than he had expected, but he had persevered and had completed the preliminary reporting required. When he had walked out of the door at Bemerton Road, he knew that he would sleep well that night and that the next day he and his sergeant could start in earnest, interviewing the villagers, digging into where they weren’t wanted, unveiling the hidden truths that people carry. At home, Jean had woken and had given him a hot drink and a decent meal before putting him to bed, making sure that the alarm would not go off early.