‘Anything else?’
‘Just one thing. Sheila’s my sister.’
‘We checked. She’s not a Baxter,’ Tremayne said.
‘Not on any records. It’s bound to come out sooner or later, these things always do. My father, he was a man about town, or should I say, the village. Sheila’s mother was on her own; it was before Sheila was born, and the man her mother had been married to had died. It wasn’t so easy back then to find another man to take on a ready-made family, two sons already. A good-looking woman according to my father, and one night they got together. After that, it became a regular thing for a few years. Sheila was born, and her mother’s husband was put on the birth certificate.’
‘But he was dead.’
‘No one was checking, and money exchanged hands. After that, the romance dimmed, but my father helped out financially when he could.’
‘Does Sheila know?’
‘She does. I’ve told you just in case there are DNA checks later on. I trust you not to reveal it unless you have to. Most people in the village probably know the story, but there are a few who don’t.’
‘I can’t guarantee it. I’ll have to tell Yarwood.’
‘Another pint?’
‘Not now. It’s time to go. Jean will have a meal on the table when I get home. Cold probably, but she’ll heat it up for me.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘You’re not married?’
‘I was, but it didn’t work out. We had a son, although I haven’t seen him for a long time. He may even be married with a family. I wouldn’t mind making peace with him and his mother, meeting them sometimes.’
Chapter 7
There had been few in the village of Compton who saw Gloria Wiggins as anything other than dislikeable, and most believed that the Mrs in front of her name was an affectation on her part, an attempt to avoid the label of spinster of this parish. It was Clare who found it was not. She burst into Tremayne’s office with the news, a welcome interruption from the paperwork that he had to deal with.
‘Gloria Wiggins was married in London,’ Clare said.
‘Mr Wiggins?’
‘He’s alive and well and living about a one-hour drive from here.’
‘You’re driving,’ Tremayne said, although to Clare that was not unusual. She always drove when it was the two of them, a chance for him to take a rest and to check the punter's guide, to find out which horse was going to win at the races that weekend, which one was going to lose. Clare thought that mug punter was more appropriate, as did most of those who knew Tremayne, but regardless, he would be weighing up whether the track was heavy, or if the horse had a good record of wins, the odds were in its favour, which way the wind was blowing. Even what star sign it was, at least that was what Clare assumed he took into account as well. One thing she knew, he had a lousy record when it came to picking the winning horse. When she and Jean, Tremayne’s partner, got together, it often brought a few laughs to their conversation, especially when Jean recounted how she picked a horse on whether she liked its look, and how her record of wins was better than Tremayne’s.
Cuthbert Wiggins, an old-fashioned first name for a man in his fifties, did not look the sort of person that Gloria would have married. A bank manager, he was a quiet man with a soft voice, the type of person who would get lost in a crowd of two. According to those in the village that had known Gloria, she was a forceful woman, loud of voice, always pushing in, monopolising any conversation.
‘We were married for three months,’ Cuthbert said. He was a small man and showed the signs of too many good meals and not enough exercise. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt and a striped tie. ‘I was sorry when she left me,’ he said.
‘We need the full story. It may help us with our enquiries,’ Tremayne said.
‘I don’t see how. She was an opinionated woman, and no doubt someone was offended. I was a junior in the bank back then, and Gloria and I were working at the same branch. I fancied her from the first time that I saw her, and soon, I think she must have asked me out, we were dating. After six months or so, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.’
‘Gloria always said that her job was secret.’
‘Working in a bank? I don’t think so. But then Gloria was ashamed of her job, of me eventually.’
‘Murder’s not a pleasant subject, but you, Mr Wiggins, don’t seem concerned that she met a violent death,’ Clare said.
‘We parted a long time ago. It was acrimonious, at least from her side. I had a good nest egg as my parents had died young and left me financially sound. Gloria, she reckoned that six months of courting and then three months of marriage entitled her to half of the assets, went out of her way to secure them.’
‘Lawyers pleading her case?’ Tremayne said.
‘You should have seen her. Obsequiously agreeable, and pretty as a picture. Not the battleaxe I had to confront every night after the first couple of weeks of marriage. I can remember her from back then, and then she won her case, took thirty per cent of my cash plus the house we had been living in. I was left out on a limb for a while, and with a bitter taste in my mouth. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not sad that she’s gone. You probably think that I’m a right bastard, but I’m not. I’m just a man who loved the woman, and then she treated me like that.’
‘Did she marry you for your money?’ Clare said.
‘I like to think that it was love, but yes, it was for the money. Gloria, if you have not already deduced it, was an unpleasant woman of few redeeming features.’
‘She was not well-liked,’ Tremayne said.
‘I did not kill her, before you ask.’
‘Why? Should we?’
‘I read somewhere that statistically the nearest and dearest are the most likely candidates.’
‘They are, but, as you say, it’s been a long time. How long in your case?’
‘The last time I saw her was that day at the courts when she almost jumped for joy when the verdict came through. I could have killed her that day, but not now. Eventually, I found myself another woman, and we’ve been married ever since, two children now.’
‘Hatred lingers for a long time. You could have driven down to Compton and strung the woman up,’ Clare said. She had to admit that she liked the lyrical manner of Wiggins’ conversation. He was not an impressive man to look at, but he had an endearing personality, a wit that was subtle and constrained.
‘I passed the hatred stage a long time ago. Life’s good for me now, has been for many years. I didn’t need that vexatious woman to disturb it.’
‘We need to ask where you were on the day of her death,’ Clare said.
‘Either at work or at home with my wife. I’m not a traveller, never have been, although I’m partial to the occasional beer, so possibly the pub as well. Somewhere between the three is the best I can give you, and you’ll find no gaps of more than an hour between any of them, not long enough to drive down to where Gloria lived and to kill her.’
‘You knew where she lived?’
‘We called in briefly the one time at her cottage, although no one else saw us in the village. It was no more than five minutes, and I never went in. All I could see were the paisley curtains, a depressing little cottage in a village that wouldn’t win any prizes as England’s loveliest.’
Tremayne and Clare would have to agree with Wiggins on that. The villages in the Salisbury area were invariably old and charming with their thatched cottages, their history, but Compton had changed since the last war, and most of the buildings were drab red brick with tiled roofs, not one having anything more than functionality. Certainly, that had been the case with Gloria Wiggins’ thirties-era cottage. An unimpressive structure of three bedrooms, one bathroom, a front room reserved for guests who never came, a kitchen replete with a wood-burning stove, and an old refrigerator which continuously hummed.
With little more to be gained, the two police officers made their way back to Salisbury and to Bemerton Road Polic
e Station.
‘Nothing to say?’ Clare said as they drove along, her in the driving seat.
‘It’s unlikely he murdered the woman, but we’ll check out his alibi.’
‘I’ll get his local police station involved. And besides, Cuthbert Wiggins is a small man, Gloria was taller than him, no doubt stronger. He could have used the pulleys, but he would have had to get into the cottage, subdue her, and then drag her outside.’
‘No sign of disturbance in the cottage which means she was either in that garage voluntarily, or someone had drugged her first.’
‘Pathology found no sedatives or narcotics in her system.’
We’ve still got the death of Bert Blatchford,’ Tremayne said. He was leaning back as if in deep thought, although Clare could see that he was close to taking a nap for a while, a not uncommon occurrence. Age was creeping up on him, Clare could see that only too clearly, but she had been saying that for a few years, so had Superintendent Moulton, who was still after his retirement. Key performance indicators, the man would say, and it was probably true. Tremayne was the most experienced detective inspector at the station, yet he didn’t have the obligatory degree, nor the adherence to police regulations that was required. He still believed in the no longer politically correct solution of ‘give the villain a swift kick up the rear-end’ instead of counselling him or her.
Clare had to admit the swift kick had prevented one or two that Tremayne had dealt with from getting into further trouble, and there were some in Salisbury who always welcomed him when he saw them: ‘Remember when you beat some sense into me’ or words to that effect. One was now the priest at a church in the city, another was on the city council, another was doing five years for robbery. Tremayne would admit that it didn’t always work, but his success rate was better than the counselling. Clare, degree-educated, and a lot younger, was torn between the two approaches. Her phone rang.
‘This weekend?’ It was the good doctor checking to see if his and Clare’s romantic interlude was on.
‘He’s keen,’ Tremayne joked, not that Clare appreciated his comment.
‘Not sure,’ Clare said to Warner. ‘We’ve got two murders and no suspects.’
‘Then it’s not, is it?’ Warner said. Clare thought his answer condescending. She pulled a face at the phone, knowing that he could not see her.
‘I’ll try for the weekend after,’ Clare said.
Back at the police station, a good hour to update the paperwork. Clare was soon into it, finished in twenty minutes, Tremayne took the full hour plus some more. After that, outside for Tremayne to smoke his obligatory cigarette, and then back to Compton. It was late in the afternoon, not that Clare minded. Her cat would be waiting for her back at her small place in Stratford sub Castle regardless of what time she arrived home, and she knew her neighbours would feed it for her.
Compton looked even drearier as the two police officers entered the village. It had started to rain heavily, and the two of them made a dash for the warmth of the Compton Arms. Inside, Tremayne ordered a pint of beer, Clare kept to her usual glass of wine.
‘Steak and kidney pie?’ Rupert Baxter said.
‘Fine by me,’ Tremayne replied.
‘Make it two,’ Clare said.
In one corner of the pub sat Sheila Blatchford, her fire and brimstone comrades near to her. She had gained one more.
‘Gladys Upminster,’ Baxter said, noticing Tremayne looking her way. ‘She’s lived here all her life, not sure if she’s ever left, other than for her Saturday trips into Salisbury for shopping.’
‘Married?’
‘Local farmer, Eustace. He’s a good sort, always willing to pass the time of day, as long as you’re interested in crop rotation, the price of sheep at the local market, the inclement weather not being good for farming.’
‘A bore?’
‘He is that, but he’s not into Sheila Blatchford and her cronies. I like Eustace, so I talk about what interests him, and then he’s fine.’
‘A drinker?’
‘That’s him over there,’ Baxter said, nodding his head in the direction of a man sitting on his own, a pint in his hand, a ruddy complexion, an old hat that had seen better days.
‘Bring my meal over there,’ Tremayne said.
Chapter 8
‘Mr Upminster, if you could spare a few minutes,’ Tremayne said as he sat down across from the man, his back to the man’s wife who was intently listening to Sheila Blatchford.
‘If you like,’ the gruff reply. ‘I was expecting to see you before now,’ Eustace Upminster said.
‘Why?’
‘Motive, that’s why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Plenty hated that woman, and a few of us weren’t too keen on Bert Blatchford. The only good that I can see of either of them is as fertiliser.’
‘Rupert Baxter said you were a man who only spoke about farming.’
‘Baxter’s right, but what else is there? You’ve seen those sitting behind you, my wife included.’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘That Sheila Blatchford, a nasty piece of work, even worse than her dead husband.’
‘What about them?’
‘She draws the fools to her like a honeypot does to the bee.’
‘Your wife?’
‘A good woman when we were younger, but our son, he died in a car accident. It was a few years back, but she can’t forget, forever looking for ways to atone for her sins, looking for forgiveness.’
‘Forgiveness?’
‘Our son was a tearaway and argumentative. I had hoped he’d grow out of it, but he was twenty-eight, and still going around as if he was in his teens. He was at home, nursing a sore head. Gladys was there berating him, and I was outside feeding the cattle, checking around the place. Our son storms out of the place, gets into his car and takes off at his normal speed. Anyway, five minutes later, he swings out in front of a bus heading into Salisbury, and rolls the car. He died at the hospital two hours later. Gladys blames herself. “If only I hadn’t shouted at him, he’d still be alive,” she said then, still does.’
‘Not her fault.’
‘I know that but try convincing her. The Blatchfords and that Gloria Wiggins were in her ear from that day on, saying that she will find comfort in the Bible, and she believes it.’
‘What’s she like with you now?’
‘She’s cold, distant. Before she was an affectionate woman. Nowadays she goes her way, I go mine. I’ll tell you, two out of three dead is not a bad result. Whoever it was, he’s got my vote,’ Upminster said.
‘It could have been you.’
‘It could have been, except it wasn’t. No alibi if that’s what you’re after, but I wouldn’t have killed them.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no problem with death as I have to slaughter the occasional pig or sheep up at the farm, but a human being, that’s different.’
‘Your dislike of them is a motive,’ Tremayne said as he ate his steak and kidney pie.
‘It is, and if Sheila Blatchford meets the same fate, it won’t be me shedding a tear.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Have you ever lost a child, Tremayne?’ Upminster said.
‘I’ve never had children,’ Tremayne admitted, but regretted that he had not.
‘When one of them dies, even if he or she’s not a good person, it tears you to pieces, inside and out. In time, the sorrow goes away, it did with me, but it took nearly a year. With Gladys, it never did, and there was a time when I had to contemplate placing her somewhere safe.’
‘Such as?’
‘A home for the mentally unstable. Her grief was inconsolable, irrational, and downright harmful. If it hadn’t been for that Wiggins woman and the Blatchfords, Gladys wouldn’t have made it. Not that it stops me hating them and wishing them dead.’
‘But your wife?’
‘With time and the right care, she would have recovered, I’m sure of that, but fo
r a while I was concerned that she would harm herself.’
‘Drastic measures, putting her away for some time,’ Tremayne acknowledged. He had to admit to enjoying Upminster’s company, so much so that he ordered the two of them another pint of beer. Clare was not finding her company so agreeable. She had joined the fire and brimstone brigade in the other corner.
***
‘That’s the problem with people today,’ Sheila Blatchford said, focussing on Clare. ‘You place your trust in what you can see and feel. Now, look here at Sergeant Yarwood, no offence intended.’ Clare knew there was, but she was not there to debate.
Of the others at the table, all would profess to their sadness at Gloria Wiggins’ death, but that did not obviate them from her murder. And Bert Blatchford’s recent death should have been a dampener, especially with his widow, yet it appeared to have little effect.
You’re right,’ Margaret Wilmot said. ‘The two police officers here in this pub expect to find out what happened to Gloria and to Sheila’s husband, when the truth is out there, amongst the sinners. None of us would have killed them, but they look at us as if we were akin to the devil, when all any of us wanted to do was to protect this community.’
‘Rupert Baxter?’ Clare said.
‘His time will come,’ Sheila said.
‘What about Gloria Wiggins and your husband?’
‘My Bert was a weak man, couldn’t hold his drink, nor his tongue.’
‘What does that mean? We know about his drinking, but not his tongue. Were you frightened that he would have said something about Gloria if we had kept probing? Was his silence a necessary price to pay? Could one of you seated at this table have killed him?’
Hamish Foster, who until now had been sitting back enjoying the spectacle, put his glass down on the table and spoke. ‘My wife and I have perfect alibis,’ he said.
‘And what are they?’
‘We weren’t in the village at either time, and that’s verifiable,’ Foster said, looking over at his wife, who nodded her head in agreement.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 120
