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  ‘No clear evidence of murder.’

  ‘Precisely, and according to Hughes we’re unlikely to have any either.’

  ‘You don’t believe this spontaneous human combustion theory, do you?’

  ‘Yarwood, how long have you been with me?’ Tremayne responded curtly.

  ‘Nearly six months, guv.’

  ‘Six months and you’ve gone from wet behind the ears to mildly useful.’

  ‘Mildly?’

  ‘Don’t think you’re there yet. It takes years to acquire the sixth sense.’

  Clare knew what he was talking about. ‘You think it’s murder?’ she asked.

  ‘Bodies don’t just catch on fire and burn to a cinder, I know that. How and why, I’ve no idea, but there are human hands behind the man’s death,’ Tremayne said, his gaze fixed directly on his sergeant.

  ‘But with no proof of murder, we can’t open a murder case.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘We start digging. Find out what we can about this man, and what the nurse said.’

  ‘What about Superintendent Moulton?’

  ‘What about him? And besides he doesn’t have the sixth sense, never will.’

  ‘He could put me in another department if there are no murders to solve,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’ll deal with Moulton,’ Tremayne replied. ‘Do you prefer to stay here?’

  ‘Of course. You’re a great mentor.’ Clare smiled.

  ‘Mentor, don’t talk rubbish. I’m a cantankerous old sod who smells a rat, that’s all.’

  ‘As I said, guv. A great mentor.’

  ‘There’s still hope for you. In the meantime, before our illustrious detective superintendent deems to make his presence known, I suggest that you and I make ourselves scarce.’

  ‘Revisiting the crime scene?’

  ‘Not me. And besides, a pub’s a good place to do some research.’

  ‘The nurse’s comment about “them”?’

  ‘We need to know what she meant. I’ll shout you a pint,’ Tremayne said. It was the first time she had been invited. She knew she could not say no, although she’d only drink one beer.

  ‘Fine, guv.’

  ‘Okay, the Deer’s Head in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Great. It’ll give me time to go home and feed the cats,’ Clare said.

  ***

  Clare Yarwood had managed to find accommodation not far from the police station. It was neither luxurious nor cheap, but it was within the constraints of her financial remuneration as a police sergeant. She had joined the police force five years previously at the age of twenty-one. The physical requirements on applying presented no problems as she had played basketball at school and had been the school record holder in the high jump, not surprising given her height. Keith Tremayne was one of the few men that she looked up to physically. Her height had always embarrassed her, and it did the first time she entered the main door at the Deer’s Head, Salisbury’s oldest pub – she banged her head on a low beam as she walked in.

  ‘Watch yourself there, luv,’ the red-faced publican shouted. All the people in the small bar looked around to take in the spectacle. Clare felt her cheeks flushing.

  ‘Over here, Yarwood,’ a voice shouted.

  Clare moved away from the door and the man who had had a laugh at her expense and over to where her guv was sitting. ‘A pint of the best?’ he asked.

  ‘Only a half,’ she replied.

  ‘Give Yarwood a half,’ Tremayne said to the man behind the bar.

  ‘If she’s a friend of yours, Tremayne, it’s a pint on the house.’

  ‘Yarwood, I’d like you to meet our genial host, Harry Holchester. Harry, this is Yarwood, sorry, Clare.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Holchester said. ‘Sorry about the comment when you came in. You’re not the first one to have banged their head on that beam. I’ve done it a few times myself, especially after a few pints.’

  Clare looked up at the man as he brought the pint over to her. She could see what he meant; he was taller than her, maybe even taller than Tremayne. She noticed that he was no longer red in the face, which she had initially assumed was the result of too much drinking.

  ‘Yarwood’s working with me,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Is he as awkward up there as he is here?’ Holchester asked.

  ‘He’s winding you up,’ Tremayne said. ‘Take no notice.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman,’ Clare replied with a smirk across her face.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t tell Harry that. He thinks I’m a right bastard.’

  ‘Sorry, Harry. I was just being polite.’

  ‘That’s fine. Then I’ll have no more sleepless nights over watering his beer.’

  ‘Harry, have you got a moment?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I can give you a couple of minutes.’

  Harry Holchester, the jovial landlord, sat down. Clare could see that he was still a young man, not much older than her. She assumed he was not the owner of the establishment as it must have been worth millions.

  Harry sat down next to Clare. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?’

  ‘I was born not far from here. Our family history goes back generations.’

  ‘You’ve heard of the death up Castle Road?’

  ‘Langley?’

  ‘Yes, Eric Langley. What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘I would have thought the police would have more knowledge than me.’

  ‘We know the normal: his age, his wealth, his military background, family.’

  ‘What else is there?’ Harry asked.

  ‘What sort of man was he? Was he religious, friendly?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for years, but from what I can remember, he was agreeable. He’d come in here for the occasional pint when my parents were running the pub.’

  ‘They’re not now?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Two years back, a car accident.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. Time moves on.’

  ‘His death is suspicious,’ Tremayne said, returning to the subject. He had seen Harry Holchester eyeing up Yarwood; Yarwood eyeing up Holchester. Not that he minded, as he liked them both, but there were more important matters to address.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re unable to determine a cause of death.’

  ‘He could just have died. He was not in the best of health from what I’ve been told.’

  ‘That’s true, but something’s not right, and there was a comment from the person who found him.’

  ‘What sort of comment?’

  ‘That he had died as a result of foul play.’

  ‘What did this person say?’

  ‘The person referred to those responsible as “them”. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not to me, it doesn’t. You think Langley’s death is sinister?’

  ‘It could be an accident.’

  ‘But you think it’s murder?’

  ‘The death was unusual.’

  ‘I can’t help you anymore, and besides, I’ve got customers to serve. If they’re not drinking, I’m not making money.’

  Harry Holchester left Tremayne and Clare alone. ‘What did you think of Harry’s answers, guv?’

  ‘It’s still murder’ Tremayne answered.

  ‘There’s not much we can do until we hear from the CSE.’

  ‘We could still have another pint.’

  ‘I’d still rather have a half, guv.’

  ‘You’ll not make inspector if you can’t drink your pints of beer.’

  ‘I could become the first teetotal detective inspector.’

  ‘Now there’s a depressing thought. Even worse than what we saw with that body today.’

  ***

  The following morning, Jim Hughes, the CSE, was in Tremayne’s office. He was bright-eyed, which could not be said of the two police o
fficers he met. Tremayne had downed seven pints, Clare had kept it to three. She had intended drinking two or three half pints and leaving, but unexpectedly Harry Holchester had come into her life. She knew that the detective sergeant that she had fancied was out of the picture.

  ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ Hughes said, knowing full well that Tremayne wanted a murder.

  ‘Accident?’ Tremayne said, looking at him through blood-shot eyes.

  ‘We know that the man was obese, a body mass index of over 30.’

  ‘How?’ Clare asked, her voice still rasping from the effects of the night before. ‘There wasn’t much left of the man.’

  ‘His doctor gave us all the information that we wanted.’

  ‘What else?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Langley had a problem with alcohol and his liver was not in good shape. Also, his heart was weak. According to the doctor, it was a wonder he had lived so long.’

  ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘I can’t record a cause of death, other than to offer various options.’

  ‘And those options?’ Clare asked. She was sucking a strong mint, hoping to reduce the taste of stale beer in her mouth.

  ‘The man set himself on fire, and that a combination of alcohol and body fat contributed to the body’s destruction.’

  ‘Your conclusion?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘The man died in mysterious circumstances. Without a body, we can’t give a precise evaluation. We can only record the facts. Until I receive advice to the contrary from Forensics and Pathology, his cause of death will be recorded as accidental death by burning.’

  ‘Not very satisfactory, is it?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I can’t make up a story to fit what you want to believe. My job is to give a professional opinion. If you want to make out a case for murder, you’ll need to find a motive and a perpetrator.’

  Tremayne did not appreciate the lecture.

  Hughes left the office.

  ‘What do you think?’ Clare asked.

  ‘It’s still murder. I know it is,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘But you can’t prove it.’

  ‘If I find the murderer, I can.’

  ‘And how do you intend to do that?’

  ‘The nurse knows something. We need her to talk.’

  ‘If she won’t?’

  ‘We’ll look somewhere else. The truth’s out there, I know it is.’

  ‘And Detective Superintendent Moulton?’

  ‘He can go to hell,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘I can’t ignore him,’ Clare said.

  ‘Do you want to be an inspector or just someone who sits in the office filing reports?’

  ‘An inspector.’

  ‘Then stick with me. The world is full of self-serving, sanctimonious bastards like our superintendent. There are not so many good police inspectors. Stick with me, and I’ll make you one.’

  Clare Yarwood knew the choice she was going to make.

  Chapter 3

  Stratford sub Castle, a small village no more than thirty minutes’ walk from Langley’s house, was picture perfect. Clare had driven through there a few times and loved the place. Tremayne had a house in Wilton, not far from Salisbury, and it suited him fine. He had no time for more than minimal housekeeping and the only time Clare had been there she had wanted to tidy up for him. She resisted, knowing full well what the man’s reaction would be. She had to admit that whereas her inspector was devoid of social graces and ambition, apart from his wish to become a detective chief inspector before he retired, he was a man comfortable in his skin. Not for him the worry of a better car, a better house, more expensive clothes, a trip overseas.

  He had made it clear on one of the few occasions when he spoke about himself that all he wanted was a television, a phone to place bets, and the chance to visit the local racecourse out past Netherhampton, a twenty-minute drive. Not that Clare understood the fascination. She had ridden when younger, but the last horse had thrown her off, and she had no intention of repeating the experience. Still, if that was what he wanted, she thought, then it was not for her to change him, and she had to admit that he was an excellent detective. She knew the others at Bemerton Road Police Station would have taken Jim Hughes’s report and filed theirs alongside: case closed. But that was not Tremayne’s style, and she appreciated it.

  In her youth watching all the cop shows on television, there was always the relentless searcher for truth, the rough diamond, and whether wearing an old raincoat or a hat skewed sideways, the detective was always a little eccentric, and she had decided that Keith Tremayne indeed qualified. If the man were house proud and cared about his appearance or what others thought of him, he would not have succeeded. Clare wondered if she was acquiring the sixth sense, that ability to sense the truth, but discounted it. She knew what she sensed: the pretence of being welcome in the nurse’s small cottage when clearly they were not.

  ‘Come in,’ Mavis Godwin said as she invited them into her small thatched cottage. It was clearly old, built more than three hundred years ago when people were a lot shorter. Both she and Tremayne had to stoop to enter, and neither had been able to stand up straight since.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ the nurse said. She was a lot calmer than the previous day. Tremayne could see a man out in the garden with a spade in his hand. ‘Your husband?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s Trevor. He doesn’t hold with strangers.’

  ‘Will he be able to help us with our enquiries?’

  ‘And what enquiries would that be? He never met Mr Langley.’

  ‘You called him only by his surname yesterday,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m just showing respect for the dead, I suppose. The man’s no longer here to answer for his sins. His maker will deal with him now,’ Mavis Godwin said.

  ‘Is your husband religious?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘Trevor? He comes with me every Sunday, but I don’t think he is.’

  ‘Then why go?’ Clare asked.

  ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll nag him all week. One thing he doesn’t like is unpleasantness.’

  ‘Mrs Godwin, you implied that Eric Langley had not died from natural means.’

  ‘What else could I think? You saw the man. The work of the devil, if you ask me.’

  ‘Is that a religious view, or do you know something?’ Clare asked. An old cat had jumped onto her lap.

  ‘I did my work for that man and left. He paid me every Friday without fail. I’ve no complaints.’

  ‘Langley wasn’t religious, was he?’ Tremayne asked. He noticed the cat on Yarwood’s lap, pleased it hadn’t come near him.

  Mavis Godwin sat down, having forgotten to bring the two police officers a cup of tea. ‘He didn’t believe in the good Lord,’ she said.

  Tremayne noticed the religious references. He hoped his sergeant had as well. ‘What did he believe in?’

  ‘He never spoke to me about the subject. If he was in one room, I was in another, apart from the times when I had to change his bed.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He was always too ill to move. I told you he was a pervert. He wanted me, but I’m not like that. I made a vow to God to cherish my husband, to only serve him.’

  ‘And have you?’ Clare asked, remembering the woman’s scathing comment about her husband the previous day.

  ‘I have upheld my vows if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday, you were critical of your husband.’ Clare decided to remind the woman.

  ‘Trevor’s not much good for anything. Odd jobs here and there, but no more. That’s why I worked for Mr Langley.’

  ‘Even though you did not like the man.’

  ‘It would be uncharitable for me to comment further.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Godwin, it’s necessary. Both my sergeant and I believe that Eric Langley’s death is suspicious, but we can’t prove it. You are the key to our enquiry,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘I’ve told you all I can. The good Lor
d will protect me if I say no more.’

  ‘And if you do?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I’ll say no more and wish you good day. I’ll pray for your souls.’

  ‘Will we need your prayers?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘If you don’t leave well alone, I don’t think even the good Lord will be able to protect you.’

  ***

  Clare had been unnerved by the small woman. Her parting statements had made her shiver as if someone was walking over her grave.

  ‘The woman’s a religious zealot. No wonder her husband kept his distance while we were there,’ Tremayne said. He was in his favourite position, reclining in the corner of a pub; this time, the Bridge Inn in the Woodford Valley. Clare had secretly hoped he would have suggested the Deer’s Head, another chance to meet up with Harry. He had phoned her that morning, and they had agreed to meet up that night. She was excited.

  ‘Maybe, but she knew something. I could sense it,’ Clare said, referring back to the woman’s insistence on saying no more.

  ‘You’re not experienced enough for it to be the sixth sense,’ Tremayne said in between sipping his pint. This time, Clare had been adamant that she was only drinking orange juice. She didn’t want Harry thinking she was a lush, even if he owned a pub.

  ‘It’s a woman’s intuition. Did you notice her husband watching us all the time? He gave me the creeps.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that. The man was menacing, not that he did anything.’

  ‘So, where to from here?’ Clare asked.

  ‘For me, another pint. Are you going to stay with that orange juice?’

  ‘Today I am. I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘At least you’ll be able to travel light,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You won’t need to carry a brick in your handbag for him to stand on.’

  ‘Sixth sense, is that it? Prying into my personal business.’

  ‘A man’s intuition. I saw you two making eyes at each other. I may be an old detective inspector, but I’m not blind.’

  ‘You don’t object?’ Clare wasn’t sure why she had asked Tremayne.

  ‘Mind? It’s none of my business. Just make sure you’re in the office at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow. We’ve got some digging to do.’