Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller

by Davies, Oliver

  “No cause for concern?” Cora asked.

  “No,” Sybil shook her head. “Mum saw him more often though—” She broke off suddenly. “Mum…?” She looked at Ernest.

  “We’ll call her,” he said, “later.”

  “Where is your mother?” Cora asked.

  “Down in Devon,” Sybil said. “We grew up there. I moved here for uni and never left. Alec had a place down near mum’s that he would go to when he could. She couldn’t make it this weekend; a work thing came up.”

  “What about your father?” asked Cora.

  “Dad died about twelve years ago,” Sybil answered quietly. “Heart attack.”

  “I am sorry,” Cora said earnestly. “If you like, I can be here when you call your mother.”

  “You can?” she asked.

  “That’s my job,” Cora insisted. “I am here to help you.”

  Sybil nodded, looking faintly relieved by that and met Cora’s kind smile with a small one of her own.

  “What happens next?” Ernest asked.

  “Next, we carry on with our investigation. We’ll head out to the inn he was staying at, see what we can find. Any information you can share about your brother,” I said to Sybil, “with officer O’Flynn here will be very valuable to us. And we do need to ask that you come to the station at your earliest convenience.”

  “To see him?” Sybil asked. I nodded, and she swallowed, looking nauseous. “Will you come?” She asked Cora.

  “Of course.”

  “We can come this morning,” Sybil said, looking at her fiancée. He nodded, pushing her hair back from her face. “After we call mum. And that lot,” she added, her face falling as she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  “I’ll send them all off,” he said. “They were only meant to be here this morning anyway. Unless there’s anything else?”

  “Not from us,” I said, “thank you.” He nodded, shaking my hand.

  “Alec was a good man,” he said. “Find who did this.”

  “We’ll do everything that we can,” I assured him. He nodded, straightened his jumper, then turned his grim expression to the door. He squeezed Sybil’s shoulder as he passed, walking out to face the family gathered out there.

  Sybil sighed heavily, toying with the damp tissue in her hand.

  “If it’s alright with you, Miss Riggs, we’ll leave Officer O’Flynn here with you. But if you need us at all, feel free to call,” I added, handing her my card. She nodded, tucking into her dressing gown pocket.

  “Cora,” I said quietly to her. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  “Will do. See you back at the station,” she said, getting up and moving over to sit beside Sybil.

  Mills and I got up from the sofa, gave Sybil a parting farewell and managed to step out of the warm house without bumping into anyone.

  The cold air was suddenly quite a pleasant relief, cooling my skin as I lifted my head to the sky.

  “That went about as well as expected,” I stated.

  “Maybe a bit better than usual,” Mills answered. “We should bring Cora with us all time.”

  I knew that Sharp would be behind that idea, but there were occasions where having to go through an officer all the time just made things more of a headache than they needed to be. In cases like these, however, where it was clear Sybil and her fiancée were likely barely to be that involved, someone like Cora was ideal. People liked her, for the most part, and she knew how to get them to relax and soften, reveal more to her than they knew we were doing. It was a talented method, but it took more time to do than we had, especially if we were going to find a killer.

  “We know where he was staying,” Mills was remarking as we walked back to the car. “That’s a start.”

  “I know,” I answered, sliding into the passenger seat. “He’s not so much of mystery anymore, only how he ended up in that bloody river is.”

  Mills nodded in agreement, starting the engine before finding the Fox Inn on the satnav. We looked at the village that sprung up, small and tucked out of the way.

  “Know it?” Mills asked.

  “Not my neck of the woods,” I answered, clicking my seatbelt into place. “I’m surprised it has a postcode, it’s that small.”

  Mills grinned, turning away from the pavement, leaving Cora behind to do her work and letting us get on with ours.

  Four

  Thatcher

  We made our way out of the city, hitting the uneven roads out into the countryside. The village we were headed to was a small one, nothing more than a few local farms, a church, a pub, and a post office, all gathered around a green in the middle. It was quiet, given the time of year, but I kept my eyes open for anything that stuck out as we ambled along towards the inn. There was little to see but a few farmers milling about in heavy coats, the cold keeping everyone else tucked indoors out of the wind.

  The Fox Inn was positioned just outside the village on the main road, a stone wall wrapping around it, fields rolling out on the other side. The village pub was just across the way, all shut up and quiet right now. Mills pulled into the carpark, and we climbed out, walking back around to the front door and the creaky sign with a fox above it.

  “How old is it, do you reckon?” Mills asked, looking up at the building with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  I blew out a long breath. “These are usually medieval or thereabouts. The village is old, so it’s likely been here as long.” Mills nodded, looking around and pointed out over the fields.

  “There’s a big house over that house. Must have been an estate at one point.”

  “Might still be,” I remarked, walking towards the front door, eager to get out of the cold now. Mills trailed after me, into the inn, warm and cosy, with a fire burning in the stone hearth to our left. We walked over to the desk, where a middle-aged woman sat fiddling with crochet needles and yarn. She looked up as we approached, smiling at us both.

  “Good morning,” she greeted us. God, was it still only the morning? I glanced at the clock, just about, anyway.

  “Good morning,” I replied, pulling my warrant card from my pocket. “Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. We’re here about a guest we believe you had staying here. A Major Alexander Riggs?”

  The woman nodded, rising from her chair and placing her hands on the table.

  “He checked in the other night, I believe.”

  “You believe?” Mills repeated.

  “I wasn’t working that night, and I’ve not seen him around. I believe he was out all day yesterday, said something about a wedding when he called to book? Has something happened?”

  “I’m afraid he was found dead earlier today,” I told her.

  “God,” she gasped, her hand pressed against her chest. “How terrible. Do you know how?”

  “It’s still rather early in the investigation,” Mills told her.

  “Of course,” she lowered her hand, shaking her head. “Terrible, absolutely terrible.”

  “Can I ask who it was who checked him in?” I asked.

  “That would have been Daisy,” the woman said. “Wait right here, and I’ll go and fetch her.” She gave us a tight-lipped smile and walked off, slipping down a corridor that likely led to the kitchens and garden outside.

  “I suppose if he was out all day yesterday, nobody here would have really seen all that much of him,” Mills remarked.

  “I suppose not,” I agreed, “which is a little annoying, I won’t lie.” I looked around the room we were in, with old photographs on the wall, most of them black and white, showing the inn throughout the ages. It had been around for a while.

  “Inspector,” the woman called, walking back over with a young girl in tow. “This is Daisy Quinn. She was the one working that night.” As she spoke, she also signed along, turning to Daisy. “This is Detective Chief Inspector—what was it again?”

  “Thatcher.”

  “Thatcher, and Detective Serge
ant Mills, with the police.”

  The girl frowned and signed something back.

  “She’d like to know what’s wrong,” the woman translated.

  “We’re here about Major Alexander Riggs,” I said, looking at the girl as I spoke. She watched my mouth as I talked, then glanced at the other woman as she signed. She made an inquisitive face, hands moving again.

  “Is he alright?” the woman asked aloud.

  “He was found dead this morning,” I answered. “We understand that you checked him?”

  I waited as she interpreted for Daisy, then the girl nodded, looking forlorn. She walked over to the desk and pulled open a drawer, grabbing a pad of paper and bringing it over.

  “Not everyone knows sign language, sadly,” the older woman said. “Daisy uses the pad to interact with customers.”

  “Very sensible,” I remarked. Daisy handed me the page, where she had written, and another hand, where he answered. Major Riggs. She pointed to the time in the upper corner.

  10.45.

  “Is that when he arrived?” I asked. Daisy looked at the other woman, then back at me to nod. She signed something else, the woman interpreting along with her.

  “She hasn’t seen him since,” she said. “He checked in, refused any food, and stayed upstairs. She saw briefly as he left yesterday morning in the car park but hasn’t seen him since. None of us has, truth be told, Inspector,” the woman added for herself.

  “Is that not unusual?” Mills asked.

  “To be honest, we consider that to be a perfect guest. He didn’t show up to any meals, but given that he’s here for a wedding, that’s not surprising. It is a friend?”

  “Sister’s,” I told her. “Just the rehearsal.” I handed back the notebook to Daisy, signing thank you, which was embarrassingly the only thing I knew how to sign. She nodded, taking the pad in her arms and clutching it to her chest.

  “We believe that he might have left here late last night or early this morning,” I said, watching as the other woman signed along with me. “Who would have been on the desk during those hours?”

  “Technically me,” the older woman said, “but I don’t often sit there, especially this time of year. Not enough guests and very cold. I’d have sat in the office mostly. We have a phone extension in there, and I can hear the bell well enough if I keep the radio quiet.”

  “Was there any sign of him leaving the building at any point?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I heard, which is quite disconcerting now that you mention it.” She fumbled slightly, slowing down to sign out disconcerting for Daisy before carrying on. “But I suppose in the military, they learn to be quiet, don’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I answered.

  Daisy signed something, making a faint noise as she moved her hands.

  “His car is still here,” the woman said. “Still outside. The green one.”

  “Thank you very much, Daisy,” I told her. “Did it leave at any point?”

  “Yesterday,” the woman interpreted. “He drove off. Must have come back in the evening.”

  “Were you not working in the evening?” I asked.

  Daisy shook her head.

  “She was at home,” the woman said. “We don’t keep her here on night shifts when we don’t need to. Too young, really,” she said, smiling affectionately at Daisy. She smiled back, singing again.

  “She asks if there is anything else she can help you with.”

  “Not today, thank you, Daisy.” She met my eyes and nodded, then put the notepad away and signed something else with a bored expression.

  “She said back to the laundry,” the woman said, chuckling as Daisy walked away, making quiet humming noises to herself.

  “How long have you all worked here?” Mills asked once Daisy had gone.

  “Well,” the woman sighed, walking back behind the desk. “I’ve worked here since I was around Daisy’s age. Daisy’s been here five years or so. Her mother used to work here and bring her along when she was a child, so we’ve all known her all her life. Most of us have been here a while,” she said contentedly. “All local, all living on the estate. My husband’s a farmer.”

  “The land is still owned by the estate?” I asked, joining her at the desk.

  “Oh yes.” She nodded. “Very much so. The Flitter family have owned it back since the Victorian times. Excellent people, always get stuck into village life, always happy to help. Never a complaint from any of the tenants.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I remarked, surprised that they were still running so well. Most old families and estates like these had given up long ago, after the war.

  “I suppose we want to keep it going, more than anything,” she told us. “We get a lot of tourists in the summer, ones that are a fan of Downton Abbey and such. And this is the real deal,” she grinned.

  “Who owns the land currently?” Mills inquired.

  “Technically, it’s Lord Flitting,” she said. “But his health troubles him, and he’s in hospital right now, has been for a while, so the Baroness still runs things. I reckon she’ll be here running things when all the buildings have fallen down.” She chuckled. “Tough old thing, very old fashioned. She inherited it from her father, so her family have been here since the start. She owns this place, owns the lot.”

  “I take it she’ll want to know about this?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  The woman nodded. “She surely will. I can give you directions to the house, and she’ll want to hear directly from the horses’ mouth. She doesn’t like a scandal if we can call it that.”

  “As good a word as any,” I replied. “Do you have many other guests staying here right now?”

  “A few others,” she said, “but like I said, this time of year, we don’t expect many. It’s mostly people like the Major, needing to be in the city but wanting to stay somewhere else.”

  “I understand. Thank you for all your help. Would we be able to have a look in the room Riggs was staying in?” I asked.

  “Certainly. You’ll have to give me a minute though, we keep the spare keys in the office, and it may take me a while to find the right one.”

  “No problem,” I assured her, “we’ll head out and take a look at his car while we wait.”

  She nodded and turned off, back down the hallway. I gave Mills a nod, and he followed me outside, back around to the car park. I spotted the green Mini over in the corner and looked it over. The tyres were a little muddy, but the car park alone could be the culprit for that. It didn’t look as if it had been dragged down towards a riverbank or anything.

  “It’s been here all night then?” Mills asked, touching the bonnet.

  “Musts have been.”

  “I hate to say it,” he began, giving me a painted expression. “But if he had driven away or had snuck out of the building, Daisy might not have heard him.”

  “I’ve considered that too,” I told him, to which he looked relieved. “But they said she was at home last night.”

  “We should still check her alibi, just to be certain?”

  “We will. Find out if she lives with anyone and see if they can confirm, but even if she were aware of him leaving at some point, that wouldn’t explain how he ended up in the river.”

  Mills nodded and looked around. “Where is it?” he asked. “From here?”

  “Goes through the village,” I said, “then comes down just on the other side of those fields,” I pointed across the road, down past the pub.

  Mills nodded. “He could have walked down there than from here?”

  “Very easily. And from our dog walker, we know that it’s a popular route to take. The only question is what would have driven him down there at that hour in his dressing-gown.”

  “There were the cigarettes in his wallet and the lighter,” Mills reminded me. “Maybe he popped out for a smoke?”

  “Down by the river?”

  “A scenic smoke.”

  “Why kill him, though?�
�� I asked. “Why lure him down to the river and kill him? A soldier, not even local, not even local to the county, only here for the weekend to see his sister. Why kill him?”

  “Could be someone making the most of him being out here alone? Seizing the opportunity,” Mills suggested. “If he lives in quarters on a vase, then any enemies he had wouldn’t exactly be able to get to him, and I doubt his sister’s wedding rehearsal was exactly a private talking point.”

  I nodded along to his theories. “Someone knew he’d be out here then. That’s handy. We just need to get an idea as to who would have seized that advantage then, who wanted him dead.”

  “According to his sister and her fiancée,” Mills said, “nobody meets that description.”

  I hummed, drumming my hands on the roof of the car. “Maybe Cora can drag a little more out of them. Actually seeing him at the station when they confirm his identity could help. Shock to the system, you never know, might get people talking.”

  Mills grimaced. “What a wretched thing to be so hopeful for,” he muttered.

  “I know,” I agreed, jogging my legs to keep myself warm. “We might find something in his room. His phone, a laptop or something. Though if he was only here for the weekend, we might be short. It could be that all of this goes down to Devon to chase up a lead there.”

  “Might be worth getting touch with the force down there,” Mills suggested. “Find out if Riggs was connected to anything that had happened.”

  “We might have to, even if just to get access to him. I don’t fancy the thought of a five-hour drive just to poke around his computer and things.”

  Mills grimaced, “God, me neither. Services on the M5 suck.”

  “Exactly my issue,” I said dryly. Mills grinned at me, then straightened up and nodded to the side door of the inn that opened up, the woman from the reception waving at us.

  “Another way out,” he muttered as we left the car behind, with nothing to tell us, and made our way over.

  “Could have been how he left without anyone seeing him,” I agreed. The door opened onto a small path with one gate that led into the car park and another that went into the garden on the other side.