Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller

by Davies, Oliver

  He sped up then, we both did, scanning the river as we walked up the village, watching the current shift and change the further up we went.

  Ten

  Thatcher

  My promise to buy Mills a hot chocolate when we reached the village grew more and more appealing the longer we were out by the river. We were walking against the wind, buffeted by the freezing air, trudging over the solid land alongside the river. As the boatman had told us, the river picked up speed closer to the village, the banks narrower and wilder, certainly full of enough rocks to damage a body the way Riggs had been damaged. Finding out exactly where he went in wouldn’t be easy, but if we were lucky, someone in the village might have seen him or somebody else they didn’t recognise sniffing around the village the other day. People didn’t just appear and fall in a river dead without the whole population being none the wiser.

  A spade, Crowe had said, or something along those lines had been the weapon used to kill him. A sharp blow to the back of the head. So, someone had dragged him to the river or killed him close enough that it was easy to push him in. The river ran straight through the village, past the church, with a few bridges here and there. I doubted that Riggs had been hauled through the village square to be dumped, so there must be somewhere else, somewhere quieter, where the job had been done.

  We left the riverbank as we neared the village, the river itself branching down towards the fields and farms below. Heading that way ourselves might be useful, but that would mean traipsing over private land, and that wasn’t a nest I wanted to kick today. Plus, Mills looked ready to cry with his face red, eyes watering, shoulder hunched, and he curled in on himself in an attempt to keep warm.

  “Nearly there,” I assured him in a light-hearted tone. But I was more annoyed than I let on, annoyed that we’d not seen anything on our walk that could help us with this case, annoyed that we appeared to be going round and round in blind little circles. As we walked into the village, a few locals were standing around outside the church, chatting amongst themselves. I looked back at Mills, and he followed my eyeline to the group and gave a little nod, rubbing his arms and straightening up as we walked over.

  “Good morning,” I called. “Sorry for interrupting you.”

  “You lost, pet?” an older woman asked kindly.

  “No but thank you. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher and this Detective Sergeant Mills. We’re with the North Yorkshire Police.”

  “Ah,” the old woman nodded. “Here about him, who was found down the river?”

  “We are,” I confirmed, pulling a photograph of Riggs from my pocket and holding it out to them. “We were wondering if any of you might have seen him around the village on Saturday, in the evening is what we’re most interested in.”

  The old woman stepped forward, holding her hand out questioningly. I passed her the photo, and she stepped back to the others so that they could peer at it closely. They were all older, grey-haired and spectacled, dressed in thick coats that looked like they’d got them through many winters. One man had a sack hauled over one shoulder, mud on his boots, a flat cap shadowing his face. Another woman had an empty basket propped on her hip, tapping her boot on the floor. The first woman, the one who had spoken to us, stood closest to a nearby gate of a cottage, the front door open. Her coat was unfastened, tossed over her clothes, and her feet were still in slippers. She reminded me of Elsie in a way, but I couldn’t let that comparison muddle my focus.

  “I’m afraid not, lad,” the old man told me regrettably. “Was he staying at the inn?”

  “He was.”

  The first woman made a face and handed me back the photo. “Terrible business. I didn’t see him either, Inspector,” she said. “And I’m not the sort to go poking about the village after sunset. Foxes,” she shivered.

  “Blighters. They had one of my chickens last week,” the other woman said, earning a round of sympathetic noises from her friends. “Nor I,” she added, looking up at me. “But you might try a few shops, in case he popped in there. Same staff almost every day.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, pocketing the photo. “We’ll get out of your way,” I added, stepping back towards Mills. The first woman gave us both a wave, then turned and listened to the others again, griping on about chickens and foxes.

  “I don’t suppose there’s an insurance claim for chickens eaten by foxes,” Mills muttered as we walked further into the village, passing over a small stone bridge. The river beneath us was full of weeds.

  “You’d be surprised,” I told him. “And if ever there were people who knew where to find such claims, it’d be these lot.”

  We were back on the road as it curved into the village. It parted by the green, heading down towards the inn and the farm, another down towards the baroness’s house and another going up towards some cottages built out towards the back fields. Around the green, a few local shops stood under ancient awnings, all the usual suspects. Post office, corner shop, butchers, farm shop. We stopped outside them, and I turned to Mills.

  “Want to split up?”

  “Go on then,” he muttered, already moving his cold, stiff legs towards the butchers. I grinned at his back and pushed open the corner shop door, a bell ringing over the door as I stepped into the blissful warmth. A young lad raised his head from the counter, standing up straight as I walked in. So, they clearly knew who was local and who wasn’t. That ought to be helpful.

  “Morning,” I greeted him.

  “Morning.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police,” I told him, pulling out the photo of Riggs. “Did you, by any chance, see this man about the village this weekend? On Saturday?”

  The lad looked down at the picture thoughtfully, chewing his lip. “Might have done.”

  “Might have?”

  “Saw a car heading up to the inn Friday night,” he said. “I was in the pub, and I saw it from out the window. It was dark, but I think he was driving.”

  I nodded. “And did you see him again?” I asked.

  “No, “fraid not. Had a few too many, all told, Inspector, and spent most of Saturday on the sofa feeling rather sorry for myself.”

  “We’ve all been there,” I answered, pulling the photo away. His skinny shoulders sagged in relief, and he smiled.

  “Sorry I can’t help much,” he said.

  “No worries,” I answered, smiling back at him and turning to walk from the shop, the bell chiming again. I headed into the place next door, the post office. It was a small, cramped room with a grim-faced woman standing behind the counter. She was looking up at a small television in the corner, and as I got closer, I realised she was watching a horse race unfold. I stayed quiet, waiting until the horses crossed the line, and she let out an irritated sigh, aggressively turning off the screen and turning around.

  “Oh!” she said. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb,” I said, “on such a tight race.”

  The woman nodded, rolling her eyes. “Glad I didn’t put money on it in the end. How can I help?” she asked, looking me over.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw this man,” I held up a picture of Riggs to the window, “anytime this weekend.”

  The woman picked her glasses up from where they dangled on a chair around her neck and pushed them up her face, squinting at the photo.

  “He definitely didn’t come in here,” she told me. “And I take it he wasn’t in uniform at the time?” She nodded to the picture. It was the only one we’d managed to get of him that wasn’t of his body, a professional picture of Riggs in his uniform, medals shining brightly.

  “He would not have been, no,” I confirmed.

  The woman took her glasses off, shaking her head. “If he didn’t come in here, then I didn’t see him, and that’s the sad truth of it. Sorry.”

  “No need to be.” I put the photo in my pocket and made f
or the door. “Have a nice day,” I called, letting myself back out into the cold. It went the same way for the last few shops I stuck my head into, the florists and the cheesemonger. The coffee shop was closed on Mondays, and as I came out of the library, I was met by Mills, whose tired, disappointed face matched my own.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “Nada,” he replied. “Which I suppose makes sense if he was out all day.”

  “Someone must have seen him that night, though,” I pressed. “He left the inn, he walked about, and he ended up in the river for Pete’s sake.”

  I drummed my fingers against my arm, thinking.

  “The lad in the village shop said that he saw Riggs Friday night, driving up to the inn,” I recalled, snapping my fingers.

  “Makes sense.” Mills nodded. “You can see the road from the pub.”

  “Maybe someone in the pub saw him then,” I suggested.

  “Trying to get a clear statement that will hold up in court from a drunk won’t be easy.”

  “No,” I agreed, “but it’d be something.”

  “Inspector!” someone shouted. We turned as the old woman we’d met coming into the village waved at us, her hand clutching that of a younger woman’s. They jogged over.

  “There they are,” she muttered, nudging the young woman forwards. Her dark hair fell like curtains around her face, a large coat hanging off her shoulders, patched with mud. Her knees were too, and she had a pair of secateurs in her hand, clearly dragged over from wherever she was working.

  “Inspector, this is my niece,” the old woman said. “Tell them what you told me, love, about the man.”

  I pulled the photograph out and held it up. “This man?”

  The niece looked it over quickly and nodded, sticking her secateurs into her pocket and tucking her hair behind one hair.

  “I saw him Saturday morning,” she said. “He was walking around the village.”

  Saturday morning wasn’t much use to us, but it was all we’d had so far.

  “What time would this have been?” I asked.

  “Early,” she answered. “Maybe around eight?”

  “Could you tell what he was doing?” Mills asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Just walking. I think he was taking a look around. He stopped outside the café for a bit but then walked back the way he came.”

  “Where were you, if I can ask?” I inquired.

  She pointed to the green in the middle of the village. “I help do the flowers for the church,” she said. “So, I was getting some cuttings, and I saw him.”

  “You watched him?” her aunt asked. The young woman blushed slightly.

  “It’s not like we ever get men my age around here,” she defended herself. “And he was handsome.”

  I smiled, putting the photo away. “You said he went back the way he came?” I asked.

  Another nod. “I think up towards the inn or the pub.”

  “Did a car come by after? A green mini?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see who was driving, though.”

  “That’s okay. Did he do anything strange?” I asked. “Stop and look at his phone, answer a call, anything like that?”

  The young woman thought for a bit, then shook her head. “He checked his watch before he went off, and he walked a lot faster. But he didn’t look at his phone or anything.”

  “Didn’t talk to anyone else?” Mills checked.

  “No.”

  “Was there anyone else in the café that you could see?” I asked.

  “Just the girls who run it,” she said, shifting her feet.

  “Thank you,” I said to her earnestly. “You’ve been a good help.” She flushed, looking pleased, and let her aunt draw her away, back over towards the church.

  “Well, at least someone saw him,” Mills remarked.

  “The only people who have were both young,” I pointed out. “Around his own age.”

  “She thought he might be heading up to the pub,” Mills said. “And we know that you can see the road from there. Might it be worth seeing if any other locals spotted something on the road?”

  “I’d say so,” I agreed. “Plus, I owe you that hot chocolate,” I added, sticking my hands in my pockets and striding up the road again. Mills sped up after me.

  “He must have hurried off to get to the city in time,” he said. “But he didn’t go straight to Sybil’s house.”

  “No. He stopped for breakfast, but why not eat here?” I asked, looking back at the café. “It would have been open.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to himself,” Mill suggested. “In a small place like that, there are bound to be a few starers.”

  I nodded. “A little sad, but true.” That was the problem with remote little places like these. The smallest whiff of something or someone different, and they were on it like hounds. Usually. Apparently, Riggs had nothing to worry about with this village. Most of the people were unaware of his even being here.

  “And maybe he had to meet someone,” he added. “Breakfast at the café in the city. He hurried off, and he knew he had to get to Sybil’s.”

  “Why not just have breakfast at her house?” I wondered. “I’m sure she’d have welcomed him with open arms.”

  Mills hummed thoughtfully. “I’d say for a bit of privacy, but why not eat at the inn? Why rush off to the city to grab some food but not go straight to his sisters?”

  “It’s a funny one,” I had to admit. “In other cases, when someone’s acted like that, it’s usually because they wanted to keep moving or didn’t want someone trailing them. If he thought he was in danger, he wouldn’t want to lead anything directly to his sister’s house and staying here might have made him feel like a sitting duck.”

  “If he was that concerned about being in danger,” Mills wondered slowly. “Why did he come out to the middle of nowhere, anyway? And if he was taking such steps, you’d think he’d mention it to someone. Hey, by the way, I think someone might be looking to whack me with a shovel and push me in the river.”

  I chuckled at that despite myself. “Does seem strange. Could be,” I sighed heavily. “That we’re barking up the wrong tree entirely, and he was just very particular about his breakfast habits.” I reached out, whacking Mills with my hand. “Maybe he was vegan.”

  Mills made a thoughtful face. “I doubt that this place has many options for the vegan diet.”

  “It’d be a slice of toast and an orange.” I nodded. “Maybe that was it then.”

  But as we got closer to the pub, I really hoped that there was more to it.

  Eleven

  Thatcher

  The pub was the same as every other village pub in every village in England. An old building with thick beams and low ceilings, wooden floors and mismatched furniture. Photographs hung on the walls of village life throughout the years, a notice board by the door with posters for local events displayed; most of them outdated now, and a few for the upcoming month of December, for which the local church would no doubt be very busy. Mills and I stepped happily into the warmth, and I led him secure a table by the fire as I ambled to the bar. It was quiet, naturally, given the early hour of the day, but the landlady looked pleased enough for some customers. I ordered us both a hot chocolate and some water, handing the woman the money and joining Mills at the table. He was sitting close enough to the fire that I was concerned he’d burn his knees, but I left him to it, still huddled in his coat.

  “Brutal out here, isn’t it?” the landlady commented as she placed the glasses of water down on the table.

  “It’s going to be a long cold winter, that’s for sure,” I replied, shrugging out of my coat.

  “I take it you boys are here about that lad found down in the river,” the landlady said.

  “We are. Did you ever see him?”

  “Sadly not. He didn’t come in, which was a shame. I enjoy talking to new people every now and then.” She chuckled good-naturedly. “But I hear the baroness is likely
to stick her oar in at some point.”

  “Course she is,” another voice joined the conversation as a girl walked over, passing us the mugs of hot chocolate with a smile. “She just can’t help it. And especially she’ll want to get there before Miss Graham does.”

  “My daughter.” The landlady waved a hand at the young girl.

  “We understand that the baroness tends to get involved in village life,” Mills remarked.

  “Oh, she always does. The whole family always had, back as far as any here can remember. The house was a hospital during the war and all. The baroness, though, she likes to come down every now and then. Always to the church, and she’ll pop in here Christmas Eve and Remembrance Day.”

  “She comes to village events,” her daughter added. “Only now Miss Graham’s coming along too, and the baroness doesn’t seem too keen on the thought.”

  “No?” I asked.

  “She’s a lovely girl, Sara,” the landlady told us. “But she’s married into a funny old family from a funny old world. The baroness thinks she’s too modern.” She rolled her eyes. “As if we’re all still living in the twenties.”

  “Do they not get on well then?” Mills asked, blowing steam off his mug.

  “Not particularly. If memory serves,” the landlady said. “She was against the engagement, and it was a long, old engagement. She gave in though, of course, for Teddy, bless his heart. But no, they don’t get on well at all. I think she’s scared of the estate going to Sara and what she might do with it if it does.”

  “We met them both,” Mills told her. “And Miss Graham suggested closing down the inn until the investigation was over.”

  The landlady laughed. “I bet the old girl took well to that, didn’t she?” she asked, shaking her head. “I tell you, it’ll be a rough adjustment period for everyone that will.”

  “But you’re happy enough,” I said, “still living on the land as an estate.”

  “We are. Sometimes it’s a bit odd. The younger folk certainly think so,” she added with a nod to her daughter. “But we’re one of the few villages in the country left who still belong to a big house. We’re rather proud of it, and it brings in enough tourism that we can’t hardly complain.”