Guilty Conscious

by Oliver Davies

  Guilty Consciences

  A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller

  Oliver Davies

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  2. Thatcher

  3. Thatcher

  4. Thatcher

  5. Thatcher

  6. Thatcher

  7. Mills

  8. Thatcher

  9. Thatcher

  10. Thatcher

  11. Thatcher

  12. Thatcher

  13. Thatcher

  14. Thatcher

  15. Mills

  16. Thatcher

  17. Thatcher

  18. Thatcher

  19. Thatcher

  20. Thatcher

  21. Thatcher

  22. Mills

  23. Thatcher

  24. Thatcher

  25. Billie

  26. Thatcher

  27. Thatcher

  28. Thatcher

  Epilogue

  A Message from the Author

  Prologue

  Autumn was on its way in. All around the city, the trees were starting to turn yellow and orange, the hubbub of the warm summer faded as tourists dwindled and children returned to school. October was a dreary month, more so this year, as several weeks ago, I’d had a call from the hospital. Elsie was unwell. I’d paid her a few visits there, thrown back by the sight of her, so small in the large bed and the fluorescent lights. She’d been asleep most of the time, but she was home now, back in her cottage, so I readied myself after an early shift to head out there.

  Because it was Elsie, and she’d likely send me packing if I showed up looking rough around the edges, I took a long, hot shower, combed my hair back from out of my face and fished out some clean clothes. I walked out from the bedroom, looking around for my shoes, into the living room where Liene lay sprawled on the sofa. She poked her head up and looked me over.

  “Nice,” she said. “Very handsome.”

  “Thank you,” I answered, kissing the top of her head as I walked past.

  “When are you heading off?” She sat up properly, resting her arms on the back of the sofa.

  “As soon as I find my shoes,” I muttered back.

  “By the radiator,” she said, pointing to the far end of the room. I followed her finger, oh yes. I went over and picked them up, sitting down beside her to pull them on.

  “You’re welcome to stay,” I told her. “If you want to.”

  “Might take you up on that,” she replied, resting her head against her hand, brown hair spilling across her shoulder. “My place is still freezing.”

  “What’s your landlord doing about it?” I asked, lacing my boots up and dropping my feet to the ground, twisting in my seat to look at her.

  She shrugged. “No clue. Old boy’s having to call his son in to take a look.”

  I laughed through my nose. Having met Liene’s dodgery old landlord, that wasn’t a surprise. “Well, you’re welcome here any time,” I assured her, reaching over to lay my hand on hers. “Can’t have my girl freezing her little socks off.”

  She chuckled, turning her hand over to lace her fingers with mine. “Certainly can’t.”

  “And the next time I visit Elsie, I am bringing you with me,” I added, lifting her hand up and kissing her fingers.

  She smiled warmly. “You will?”

  “I’d take you now, but she’ll be in bed, and she won’t thank me for that. She likes to make a good impression. When she’s back on her feet, able to put a brew on and chase me around the kitchen table with a tea towel, then I’ll bring you.”

  Liene looked up at me with a touch of sadness in her eyes, but she nodded. “Well, say hello for me. And tell her I hope she feels better soon so that she can whip you back into shape.”

  “Unkind,” I told her, standing and letting go of her hand. Her laughter followed me around the room as I pulled my coat on, making sure I had my keys and wallet. I checked my phone briefly, just in case anything had come through from Sharp or Mills. Nothing. Though I doubt they’d call me in tonight, even if there were. The two of them had more or less chased me from the station earlier. Mills even took a great wad of my paperwork to finish for me. Good lad.

  “Right. I’ll see you in a few hours,” I said, opening the front door.

  “Take your time,” she called back, already settled back down onto the sofa, flipping through the Radio Times. I smiled at her, though she wasn’t looking my way, and stepped out into the brisk evening.

  Across the road, my neighbours had put out a few Halloween decorations already, a skeleton in the window, a few bats hanging from the nearly bare branches in the tree outside their front door. Maybe I’d do something this year. I wasn’t working on Halloween for once. Liene and I had set aside the evening to watch scary films and binge eat all the seasonal chocolates with Sally and Tom. Could always put one of those creepy hands out or a pumpkin for the trick-or-treaters. In the village I grew up in, they did Halloween right. I had fond memories of myself and Sally running around the village dressed in old sheets, hands covered in chocolate, a sugar rush turning us into feral little animals. The older villagers always had some good stories, too, about the creatures lurking in the moors or a chained giant wandering the roads.

  The thought kept me amused as I walked down the stairs, waving to another neighbour as they tried to shepherd the three children and two dogs back into the house. The children were small and in their puffy coats, looked a bit like marshmallows legs with little legs on the end. I’d wager they were old enough for trick-or-treating, though, even if everyone else on this street was too old and slightly senile.

  I hopped in my car, rubbing my hands together in the cold and switched the engine on, turning the heaters up full blast to warm the car up. I sat on the kerb for a while as I waited, looking back at the house, the windows lit up and the curtains drawn. It had been nice having Liene over, nice having someone there when I got home, even when I got home at godforsaken hours in the night or morning. She left me food if she was in bed by the time I got in, with little notes stuck to them that were more rude than sweet, but that was Liene. In turn, I made coffee every morning, always up before she was, and nothing short of the strongest coffee known to man would lure her from her cocoon of sheets and set her off to the museum. So far, so good, and I really was ready for her to meet Elsie.

  Speaking of; the car now warm, I pulled away from the kerb and drove off through the darkening sky, street lights flickering on as I made my way through the city and out towards the countryside. It was a good drive, usually took me around thirty to forty minutes, and I turned the radio on, tuning into the voice of a familiar DJ from my youth.

  Out here, autumn was in full swing. The hills were a patchwork of red and orange and brown. Leaves flittered down onto the road, landing on the windscreen, gathering in soggy piles by the sides of the roads. I enjoyed the scenery, making a note to come back out here at some point on a nice dry day, take a good romp across the fields, maybe convince Sally to let me take her dog with me for a bit of conversation-less company. It was quite beautiful, in a staggering sort of way, and made me realise just how long it had been since I really came home and made the most of it.

  I reached the village where Halloween decorations hung and draped around houses and fences, trees and gates. I drove to the coaching house, parking in the front and climbed out of the car, looking up at it. I’d say it was spooky enough with the amount of dust and spider webs that lurked around inside. There were probably one or two mice as well, birds nesting in the attic and a hole in one of the floors downstairs that was creepy to look at. Otherwise, the place was getting there. Inside, anyway. Outside needed some landscaping down, the door and windows needed a lick of paint an
d a few of the broken windows desperately needed replacing. I tucked my car keys into my pocket and walked away, leaving it for another time. I jogged across the road to the row of cottages on the other side of the green and took my spare key from my pocket, opening Elsie’s door and calling through.

  “Elsie? It’s me!”

  “Max? Come inside, lad. Don’t trek any mud in with you, mind.” I stepped into the low ceilinged, warm house and shut the door behind me, deciding just to take my shoes off to avoid any mess. I walked through to the kitchen where a few dishes were left by the sink, some old mugs of tea abandoned on the table.

  “Max?” Elsie called from upstairs.

  “Be up in a minute,” I called, rolling my sleeves up and tackling the dishes first. Once the kitchen was clean and tidy, I brewed us both a mug of tea, grabbed the biscuit tin from the cupboard she hid it in, and loaded it all onto a tray which I balanced precariously as I walked up the staircase, almost bent double under the sloping ceiling.

  Her bedroom door was ajar, the smell of Olbas oil and lavender wafting into the hall, and I pushed the door open and smiled at her. She was sat up in bed, a handmade blanket pulled up to her armpits. Her little frame huddled in a dressing gown, her fluffy white curls of hair sticking about statically. I walked over to the desk by the window where a vase of flowers filled the room with their smell, and set the tray down, handing her favourite mug to her before settling down in the armchair by her bed. She looked me over with an astute stare.

  “Did you clean my kitchen?” she asked abruptly.

  “I did. Didn’t think you’d be resting properly knowing it was a mess down there.”

  She hummed thoughtfully and blew on her tea. She looked better than she had in the hospital, most of which I pegged down to her being in her own bed. There was colour back in her soft, wrinkled face, the old sharpness back in her eyes, and she held herself and her mug with a renewed strength. I relaxed at last, and she noticed.

  “Don’t say you were worried about me, lad.”

  “Just a tad,” I answered, leaning forward to be a bit closer to her.

  “You needn’t worry about me. I’m tough as old boots, you know that.”

  “I do. It’s impossible not to know that, Els. How are you feeling?”

  “Glad to be out of that hospital,” she said with a sniff. “Place smelt funny.”

  “Most hospitals smell funny,” I pointed out.

  “Not in my day,” she answered. “The doctor said you paid me a few visits.” She slurped her tea loudly.

  “One or two. You were asleep most of the time. I did bring flowers,” I added.

  “The daisies, I saw them. Thank you.” She reached out and took my hand. “Now then, how are you, my love?”

  “Better for seeing you,” I replied with a grin. “It’s good seeing you looking better.”

  “And everything all well with your girlfriend? Sally told me she met her.”

  “Liene. Everything’s great. When you’re up to it, I’ll bring her round to meet you.”

  Elsie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never brought anyone here to meet me except your sergeant. He was a nice boy.”

  “He was also here because I got hit on the head,” I reminded her.

  “You hit yourself on the head, you dolt. How goes it over there?” she asked with a nod to the window. I could see the shape of the coaching house through the thin lace curtains.

  “Nothing’s changed since the last time we talked about it,” I replied. “And I doubt there’ll be much I can do once winter comes.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” Elsie said, taking another sip of her tea. “And work?”

  “Same as ever.”

  “I hear you had quite a big case when I was indisposed. A murder, Sally said. A student?”

  I nodded and bent my head, focusing on my tea. Elsie squeezed my hand.

  “Tell me about it then.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “A story for some other time that one is, Els. When you’re feeling better.”

  She scoffed. “I’m here in my bed with nothing to do, Max.”

  “You’ve got the telly downstairs,” I replied. “Do you want me to bring it up here? You can watch your Fawlty Towers DVD.”

  “Don’t think you can distract me with John Cleese,” she snapped.

  “That was a genuine question,” I assured her. “I don’t want you taking on those stairs when you don’t have to. I’ll bring the telly up and any books down there you might want. Just give me a list. Here.” I gave her a nudge. “Do you want a crossword book?”

  Elsie gave me a withering stare. “Come closer, Max, so I can wallop you over the head.”

  “I’m being serious!” I protested.

  “As am I. Now, look.” She emptied her mug and handed it back to me, settling back down into her blankets as I placed it back on the tray. “Tell me a story, come on. It’ll keep my mind busy. I love a whodunit.”

  “Elsie,” I protested again, not really wanting to relive that particular case.

  “Tell me,” she insisted, taking my hand again, between both of hers, fixing me with a maternal sort of stare. I sighed and looked around the room.

  “Can I finish my tea first?” I asked eventually.

  “Go on then. Pass us a biscuit too, since I see you’ve helped yourself.”

  I handed her the tin, prying the lid off for her first, and sipped at my tea as she foraged for a biscuit.

  “So, this was before I got ill?”

  “Around the same time, actually. Wasn’t the most enjoyable September I’ve ever had,” I added. I drained the rest of my tea and turned in my seat to place it back on the desk.

  “I’m not surprised,” Elsie muttered back. “I caught a glimpse in the paper, and Sally made mention of it. Sounded awful.”

  “You sure you want to hear it?” I asked her once more. “I can always go down and get John Cleese. If you budge up, I can watch it with you.”

  “You tell me this tale of yours, Max Thatcher, and then you may bring up my television.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a very fair trade.”

  “Stop pouting. Come on. I’m all ears, my boy. Share it with your Aunty Elsie.”

  I couldn’t very well say no to that. Elsie had never insisted on being called Aunty, but she liked to play the card every now and then. As a boy to get me to listen and leave the worms alone or wash my hands, and now, probably to remind of those days. I looked up at her from beneath my hair that had fallen back into my face. She reached over and carefully swept it back, then took my hands again and settled down, closing her eyes as I began to talk.

  One

  Edward Vinson watched a fly bounce around the old window as he waited for Professor Altman to read his latest essay. He hated the room. It was high up in the building and was always uncomfortably warm or unbearably cold. It had sloping wooden walls and a low ceiling. The floorboards creaked under his feet when he walked, and the radiator beneath the window clicked, clanked and howled like there was something living trapped inside. The window itself was rarely opened, so the room was a stagnant box of cigarette smoke, coffee and breath.

  Edward leant back in his chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee and tried not to listen to the professor sniffing and breathing. He could at least play some music or something, give Edward something to do while he sat and waited. At this rate, he’d take a magazine or something, National Geographic or bloody Horse and Country, if it meant he could have something to occupy him. He looked enviously at the bookshelves, so laden with books that they bowed slightly, threatening to come crashing down at some point in the near future. He wasn’t allowed to read them, which seemed ridiculous to him.

  With Altman preoccupied, Edward twisted in his chair to where his bag was slung over one arm and pulled his phone from the pocket. God, he’d been here for almost an hour. And he was hungry. A few texts were there, most of them boring, but one from Freya stopped him from putting the phone
straight back.

  Hey, Ed. Hope Altman isn’t boring you to death. Can I still borrow your Machiavelli book? Library’s still out of one. Freya was often borrowing his books, she rarely bought her own, so if the library was out of a copy, she was rather scuppered in that department.

  Edward glanced at Altman, who blew his nose loudly, still heavily absorbed in Edward’s essay. Must be good, he thought before replying.

  Freya. Of course, you’d better look after it, though. I’m not a charity.

  She replied straight away, Freya always did. God forbid anyone ever think you are. And you know I will, I always do. If anything, I give them back in better condition than I received them.

  Don’t be cheeky. Meet me in my room once I’ve escaped from here, then I don’t have it on me. Usual time?

  Thanks, Ed. Let me know if you need rescuing. I can call you from the “hospital” if you need.

  He smiled at his phone. Any other time, but I need a good grade today, and Altman’s in a decent mood for once. See you later.

  She sent back a thumbs-up emoji, and Edward put his phone away, spinning back in his chair. Altman still wasn’t finished, and he held in his groan. He’d already looked at all the photos and posters on the wall, already looked at the ancient map, the bust of Socrates gathering dust in the corner. Even the fly had lost his interest. Edward sat in his chair, flicked non-existent dust from his coat and dragged his fingers through his hair. His was the casually mussed-up look that actually took a lot of effort to maintain, not that he’d ever let anyone know that. The clock on the desk ticked loudly.