“Small, clean, nicely decorated. We sat at a reserved table,” he said, “booth in the corner. Eljas said that when he was in there, he half expected Robert De Niro to walk in.”
Fry made a face.
“Not a de Niro fan?” I asked her.
“More of a Marlon Brando girl, really.”
“Who can blame you,” I answered. “So, what next?”
“I have the booking list from the restaurant,” Mills said, holding up a large leather book. “And a notebook from Julia’s work locker. She wrote down notes about food and customers, so we might find a mention of him, cross-reference it to the bookings and hopefully find a name.”
“Lovely,” I drawled. “My favourite.”
“Would he have used a real name?” Fry asked quietly. “He could be using a fake one.”
“Oh, I would put money on him using a fake one,” I told her, “But any name’s better than no name at this stage of things.”
Fry nodded and took Julia’s notebook from Mills, flipping through the pages.
“She was thorough,” she muttered. “Strain the sauce twice,” she read aloud. “Olive bread for boys at table.”
“Boys at table?” I asked.
“She’s mentioned them before,” Mills said, scratching his chin. “They must be the ones that take the reserved table, big parties that she used to work late for.”
“Either she rarely cares about being a waitress, or they’re important enough for her to take a note of what kind of bread they like,” Fry muttered.
“You never took such care when you were a waitress?” I asked.
“I was never a waitress.”
“Everybody’s waited tables,” Mills said.
Fry shook her head, a long strand of hair falling from her bun around her face. I noted as Mills tracked the movement, then hurriedly looked down at the notebook in his hands and held in my smirk.
“What was your first job then?” I asked.
“My mum’s a florist; I used to work in there with her until I joined the force.”
“Much nicer than waiting tables,” I said.
Fry nodded. “I think so. You should see the bouquets I can string together as well.”
“I know who to come to if I ever need to apologise to Liene,” I said.
She chuckled, then leant back and opened the notebook again, scanning the pages with a pen in her hand, ready to take notes. I sighed and waved Mills over, and he dragged a chair round to sit with me, dropping the ledger on the desk. I flipped the cover back.
“How far back does this take us?” I asked.
“Six months,” Mills replied. “He said he couldn’t bring himself to tear out the relevant sections.”
I grunted and pushed a big chunk of pages to the side, flicking through until we hit last month.
“Right then. Any names that pitch up more than once, we take a note of, and we look them up.”
“Sounds good,” Mills said, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pencil. “How was it working with Sharp?”
“Took me back a bit, but she’s back to her usual grind now. No doubt the press will be crawling all over this story once they join the dots.”
“Think it’ll take them long?” Mills asked quietly.
“I doubt it. There are few journalists still knocking around who covered the story the first time around, and they’ll want to throw in their two pennies’ worth, no doubt about it.”
Mills went quiet, pursing his lips.
“What?”
“Any journalist in particular?” he asked, quietly enough that Fry didn’t raise her head from his desk.
I held in a sigh, “no.”
After Billie had told me about the article she read, and the certain name on the byline, I’d kept my eyes peeled for any sight or sound, but there had been nothing. I had read the article in the end, and as always, it was bang on the money, but it had left me feeling on the nauseous side for no apparent reason.
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Mills said.
“Never hope when it comes to her, Mills,” I told him. “You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”
“Does Liene know?”
“I think Billie showed her the article, but she’s not brought it up.” At first, I thought she’d been waiting for me to do it, but the months had passed without a word, so I wondered if either she hadn’t realised, which didn’t make sense given how smart she was, or she simply didn’t care all that much, which was comforting. If Liene didn’t care about something, then neither would I.
We worked quietly for a while, just the turning of pages and the scratching of pens until an abrupt and rather violent sneeze from Fry broke us from our stupor.
“Anything interesting, Leila?” I asked her, spinning idly on my chair.
“She mentions the boys at the table a lot,” she said, reaching for a tissue. “Any names for them?”
“Nope,” Mills said. The table number itself never actually cropped up. Perhaps they were such staunch regulars that they never actually needed to book and that the table was always left for them. Very Robert De Niro.
There were also, annoyingly, rather a lot of regulars, and we had made ourselves a rather thorough list to start sorting through.
Fry got up, stretched her legs and walked over. She frowned.
“You’ve only written men’s names.”
“It’s a boyfriend.”
“Not necessarily. Maybe that’s why she’s kept it a secret.”
I looked up at her. “You mention that now?”
“I’ve only just thought of it!” She defended herself.
“She’s got a point,” I told Mills. He groaned, lowering his head to the desk, getting a small smile from Fry.
A knock came at the door, and a PC stuck their head in.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, the chief wants a word.”
I chuckled gleefully and stood up. “Have fun, you two,” I said, ruffling Mills’s hair as I walked out of the office, grinning at the PC as I passed and headed over to Sharp’s office, knocking on the door.
“Come in,” she called.
“You asked to see me, ma’am.”
“Sit down,” she said, looking awfully grim in the face.
“Christ, what is it?” I asked, sitting down.
“Stories out. HQ wanted to put out a police appeal to the public for any information.”
A natural course of action, but bloody annoying.
“They also want to keep on top of it, control the way the story gets out, so they’ve given permission to the Post to release the few details we have so far.”
“Right.”
“Which means they’re sending a journalist here to talk to you and Mills,” she said, her expression turning sourer by the minute.
“Right.”
“They’re sending her.”
I froze. “Her? She’s back then?”
“Apparently. And she’ll be here in ten minutes.”
I swore colourfully. Usually, Sharp would snap at me for that in the station, but this time, she just gave me an understanding nod.
“I’d have Mills do it alone, but since you’re the SIO and with this case being what is it, it needs to be you. And that’s my ruling as much as it is HQ’s,” she added, offering me a sorry smile.
“I get it. Bureaucracy.”
Sharp gave a weak laugh. “I’m releasing a statement as well if you want to add anything to it.”
“Nothing much to add yet. Save for the fact that it’s the same detective from before who failed to catch the killer.”
Sharp pointed menacingly at me. “We’ve had no confirmation yet, and you were a sergeant back then. You’re an Inspector now, and you’ve served this sodding county well in the past twenty-odd years, and they all know it. Now,” she sat back, “clean yourself up a bit, and off you trot.”
I sighed through my nose, gave her a smile and stood up, wandering from her office. I trudged slowly back to Mills, rela
ying the message to him, watching his face fall a little.
“You were right about hoping,” he said simply.
“Sadly, I am often right,” I said. “Give me a minute,” I said, grabbing my phone from my desk and stepping out of the room, finding a quiet corridor to stand in as I called Liene.
“Hello, you,” she answered. “How goes it?”
“Slow. I’ve something to tell you though, are you busy?”
“Just grabbing a coffee,” she said, a faint noise behind her as she walked down a street.
“From the café?”
“Where else.”
“Say hi to Billie.”
“Will do. What’s up?”
“HQ wants to give the story to the Post to keep on top of it.”
“Makes sense.”
“They’re sending Jeannie Gray.”
“Jeannie-Jeannie?”
“Yup.”
She went quiet for a second. “Okay.”
“I just wanted to let you know. That I’d be seeing her, or whatever,” I shrugged.
“That’s considerate of you. I didn’t know she was back.”
“Neither did I.”
“Well, I suppose you were bound to cross paths eventually,” she sighed. “Should I be worried, Max?”
“No,” I said firmly. “It’s just this case,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It’s stirring up a lot of old memories already, and with her involved, it might take over a bit.”
“You can talk to me about it,” she offered.
“I know. I’ll see you at home.”
“You will. Love you, Max.”
“Love you, too,” I replied, hanging up and sighing again. Mills appeared down the end of the corridor, my coat in his hands, a grim look on his face.
“Desk sergeant called up,” he said, holding my coat out. “She’s outside.”
Christ. I felt like I needed more of a warning. Or perhaps this was better, ripping off the plaster as it were. I strolled down to him, grabbing my coat and pulling it on over my shoulders, flipping the collar up around my neck.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” I muttered.
Mills clapped a hand on my shoulder supportively, and I was grateful for his presence as we set off to the stairs.
Eight
Thatcher
As we walked, I tried to remember the last time I had seen Jeannie. It must have been at my house, back when everything was still packed in boxes from the coaching house. I figured that I couldn’t remember exactly because it had been so normal. She’d walked out the door, same as any other morning or evening and then she simply hadn’t come back. I was used to that at the time. Jeannie had a habit of getting deeply buried in her stories, slipping away for days and weeks. But a month had gone by, then several more till the point that I called round to her house to make sure she hadn’t died, and the place had been, well not emptied, but closed up. Curtains drawn, no food in the cupboards or the fridge, a stack of mail piled up inside the door.
Her editor had told me that she was following a story but hadn’t told me what it was. I still didn’t know what that story had been, and frankly, by now, I really wasn’t all that interested.
I gritted my teeth as we hit the bottom of the stairs, pushing the door open and getting blasted by the cold air outside. A few people milled up and down the street, still huddled in their winter coats and sitting on the bench just outside, a familiar head of bright red hair blew in the breeze. I clenched my jaw and started walking, Mills a few paces behind me.
I could feel his eyes on the back of my head, watching me cautiously. He’d been there, of course, when she’d left. Had taken me to the pub and listened to me rant about her and then had encouraged me when Liene came along. Rather like, I supposed, the way I had for him when Suzanne moved away in January. I wasn’t encouraging him, though. If Sharp found out that I was encouraging an office romance, she’d whack me over the head with a ruler.
I walked over to those red curls, sitting directly in the thin ray of sunlight that came through the clouds. Jeannie was like a cat; she’d find whatever ray of sunshine she could find, and she’d sit right there. She was also like a cat in that she was elusive and rude, but I wouldn’t let myself dwell on that too much right now.
Jeannie had her notebook open on her lap, scrawling over the page with a black biro, the end chewed, as usual. Her dark green coat hung around her shoulders, hiding her frame, and she tapped a foot on the ground as she wrote, her hand not fast enough for her thoughts. As I stood closer, my shadow cast over her, blocking out the sun, and she lifted her face irritably, eyes softening as she looked at me. Jeannie rose from the bench and held my gaze.
“Hello Thatch,” she breathed.
“Jeannie,” I answered gruffly. She pulled her bag up her shoulder and looked over my shoulder.
“Mills.”
“Jeannie,” he replied stiffly, coming to stand beside me.
“Long time no see, boys,” she said easily, that same easy-going, mischievous smile on her face.
“You’ve been gone a while,” Mills commented.
Jeannie nodded, dropping her gaze to the floor. “Story kept me away longer than I thought it would. Though I’m not the only one who’s been busy, so I’ve heard. Interesting case.”
“Saw your article,” Mills said.
“Did you?” She looked up at me. “Did you read it, Thatch?”
“I did. And apparently, the Post has put you on this one, too.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” she assured me in a low voice. “But I was on the story last time, I suppose.”
“Last time?” I asked.
“Come on, Thatch,” she rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard enough. Young woman killed in a rural location, throat slit, three cuts on the chest. Sounds familiar enough.”
“Surprised you remember it,” I commented.
“Really? It was my first big piece,” she said, dropping back onto the bench. “Yours too.”
I looked away from her, up towards the building behind her. “We don’t have many details to share at this point.”
She uncapped her biro. “Tell me whatever you can tell me.”
“You used to be pushier,” I remarked, folding my arms.
“You used to be ruder,” she replied, looking over at Mills. “Has he got a girlfriend? He was always nicer with a girlfriend.”
Mills glanced briefly at me before answering.
“Can’t see how that’s relevant to the case.”
Jeannie sighed, looking between the pair of us.
“You two really don’t like me much anymore, do you? What is this?!” she exclaimed. “You’re looking at me like I’m a suspect. I thought we were friends.”
I didn’t have either the time or the patience to unpack all of this, so I simply sighed and sat beside her.
“Julia Brook, twenty-four years old, found murdered on a public footpath on the outskirts of the moors,” I said. Her hand flew across the page automatically. “She was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a waitress at L’agneau restaurant in the city.”
Jeannie froze and looked around at me. “L’agneau?” She asked.
“Yes. You know it?”
“Weirdly, yeah. Back from a story I worked on a few years ago.”
“In a restaurant? Didn’t think public health violations made your cut, Jeannie,” Mills said.
“No, but it was an interesting case that a colleague of yours must have worked. There was a rumour,” she said quietly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “That the restraint was a popular spot for a county lines gang operating in the city. The higher-ups anyway, not the kids.”
I looked over her head to Mills, who was frowning deeply. I thought about the boys at the reserved table and their seeming lack of existence.
“Did anything happen?” Mills asked.
Jeannie shook her head, red curls flying. “Last I heard, the ones that your lot had their eyes on stopped going there, and the rest
aurant got dropped. No arrests, I don’t think. I imagine you would know about that if there had been.”
“Not necessarily,” I muttered. “Sergeant Harris might,” I said to Mills. “Sort of thing she’d have her ears to the ground on.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Around the same time, actually,” Jeannie said, scratching her head with her pen. “I remember being told by my editor to drop the story, sat around the flat for a week or two feeling rubbish and then the next thing I know, I’m out in the moors where a girl’s been killed, being introduced to the grumpiest sergeant I ever met.”
“I’m sure you’ve met worse,” I muttered. “Interesting timing, all that.”
“How long had she worked there?” Jeannie asked.
“Since university, so a few years.”
“And it’s a family-owned place, right? Minimal staff.”
“Loyal staff,” Mills added. He was frowning even more deeply now, and I knew he was struggling to imagine the people he had met at the restaurant being connected to drug smuggling.
“What were they smuggling?” I asked Jeannie. She looked up at the sky for a bit, chewing her bottom lip.
“Cocaine, I think. It’s usually cocaine. Smuggled in from the US to big cities then peddled out to the rural areas. Nasty stuff. Been any of it around here recently?”
“Not that we know about. Wouldn’t land on our desks unless someone had heroin and a nice stab wound.”
“We should speak to the drug squad,” Mills said. “If there’s a connection, we’ll need their input.”
“It’s a good thing you knew that, Jeannie,” I said.
“See?” She nudged me with her elbow. “You’ve missed me. Tell me about her.”
“No, we’re working.”
“Is she a blonde in her twenties working in a pub?”
I sighed. “She’s a brunette, actually. And she works in the museum. She has a doctorate and everything.”
“Blimey,” Jeannie stated. “Meet her on a case?”
“She was an expert we brought in, a friend of Sharp’s.”
At Sharp’s name, Jeannie glanced over her shoulder to the building, and it hit me why she’d waited out here rather than coming in.
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 7