Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9)

by Oliver Davies

  “You’re not scared of Sharp?” I asked her incredulously.

  “Just because she likes you, Thatch, doesn’t mean she’s nice to everyone else. And she’s bloody protective of you and all. Isn’t she, Mills?”

  “She is,” he agreed.

  “I haven’t missed this,” I told them, pointing between the two of them.

  “How long have you been together?” Jeannie asked.

  “About two years now.”

  “And how’s the family? Elsie and Sally?”

  “You really want to do this, Jeannie?”

  “How are they?” she pressed.

  “Elsie’s the same as ever. She’ll see us all dead and buried. Sally’s had a baby.”

  “Aw, you’re an uncle. What a scary thought. We’re old.”

  “We’re not that old. And you’re younger than me, anyway. Now,” I said firmly. “Do you have any more questions regarding the case, Miss Gray?”

  “Thank you, Inspector. There will be some uncertainty amongst the public over the similarities between this case and a serial killer operating twenty-odd years ago. Say something to reassure them.”

  “We don’t have any definitive proof that it is the same person,” I answered diplomatically. “And that the police force has grown and improved over the last twenty years, so we will be doing everything in our power to bring justice to Julia Brook and her family and to ensure safety for the residents of our jurisdiction.”

  “Very bureaucratic,” she commented as she wrote. “You’ve been practising.”

  “How kind of you to notice.”

  “Sir,” Mills called me. I looked up, then turned to look down the street, where he was currently watching someone hurry along with a bag in their hands.

  I stood up from the bench as Billie grew near, muttering under her breath. She shoved the bag at Mills, then grabbed my arm and used me as a post as she wormed her shoe off and tipped it over, a stone falling onto the pavement.

  “The whole way!” She cried, shoving her shoe back on. “That bothered me. The whole way.”

  “You alright, Billie?” Mills called. She nodded, letting go of my arm and smiling.

  “I brought lunch,” she said, pointing at the bag. “Fry called and ordered for the lot of you.”

  “Since when do you deliver?” Mills asked, peering inside the bag. He didn’t seem surprised by her arrival or Fry’s order, and I wonder if he’d mentioned something to her before joining me in the corridor.

  “Since Paolo went to see The Phantom of the Opera with his boyfriend and has taken it upon himself to sing all the songs.” She made a face. “The man makes a good latte, but he can’t sing.”

  “Hark, who’s talking,” I said.

  “Who's this?” Billie asked bluntly, turning to look at Jeannie, who rose from the bench. They were almost the same height. It was probably only Jeannie’s heeled boots that gave her the extra inch.

  “This is Jeannie Gray from the Post. She’s covering a case. Jeannie, this is Billie Helman. Billie is… family,” I said.

  Billie looked at Jeannie evenly and without much expression, nodding before looking up at me. “What’s the case?”

  “None of your business. Go back to work,” I told her.

  “My feet hurt.”

  “Buy some blister plasters on your way.”

  Billie rolled her eyes, waved at Mills, and started wandering back along the road. “Bye then.”

  “Bye,” I called after her.

  “Did you adopt a teenager while I was away?” Jeannie asked dryly.

  “She’s not a teenager,” I answered.

  Jeannie made a face. “She doesn’t like me either. What did you tell her?”

  “I’ve told her nothing about you,” I said, looking back as Billie vanished down the street. Liene had just been to the café, though. Maybe she filled Billie in on everything. I sighed, raking my hair back from my face and turned around. “Got everything you need?”

  “For now,” she answered, dropping everything in her bag. “Let me know how that restaurant tip works out. Good to see you again, Mills.” She smiled at him before turning to me. “And Thatch. Always a pleasure.”

  She gave me a jaunty salute then walked up the street in the opposite direction to Billie, her red hair flowing behind her. As soon as she was gone, I took the bag from Mills and walked into the building, jogging up the stairs and into the office.

  Fry was still there, working through the ledger, and she looked up, her dark eyes landing on the bag.

  “That was quick,” she muttered, putting her pen down and flexing her fingers. “Did Billie run or something?”

  “Knowing her. Thank you,” I added, holding up the bag.

  “Figured that you pair wouldn’t stop and think about lunch, and I’m not in the mood for starving today. I asked Billie what you usually get,” she added as we all sat around my desk, grabbing food from the bag.

  “Very considerate,” I said. “We should bring you along more often, Fry. What say you, Mills?” I gave him a grin. “Shall we keep Fry?”

  He took a large bite of his sandwich so that he didn’t have to reply and simply nodded.

  “How’d it go with the journalist?” Fry asked after a few minutes of quiet eating.

  “She recognised the restaurant,” Mills answered for me. “Said that back around the time of the first killings, it was being looked into as a meeting place for a county lines gang, but the case was dropped when they moved on.”

  Leila frowned. “Robert De Niro indeed,” she muttered. “You think it’s being used again, and that’s who the boys at the table are?”

  “Potentially. And it might mean that Julia just got caught up in it all somehow,” I added. “Which means I doubt it’s the same killer.”

  “The gang may have just copied the style,” Fry suggested. “Would the drug squad know more?”

  “We’ll talk to Sergeant Harris, see what she knows about it. How d'you get on with the names?”

  “Added a few more to the list, and I’d just started working through them. So far, nobody’s stuck out, but I’m trying to think about the sort of person who’d attract a girl like Julia. So, I’ve ruled out the eighty-year-old man who’s in every other Friday.”

  “You sure about that?” Mills asked. “He’s old, but he might be awfully spry.”

  Fry laughed, her nose scrunching. “I’ll bear it in mind that you’ve a thing for people with white hair and arthritis, Mills.”

  “Nobody’s stuck out, though?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Certainly not anyone who meets our criteria. On the younger side, probably attractive, strong enough to kill a person and move their body.”

  “Well, go through them all anyway, and if none stick out, we’ll circle back and check out the others.”

  “Will do, sir. And Cora popped in whilst you were outside. Has the statements from the family for you,” she said, nodding to Mills’s desk where a folder I hadn’t seen coming in sat.

  It seemed our afternoon would be busier than I thought it would be.

  Nine

  Thatcher

  As we ate lunch, the shock of seeing Jeannie slowly faded. She had looked the exact same, curls of red hair, pale green eyes and freckled face. And, as always, she’d breezed in, dropped a strange thing of information and had breezed out again. Her tip was useful, or at least I hoped it would be. If the restaurant had indeed been a front or a meeting place used by a county lines gang, then that could be what led to Julia’s death. Once we finished eating, we left Fry at my desk to finish sorting through the names from the restaurant’s booking and headed off in search of Sergeant Harris.

  We found her sitting at her desk, her legs propped up as she absentmindedly stirred her coffee. As we approached, she looked up and grinned, swinging her legs to the floor.

  “DCI Thatcher, Sergeant Mills.”

  “Harris. We wondered if we could borrow you for something. Have you got a few minutes?”

 
; “All the time in the world, it feels like today,” she muttered, indicating for us to sit. We swiped some free chairs and sat opposite her. “How can I help?”

  “What do you know about the restaurant L’agneau?” I asked her. “We understand it was a site of interest in a drug investigation about twenty or so years ago.”

  Harris frowned, chewing her bottom lip. “Rings a bell,” she murmured, drumming her fingers on her desk. “Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Little French place?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I remember. God, that was a while back, wasn’t it? I think I still had spots then.”

  “What do you remember?” Mills asked.

  “We were keeping tabs on some people connected to a county lines gangs smuggling heroin out from the city,” she recalled. “The big fish seemed awfully fond of eating there, and we wondered if they were using it for a front. We kept eyes on it for a while, but they stopped showing up after a while, and the gang seemed to disband.”

  “Have there been any murmurs of it coming back?” I asked.

  Harris shook her head. “None that have come to me yet. I can ask some friends over in West Yorkshire Police if they’ve heard of anything, but until we start seeing drugs out in the moors, I’m here busting up weed dealers. Why do you ask?”

  “The girl whose murder we’re investigating,” I told her. “Julia Brook used to work at that restaurant.”

  This interested Harris. She pushed her mug of coffee to the side and leant forward on her desk, giving me a nod.

  “In some of her notes, she mentions a table of boys that she took care in looking after whenever they were there. We’ve also noticed that their reserved table is never mentioned in any of the bookings.”

  “Mean anything to you?” Mills asked.

  Harris nodded. “Sounds like something, but it’s not the usual way a county lines gang operates, I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Maybe they’re sprucing themselves up a bit,” Mills suggested.

  “Or maybe they’ve been watching too many episodes of Peaky Blinders,” she replied in a drawled voice. “Give me a sec,” she requested, turning to her computer and hitting a few keys.

  I sat back and looked at Mills. “You a fan of that show?”

  “My brother and sister-in-law like it, but not so much myself. It’s always weird sympathising with criminals.”

  I nodded. “True. Nice outfits, though.”

  “Very nice. It’s a shame they’ve gone out of style.”

  “You two are so odd,” Harris muttered, not looking away from her computer screen. “You know when we first met, Thatcher, I thought you were the scariest bloke I’d ever met. Wish I could tell my past self not to worry so much now.”

  “I can appreciate a well-cut suit and still be a scary bloke, Tamara Harris, thank you very much,” I replied, slightly affronted. Mills just dipped his head, chuckling quietly.

  “You do know that if this gang is up and running again,” Harris glanced up at me. “Then it’s technically a drug squad case.”

  “Need I remind you of the murder?” I asked. “Homicide, our case.”

  “Suppose Sharp will tell us to work together on it,” Mills said. “Which would probably be best.”

  “Very diplomatic, I can see why Thatcher keeps you around,” Harris told him. “Soften up his sharp edges.”

  “We’re not a married couple,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” I asked, leaning forward to look at her computer.

  “Pulling up my old case files,” she swatted my hand away. “We can see if any familiar faces have shown up again. You think your victim died because of ties to this?”

  “It’s a possible theory,” I answered. “But even if it’s not, it’s worth bringing to your attention.”

  “Certainly is,” Harris murmured. “Usually, we see this sort of thing at street level, you know? Kids going missing, that sort of thing. If they are back, they’re hiding themselves well, like a mobster film.”

  Mills nodded sagely. “Robert De Niro.”

  “De Niro,” Harris replied. “Right.”

  “We keep circling back to this,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

  “Ah, here we go!” Harris scooted her chair around her desk until she sat beside me, turning her computer so that we could see the screen. “These were the chaps we were monitoring. Noel Steiner, Rory Bond, Kim Pickler and Theresa Biel.”

  “Has there been any sign of them recently?” Mills asked, leaning forward to memorise their names and faces.

  “Steiner was picked up a few months ago in London,” Harris told me. “I’ve got a friend working in the firearms response unit for Scotland Yard. She called me when he got nicked. Bastard. Bond hung around for a while, then just sort of slipped through the cracks. Pickler and Biel vanished off the face of the earth. We’ve had no luck in tracking them down, so we think they went abroad. My guess is that they knew we were monitoring the restaurant, so they fled. But since we had nothing concrete to tie to them, we had to let it drop. The dealings stopped, so that was something.”

  “Maybe they came back?” Mills suggested. “But there’s been no talk of drugs in the area.”

  “They could only be starting up again,” I said. “Which is why they’re having so many dinners together with new people, trying to get a solid base before they spread out.”

  “If that is the case, I’m going to need to see this restaurant,” Harris said. “How regular are their visits there?”

  “Pretty regular if Julia’s notes are anything to go by. The table’s been set aside for months now,” I said.

  “But their closing,” Mills jumped in. “Out of respect for Julia, they said.”

  “Doesn’t mean they won’t let some old favourites in for a quiet evening,” Harris muttered, reaching up to scratch her head.

  “We could get some eyes on the place,” I said. “Where are the good vantage points?”

  “Back then, the building opposite was empty, and we took one of the rooms on the first floor. Gives a clear shot through the windows and to the side door,” Harris said.

  “We’ll need proof of something to authorise that,” Mills reminded us quietly. “We’d need to know that at least one of them had been seen back there.”

  “Would they go back there?” I wondered suddenly. “It’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it has been twenty years,” Harris pointed out. “And if the people who own are still there, it’s easier than building a new rapport somewhere else.”

  “The owners could be involved themselves,” I added. Mills grimaced, looking uncertain about that.

  “You don’t agree?” Harris asked him.

  “I can’t see it myself, but I won’t rule it out,” he answered. “They seemed genuinely upset about Julia, so if she was murdered because of that connection, it could be that the regulars stop showing up altogether.”

  “How well do we think they would take to being banned from a restaurant?” I asked dryly.

  “Not well,” Harris sighed. “Let’s head down there now, incognito, and just have a little look. I want to see if the place looks the same.”

  I nodded, and the three of us rose from the desk.

  “Maybe not you, Mills,” I said. “They’ve seen you.”

  “Good point. I’ll stay here and update Sharp, then give Fry a hand with the rest of those names.”

  “Good lad,” I clapped him on the shoulder. “And if any one of those four names crops up, you call me right away.”

  Mills nodded, flashed Harris a grin, and strode off to the stairs.

  “He is a good lad, isn’t he?” Harris asked, grabbing her coat and pulling it on. As we walked through the station, she paused by the stairs as I hurried for my coat, giving Fry an encouraging smile as I ducked in and out of the office, then caught up with Harris, and the two of us walked from the station and walked down the street.

&n
bsp; Harris’s idea, despite the cold, claimed that we’d stand out less if we walked past red-faced and cold.

  “Can’t remember the last time you and I crossed paths on a case,” she remarked as we walked along, both of our hands stuffed deep into our pockets.

  “Me either,” I replied. “We must have done.”

  “I’m sure we have. Though Dr Crowe usually manages your toxicity,” she pointed out.

  “That’s because we usually get prescription overdoses,” I replied. “The day I get a homicide victim loaded with opium, I’m coming straight to you.”

  “I should think so,” she said with a sniff. Her face fell a little. “I really hope the gang’s not getting going again.” She grew quieter, pulling her hand from her pocket to rub her face. “Such a nasty business.”

  “Drug smuggling specifically?”

  “That and the way they treat the kids that get involved. Grooming them into carrying for them, it’s awful. And then there are their parents, trying to help them but not knowing how. I suppose that sort of grief comes part and parcel for you, though?”

  “Sadly. I think I’ve become desensitised to crying over the years.”

  “I love a good cry,” Harris informed me. “It’s cathartic, my mum says. This homicide of yours, that’s taking us back twenty years as well, isn’t it?”

  “Might well be,” I replied. “Though I hope, in a weird way, that it’s a copycat.”

  “Crowe will be able to answer that soon enough,” Harris offered supportively.

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” I murmured.

  I was glad when we reached the street the restaurant was down, and all the talk of the events of twenty years ago dropped away. Harris slowed her pace as our feet hit the street so that we could take a good look at the place.

  It was small, not far from the corner, the door and window fixtures painted red. The windows were half fogged, giving some privacy for the tables closest to them and the little curtains over the door had been drawn shut, the sign flipped to closed. There were no lights on inside.

  “Does it look much changed?” I asked Harris.

  “They’ve repainted, I think,” she answered. “Mills was right about them not opening up, though.” She crossed the road to get closer.