“I had nothing to do with what happened between you and your wife, Mr Levin.”
“You suspected me,” he spat, pointing his finger close to my face. “And then so did she, and I lost everything.”
I’m sure their divorce had as much to do with his temper and gambling as much as anything else, but it didn’t seem the right time to bring that up.
“Thank you for answering my questions, Mr Levin. I’ll leave you to it.”
“I should report you,” he muttered darkly.
“Free country.”
“But they’d just give a slap on the wrist, wouldn’t they? Oh, brilliant Inspector?” he mocked. “You deserve worse than that.”
“I’m sure there are others who’d agree with you, Mr Levin. Excuse me.”
“No, no.” He waggled his finger. “Not just a thought, sir, a fact. You deserve worse.”
I didn’t miss the threat in his voice. But I did miss the old pipe leaning against the wall until he picked it up that and swung it straight towards me.
Fifteen
Mills
I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved when Dr Crowe caught up to Fry and me outside the station and decided to tag along with us to the pub.
I liked to think that Leila and I were friends, but there was something about sitting in the pub alone together with her that felt notably different from when Thatcher and I would go. Something more intimate. I hoped that was the case anyway, and that I wasn’t reading too much into anything. I’d seen it on his face as well when he’d ushered me from the station. He himself looked like he was battening down for the night, and I mentioned that to Sharp as I left in the hope that she’d kick him out before it got too late. This case was grating on him and everything that it brought back. Memories of a failed investigation, Jeannie Gray and, as the timeline worked out, his mother. She’d have died around then, and it wouldn’t have been long after that Thatcher began his self-sacrificial one-man army attempt to renovate the old coaching house. He wasn’t a man who had much talent for forgiving and forgetting, not when it came to his own mistakes, anyway.
The three of us settled around a quiet table, each with only a half-pint before us since we were all due to drive home soon. Lena took one long sip of her cider then looked at me with a pitying look.
“How are you holding up, boyo?” she asked.
I pinched my eyes shut for a second. “You don’t waste time, do you, Lena?” I shot back.
“I remember my first breakup,” she said to Fry.
“This isn’t my first break-up.”
“I was twenty,” she pushed on, ignoring my statement. “Her name was Gwen, and she was stunning. Legs up to her armpits and this shiny black hair, a bit like yours, Leila.” Leila had actually taken her hair down now that we were out of the station, and it fell down her back in a long black sheet.
“What happened?” She asked Lena kindly.
“We met at uni, both studying medicine. She did a year abroad in Copenhagen and never came back.”
“Blimey,” I muttered, lifting my glass to my mouth. Suzanne had left in January, though I’d not seen her since last year when we’d broken up properly. Anytime we’d crossed paths with welfare since then, we were luckily visited by Muriel instead, who was old enough to be Thatcher’s mother and seemed to enjoy acting like it in her knitted cardigans and bobble hats. It had been long enough that I didn’t think about it too often, only when something reminded me of her did I feel it again, but work kept me distracted, as did seeing my nephews on the weekends and, if I was completely honest, so did the young woman to my left.
“My first boyfriend dumped me when I went to Nepal for the summer,” Fry said with a grimace. “I was only gone three months, but apparently, that was too long. When I got back, he was seeing another girl.”
“Bastard,” Lena shook her head.
Leila just shrugged. “Just not the right one is all. If they are the right one, my dad says, they come back.” She offered this last bit to me in her light voice, and I smiled. I doubted that Suzanne was the right one. There had been a time definitely, but our paths weren’t running in the same direction, and that was fine. Or it would be fine in another month or two.
“I should get going,” Leila sighed then, finishing her drink. “I left Bean with my neighbour, and I should take her off his hands.”
“I hope she feels better,” I offered.
“Thanks, Mills. See you, Lena,” she said, pulling her coat on and tapping Crowe’s shoulder as she walked away.
Lena waved back, crunching down on some crisps. “Nice girl,” she commented. “Smart.”
“That she is.”
“And pretty.”
“Won’t your wife be wondering where you are?” I asked.
Lena rolled her eyes but checked her watch and nodded. “She will, actually. It’s my night to cook. Well,” she stood up from the table, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mills.”
“See you, Lena.” She gave me a bright smile before wandering off, waving to Paul over at the bar.
I stayed a little longer, finishing my half-pint slowly until it was gone, and then I made to leave and head home.
The house was quiet these days, and all the things that Suzanna had brought with her were now gone, the flashes of colour and warmth that she’d brought. I pushed through the front door and walked into the living room, tugging my tie loose as I collapsed on the sofa. Another evening kicking my feet. There was always TV and a new show my brother was hounding me to watch, but I couldn’t focus on watching anything right now. My mind wouldn’t settle enough for me to truly enjoy it.
I did, however, have Julia’s notebook in my bag, so I pulled it out, kicked my shoes off, and picked up where I left off, a recent entry from last week.
Antoine! For the last bloody time, no more sardines! Nobody likes the sardines! If I see them on the menu one more time, I shall gut you like one, honestly. That being said, the bouillabaisse is magnificent; I would like it to be my last ever meal, please and thank you. Maybe get a chunkier bread for mopping up the broth, though.
For all the post-holidays blues, I think we should stick with a proper pudding, no fancy delicate things. I’m thinking tarts or clafoutis – no poached pears until Spring.
Sweet tooth at the boy’s table is back again on Saturday. Make sure we have the dessert wine ready; he didn’t look happy last time when I interrupted with it.
He was here again, talked about going on a date at some point – double check schedule with Victor for that week.
It was one of the more helpful passages I’d come across. Her mention of the Saturday boys and this man with the sweet tooth, who’d been annoyed at her for interrupting with the wine. Or annoyed at her for interrupting full stop? I wondered what Thatcher would make of it. I looked over at the clock and figured he’d probably be home by now, but with him, it was never worth assuming. What Julia had written was making me think, and I couldn’t sit alone in the house stewing over it, so I got up, left the house and jumped into the car without thinking.
I headed to the station first, just in case, but the desk sergeant told me that he’d left a little over ten minutes ago. I went to his house next and pulled over by the kerb with a frown. All the lights were off inside. I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent him a text, sitting and waiting. He didn’t answer, so I called, and no answer. I found Liene’s number and sat there listening to it ring, thinking that I’d never get an answer, but at the last minute, she picked up.
“Mills?”
“Hiya Liene, sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you’d seen Max?”
“He left here, the museum that is, about fifteen minutes ago, I’d say. Is he not at home?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” I said, looking back out at the house.
Liene hummed. “He might have gone to the coaching house.”
He rarely went two nights in a row.
“I’ll try Billie,” I said.
“Good
call. Update me, though, Mills. He said he had stuff to be getting on with tonight, and I got the feeling it was something reckless.”
I swore silently. Of course, he did. “I’ll let you know when I find him.”
“Thanks, Isaac.”
I hung up, scrolled through some more contacts until I found Billie’s number. I wasn’t sure I’d ever called it before, but there we are.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi Billie, it’s Mills.”
“I know. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d seen Max at all?” I asked, keeping my eye on the road in case he drove down.
“Not today,” she murmured. “Why?”
“Just looking for him, wondered if he’d stopped by.”
“Nope,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. See you later.”
“See you.”
I put the phone down and swore out loud, rubbing my eyes. Where the hell had he gone, and why did he always have to go alone? I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. For all I knew, he had gone to the coaching house, but that didn’t explain why he wouldn’t answer a text or a call.
He was working, that much I knew. Something had come to mind, something that he wanted to follow. I reached around into the backseat, where I stowed some copies I made earlier today. Some of Fry’s lists and some of the lists Thatcher had made twenty years ago. What had he seen?
I scanned them, down the pages to a name Fry had scribbled on the bottom for me. The name jumped out, and I picked up Thatcher’s old list. One of his old suspects that I had asked about earlier must have gotten him thinking about it. A match. Nigel Levin.
I groaned, hoping that Thatcher hadn’t gone looking for him and checked the address for the man quickly before turning the car around. I hoped he still lived there, or else this was a wild goose chase for nothing.
The address led me to a suburban set of streets of semi-detached houses and converted flats, down to where the countryside bordered the city with a thin copse of trees. I slowed down, scanning the cars parked on the side of the road and spotted Thatcher’s, though he wasn’t in it. I parked behind him and got out, glancing through the window as I passed. His phone was in the passenger seat. Typical.
The flat listed as Levin’s address was in the block at the end of the street, and I headed down there, the road dimly lit by streetlights, the sun setting behind the trees. I couldn’t hear much, save for some music from a nearby house, some birds settling down for the evening, and then a thud, followed by a much louder thud.
The noise came from the path that ran beside the building, and I looked around the corner to see a man standing there, a pipe lifted up above his head. Another man was on his knees in front of him, coat spilling out around the ground. Thatcher.
I ran forward, grabbing the other end of the pipe before the man, who I assumed was Nigel Levin, could swing it down towards Thatcher. He twisted, looking over his shoulder at me and released one hand from the pipe, freeing his arm to elbow me in the gut. I stumbled back, winded, keeping one hand on the pipe as I bounced off the brick wall behind me. The man reared back and swung around, pushing the pipe towards my face. I quickly pushed my head to the side, hearing the pipe scrape against the wall, bits of brick dust sprinkling down and pushed the pipe back, making him walk back towards the hedge behind him. He tripped, either over his own feet or the uneven paving and went down. I wrenched the pipe from his hands, threw it down the alley and grabbed the handcuffs I had, mercifully, kept strapped to my belt.
I clapped his wrists together, hissing, “Stay there,” at the sweaty, red-faced man and turned my attention to Thatcher.
He was crouched on the floor on one knee, one hand bracing to take his weight. He looked like the terminator, only in a woollen coat and somehow, if possible, moodier.
“Sir?” I asked, squatting beside him. “Max?”
“M’alright,” he muttered, grabbing my arm so that I could pull him to his feet. He winced, all his weight going to the right, one hand clutching his ribs.
“You don’t look it,” I sighed, leading him down the alley to the steps outside the building. He collapsed with a grunt on the steps, leaning his head back, face contorted with pain. I stood in front of him, hands on my hips and looked up at the building. There was a CCTV camera on the corner that hopefully caught the whole thing.
“Want to explain this to me now or on the way to the hospital?” I asked, already pulling my phone out to get another officer out here to deal with this.
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he answered, predictably.
“Really? Because it looks like you’ve broken a rib, hurt your knee and frankly, sir, you look as though you’re either about to vomit or die, or vomit then die.”
“Stop saying vomit,” he replied through his teeth. I sighed, quickly spoke to the officer on the phone, then walked around to grab Levin and haul him to his feet.
“He started it,” he told me as I walked him around the building.
“Did he? I see no weapon on him, no bloody knuckles.”
“He was snooping,” Levin said. “I had every right. This is a private place.”
“You may have had the right to incapacitate a home intruder, Mr Levin, but beating a police officer with a pipe doesn’t quite cover that.” I walked him to the kerb and stood there with him until a police car rolled up the street, its lights and sirens turned off at my request. The last thing we needed was the whole street filing out to see what had happened.
I left Levin with the PC to be taken back to the station and processed, sent word to the owner of the building and the security company about accessing the tape from the camera, then hauled Thatcher to his feet, one arm draped over my shoulder, and walked him to my car.
“You’re quiet,” he muttered as I helped him into the passenger seat. “You’re always quiet when you’re properly mad,” he said. I grabbed his car keys from his pocket and shut the door on his pale face, heading to his car to grab his things from inside, then jumped into the driver’s seat with a sigh.
“We’re going to the hospital,” I told him, starting the engine, “and I’ll let Liene know where you are.”
Thatcher groaned. “She’ll be mad.”
“Not as mad as Sharp will,” I reminded him lightly.
He pinched his eyes shut, looking pained at the sheer thought, and I had to admit that it cheered me up a little as I pulled away from the kerb and down the street.
“Thank you, Mills,” Thatcher said quietly, his eyes still shut, one hand still holding his chest.
I kept my eyes on the road ahead, the hospital in view. “Anytime, sir.”
Sixteen
Thatcher
I had never liked hospitals, not the shiny white walls, not the smell of cleaning chemicals or the faces of the ill and elderly gazing at you from across the ward. Thankfully, a nurse had come along and drawn the curtain shut, leaving Mills and me shut inside. The sergeant was still quiet, which wasn’t a particularly good omen, but he’d sat there on the uncomfortable chair, politely chit-chatting with the hospital staff. Usually, I’d have put up more of a fight over being brought here, but frankly, I hadn’t the energy, too, and as it turns out, Mills was in the right.
Getting hit with a pipe wasn’t good news. I had two cracked ribs, with some nasty bruising already spreading up over the side of my chest.
My phone dinged, Mills must have grabbed it from my car, and he leant forward, picking it up and glancing at whatever message just came through.
“Good news or bad news first?” He asked, looking over at me and meeting my eyes for the first time since he’d hauled me to my feet in that alley.
“Dealer’s choice,” I answered.
“Liene’s on her way.” I nodded. That was good. “So is Sharp.”
I grimaced, closing my eyes and leaning back against the pillow. Mills looked delighted about that, and I supposed on this oc
casion, he deserved to be a little smug.
“What were you thinking, sir?” he asked me.
“I just…” I rubbed my face. “I saw the name on the bookings, and I thought it could be something. I just headed out there, I wanted to check out his car. I was leaving when he walked into the alley.”
Mills sighed. “You might have called me,” he said. “I’d have joined you.”
“I know. How did you find me?” I asked, rather thrown back by his sudden arrival.
“I have a copy of your old suspect list, and Fry added Levin’s name to my list before we left. Figured maybe you’d do something like that. Liene said she thought you’d do something reckless tonight. You’re lucky I was looking for you,” he added, taking a slurp of the tea he’d charmed a nurse into bringing. It was in a mug and everything, rather than the little paper cups from the vending machines that could scarcely be called tea.
“That’s some good police work,” I told him. “Why were you looking for me?” I asked.
Mills waved a hand dismissively. “It can wait. It wasn’t that important; I just wanted a second opinion on something. Didn’t really want to sit around the house either,” he added. I couldn’t blame him, neither had I.
My phone dinged again, and Mills passed it over this time. I reached out, my ribs throbbing as I stretched for it, slumping back against the pillow with a faint sheen of sweat on my brow.
I had missed some texts from him and a call, which I felt guilty for now. He’d used my phone to text Liene and let her know what was going on, but the text that had just come through was from Lena, surprisingly. Apparently, she’d caught wind of my being here and was dropping by to check-in. I didn’t expect to have so many visitors clustered around my sickbed, but I knew that all of them would come with a scold. I suddenly felt very tired.
“This won’t be fun,” I said, putting my phone screen down beside me and looking over at Mills. “Can I stay at yours? We can make a run for it.”
Mills grinned at that, a slightly wonky grin that could be down to exhaustion. “And have them all outside my front door? No thanks.”
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 13