Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9)

by Oliver Davies

  She ended up ordering some sort of chicken stew, and the woman told her to wait by the bar for her order, giving her a coke on the house as she did so. Hana hopped onto the stool and sipped her drink, looking around the restaurant. It was quiet, even though it wasn’t empty, and she avoided staring too long at any of the other customers, choosing to pull her book from her bag and read while she waited. She got the feeling that someone was looking at her, but every time she looked up, over to the couple by the window or the table in the corner, they were all looking at each other, nowhere near her.

  She was rather grateful when her food came, packed into a steaming box that the lady kindly slid into a bag for her. She handed it over, a warm smile on her face, and Hana paid, thanked her kindly and jumped from the stool, heading back over to the door. The table in the corner was murmuring as she walked close to them, and this time, when she looked over, one of them was staring straight at her. Nerves ran through her, and she hurriedly let herself out of the restaurant and back onto the street. She was nearing the corner when a door opened behind her, the telltale ringing of a bell sounding with it, and she habitually picked up her pace, returning to the safety of the busy road with its still open shops.

  Her detour had taken her a little way out of her usual route, but she knew there was a shortcut if she dropped down the alley towards the big park that sat on the river. She was very hungry and eager to get home, so she turned that way, leaving the street and heading down towards the park.

  It was a nice place. She’d been there a few times to have lunch by the lake. There were tennis courts there, she thought, not that she ever played. Once at school, she’d somehow managed to lose her grip on the racket and sent it across the court, almost whacking her opponent on the head. She hadn’t played since. Hana passed the little café on the park grounds, its tables and chairs all pulled inside, though she wondered who’d be dining outside at this time of year, anyway. Dog owners, perhaps, or cyclists. As she crossed over a little bridge, she paused, leaning on the brick wall and catching her breath, enjoying the peace for a moment.

  The creeping feeling returned, and she looked up, looking around the park. Hana glanced over her shoulder and spotted someone else walking along the path, dressed in a long coat so that they looked like a single black smudge. So that he looked like a single black smudge, Hana realised. It was a man, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, head lowered like he was trudging his way home, same as her. But Hana wasn’t sure, and as the man lifted his head at one point, her stomach curled.

  The man from the restaurant. Or someone who looked spookily like him.

  It could be purely a coincidence, but Hana wasn’t in the mood to put that to the test, so she turned and kept walking, speeding up despite the blister she could feel forming on her heel. Her own fault for not bothering to stop for more plasters this morning. The park wasn’t the biggest in the city, but it was big enough that it would take her a little while longer before she was in the streets, and she wasn’t sure which one she’d prefer. She looked back over her shoulder again, and the man was still there, walking the same way she was, his gait leisurely. Perhaps she was being paranoid, and that news report her dad had sent her had her thinking the worst.

  She kept walking along the park path until she could see the fence in the distance. Hana reached into her pocket for her phone, fumbling with the headphone cord as she tried to pull it out. She freed her phone and removed it from her pocket, her keys falling to the floor with the action.

  Hana swore and bent down, snatching them from the floor hurriedly, her fingers grazing on the rough pavement. Footsteps scuffed behind her, and she could feel her heart in her throat, her body shaky and sweaty like she was sick. Just nerves, she told herself, and she’d be fine once she got home.

  She rose from her crouch, pushing her keys back inside her pocket with damp, trembling fingers and seized her phone, tapping in her code as she blindly walked forward, looking for her dad’s number, someone to talk to on the way. Maybe he had a new book he’d read that he could tell her about that usually kept him talking for the better part of an hour. She was about to click on his name when an arm swung in out of nowhere, batting her hand down. Hana dropped her phone with a yelp, pulling her injured hand towards herself, turning as the owner of that arm stepped towards her.

  Hana took a few hasty steps away, acutely aware that the lake wasn’t far behind her.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “I have money or the food. You can take it.”

  The man stopped where he was and looked her over, a peculiar look on his face that she didn’t understand.

  As he had paused, Hana dropped the bag of food where she stood and spun on her heels, sprinting up the path. She was fast, even with her heel angrily throbbing now, and she pushed herself along the path, closer and closer to the busy streets outside the park.

  A hand seized the back of her collar, hauling her backwards, making her choke as she was thrown to the grass, the breath getting knocked out of her, her head hitting the cold, solid earth.

  Hana sucked in a raspy breath, rolling to her front in a scrambled attempt to get to her feet.

  The man walked up behind her, something metal glinting in his hand.

  Hana felt fingers grip her chin, felt something cold, and then she slipped away.

  The man didn’t linger. He grabbed the food she’d dropped, kicked her phone closer to where she now lay in the grass. As he kept on walking through the park, he found a large bin outside and lifted the lid, throwing the food in. A waste, but a necessary one.

  Once he was outside the park, he paused, standing in the street with his head tilted to one side, a gentle breeze cooling him down. It wasn’t a nice job, but again, a necessary one, and it was a problem solved that meant he would hopefully sleep a little easier tonight.

  The man wrapped his coat around himself, slipping his gloved hands into his pockets as he wandered onto the street, just another of the many people hurrying home from their jobs, eager to avoid the rain that was due to fall later.

  Eighteen

  Mills

  I staggered home after leaving Thatcher in the hospital, collapsing through the front door with barely enough energy to eat some food before I passed out. Thatcher hadn’t looked happy to be left there, but no doubt he’d be cleared soon enough. There wasn’t much the hospital could do for cracked ribs, anyway. It was just a matter of patience.

  Not that he had much of that to spare.

  Soon, far too soon, I was woken up by my phone ringing, the sound startling me from my dreams. I reached out from the warm covers, blasted by the cold and grabbed my phone, yanking it from the charger and answering.

  “Hello?” I groggily asked.

  “Sorry to wake you, sir,” Fry answered. I pushed myself up to a sitting position.

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  There was a slight pause. “We’ve got another one,” she said morosely.

  I cursed. “Where?”

  “Rowntree Park. The team is on site, and I’ve just called Dr Crowe.”

  I knew that park. I took my nephews down to the lake sometimes. I grimaced.

  “I’m on my way,” I told her, hanging up a moment after. Another one, God help us.

  I rolled out of bed and trudged into the bathroom, showering quickly and changing. I grabbed my things, pulled my coat on and headed to the door, calling Thatcher as I walked outside to the car. It was early, but I knew he’d be awake.

  “You’re up early,” he answered as a greeting.

  “As are you,” I replied. I wondered if he’d really slept much at all. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “Piss of Mills and tell me what’s happened.”

  “We’ve got another one,” I told him grimly.

  He swore loudly. “Where?”

  “Rowntree Park. When are you getting out?”

  I heard him sigh. “Not until midday, most likely.”

  “We should have wra
pped up at the scene by then,” I said. “Meet you at the station, if you can?”

  “I’ll bloody well be there,” he muttered darkly. “Keep me updated.”

  “Will do, sir. See you later.”

  He hung up on me, no doubt now trying to persuade the hospital staff into letting him go early. I jumped into the car and peeled away from the house, heading down the familiar roads to the park. It was a nice place, popular in the summer for families and dog owners.

  It was quiet now, the grass and bushes all covered in a thin layer of frost. It was a cold day, the clouds hanging grey and low in the sky. I parked by the little café in the park and walked towards the path, wondering where exactly they were. The door to the café opened, and Fry walked out, two steaming cups of coffee in her hand. She smiled and handed me one.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I said, gratefully taking the cup and sipping. It burnt my tongue, but I was beyond caring.

  “This way,” she said, leading me down the path. We crossed a bridge, heading towards the lake.

  “What do we know?” I asked her as we walked, her face half-hidden behind a big red scarf.

  “She had her bag on her, unlike the others, so rather a lot,” Fry said. “We’ve identified her as Hana Miyara. She’s twenty-four, works in an allotment not far from here. She lives not far away either, so it looks like she was taking a detour through the park on her way home.”

  “But?” I asked, picking up on her tone.

  “Throat slit, three cuts on the chest,” Fry muttered.

  “Bloody hell. Next of kin?”

  “Her phone was unlocked,” Fry said, a stroke of luck. “We’ve found a contact for her father. Hiro Miyara.”

  Poor man. But it was interesting that we had her bag and her phone. Maybe he was getting sloppy.

  We reached the buzz of the crime scene, the white and blue tape stretched across the path and the lawns, a few PCs at the perimeter to shoo away a few onlookers that commuted through the park. Fry and I ducked under the tape, nodding to the officer on the other side and wandered over to where the cars were arranged in a shield. Crowe was in the centre, clad in her white suit, blonde curls hidden beneath the hood. Fry took my coffee from me, hanging back as I walked over to where Crowe knelt by the body.

  It looked wrong, somehow.

  She wasn’t laid out peacefully like any of the others had been. Her eyes were closed, and she was on her back in the grass, her clothes and skin touched by the frost. But her legs were askew, her arms falling on the floor, her bag to the side.

  “Lena,” I greeted her. She looked over her shoulder up at me.

  “Morning, Mills. Looks odd to you too?” She asked, turning back to the girl.

  “It looks like it was rushed.”

  “Maybe he was disturbed,” Fry offered from a few steps back. I waved her closer, taking the cups from her.

  “Tell me what you think,” I said.

  She looked surprised at the order but drifted closer and bent down beside the girl’s head.

  “She’s wearing work clothes,” she said, pointing at the fleece the girl wore as a coat, the dungarees and heavy boots, thick socks. There was mud on the soles of her boots, little patches on the knees of her trousers. Like she’d been walking home, as Fry had suggested before. That was odd. Usually, he lured his victims out after knowing them for a while. Maybe he’d walked her home, I thought, had been a gardener at the allotments and gotten to her there.

  I looked around the park. The street wasn’t far away, and even in the dark, it wasn’t that secluded. It was too public, more so than his previous locations. It felt off. Like there was something missing or out of place. I placed the coffee down on the bonnet of one of the cars and walked over, pulling some gloves on as I knelt beside her.

  Hana Miyara looked younger than she was. Her black hair had been in a bun, but it was falling out now, strands of it over her face, caught up in the dried blood on her neck. Fry rose to her feet as I reached for Hana’s coat pockets, pulling out a tangled knot of headphones.

  “Keys,” Fry called, pointing at the little clump of metal on the ground a few metres away.

  No, I thought, none of this made any sense. I’d seen a few murders like this before, muggings gone wrong, fights that went too far. Random. He’d seen her walking alone and gone for it. But our killer wasn’t random. He wouldn’t leave her bag, her phone, or the keys. His killings were staged, theatrical, almost careful in the way he treated the women. This wasn’t him.

  The thought lodged itself in my head, my instincts all agreeing.

  This wasn’t him.

  “Take her shoe off,” I told Crowe. “Check her foot.”

  Crowe looked annoyed at my giving her orders as she worked, but she shuffled around to Hana’s feet. I stood up and walked to her back, giving her a little more privacy from the onlookers. The laces on Hana’s boots were tightly tied, and it took Crowe a little while to undo them.

  “No blood on the socks,” she murmured, carefully pulling them off. She checked the left foot, then carefully replaced her sock. Then the right foot.

  “No mark,” she confirmed, looking up at me. I knelt down and helped her push Hana’s boots back onto her feet.

  “Was he interrupted before he could finish, or was this someone else?” I muttered. Someone who’d heard about Julia on the news and took the opportunity to kill without being caught? Merging their victim into our investigation but without enough knowledge to make it accurate? It wasn’t unheard of.

  “I’ll get her back,” Crowe told me. “Analyse the wounds themselves. Our killer has a method.”

  “Got a time of death for me?” I asked sweetly.

  Lena rolled her eyes. “She’s been here a while. Look at the frost on her. Poor girl. Overnight, I’d say late evening. Anywhere between six and ten. Let me get her back, and I’ll give you a better window.”

  “Cheers, Lena.”

  She nodded, standing up and nodding to her team, who bustled over with the stretcher and the body bag. I stepped away, joining Fry, who had scooped up the keys and popped them in an evidence bag. She was crouched on the ground now with Hana’s bag in front of her, and I walked over, handing her a pair of gloves. She pulled them on, the fingers too long for her and reached in, pulling out the purse, which she handed to me. I knelt down on the pavement, joining her.

  “You alright?” she asked.

  “This isn’t adding up,” I answered. “And it’s weird without him.”

  Fry chuckled quietly. “No doubt he’ll be here soon, probably still in his hospital gown and everything.”

  I grinned and opened Hana’s purse, pulling out her driver’s licence. We had an address for her, which was a good thing. There was some cash in there, a few old pound coins, a trolley token and weirdly, a packet of seeds.

  “Why would he leave this all behind?” Fry asked, looking around. “Doesn’t really fit his style, does it?”

  “Not particularly,” I answered, watching her face as she thought, lips slightly pursed.

  “It’s not him, is it?” She asked, her eyes meeting mine. The dull light made her brown eyes look black.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, looking down. “Who called it in?”

  “One of the park volunteers. Apparently, he feeds the geese.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “What a job. Where is he?”

  Fry pointed over her shoulder, up the path to where a man stood beneath a tree, talking to a constable.

  “Let’s go. Maybe he’s seen her here before.”

  Fry nodded, and we rose to our feet and strolled under the tape and up the sloping lawn.

  “His name is Hubert Tonkin,” she said quietly as we neared him. What a name.

  “Mr Tonkin?” I called as we approached, nodding to the constable who stepped away. “I’m Detective Sergeant Mills, and this is Detective Constable Fry. I understand you’re the man who called us?”

  “That’s right,” he said, wringing his
hat in his hands.

  “Can you walk us through what happened?” I asked lightly. Something nudged my side, and I glanced down to see Fry pull my notebook from my pocket and flip it open. I held in a smile and looked back at Mr Tonkin.

  “I came out early as usual. I like to get here before six when the commuters start coming through.”

  “You feed the geese?”

  He puffed with pride, lifting his round face. “They like me.”

  “What an honour. They don’t like many people.”

  “No,” he chortled. “We keep the food in the storage down by the lake,” he said with a point. “I was heading down there, and I saw someone lying. Thought maybe it was a drunkard from last night or a homeless person, so I headed over—” he broke off and swallowed loudly. “I saw the blood.”

  I nodded. “Have you ever seen the girl here before?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t do much with the visitors, though, to be honest.”

  “What time does the park get locked up at night?” Fry asked over my shoulder.

  “Around ten,” he answered. And nobody saw her when they were locking up? I wondered if someone had seen her from a distance and thought the same that Tonkin here had, that a homeless person was using the park for the night and had left them to it. Either way, not ideal.

  “I see. You’ve given your statement to PC Lewis there?” I asked, indicating the constable that had been with him before.

  “I have.”

  “Brilliant. Thank you, Mr Tonkin,” I said, offering a hand. He let go of his hat and shook my hand with his own, slightly clammy one.

  We stepped away, leaving him to finish up with PC Lewis and headed down the path.

  “The park is owned by the council,” Fry told me as we walked. “Run by volunteers.”

  “Any CCTV?” I asked.

  “There’s a camera over by the café.”

  “It gets locked at night,” I muttered. “And nobody saw her.” I stopped on the path, raking my hand through my hair. “Where did I leave the coffee?” I asked, turning around.