Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9)

by Oliver Davies

  “Sounds fair,” Harris answered.

  “And we wondered if Mills and I might be able to rattle him a bit more. He knows you at this point, and bringing in two homicide detectives could be what it takes to get him talking.”

  Harris nodded as I spoke. “Three,” she said.

  “Three what?”

  “Three homicide detectives. Or were you going to make Fry sit in the car like a child waiting for their mum?”

  I blinked and turned to Fry. “Sorry, Leila.”

  She waved her hand through the air. “Don’t worry. I am technically only just a detective constable; I don’t think it counts.”

  “Of course, it counts,” Mills argued.

  “It does. I am sorry. Blame the lack of sleep.” In fact, for someone who had literally only just gotten onto the detective track, she was having one hell of an introduction to the job. Better than solving burglaries, I supposed, but once this case was solved, she’d be back to smaller cases.

  “I can arrange that,” Harris said, scratching her chin. “Which one, anyway? I have two informants, one in jail and one out of it.”

  “I’m guessing the one out of jail would be more in the loop,” Mills said.

  “You’d be surprised,” Harris and I said in unison.

  “Whichever you think knows more,” I said to Harris. “You know them better.” She nodded sagely.

  “We’ll start with my guy on the street. Arranging a visit takes time, and I don’t want to draw too much attention to him there.”

  “Sounds good. Mills?” I turned to him. I kept forgetting that he was now leading the investigation, and from the look on his face when I deferred to him, so did he. He nodded.

  “Let’s get moving.”

  “Jolly good,” Harris beamed and pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’ll set up a meeting. Get your coats on, though. It’s cold as hell as out there.”

  “Isn’t hell warm?” Fry asked once Harris had left the room. “Like, famously warm?”

  “Let her enjoy herself,” I said, grabbing my coat and slowly easing my body into it. Fry shrugged and slipped from Mills’s desk, grabbing her jacket. The three of us, now suitably dressed, wandered out and waited for Harris outside.

  “What’s the deal with informants, then?” Fry asked, her hands in her pockets. “I mean, isn’t anyone who talks to us about a crime basically an informant?”

  I nodded, glaring at the wind as it battered my face. “Harris has a few, likes to keep her ear to the ground. Drugs tend to move around quietly, and if you don’t have a foot in the door, it’s hard to miss. I’m guessing the one she’s taking us to strike a deal. Withdrawal of charges in exchange for information, something along those lines.”

  Fry nodded happily, like I had simply confirmed the thought she already had. The doors behind us opened, and Harris strode out, still grinning.

  “Ready?”

  “Lead the way,” Mills said.

  We ended up walking, which suited us all, and Harris’s informant wasn’t far away. She was a fast walker, her long legs carrying her down the road with enough speed that Fry was almost jogging to keep pace. I lagged behind, and Mills hovered somewhere in the middle. Eventually, she slowed, matching our pace as we got closer to our destination.

  “So, my informant. His name is Buddy, and he got caught up with the wrong people. I managed to keep him from serving time, but he has enough community service hours to make Doctor Who feel bad for him. When he helps, I help to knock a few of those hours off.”

  “Nice setup,” I remarked.

  “Thank you. It’s one of my best. Anyway, he’s young and can be a bit skittish, but his heart is in the right place.” She looked annoyed. “Lad just got influenced, is all.”

  We walked down towards the river, onto the wide bank that ran down. Sat on one of the benches pushed up against the high wall, watching some geese float past, was a skinny lad, his legs bouncing nervously.

  “Hi Buddy,” Harris called quietly. Buddy looked around, and there was nobody around but us, too cold for anyone to sit and enjoy the water today. He got up, wiping his hands on his jeans as he walked over.

  “Sergeant Harris,” he nodded.

  “These are my colleagues I told you about,” she said, waving to us. “Thatcher, Mills and Fry. They work in homicide.”

  Buddy blanched a little. “This is about that girl, isn’t it? The one you mentioned before?”

  “Julia Brook,” I answered. I glanced at Mills, wanting to see how he thought to play this, and he simply looked from Buddy to me and nodded. Right then. “We wondered if you could help us, Buddy. Sergeant Harris here says you’ve got a good ear for things.”

  “I’m not involved,” he said hurriedly, looking around.

  “I’m not suggesting you are, Buddy, certainly not. It was a compliment, though, with my face. They’re hard to miss.”

  He made a funny sound, a laugh, at that.

  “Buddy,” I said slowly. “Another girl was killed last night, and in her bag, we found this.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed the receipt, showing it to him. “You know this restaurant?”

  He nodded.

  “It used to be a meeting point, didn’t it? For the county lines gang.”

  Another nod.

  “We need to know if they’re using it again, Buddy. Do you have any idea?”

  Buddy reached up and scratched his neck, pulling at the collar of his lumpy, woollen jumper.

  “What’s the problem, Buddy?” Harris called, a frown on her face.

  “Talking to you will land me in trouble,” he said.

  “Why would it land you in trouble?” she asked. “You don’t work for them anymore, do you?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “But they’ll still call me a traitor.”

  “We can protect you,” Harris assured him. “You and your mum, if that’s what’s worrying you?”

  Buddy looked down at his shoes, a pair of beaten-up Converse that looked like they were a few good walks from falling straight off his feet. I looked at his jeans, the colour faded, the denim wearing thin, his, what looked like, handmade jumper and the coat that was several sizes too big. He didn’t look like he was back in the game, that much was clear.

  He sighed, then coughed, a rattling thing from deep in his chest. At last, he nodded.

  “Words if you can, Buddy,” Fry asked politely. Buddy looked at her briefly, a tinge of colour on his cheeks.

  “I saw her a few weeks ago,” he said, looking straight at Harris. “The woman from before with the dark hair. At the window. She and him always sat at the table by the window.”

  “Did she see you?” Harris quickly asked.

  Buddy shook his head. “Was wearing the uniform, anyway. But if she’s there, then the rest of them will be.”

  “Who?”

  “Medina,” Harris answered. “Rebecca and Richard. They’re using the restaurant? You’re sure?”

  Buddy nodded. “Wouldn’t lie to you, Sergeant.” He looked at me, his eyes pale. “Another girl?”

  I nodded, and this seemed to strengthen his resolve as he lifted his chin.

  “Alright then. They’re using the restaurant again.”

  “Are they starting back up?” Harris asked.

  To this, Buddy shrugged his shoulders. “I’d have to ask about that, sergeant, and I don’t want them knowing that I’m asking.”

  “Of course not. Thank you, Buddy,” she said. “You hurry on now.”

  Buddy nodded to us each, then turned and hurried away.

  “His name’s not Buddy, is it?” Mills asked.

  “No. I told you his name the other day, Simon Marcell. His mum calls him Buddy, and it means we don’t go around shouting his name from the rooftops.”

  “I thought he was the one in jail,” Fry muttered.

  “No.”

  “You confused us,” Mills told her. “I don’t understand which of your informants are which.”

  Harris winked. “Exactly
the point, my boy.”

  I doubted that, but I didn’t really care at this point. “What does it mean if the Medinas are back?” I asked her, the question sobering her up.

  “It means we have a very good reason to watch that restaurant,” she replied, cracking her knuckles. “I’m not letting them slip away this time.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at her determination. Nor could I remember the last time I’d been to a good old-fashioned stake out.

  “We should get this up and running quickly then,” I said, and we all turned back the way we came, heading to the station.

  “I’ll check out the buildings on the other side of the road,” Harris said. “See if any of them are up for use.”

  We got back to the station, and the desk sergeant, currently speaking with a woman at the desk, waved his hand at us, then pointed to the other stairs. Downstairs. Crowe. I sent Harris and Fry on, and Mills and I headed down to her lab.

  I knocked on the door and pushed it open. She was bent over some samples and lifted her head as we walked in, jumping to her feet.

  “There he is,” she announced, tidying her things away. “The walking wounded.”

  “Not sure that’s right,” I muttered.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hopeful. Why are we here?”

  “I’ve not finished,” she emphasised, leading us over to where Hana Miyara’s body lay under a sheet. “But I’ve done some preliminary comparisons that I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Crack on, girl,” I said, as Mills and I took a stand opposite her.

  Crowe nodded to herself and pulled the sheet down. “First up, neck wound. The angle’s off. This was done from the back.” She demonstrated on Mills, standing behind him with an imaginary knife that she reached around to hold to his neck. “Dragging in an up motion. To the left, so the killer’s left-handed, I’d wager. Thank you, Mills.” She patted his shoulders, and he turned around, clearing his throat.

  “The others were all killed face on,” I recalled.

  She nodded. “They were. And all coming from left to right. Now,” she pulled the sheet further down. “Chest wounds. Barely there. These are scratches, more than anything. No internal damage, like with the first four women, but not as deep. And certainly not the stabs we saw on Julia Brook.”

  “So, we have the look of the killings as before, but not to the same effect.”

  “Exactly,” she said, replacing the sheet. “They knew the basics, throat slit, three chest wounds. But they killed from behind, unusual, from right to left, and those wounds would have barely needed stitches.”

  “Doesn’t sound like either of our chaps,” Mills muttered, folding his arms.

  “No,” she shook her head. “This is the work of a copycat, but not a very dedicated one.”

  “To distract us then,” I said. “Push us off the scent.”

  Mills snorted. “If they wanted us off the scent, then they should have thrown her bag away.”

  “Criticising murderers now, are we?” I asked mockingly. “My, my, Isaac, what would your mother say?”

  “Anyway,” Crowe interrupted, “I’ve still got the full autopsy to get through, and I’ve no solid time of death for you yet, but I thought you’d prefer to know that sooner rather than later.”

  “Indeed, we would. You are a triumph, Lena,” I told her, kissing the side of her head. “A true triumph.”

  She looked up at me with a bewildered expression. “What pain meds have they got you on, Maxie? Very odd behaviour. You keep a close eye on him, Mills, else he’ll be dancing nude in fountains before we know it.”

  “I’ve not been nude in public since the day I came into this world, Lena, and I’m not about to change that,” I said, heading for the door.

  Mills chuckled and trailed after me, thanking Lena as we left her lab.

  “You think our friends in the restaurant would be wanting to keep us off the trail?” he asked as we went up the stairs.

  “I think so. And I think Hana Miyara just walked into that place for her dinner at the wrong time. She fitted the bill, a very sad set of circumstances.”

  “At least we should be able to get them now,” Mills replied. “Though I’ll admit, I didn’t see it coming in regard to the owners of the place. Victor and Sabine don’t strike me as the sort who’d entertain such people.”

  “Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt and say they either don’t know, or they’ve been coerced into this,” I said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  He grimaced. “I feel like you say that every time and then the next time is always stranger. You’re jinxing us.”

  “I’m not jinxing us.”

  “All just coincidental then?” He asked, a smirk growing on his face.

  “Must be. I like to think that if I had some occult, god-like powers, I’d be the first to know about them.”

  Mills rolled his eyes. “Christ. I take it all back. There’s nothing god-like about you.”

  “No, no,” we reached the top of the stairs where Harris and Fry stood conversing with Sharp. “You’ve said it now, and there’s no taking it back.”

  “God help us,” he groaned. Sharp looked up.

  “Why? What have you done now?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

  “I fed his ego,” Mills muttered.

  Sharp tutted. “Never do that, Mills, lesson one.” She looked at me. “I hope you’re being sensible about this; you did spend the night in the hospital.”

  “I’ve not forgotten,” I told her. “But we’ll take shifts to make sure everyone gets a chance to rest.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Harris has filled me in, and I think it sounds good. I’ll give you the clearance, but this is now a joint investigation between your two departments. So, play nicely, children.” With that, she turned on her heel and strode back to her office.

  “Are we sure she’s not the god-like one?” I asked Mills.

  “I’m certain of it,” Fry said, looking at where she’d just been standing. “The woman is like an Amazon.”

  “Don’t tell her that, whatever you do. If you think my ego’s bad…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Shall we get moving?” I asked them all.

  “God, yes.”

  Twenty-One

  Thatcher

  The building across the street from the restaurant had been a café once, and the smell of ground coffee seemed to linger in the air in a way that made me think no amount of cleaning would ever clear it. The place was long since closed down, the building almost falling into disrepair, which wasn’t good for the economy really, but it made the old place perfect for us. The windows were all fogged up below, and we based ourselves upstairs in the old storeroom, using a few left behind crates as tables and chairs. The windows up here were half-covered with old newspapers, and the view over the top gave us a clear line of sight to the restaurant across the way, the window at the front and the alley down the side.

  Mills, Harris, and I were all up there with the equipment pointing outside, flasks of tea and coffee keeping us company. Fry was out on the street, monitoring from a bus stop with a magazine, one of Mills’s old university jumpers that he kept in his car thrown over her clothes to make her less noticeable and to lend her a bit more warmth against the cold wind. It wasn’t nice out there, but Fry made no complaints, just pulled the jumper on and plonked herself down on the bench. There were already a few people in the restaurant, but none of them matched any of the faces we’d stuck to the wall, so it was merely a question of waiting and patience. I picked up the radio from the makeshift crate table in front of me and brought it up to my face.

  “How’s it looking down there, Fry?” I asked. She was wearing an earpiece, the wire hidden by the curtain of black hair she’d let down, the strands dancing in the wind.

  “Still quiet, sir,” she replied quietly, her voice faint over the connection and the wind outside. “It looks like a table is getting ready to leave soon, though.”


  She had a better view through the restaurant window, able to see when people stood up and sat down. At her words, Mills drifted closer to our window, hand poised on the camera, ready to snap any familiar faces that came out. Harris joined him, leaning against the wall. I stayed where I was, sitting with my legs propped up on a crate in the only position I’d found that didn’t send pain lancing up my chest.

  “They’re heading to the door now,” Fry’s voice said quietly. Harris looked over Mills's shoulder as the restaurant door opened and a couple bustled out. They were elderly, with silver streaks in their hair and big scarves wrapped around them, walking hand-in-hand down the street.

  “Cute couple,” Harris said. “None of ours, though.”

  “Maybe they’re likely to come when it gets later,” Mills suggested. “Most people usually wait until it gets dark before they start committing crimes.”

  I chuckled, swinging my legs down and rising with a groan to my feet. Harris and Mills fixed me with identical grimaces.

  “It’s not so bad,” I lied.

  “No, we all make that sound standing up from a chair,” Harris drawled. “You got any more pain killers?”

  “In my coat,” I said, pointing to where the item of clothing was draped. “Not supposed to take for,” I checked my watch briefly, “another hour.”

  “You’d think that with all the advancements in medical technology,” Harris said, leaning against the wall, “that they’d come up with a pain killer that lasted all day.”

  “I think they’re most focused on, you know, finding cures for malaria and all that,” I replied.

  Harris chuckled, and the radio crackled.

  “Mills,” Fry called. “Isn’t this the ex-boyfriend?” He turned to the window, watching as a man strolled up to the restaurant, hands in his pockets, feet shuffling as he paused outside the window and looked in.

  “That’s him,” Mills said, taking a few pictures. “Eljas Pentti. Julia Brook’s ex-boyfriend.”

  I walked over to the window and peered out at the sandy blonde man as he stood on the pavement for a while, deliberating.

  “You want me to bring him in, Mills?” Fry asked.