I closed the wardrobe and wandered into the adjoining bathroom, drawn to the shelf above the sink where a few bottles and tubs sat. His electric bathroom charged quietly to one side, a tube of toothpaste resting by it. I examined the bottle of face wash and moisturiser, sun cream with a high SPF, a bottle of mouthwash and an old-fashioned pot of shaving cream, complete with the little brush and stern-looking razor. There was a packet there as well that I picked up, medication for sleeping. Non-prescription, he must have picked it up from the chemist or something. I opened it, checking the contents. There were two sheets of tablets, one of them full, the other nearly empty and when I opened the cupboard to my side, I found another box ready to go, along with all the usual medical supplies people had knocking around their house. Painkillers and hay fever tablets, a box of plasters and some antiseptic spray, all placed as neatly inside as the folded towels and extra bottles of shampoo.
A very tidy man. A very tidy man who had trouble sleeping. I picked up the box of sleeping pills again and checked the back where it advised against drinking alcohol when taking them. I wondered if Schmidt was the stickler for such advice, then considered the lack of alcohol in the house, not even on his shopping list. No nice bottles of whiskey or gin, only the unopened wine left on the coffee table, not a glass in sight. A gift perhaps, either from his visitor last night or someone else. The wrong gift from a well-intended stranger, perhaps. Maybe he’d watered a friend’s plants whilst they were on holiday, and this was their thanks.
I left the bathroom and took the pills with me, walking back into the main room of the flat, where Dr Cavell had stood up, standing back as some others packed the body into a bag and onto a stretcher. She looked over as I walked in and pulled her suit down, tying the arms around her waist and pulling her gloves off.
“Thought you’d rather me get him out of here sooner rather than later,” she said.
“I would, thank you. Hold off a moment, though,” I called to the team. “Give Dr Crowe a bit more time.”
Dr Cavell nodded and wandered towards me, her arms folded.
“First thoughts?” I asked her.
“Laceration to the throat, but not a slice, like I said. I’ll have to give him a proper look to see how deep the wound goes and give you a reference on the weapon, but the likelihood is it was a knife.”
“Usually is,” I replied.
Dr Cavell nodded. “He’s been here long enough to have bled out, killed last night, I’d say. No earlier than nine, no later than one this morning, I’d say. I’ll get you a clearer window when I’ve opened him up.”
I grimaced. “Delightful.”
She just shrugged and carried on talking. “No other obvious signs of trauma, no other wounds, no bruising, no sign of a physical struggle. His hands are pretty bloodied, but I’d wager that’s his own blood,” she lifted her hands to her neck, the way he likely did when he was stabbed.
“Do me a favour and run some blood tests as soon as you can,” I requested. “I want to know if there was any alcohol in his system or anything that looks like it’s from a sleeping medication.”
Dr Cavell held my gaze and nodded firmly. “Will do. Prescription?”
“Counter. But not the herbal kind,” I said, handing her the box. She flipped it over, eyes running across the ingredients and nodded.
“Might not be in his system anymore,” she warned me. “And there’s not really much blood for me to look at.”
I nodded, aware of that, but I was running every angle I could. If he had taken the pills, ready to wind down for the night, he might have been drowsy already, dizzy and unfocused. An easier target. If he hadn’t, then he hadn’t, but I’d rather know than not.
“I appreciate it, Dr Cavell. And I appreciate you getting out here as fast as you did.”
She nodded, slipping the box of pills into an evidence bag. “Glad to be of service. And have a proper body to look into,” she added. “Chief always seems to give you boys the best cases.”
“And the worst,” I added, my eyes darting over the body. It was hard enough mixing work and personal life in this job, but when they clashed like this… I couldn’t imagine how Lena felt, and part of me really didn’t want to.
“Well, I’m no Dr Crowe,” Cavell said, “but I’ll do what I can for you, Thatcher.”
I gave her a smile, then touched her shoulder briefly as I walked past her, back over to the coffee table, grabbing the photo album, the laptop, the phone, and swept some of the other things into Schmidt’s bag, lugging it over my shoulder. Nothing had been taken, which was as interesting to me as it was convenient. Someone had come in, killed him, and left so much behind. Normally we were pulling our hair out, hoping to find a victim’s phone or laptop, even if they were dead and maybe damaged with being clogged up by blood.
“I’m going to move Lena,” I told Dr Cavell. “Get her back to the station. Give me a few minutes before you bring him down. I don’t want to trigger her.”
Cavell nodded immediately, not even moving from where she stood. “Of course.”
I flashed her yet another grateful smile, and she picked up Crowe’s bag from the floor and handed it to me. It was heavier than I thought it would be, and I readjusted my weight as I walked out of the flat and headed down the stairs. A few neighbours stood in their open doorways, watching.
I stopped by the officer at the door.
“Sir,” he nodded.
“Anything from the neighbours?” I asked.
“Nobody saw anything, apparently. No strangers reported, but we’ll come back later on when the others have all returned. Someone might have seen something before they heard what had happened.”
“Good man. I’ll leave you to it,” I said, gripping Lena’s bag and walking towards the door. He reached for it, pushing it open for me, and I strode out into the clean, fresh if cold, air. I breathed in a few lungsful, not realising how stagnant that flat had been until I was no longer in and perused the area.
The crowd outside had dispersed, and I spotted Fry over by PC Dunnes, her hands propped on her hips. I wondered who it was that had made the commotion that drew her out here in the first place. Press, most likely. They wouldn’t be willing to turn down a good story until someone with more rank to pull sent them off. I was impressed with how empty the street was, save for a few curious passers-by at the end of the road and the ever-present curtains twitchers that lived in the other houses. Though since someone had been killed on their street, a little curiosity and caution were to be expected. I turned around, looking out for where Mills and Crowe had gotten to. I heard her voice, raspy, but strong coming from behind the ambulance.
“--you can’t sit out here with me and miss all the action upstairs for too long.” She was saying as I walked towards them. He had an arm loosely wrapped around her shoulders, and her head was against his. If her hair was tickling his face, he made no mention of it, nor would he. Mills would suffer through blisters and splinters rather than leave a friend in a time of crisis.
I should know. He’d seen me through many of my own.
“Not necessary,” I said before she could send Mills back to me, stepping away from the shadow of the building.
They both looked round as I walked down, sitting beside her on the kerb, dropping her bag by her feet and taking her hand. They were hidden here from the crowd before they had been sent off, but it wouldn’t be the best place to sit for much longer, Dr Cavell did have to get on, and that meant bringing Dr Schmidt out and getting him to the station.
Lena looked at me. “Tell me what Cavell said, and I’ll tell you if she’s right.”
I snorted. “I thought you liked Love,” I said, remembering that she was one of the few other pathologists Lena would actually grab a pint with.
“Her name is Love?” Mills asked, peering around Crowe. I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t mind my slipping up that piece of information. Dr Cavell wasn’t all that fond of her name, so naturally, she wasn’t keen on many people knowing what i
t was.
“I do like her,” Crowe said. “But I’d like to know what she knows.”
“That’s sharing information, Lena. I can’t do that,” I replied. “Besides, she doesn’t know much yet, and you’ve no doubt drawn your own conclusion already.”
Grieving and shocked aside, Crowe would have seen the body long enough to start picking out details. Beside her, Mills met my gaze and nodded. She had.
“Now you decide you’re too good for playing favourites?” she asked, tugging my hand.
“Hark who’s talking,” I replied, looking behind her to where Dr Cavell appeared in the door of the building, her brow furrowed. It was time to move. “Let’s head back to the station,” I said, pulling her to her feet, her white suit rustling as she stood. I hauled Schmidt’s bag onto my shoulder as Mills stood up and took Lena’s.
“I’ll drive her car back,” he said as he fished around her back for her keys.
“Be careful. I think there’s a loose scalpel in there,” Crowe said, her hand still clutching mine.
Mills looked up, hair in his face with an appalled look. “Why?” he asked. Even I blinked at that, but Lena just shrugged.
I tugged her away, nodding to Dr Cavell, who walked outside, the stretcher behind her, keeping Crowe facing forwards as we walked towards my car.
“I’ve told Mills all I know,” she said as I opened the boot and dropped Schmidt’s bag inside.
“I wasn’t planning on questioning you, Lena,” I told her, shutting the boot and turning to face her.
She looked pale and nauseous, her eyes red and puffy. I held out my arms stiffly, and after a brief look of surprise on her face, she walked forward, resting her head against my chest, arms wrapping around my middle. I hugged her back, my chin on her head.
“I’m sorry, Lena,” I muttered.
“I know,” she replied, her voice muffled by my coat. “I also know that you have more questions for me,” she added.
“None that are too urgent,” I replied, letting go and walking to the passenger side, holding the door open for her.
“My friend has been murdered, Maxie. As far as I’m concerned, all questions are urgent.”
“Let me at least get us to the station,” I said. “Get you some tea or something before you collapse.”
“I’m not going to collapse,” she argued, but she climbed into the car without another word, looking relieved as she sank back against the chair. I shut the door and walked around to the driver’s seat, watching as the ambulance peeled off down the road, closely followed by Mills in Lena’s car. Fry stayed behind to help shut everything up, and I waved at her before climbing in and starting the engine.
Lena had closed her eyes, and I tuned the radio into a classical music station that I knew she liked as we drove back. A moment’s rest, because as she well knew, I did indeed have more questions.
Six
Thatcher
The drive to the station seemed to take no time at all, and the day was slipping away from us faster than I realised. This morning at the courthouse already felt like it had happened a week ago. Whatever energy Crowe had been running on, shock most likely, had long faded away by the time I pulled into the station car park. She drooped against the seat, her eyes downcast but not closed, all the life drained from her. I left everything in the boot, for now, climbing from the car and walking to her door, needing both arms to get her out and walking to the front doors. She gave no complaint, just leant against me as we walked in a strange three-legged race fashion past the desk sergeant and up the stairs. There was already a faint grimness to the station, and I clocked the sympathetic look the sergeant sent her way. News had made its way around that Lena had known our latest victim, and there’d be sympathy by the bucket load to be found for her. As we reached the top of the stairs, Sharp appeared striding towards us with an uncharacteristic expression of sorrow on her face. She nodded to me then reached out to take Lena’s arm.
“Come into my office, Lena,” she said, leading her away.
“I’ll get some tea,” I said quietly, already moving off in the direction of the kitchen. Poor Lena. If there was anyone I’d ever met who didn’t deserve such a thing to happen to her, it was Lena. Bright, happy Lena who spent her day surrounded by death and yet somehow remained one of the cheeriest people I’d ever known.
I tapped a passing constable on my way there, and she turned, looking up at me.
“Sir?”
“Does her wife know?” I asked, nodding in the direction of Sharp’s door, where the two women just slipped in.
The constable shook her head. “I don’t think so, sir.”
I nodded grimly, tasking the job to myself. I thanked her, then ducked into the kitchen and put the kettle to boil, grabbing four mugs and dropping a tea bag and a spoon of sugar in each one. I think we could all use the sugar today. I found Lena’s wife’s number in my phone and sent her a quick text, brief on the details, but with the general gist that her presence would be greatly appreciated. Once it had sent, I braced my arms against the counter and leant forward, eyes closed, my forehead lightly touching the cold laminate of the cupboard before me.
Footsteps wandered in, and someone opened the fridge for the milk and slid it across the counter before settling beside me. I opened my eyes to find Mills with his back against the counter, arms folded, staring at the magnets on the fridge door. I didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t much I could say. This was our nightmare, the one we all shared, that the next body would be one we knew. It hadn’t happened for so long that most of us didn’t bother to dwell too heavily upon it. Lena’s news was a shock to the system, one that would have us all pressing precautions on our loved ones.
As I looked at him, Mills turned his head to meet my stare and gave me a small smile.
“Anything I can do?” he asked. I knew he would. Mills liked to be busy. Sitting and twiddling his thumbs was not in his nature.
I dug my car keys from my pocket and pressed them into his hand. “I left some things in the boot. Go and grab them for me, and drop the laptop and phone in with Wasco, see what he can do with them.”
Mills gripped the keys and nodded, a strand of too-long black hair flopping over his eyes. The kettle finished boiling as he left, and I finished making the tea, swiping a packet of biscuits that I doubted any of us would really touch and carried the lot through the station and into Sharp’s office.
She and Lena were sitting on the sofa that was pushed against the shelves on the wall, a bright blanket around Lena’s shoulders. I placed the tray of mugs down and passed one to each of them.
“Mills is just picking some stuff up from the car,” I told them, pulling the chair from the desk around so that I could sit opposite them. “He’ll be up in a minute.”
Sharp turned to me, the sympathy wavering for a split second as her more professional instincts pricked. “Evidence?” she asked simply.
I shrugged my shoulders. “We think so. Some things for Wasco, in any case.”
“You won’t find much,” Lena said in a quiet, raspy voice. “He wasn’t all that great with technology. Always struggling with computers.” She shook her head, smiling with her tears. “The only man I know who still printed off PDFs to read.”
“Technology moves faster than most of us can keep up with,” Sharp said. On cue, my phone dinged, and I pulled it from my pocket to spare it a quick glance.
“I texted your wife,” I told Lena. “She’s on her way in.”
She nodded gratefully, took a sip of tea with a slight grimace; she hated sugar in her tea, then sighed heavily.
“I suppose we should get those questions out of the way now then, eh?” she asked.
“Just tell me what you told Mills,” I requested simply enough.
“We met at university,” she started, sniffing loudly, “both doing forensics. Small friend group, most of us still stay in touch. I hadn’t seen him for a while, though, because he was knees deep in this new job of his. If I kn
ew what the job was—” She interjected before I could ask. “I would tell you about it.”
I smiled and nodded for her to carry on. She breathed deeply and pushed her white curls back from her face.
“He used to have a girlfriend, but she moved away a few years ago, and he’s not really bothered since then. Very private, didn’t really like having people over—I wasn’t even really sure of his address, but I knew it was in that leg of the woods. Worked for a company that provides forensic anthropological services,” she added. “And he was good at it, best in the business. Could have had a much bigger career if he’d wanted to.”
“Was he sober?” I asked.
Lena blinked. “He was,” she said, staring at me. “He’d have the odd mulled wine at Christmas, but otherwise, he barely touched the stuff.”
I nodded, thinking about the bottle of fancy wine that had been left unopened on the coffee table. If it was a gift, why was it not tucked away in a cupboard somewhere gathering dust?
“Did he have any health problems?” I asked. “Trouble sleeping?”
Lena sipped at her tea and nodded. “Long as I’ve known him, he’s always been something of an insomniac. I tried to tell him to get it professionally sorted, but he never did. I think he got too much done in those hours of being awake,” she said with a shrug. I recognised the tinge of disapproval to her tone as she said that Sharp did too if the slight quirk of her mouth was any indication. Well, so far, so good.
“Any personal problems?” I asked.
“Stefan didn’t really have enough of a social life for that, to tell the truth, Max. His idea of a big night was coming to ours for dinner and games.”
“I’ve played charades with you before, Lena, so I’d say he was right about that,” I replied. She smiled, sipping at her tea.
“You put sugar in this,” she said.
Cradle to Coffin (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 10) Page 5