“One of who?” Smith said.
“One of the old man’s goons,” Thatcher said, “ever since I hooked up with Janet, I’ve had to watch my back.”
“What do you mean?”
“That psycho professor of hers,” Thatcher said, “he’s not too happy about me shacking up with his wife. I mean, he’s ancient; what did he think would happen?”
“Are you saying that Robert Swain has threatened you?” Smith said.
“He’s clever,” Thatcher said, “he covers his tracks but I know he’s behind the heavies who keep harassing me. I’ve had enough anyway. The old bastard can have her back. It’s not worth the hassle anymore; I’m not prepared to get hurt for any woman.”
“You haven’t heard?” Smith said.
“Heard what?”
“You haven’t heard about Janet?”
“I haven’t seen her since before Christmas,” Thatcher said, “like I said, she’s not worth the hassle. What’s going on here?”
“She’s dead,” Smith said, “she was pulled out of the River Ouse yesterday.”
Thatcher looked confused. He did not seem to have taken in what Smith had told him.
“Dead?” He said.
“I’m afraid so,” Smith said.”
“Are you saying she drowned?” Thatcher said.
“She was murdered.”
“Oh my God,” Thatcher said, “when?”
“You said you last saw her before Christmas,” Smith said, “when was that exactly?”
“Christmas Eve,” Thatcher said, “we’d had a huge fight. I think it was about her old man. Anyway, she left. I figured she’d phone me when she’d had a chance to calm down a bit but she never did.”
He sat down at the bar and held his head in his hands.
“Now I know why she didn’t phone,” he said.
“Do you ever go to York?” Whitton asked.
“York?” Thatcher said, “What’s York got to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question,” Smith said.
“My mother lives in York,” Thatcher said, “I grew up in York. Why are you asking me about York?”
“When was the last time you were there?” Smith said.
“I spent a week there with the old lady,” Thatcher said, “Between Christmas and New Year. Janet had dumped me so I spent Christmas with my Mam.”
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday 18 January 2006
Sid Thatcher walked in the York police station ten minutes early. Smith had decided not to bring Thatcher in the night before; he was tired and he did not feel like staying up all night questioning Janet Swain’s boyfriend. He realized he had taken a huge risk but he had warned Thatcher of the consequences should he refuse to turn up.
“I will come after you,” he had said, “and I’ll take the Finnish doorman from the strip club with me.”
Thatcher walked up to the front desk. Smith was waiting for him. The relief was visible on his face.
“Come through,” Smith said, “I’m just waiting for my DS and then we can begin.”
He led Thatcher down the corridor to the interview rooms and opened the door to room number four.
Chalmers walked in ten minutes later. He looked exhausted.
“Morning Sarge,” Smith said, “are you alright?”
“Didn’t sleep a wink last night,” Chalmers said, “I’ve stopped smoking again and it’s not going too well.”
Ever since Smith could remember, Chalmers had been quitting smoking and starting again. He was always irritable when he tried to quit.
“You don’t look too hot yourself,” Chalmers said.
“I didn’t sleep much either,” Smith said, “I buggered up my arse last night.”
“I won’t ask,” Chalmers said, “what have we got? Who’s this?”
He pointed to Thatcher.
“Sid Thatcher,” Smith said, “he’s Janet Swain’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Chalmers said, “I thought she was married to some kind of professor.”
“She left him,” Smith said.
“I am in the room,” Thatcher said, “you’re talking as if there’s nobody else in here.”
“Shut it,” Chalmers said, “let’s get started then.”
“Sid,” Smith said, “you told me last night that you last saw Janet on Christmas Eve. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Thatcher said.
“And you haven’t seen her since then?”
“No,” Thatcher said.
Chalmers scrutinized Thatcher’s face.
“What did you do on Christmas Eve?” He said.
“We had a few drinks,” Thatcher said, “and then she left.”
“Where was this?” Chalmers said.
“Some pub in the town centre,” Thatcher said.
“In Darlington?”
“In York,” Thatcher said.
“But you live in Darlington?” Chalmers said.
“That’s right.”
“What were you doing in York?”
“My Mam lives here,” Thatcher said, “I’ve already told the other bloke this.”
“Ok,” Chalmers said, “why did Janet leave? Why didn’t you spend Christmas together?”
“We were going to,” Thatcher said, “but then we had a fight.”
“What was the fight about?” Smith said.
“Am I a suspect here?” Thatcher said, “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
“This is just a friendly chat Sid,” Smith said, “what did you fight about?”
“About Janet’s old man,” Thatcher said, “Janet was starting to feel sorry for the old bastard. She said she felt bad that he was on his own for Christmas.”
“Was that it?” Chalmers said.
“That was all,” Thatcher said, “I got the feeling she’d rather be with her ex than me. I’d had quite a bit to drink and I told her to piss off back to him if she felt like that.”
“And did she?” Chalmers said.
“Did she what?”
“Did she go back to her husband?” Chalmers said.
“I have no idea,” Thatcher said, “the last time I saw her was Christmas Eve. I swear.”
“Ok Sid,” Chalmers said, “let’s take a short break.”
He nodded to Smith and left the room.
“What do you think?” Chalmers said, “what’s your gut telling you?”
“I don’t like him,” Smith said, “I think we should dig a bit deeper. This is all starting to get a bit complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“A young woman is murdered,” Smith said, “she turns out to be a stripper who’s left her husband for a real loser. From what Thatcher told me last night, the husband didn’t take it too well.”
“What did he say?”
“Thatcher reckons that Janet Swain’s husband had arranged for some heavies to put the frighteners on him. That’s not the sort of thing a reserved History professor would normally do is it? This whole thing is either connected to the husband, the boyfriend or the sleazy joint Janet worked in.”
“And which direction is your gut telling you to go in?”
“I don’t know Sarge,” Smith said, “are murder investigations always this complicated?”
“Always,” Chalmers said, “we had one a few years back when I was still a DC. It took us over two years to get to the bottom of it. A man was found dead in his car. He had been stabbed in the back. We banged our heads against so many brick walls that we all had permanent headaches.”
“How did you solve it?” Smith said.
“We stopped thinking,” Chalmers said.
“I don’t understand.”
“We took a few steps back and cleared our heads,” Chalmers said, “we went back and interviewed everybody again. The poor bloke’s wife had killed him.”
“How did you find out.”
“When we went back it was bloody obvious,” Chalmers said, “you’ll soon learn that emptying your head of rati
onal thoughts helps. Murder is not a rational act. We’d better get cracking.”
“What about Thatcher?” Smith said.
“Let him go,” Chalmers said, “but tell him not to go too far. We’ve got nothing on him at the moment but make sure you keep an eye on him. I’m going out for a smoke.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Smith and Whitton parked outside Robert Swain’s house for the second time in less than twenty four hours.
“I knew there was something weird about this History professor,” Smith said.
“I never thought he’d have it in him to pay some hired muscle to intimidate anybody,” Whitton said, “he seemed so meek and mild.”
“His wife left him for a much younger man,” Smith said, “that can’t have done much for his ego.”
They got out of the car and walked up the pristine path to the house. The door was opened before they had even reached the house. Robert Swain was standing there in silk pajamas and leather slippers. He was holding a cup of coffee.
“Good morning detectives,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you. Come in.”
He reminded Smith of a corny James Bond villain.
They followed him inside the house. Smith had an uneasy feeling in his stomach as they went inside and Swain slammed the door behind them.
“Would you like some coffee?” Swain said, “Colombian. I blend it myself.”
“No thanks,” Smith said.
“Why the long face detective?” Swain led them through to the same sitting room they had been in the night before, “you’re far too serious. Life’s too short’ you’ll appreciate that when you get to my age.”
“Thanks for the philosophy lesson,” Smith said, “but we’re not here to discuss life, the universe and everything else.”
“Is he always so somber?” Swain asked Whitton.
“Most of the time,” Whitton smiled.
“Mr Swain,” Smith sat down and winced.
His backside was still sore from banging into the table at the strip club.
“What’s wrong?” Swain said.
“I’m just a bit sore,” Smith said, “we need to ask you a few more questions.”
“I see,” Swain said, “I assume you’ve spoken to the debonair Sid Thatcher?”
“As a matter of fact we have,” Smith said, “and he told us some rather unpleasant things.”
“How long have you been in the police force?” Swain said.
“Just over two years,” Smith said.
“They you will have learned already that it is not always safe to assume that everybody is telling the truth,” Swain finished the coffee in his cup.
“What do you mean?” Smith said.
“Sid Thatcher is a natural born liar,” Swain said, “a very convincing one. I suppose he told you that I’ve been harassing him? Threatening him?”
“What makes you say that?” Smith said.
“Because he’s a paranoid idiot,” Swain said, “maybe you should look more closely at Sid Thatcher. I’m not the only one he seems to have upset over the past few years. Quite a few people would like to hurt him.”
“We’ll look into it,” Smith said.
“Detective,” Swain said, “I knew what was going on between Thatcher and Janet long before she knew I knew if that makes any sense. I’m not stupid. I even had a quiet word with him.”
“When was this?”
“Four or five months ago,” Swain said, “Janet had already left me. I told Mr Thatcher to be very careful. It was a more a warning than a threat but he obviously didn’t see it that way.”
“What do you mean by that?” Whitton said.
“Janet was by far his superior,” Swain said, “intellectually and emotionally. I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her for very long.”
“Why did Thatcher think you’d sent some people to intimidate him?” Smith said.
Swain started to laugh.
“Sorry,” he said, “but the idea is so absurd it’s farcical. Do I really look like the kind of man who would pay someone to break your kneecaps? Where would I even begin to make contact with such people? I’m a professor of History. I fight my battles with words, not actions. Are you sure you won’t have that coffee? I’m having one. I’m afraid I’m rather addicted to the cursed stuff.”
“No thank you,” Smith said.
Swain left the room and returned a few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee.
“Where were we?” He sat down and looked out of the window.
“When was the last time you were in York Mr Swain?” Smith said.
“York?” Swain seemed lost in thought for a moment, “The beautiful city of York. Mixing memory with desire. I think I was there around six months ago. June I think it was.”
“Are you sure?” Whitton said.
“My dear,” Swain said, “I’m a History professor; a good memory is a rather crucial aspect of my job. Why don’t you just cut to the chase?”
“Excuse me?” Smith said.
“Ok, I’ll do it for you. I haven’t been to York in months, I would never hurt a fly and I most certainly did not kill my wife. You’re wasting your time here.”
“Thank you Mr Swain.”
Smith stood up.
“We’re sorry to have bothered you again,” he said, “and we’re very sorry about your wife.”
Whitton also stood up.
“Just one more question,” Smith said.
“Oh dear,” Swain said, “that has to be the oldest cliché of them all. You’ll be telling me next not to leave town.”
“My memory isn’t anywhere near as good as yours,” Smith said, “but I do remember what we spoke about last night.”
“Go on,” Swain said.
“You said that Janet left you about six months ago?”
“That’s right.”
“And the last time you were in York was roughly six months ago? Are these two events connected in any way?”
“Coincidence,” Swain said, “pure coincidence.”
His expression had changed slightly. It was a subtle change but Smith noticed it. Swain was clenching his teeth.
“Then there’s nothing else,” Smith said, “come on Whitton, let’s see what the forensics guys meant when they spoke about new evidence coming to light. Oh and Mr Swain.”
He looked Swain directly in the eyes.
“What now?” Swain said.
“Don’t leave town.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What happened back there?” Whitton said as they drove back to York.
“He’s lying,” Smith said, “he’s very good at it but there’s definitely something he’s holding back.”
“How do you mean?”
“Did you see how his whole demeanor changed when I asked him about being in York the same time his wife left him? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been to York since then too.”
“What was that about new evidence coming to light?”
“I just wanted to spook him a bit,” Smith said, “Chalmers taught me that they’re easier to crack when they’re rattled.”
“You like Chalmers don’t you?”
“He’s a cantankerous old bastard,” Smith said, “but he’s alright. He’s a hundred times more competent than Thompson.”
“Why didn’t we haul Swain in then?” Whitton said, “Why didn’t we just take him in for questioning?”
“For what?” Smith said, “We can’t prove anything yet. He’s involved in this, I’m sure of it and I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it kills me.”
“I like working with you,” Whitton said, “you never give up do you?”
“It’s early days,” Smith said, “I’m sure that after a few years on the job I’ll end up as world weary as old Thompson.”
“How’s the arse by the way?”
“Sore as hell,” Smith said.
Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.
“Smith,�
� it was Chalmers, “where are you?”
“On our way back from Darlington,” Smith said, “Janet Swain’s husband isn’t telling us everything.”
“Forget about him,” Chalmers said, “it looks like we’ve found the murder weapon.”
“What?”
“We’re not a hundred per cent sure,” Chalmers said, “but we found a crowbar. I’ve got a feeling we’re close to cracking this one.”
“Where did you find it?” Smith said.
“Bridge found it by accident,” Chalmers said, “he’s on a bit of a high at the moment so we won’t mention the by accident part. We went to Sid Thatcher’s mother’s house to have another word with him and there it was. In the back of Thatcher’s car. Webber’s going over it now. It has what looks like blood on it.”
“We’re about ten minutes away,” Smith said.
He rang off.
“Looks like Bridge found the crowbar used to kill Janet Swain,” Smith said.
“What?” Whitton said, “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Smith said, “he spotted it in the back seat of Sid Thatcher’s car.”
“That was lucky,” Whitton said.
“Hmm,” Smith said, “too lucky if you ask me.”
“You’re formulating something in that head of yours aren’t you?” Whitton said, “I can see it on your face.”
“Thatcher may be stupid,” Smith said, “but nobody’s that stupid. If he did manage to kill Janet Swain and dump her in the river, why keep the crowbar? Why keep it on the back seat of his car where anybody could have found it? Why not just throw it in the river with the body? We would’ve never found it.”
“Maybe he is that stupid,” Whitton suggested.
“I don’t buy it,” Smith said.
He parked his car outside the station.
They found Chalmers and Bridge in the canteen. Bridge was beaming from ear to ear.
“This is a turn up for the books,” Chalmers said, “we go to Sid Thatcher’s mother’s house for a friendly chat and find the murder weapon on the back seat of Thatcher’s car. Webber has just this minute confirmed it. The blood on the crowbar is Janet Swain’s and Thatcher’s fingerprints are all over it.”
“Where’s Thatcher now?” Smith said.
“We’re keeping him in one of the holding cells,” Chalmers said, “his lawyer is on the way. This time he definitely does need a lawyer.”
The Girl in the River Page 3