DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  I hedged a guess. “But not always overly appreciative?”

  Her head shot up. “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Twelve years and no promotion?”

  “I never wanted a promotion,” she answered, “I like my work. Simple, you know? None of these complicated meetings or anything.”

  “I never been one for meetings myself,” I admitted, Mills nodding in agreement beside me. We had had a rather tense meeting with Sharp the other week. Apparently, I lacked a necessary respect when dealing with superior officers who didn’t happen to be her. I solved the cases, what did it matter?

  “Ms Renner, when was the last time you saw Mr Hughes?”

  “Yesterday. Just after lunch. He went into the village on his business, and I stayed here just double-checking our travel arrangements. We were supposed to be leaving today.”

  “What time might that have been?”

  “He left at about two.”

  “And when did you expect to see him return?”

  “By dinner, at least. We ate dinner together most nights since we don’t know anyone else and eating alone is never very nice, is it?” I myself didn’t mind it so much. Habit, I suppose.

  “And when he didn’t come back when you expected, were you worried? Did you call him?”

  “No. Not really. Mr Hughes can be a, could be,” she corrected herself, “a little impulsive. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he ended up in the local pub for a few drinks. But I left a note in his hotel room and then this morning when there was no sign of him, he wasn’t there. And there was all the hubbub with people running in and chattering all nervously, and I went with them into the village. Thought I’d find him down there in the pub or something.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “Sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Ms Renner,” I assured her, fishing a clean tissue from my pocket and offering it over. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm Mr Hughes?”

  She shook her head. “No. Like I said, he was a good boss, good man. Am I still able to go home today? My brother’s watching my plants for me, and I don’t like to leave them alone for long.”

  “I’m afraid we would prefer you to stay a while longer. You’re the only one here who was close to Mr Hughes. Your input will be crucial.”

  “How long have you been in Yorkshire, Ms Renner?” Mills asked.

  “About two weeks,” she answered. “We were in York for some time before coming out here. Always liked a bit of travelling, did Samuel.”

  Mills nodded, “and you were here on his business on buying land?”

  “We were.”

  “Lots of coming and going I’d imagine,” I said, crossing one leg over the other. “You wouldn’t happen to have a record of his movement these past few days, would you? Appointments, plans and such like.”

  “Some, but like I said, he was prone to wandering off,” she reminded us. “All of his scheduled things I have. They ought to be on his phone too.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have his phone, so we shall be relying on you, Ms Renner.”

  She looked at me, surprised.

  “No phone?”

  “Not unless he left it here?” I suggested.

  She shook her head, “oh, he never went anywhere without it.”

  “Did he carry a bag or a briefcase with his things?” Mills asked her. Not quite as useful as a phone, but it would be handy for us to have.

  “Yes,” she told us, “he carried a satchel. Always had that with him too. Had an emergency charger and everything.”

  “He took it with him yesterday?” I assumed.

  “He did.”

  I nodded to Mills who made a quick note and looked back to Ms Renner, whose gaze had drifted away from us to the window and the rolling hills outside.

  “Thank you for your help, Ms Renner,” she looked back over, “We shouldn’t take up much more of your time. Did Mr Hughes have any family?”

  “Parents. A sister, all back in London. Poor dears, they’ll be crushed.”

  “If you could pass along their contact information, we would appreciate that as well.”

  Another teary nod.

  “Ms Renner,” Mills leant forward, “did Mr Hughes ever mention a name, Meena?”

  “Meena? Oh yes, she was a girl he was seeing. Only been on a few dates, but he looked rather smitten. She was very different from his usual type, different ideas. Could have changed his business,” she laughed.

  “How so?”

  “Oh you know she was... what’s the word?... more left wing, I suppose. Never really liked some of his business proposals.”

  “Thank you, Ms Renner. That’s all we need from you for now. We have the number of the hotel, but I’ll leave you my card in case you think of anything,” I slid it under the cup of tea she had abandoned.

  “What happens next?”

  “We carry on with procedure, Ms Renner. But hopefully, we can have this solved, and you home as soon as possible.” I stood up, Mills jumping up alongside.

  “Please call if there is anything you can think that might help us.” She nodded, folding her hands together again, and Mills and I strolled out to the front desk.

  “Thoughts?” I asked Mills, leaning against the desk.

  “Seemed pretty sad.”

  “Seemed pretty detached.”

  “Probably shocked,” he allowed.

  “Probably. Lots of past tense,” I had noticed, “usually takes them a bit longer than that.”

  “She has been sitting with it all morning,” he pointed out.

  “There you are!” A bright little voice across the humdrum room appeared at my elbow. I glanced down. A short young woman stood beside me, red hair framing her freckled face, warm brown eyes lit up with a familiar curiosity.

  “Jeannie,” I smiled.

  “Hello, Thatcher,” her lips parted in a smile, “they sent me to you, isn’t that nice?”

  “Mills this is Jeannie Gray from The Post. Jeannie, this is Detective Sergeant Mills.”

  “Oh, the new boy! Has he learnt your name yet?” she teased.

  “Mills, head upstairs, I’ll handle this and follow.” Mills hid a smirk and nodded once to Jeannie before heading for the stairs.

  “Handle me?” Jeannie quipped. “Very uncouth, Thatch.”

  I took her elbow and led her away from the desk and the prying locals.

  “Can’t believe I’m only now meeting him. What happened to the other one? Did you annoy him into quitting?”

  “He got a job at Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, lucky boy.”

  “Lucky?”

  “I see you’ve never been offered a job at Scotland Yard, Thatcher.”

  “Nor would I want one. Why are you here?”

  She sent me a withering stare and held her notebook aloft. “Someone died, Thatcher. Killed, so I hear, on Bonfire Night. You think The Post wouldn’t send their best reporter to cover such a story?”

  “But he couldn’t do it, so they sent you instead?” I teased, staring down at her. She glared right back up, her red lips twisted in a scowl.

  “Don’t be mean. You haven’t exactly got friends to spare, Thatch. So, what can you tell me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No. Early days. Just started the investigation.”

  “What if I asked you off record?”

  “Still nothing Jeannie.”

  “What about the victim, tell me that? Who was the poor bugger?”

  “Nope. And have a little compassion for the dead, Jeannie.”

  “Oh, so says you. And you know I’ll find out, eventually.”

  “Then find out eventually, I’m not telling you.”

  She stepped closer to me, her nose by my chin, the faint smell of orange blossom wafting as she moved, coils of red hair shifting as she tilted her head up.

  “This story will be out and about soon enough, this thing will write itself. Wouldn’t
you rather it comes from a trusted, reliable person such as me? Rather than those teenagers on the internet who don’t fact check or cite their sources?”

  “You have a real issue with those sites don’t you?”

  “I went to university and studied journalism.” She poked me with her pen. “I did an internship with the bloody BBC, and those little prats get paid twice as much for half as less work.”

  “Terrible.”

  “I know. Now stop distracting me and tell me what I want to know.”

  “Jeannie,” I rested my hands on her shoulder, “the second I get the go-ahead to talk about the case--”

  “You’ll call me first?”

  “I have you on speed dial.”

  “Do you? You old sap.”

  “Like you said, not very many friends. I can fit most of my contact list on my speed dial.”

  “How upsetting. Don’t distress me like that, honestly. Nobody will know when you die until three weeks later when I realise you haven’t bothered me for so long and pop round to find you withered away in your ratty old armchair.”

  “A touching tribute. I trust you to write my eulogy.”

  “I’ll use lots of metaphors.”

  “Good girl.”

  Jeannie held my stare a moment longer, “I could make you tell me.”

  “You’d never stoop so low.”

  “I know. It’s the season, though, isn’t it? Old Guy Fawkes. ‘A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy.’ Cheery, isn’t it?”

  “Guy Fawkes said that?” I asked, the words lodging in the back of my head. Nothing was more desperate than murder, but for what disease?

  “Apparently.” She tucked her notebook into her bag and sighed. “Right. Best of luck, detective. And my best to your DS. He looks nice, don’t frighten him off.”

  “I have learnt his name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Isaac.”

  “And how many weeks did that take you?”

  “Five.”

  “You are getting better, aren’t you?” She reached up and patted my cheek before whistling away in a blur of her long black coat and red locks.

  They could have sent some stuffy little nobody from the Post to cover this. It wasn’t her usual work. It always made things harder when Jeannie was the one digging for a story. She’s good, too good really for a local paper, and God only knows I can never say no for long.

  I raked my hair back from my face, rubbing my cheek where her hand had been and forced myself into a clearer head, aiming for the stairs, praying that Mills had found anything useful.

  Four

  Thatcher

  I wasn’t surprised to see that a man like Hughes had opted for the closest thing to a suite the modest country hotel could offer. The large room boasted a four-poster bed, a log burner and sofas, a claw foot bath and a writing desk pressed against one the several long windows that looked out over the river. The whole room was decked out in lavish wallpaper and grand, and colourful rugs spilt over the wooden floors.

  I let out a slow whistle as I kicked the door shut with my heel. There were flats as less well furnished than this. Made my own home look like bloody student quarters. It was also, I noticed, very clean. There was barely any sign of anyone having stayed here.

  “Quite the room isn’t it?” Mills knelt by several leather suitcases, gloves on, picking through the contents.

  “Thought it would look a little more lived-in,” I commented, walking to the desk and checking the empty drawers, “considering how long he was here.”

  “Looks like he must have gotten himself all packed up before going yesterday,” Mills told me.

  “Must have. Any sign of the phone, laptop, anything?”

  “No. Wallet though,” he pointed to an evidence bag on one of the chairs, a smart leather wallet inside.

  “Definitely Samuel Hughes then?”

  “Definitely. Didn’t carry any cash, there are credit and debit cards inside. Loyalty card for the same coffee shop as the receipt he had.”

  “Any photographs?”

  “Not one.”

  “Not even of his mother?” I tutted and walked over to where he knelt. The bags probably cost as much as everything else he had, a small leather hold-all and a larger case. Mills had opened the hold-all, which was more or less empty, saving a phone charger, a crumpled copy of a local map, one of those on the go shoe polish sticks and a wash bag.

  “Do you still carry cash around these days, Mills?”

  “Never know when you might need it, sir. For parking or tipping and things.”

  “Do you think men like Mr Hughes get as rich as they do by being generous with their tips?”

  There was a loud creak from across the room, through the adjoining wall. My head shot up, and I narrowed my eyes, crossing the wall. A large painting hung there, a local scene of a dog hunt. I listened with my ear close to the wall, Mills silent behind me. There was a faint shuffling of someone in the next room, the sound of a drawer being opened. I wondered how many guests were staying here, how many of them knew where Mr Hughes’s room had been.

  “Anything, sir?”

  I kept my eyes on the wall, unsure, almost as if I could sense someone on the other side, but I stepped back and muttered,

  “No.”

  “Loud floorboards,” Mills commented, standing up as I pulled my gloves on and pulled the suitcase towards me.

  “That girl seemed nice,” he said conversationally. The case was filled with more smart clothes, quality fabric all of it, neatly folded and rolled, tucked into the case with care. Socks folded up, tucked into a pair of shoes.

  “Girl?” I doubted he meant Ms Renner.

  “From the paper. Jeannie, was it?”

  “I wouldn’t call her a nice girl to her face if I were you, Mills.”

  “Friend of yours, is she, sir?”

  “Something like that. She doesn’t usually cover stories like these.”

  “What does she usually do?”

  “Get in my way and upset me. Sometimes she buys coffee though,” I added. Hughes’s suitcase was unhelpful, other than showing me that he had a handsome collection of cashmere jumpers and several pairs of the leather shoes he was wearing. I opened the washbag. Its contents were nondescript, fancy soaps, but nothing special.

  I leant back on my heels and let out an impatient sigh.

  “How many cleaners in this place?”

  “Landlord said that the maid assigned to Mr Hughes and his assistant was a girl called Paige. She’s here, downstairs.”

  “Let’s get forensic in here, see if they can find anything. Think you’re right about them being ready to go, though, Mills. Place is spotless.”

  Even his shirts were hanging in garment bags, crisp and starched, trousers too.

  “Phone charger is here, sir.”

  “Nothing else? No little notes or memos to himself? Packing list? Look at that bag,” I pointed, “and tell me organization like that doesn’t require a checklist or a bloody diagram.”

  The corner of Mills’s mouth twitched. “Must have had a system.”

  “I haven’t met many well-to-do businessmen with German watches and assistants that organise themselves as well as this.”

  “Nor I sir, but It’s possible.”

  “Maybe old Cynthia packed for him.”

  “Would have needed his pyjamas.”

  “Not everyone sleeps in pyjamas, Mills,” I stood up with a groan.

  “Wash bag then, for this morning?”

  The wash bag lay on top, easily accessible still.

  “Let’s talk to this maid, see what she thought of him.”

  I didn’t have much hope. Maids were good at getting in and doing the job without having to interact with too many people. We went back downstairs, and the landlord took us back to a small staff room beside the kitchen. Paige was a young girl, part-time student or something, sat on a chair with her arms folded around herself.

  “Paige, these
are the police,” the landlord said as he walked us in. “They’ve a few questions for you, lass, about Mr Hughes.”

  Paige nodded, ponytail swinging, and I sat down on a chair a little way apart from her, Mills beside me. The landlord left the door open but wandered to the other side of the kitchen where a few other staff members and villagers mingled.

  This would be their gossip for months to come, I thought. Made it difficult to get through, communities like this would close up around their own when needed.

  “Hello, Paige. Sorry to put you through this.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m DCI Thatcher, and this is my sergeant, Mills. You worked here long?”

  “Bout a year or so. Uncle’s the landlord.”

  “Family business, very nice.”

  Another shrug.

  “Did you see much of Mr Hughes when he stayed here?”

  She shook her head, “went in to clean when he was out for the day. Never ordered anything up to the room or anything except at night and I don’t work nights.”

  “Did you meet him at all?”

  “When he first came.”

  “And what did you make him?”

  Her face turned into a scowl, “he was rich. Posh, you know? Barely noticed I was there.”

  “When did you last clean his room?”

  “Yesterday when he and Ms Renner were down for lunch. She told me to leave it then since I’d only have to clean again when they left.”

  “Was he a tidy man?”

  Paige laughed, “tidy? No. It was like cleaning up after my thirteen-year-old brother. Socks on the floor, clothes all over the chairs - if he were my brother,” she added, “my mum would have given him a smack.”

  I smiled at her and cast a look at Mills. He was frowning, still looking at the girl as his hand-scribbled down notes without looking at the page.

  “Had he packed his things yesterday? Before leaving.”

  “No. Ms Renner did that sort of thing for him usually.”

  Interesting.

  “Did make much use of anything in the room? The fire, desk?”

  “Emptied his bin a few times. Just scribbles though, you know? He had terrible handwriting, like a doctor.”

  “Any of it seem important?”