DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “How’d they do it?” she asked quietly.

  “Still not going to press,” I reminded her, nudging my shoulder against hers with a smirk.

  “Not asking as the press,” she retorted. “I’m asking as Jeannie who knows you never talk about work to anyone, ever, and it might actually be helpful to share with someone who doesn’t mind when you go barrelling off at two in the morning to look at a dead body.”

  We walked together a bit longer in silence as I debated that with myself. She waited, confident as ever.

  “Hit over the head,” I told her quietly, “repeatedly.” Her face didn’t change, not a flinch. She was as used to this as I was.

  “Left in the field…?” her voice trailed off suggestively.

  “Left in a bonfire.”

  “A bonfire?” Her hand flew to her mouth, only her wide eyes peering up at me. “But the bonfire wasn’t lit, was it?” She asked, dropping her hand.

  “No. They changed their mind, moved it to another field.”

  “Blimey. Good thing, I reckon.”

  “Killer won’t be happy.”

  “I don’t think killers ever are, Max,” she replied softly, “that’s why they’re killers.” I looked down at her, to the understanding, curious look on her face and smiled at her. She smirked back, and I looked away.

  “He was important, then?” I asked her abruptly. “The boss, the big cheese?”

  “King of the castle,” she raised her cup in a mock salute, “yes.”

  “And killed on bonfire night. Interesting timing.”

  “I don’t think he stirred up as much unrest as old Jimmy Stuart did, Thatch.”

  I chuckled at that. “Enough of it to be killed.”

  “People like him,” she leant into my side, “rich businessmen are usually killed over profit margins. And other technical jargon that matters a lot to them,” she added hastily.

  “He outbid other people?”

  “Regularly. One over here actually, local man Johnson. Builds some very ugly buildings, he does.” Her nose scrunched up. Never had I met someone with such serious opinions about buildings before.

  “How close was it?” I asked.

  “Very close. Bit nasty, I think,” she kicked a stone as she spoke, eyes on the ground, “by the end.”

  “Nasty enough to have been killed over?” I asked, my gaze on her.

  “If your ego was that badly wounded, maybe.”

  “Any other business rivals?”

  “He technically didn’t name any, so none were printed.” She smiled up at me saccharinely.

  “But you found them?”

  “I’m very good at my job,” she said with a wink.

  “Do you remember them?” I asked, trying to stay on topic.

  “Not off the top of my head. They’ll be in my notes, somewhere, I’ll dig them out for you later,” she offered, and I tugged her closer into my side.

  “And what about the landowner, what was she like?”

  “Eudora Babbage,” she remembered instantly. “Got an accent like my great aunt used to have, it was nice. Typical little old lady, born and bred in that village for generations. Tough as old nails that girl. Very devoted mother,” her voice was full of admiration.

  “Know anything about the sons?”

  “Women like them, you ask them anything about their kids, and they talk for hours. I think the oldest is a farmer, took over dad’s work. One’s a builder, and the other one’s a teacher or something.” Less admiration there.

  “Tough lads?”

  “If their mum’s anything to go by.” By the sounds of it, she wouldn’t mind if Mrs Babbage became her own mum.

  “Think they might do something like that for their mum?”

  “I think lots of people would do very horrible things for their mums, but I never met them, Thatcher,” she jabbed me with her elbow playfully, “so I have no idea.”

  “I’ll have to pay her a visit.”

  She laughed, a short, bright sound. “That’ll go over like a ton of bricks.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me,” I said sarcastically.

  “I could come with you,” she said, tugging my arm excitedly.

  “You’re not a detective.”

  “No, but I do know Eudora. That might be useful.” She looked up at me with wide, pleading eyes, lips pressed together to hide her smile.

  “I’ll have to run it by Sharp.”

  “Course you will,” she answered in mock solemnity.

  “She’ll probably say no.”

  “Or she might say all hands on deck, thank you for your kind assistance, Jeannie,” she announced to the riverbank. “I’m surprised HQ haven’t waded in,” she added, suddenly more serious.

  “More within our reach.”

  She hummed in agreement. “Not a bad drive, really. I might visit that place again once you know, the murder’s dealt with.”

  “Can you not,” I bent my head closer to hers, “say the word murder so loudly in public?”

  “I’ll try. Here.” She handed me her empty cup, slotting it into my own. “You best get back before Sharp scares your new little sergeant.” She pulled her arm away, and I caught her hand, small in my own.

  “Let me know when you find those notes.”

  “Might take a while,” she murmured.

  “That’s fine. I’ll give you a call.” Her eyes lit up,

  “About the case or just for fun?” She asked tauntingly.

  “Either or,” I shrugged my shoulders.

  She smiled at me by means of reply.

  “Want me to walk you back to the office?” I offered.

  “You’re alright, Thatch. I need to check out some things at the library, old records.”

  “Take care then.”

  Jeannie skipped closer and pressed a kiss to my cheek, “I will if you do.” She flicked her fingers in a wave over her shoulder, vanishing up the bank into the city. I watched until the red hair vanished and threw the cups away, turning and heading back to the office.

  Usually, when I left Mills alone for this long with his notes, he constructed some magnificent board of yarn trails and photographs. I really hoped that Sharp hadn’t scared him off.

  Six

  Thatcher

  It was early, the station still quiet when I got in, collapsing in my chair with the biggest mug of coffee I could find. My coat was still on, collar drawn up around my neck as I stared at Mills’s board before me. Everything was still too vague. Apparently, the family had been in touch yesterday when I was with Jeannie, none of them any the wiser as to who would do this. They were keen to have it solved though and have his body returned to London. Dr Crowe worked fast, except for the detectives that hurried and patronised her. I’d learnt that the hard way.

  Sharp had given her, hesitant, permission for me to bring Jeannie along to the village to talk to Eudora Babbage, and the smug journalist wasn’t due here for another few hours. She shared what she could about the victim, we let her break the story. Seemed a fair trade. I had the old lady to question, the farmer still in mind and the assistant nagging at the back of mind. And then there was this business rival, Johnson. I could always send Mills, he was thorough about his notes, and I trusted him well enough, he wasn’t me, but he was a bloody close second.

  “You’re in early,” Sharp leant in the doorway, her long black coat buttoned up to her chin.

  “Woke up early,” I told her. “Didn’t see much point in moping around in my dressing gown all morning. Work to do.”

  She hummed and walked in, looking at the board with her arms folded.

  “Questioning the landowner today?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Sending Mills to check on this rival, too.”

  “Johnson? I’ve heard of him.”

  “Powerful?”

  “Relatively so.”

  “The kind who could easily sweep away any threatening business?”

  “Never met him, Thatcher. You trust Mills?” She turne
d to me.

  “I do.”

  “That’s surprising. Usually have to order you to give your sergeants a longer leash.”

  “You say that as if I’ve gone through hundreds of them.”

  “You’ve gone through three, which is more than I’d like. You’re supposed to be training them up.”

  “I have. That last one's at Scotland Yard.”

  “No thanks to you. Couldn’t get far enough away.”

  “I wasn’t that bad.”

  “Well, thankfully Mills has a thicker skin. He’ll make a good DI when the time comes.”

  I rested my elbows on the desk, propping my head on one fist,

  “Looking to be rid of me after all this time, Mara?”

  “Don’t tempt me, Max. There are plenty of detectives who are less a thorn in my side than you are.”

  “Are any of them as good as me?”

  “Find this killer,” she tapped the picture of Hughes on the board, “and we’ll see. Morning, Mills,” she greeted the sergeant as she left. Mills nodded back, stepping aside for her to pass and wandered in, dumping his things on his desk.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Mills.”

  “You’re not usually in this early.”

  “I usually sleep a little better.”

  “Case kept you up?”

  It had not, in fact. I’d driven out to the old coach house my grandfather left me to find the roof had finally given in. I had no idea how I was going to patch it up, but if I didn’t do it soon, the whole place would rot down. I rubbed my face and stood up,

  “I want you to go to this Johnson’s office. Chat to him about his relationship with Hughes.”

  Mills looked surprised, “me? On my own, sir?”

  “I trust you. Should I not?”

  “No sir,” he straightened up, “I can do it.”

  “As I thought. Pay attention to the place itself, anything interesting he has in his office, on his desk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And watch his face when you mention Hughes. These sorts of men are usually pretty stoic, but they’re not robots.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I expect you to be as meticulous with your note-taking as usual.”

  Mills ducked his face, smiling. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good,” I pulled my coat around myself and picked up my coffee, “I’m heading into the village to meet Mrs Babbage, see what I can make of her. Report back here. I’ll see you at lunch. You’re buying,” I added, clapping him once on the shoulder as I left, pulling out my phone and calling Jeannie as I stepped into the street.

  For once, she answered straight away, her voice muffled by the wind. “Thatch?”

  “I’m going now. Are you ready?”

  “Rather early, isn’t it?”

  “Crime doesn’t run on a schedule, Jeannie.”

  I heard her groan down the phone, and then, “Is that a new coat? It’s very nice.”

  “Where are you?” I looked up, scanning the road.

  “Looks nice from back here.”

  I spun around and saw her, striding up the road behind me, a smirk on her face. She pulled her phone away and hung up, sticking her hands in her pockets and stopped right in front of me.

  “Morning,” I greeted.

  “Morning. You’re here early.”

  “So are you.”

  “Thought I’d be dragging you from your bed by the feet, to be honest,” I told her, walking towards my car.

  “Figured you’d be early today. Usually are when it comes to cases like this,” she said, “I know you, Max Thatcher.”

  “Forgive me for doubting.” I unlocked the car, opening the passenger door for her. She grinned and climbed in, swinging it closed behind her.

  “I usually really enjoy bonfire night,” she said as I started driving, “I think this might put a damper on it now.”

  “Because the previous treason, torture and hanging was such a pleasant thing to celebrate?”

  She ignored me. “My dad used to make parkin. Every year.” Her voice was quiet, and I glanced at her in the mirror. She rarely spoke of her dad, rarely spoke of anything but work. That was how we were. He died, I knew, a few years ago. Around the time my own mum had in fact, but Jeannie didn’t know that, and I had no plans to tell her, or anyone really.

  “Never had parkin,” I noted as I focused on the road ahead.

  “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you like dainty cakes,” she tipped her head to look at me, “and It’s like gingerbread.”

  “Oh, disgusting.”

  “What do you eat for Christmas?”

  “Everything but the gingerbread.”

  “Madness.” She shook her head, red curls bouncing. “Utter madness, Max Thatcher.”

  I held in a grin, slightly stunned that she had remembered that. Journalist, I reminded myself, it was her job to remember little things like that. I wonder if she had any small facts of Samuel Hughes that might be useful.

  “You had lunch with Samuel Hughes, didn’t you? For the interview?”

  She turned and scowled at me. Perhaps bringing that up after her fond recollection of her dead father wasn’t the best timing. Ah well, I’d done it now.

  “We did,” she confirmed anyway, drawing her attention to the window, watching the landscape roll by.

  “Anywhere nice?”

  “Usual place. Not far from the paper.”

  “What did he make of it?” I couldn’t help but smile. The place in question was a common haunt for journalists and writers, the odd university students and artists, rarely a place frequented by businessmen and bankers in their smart suits. It was why Jeannie took them there; make them uncomfortable, make them squirm.

  “Didn’t seem all that fond. Neither did his assistant. Looked rather like she wanted to fish an anti-bac wipe from her handbag and start wiping down all the surfaces.”

  “No wonder he didn’t tip the waitress.”

  “Tell me about him,” she asked.

  “It’s you who’s supposed to tell me about him.”

  “His death. He was in the field?” She didn’t have her notebook open, but Jeannie didn’t need a pen to remember things.

  “He was. Under the bonfire.”

  “Was it built around him?”

  “Not according to the farmer who found him. Looked like he’d been shoved into it, some of the wood rearranged around him.”

  “Not an easy thing shoving a dead man into a bonfire. Especially if It’s built right and these local boys always do things right.”

  I kept my eyes ahead, but I could feel her looking at me, questioning. It was a valid point.

  “Farmer didn’t know him,” I said, “what cause would he have for killing him?”

  “Little community. Maybe he wanted to look after his village.”

  “Why not burn him then? Why not use that bonfire?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the detective.”

  I sighed and shook my head. I didn’t know either. Jeannie fell quiet until we reached the village, searching for Oxeye Cottage.

  It was a nice little place, not unlike the one I used to live in. The number of times I whacked my head on those low door frames it was a wonder I ever became an inspector.

  My phone buzzed as we climbed from the car, walking to the door. A text from Mills. He was at Johnson’s office, waiting to speak to him. Good lad, I thought to myself, slipping my phone into my pocket. Jeannie waited by the door, watching me, her eyes dark in the shadows.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.” I reached over her head, lifting the knocker.

  It opened quickly, a lad leaning against it with a toothbrush in his mouth.

  “Morning, forgive the interruption. I was looking for a Mrs Eudora Babbage.” The lad looked us over, his eyes lingering briefly on Jeannie before he walked back into the cottage shouting,

  “Mum!” />
  There was a loud shuffling inside, and then an older lady, no taller than my shoulder appeared in the space. She had eyes like a hawk, staring up at us directly enough to make us stand up straight.

  “Mrs Babbage?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I held up my card, “I’m investigating Samuel Hughes and hope I might ask you a few questions about your business with him.”

  Her face didn’t falter. Her gaze only shifted to Jeannie. “And you?”

  “Jeannie Gray from the Post. We spoke over the phone, Mrs Babbage.”

  “Jeannie Gray, I remember,” she smiled fondly, “you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Come in then, I suppose. Do you take tea?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  We piled into the low-ceilinged house, following around the corner into a long kitchen. The lad was in there, toothbrush free, with two other men, much bigger than him.

  “My sons. Boys, this is Detective Inspector Thatcher and his friend from the Post. Sit down, you two.” She ushered us towards the fire, and we sank side by side onto an old, squishy sofa.

  “One of you get the tea on,” she ordered her sons, sitting opposite us on an armchair that once she had settled into it, had a vague resemblance to a throne.

  One boy set to work, the others sitting around the table, watching their mum.

  “Thank you, Mrs Babbage. And I’m sorry to bring you trouble.”

  “Not at all. We all want this matter solved. It’s not right having something like this over the village.” She adjusted her shawl and sniffed loudly. “We’re a nice place. Lots of little ones.”

  “I’ll have this cleared up as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t you have a sergeant?” She asked, “I thought you had a sergeant.”

  “He’s following up another lead back in the city.”

  “Is he?”

  “I understand you were selling a plot of land to Mr Hughes.”

  “I was.”

  “Mr Hughes has bought similar plots in a lot of places and sold them on. Was this his plan for your land?”

  “Most likely,” she snipped, “men that like only care for profit, don’t they?”

  “I shared some of his recent projects with Mrs Babbage,” Jeannie told me, “we agreed they were very ugly.”

  “Very bad for the village, too. None of us wanted to see it gone, but times are hard. I have my boys, they have their wives and children.”