DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  He answered straight away. “What is it?”

  “He was here again. In the village, asking questions.”

  “The detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I told you, he was asking more questions. He knows that Hughes didn’t die where we left him,” I hissed quietly, “he knows that something happened in those hours between.”

  “He doesn’t know what. And he won’t exactly find out will he?” He sounded annoyed, impatient. Seemed unfair, seeing how I was the one in the village, I was the one who saw Thatcher and his journalist leave Oxeye Cottage.

  “He wasn’t here alone.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “The journalist from the Post. Jeannie Gray.”

  There was a slight pause, muffled noise coming from wherever he was. “The one who interviewed him? The one doing those pieces on developed land.”

  “Yes, her.”

  “Why was she with him?”

  “I didn’t exactly go and ask them outright, did I?”

  He was quiet again.

  “You still have the laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take everything from it that matters. Anything about the deal, the contracts, anything that might be about us and then get rid of it.”

  “Get rid of it where?”

  “Just get rid of it. If that’s gone, at least we don’t have to worry about it anymore. Do it tonight. Call me when It’s done.”

  He hung up, and I stared at the phone in disbelief. He was brilliant, most of this had been his idea, but there were times when he was dreadfully unhelpful.

  I’d made quick work of getting back and crawling under my bed for the satchel, getting the computer running. There wasn’t anything else of value in there. A few notes, the contracts which we’d already dealt with, a pen and a few pieces of rubbish.

  I cleared the laptop, copying everything we needed and left the rest. His pictures, family and holidays, blurry snapshots that probably didn’t mean anything. As I worked, my mind drew back to the detective. If he was as smart as people hoped, as people said he was, then getting rid of the laptop might not be enough to keep us in the clear.

  I worried that it would not be too hard for him to put together the puzzle, figure out what little detour Samuel Hughes had taken that day through the woods. The missing laptop and phone were drawing attention, rather too much of it. I needed to get rid of the laptop now. There wasn’t much else keeping them for. Anything useful he had kept on there I now had, the rest, family pictures and bookmarked papers, wouldn’t exactly be missed.

  As for the phone, I still couldn’t find it. I’d looked all around the field and the outer woods. It must have fallen from his pocket as we dragged him to the pyre, lost in the woods somewhere, but I couldn’t exactly go searching around there without drawing attention. The laptop first, get rid of this, and then I could focus on the phone.

  I still had his bag, or satchel, I suppose it was. The leather was new, still shiny and tough. I put the laptop back in and folded it shut, tightening the buckles. I wanted it gone, I wanted to throw it from the window or lob it in the fire. It could hear it almost, ticking and whirring, hidden where it was. I needed it gone, and I needed to make sure the detective did not find it.

  There weren’t many places I could go with it and not be seen. The village was too small, everyone knew everyone, and my face would raise suspicion.

  There were the woods, of course, but I didn’t want to go back there if I could help it. It was hard enough trying to forget the sight of him, bleeding and bashed in, the sound of it too, the crunch and squish. And if the phone was still in there, then I needed to keep the laptop far away.

  I shook my head.

  Get it done. The sooner it was done, the sooner it would be over. Then detective inspector Thatcher, his notepad wielding sergeant and little journalist sidekick could stop digging around.

  There weren’t enough leads, I could see it as he walked to his car this morning, the journalist in his hand. There wasn’t anything solid for him to use, no clear paths to follow. It was annoying him, eating him up on the inside. Good. Cold cases happened, nobody was arrested or convicted and would just be left. Maybe he’d come back to it in twenty years’ time, but by then, that wouldn’t matter to me.

  It was all for the better, I told myself, trying to soothe the panic that had sprung up this morning. Hughes was gone, the stupid deal was over, and things would only be better for us now.

  Once the bag was gone, anyway.

  The only place I could think of was the river. Secluded, surrounded by enough trees to hide anyone’s shadow as they walked along. Maybe I could go during the day, pass myself off as just another walker enjoying the cold air. Too risky.

  I waited for it to grow darker, the lights in the village slowly fluttering out, houses growing dark and quiet before heading outside.

  It was cold, frightfully so. Too cold to go snooping about the river, in any case, and with any luck, the bloody thing would freeze over in the winter. My breath came out in a white cloud before my face, the cold air biting at my nose and cheeks.

  I wrapped my coat tightly around myself and pulled my scarf up over my mouth and nose, pulled my hat down my head and stuffed my hands into gloves. I held the satchel against my chest, gripping it tightly and walked away from the warm building, avoiding the windows and connecting paths, down towards the river. Or at least, to where the river ought to be.

  As much as it was cold, it was even darker. It could almost feel like I wasn’t even in a village, all the light was snuffed out like a blanket had been thrown over the hills we were nestled in. It was unpleasant, and yet peaceful. I might enjoy it in other circumstances.

  Animals stirred in the woods, nocturnal hoots and chattering coming from the trees and bushes surrounding me. I had a small torch, facing down to light the path so that I didn’t trip over a rock or root and splatter my head against something.

  I heard the river before I saw it. If I hadn’t, I might have wandered right down the bank, straight into it. The water rushed past in a roar, slowing over rocks and weeds, tangling plants that got dragged downstream like hair. I carefully scaled down the slippery bank and dislodged a few rocks from the shallow edge of the river, and opened the satchel, dropping them inside before closing it back up again.

  I stood up and tossed it towards the middle of the river as far as I could, trying not to make too much noise. It bobbed on the surface for a moment, then slowly sank, the water swallowing it up, hidden by reeds. A few bubbles rose to the top, and then it was still again.

  I scrambled back up the riverbank, slipping on the damp, muddy grass and collapsed in the dirt, leaning against a tree. I felt the weight slowly leave my chest and stared out at the river. The night was quiet, and the laptop was gone. On slightly trembling legs, I pushed myself and walked quickly back to the warmth I had abandoned.

  It was done, at least. One more piece of Samuel Hughes gone.

  I managed to get back inside without anyone seeing me, peeling off all my damp and muddy clothes and stepped into a hot shower, rinsing again, the invisible blood that I could still feel clinging to me. It would wash off eventually, and with Hughes out of the way, things would quickly turn in my favour.

  Our favour, I reminded myself, dressing warmly and sitting before the fire, snatching my phone and finding his name in my contacts. Not his real name, of course, we couldn’t have that. He answered straight away.

  “Is it done? Did you get rid of it?”

  “I did. It’s gone.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “It was pitch black out there, and I couldn’t see my own feet.”

  “Did you get everything we need from it?”

  “All of his business plans and contracts. Nothing else was very important.”

  “Good. And there’s no cha
nce of anyone finding it?”

  “Not unless they plan on diving into the river in November. Can’t think what idiot would do something like that.”

  “Nor I. What about the phone? Have you found it yet?”

  “Still no sign of it. But they don’t have it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to find it. Can you get back out in the woods, check around there?”

  “I can’t traipse over the entire wood looking for it,” I argued, “you could come and actually help me with some of this you know. At the moment It’s my hands that are getting dirty.”

  “Your hands? If I recall it wasn’t you who dragged him to the bonfire was it? You could hardly do that on your own, could you?” I bristled slightly.

  “It was me who did the rest,” I reminded him darkly. He was quiet again, and I said, “If you help, we’ll find it sooner. Then we can get rid of it, and hopefully, this will all blow over.”

  “This will all blow over. Would have done sooner if he’d been in the right bloody bonfire.”

  “I didn’t know about the bonfire until it was too late, you know that. What would we have done? Carted him through the village square?”

  “Well it hardly matters now does it. Just find the phone and leave the rest to me.”

  “Leave what to you?” I’m doing all this. What exactly are you doing?

  “We’re still suspects, you know. We all are. I’m just trying to make sure we get crossed off their little list.”

  “How?”

  “Well, we can’t make the most of his failed business venture if we’re murder suspects and we need to keep our profiles low. I’m sorting all that out. You keep quiet.”

  “I’m more worried about the fact that the detective keeps showing up all the time.”

  “Don’t worry about him. It’s procedure. He’ll back off soon.”

  “He went to the cottage.”

  There was a slight pause, and I heard him inhale. “The cottage? Why?”

  “Why do you think? She was selling, and he wanted a chat.”

  There was another pause, longer this time. “Just find the bloody phone,” he snapped. The line went dead.

  I put my phone down and scoffed. If I couldn’t find the phone, me, who actually had some very vague idea as to where it might even be, how would they? They hadn’t even gone into the woods yet, the idiots.

  And there he was, snapping orders down the phone even though it was me who took care of the laptop, me who took care of Hughes in the woods and me who made all of this happen. He’d be sat around twiddling his thumbs if I hadn’t offered him this. And somehow, I was the ungrateful one? It was a familiar tune this, playing second best. But it wouldn’t go one for much longer. And at least if I found the phone, I’d have that extra card to hold.

  I’d have to head into the woods again soon, once all the attention around the field had gone and there was no chance of running into anyone. Dog walkers often wandered through, and I didn’t feel like explaining myself to them.

  I was annoyed, and I was tired.

  It was supposed to be easier than this. It was supposed to be quick and clean and quiet. Why didn’t they burn the bonfire? All these months, planning and watching and monitoring Samuel Hughes and his little business deals and secret meetings and for what?

  He should be a pile of ash now, his absence barely noticed. They’d probably just think that he’d taken off somewhere. A new girl in Tahiti or something. Happened all the time with men like him. Greedy men with short attention spans. No one would be surprised. I wondered if anyone would miss him, wondered if they did.

  Probably not. I hoped not.

  Ten

  Thatcher

  It was one of those days with very little light. Clouds smothered the sky, hanging over the rooftops and chimneys. People and cars drifted, hidden, along the streets. I sat at my desk, waiting for Mills. It had been another restless night, and I’d ended up pacing the house, Jeannie sleeping away quietly.

  I leant over the paperwork before me, head in my hands, and tried to piece together the past few days. It wasn’t easy. Nothing was tangible, nothing was clear. I lifted my head, my eyes landing on the frame on my desk. My mother stared back at me, all-seeing and guilt inspiring.

  “Sir,” Mills appeared in the doorway, “Sharp wants a word.”

  I groaned and pushed myself up, following him through the busy station to Sharp’s office. She sat at her desk, waiting. Mills sat down in front of her, and I closed the door, leaning against it.

  “Ma’am.”

  “You look dreadful.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I need you on the ball, Thatcher,” she scolded, standing up and leaning against the desk. “HQ’s been in touch.”

  “What did they want?”

  “To know what we know. And I, very embarrassingly, had nothing to tell them. Sit, Thatcher, and share.”

  I obliged her, not in the mood for a headmistress like scolding.

  “We know that Samuel Hughes was in the village to buy a plot of land from Eudora Babbage. The afternoon of the fifth he went to Oxeye Cottage, to meet with her. He left shortly after and between then and later that evening he was killed, his body placed in a bonfire. His laptop and phone are both missing. I assume the killer has them or we’ll find them when we have a better picture on where he was actually killed.”

  “Any word on that?”

  “Dr Crowe was finishing her report downstairs,” Mills chimed in, “said it would be with us soon. Sooner, if we stop nagging her about it.”

  “She can be very picky about her DIs,” I told him reassuringly.

  “Likes you.”

  “That’s true,” I nodded proudly.

  “Thatcher,” Sharp interrupted.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Walk me through suspects,” she pinched the bridge of her nose. “The farmer who found him, it was his land?”

  “It was. But he knew about the location of the bonfire well in advance and as far as I can tell he has no motive.”

  She nodded, fiddling with a pen. “And what the seller? Mrs Babbage.”

  “Mrs Babbage is a widow, elderly. Tough,” I said admiringly, “but not enough to kill a man and move his body on her own.”

  “She has three sons,” Mills added,

  “But they all have alibis,” I reminded him.

  “And this business rival,” she glanced at one of Mills’s notes, “this Johnson?”

  “Also has an alibi,” he told her. “He was in the city working late and then at home. I called his wife, and she confirmed his alibi.”

  Sharp blew out an irritated breath. “And what about the assistant, what do we make of her?”

  “Not quite sure,” I admitted, “she worked for him for twelve years, but I can’t really tell why. Had some strong options about his love life.”

  “Do you think there was an attachment? On her side, at least?”

  “Not enough of one to lead to murder, Ma’am.”

  “But she did stay with him that long for a reason,” she pointed out.

  “She did.”

  “What do we know about her?” She asked.

  “A little,” Mills opened his notebook. I’d asked him to find out some more about Cynthia Renner yesterday. “She grew up in Sussex, has lived in London for almost twenty years now. Parents are both out of the picture, but she has a brother.” Mills looked up. “He’s a few years younger than her, and he suffers from motor neuron disease. She cares for him.”

  She was eager to get back to London. It had been some weeks away from him.

  “Maybe that’s why she worked with him so long,” Sharp suggested, “if he was paying her well. Caring for someone is a lot of pressure, especially financially. She might not have found as good a pay working with somebody else.”

  “In that case, it wouldn’t exactly benefit her to lose her employer.”

  “No, it wouldn’
t.” Sharp sighed and sat back down, toying with a pen. “Anything from the village? Has anyone there come forward, mentioned seeing anything or anyone strange that day?”

  “No, ma’am. But it was a busy night, people coming and going, large crowds. It would have been dark as well.”

  “Someone didn’t know,” I leant forward, “they didn’t know that the bonfire had been moved, but according to the landlord in the pub, this has happened before. They pick somewhere else for it to go and then change their minds, put it back at the original site.”

  “A local might have guessed that that would happen.”

  “Unless it was their idea to put it in that field,” Mills said, “then they’d be hoping it would all go ahead.”

  I shook my head, “that’s too big a risk. They were counting on the bonfire, on him burning. If they knew there was a chance that it would be moved, they wouldn’t risk it, surely.”

  “Unless they were desperate, didn’t think.”

  “Or more likely, that they simply didn’t know. They weren’t told that the bonfire had moved.”

  “I thought the whole village knew.”

  “They did. So perhaps it was somebody from outside the village. Somebody who didn’t know about their history of changing fields at the drop of a hat, somebody to whom it didn’t occur that the fire wouldn’t ever be lit.”

  “Not many people out there who aren’t local, Thatcher.”

  “Narrows it down.”

  “You said you don’t suspect the assistant.”

  “I said she hasn’t got much of a motive. But maybe we just can’t see that. If we can get access to Hughes’s things,” I looked at Sharp, “to his files, some his documents, then maybe we get a better idea as to how his business was actually faring.”

  “We don’t have his laptop, sir.”

  “But surely he made copies? Surely he backed files up, printed things off. Wouldn’t his assistant have access to those? Maybe he emailed some to her, maybe she has access to some in his office back in London.”

  “Checking his correspondences will only get so far, Thatcher. Focus more on him for now, rather than motive. Find out where he went after he left Oxeye Cottage. He couldn’t have simply vanished from sight. It’s a small place.”