DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  I reached home, the messy, warm home enveloping me safely. Heading up to my bedroom, I took off Mills’s clothes and stepped quickly into a hot shower. When I got out, I paused in front of the mirror, wiping away the steam and looked back over my shoulder. It wouldn’t have been much blood. Already it was scabbing over, but a nasty bruise was forming around it. A very big, jagged rock then.

  They had a good arm, I had to appreciate, not many could make a throw like that. At least they didn’t aim for my head, I allowed, pulling on several more layers of clothes. I was glad I hadn’t worn my own coat, at least, though the wool might have served as better protection, I thought as I pulled it on. I found a spare scarf and some gloves and headed back out into the evening, the city still wonderfully light and noisy, wandering to where a no-doubt highly disgruntled Mills waited.

  Nineteen

  Thatcher

  The Bell was an old Victorian building, close to the station. It often looked, especially at this time of day, like it had never left the Victorian era. It was tucked down a small road, nestled between two modern buildings, refusing to move like a splinter. I was ever thankful that it clung to life, the regular home to enough policemen to never get too rowdy and always keep the money flowing in. Its old façade needed a paint job, and inside was cramped and dark. The walls were panelled in dark, glossy wood, the shelves behind the bar lined with bottles, glinting in the dim orange light backed by large mirrors. The pub was fairly quiet, a few familiar faced regulars lounging about. A few small fires burned, candles on the table flickering each time the door opened.

  “Evening, Thatcher,” the landlord, Paul, nodded. He’d been here as long the pub had, I often thought. Somehow he stayed standing, white-haired and wrinkled.

  “Evening, Paul.”

  “How’s life, son?”

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Hip giving me lip.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Family well?”

  “Daughter’s getting married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “He’s from Lincoln,” Paul added. I wasn’t sure if he meant that as a bad thing or not.

  “Well, who doesn’t love a wedding?” I smiled. Paul grunted, looking at me closely,

  “Sure, you’re alright? You look peaky.”

  “Nothing a good pint can’t solve.”

  “Yeah. That sergeant of yours is here, ordered for you. You should keep him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I tapped the bar with my nails. “My best to your wife.”

  “Sure thing, Thatcher,” he called after me.

  I nodded to a few of the regulars that I knew as I walked deep into the old building. Mills had secured us a small table in the corner by the fire, two pints on the table, a portion of chips in the middle.

  “You spoil me, Mills,” I commented, taking my seat in the cushioned chair. The fire crackled brightly beside me, the smoke wafting into the room. I shrugged my coat off onto the back of my chair, grinning at my still pale-faced sergeant. He’d changed as well, bundled up into a chunky knitted jumper, face poking out from the tall neck.

  “Thought a bit of food couldn’t hurt.”

  “Never does,” I remarked, taking a chip and a sip of ale.

  Mills gave me a faint smile, giving me an inquisitive look, his eyes taking in my new clothes and slightly damp hair. “How are you feeling, sir?” he asked, folding his hands on the table.

  “Warmer.”

  “And your back?”

  “It’ll be fine,” I shrugged.

  “And,” he hesitated, “yourself?”

  I looked at him, raising a brow,

  “You almost drowned, sir. I don’t think you’re supposed to feel alright.”

  “Not for the first time, believe it or not,” I noted. “I’ll be fine, Mills. Did you get the laptop to the station?”

  He nodded, sipping his beer. “It’ll be with Wasco as soon as he gets in tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. Hopefully, he can salvage something of use from it.”

  “Hopefully. Sir?” Mills suddenly looked very sheepish, his attention caught by the snapping, popping fire. He watched the flames for a moment too long, and I sighed.

  “What is it, Mills?”

  He looked back at me, an apologetic look on his face. “Sharp knows.”

  I pressed my eyes shut and opened them again. I was hoping for at least a good day to think of a response to her.

  “Already? How?”

  “She came back to the station to pick up some things she had left, something about her son’s chemistry project, and spotted me as I left. Asked why my trousers were wet. Sort of needled it out of me, sir.”

  It was hard not to tell Sharp what she wanted to know. When she really got to questioning you, it wasn’t completely unlike being interviewed by a KGB agent. I think it was the eyes. Mara Sharp could go quite a while without blinking.

  “What she did say?”

  “Nothing. Just nodded and walked away.”

  That’s not good. Sharp yelled when she was angry, when she was quiet, that was worse. A lot worse.

  “She’s been threatening to fire me for a while now,” I remarked simply. “She’s yet to actually do it.”

  “No.”

  “And she can’t be angry with you.”

  “She wasn’t angry with me, sir. I’m not the one who went hunting for evidence near a crime scene without backup.”

  “You’re angry with me,” I noted.

  “It’s not quite so common for me to have to save a friend from drowning as it might be for you to be the one in trouble, sir,” Mills astutely noted.

  “No,” I answered slowly, “I suppose not. It might be something you have to get used to.”

  He gave a short, dry laugh. “Might be.”

  “So, Mills,” I said, focusing back on point, “someone threw the laptop into the river.”

  “Did our tipper give any description?”

  I shook my head. “Apparently, it was dark. But from the location, that stretch of the river’s not far from the hotel or our friend Goodwin’s field.”

  “And they saw this happen after you and Jeannie went to the village to question people?”

  “That night.”

  “So, they knew you were getting close.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now they know we have the laptop.”

  “They do.” I picked up my glass, clinking it against his. “Cheers to what should be an interesting development in this little case of ours, Mills.”

  “They’re willing to kill again for this,” he said quietly, “so whatever the motive, it must be a strong one.”

  “Or protection,” I added. “People go to lengths like these to protect someone they care about.”

  “Like Ms Renner’s brother?”

  “What do you make of that?” I asked, leaning towards the fire and pulling the chips closer to myself.

  “I think she put up with working for Hughes for twelve years because he paid her well enough that she could look after her brother. But that money came from his business. And if he were to start changing his business, losing money, she might lose some of her own income.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And if I knew my situation with my boss was about to change, I’d start putting out feelers, looking for work somewhere else.”

  “Johnson?”

  “Maybe that’s why they knew each other. Ms Renner wanted to find someone a bit more consistent, maybe. He could have been helping her look, or offering work himself.”

  “I don’t think she’d leave London,” I argued, “but I do think that when times are tough, people look for money on the side. Look at Mrs Babbage. Money’s running short, so she’s selling land. If I were Ms Renner, and I needed a bit of extra pocket money, a bit of assurance, I’d look for somewhere else that could give me that, without threatening the income I already have.”

  “So, she worked for both of them?”

  “
Maybe. Bounced them off one another, made them play against each other?”

  “Does she strike you as the sort?”

  “Not entirely,” I said honestly, “but I can’t see why else she would do all this. If indeed, she has done all of this.”

  “Not alone,” he added. “Someone helped her. Someone helped move Hughes’s body. Someone threw that rock at you tonight.”

  “Could have been her…”

  “With all due respect, that would have needed a very good aim,” Mills argued. “Experienced throw. I’m not sure she’s the right sort for that. And Johnson’s not likely to wander off to the village whenever needed.”

  “You think someone there is helping her?”

  “A little, perhaps. When needed. Mrs Babbage may not have wanted to see him dead and lose out on the money, but that doesn’t mean her sons would sit idly by and watch their own mum get taken advantage of. Like you said,” he reached over for a chip, “people go to extreme lengths to protect the people that they love.”

  “None of them seem the sort to go lurking out by the river, throwing rocks at policemen,” I mused. “My instinct says we keep our focus on Ms Renner, even if she isn’t the one behind all this, she’s the closest we have. Her ties are too convenient.”

  “And she’s not exactly as open and straightforward as an innocent person might be. She’s hiding things for a reason.”

  “She certainly is.”

  “What about Johnson? Where does he fit in all of this?”

  “Business rival connected to Ms Renner, but that doesn’t necessarily tie him in with the murder. Can’t see how exactly he benefits from it.”

  “He gets to buy Mrs Babbage’s land at a much lower price than before.”

  “True. But it’s a lot of effort to just to knock a few quid off a piece of land.”

  “If he and Ms Renner have been working together, it would be useful to know how. Even if she was just getting extra income.”

  “If that was the case, it would be useful for her to say as much. Her refusal to tell us much about anything concerns me.”

  “Johnson might just be pulled into this unwillingly.”

  “Might be. Drawn in by whatever Ms Renner’s doing, and his wife did confirm his alibi.”

  “She’s the only one who could. It’s not the strongest confirmation to build a case around, spouses lie.”

  “Protection,” Mills repeated with a wry grin.

  I let out a long slow breath, glancing to the fire. “Thank you, by the way,” I told him, “for what you did. Saved my life, Mills, I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me, sir. I wasn’t exactly going to let you drown.”

  “Some of my previous sergeants might have done just that.”

  “I don’t think any of your previous sergeants had particularly strong stomachs.”

  “No, they didn’t, really. Better off, though. Planning on sticking around are you?”

  “That’s the idea, sir. I’m hoping if I last a year, Sharp might get me a medal.”

  “She’d get you a bloody pedestal, Mills.”

  He smiled down at the table and then looked up suddenly. “We took Ms Renner’s fingerprints.”

  “We did.”

  “Maybe we can find a match on the bag or the laptop.”

  “Wouldn’t hold up,” I told him. “She worked for him. Probably carried that bag, handed him the laptop loads of times. It’s what we can find inside that matters.”

  “Do you think Wasco will find something?”

  “Wasco’s good, one of the best I’ve ever met. If something can be saved, he’ll save it. But that river’s not friendly, and laptops don’t really do all that well submerged.”

  “Let’s hope the hard drive’s not shot to pieces, then.”

  “All we can do.”

  “Speaking of hard drive,” he muttered, “any word from Jeannie?”

  None, actually, borderline radio silence. I knew she was alright at least; her sister was more active on social media than she was. But she hadn’t been in touch.

  “No. But as she likes to say no news is good news.”

  “Is it?”

  “If she were in danger or thought she was still being followed, she’d be there,” I nodded to the third empty chair, “chewing our ears off.”

  “Your ears, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t join us?”

  “I think I can handle your company as individuals, but the two of you together are somewhat taxing.”

  “Watch it,” I warned with a grin. “I am your senior.”

  “Oh, I’m aware that, sir, don’t worry.”

  “Cheeky blighter.”

  We fell into a companionable silence, watching as people entered and left the pubs, wrapped up in scarves and coats, skin pink from the cold wind outside. It rattled at the old windows, howling down the chimney occasionally. A rough night to be out and about. A rough night to go wading through a river, some might say, but luckily none of those people were here, or at least in Mills’s case, saying it out loud.

  I looked around the room, at the many people escaping the cold.

  An elderly couple sat in the far corner, trussed together on a bench in a nest of cushions.

  A few young men, laughing, their clothes spattered in plaster and paint.

  Young women in smart dresses and suits, winding down from the stress of whichever office they’d left earlier.

  A few old men, on their own, nursing one pint for several hours, their routine shuffling from their home to here a nightly tradition.

  Some uniformed officers, quiet whenever I looked over, their faces a bit drawn and tired. Smith was with them, and she nodded politely over once. I waved her across. She settled down on the third chair, clutching her pint.

  “Mills, sir.”

  “Smith,” I greeted her. “Nice evening?”

  “Nice enough. You alright, sir? You look a bit off.”

  “People have said as much. Is it the jumper?” I asked, “not my colour?”

  “We had an interesting night,” Mills interjected.

  “Oh? Good news about the case?” She asked.

  “We found the laptop.”

  “Bugger. That is good. Thought you’d be happier.”

  “In a river,” Mills added.

  Her face fell.

  “Less good. Well, if Wasco’s on it, it should be alright.”

  “That’s what we’re saying,” he agreed.

  “How did Ms Renner seem?” I asked her, “when we left?”

  Smith scrunched her nose, taking a sip of her drink. “Bit shaken, pale. The usual way people look after being in an enclosed space with you, sir.”

  Most unkind.

  “Didn’t say anything,” she continued, “just, followed me, left the station happily enough.”

  “Walk off?” I asked.

  “No. She had a car waiting.”

  “Nice for some.” Mills said, “most people take the bus.”

  “Not out to a random village in the middle of nowhere, Mills,” Smith argued.

  “Nothing else?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “No. Not a very chatty lady, is she really? Not the sort to make small talk, and I did try, you know. Mentioned the weather, told her I liked her shoes that sort of thing.”

  “Not a peep?” Mills slurped his drink.

  “Not a one. Ignored me outright. Not even a little grunt of acknowledgement.” Smith shook her head, “my mum would have given me a whack if I were ever that rude.”

  “Even towards the police who had just dragged you into the station for questioning.” I smirked.

  “No, she’d have had a more creative punishment for that. Once I got into trouble at school, and for a week straight, she made stroganoff for dinner.”

  “What’s wrong with stroganoff?” Mills asked.

  “Nothing, until you eat it every day for a week straight. For my lunch and all. Your mum must have done something similar?”

  �
�No,” Mills shook his head, “whenever she was angry with me she’d just go silent. Tell me that my dad was waiting for me in his office.”

  “His office?” She raised a brow, “very serious.”

  “She doesn’t do half measures.”

  “What about you, sir?” Smith asked me innocently, drinking a long gulp. Mills went quiet and became very interested with the sleeve of his jumper. I looked at Smith, her wide dark eyes. Poor girl dealt with me often enough without me dumping anything else on her.

  “She’d send me across the road,” I told her, “to the old lady who lived there, and I would do all of her chores. Scrubbing, cleaning, painting, the lot.”

  “For a day?”

  “Longer, sometimes. But Elsie always gave me biscuits before sending me home.”

  “Old lady’s do always have good biscuits,” she added.

  “Indeed, they do.”

  Smith grinned and looked over her shoulder to the table she had left. “Excuse me sir, Mills.”

  “See you, Smith.”

  She wandered off, and Mills and I finished off the chips.

  “So,” he asked me, “what next sir?”

  Twenty

  From the shadows

  They had it. The phone. The laptop too. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find something there, something concrete and indefensible. Things would start to add up, and when they did, the little trail of breadcrumbs would lead to us. Or at least me. Something had to be done. I thought by throwing the laptop into the river I’d have bought myself time, but that stupid detective just had to go wading in it. Wasn’t sure how he even knew about it. There was no-one there the night I took it away. We’d gone back for it after we knew they had Hughes’s phone. Wasn’t safe to leave it there.

  But there he was, stalking along the bank. When he’d clambered down in a waterproof coat and long boots, we had drifted from the woods a bit further. He stopped, suddenly, turning, flashing his torch in our direction. We froze, but he turned back, bent down intently to something by his feet. A long murmur of cursing rang through my head, and I turned around to him, panicked. He was glaring at the detective, frowning, and he stepped out from the tree line, picking up a stone as he walked, hefting it in hand.