DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  I hummed in agreement, walking to the large arched windows that let in the warm spring sunshine. The garden sprawled out beyond, flowerbeds and neatly trimmed hedges lining the patio that led down towards the seemingly endless lawn. A woman was outside with a bin bag, picking up rubbish left behind, sweeping up cigarette butts and trailing strands of confetti.

  Behind me, stood what resembled an old school master’s desk, complete with a shining metal globe and tray of crystal bottles and glasses. One of them was askew, off centre from the others. Lord Hocking was a control freak according to his son, and from the state of the rest of the room, no doubt had every book, pen and lamp centred exactly where he wanted it. It was the port that had been moved slightly, the stopper faintly stained red; but the glasses were both in place, both spotlessly clean.

  “This must be it,” Mills called out. I joined him where he stood, looking at the paintings. A collection of the family throughout the ages, though there was a sudden leap from the sixties to now. A few landscapes and some animals, all very lifelike and expertly done. The frames all looked to be rather heavy, ornate and gilded.

  I followed Mills’s gaze to an awkward space between the paintings, a faint square lined by dust.

  “I thought it would be bigger,” I murmured. The blank space seemed not much larger than an A4 sheet of paper.

  “The Mona Lisa isn’t very big,” Mills told me, “still valuable though.”

  “And easier to sneak off with,” I replied, stepping closer to the mark on the wall and looking up. It would have hung from the picture rail with the rest, an empty hook rattling along the top.

  “Either our thief is a giant,” I declared, “which would’ve been very noticeable, or they climbed up there.”

  “Used a chair?”

  There were a few armchairs in the study, firm, stiff things with high armrests. The only regular chair was at the desk.

  “Few scuff marks,” Mills pointed at the rug beneath our feet, “must have dragged it over.”

  “They’re not going to be happy about the state of their rugs in all of this, are they?”

  “One disaster after another,” he replied humorously.

  I smiled at that and walked to one of the lower hanging pictures, lifting it from the hook, and nearly dropped it.

  “Heavier than they look,” I grunted, hoisting it into my arms. Mills came over, helping me to hang it back up.

  “Rather heavy to lug through the house,” he agreed, ensuring it was straight before stepping away. “Maybe they took it out from the frame?”

  We split up, searching the room for any sign of a discarded frame under the furniture or behind the curtains. I looked under the desk, finding it strangely clean underneath and sat back on my haunches, running a hand through my hair with annoyance.

  “Maybe they’re used to handling paintings like these,” I muttered.

  “How so?”

  “Well,” I pushed myself back, “from moving them, dusting them, polishing them, I don’t know.”

  “The staff?”

  “Permanent members of staff would know their way around this house like the back of their hand. And none of the party members would pay them much notice, would they? Especially the respected, well-known members of staff.”

  “The butler,” Mills realised. “It’s always the butler, if I’ve learned anything from Agatha Christie.”

  “Have you read any Agatha Christie?”

  “Honestly, no. But my mum used to watch a lot of Poirot when I was growing up.”

  “People trust a butler. Nobody would dare question him, would they? The ones that even noticed he was there.”

  “And moving a painting? He could say that he was asked to move it, and no one would be any the wiser.”

  “Certainly not so much as to check it with Lord Hocking or their other hosts.”

  “But why take a painting? There are plenty of valuables in this house,” Mills said, “plenty in this room alone. Look at the crystal!”

  “Something personal was taken from Lord Hocking’s private collection,” I reminded him. “Remember what Lady Hocking said? A violation of privacy. This is about more than making a profit, I’m sure of it.”

  “A personal agenda?”

  “His father was their butler,” I recalled, “and then himself. Maybe he was hoping his daughter would take over, but it seems that Lady Hocking has little to no interest in making that happen.”

  “Enough to make someone resentful, their daughter being overlooked like that.”

  “Enough to make it personal,” I added, “something other than the silverware or some random ornament in the many hundreds of rooms that the family wouldn’t even notice was gone.”

  “It makes a statement, that’s for sure.”

  “That’ll be why Sharp wants us on this,” I realised. “If this is a personal vendetta, then I’ve worked enough of them to know how ugly they can turn and how quickly they can do so.”

  “You think it’s worth talking to the butler?”

  “Certainly is. As well as the guests that are still here and the staff from last night.”

  “Some of them are still here, sir,” Mills told me. “There was a van to the side as we drove in.”

  “We’ll chat to the Lady of the house once we’re done here. So,” I clapped my hands together, “they came in, dragged the chair over, took the painting down and left through the doors. Those windows don’t look like they've been opened since they were put in, and then they left the room, locked the door again, and somehow made it through the corridors and the foyer?”

  “Going through the front door seems a bit hapless. Surely someone would have noticed that?”

  “No doubt about it, Mills. So how did they get out?”

  “Places like these have more than one door,” he answered, putting his notebook.

  “Places like these have loads. Servant doors, escape routes, Maybe even a priest hole.”

  I turned around, walking slowly from the room.

  “He’d have walked back up the hallway,” I muttered to myself, “back up where the foyer is and stopped.” I stopped myself, peering around the wall.

  “Sir,” Mills called my attention and pointed down. Another scuff on the skirting board, a little black mark. “Could be from anything,” he amended.

  “Let’s say that it’s our thief. They stopped, checked to see if it was clear.”

  “Probably wasn’t.”

  “Probably not. So, they go the other way,” I said, taking off down the adjoining hallway which became much plainer and wider, the rattling noise of the kitchen rising up to meet us.

  “Servants hallway,” Mills said from behind me.

  “Very perceptive. Came down here and got out through this way.”

  “There’s a door down there most likely.”

  I wandered down, to where a small set of stone steps led down into the basement of the house. It was cold down here, murky, a few rooms sealed up, the others stuffed with brown cardboard boxes and ornaments hidden under white dust sheets. At the end of the stone hallway, a small door allowed in some light. I opened it, stepping out into a small yard. Servants entrance.

  “Mills!” I shouted, waiting in the doorway until he appeared, holding the door open as I stepped further outside, scanning the brick walls that surrounded me. A gate at the rear led into the garden, another to a walled space filled with vegetables and fruit trees, at the front, the gravel rounded the corner to the driveway, the garages where more than a few cars were likely housed, and led out to the land that surrounded the estate. Boarded, as they often were, by trees.

  Perfect.

  I left the yard, returning to Mills who followed me as I silently strode back up the steps and into the foyer where Henry sat on the stairs, fiddling with his watch.

  “Mr Hocking,” he lifted his head and stood, “are they any security feeds in the yard outside the cellars?”

  “The yard? No, not out there. Nothing there to intere
st anyone.”

  “Not to lure them in, sir, but certainly to help them get out,” I told him.

  He looked confused for a moment before understanding dawned upon his face. “That’s how they left?”

  “I’d assume so, yes.”

  “Where did they go from there?”

  “That, I can’t tell you. You’re surrounded by countryside and woodlands, Mr Hocking. They could have gone anywhere. Our best bet now is to figure out who took it, not where they took it.”

  He nodded, hair falling into his face. “Mother should have that list for you now,” he said humbly, leading us back to the drawing room. The others were still there, looking like they hadn’t moved an inch since we left, except for Rupert, who had vanished, hopefully to follow his mother’s advice and have a shower. I handed Lady Hocking the key to the study.

  “We think the thief came out from the study and locked the door again, then took the way out through the cellars, out into the yard.”

  “The yard,” she murmured. “You know, I forget it’s there.”

  “It might be prudent to extend your security measures, Lady Hocking.”

  “Yes, certainly will. On that measure,” she stood up and handed me a small folder, “all of my notes from the party arrangements. Guest list, contact details, some other things that I can't imagine will be much use, but there you go.”

  “Thank you, Lady Hocking,” I replied, tucking the folder under my arm.

  “And Dennis is handling the security footage. Says he will get it to you at the station once he has it.”

  “Much obliged. We noticed a van outside; I take it some of the staff from yesterday are here?”

  “Here to collect the rest of their things, yes.”

  “We’ll be speaking to them,” I assured her, “but I’d like to speak to your guests, the ones that are here now. To save me calling later and bothering them at home.”

  “Certainly. Eloise, will you go and fetch them?”

  “Of course,” she shot up like a ferret up a drainpipe and scuttled from the room.

  “And I’d like to speak to Lord Hocking at some point,” I folded my hands together, “whenever he can.”

  “He should be back soon,” Henry told me. “Never goes out for more than two hours.”

  “Excellent. Lady Hocking,” I began, taking a seat, Mills behind me, “we think that this is a personal theft, rather than a claim on profit.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “There are lots of valuable things in this house, as I’m sure you know, your Ladyship,” she toyed with the large sapphire on her finger, “but your thief made the effort of breaking into your husband’s study, stealing a painting and sneaking out. When they could have slipped some silverware into their pockets or found something smaller, easier to grab.”

  “I see.”

  “You mentioned that your husband’s collection is personal, so we are beginning to think that the motive behind this might be, too. Is there anyone who would want to cause you or your family grievance?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” she replied smartly. “We give a lot to this community, you know. Always have.”

  “I don’t doubt it. There’s no old feuds, disgruntled staff who might have felt the need to do this?”

  The stoic mask on her face faltered slightly, her eyes shooting over my shoulder to where Henry stood. Then she shook her head forcefully and folded her hands tightly together,

  “No. Our staff have always been very loyal to us. We pay them well and ensure a good pension for when they retire.”

  “That is good to hear,” Mills offered kindly.

  “Well, if you think of anything, if anyone comes to mind,” I handed her my card, “please do call me. Anytime.”

  She took the card, peering down her nose at it, but smiled up at me all the same.

  “The guests are all down here,” Eloise turned to the room, “they’re in the breakfast room. I can take you to them.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Hocking.”

  “I’ll head to the staff,” Henry made to follow, “ensure they stay until you’ve seen them.”

  “Thank you. We’re very grateful for all of your cooperation in this. We hope to have it solved, and your home back to normal, as soon as we can.”

  “Well from what we’ve heard about you, Detective Inspector Thatcher,” Marjory piped up, “we don’t doubt it, do we?”

  “Certainly not,” her husband added boisterously.

  “You’re too kind,” I smiled through grit teeth, Mills ducking his head to hide his smirk. I bid farewell to Lady Hocking and followed the young couple from the drawing room to where last night’s guests waited. I hoped, sincerely, that they were sober enough to recall the events of the night well. Gin didn’t leave the head all that clear, from my memories; it was a pointed decision to avoid the stuff. I doubted if these people shared such concerns.

  Four

  Thatcher

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine this place in the thralls of a party. Hundreds of candles lined the hallways and hung from the ceiling, the light of them would have bounced off of the numerous large mirrors and windows. At night, the effect must be quite lovely. But mix in a great many people all with drinks in hand, and that effect would turn sour, even if nobody had noticed at first.

  Eloise rattled on about the history of the place; it seemed the whole family still lived here, occupying various floors in their own little worlds. Mills was paying better attention to her than I was. He nodded as she spoke, occasionally turning over her shoulder to look back at us, asked the odd question and seemed rather enthralled with the whole place. It was, I had to concede, a beautiful house. Full to brim with history and secrets, with hidden doors and sudden corners, back stairs that nobody used and loads of tiny, irrelevant rooms that had gone long since out of fashion.

  I rather liked parts of it. As she took us further into the rooms most often used by the family, it was easy to spot the change. The furniture became more modern, more usable, the decoration less ostentatious, though still expensive. Children’s toys were dotted about here and there, blankets left in piles, belongings discarded in a messy array. There were photographs of the family now, smiling together, children splashing in the sea, Henry and Eloise holding babies, posed together on the sofa that hung on the walls, and propped up on sideboards. Considerably less ostentatious than the oil paintings.

  “Who is this?” Mills stopped suddenly at a family photograph, pointing to one of the faces. It was a young woman, who I recognised from the portrait in the study. We hadn’t met her with the rest of them, unless she was out with Lord Hocking.

  “Oh, that’s Rose. She’s the baby of the siblings,” Eloise said fondly. She looked to be, if the photo was recent, in her early twenties, not too much of an age gap between herself and Rupert, most likely. Eloise herself could be no more than twenty-five, like her husband.

  “Is she here? We thought the family was all in the drawing room with your mother-in-law,” I asked.

  Eloise shook her head, the pearls around her neck clinking together. “Sadly not. Rose wasn’t at the party last night. She should be home in a few days, and I think she’ll speed up once she hears about all of this.”

  We carried on walking, following the growing sound of voices, laughter and the clink of cutlery on plates, leaving the cosy family room and walking into a bright, green room with a large round table in its centre. Around which, a cluster of people ate breakfast, sipping at coffees or bloody Marys with their heads cradled in their hands. I noticed that the curtains had been drawn, blocking out the bright sunshine of the morning.

  “Everyone,” Eloise called out gently, “I’d like to introduce Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills. They have some questions for us all about last night.”

  “All at once?” one of the men asked.

  “One at a time is the usual way of doing things,” I replied.

  “These are the Patels,” Eloise indicated a coup
le, “Kareena and Navin. Henry’s friend Martin Windham,” the previous gentlemen, who looked very much to be suffering. “Sadie O’Donovan and her brother Nathan and on the far side,” she indicated the farthest couple, “Tommy and Jacob Barbet.” She clapped her hands together. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” She smiled prettily and drifted away, humming as she went.

  “Would any of you like to go first?” I asked diplomatically.

  “I will.” Martin downed the rest of his coffee and pushed himself back from the table, crossing the room and joining us in the corner on a set of armchairs. He fell back into his with a grunt and smiled wryly.

  “Martin Windham?” Mills checked, making a small note.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You’re a friend of Henry Hocking?” I leant back, letting Mills go ahead.

  “I am. Have been since our university days, best man at his wedding,” he said proudly, “godfather to his daughter.”

  “You’re a regular attendee at the party then?”

  “Oh, yes. Every year. Couldn’t miss it for the world.” He beamed. “Her Ladyship knows how to throw a party, that’s for sure.”

  “Did you come alone?”

  “No. I came with Sadie.” He nodded to the blonde-haired lady who leant against her brother’s shoulders. “Nathan joined us last night, but we’ve been staying here a few days.”

  “And did you see anything unusual last night? Any strange faces that aren’t normally here, anyone acting differently?”

  “Can’t say I did.” He rested his hands on the armrest. “We’ve all been coming for years, you know? Didn’t notice anyone making off with a bloody painting either, sadly.”

  “Are you familiar with the painting in question?” I asked, leaning my chin in my hand.

  “Seen it once or twice,” he told us. “The old man’s very private about his study, though. It’s a landscape of the estate.”

  “Are you able to give us much of an account of last night?” Mills asked him. “Whatever you can remember well enough.”

  “Last night.” He furrowed his brow and rubbed his temple. “I was with Sadie most of the day. Went into the local village. Came back, got dressed, had dinner, that was lovely,” he added on a side note, “then it all kicked off. Was outside for a while with some of the boys from the rotary club.”