DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  Mills smiled and pulled away from the curb. “You still want to have another word with Richard Sandow?”

  “Might comfort him to know that Sebastian isn’t his,” I murmured, watching the rain-sodden city blur past, the sandstone buildings darkened to murky browns and greys. “Ease some of that guilt he’s been carting around.”

  “Could make matters worse between the brothers,” Mills pointed out.

  “They’ve not seen each other for over twenty years, haven’t even met each other’s children. How much worse can it get?”

  “What about Sebastian? How much are we telling him?”

  I sighed, propping an elbow up on the window, resting my head against my fist. “We’ll tell him that we know who it is but won’t give him a name unless he wants it.”

  “And the twin?”

  “Let’s find out what happened to them first. I don’t want to go around spreading false hope.”

  “So, until half ten?”

  “Let’s follow up a few threads. Call our art dealer and check that nothing’s cropped up, same with the other markets. I’ll stick my nose into Crowe’s lab, see if she’s picked up anything useful from that note they left.”

  Mills nodded. “I take it,” he began carefully, “that Dennis is no longer your chief suspect?”

  I turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, focused on the roundabout ahead, but a small smirk toyed at the corners of his face, and I squinted at him.

  “You were the one who brought up Agatha Christie,” I reminded him.

  “True. I wonder if he’ll be staying at the house much longer in light of all of this,” he mused aloud.

  “I can’t imagine there’d be much incentive to stay,” I agreed, “unless he really is as close to them as all that.”

  “Might not be much of a ‘them’, anymore. The children seemed raring for a fight. They might leave the nest because of this.”

  “They might,” I allowed, “but families like these are strange, Mills. They play by a different set of rules. I think it would be strange for them not to have some sort of illegitimate scandal at some point in their rich history.”

  Mills laughed. “The wonderful aristocracy,” he said through his chuckles.

  The hour passed quickly, leads followed up and as predicted, nothing. No sign of the painting on any of the markets and the most Crowe had to offer me this fine morning was a quip about lighthouses and a gingernut. Mills and I made ourselves presentable, fetched every tiny slip of information we could get to welfare and headed out, walking through the city to the old building.

  It was one of those nice Georgian builds, converted into offices sometime in the sixties. The children and family offices were on the third floor, and once inside, we clambered up the steep carpeted steps to the wood-clad space with glass dividers.

  Mills looked around and whistled. “Like a time capsule,” he muttered.

  “Can I help you?” A grey-haired woman appeared from a desk; her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

  “Good morning,” I smiled down at her, “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills,” we showed her our warrant cards, “I believe we’re expected?”

  “Of course! You have an appointment with Susanne. She’s in records. This way.” She led us past the desks through a set of wide wooden doors into a room lined with shelves, drawers and filing cabinets.

  “Susanne? The police are here. Please have a seat.” She indicated the two chairs that sat opposite the large desk, a heft pile of folders on top.

  “Thank you, Muriel!” a young woman called as she appeared from a tall shelf, waving the old woman out. She crossed the room, and Mills and I clambered back to our feet to shake her hand. Light ginger hair rolled down to her shoulders, a chunky yellow cardigan wrapped around her and she pushed her glasses up her nose as she pulled away and walked behind the desk.

  “Susanne Peters, I oversee the records here.”

  “Inspector Thatcher and Sergeant Mills,” I said as we sat back down, “thank you for going through all this.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s what we do, Inspector. I found everything we have on the name Whitlock. Although,” she added apologetically, “it's not much. Things weren’t quite as thorough back then.”

  “That’s alright,” Mills assured her. “Anything you have will be a help.” She smiled at him and flipped open the first folder.

  “Selene Whitlock,” she murmured, pulling out a sheet. “We have the birth certificate, of course.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, a copy. Given up for adoption,” she said, sitting down opposite us, glancing down at the sheet.

  “She gave one up for adoption?”

  “One?” Susanne looked confused and rifled through her files, pulling out another sheet. “She gave birth to two children,” she propped her hands on her chin as she read, “and,” looking at the birth certificate, “gave one up to be adopted. How strange.”

  “We know about the one she kept,” I informed her, and she looked up at me. “What we would like to know about is the one she didn’t keep.”

  Susanne nodded and passed me the photocopied birth certificate. “She. A girl.”

  I looked down. A girl, indeed.

  “She didn’t name her?”

  Susanne shook her head. “That’s not all that uncommon. She’d have been baby Whitlock until she was given a name.” She pulled out a stack of sheets and blew out a breath. “She wasn’t adopted,” she told us sadly. “Foster system.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “Looks like she spent a lot of time in a group home just outside the city,” Susanne told us, “was with a family for a while, but not long.”

  “Do you know much about her?” I asked.

  “We’d have stopped keeping tabs after she turned eighteen,” she told us, “but it seems she came in about eight years ago or so, wanting to know about her birth.”

  “What could you tell her?”

  “Not much,” Susanne admitted, “all we had was the name Whitlock, but that didn’t mean anything to her. She might have found the mother.”

  “The mother’s dead. But her twin brother is alive and well.”

  “Though he made no mention of knowing her,” Mills pointed out.

  “Well sometimes they don’t,” Susanne told us. “They just want the questions answered. They come in all the time wanting to know who, but not wanting to ever actually meet them. And there’s no record of a father, so there’s little to go on from what we could give her.”

  “Did anyone give her a name?” I asked, my heart going out to this poor baby. She wasn’t a baby anymore, of course, but all the same.

  “A nurse,” Susanne told us. “After it was clear she wasn’t getting adopted, and before she went into the foster home, the nurse who delivered her gave a name.”

  “That was nice of her,” Mills said.

  “Midwives are good women,” she added. “My gran was one.”

  “The name, please,” I interrupted them.

  “Nadia,” she told me, “and she kept it too. Nadia White. Little change of the surname, it’s not that uncommon.”

  “Nadia?” I repeated, the wheels in my head churning. Mills and I shared a glance. We knew a Nadia. A Nadia in her late twenties, a Nadia who’d been around the estate. A Nadia who’d been there the day the threatening note was left. “Do you have a recent picture of her?”

  “Not recent,” Susanne said. “This was taken when she was eighteen.” She handed us a picture of a girl with brown eyes and blonde hair. The hair was wrong, but the face? If you imagined the hair darker, you’d have a face not unlike the painting of Rosemary Hocking. If you imaged the hair black, you’d have our waitress.

  Nadia. Bloody hell.

  Twenty-Six

  Thatcher

  “D’you think she knows, sir?” Mills asked as we headed down the stairs and into the sudden torrent that came from the sky as we’d been inside. Susanne had prom
ised to look closer into Nadia, see what she could find out about her upbringing, but best guess, it hadn’t been good.

  “Too much of a coincidence otherwise,” I muttered, wrenching the car door open and shaking the rain from my hair. “She was there, at the party the night the painting was stolen. She was there when the message was left.”

  “She has alibis for both of those events,” Mills reminded me.

  “Does she? Being seen in the right place at the right time? At least Sebastian got his mother, God knows what sort of childhood that girl had, and I wouldn’t doubt she blamed the Hocking family for it either! If Selene had the right support, maybe she’d have kept them both.”

  Mills blew out a long breath, watching the windscreen wipers shift water to the side. We’d not actually moved anywhere yet, deciding to have this conversation away from the prying ears of the building behind us.

  “She hasn’t done it alone,” Mills pointed out. “She’s had help. Sebastian? If the two of them met, they might team up for this.”

  “Or Richard,” I added, “even more incentive for him to go against his brother.”

  “Or Dennis.” Mills scratched his nose. “For all you’ve crossed him off your list sir, you can’t deny he’s got a protective streak in him. He talks about Selene like he’s her uncle, same with Rose and Rupert. Maybe he can’t help but look after these young ones, Nadia included, once he found out who she was.”

  “Nobody at that house took much notice of her,” I mumbled against my hand, propped in a fist against my chin. “Nor did we, but it’s obvious now. Change the hair, and she’s the spitting image of Rosemary Hocking.”

  “If anyone looked close enough, they’d have been able to see that.”

  “But nobody did. Not even us.”

  “To be fair,” Mills pointed out, “we weren’t looking for another relative.”

  I gave a quiet grunt in response and Mills looked out the windows again.

  “Do you want to find Nadia? Or stick to Sandow?”

  “Sandow’s account of things is still bothering me,” I admitted, scratching my neck, “but it might be worth getting in touch with Nadia. Ask her to come into the station.”

  “I’ll let Smith know.” He pulled out his phone. “She can arrange that so by the time we’re down with Sandow, Nadia should be at the station.”

  I turned my head to give him an approving nod. He seemed a lot better after his little stint in the cellars yesterday, all the colour was back in his cheeks, and according to Crowe, he was in fine fettle. It’d be up in his own head where the problems may lie, but he seemed well enough, firing on all cylinders as usual.

  “Done.” He put his phone away and started the car. “To Richard Sandow’s then?”

  “Quick as you like,” I answered, pulling up the address.

  The rain only kept coming, hard, round drops that splattered off the windows and echoed the roof of the car like we were driving in a tin can. It turned everything grey, washing out the colour of the city, keeping the streets quiet though, as the tourists ducked into shops and cafes to keep themselves dry. Always helpful to have quiet streets.

  We pulled up to Richard Sandow’s house, exiting the car just as Mills’s phone rang. He answered, locking the car and dawdled on the path as I strode up to the house. His voice was quiet, muffled by the wind rain, but as he jogged up to join me, he looked concerned.

  “That was Smith,” he told me. “She’s not been able to reach Nadia. Tried the catering company and according to Ms Russo, there’s been no sign of her. She gave Will his car back and no-one's heard from her since.”

  “A usual way for her to act?”

  “Apparently not,” he answered.

  I cursed, debating getting back in the car and going in search of the girl, but without much idea where to even start. The choice was made for me though, as the front door swung open and Richard Sandow stood in the entryway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “Don’t tell my wife,” he said, taking it and putting it in his pocket, stepping back to allow us inside. “Inspector,” he greeted me.

  “Mr Sandow. This is Detective Sergeant Mills.” I nodded to Mills before looking back to Richard.

  “May we borrow a minute of your time?”

  “Is this about my brother’s bloody painting?”

  “Yes and no. It’s about Selene Whitlock and her children.”

  “Children?”

  He ushered us into the living room, taking a perch on the edge of his seat, waiting for me to explain with wide eyes. His knees jumped beneath his arms, impatiently.

  I wasn’t sure where best to begin, so I pulled out Selene’s letter from my pocket and handed it to him. He took it gently, like it was an injured bird and as he read, eyes scanning the page over and over, Mills took a little wander around the room, looking at the many faces that were eerily similar to the ones we knew, staring out from far less elaborate frames.

  Richard Sandow let out a pained sigh, sitting back in his chair with tears welling in his eyes, the letter dangling from his limp hand. I took it from him, folding it and placing it back inside my coat.

  “Where was it?” he asked.

  “In a copy of Twelfth Night,” I answered.

  He laughed humourlessly, the sound hollow. “Of course, it was. Clever girl.”

  He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, fumbling around for a lighter. Mills stepped forward, pulling one from his own pocket and lit Richards’ cigarette. He nodded in thanks, taking a long drag. I watched as the light went past my face and back into Mill’s pocket with a raised eyebrow.

  “A twin?” Richard asked eventually, scrubbing the tears from his face.

  “A girl,” I informed him. “Selene gave her up for adoption.”

  He blinked rapidly and nodded. “Does he know?” he asked quietly.

  “Your brother or Sebastian?”

  “Both.”

  “Your brother was present when the letter was found. We’ve yet to talk to Sebastian about it,” Mills told him calmly.

  “We understand, Mr Sandow,” I said, sitting on a little footrest in front of him, “that you were engaged before Selene died, but did not marry until after she had gone.”

  He nodded shakily. “Didn’t seem right to. Not that my brother had such reservations. Those poor children. Will you give them my number?” he asked, stumbling to his feet and rattling around a desk to pull out a sheet of paper, scribbling down his number. “Just if they want it. They can reach out, if they want to. I suppose I’m their Uncle after all.”

  “You’re the uncle to three more children,” I reminded him, taking the number, “and a great uncle, by the way. Henry has two children.”

  Twins as well, I realised with a bleak little spark of amusement. Richard’s face had crumbled slightly, taking puffs from his cigarette with a shaky hand. I reached out and touched his shoulder, giving him a grim sort of smile.

  “I’ll pass it over,” I assured him, making my way to the door.

  “Inspector,” he called after me. I nodded for Mills to head to the door and turned back. Richard stood in the hall, looking small in his cardigan and slippers, the cigarette smoking idly between his fingers.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “How does– How did my brother seem?”

  I paused for a moment and then regarded Richard from head to toe.

  “Rather like yourself, Mr Sandow. Only with a bit more to answer for. He might need some support,” I mentioned, opening the door, “and I doubt he’ll get much from home.” I lifted my hand to my hat before stepping out into the rain and jogging to the car.

  As I slid in, my phone rang, and Mills turned down the radio, staring at the house in the rear-view mirror as I answered, unfamiliar with the number.

  “DCI Thatcher.”

  “Inspector, it’s Susanne. Susanne Peters, from welfare.”

  “Hello, Miss Peters,” I greeted her, surprised to be hearing from her so soo
n. Mills’s head snapped around to look at me.

  “I checked some of Nadia’s old records from before she turned eighteen, from her old foster homes,” came her quick, muffled voice. “Seems she was a bit troublesome. Liked to run away a lot.”

  Seems to be a habit she kept up, judging by our own inability to track her down.

  “Were there any homes she was better in?” I asked. “Any foster parents she particularly liked?”

  “The only person she seemed to like was her social worker. A lady called Daureen Mitts. Retired now, though.”

  “Would there be any way of knowing if they’ve been in contact?”

  “Not through here, Inspector. Once she turned eighteen…” Her voice trailed away a little regretfully.

  “Thank you, Miss Peters. That’s very helpful.”

  “Be careful with her, Inspector. Be gentle,” she advised before I hung up. “I’ve met kids like Nadia before. They tend to have their hackles up. She’ll need support,” her voice turned very stern, “not a scolding.”

  “Noted. Thank you, Susanne.”

  She hung up then, and I stuck my phone into the cup holder, turning to Mills’s expectant face.

  “Nadia had a tendency to run away from her foster homes,” I informed him, “which might be why we’re struggling to find her.”

  “Doesn’t make her thief.”

  “No. But it does make her unsafe and alone. If she wound up growing close to the wrong people, that’s something we ought to find out.”

  “Where to then, sir?”

  “Station,” I answered. “We might have to track her down the old-fashioned way.”

  “Right you are, then,” he answered jauntily, pulling away from the rows of houses and back into the city. “What about Sebastian?”

  “We’ll see if he won’t mind coming in,” I decided. “Better than us skirting around every square inch of the city.”

  “Do you think he knows he has a sister?”

  “Either he doesn’t, or he lied.”

  “Same could go for any of them, though,” Mills pointed out, “Maud, Dennis. Any one of them might have known.”

  “I say we put them all back on our list,” I said with a groan, rubbing my hand over my face, “until we’ve got a better way of narrowing it down.”