“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I need to do something useful.” He stood up, yanked his tie over his head, and stuffed it into his pocket before he pulled the heavy grey wool coat over his shoulders.
“Anything’s better than hunching over that into the early hours of the morning,” I agreed. Thatcher paused and looked at me, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Any good with a hammer?” he asked abruptly.
I paused. “I—yes,” I managed to stammer out.
“Good. You can come with me,” he announced, fishing his car keys from his pocket. “Unless you’d prefer to sit at home and re-read emails from last year?”
“Not really.”
“Come on then.”
I followed him wordlessly from the station and into his car. He pulled out from the car park, heading out from the city, the streets slipping away behind us. I glanced out the window as buildings untried into trees. The further away we got, the more he seemed to relax, shoulders easing as the countryside unfolded around us. He was a country lad at heart, I knew. Grew up in a village not too far from the moors, I believed. I knew he went there often. Sharp muttered about it when he came in with a bandage on his hand or plaster in his hair. But it was Thatcher, so whatever he got up to in his own time, I didn’t ask. If he wanted you to know something, he told you. If he didn’t, you could shut the hell and keep to yourself. It had something to do with his mother, but I hadn’t a clue as to what, but I felt quietly proud as he brought me alongside him.
We drove for a while, the countryside growing wilder around us, the radio dimmed until we reached a village. He slowed down through the streets lined with hedges, thatched roofs poking out from behind them. It was a nice place, peaceful. The day was still fairly light, but a few windows were lit up, some people strolling around with dogs or standing and chatting with each other over garden walls. A lot of them looked like Thatcher. Big, tall and broad-shouldered, most of them dressed in farmer’s gear, boots splattered with mud.
Thatcher drove along to a small sort of square, parking in front of a dilapidated building that was in the midst of repair. He climbed out, and I scrambled after him, looking up at the building. It was an old inn of some kind, patched up here and there with a large padlock and chain slung across the front door.
“My grandfather’s. Left it to me. Needs a bit of love,” he added with a wry grin. He hesitated at the lock, so I pulled my coat off and set to undoing my cuffs.
“So, what needs hammering?” I asked.
His smile grew, and he unlocked the door, letting me into the old building. Definitely an inn of some kind, perfect location for it to just on the other side of the village. I recognised it, I realised, from some of the photographs he had in his home. The bay window, filthy now and without any curtains, was full of light in one photo he had of a white-haired couple sat in the seat. Or the bar, that was a blackened version of the one of Thatcher himself as a boy, getting his cut knee patched up by the same old man.
“This is why you come in looking like you’ve been fighting?” I asked, draping my coat carefully over a chair.
“It’s been a fight,” he remarked, tossing his own coat beside mine. “Roof needed fixing, walls needed plastering, stairs needed securing.”
I looked around, letting out a quietly impressed whistle. “What can I help with?”
He pointed to one wall, where a stack of doors leant against the paint. “They need putting up. If you’re up for it?”
“Let’s get cracking.”
It didn’t take me long to see why Thatcher came here so often. Aside from the fact that it was his, the work was manual, automatic, and it wasn’t long before my brain finally ceased its endless rambling, asking questions and second-guessing. We worked in a good team, with less arguing than I ever had with my dad when I helped him to fix things. The more we worked, the calmer Thatcher became, calmer than I’d ever seen him. He was a natural at it. We started at the top of the building, fixing all the doors in place and made our way down. We were on the second floor when he broke the silence and said.
“I want to think that it was one of her co-workers, but I can’t see why.” He said it thoughtfully, calmly, in the tone of a casual conversation rather than a stressful work one.
“I know,” I agreed, passing him a nail. “Doesn’t add up right. But I think the house is connected, somehow.”
“Maybe our mystery man with the nice clothes will help close that bridge,” Thatcher remarked. “If we can find him, that is.”
“Both places were close to the university,” I said, taking the hammer from him as he tested the door. “We could check there, see if there’s anyone in the faculty that mentions his description.”
Thatcher nodded. “A name would be useful. I think he’s the one who can tell us more about her, but I don’t want to pin all our hope on him. What about the ex-girlfriend? Worth following that up?”
“She might be able to tell us a bit about how Viviane got into the antiques, where her collection started,” I said with a shrug.
“Let’s get in touch with her parents again, see if they have a name for her.”
“What about our murder weapon?” I asked, realising that we had yet to go down that particular route.
“I’m guessing our killer took it with them,” Thatcher answered, satisfied with the door and moving away. “Not the sort of thing you’d leave lying around when you’re trying to make it look like a suicide.”
“You think it was planned?”
Thatcher paused, scratching his jaw and stared into the distance. “Yes, but not well. More of a last resort sort of thing. In case of emergencies. It doesn’t strike me as being a well thought out idea. Viviane wasn’t even supposed to be closing up that day.”
I nodded in agreement and walked through a cobweb, frantically wiping it all away. Thatcher chuckled, hoisting his tool bag over his arm.
“Sorry. Needs a dust.”
“What’s the plan with it?” I asked. “When’s it finished?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he answered, making for the stairs.
“It’s a lot of work. Why not call in a construction team?” I asked.
Thatcher hesitated, and I quickly worried that I’d overstepped somehow. But he glanced at me over his shoulder.
“I have to do it,” he said simply, but in a tone that made me not want to pry further. “I owe it.”
Owe it? To whom? My first thought was his mother, and whatever had transpired there. Not even Sharp asked questions about that.
“More personal anyway,” I answered lightly. “Better than having a bunch of strangers sweating over it.”
Thatcher laughed, heading for the stairs. Something creaked and groaned as he climbed down them. As his foot hit a step, the wood caved in beneath him. He caught himself before his leg could fall through, but he tripped, dropping his tool bag and walloping his head on the railing with a sickening thump that made me wince. I darted around him, dodging the broken step and took his arm, helping him down the stairs. He stumbled down, landing on the last one on his arse, groaning all the way. His forehead was cut, a trickle of blood running down his face, grey eyes groggily staring around.
“You alright, sir?” I crouched in front of him. He reached up and touched his fingers to the cut with a wince. “I should take you to A&E.”
“No, no.” He quickly waved me off. “I’m good.” He slowly stood, and I stepped back to give him room. He wobbled, stumbling again as he stepped, clutching the bannister for support.
“A&E,” I decided, looping one of his heavy arms around my shoulder and taking his weight over to the front door.
“No,” he repeated more firmly. I got him outside, and he pointed across the way to a row of cottages. “See that one? Green door?”
“Yes?” I replied tentatively.
“Go there. No hospital.”
I hesitated. I was sure he knew whoever was in that house, and the lights were on in the windows. It wasn’t too
late anyway, but with head injuries, it was a risk. But Thatcher was determined, lurching off towards the house, half dragging me with him.
“Alright.” I took his weight again. “Fine. Wait a second.” I took the key from him, grabbing our coats and locking the inn up before grabbing his arm again. We made our way across the green like a terribly disproportioned three-legged race to the cottage in question. I reached out, ringing the bell, and it didn’t take long to open.
An old woman stood in the door, her white hair in little curls to her chin. She looked at me and then looked at Thatcher, her lips pursing.
“Evening, Elsie,” he grinned down at her. She looked unimpressed, thoroughly unimpressed.
“Put him in the kitchen,” she sighed, standing back so that I could help Thatcher inside. He had to duck under the low door, and she pointed to the left where the kitchen was.
We stumbled in, and I got him down on the sofa pressed against the window, standing back to look around. It was a nice place, the room heated by the ancient aga, a long wooden table in the middle. Thatcher reached out a hand to the shelves beside him, fumbling with a box and fished out a chocolate. Oh, he was very at home here, that was nice to see.
The woman, Elsie, came back and slapped his hand, taking the chocolate and passing it to me. She had a first aid kit in her hand, and she sat beside him on the sofa, yanking his face to hers.
“You must be Mills,” she said as she opened her kit and started dabbing at his wound. “I’m Elsie.”
“I am. Nice to meet you.”
“And you, dear. Well done for putting up with him. The old place again, was it?” she asked as Thatcher winced under her administrations.
“Stairs need replacing,” was all he said.
“You’re lucky. Won’t need stitches,” she remarked. “But you’re in no fit state, lad.” She fussed over him like a grandmother, and I sat awkwardly on one of the kitchen chairs. “That place. Not worth your life, Max.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Not what I mean,” she answered sharply, sticking a plaster to his head. “I tell you. The importance people give to sodding buildings, you’d think you were building the thing from scratch.”
I looked up at her words as she took the chocolate from me and passed it back to Thatcher. People did care about their buildings, especially buildings with importance, especially old ones. Someone owned the museum. Someone cared about what happened to it, and in it. I met Thatcher’s eye, and even in his befuddled expression, I saw he was thinking the same thing.
If he would run himself ragged to look after his house, what might somebody else do to protect theirs?
Thirteen
Thatcher
I let Mills drive home in the end, leaning back in my seat with my eyes pressed shut. My head throbbed, mostly from the injury, but also from the scolding Elsie had dished out as we made to leave. She’d cleaned me up well and fetched us both a cup of tea, getting to know Mills, who seemed thoroughly delighted to learn about this aspect of my life. Elsie even gave him a handful of chocolates when we left, which in her language is about as good as it gets.
We didn’t stay long, long enough for Mills to learn some embarrassing childhood stories and until Elsie was satisfied with the state of my head. Mills was anxious to go, his knee jogging under the table as he listened to Elsie. It was what she had said that made him nervous, about the owners of houses who did stupid things with them like me. The museum had an owner, it didn’t belong to any charity, and I was surprised and a little ashamed that it had taken us this long to consider that. Whoever they were, they’d be connected to people like Viviane, and they’d have access to the house. Maybe they even controlled the security of the place. As soon as we left, Mills drove us from the village, me navigating him from the passenger seat, and once we were on more familiar roads with less confusing signs, he glanced over at me.
“Do we know who the owner is?” he asked.
“No. But it shouldn’t be too hard to figure that out. We should have met them already,” I added with a groan, lightly rubbing my face.
“I can get started on that,” Mills suggested. “Start digging into the house’s history.”
“That’s alright, Isaac. It will keep until tomorrow.” I turned and opened my eyes to look at him. “Thank you, by the way. For today. You were a big help.”
“At putting doors up or finding medical assistance?” he asked. I laughed, and Mills grinned out of the window. “I liked her, Elsie. She’s good value.”
“Ah, Elsie. The number of times she’s patched me up over the years, I’m surprised she’s not an honorary nurse or something.”
“You’ve known her since you were a child?” Mills asked.
“Since I was born,” I replied, resting my head back again, trying to ignore the aching and throbbing that spread across my skull.
“You must see her often, being out there as much as you are.”
“Most times. She sticks her head in to call me an idiot and then leaves me to it. The odd cup of tea and dinner every now and then.” We were due for one soon. In fact, Sally had set it up. “She remembers the place well, better than me. Tells me where things should go when I can’t remember.”
Mills didn’t reply, and we drove on for a while, listening to the radio. The next time I opened my eyes, we were surrounded by tall buildings and streetlights, a few pedestrians skirting about the roads, darting in and out of pubs and restaurants. Mills drove to my street, pulling up on the kerb outside my house.
“Should have gone to yours,” I told him. “I’m sure I could have managed it from here.” But Mills shook his head and unclipped his seatbelt, pulling the key from the ignition.
“Better safe than sorry, my mum always says. It’s a nice enough evening now that the rain’s dried up. I’m happy to walk.”
I climbed from the car, ready to argue with him, but he tossed the keys over and buttoned his coat up, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“No more working tonight,” I warned him.
“Same for you. See you tomorrow, sir.”
“See you, Mills,” I replied, heaving myself slowly up my front steps and letting myself into the house. I stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on him as he headed down the road and around the corner and then shut myself in.
I went upstairs, peeling my clothes off and stepping into the shower, watching some bits of blood in my hair turn the water pink. I could have stayed in there, eyes closed, the water easing the muscles in my back for hours. Might have done it, too, if my stomach hadn’t rumbled loudly enough to wake the sleeping. I pulled some joggers and a t-shirt on, padding down the kitchen and rooted through my cupboards for a tin of soup. I kept my word to Mills and curled up in my armchair, watching mindless television as I ate, until it was late enough to fall into bed, hoping that my head would be easier in the morning.
I was in the station before Mills, a nice new plaster stuck to my head when I got ready this morning. Sharp clocked it the moment she saw me, raised an eyebrow and walked into her office. She was smart enough to know what likely happened. I got myself a coffee and sat at my computer, watching the station steadily fill with other weary officers. I went to the house’s website first, going to the ‘History’ tab and scanning through.
‘Henbell House was built in 1776 by Frederick Cuthbert, a notable gentleman and patron of the arts in York. The house was built as a family home for Frederick and wife Penelope, along with their four children, Samuel, Charlotte, Thomas and Margaret. On Frederick’s death, the house was passed onto Samuel and his wife. Passed through the generations, the house contains remnants of all the eras, but is most prominent for its Regency style as decorated by Samuel’s wife, Claudia. It remained a prominent social house well into the twentieth century, when it then served as a hospital in World War One and in World War Two, survived through the air raid of 1942. The house still belongs to the Cuthbert family, who kindly opened it to the public, in the spirit of arts, history and co
mmunity that the Cuthbert’s have long cherished since Frederick himself.’
It had a good history, like most houses of its kind, but still no mention of who owned it now. The Cuthberts, still, which was something, and it didn’t strike me as being a hugely common name.
“Morning, sir.” I looked up as Mills walked through the door, steaming mug in hand and dropped his coat over the back of his chair. “How’s the head?”
“The throbbing stopped, which I’m happy about. Otherwise, all good. Elsie knows her onions.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I’m on the house’s website,” I told him, angling my computer screen as he walked over to stand beside me. “Belongs to the Cuthbert family, has done ever since it was built.”
“Is that normal? I thought houses like these went through loads of families.”
“I suppose they were rich enough to keep it. Still owned by them now, though there’s no name mentioned.”
“How hard can it be to find a Cuthbert?” Mills asked, heading over to his computer. “I’ll have a check on the auction sites, sir, see if anything’s changed. Why not call the house itself? See if Josephine Goddard can give you the name.”
“I’d rather approach them ourselves, not risk giving anyone time to have any particular discussions,” I replied.
“Fair enough,” Mills shrugged and blinked as his monitor lit up suddenly.
As he set about checking the auction sites, I looked back on the house’s website. There were other tabs for more information, the house pinpointed on the map of the city, a contact sheet but all of that went straight to the house itself, straight to Ms Goddard. I wondered how they were funding the place as well as they did.
I made a search for the Cuthbert name and York, scanning through the results. There was a lot on Samuel Cuthbert, seemed he’d been something of an important man in his days, connections to the Royal family and legendary parties, excellent hunts. Riveting stuff. And patrons of the arts, certainly. The Cuthbert name was tied to old grants and bursaries, awards and recognitions. They had been called upon to open new galleries and gardens, had a box named after them in one of the theatres.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 61