DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “Any interest in the antiques business?” I inquired.

  “Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Unless it’s something for the house, then I don’t have much interest. But we’ve got so much in storage, it’s very rare we ever actually buy anything. Everything here has been owned by Cuthberts.”

  “How often do you come here?” Mills asked him.

  “Never really when it’s open. Sundays or Mondays I like to come, have free rein, imagine I still live here,” he admitted with a laugh. “Otherwise, Josephine and I do most of our business over the phone. She knows the place well. It’s a well-oiled machine under her.”

  “What about Viviane Charles?” I asked him, bracing my arms on my knees. “Did you know her well?”

  His face fell a little, and he looked away for a moment. “Not at first,” he said. “But she did work here for six years, and—”

  He was cut off shortly by a commotion coming from the other side of the house. We all turned to the door where Josephine and Rita’s voices were raised, shouting from the parlour. The three of us shared a look, placed our mugs down and ran through to the parlour where Josephine and Rita were standing, each trying to wrestle a bag from the other.

  “I know what I saw, young lady. Hand it over!” Josephine snapped.

  “What you saw?” Rita replied, her low voice fierce. “What right have you got to go snooping through my bag, anyway? You’re mad. Let go!”

  “If I know what I saw, then I have every right!”

  “No, you don’t. Let go.”

  I turned and looked at Mills and Harry, who stared at the scene before us with as much confusion as I felt. Mills returned my look, then gave me a shrug that I took as ‘you’re the SIO, you do it’, for which I would get him back for. I rolled my eyes, turning back to the women and took a few strides towards them.

  “Josephine, Rita,” I approached them steadily, my hands out in front of me, keeping my voice level. “What’s this about?”

  “She was going through my bag,” Rita told me, not taking her eyes off Goddard. “When I asked for it back, she ran off with it!”

  “And for a good reason, too,” Ms Goddard replied bitterly.

  “Josephine, let go of the bag, please,” I asked her as calmly as I could. It could be that she had a very good reason to have taken the bag, but it was Rita’s bag.

  “Inspector.” Ms Goddard turned to look at me, her iron-fisted grip on the bag not wavering. “I was bringing it to you.”

  “To me? Why?”

  “I’d show you if this girl let go,” she tried to shake the bag free.

  “You let go. It’s my bag!”

  Rita readjusted her grip as Josephine shook, her fingers slipping, and Josephine wrenched it back with enough force that Rita toppled backwards, colliding with the sofa, her back hitting the hard wooden arm. Harry stepped forward, giving her a hand up, and she winced, rubbing her back. I turned to Josephine, prepared to give her one hell of a talking to, but she had already reached into Rita’s bag and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped box.

  She dropped the bag with a dim thud and pulled the cloth away, tossing it to one side. In her hands, she held an ornate golden box with beautiful paintwork and enamel panels. A very familiar golden box.

  Mills stepped forward to get a close look.

  “Viviane’s music box.”

  Fifteen

  Thatcher

  I stood on the other side of the window, looking at Rita in the interview room, her hands twisted together on the table, hunched down in her jumper. After Josephine had pulled the music box from Rita’s bag, we’d brought her in, sending everything down to forensics to be checked for fingerprints or DNA. Mills walked in, mugs of coffee in hand and looked at her too.

  “Josephine Goddard’s ready,” he told me, “if you wanted to ask her anything.”

  I did, so I tore my stare away from Rita and followed Mills from the small, dark room down the hallway. Ms Goddard was sitting at a desk in a quiet corner, the straps of her handbag clutched in her hands.

  “Ms Goddard,” I greeted her, settling down at the desk. She had followed us at our request, and though Harry Cuthbert had offered to join her, I doubted there was much he could really tell us about any of this. He left his personal number with us and stayed behind as we headed off, Rita in the back of the car.

  “Inspector. This is quite the turn up for the books, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is. You said you saw the music box in Rita’s bag?” I asked, placing my mug down on the surface and crossing my legs.

  Josephine nodded. “I was working on that paperwork I mentioned and dropped my pen on the floor. We keep our things under the counter, so when I bent to pick it up, it just caught my eye. A little flash of gold, and I thought, well…” She paused a moment. “I thought she might be taking something from the house. We have so many artefacts in there, a lot in storage too, and I thought she might be making off with something.”

  “Have you had any trouble with that before?” I asked.

  “No, but there’s always been something about Rita that I didn’t quite trust.”

  “I see. Ms Goddard, can I ask how many of you have keys to the house?”

  “There are five keys,” she answered. “Mine, Nia’s, Viviane’s, Rita’s and Mr Cuthbert’s.”

  “So, Rita would have had a key on her, despite not being the one to lock up the house?”

  “Yes, she would have,” Josephine confirmed. “I make sure they each one just in case, you know. There’s always someone to open up or lock up in case something goes wrong, or someone calls in sick.”

  “Is that not a bit risky security-wise?” Mills asked.

  “We’ve never had any trouble, sergeant. Only once has the alarm gone off, and it was triggered by an owl, so that was an interesting night. I trusted them all,” she added with a firm nod.

  “Did you know much about Viviane’s collection?” I asked.

  “A little, I suppose,” Josephine answered, dropping her gaze as she rooted through her bag for a tissue. “I knew she had an interest, all the books she read and articles she talked about. Wasn’t sure about having a real collection, though. Not one that people would want to steal, anyway. Like I said when we first met, Inspector, she was a private girl.”

  “You also said something similar about Rita,” I reminded her. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “Did they work well together?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite the little team, in fact. Rita was often quiet around her, though, and I used to wonder if there was some fancy, there you know. Romantic attachment.” She looked up at me suddenly. “People do all sorts of things for love, don’t they?”

  They did. And I had seen enough cases to know that sometimes that even meant murder.

  “I’m guessing that Rita also knows the alarm codes?”

  “She knows all of it, Inspector. Knows every inch of that place like the back of her hand.”

  I nodded, scratching the back of my neck. “You said you thought Rita might have been stealing from the house,” I began, following a new train of thought. “Have you noticed anything out of place since Saturday? Anything moved, or missing?”

  “Missing? Nothing in the main part of the house, but it’s been a while since I went up into the attics. We’ve got some lovely things up there,” she rambled. “Paintings, vases, clothes.”

  “Clothes?” Mills repeated.

  “Oh, yes. Sometimes we take them down into the bedrooms for a display. Silk dresses, cravats, woollen shawls, coats, shoes and all that.”

  “Woollen shawls?” I asked. “They must be delicate.”

  “On the contrary, Inspector. We’re talking before the day of central heating.” Josephine tutted. “Those shawls are sturdy things designed to keep you warm in the coldest January.”

  I looked over my shoulder to Mills, who gave a slight dip of the chin.

  “Would you be able to see if any of them have gone missing, or are not where they should be, Ms
Goddard?”

  She looked surprised at the request but nodded. “Certainly.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for coming in with us.”

  I stood, and she followed, Mills walking her to the door as I returned to the interview room, peering in on Rita Jones to see if anything had changed. She’d not asked for anything, a cup of untouched water sat by her elbow, and there had been no requests for a lawyer. Not yet, anyway. As I waited for Mills to come back, I flipped through the folder we had shoved together. Pictures of the music box, of Viviane’s flat, images from the crime scene. I wondered which of them, if any, might make Rita talk. But I also wondered what exactly she might have to say.

  The door opened, and Sharp strode in, looking at the photograph.

  “The missing antique from Viviane Charles’s collection?” she asked, joining me at the window. I toyed with the file in my hands.

  “The very one. Being swept for fingerprints.”

  Sharp sighed. “This seems like a wrap up to me, Thatcher. She had access to the house, a copy of the key, knowledge of the cameras and blind spots, and you said yourself her behaviour was off. Skittish.”

  “I know. On paper, it all makes a lot of sense.”

  “On paper?”

  “Why would she have it in her bag?” I asked, turning away from Rita to meet Sharp’s gaze. “Why carry it around with her?”

  “Taking it somewhere to sell,” Sharp suggested. “She wasn’t going to be in the house all day, was she?” I let out an annoyed breath, knowing full well she was right, and Sharp laid a hand on my shoulder. “Look at the facts, Thatcher. She has the music box; she has the means.”

  I looked at the window again, to Rita’s small form. “Suppose I should find out why,” I muttered.

  I opened the door just as Mills appeared outside and took the mug I had left on the desk, which he had kindly rescued, heading straight into the next room. Rita looked up as we entered, her arms wrapped around herself, and we sat, mugs on the table and Mills put the folder down between us. He opened it to the image of the music box, pushing it towards Rita.

  “This is Viviane Charles’s music box,” I told her. “It’s missing from her collection. We found it in your bag.”

  Rita shook her head, curls falling in her face. “I’ve never seen it before,” she said hurriedly, trying to get the words out quickly, though they seemed to get stuck in her throat. “I swear to you, I don’t know how it got there.”

  She leant forward slightly, pleading, her eyes lined with tears. She had been quiet all the way here, sat in the back of the car in silent shock, staring at her hands. It seemed to catch up with her now. Though, what I couldn’t make sense of, was that she did look shocked when Josephine pulled it from her bag. Confused and shocked enough that despite what Sharp said about looking at the facts, I had doubts about Rita Jones being our killer.

  “You have a key to the house,” I said instead. “We found it in your bag.”

  “We all do,” Rita answered in a scratchy voice. “We take turns locking up.”

  “And you know the layout of the house,” I pushed on. “Including the security cameras. And you knew that Viviane would work late that night, you swapped shifts.”

  “She swapped shifts,” Rita emphasised, “and I offered to stay with her!”

  “Rita,” I leant forward, resting my arms on the table. “You do see what we see, don’t you? Viviane’s stolen music box in your bag. You have a key to the house, and you don’t have an alibi for Saturday night, not a good one,” I added before she could protest. “Did you take the box from Viviane’s flat?”

  “No,” she pressed, unfolding her arms and laying her hands flat on the table. “I’ve never been to her flat. I don’t even know where she lives! I knew she collected things,” she told us in a calmer voice, “but I didn’t take it, and I didn’t hurt her!”

  “Was there any competition between the two of you?” Mills asked her. “She’d been there a long time. Maybe that was a hard thing to compete with.”

  “Compete? Viviane was great. She helped me with everything at first. We did different things,” she sat back in her chair. “Viviane always hated giving tours. She liked doing all the inventory, curating, that sort of thing. We were never in each other’s way, and we didn’t have any competition!”

  “But you weren’t friends?” I asked. “Outside of work?”

  “No,” Rita sighed. “When I first started, she was still with her girlfriend, so she was always with her, and I made my own friends. You want to call my book club and check?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mills replied.

  “Did you ever meet her girlfriend?” I asked, interested in one of the few mentions we’d ever had of her.

  Rita blinked, thrown off by the question. “A few times. She’d come in to pick Viv up from work or to have lunch.”

  Mills took a long sip of coffee and asked, “What about your relationship with Viviane? Did you get on?”

  “We’re very different,” Rita told us, playing with the rings around her fingers. “Viviane was outgoing, she invited me to the pub a few times, but I never went.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Rita gave a wry smile. “I don’t do noise, and I don’t drink. Pubs aren’t exactly my sort of place.”

  I took a drink of coffee and sat back slightly, head wandering off in a hundred different directions.

  “The man you saw in the restaurant with Viviane…” I began.

  Rita’s head snapped up. “It was him, Harry Cuthbert. They must have been talking about the house.”

  “It was definitely him?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He was wearing the same coat. The earrings, it was him.”

  I would wager that he was our man from the coffee shop too, and I’d want to have a chat with him at some point about his relationship with Viviane.

  “Did you like her?” Mills was asking. “Viviane, did you like her?”

  “She was a good person to work with,” Rita answered carefully. “But I don’t think we’d have known each other if we didn’t work there, you know?”

  “What about any romantic feelings? Jealousy’s a tricky thing to get a handle on.”

  “No. Viviane was beautiful, but I didn’t like her in that way.”

  “So how did her music box get in your bag, Rita?”

  The fear crawled its way back on to her face, and she looked down again. “I don’t know. I have never seen it before in my life! Josephine just saw it. Maybe it fell in or something.”

  I’d heard that old chestnut before.

  “Where was your bag?” Mills asked her a little abruptly. “You didn’t have it in the parlour with you.”

  “It was under the counter,” she answered. “Josephine was doing the paperwork, and she just walked in with it, going through it.”

  Mills and I shared a glance. It was a strange thing that Josephine had found it when she did. There was a knock at the door, and I stood up, leaving Mills with the folder. Sharp was on the other side of the glass, so I left him to it, to see if she would open up without me there and left the room. Smith stood in the hallway.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got a Freddie Jones here.”

  “Rita’s brother?” I asked, striding off away from the interview room. Smith led me to another room, the door left open, where a tall lad paced around the table. He looked a lot like his sister, dark-haired and pale skin, but where Rita was small, her brother was big, broad-shouldered. Probably went to the gym a lot.

  “Mr Jones?” I asked, walking into the room.

  “You’re Inspector Thatcher?” he asked, walking over to me.

  “I am.”

  “You’ve got the wrong person,” he insisted. “Rita wouldn’t do this, she wouldn’t. She once nursed an injured pigeon back to life; she couldn’t do this.” He was speaking quickly, the words falling on my ears, and I took his arm, leading him to the chairs. He sat down, and I leant against the table.<
br />
  “You and your sister share a place?” I asked, trying to slow him down. He nodded, tucking his hair away from his face.

  “Our uncle's house, he left it to us.”

  “Your sister claims you were both at home on Saturday, but you went out at one point?”

  “To the cinema, yeah,” he explained. “The film started at eight, so I’d have left just before. Quarter too, maybe. Home by ten. Rita was asleep on the sofa.”

  “And before you left, she was in all night?” I asked for clarification.

  Freddie nodded. “It was her night to cook. We hung out in the kitchen until I left.”

  “Thank you, Freddie. I needed to know all that,” I told him, pushing myself up to my feet. He scrambled after me, grabbing my arm.

  “She didn’t do it,” he repeated. “I swear, Inspector, my sister couldn’t have done this.”

  “Mr Jones, I have to follow every lead, every suspect that comes my way. I do my job properly. Now, you are more than welcome to stay here, we can get you some tea or coffee, and you can wait to hear what happens with your sister. Until then, I have to ask you to let me get back to work.”

  Freddie Jones looked annoyed at it, his face flushed, but he nodded and let go of my arm. I walked him to the door where Smith lingered.

  “This is Constable Smith. She’ll get you some tea, show you where you can wait. Smith?”

  She nodded, stepping forward and leading Freddie away. I rubbed my arm, where he had grabbed it and headed back to the interview room. Sharp waited outside, arms folded, tapping her feet.

  “Evidence is stacked against her,” she said in a dark voice. “Wrap this up, Thatcher.” With that, she strode away.

  I sighed and pushed the door open.

  Sixteen

  Thatcher

  We left Rita in the room to stew, watching her through the window. Mills had gotten little from her in the time I had been out of the room. She continued to persist that she had never seen the music box before, that she didn’t know how it got there. And box aside, I couldn’t imagine her being a killer. She could have stolen the box, it was entirely probable, but being a thief differed from being a killer, and looking in at Rita, I couldn’t quite make the leap.