DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “Help them get there if you can,” he eventually told me in a much more subdued voice. “They might suspect your involvement, but there’s no evidence, and evidence is what matters in these things, believe me.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me? I didn’t almost blow this whole thing up in one night. You should have got to that girl faster.”

  “I know,” I admitted begrudgingly, though now, away from the house, the thought of it sat heavy in my guts.

  “I’ll keep everything on my end clean, don’t you worry. Now is that all?”

  “That’s all. Enjoy Pilates,” I added in a fake cheery tone, hanging up the phone. I sucked in a few deep breaths and shook my head, turning the engine back on and steering myself onto the road.

  I was home quickly and set to work cleaning the place from top to bottom, not finishing until everything shone, and the sun was beginning to rise. A new day to make things right.

  Twenty

  Thatcher

  Mills and I were back at the station, mulling over everything that Frances Beacon had told us. It was good to learn about Viviane from someone who actually knew, who could tell us about her collection. It didn’t help to find her killer, but for the first time, I had a good sense of who Viviane Charles had been.

  The day was dragging on, but I still wanted to have a proper chat with Harry Cuthbert, so as Mills did a bit of digging into Viviane’s grandfather, I called him into the station. He agreed to come in easily, supposedly curious as to what had happened here since we’d brought Rita in, whether or not the people who ran his family museum were, in fact, killers.

  Once he had agreed to come in, I hung up the phone and joined Mills at his computer.

  “Found anything interesting?” I asked, looking at the screen over his shoulder.

  “More or less just what Frances told us. A bit of a prominent collector,” he went on. “Donated a lot to various charities and museums, a few schools, when he died. Apparently, he was worth a lot. Like a lot, so it’s no wonder why there was a bit of tension between Viviane and her parents.”

  I nodded. “Between not having a husband yet and inheriting your grandfather’s wealth, that might do the trick.”

  “Word on Cuthbert?” Mills asked, peering back to look at me.

  “He’s on his way in. I want to understand their relationship better,” I murmured, walking over the board, looking at the photographs of them all. “If it was business or romantic, it could tip the scales for us.”

  “And then the box itself,” Mills suggested. “Finding out if that’s real or not would make a big difference.”

  “I wonder,” I mused from where I stood. “If it is fake, did Viviane know? Did she even know that it got stolen?”

  “If she did, she might have had an idea as to who stole it,” Mills added, tapping his pen against his chin. “Maybe that’s when things went all pear-shaped.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “Where are we on her records? And those pesky initials?”

  “Where we left off, sir. Got a bit side-tracked with Rita Jones and all that.”

  “We should get into that again once we’re done with Cuthbert.”

  “He might recognise some of the initials,” Mills suggested. “They might share a few contacts outside of the house.”

  “Even if he did, I want to establish their relationship first. He’s a co-operative bloke, but I don’t trust in any of this just yet. He met with Viviane the day she died; he must know something. She must have said something.”

  “What’s his ETA?”

  “Said he’d be here in five,” I answered, strolling over to the window and peering out through the blinds. The rain had come back when we were in the theatre, nastily beating down on the cars and pavement below. It turned the sky dark, though it wasn’t all that late.

  “I’ll go downstairs,” Mills told me, standing up from his desk. “Meet him at the door.”

  I nodded, and he left the office, leaving me to stand brooding at the window, watching people duck under their coats, legging it from doors to cars and vice versa.

  My phone dinged, and I pulled it from my pocket, glancing down. The number wasn’t a contact, but it was familiar. I opened up the message, finding a picture attached. It was the music box, or at least, a very similar one, in a very dingy looking room. I paced over to my desk, reaching for the phone numbers I had on hand for the case, flipping through them. Rita. I hit her number, listening to it ring as I left the office in search of Mills.

  “Hello?” she replied, her voice hushed.

  “Rita?” I strode down the hallway, pounding down the stairs towards where Mills loitered in the entryway. “What is that? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the house. I’m in the basement, I’m locked in.”

  “Locked in?” I repeated. Bloody hell, what was she doing in there?

  “I think someone else is in here,” she whispered, voice wavering, and my blood cooled.

  “Shit,” I muttered, drawing the phone away from my face. “Mills!”

  His head snapped around, a frown on his face, and he jogged over, his eyes wide with concern.

  “We’re on our way, Rita,” I told him quickly, shooing Mills towards the door.

  “My battery’s dying,” she croaked.

  “Stay on the phone as long as you can,” I told her, following Mills outside. “Where is the basement, Rita? Where can we find you?”

  “It’s downstairs, past the kitchen. Under a—” Her phone cut off, and I swore, looking down at my phone. Her battery must have died.

  “Sir?”

  I showed him the picture she sent me as Harry Cuthbert came jogging up to the door.

  “What?” Mills asked. “Where is she?”

  “Rita’s in the basement of the house,” I told him and Harry. “Someone else is there. They’ve locked her in.”

  Harry’s eyes widened. “I have the key,” he told me, patting his coat pocket.

  “Good, come on.” I led them both around to the car park and jumped in, peeling away from the station before Mills even got his seatbelt on.

  “Do you think it’s the person?” Harry asked from the backseat. “The one who killed Viviane?”

  “I think it’s likely,” I answered between my teeth.

  “What’s she doing there?” he asked.

  Mills leant around and showed him the picture of the box. “She was looking for this.”

  I looked in the mirror to see Harry frown. “But… I thought you had it?”

  “So, did we,” Mills answered, sitting back in his chair.

  “The basement,” I said to Harry. “Where is it?”

  “Down past the kitchen. There’s a trap door under a rug.”

  So, she was a sitting duck then, perfect. I sped up and hit the sirens on.

  “Light, Mills.”

  He ducked down into the footwell instantly, pulling out the little flashing light, and reached out of the window, smacking it to the roof of the car. Other drivers skidded out of the way, and we made it to the house in record time. I switched the engine off, and we all piled out of the car. The street was quiet, empty, except for a bike on the railings across from us.

  We ran towards the house, letting Harry ahead with his keys in hand, unlocking the doors and headed in. Mills hovered in the doorway, looking around the street as Harry found the main switch and the house flooded with light.

  “This way,” he told us, determinedly striding off towards the back of the house. I followed after him, down into the kitchen and along the narrow stone hallway. Someone had pushed the rug aside, but a large crate sat on top of the wooden door. I shoved it away, and Harry bent down to the door, thankfully unlocked, and wrenched it back, securing it down with a hook.

  I leant down into the darkness. “Rita?” I called. “It’s Inspector Thatcher.”

  No answer came, and Harry reached up to the wall in front of us, hitting a light switch. There was a hum and a ticking, and then th
e lights flickered on, fluttering like moths. I climbed in first, feet landing on the stairs as Mills re-joined us and gave me a grim shake of the head. No sign of anyone else. I headed down slowly, looking around the room. It was stacked with boxes and crates, dust-sheet-covered furniture, old frames, and rolled-up rugs.

  “Bottom steps broken,” a timid voice called out from somewhere in the room. I looked down, and sure enough, it had broken apart, splintered, blood staining the wood.

  “Rita?” I called out again, concernedly stepping over the fresh blood. Harry and Mills came down behind me as Rita’s face stuck up from behind a stack of crates. She let out a huge sigh, almost laughing with relief, and clambered shakily to her feet. She was clutching her arm, blood soaking through her clothes and covering her hand.

  I walked over, taking her good arm and helping her out from the stack of boxes she had taken refuge behind. Mills bent down and picked her phone up off the floor, the screen cracked. I sat her down on a box, her small frame nervously jittering, and Harry pulled off his scarf, taking her injured in his and wrapped it around the wound.

  “What happened?” he asked her gently.

  Rita was studying him, a faint frown on her face, but she looked up over his shoulder to where I stood and jerked her chin to the box behind me. The music box. I walked over, picking it up. It was heavy, heavier than the other one currently in the station, and it looked like an exact copy.

  “You came here for this?” I asked.

  Rita nodded, a lock of hair falling in her face. Harry’s hand twitched, like he wanted to move it, but he stood up, taking a step away from her and looked around the cellar.

  “You left the photograph in the room, and I kept thinking it looked familiar.” Rita’s voice was scratchy, hoarse. “And there are all sorts down here, and I just couldn’t shake it, you know? When you’ve seen something before? So, I came down here and had a look for it. I’d just sent you the picture.” She swallowed. “And then the lights shut off, and the door closed. I ran up to open it,” she looked at the stairs, “but it wouldn’t budge. And then I heard footsteps up there, moving around, and I got scared and sort of fell down them.”

  “And then you hid back there?” Mills asked her gently. She nodded.

  “Must have been dark,” Harry muttered, looking up at the sorry lightbulb on the ceiling.

  “We haven’t seen anyone else here, Rita,” Mills told her.

  “There must have been,” I assured her when her face paled. “Someone put a very heavy crate over the door to keep you down here. They didn’t want you finding this,” I remarked, folding the music box up in the cloth it sat in. “Or at least, you bringing it to us.”

  “How did you know it was down here?” Mills asked, taking a seat beside her.

  “I came down here a few weeks ago,” Rita explained as she shivered. “The construction crew that had been working in the dining room needed some more dust sheets, and I knew there were some down here. I spotted it then.”

  “Did you think anything of it?” I asked.

  “No,” she said with a shake of a head. “There’s all sorts down here. There’s a ceramic jug of a cow in that box.”

  “There is,” Harry agreed with a slight smile. “It was granny’s.”

  “Have you seen this before?” I asked him, holding up the box.

  He shook his head. “But to be honest, I don’t really know half of what’s down here. My grandmother might, but there’s no guarantee.”

  “If it came from the house,” Rita asked, “how did Viviane have it?”

  “That is a very good question, Rita,” I noted. “You did good, finding this. You have good instincts. Less good self-preservation skills, but still, well done, and thanks.”

  A little colour touched her cheeks, and she nodded. “Viviane deserved better,” she answered simply.

  “Inspector, I think she should probably see a doctor about that,” Harry said with a worried look to her arm. Blood was seeping through his scarf, and Rita winced.

  “Please tell me it’s not cashmere or something. Alpaca.”

  “It’s not,” Harry told her, but neither I, nor by the looks of it she, believed him. “I can take her, if you need to do anything else round here. Here.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out the keys and a scrap of paper, scribbling down a six-digit number. “Alarm code.” He handed them all over to Mills.

  I hesitated, curious about leaving her with him just yet, so I pulled my phone out and handed it to her. “Call your brother,” I told her. “He’s probably worried.”

  She nodded, taking the phone gingerly with a slight wince, and dialled the number.

  “Freddie? It’s me. No, I’m fine. I know.” She paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “I know,” she repeated. “Can I explain it later? My arm’s a bit banged up. I’m going to A&E. Can you meet me there and yell at me then? Thank you. Which one?” She looked up at Harry.

  “Closest one is St Mary’s,” he answered.

  “St Mary’s,” she said into the phone. “Okay. I will. Bye. Goodbye, Freddie.” She hung up quickly and handed the phone back. “He’ll meet us there.”

  I nodded, satisfied with that. “We’ll send a uniformed officer as well to keep an eye on things and make sure you’re safe.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” she said as Harry helped her to her feet. “Really, thank you.”

  I smiled at her, reaching out to give her small hand a light squeeze. I handed her the dead phone too, though it wasn’t much use to her now, and she slipped it in the pocket of her raincoat. She held herself up, more at ease now than she had been for a few days, though that could be the shock. She gave Mills a little nod and then let Harry help her up the stairs and outside.

  “You seemed reluctant to let her go with him,” Mills remarked as we climbed out from the cellar.

  “I know. I was.”

  “Still have some unanswered questions about him,” he said simply. I shot him a grateful smile.

  “I’d say Rita’s off the hook, given that someone likely tried to kill her this evening.”

  “Doesn’t clear her for what happened to Viviane,” he added. “She knew where to find that.” He nodded at the box. “This could have been revenge.”

  “Could have been. But was the same ghost getting and out of this house without being seen,” I remarked. “So, I doubt it.” We walked through the house, pausing in the library. A chair had been moved, dropped in front of the fireplace, above which a rifle was displayed.

  “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Mills muttered, wandering over to look at it. “They must have run when they heard us coming.”

  “Lucky for Rita,” I murmured. “Let’s call it in, get SOCO in to see if they can find anything.”

  Mills nodded, making the call quickly as I put in a word with Sharp to send an officer to the hospital to keep an eye on Rita. We waited in the entrance for them, and he looked at the box in my hands.

  “So, two music boxes?”

  “Two music boxes.”

  He grinned. “I suppose we’ll be paying Dr Dorland a visit then, to see which one’s the real deal.”

  “I suppose so,” I agreed, refusing to return his wide smile. Though when he finally looked away at the cars that rolled into the street, I couldn’t fully keep one off my face.

  Twenty-One

  Thatcher

  Mills and I stood before Sharp’s desk, our hands behind our backs. It was another wet morning, dreary and damp, and I was tempted to curl up in a chair and sleep for several more hours. Sharp was standing back, her arms folded, eyes narrowed at the desk where both music boxes sat.

  “Let me get this straight,” she began. “Rita Jones went back to the house last night because she thought she had seen the box before. She goes in, and someone, most likely our killer, locks her in the cellar and then scarpers when you boys arrive?”

  “That’s about it, ma’am,” Mills replied.

  “Right.” Sharp nodded, sucking
on a tooth. “Right.” She sat down, looking at the boxes still. “Where is Rita now?”

  “Harry Cuthbert took her to the hospital last night, and we got word from her brother, Freddie, a few hours later,” I told her. “Her arms all patched up, and apart from some shock, she’s fine. They kept her overnight for the bump on her head, and we’ve had a uniformed officer on the street to keep watch. It’s been clear all night, but Rita knows enough that they might try again.”

  “I can’t decide whether or not her going there was very brave or very stupid,” Sharp mused.

  “If she hadn’t gone, we would have that,” I said with a point to the box closest to me.

  “So did our killer follow her there, or did they go back for the music box?” Sharp asked.

  “Either way, I doubt they would have left it there.”

  “What have we got from SOCO?” she asked. “Anything in the house?”

  “Some footprints perhaps, stuff brought in from outside, but they could belong to any of us. Nothing on any door handles or anything. Seems our killer was careful about that.”

  Sharp stood up, pacing over to the window and glaring out at the rain. She turned around, her hands resting in her pockets, and looked over the boxes again, then to me.

  “Take them both to Dr Dorland, see if she can check the authenticity of them. For all we know, it’s a matching set that got split up.”

  “If that were the case, it might be a good clue as to why all this is happening,” Mills suggested.

  “Especially if it was Viviane, or her grandfather, who split them up in the first place,” I added.

  “How did that get into the house, though?” Sharp asked, one foot tapping the ground. “Was it always there? Is Viviane the thief in the scenario, and if she is, who from that place took it upon themselves to act as judge, jury and executioner?”