DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “I hid behind the crates. It was pitch black, and I could hear them moving around, and I just curled into a ball and hid. Pathetic,” she added.

  “Smart,” I corrected her. “What you did was very smart, Rita, and very brave. Do you remember anything next?”

  She took a deep breath. “I heard the sirens then,” she said. “And then there was lots of noise upstairs, and then the door opened, and you came down.”

  I nodded and leant back in my chair, letting her gather herself, take a sip of tea before I asked. “Do you know if they were here before you? Was there a car around that you didn’t recognise?”

  Rita thought back, and I let her focus for a moment. “No,” she said slowly. “There are only a few places to park out there, and it was the usual cars. The people next door. Everything was shut up when I got there. The lights were all off, and the alarm was on.”

  “So, they must have arrived after you,” Mills said.

  Rita shrugged. “Must have.”

  “Do you know if anyone followed you?” Mills asked. “I know it's a daft question, but did you feel in any way unsafe as you went? Like someone else was there?”

  “It was raining,” Rita answered. “So, it was fairly quiet out there, you know? Not a lot of people, but I was on my bike, so it’s hard to really know what’s going on behind you. I felt okay. I didn’t feel like anyone was around me, and that’s something you sort of learn to pick up on.”

  “You do that route a lot on your own?” I asked, and she nodded. I understood. A young woman, going down that route on her own in the dark evenings, would have her senses about her.

  “When you got into the house,” Mills changed the tone of the conversation. “Did you lock the doors behind you?”

  “I did.”

  “So, whoever it was, they had a key or came in some other way?”

  Rita nodded.

  “The things down in the cellar,” I began as Mills made a note of all of this. “What sort of stuff is down there?” We’d gotten a faint glance, but I was too distracted by the bleeding, almost murdered girl to do a full stock.

  “Josephine’s the only one who knows for sure,” Rita told us. “She’s got the key. Occasionally when she goes down to do inventory or tidy things up, she finds something and brings it up. Like a fancy vase or an old clock. It’s always exciting when we put something new on display, reels in some more visitors.”

  “She must get a lot of praise for that,” I wondered.

  “She does,” Rita said slowly. “Viviane always knew more about that kind of thing, though. Her collection, I mean. So, I always found it a bit weird that Josephine was the one to do it.”

  “Harry Cuthbert agrees with you,” I told her. Rita looked up, surprised, and I explained to her everything, more or less, that Harry had told us this morning. Viviane’s studying, him helping her on her way to becoming the head curator.

  When I finished, Rita pursed her lips. “If Josephine knew about that, she wouldn’t be happy. She takes a lot of pride in her work and relationship with Harry.”

  “When she’d find these things,” Mills asked her. “Did you believe her? That they were down there this whole time?”

  Rita nodded, hesitantly. “At first, yes. But then it didn’t make sense why she wouldn’t let us have a look. Three sets of eyes are better than one, right?”

  I thought about that, about the mystery objects Josephine claimed to have found and nodded. They certainly are. And if Philips had something to find with the fake music box, we might end up having a closer look at some of those items ourselves.

  Twenty-Four

  Thatcher

  When we left Rita Jones’s house, making our slow but steady way through traffic back to the station, I was drawn to what she had said about Josephine Goddard. Finding relics, artefacts, pieces of historical art suddenly in that dark cellar to open up to the public, bring in more visitors and earn her brownie points with Harry Cuthbert. There was something about the manager of Henbell House that I couldn’t overlook, and yet, the same doubts still hid in the back of my mind about Rita. We don’t know for sure who was in that house with her, or why they were there. We couldn’t know if Rita had planted that music box there herself, and even if someone was there to kill her, as the attention around the hunting rifle suggested, that didn’t make her innocent of killing Viviane. At the end of the day, she had a key to the house, she knew the alarm code, knew that Viviane was working there. Maybe she herself resented Viviane’s slow rise to being in charge in that house. I didn’t fully believe my own suspicions, but I had been in this game too long to set them aside completely.

  “Alright, sir?” Mills asked as he drove. “You’re very quiet.”

  “Mulling things over,” I answered thoughtfully. “Sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of this case. Everyone’s as possible a suspect as each other.”

  Mills nodded slowly, and I was grateful that my phone rang, something to take my mind away from the loop of thoughts I’d gotten stuck in. Philips’s name flashed across the screen, and I answered it eagerly, hopefully.

  “Philips,” I greeted him.

  “Thatcher. I had another look at the music box, cracked it open this time. Found something in the metal, looks like a maker’s sign. The kind you find on jewellery?”

  “I know the sort,” I told him. “We’re on our way back to the station. Can you get a clear picture of it?”

  “Can do. I’ll blow it up and have it on your desk when you get in.”

  “Appreciate it, Philips, ta.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” he replied brightly, the line going quiet a beat after.

  “Philips?” Mills asked. “What’s he got?”

  “Looks like he's got a maker’s mark for us to take a look at. Hopefully, we can narrow down a list of potential manufacturers.” I looked through my messages as I spoke. “He said it’s like jewellery,” I muttered. “I wonder if our friend in the art world might give us a hand.”

  “What about Dr Dorland?” Mills asked. “She said she might be able to get a list together for us.”

  “We’re looking at art more than anything else, though,” I worried. “Remember what Rita said? Vases and clocks, that sort of thing. Not so much Viking ruins and Roman coins.”

  We were back at the station now, quickly running in from the car park to the warm, dry rooms.

  “Plus,” I carried on, “I’d imagine she’s got her hands full. Looking at the music box for us as well as her own work.” I didn’t want to bother her, pester her too much.

  “I can call,” Mills suggested as we strode to our office. “Be the annoying one asking all the questions.”

  I smiled at him but shook my head. “Hold off a moment. We’ll see what we kind find first.”

  I took my coat off as we walked in, draping it over the back of the chair. Philips had left a little paper folder on my desk, but before I checked it, I headed to the toilet. When I was done, I stood in front of the mirror and slowly peeled the plaster off, tossing it in the bin before returning to the office and collapsing in the chair. Mills was at the board, figuring out last night and how what Rita had told us fitted into it all.

  Opening the folder, I pulled out the large A4 image that Philips had sent up. The shadows of the box made it a bit hard to read, but the lines carved into the gilded metal were unmistakable. I pulled out a pen, tracing over the lines. One of the shapes was some sort of bird, the few lines mapping out the wings and the beak. Beside it, the letter ‘M’ and the numbers ‘348’.

  I shook my computer mouse, rattling the screen to life and searched for the letter and numbers, putting them through the system to see what came up. Luck must finally be on our side as an old case file, about ten years old now, came up, the collection of symbols and numbers inside.

  A counterfeiting case, where a man had been arrested and fined for making a duplicated necklace of a woman out towards the Dales. He’d sold it, making a ridiculous profit, but hadn’t done anyth
ing illegal enough to have been arrested. He’d returned the money and paid a fine without fuss. No wonder I hadn’t heard of the case before.

  “I think I’ve got him,” I told Mills, who came strolling over. “Horace Dibbit. Works under the catchy little alias of the Starling, got into some trouble a few years ago after selling a counterfeit necklace. Same marks.” I showed him the image and the file.

  Mills nodded, looking excited. “Maybe he’s still in the game, then,” he suggested.

  Christ, I hoped so. It would be our luck that he had died three years ago, but I tried not to worry over it as I looked him up. He had a website which was very handy. A workshop outside the city, just out skirting the Dales. He was a craftsman, it seemed. Using natural, local resources to make sculptures, tables, jewellery. Seemed straight, but we’d find out more ourselves. I took a note of the address and waved it in the air.

  “Pee now, Mills, because I shan’t be stopping at a service, and there are some nasty plants out there you won’t want to wade into.”

  “Got the address?” he asked, already pulling his coat back on.

  “Things are in our favour today, it seems.”

  I checked that there was an officer outside the Jones house and filled Sharp in on what we were doing, and before long, we were back in the car, me driving this time as Mills tipped his head back with his eyes closed.

  The rain dwindled as we left the city, though the sky remained grey and cloudy, hanging low over the green hills we rolled out into. I’d never spent much time in the Dales myself, though I knew Mills had, walking holidays as a child. They weren’t unlike the moors, but where the North Moors were rugged, unfriendly and bleak, the Dales were prettier, rolling valleys of green grass.

  It took us the better part of an hour to reach the old disused farm that was now the Starling’s workshop, and I rather wished we’d brought some food for the trip. Perhaps we would be stopping at the services on the way back after all.

  We trundled in the yard of loose stones and churned up mud, spiky, stubborn weeds poking up through the cold earth. Three shambled barns formed a ‘U’ shape around us, the one directly ahead with its doors slid open, filled with tables and shelves, and a forge burning away happily. A man sat at one of the tables, a pair of humorously sized safety goggles strapped to his face, and he looked up as we left the car, ambling over, buffeted by the wind.

  “Eh up, gents,” he called, taking his goggles off. “Workshop’s closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “We’re here to speak to Horace Dibbit,” I called back, ducking into the sheltered warmth of the shed. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, and this is Sergeant Mills.”

  The man stood up and walked around the table, peeling his heavy gloves off. “I’m Horace,” he answered, offering a rough, calloused hand to shake. “What’s this about?”

  “We’re sorry to disturb you,” I offered politely, pulling the images of the box and the marks from my pocket. “We have a few questions for you about this.”

  I passed him the images, and his bushy eyebrow rose, eyes roaming over the pages. When he looked back up, his mannerism changed like the drop of a hat. Gone was the bumbling workshop man and his goggles. Horace Dibbit narrowed his eyes at us and sucked a tooth.

  “Aye?”

  “You made it?” I asked.

  “Did so. A fine piece. What about it?”

  “We were wondering, how, and who for?”

  “T’were a commissioned piece, a month or so ago. From another box. I tried to reproduce the best I could.” He shrugged and wandered back around his table, picking up his tools and moving them around absent-mindedly.

  “Did you see the other box?”

  “Only the outside,” he answered. “Apparently, they were a matching set. Only one got lost or damaged or summit in some move. Needed a new one to replace it. Not as high calibre, I imagine, but some of my finest work. Why?”

  “We have reason to believe that the music box brought to you was stolen.”

  “Stolen?” He shook his head and sat down on his metal stool. “I had no business with any of that,” he muttered between his teeth. “No doubt you saw my record, Inspector, but I’m clean. An honest tradesman.” But something twinkled in his eye as he said it. It was a familiar lie that I had heard time and time before.

  “You had no knowledge of where the box came from?”

  “None,” he answered shortly.

  “And the client,” I asked. “Who was the client?”

  Horace looked up at me with pity from under his eyebrows. “Can’t remember,” he stated blandly. Mills shuffled his weight beside me, annoyed at the blatant lie.

  “Maybe the name is in your records?” I suggested.

  “Don’t keep ‘em,” he said.

  “Seems a bit reckless,” I answered.

  Horace shrugged. “People come here for tables and sculptures, Inspector. I’m a tourist stop to and from the city. I don’t keep records of my customers. Not even the commissions.”

  “So, you can’t tell me anything about this music box, about the person who brought it to you?”

  “I cannot. I had no hand in what happened before or after I completed my work,” he swore, raising his hand to the air. “All I do, is make things.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, blood simmering with every word that fell from his mouth. “I see,” I gritted out eventually. “Well, please do get in touch if anything comes to mind, Mr Dibbit. Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  “While we’re here,” I said in a cheerier voice, my hand tucked into my pockets, “mind if we take a little look around? The missus wants a new kitchen table.” I added the lie when his face drew with suspicion. He didn’t look easy at the prospect, but he gave a fake smile and nodded.

  “By all means. The oak is particularly lovely.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I answered. Mills and I drifted off to the other side of the workshop, where a lot of Horace’s wares were on display. They were beautiful, and it was surprising given his work on the music box. He had a good eye, a fantastic talent.

  “Must cost a lot to keep a place like this going,” Mills said under his breath as we perused a table for my make-believe wife. “More than the odd table or sculpture to a wayward traveller could provide.”

  “Must do a lot of commissions,” I replied. “Someone would have paid him for his work. I doubted he cared much where the money came from, so long as it came. Giving names means he doesn’t get paid.”

  “And keeping out of it, other than making things, keeps his hands clean.”

  “It’s an intelligent process, annoyingly. Picking it apart wouldn’t be easy, but he’s not broken any law, so there’s nowt we can do. How about this one?” I asked in a louder voice, running my hand over the surface of a table.

  “It’s very nice,” Mills matched my pitch. “But it’d never fit in your kitchen, not with the chairs around it too.”

  “You’re right.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Still, we’ve been talking about knocking through into the dining room. Perhaps, we’ll come back then.”

  I gave Horace a jaunty wave from where he listened to us a few metres away and strolled out casually back to the car. As soon as we were in, I started the engine and drove away from the workshop and its beady-eyed labourer. I drove down through the valley, stopping at a small café on the side of the road where we wandered in, ordering two cups of tea and a plate of chips.

  “At least we know he made it,” Mills pointed out, sprinkling salt over the chips.

  “But we don’t know who for,” I answered. “He didn’t even let slip a he or she. Could be anyone.”

  “Maybe it was Viviane herself,” Mills suggested. “Got the fake one made because she knew someone had their eye on her collection.”

  “Both boxes were found in Henbell House,” I reiterated. “One real, one fake and one of them, likely the real one, came from Viviane’
s collection. But somehow, it ended up there with the fake.”

  “Which in turn ended up in Rita’s bag,” Mill added, stuffing three chips into his mouth. “Could have been the two of them, working together against Josephine. Maybe when Viviane died, Rita went to her flat and got the real one to cover her tracks?”

  “It’s not a bad theory,” I said.

  “But you don’t like it,” Mills stated.

  “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand who took the box from Viviane, whether or not she knew it was gone and how on earth we get from there, to her being killed and having suicide staged. This case…” I rubbed my hands over my face, wincing when I brushed the wound. “I feel like I’m herding cats trying to make sense of it.”

  Mills nodded along thoughtfully, keeping quiet as I tried to untangle the thoughts in my head.

  “The mark,” I murmured. “Horace left his mark on it, hubris and pride like Harry said. So maybe, we can find his mark elsewhere?”

  “Or other fakes?” Mills suggested. “In the house?”

  “Rita said she didn’t get why or how Josephine found those things down there. Maybe some of the other wonderful trinkets she dug up over the years aren’t as genuine as they seem.”

  “We’d need Rita for that,” Mills said. “And Harry. He’ll know better what belongs to his family and what doesn’t.”

  “Eat up,” I ordered. “Once we’re back in the city, we’ll round them both up, start clearing up a few of these ideas.”

  Twenty-Five

  Thatcher

  The day was dwindling past, so once we were back in the station, Mills called Harry to get him around to the house whilst I got in touch with Rita. I felt a bit bad, bombarding the day after the rather intense night she had, but I felt energised with this new theory, and the sooner we looked into it, the sooner everything else would start to fall into place. The phone only rang three times before she answered.

  “Inspector Thatcher?” her low voice called through.