DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  There was one outside door that led into the small yard outside, where a CCTV camera watched over the gravel. The door was still locked, but I peered out through the little window, seeing if I could spot anything out there from inside.

  Nothing. The space was for parking more than anything, I imagined, a place for deliveries to be dropped off. I wondered if there was another way out there, out in the gardens down the other side of the house or through one of the back rooms. Doors might be closed off, but unless they were fully bricked over, there was still the chance of getting through.

  I left the kitchens as they were, with nothing to show for my searches other a rather tickly nose from all the dust and a slight scuff on my elbows from the rough brick walls. As I headed for the stairs, my radio crackled, Thatcher’s deep voice coming through.

  “Mills?” he asked. Must have finished his search upstairs with Rita, I thought.

  “Just finished downstairs, sir,” I told him, reaching the ground floor. ‘No unusual points of entry, no sign of a break, and there’s the CCTV out in the yard, anyway.” I closed the downstairs door behind me.

  I’d been through the dining room on my way to the kitchens, so I headed right, into the Morning Room. The door was unlocked, but not open, and forensics hadn’t come in here. For plain reason too. Where in all the other rooms, the dust was a faint layer in here like frost, even on the dust sheets. And there were lots of dust sheets. They were draped over the table and chairs in the middle of the many-windowed room, over the sideboard behind me and the framed paintings on the wall. The rug that must cover the floor was rolled up, propped to the side in one corner, and the curtains were dusty too, the white streaks making them look more menacing than curtains had any right to be.

  The windows were arched, stretching from the ceiling to the floor, and there was no door amongst them that I could see. Outside was the garden, and I imagined it had been quite lovely once. Now it was rather full of weeds and brambles, the paths overgrown, and the fountain covered in sprawling ivy and moss. I supposed that with no member of the public able to see it right now, appearances didn’t matter much.

  I walked along the stretch of windows, and something crunched beneath my feet. I froze, looking down at the ground. Small shards of glass were scattered along. Frowning, I reached up and pushed back the curtain that had fallen loose from its tie. A few of the old, thin panes had shattered, the window swinging lightly on its hinges. I opened it, peering outside to the ground below. The rain had made the ground damp, and protected by the overhanging eaves above, had yet to find the right angle to wash anything away.

  Some footprints were embedded in the soil, overlapping each other, a little of mud on the window frame itself. I drew back, ready to call in Thatcher, when something outside, not far from the prints, caught my eye. I inched out carefully through the window, jumping over the prints towards the rowdy hedges that lined the path, winding down to the side of the house. I spared a glance down there, clocking a tall gate at the end and then went back to the hedge, squatting down and reaching for the dark, damp, pile. It was sodden and heavy, and when I shook it out, bits of garden and water spattered my trousers. It looked like a bag, or a sack, misshapen now. Embroidered quite nicely, the material thick and rough. Knitted, I realised, with wool.

  “Sir?” I called through the radio, shaking the bag out a bit more so that it didn’t drip on me all the way back to the station.

  “Go ahead,” Thatcher answered quickly.

  “The Morning Room, sir. I’ve got a broken window, glass all over the floor and what looks like some faint boot prints. And something else. Looks like what was once a very nice woollen bag before the rain got to it. I think…” I paused, climbing back in through the window. “I think I’ve got our murder weapon, sir.”

  It didn’t take Thatcher long to join me, his boots came hurtling through the doorway, sharp eyes homing in on me. He strolled over, a hand resting on my shoulder and looked over the broken glass and the muddy prints outside.

  “I found this,” I held up the wet bag, “just outside in that hedge.”

  Thatcher pulled a plastic bag from his coat pocket and held it open. I carefully dropped the bag in, and he sealed it up, looking over the room once more.

  “They must have come in through the window, then,” he murmured.

  “There’s a gate,” I told him, “just down that path along the side of the house.”

  Thatcher looked to the wall, as though he could see it and lifted a hand to his radio. “Smith?”

  “Sir?” her faint voice answered.

  “Call forensics again. We’ve got something for them to look at. And tell Harry and Rita they head off; we’ll update them when we next get something.”

  “Will do, sir,” she answered, the radio going silent.

  “Show me the gate,” Thatcher asked. I sidestepped through the open window, very mindful of the jagged shards of glass and Thatcher followed, stepping widely over the patch of footsteps. He paused there, snapping a few pictures of the prints and then nodded to me.

  I led him to the side, where the path curves around the corner of the house. The gate was taller, as tall as Thatcher easily, and looked sturdy. I stood back, taking the bag from him as he wandered forward, trying the latch. It opened, and the gate swung aside. The path carried on, down the length of the house towards the street.

  “I’m guessing this is how they got out last night,” Thatcher commented, closing the gate and wandering back up the path. “Glass would have broken then, when they were in a bit of a rush.”

  “Avoids all main points of entry,” I added, “and the CCTV.”

  “So, whoever it was clearly knew their way around. Somehow, I doubt it was a particularly observant tourist,” Thatcher said dryly.

  “Sir,” Smith’s voice piped up again. “Harry and Rita have headed out, and a forensics team is on their way in.”

  “Thank you, Smith. Let’s get all of this into the car, and once the team arrives, we can head back to the station,” he answered.

  “Did you still want to go to the museum?” I asked as we walked around the house to the front. “Drop off the artefacts?”

  “We’ll let Philips give them a once over first, see if we can find any marks on them. If not, we’ll hand them to Dr Dorland and see what she makes.” He reached up to scratch the back of his neck as he spoke, and I suppressed a grin. It was nice to see him liking someone.

  We met Smith in the entryway and carefully loaded everything into the boot of the car. We’d just gotten it all in when the forensics team rolled in, already decked out in their white jumpsuits. Thatcher took them inside to the Morning Room, and Smith and I leant against the car, waiting.

  “Surprised they missed it last night,” she murmured, tugging on the collar of her uniform.

  “They were focused on the cellar and the Library,” I told her. “Never occurred to any of us to check the Morning Room.”

  “It occurred to you,” Smith pointed out.

  “Only just,” I added. She rolled her eyes at me. “What?”

  “Learn to take a compliment, Mills?” Smith drawled, opening the car door and sliding in as Thatcher reappeared outside. He gave me a nod, and I climbed in, turning the engine on as he ducked into the passenger side.

  As I drove away, he leant around his seat to look at Smith.

  “The others?”

  “Freddie Jones took them away,” she answered. “No problems from any of them, but Harry does ask you to be careful and keep him updated.”

  Thatcher nodded and sat back around in his seat. “Can do.” He looked at me then, a slight questioning look on his face. I knew what he wanted to know, that I had invited Smith out for a drink once, and she had said no. Thatcher was interested and used to watch us talk with a knowing, smug look on his face. Too bad for him, I thought, thinking of Susanne.

  “The boot prints,” I piped up instead, “they looked small, no? More like a woman’s size than a man’s?” />
  Thatcher leant back and nodded. “They do,” he agreed gruffly. “A woman, likely with a key and knowledge of the house.”

  My brain went to Josephine Goddard, and I know that Thatcher’s did too.

  “She’s been quiet of late,” I murmured. “We’ve heard nothing of or from her since the day in the station.”

  “Perhaps she was annoyed that we let Rita go home,” Thatcher suggested.

  “How annoyed?” I asked darkly, just as we swooped back towards the station.

  “Let’s see what we can turn up from those prints and the bag,” Thatcher announced as I pulled to a stop. “Good work, by the way.” He clapped an arm on my shoulder as Smith climbed out of the car. “Well spotted.”

  “What did forensics say?”

  “They’ll see what they can get, but it’s not likely to be much. Didn’t see any blood samples or anything, but maybe we'll be lucky,” he added, jumping from the car.

  “A rogue hair?” I asked jokingly, as we all walked to the boot, hoisting the things into our arms. Another officer, out in the smoking area, put out his cigarette and jogged over to help.

  “We can only dream, Mills,” Thatcher replied, looking more hopeful than he had yesterday.

  Twenty-Seven

  Thatcher

  We took all the objects down to Philips, who beamed like a child on Christmas morning. Leaving him to his new toys with Smith for assistance, Mills and I headed down to Crowe’s lab with the bag. I was glad that Mills had found it. Hopefully, we’d get something a little more conclusive from it than we had anything else. Sharp, in heed of the order she doled out earlier, met us at the top of the stairs and promptly sent us home for the night. Told us that we needed to relax and come in tomorrow with a fresh face.

  So, Mills and I headed out to the pub, sitting around a low table. I’d pulled my coat and tie off, rolled my sleeves out of the way and reclined back in the comfy chair, head tipped back to the ceiling. Mills was on his phone, fingers tapping and a smile on his face as he texted. Susanne, it might be, to make him smile like that. After a while, though, he put his phone away, picked his pint and took a long, deep drink.

  “Are you also leaning towards Josephine Goddard?” he asked, placing his glass back down.

  “I’m definitely suspicious of her,” I told him, “but I can’t quite figure out why she would kill Viviane.”

  Mills shrugged. “Maybe it’s what Rita said, about Viviane on her way to be head curator, working closely with Harry and Josephine not liking that.”

  “Also makes the most sense in terms of the music box,” I added. “If Josephine stole it from Viviane and had a copy made, the copy she then put in Rita’s bag to frame her.”

  “Maybe Viviane found out,” Mills suggested. “I mean, Rita saw the music box down in the cellar a few weeks ago. Maybe Viviane did too. Figured out who stole her box and put two and two together. Maybe she confronted Josephine and got killed for it.”

  “But if she knew she had been robbed, why not report it? Why not say something?” I asked aloud.

  “It could be that she didn’t know until recently. She had focused on her studies, right, so maybe she just didn’t know someone had stolen it until around when she was killed.”

  “Noticed it was stolen, then saw the fake,” I deliberated to myself. “Got killed for confronting whoever did it.”

  “It’s a personal affront to her to be robbed, but also to the history of the place, that would have upset her too,” Mills added.

  “We need more evidence,” I murmured, leaning forward on my knees. “Need to prove that Josephine was at least there. Where did we get to on her alibi?”

  “The friend she said she was with confirmed what she told us.”

  “Do we know who the friend is?” I asked.

  “We could check,” Mills suggested. “Smith should have the record somewhere, and she did most of the follow-ups.”

  “She’s a good egg.” Mills nodded in agreement. “Shame she said no to you, eh?”

  “Probably for the best,” he answered simply. “Mixing work and relationships is never a good thing, and otherwise, I would be with Susanne.” And he did seem happy with Susanne.

  I picked up my beer and gave him a little salute. “Here’s to you and Susanne then.” Mills shook his head and smiled but picked up his glass and clinked it against mine.

  “What’s the news on the coaching house?” he asked, taking another long sip.

  “Getting there. Got those stairs to reinforce, though.” I scratched my head. “That’ll be fun.”

  Mills nodded and was looking at me curiously, glancing away when I met his eyes. He had questions; I knew he did. About my life before we met, about my mother and everything that had happened there. It was a mystery to him, a puzzle, but until I had paid my debt and sorted through that guilt, the mystery would stay mine, whatever Elsie or Sally said.

  “We should head on,” he said after a long pause. “Before Sharp catches sight of us and starts breathing fire.”

  I chuckled as he finished his glass. “You go ahead,” I told him. “I won’t be long.”

  Mills hesitated, looking a bit unsure, but he pulled his coat on and gave me a grin before walking to the door. It was chilly out there, the rain keeping the spring sunshine from heating the place up.

  I didn’t stay there long, only nursed my pint a while longer before ambling home on tired legs. Maybe Sharp was right. An early night would be just the thing to get through tomorrow. Another day, I had no doubt, of theories and questions, and little evidence. I fell into bed with a groan, happily pulling the covers up over my head, content to forget all about it until the sun came through my curtains.

  Mills was already at the station when I arrived, the both of us significantly brighter in the face. He was sitting on the front of his desk, looking at the whiteboard when I arrived, and wordlessly handed me a steaming mug of coffee.

  “I saw you pull up as I went into the kitchen,” he told me as I took it with my eyebrows raised.

  “Much appreciated, Mills. Any word?” I asked, shrugging my coat off and draping it over the back of my chair.

  “Crowe sent up word when she came in this morning, said she’d have something for us in a few hours. Philips, too, he wasn’t here much longer after us yesterday. And Smith,” he picked up a folder and handed it over. “From the alibis she followed up, said Goddard’s friend should be in there.”

  I took him from him and perched on the edge of my desk, placing my coffee down beside me and flipping the folder open. I flicked over Nia Jenkins and Rita’s pages to Josephine’s. The name she had given was Robert Pike, which, according to Smith, hadn’t turned up anything in the system. I looked down the page to the number listed and frowned.

  “Hang on,” I muttered, walking around to my computer and switching it on. I sipped my coffee as it whirred to life, and Mills looked over.

  “Sir?”

  “This number’s familiar,” I told him, the computer finally loading. I headed to the website that led us to Horace Dibbit and his workshop, scrolling down to his contact page.

  “Robert Pike, who confirmed Josephine Goddard’s alibi, has the name phone number as Horace Dibbit,” I gritted through my teeth.

  Mills pushed himself up and came to stand behind me. “Interesting,” he muttered.

  The phone on his desk rang, and he reached over to pick it up as I continued to glower at the phone number. “DS Mills,” he answered briskly, nodding along to whoever spoke. “Got it. Thanks, lads.” He hung up and turned back to me. “Forensics gave the place a brief sweep. They’re looking into a few samples they found at the scene, but they told us that the boot prints look like a woman's, narrow.” I nodded, as we predicted. “Looks to be a size seven.”

  “A pretty common size that,” I pointed out, picking up my coffee and taking a sip.

  “Did you see Rita Jones’s feet?” Mills asked. “Tiny, like a kid.”

  I chuckled. “Suppose that r
ules her out completely then?”

  “Well, if nothing else, we can check some shoes for mud samples.”

  “They’ll find a reason for being out there,” I said wearily. “They always do.”

  Mills’s face fell slightly, and I felt bad for kicking down his hopeful theories.

  “Maybe forensics will get something more concrete for us,” I suggested. “For now,” I put down my mug and picked up my phone, “let’s have another chat with Horace Dibbit.”

  I dialled the number on Smith’s sheet, listening to it ring for a while before it was finally answered.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice came through.

  “Morning. I’m calling for a Robert Pike,” I told him. Mills leant on my desk, looking rather amused by all this.

  “Who?” the voice asked.

  “Robert Pike,” I repeated. “Friend of Josephine Goddard?”

  There was a long, crackling pause, and then he said, “Oh, aye. Robert. He’s, er, he’s stepped out.”

  “Stepped out?” I asked, giving Mills a glance. He immediately turned to the computer, putting in a search for Robert Pike.

  “Aye.”

  “Then I’m talking to Horace Dibbit?” I asked bluntly. Another long pause.

  “Who is this?” he asked. Mills tapped me on the arm and then pointed to the computer screen. I looked over what he was showing me and almost laughed.

  “DI Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. Lovely to chat with you again, Mr Dibbit.” I let some of my anger out as I spoke, voice grumbling along.

  I looked to Mills, who had flipped his notebook open and written, Send out uniform to collect?

  “DI Thatcher?” he asked. “Oh, aye. Hello again. Robert Pike’s not here.”

  “Unsurprising, Mr Dibbit, given that Robert Pike died in 1972,” I said coldly as I nodded to Mills. He quickly strode off outside, calling out a muffled order. I turned back to the phone, unsurprised to see that Dibbit had hung up. I groaned and pushed myself from the desk, walking outside to where Mills had just sent off two cars to where Dibbit’s workshop is.