“Major Alexander Riggs,” Mills told me. I looked up to find him holding another ID card. “British Army.” Military. Crap.
“We need to get in touch with any local bases,” I said quickly, “find out if he was stationed anywhere near here.”
“The closest military base to here is an RAF base,” Fry called down to us. “But there are few other army bases in the area. I can get calling.” Mills handed her the id, and she took it carefully, heading back up the bank.
“Might not be the easiest thing if the military decides they want a say in this.”
“Not their jurisdiction,” I muttered, looking back down at the Major. “Sharp will be clear about that, don’t worry.”
A few more cars and a coroner’s ambulance joined us, and Mills and I stepped out the way as Crowe appeared, zipping herself into her suit.
“Did you start without me? Very uncouth.”
I reached up a hand, helping her down the bank to our body, and she whistled slowly.
“Washed up, eh? Nasty business.” She pulled her gloves on tightly and secured her hood before bending down, kit in hand and getting to work.
“Let’s talk to our dog walker whilst we wait,” I said to Mills, pushing my legs back up the slope to the road above.
I peeled the gloves off, stuffing them in my pocket as I walked over to the woman, still hunched on a rock, stroking her dog. The constable with her rose as we approached. With a nod from me, he stepped aside.
“Mrs Joyce Sutton,” he murmured quietly to me as he passed me. I nodded in thanks and squatted down beside the dog walker.
“Mrs Sutton? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher, and this is Detective Sergeant Mills. How are you?” I asked.
She hesitated, looking at the bustle of the crime scene, down to her dog and back up to me.
“I’m alright, I think. He said that the shock will wear off. I would like to go home, though.”
“We’ll get you home as soon as possible,” I assured her. “You live locally?” I asked.
She nodded, pointing along the road. There was a church spire in the distance, the village down in the valley.
“We’ll have someone drive you if you want,” I offered. She looked at the police car, a little uncertain, but nodded.
“Thank you.”
“We just have a few questions for you, and then we can let you get on if that’s alright,” I said, waiting for her to nod again.
When she did, I looked up at Mills, who pulled his notebook from his pocket, ready to go.
“Can you talk me through what happened?” I asked.
“We were walking along,” she said. “We do this route every morning, down by the farms and then along the river. I could see something, from far away I thought it was a rock or something, and then I worried it was a trolley that some youth had thrown in there and I thought, I’d better check just in case and—” She broke off, shoulders shuddering.
“It’s alright,” I assured her. “In your own time.”
She breathed in shakily. “I tied the dog to the gate there,” she nodded to the gate at the farm, “and went to have a look. And then I realised he was dead. I called straight away, then sat over there until you came.”
“And you’ve said that you don’t recognise the man?” Mills double-checked.
She shook her head. “He’s not local, I know that much. We get a lot of tourists, of course, but it’s the wrong season.”
“Far too cold for tourists,” I agreed. “Have you seen anything else along the route? Any strange cars, bikes, anything that looked out of place?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, Inspector. Just him,” she said, her eyes falling bleakly in the direction of the body.
“I see, thank you, Mrs Sutton. Constable Grant,” I called to the young man who had stepped away. He appeared back in a flash. “Please take Mrs Sutton’s official statement, and then can you please drive her home?”
“Of course, sir,” he said with a friendly smile, taking his place beside the woman again. I nodded, standing up and taking a few steps back.
Mills flipped his notebook closed and followed me a few metres away, where we could see Crowe bent over the body.
“He could have been visiting someone in the village,” Mills suggested. “A friend or a partner.”
“Very likely,” I agreed. “He didn’t wind up there in his dressing gown from an army base several miles away.” I grimaced, looking down to the river. A few trees grew along the bank, the weeds and grass tall, almost bending in over the water. It was lucky that Mrs Sutton had been able to spot him amidst it all.
Crowe stood up, waving her hand to us. We headed back down there, our boots quickly getting caked in mud, and I felt sorry for whoever had to take this back to the station and clean them. A good spray with the hose ought to do the trick.
“Lovely Lena,” I called as we reached her. “Please tell me you’ve got something good.”
“Well, you found his wallet,” she said, “so that’s a start. Healthy chap, all told, most military men are, though I suppose. Got quite a few wounds.” She pointed a few out. “But I’d need to get him cleaned and give them a real examination to be able to tell you if they mean anything. There’s one on his head that’s caught my eye, but I won’t be able to tell you much about it yet.”
“I figured as much,” I answered. “What about the time of death?”
“Well, he’s been in the water a while,” she said. “Several hours, so it’s hard to tell. I’d say anywhere between eleven last night and early this morning. He’s not been dead long.”
“What’s your verdict?” Mills asked.
Crowe looked up at us with a slightly grim face. “From first glance, it could be a mistake falling in the water situation.”
“But?” I asked hopefully, catching her tone.
“Some of these wounds don’t look natural to me. Taking in all the circumstances, I would say that someone did this to him. But again—”
“You can’t say for sure yet,” I finished in unison with her. “You’ll let us know as soon as you do?”
“Don’t I always?” she asked, waving down a few members of her team.
Mills drifted off, catching a member of SOCO to talk to as I watched Alexander Riggs get bundled up into a black bag, lifted onto a stretcher, and carefully carried up towards the ambulance. Crowe grabbed my arm, using me to heave herself up the mud, and once we were up on flat, solid land, she pulled her hood down and began peeling herself from her suit.
“I’ll get you answers on how he died as soon as I can, Maxie, but I think your biggest question right now is finding out how he ended up here in the first place.”
“I know,” I said, scratching my head. “No bridges around, no sign of any transport. He must have washed down from somewhere else.”
Crowe clapped her hand on my shoulder, “I don’t envy you, lad,” she told me, starting off towards her car. Mills took her place.
“No sign of any weapons, according to SOCO,” he said. “No prints on the body, nothing else washed up with him.”
“Typical,” I muttered, turning around to look down towards the river.
It was chance, really, that he’d washed up where he did. The river was wide, and he could have sunk to the bottom or been carried even further down towards the city. In some places, narrowboats were moored along the banks, but he had ended up here, where a local dog walker stumbled upon him by chance. If I had wanted him dead and gone, I’d be annoyed by that turn of fate. Not swept away, not sunk down or damaged beyond recognition by rocks or boats. No, he was here. Washed up in the middle of nowhere, far from home, without any shoes on and wearing a dressing gown.
“How in God’s name,” I muttered, more to myself though I knew Mills was listening, “did he end up down here?”
“Where did he go in?” Mills asked. “He ended up in the water somehow.”
I hummed thoughtfully, turning back to the cars to take off the muddy boots.
He had indeed.
Three
Thatcher
We headed back to the station not long after Crowe to find out who exactly Major Alexander Riggs had been and how he’d ended up here. We had his wallet, which was a stroke of luck, and apart from a few soggy cigarettes and a ruined lighter, it was all good. His driver’s licence put him at an address in Devon, so he was a long way from home.
“I found a Riggs,” Mills called from behind his computer. We sat at our desks, him doing a search for Riggs and me going through his wallet, hoping that it might have a little more to offer. His military id went directly to Sharp so that she could track down his regiment, and I was left with the driver’s licence, a few loyalty cards for several coffee shops and an organ donor card, which was nice to see.
“You have?” I asked, wheeling my chair over to his desk as he turned the monitor.
“Sybil Riggs lives here in York. I think she’s his sister.”
“Got an address?” I asked. Mills nodded, copying it down and sliding it my way.
“Could be an answer to why he’s up here,” Mills suggested. “Visiting his sister.”
“As good a lead as any.” I sat back, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair. “Let’s call in a family liaison officer. I don’t want to navigate this solo, too many variables.”
Mills nodded and hopped to his feet, heading out the door. Perhaps it was the cold snap of the morning by the river, or the mysterious body in it, that had shaken away the exhaustion we’d both been plodding through earlier.
I shoved my chair back to my desk, pulled my coat on, grabbed Mills’s and walked out of the office, wishing I had a scarf or something with me. It really was awfully cold out there, but at least the rain was holding off. I handed Mills his coat as he joined me at the top of the stairs.
“Officer O’Flynn’s coming now,” he told me, pulling his coat on. That was a relief. I liked O’Flynn. She had her head screwed on right. “And Sharp told me to remind you that we’re supposed to work closely with FLO all the time.”
“We do,” I defended us. “Only we work quicker when we interact directly, and we’ve never had any complaints.”
Mills shrugged. “Fair enough. Cora!” He waved a hand across the room to the woman who strolled down the hallway. She lifted her hand back and made her way over to us, winding her scarf around her neck, pale ginger fluffed around her face.
“Morning, Inspector. Bitter weather, isn’t it?”
“Foul. Shall we?” I asked, indicating the stairs.
“Mills said it’s a homicide,” she said as we walked down.
“Looks that way, and until Crowe tells me otherwise, it’s what I’m investigating. Dead man, Major Alexander Riggs, was found washed up in the river, about ten miles out of the city. According to his driver’s licence, he was based in Devon, but we think we found his sister, Sybil Riggs, residing here in York.”
“If he was staying with her, surely she’d have noticed that he’s gone?”
“It’s still early,” Mills answered her, “she might not have cause to be concerned just yet.”
Cora nodded, her pale skin quickly turning pink as we stepped into the cold air. The address we had was close enough to be walkable, but it was too cold for that today, so we piled into Mill’s car, Cora bundled up in her coat in the back.
“Your car is a right state, Mills,” she observed.
I craned around my chair, looking at the mass of random bits of clothing, empty bottles, the odd shoe and several Ordnance Survey maps that hung around the back seat.
“You were doing so well, Mills,” I said, shaking my head.
“Old habits,” he muttered, focusing on the morning traffic. Cora shifted forward, leaning between us.
“I appreciate you bringing me with you for once,” she said. “Normally, I see the families on my own with half of their notes and half of yours.”
“Do I sense bitterness in your voice, O’Flynn?” I asked.
“Just a tad,” she said. “I heard about Smith’s promotion. When’s she off?”
“Next week or so, I think,” I answered. “We ought to do something. Get her a cake.”
“Cake’s always a winner, never lasts long in that place though,” Cora said. “Last year, they got me one for my birthday, the big three-oh, and by the end of the day, there was nothing left but crumbs. I’m surprised I even managed to get a slice.”
Mills laughed, steering us down a long residential street of neat townhouses, pulling up outside one of the middle ones, its front door painted pale blue, a few cars parked outside.
“This is?” He asked. I leant forward, reading the number on the door.
“This is it. Come on, Cora,” I said, climbing out the car, “to the surf.”
She slid out of the back seat, shaking her skirt back around her legs, her boots clicking on the road as she ran around to join us outside the house.
“I hate this part,” Mills sighed. I reached out, clapping him on the shoulder and walked up the front door, ringing the bell.
Footsteps audibly ran towards the door, and it was swung open by a young woman in a fluffy dressing gown with sheep on it. Her mouth was open, ready to speak, but she closed when she looked at us, her brown eyes narrowing.
“Sorry,” she said. “You’re not my brother. How can I help?”
“Sybil Riggs?” I asked.
She nodded, wrapping her dressing gown more securely around herself.
“Are you the sister of Major Alexander Riggs?” I asked.
She nodded again, looking very wary. “Why?” she asked. “He alright?”
“Darling?” a man’s voice called from within. A tall man with blonde hair appeared behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Alright?”
“Who are you?” Sybil asked.
“Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself. “This is Detective Sergeant Mills and Officer Cora O’Flynn. May we come in? I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”
Sybil’s eyes widened, and she stepped back, letting us into the house.
“This way,” the man said, leading us into the house. There were more voices inside. It sounded like rather a full house, which made my stomach churn. He led us to a small living room away from the bustle and led us in. Sybil trailed after, and the man sat her on the table.
“I’ll just go and explain,” he said, slipping from the room. Sybil waved a hand to one of the sofas, and the three of us squished on together.
“You’re not a detective?” she asked Cora.
Cora smiled pleasantly. “No. I’m a family liaison officer. I’m here to offer you support and take the edge off having to deal with this pair.” She nodded to us, getting a crack of a smile from Sybil. The door opened, the house notably quieter outside, and the man stepped back in, sitting beside Sybil.
“My fiancée, Ernest. This about Alec?” she asked, gripping the fabric of her dressing gown tightly.
“It is. Miss Riggs, I regret to inform you that your brother was found dead this morning.”
She let out a sob, lifting her hand in a fist to her mouth. Ernest grabbed her other hand, staring at us.
“What? Alec?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. Cora leant forward, offering Sybil a tissue from the pack in her pocket.
“You’re sure?” Ernest asked.
“We found identification on him, but we will need someone to verify his identity.”
Ernest nodded, a lock of long hair falling over his face. He turned to his fiancée and drew her into his arms, rubbing her back and murmuring quietly. After a few minutes, Sybil got in control of her breathing and turned back to us.
“How?” she managed to ask.
“It’s still very early into our investigation,” I answered. “But we are treating his death as a homicide.”
Ernest swore, still gripping one of Sybil’s hands. “Why would anyone want to kill Alec?”
“We were rather hoping that you might be able
to help us there,” I answered.
“Was he here visiting you?” Cora asked, her voice soft and light.
Sybil nodded. “It was our rehearsal yesterday; he came to help. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” she added. “Brunch. I made him pancakes.” She sobbed, and Ernest held her again, stroking her hair soothingly.
“He wasn’t staying at the house,” he told us gently. “We’re a bit full. He was staying at an inn, out in the countryside. Bit of peace of quiet.”
“Do you know where?”
“The Fox Inn,” he said. “Out Beningbrough way.” I nodded to Mills, who made a note of the inn and turned back to the couple.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Last night,” Ernest answered. “He came round for dinner, just the three of us, before heading back out there. The others all went out to a restaurant so we could have a bit of time. Sybil doesn’t see him that often outside of the holidays.”
“I imagine the military keeps him busy.”
Ernest nodded. “Busy enough.”
“What time did he leave last night?” I asked. “We’re just trying to build a timeline for the evening.”
“Oh, around half eight, quarter to nine, just as the others were getting back. He didn’t drink anything,” he added, “he drove himself, so he stuck with the coke.”
“And how did he seem?”
“He seemed in good form,” he answered. “A bit tired, naturally, but otherwise, he was happy to be here. Help keep this one calm.” He nodded to Sybil. “The wedding’s got her rather stressed.”
I nodded. “And he was supposed to be here ten minutes ago?” I looked over at Mills, who already drew out the timeline on his notebook, then turned to Cora.
“Do you know if there was anything bothering him recently?” she asked. “Any trouble at work or in his personal life?”
Sybil straightened up, lifting her head a bit. “Not at work. He was doing well. Stressful sometimes, but he likes to be busy. Personally, he didn’t say if anything was wrong. No serious relationships or anything. He seemed fine.”
Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller Page 3
