“No,” I agreed slowly, struggling to see where he was going with this. “She let it happen?”
“We could assume that she doesn’t care, or that she wanted to wait and use that information at the right moment.”
“Such as a man dying there the same night that Sara was visiting?” I asked.
Thatcher splayed his hands out, brows raised. “One sure-fire way to damage your son’s marriage would be to link the two of them together. From any angle, it looks a bit fishy.”
“But Teddy already knew about Sara going to the inn,” I reminded him. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Would you mind?” Thatcher asked. “I might if Liene was scurrying off to an inn without me on a regular basis. Jealousy finds a way in, and if his mother tells him the story of what happened that weekend, with a few emphasises on certain parts, it wouldn’t be impossible to thread doubt in him.”
“Doubt regarding what? His wife having an affair or her being a murderer?”
Thatcher shrugged. “You’re with me, though?” He asked. “You see where I’m going with this?”
I wanted to say no, that sure the baroness wouldn’t do such a thing, but I had to admit that her doing so was unfavourably likely. She was a traditional woman. Her blood, sweat, and tears had gone into that house and that estate; if she thought it was in danger, she struck me as the sort of person to do whatever it took to save it. Extreme, perhaps, but I had to admire her determination just a little.
“I’m with you,” I told him with a nod. “I don’t like it, but it makes the most sense from anything else we’ve dealt with so far.”
Thatcher nodded, content with that response and went back to his food.
“What’s the plan for the rest of the day then, sir?” I asked, picking up one of the steaming chips.
“Let’s have another delve through some of the statements we’ve got. I want to go through them with a fine-tooth comb, O’Flynn’s notes as well; there might be something in there we overlooked before.” There most likely was. We’d not given them a very thorough look through before heading out earlier. “We should check in with Wasco as well,” he added. “Hopefully, we can learn a bit more about Riggs himself, which would be handy.”
It was a shame to admit that we knew barely anything about our victim, save what his sister and commanding officer had shared, but there was much more to the man than that. There always was. We just didn’t know what yet.
I nodded along as he spoke. It would be an afternoon at the desk then, but frankly, after the morning we’d had, that sounded right up my alley. We’d be warm if nothing else, and if Thatcher was in a good enough mood, he’d let me play some classical music whilst we worked. He seemed to be cheering up, the effect of good pub grub and a plan of action for the rest of the day taking hold. We ate the rest of our food, finished our drinks, paid the bill, and headed out back to where we’d left the car in the hospital car park. I looked back at the building as Thatcher started up the engine and pulled away onto the road.
“I know being ill sucks,” I said, “but I’d rather be ill in there than anywhere else, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely. Quiet halls, big rooms, practically a hotel with very, very clean sheets,” he replied, instantly cheered up now that he’d eaten.
“A long way from home, though,” I muttered. “You’d think there’d be one closer to them, wouldn’t you?”
“I imagine this is a case of quality over proximity,” Thatcher answered. “Bloke’s probably just grateful that he hasn’t been shipped down to London or something.”
“Must be tough, being that ill and far from home,” I muttered.
Thatcher didn’t reply, just nodded grimly, and I cursed myself mentally for putting my foot in it. He’d left me enough breadcrumbs over our time together for me to build a picture of what exactly had happened with his mother. I didn’t know the full story, I don’t think even Liene did, but I knew she’d been ill. Very ill, for a long time, and that in those last years or months of her life, Thatcher had done something or acted some way that he’d been regretting and guilting over ever since. It was that guilt that drove him to fix up the old coaching house, quite literally to the point where it almost killed him, and that guilt that reared its head whenever our cases involved families, mothers and children. He seemed to be coping with this one, though, or perhaps the whole situation with Riggs was just too confusing for him to get hung up on the disappointing family bonds in play.
“How’s Elsie?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation. “Has she recovered fully?”
“Thankfully.” He sighed, relaxing straight away. “Mad old thing won’t accept any help, though,” he added with a scoff. “She’s too stubborn.”
“Said the pot to the kettle,” I muttered. “You once almost drowned and wouldn’t let me take you to the hospital, remember?”
“That was about me not wanting to waste public funds,” he answered. “I was being considerate.”
“Stubborn. It was a miracle you let Crowe have a look at you, to be honest.”
“I don’t recall you being so opinionated on the matter at the time, Mills,” Thatcher said, turning his head to look at me.
“I’d only known you a few months then,” I said. “You’d only just remembered my name. I wasn’t about to ruin that with opinions.”
He chuckled, turning back to the road as we neared the station, pulling into the carpark.
“I suppose things will start crawling out of the woodworks now then, eh? Now that you’re not scared to speak your mind?”
“Get ready for it,” I said, unclipping my seatbelt. “I’ve got years’ worth of complaints to voice now that we’re friends.”
Thatcher rolled his eyes and groaned but was still smiling as he climbed out of the car.
“Ready for a few hours hunched over at our desks like gargoyles?” He asked, walking to the front doors.
“Oh, of course. I love whirring computer sounds and dying fluorescent lights that make my eyes hurt,” I said, pulling the door open for the both of us.
Thatcher chuckled, striding through.
“Head on up and gets the brews on,” he ordered. “I’ll check in with Wasco.”
I nodded and headed for the stairs. He had a better rapport with Wasco than I did, had known him much longer, I supposed. I reached the top of the stairs, almost slamming into Fry, who rounded the corner, two mugs of tea precariously balanced in her hands, a file between her teeth. I reached out, gripping her shoulders to steady her, watching the mugs to make sure no hot liquid sloshed out and burned her. She made a noise of surprise, her eyes wide, and she gave me an apologetic look. I smiled, letting go of her and reaching out to take the folder from her.
“Thank you.” She sighed. “And sorry.”
“You alright?” I asked, following her to the desks.
“Didn’t spill,” she said, holding up the mugs triumphantly. “I take that as a win.” She passed one of the mugs to another constable who barely lifted his head from his computer, giving her a grunt in thanks that had me clenching my teeth. Fry didn’t notice or didn’t care. She just turned around and took the folder back from me.
“Two of you have been running around like headless chickens all day,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she looked me over.
“Done with that, thankfully,” I answered. “A few hours at the desk call.”
Fry grimaced. “I hate desk work. Strains my eyes.” I looked at the eyes in question, deep and brown.
“You should get some glasses then.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad.”
“We don’t want you walking around, squinting like an old woman. It’ll make you even clumsier than you already are.”
“Piss off. You’re the one who came charging up those stairs like your trousers were on fire.”
“You can’t tell me to piss off, Fry,” I said.
“Sorry. Piss off, Sergeant,” she smiled sweetly, turning and w
alking away, leaving me there laughing at her vanishing figure.
“I thought I told you to make tea,” Thatcher said from behind me, making me jump.
“I’m just going,” I said, hurrying off towards the kitchen. He looked at me, the corridor that Fry had just gone down, and smiled to himself, trailing after me.
“Wasco got into the laptop?” I asked, walking into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on. Thatcher raised his eyebrows and held up the machine in his arms.
“You feeling alright?” He asked, a smug-looking smirk on his face.
“Fine,” I replied, grabbing some mugs. “Eager to get going is all.”
“Snap to it then, sergeant,” he said, turning and striding to the office, his coat swishing around him as he walked. I turned around, making myself focus on the task at hand. Snap to it.
Seventeen
Thatcher
I’d ended up having a bath when I got in that evening to drive out the last of the cold that had settled into my bones on Mills’s and my little jaunt around the village. It had been an early night for another early morning, and I was eager to be and ready to go when Sharp’s expert arrived. Mills and I had sat and scoured through the notes that we had, O’Flynn’s report, the witness statements, the alibis of the staff, so far all up to scratch. Wasco had done good work at getting into Riggs’s laptop, but there hadn’t been much to look at, to my great annoyance. It was his personal laptop, so there was nothing pertaining to his work. Just records from his car and mortgage, a few documents and holiday photos, but it seemed he used the laptop to game more than anything else. Which didn’t offer us much help but was useful to know, I supposed.
I was up early, before Liene, and out of the door when it was still dark outside, energy thrumming through me. Perhaps it was a bad omen to be so riled up about it, but there was a lot riding on this little code we’d found. If Riggs had written it, then it could be exactly what we need to get a really good lead in this case. If he hadn’t, I had no idea what we would do next, but I wasn’t dwelling on that possibility. It needed to be Riggs’s note, needed to have something for us to look into, a connection to his murder. It just had to be.
I was full of energy, unusual for me in the morning, and was at the station before Sharp herself arrived, enjoying the relatively empty and quiet station, making myself a coffee and chatting with a few PCs who’d made their way in for the early shift. They seemed alright, all told. There’d been an incident down in Manchester with some PC’s using unnecessary force on a lad that had them all a bit shaken, but they were a good bunch, so I doubted that it would become too much of an issue.
“You’re here early,” Sharp said as she ascended the staircase.
The constables all snapped into action, vanishing from the desk we’d been standing around, and I turned to find our Chief nodding to me and gesturing with her hand. I followed her, coffee in hand, to her office and stood in the doorway like a child as she took her coat and bag off. Then she hung them both up and turned her computer on.
“Early bird gets the worm and all that,” I answered her, leaning against the doorframe.
“Yes, but you’re not so much of a bird as you are a tomcat sloping about,” she said, frowning as her screen loaded. “Why do people send me so many emails?”
“Because you’re very busy and important.”
“Oh yeah. I knew it was a good reason.” She sat down, ignoring the emails, and waved to the other chair. I shrugged and sat down, joining her, sipping my coffee. “You’re chirpy this morning? There something else in that coffee?”
“I wish. I’m looking forward to this expert of yours coming in. We need that page decoded.”
“I know there’s a lot riding on it,” Sharp said. “But don’t get too wound up over it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” she nodded, crossing her legs. “I have something to ask you.”
“Fire away.”
“Mills.”
“What of him?” I asked.
“How is he? This whole Suzanne business, is he doing alright?”
“I think so. He’s putting on a good act, anyway. I think he knows that it’s the right call, so that’ll help him get over it.” Something else might help him get over it, too, a certain brown-eyed constable, but it wasn’t for me to go around encouraging office romances. I said none of this to Sharp, naturally.
“I worry about him,” she said.
“Do you worry about me?”
“No.”
“Hurtful.”
She grinned. “You worry about him too; I know you do. Anyway,” she sighed. “Just wanted to check-in, make sure that you’re all running on all cylinders. Especially for this case.”
“Does that mean you have these conversations with him about me?” I asked.
“You never tell me what’s going on with you. I have to hear it from somewhere else. Liene’s no help,” she added disapprovingly.
I laughed. “Good to hear.”
“All’s well, though?” she asked me all the same. “How’s the girl?”
“Billie? She’s good. It’ll be a tough time of year for her, though,” I added.
Sharp hummed. “Usually is for people who have lost a lot. That reminds me, the husband’s throwing a Christmas party next month. You’re invited.”
“I am?”
“Liene too. And Mills, bring him along.”
“Very kind of you, ma’am,” I said, lifting my mug in a little salute.
“I know, I’m a saint. Right,” she sighed. “I should sift through some of these. Check in after you meet Dr Azoulay. I want to be in the loop on this one.”
“Shall do, ma’am,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “Anything else?”
“Coffee would be nice,” she said softly.
“You should have an assistant.”
“Not enough in the budget,” she answered quickly. I chuckled and bowed from the room, heading back to the kitchen, checking my watch. Mills would be here soon too, so I grabbed him a mug as well.
Sure enough, by the time the coffees were made, and I walked back out from the kitchen, he was there, lurching up the stairs, all windswept and interesting. I handed him a mug silently on my way to Sharp’s office, ducking in and handing it to her, closing the door softly on my way out. I’d made myself a fresh one, and I grabbed it, heading over to the office where Mills now stood, still in his coat, staring at the board whilst sipping his drink carefully.
“Morning, Mills.”
“Morning, sir. Thanks for the coffee.”
“I look after my bag boy,” I said, earning myself a roll of the eyes from him. I sat on the edge of my desk, looking at the board too. “Something there?” I asked, wondering if he’d had some sort of epiphany in the night.
He shook his head and walked over to his desk, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. “Nope,” he muttered, sitting down with a sigh. “When’s the expert coming in?”
“Should be here at ten,” I said. “I do have some good news.”
Mills looked up expectantly. “Yes?”
“We’ve been invited to the elusive Sharp family Christmas party next month,” I told him. “So, fish out your glad rags.”
Mills chuckled quietly, rubbing his hands over his tired face. “What an honour.”
“Indeed. I think we ought to keep it under wraps, though, or half the station will be looking for an invitation.”
Mills nodded. “Duly noted. Who’s we?”
“Me, Liene, you. Probably Lena.” Definitely Lena, the woman was drawn to Christmas parties like a bloody moth to a flame. Had a phenomenal collection of jumpers to go with it all, too. She could put Gyles Brandreth to shame.
“Sounds like it’ll be a great night or a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Bit of both, most likely,” I said, swinging off the desk and walking over to the board, peering at the few little changes we’d added yesterday. Emphasis on few, our board was still a rather sor
ry little affair. Hopefully, nothing that Dr Azoulay couldn’t help us with.
We had a little time to kill before we arrived, so I made a few copies of the note and had another quick scour through Riggs’s laptop until he was due to arrive. We made sure the office was ready, a spare chair, a glass of water, and I sent Mills to get the kettle on as the desk sergeant called up to tell me Azoulay was here.
I headed over the stairs, jogging down to meet the doctor. He looked to be a little older than Sharp and me, with the faintest strands of grey in his thick black hair. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes, a pair of glasses over them, and he was dressed in a stylish looking suit, waistcoat and all, a long, patched coat over the top, briefcase in hand.
“Dr Azoulay?” I asked, stepping towards him. He looked over with a nod, and I extended my hand. “Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher, thank you for coming.”
“Happy to help, Inspector,” he said as he shook my hand. “I’ve heard good things about you from Mara.”
“Likewise,” I replied with a polite smile. “This way. Thank you, Clarkson,” I called to the sergeant before leading the doctor upstairs and into our office. Mills was back, tea in hand.
“Dr Azoulay, this is Detective Sergeant Mills, Mills, this is Dr Azoulay.” They shook hands, and we got him settled, gratefully accepting the tea that Mills had made.
We sat around my desk and handed Dr Azoulay the code. He looked it over, his eyebrows flicking upwards.
“Aha,” he muttered, lowering his mug.
“Please tell me you recognise it,” I said, aware of how pleading my voice had turned.
“Vaguely.”
“Vaguely?” Mills echoed.
“It looks to be a variant on a Rosicrucian Cipher.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Mills admitted.
“It’s a little like the Pigpen Cipher, only slightly different.”
Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller Page 14
