So, I joined Mills in the office, throwing my coat over the back of my chair and settling down in front of the computer, all the notes from the case before me, both whiteboards facing me. I was just figuring out where to start, drumming my fingers on my keyboard over and over, when Fry strolled in, a file in hand.
“Forensics report from the coat,” she said, handing the file to me. “They found DNA traces for Alexander Riggs from hair samples and some blood around the collar.”
“Any other DNA?” I asked, flipping the front page open.
“Yes, but identifiable. Human male, but no match for it.”
“The killer?” Mills asked, peering over the top of his computer screen.
“I’d say so. Must be the man from Riggs’s note,” I said, glancing over the report. “Any word from Wasco?” I asked Fry.
“He said,” she recalled, scrunching her nose in thought. “That there’s some damage in the internal circuiting, but the memory cards are intact, and the phone was backed up to the laptop.” She waved a hand impatiently through the air. “He said a lot of convoluted stuff that I didn’t understand, but in layman’s terms, he’s nearly there.”
I chuckled, “thanks, Fry, and thanks for getting this to us so quickly.”
“I told them you made it a priority case, and they could either deal with me or you,” she said proudly.
“Isn’t that nice of you?” I muttered, putting the folder down. “What about the boot?”
“They’ve done a soil analysis on some of the sediment on the sole,” she said. “Some of it’s from the river, but the rest is soil. Given that he was in the village,” she shrugged, “could have come from anywhere he walked.”
“Any blood on them?”
“None that we were able to pick up.”
I nodded. “Cheers, Fry.” She nodded and walked from the room, Mills smiling after her.
I sat back, looking over the forensics report, tapping a pen against the page.
“Sir?” Mills called.
“Yes?”
“The marks outside the inn, we thought that they came from Riggs being dragged, matching the marks on his heels.”
“Mm-hm.”
“But if his shoes were in the river, how did that work? And how would his blood have ended up at the inn?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, rubbing my temples. “Could be what Fry suggested that the marks came from the murder weapon.” All of this depended on if it was actually Riggs’s blood. If he’d been killed up by the inn, then they would have had to drag him a long way. If he was killed somewhere else, then his blood wouldn’t be anywhere near the inn.
I dropped my face into my hands, groaning. “What are we missing here, Mills?”
“I don’t know, sir. But we’ll find it. We only have one shoe,” he pointed out. “Maybe we’ll find the other when we narrow down a location for where the actual murder took place.”
I laughed bleakly. “It’s like Cinderella,” I said, “only instead of a princess, a glass slipper, and a prince, it’s a dead Major, a big old boot, and a murderer.”
“To be fair,” Mills said, “the original tales were almost as gory. You know the sister’s get their eyes plucked out by birds in the original?”
“That is gory,” I grimaced. “They tell that to children?”
“Well, not anymore. Now it’s the whole pumpkin, mice, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo malarkey.”
“From your tone, I’m guessing you’re not the biggest fan of Disney films?”
“Never really have been, much to my nephews’ annoyance.”
I hummed, looking back at my computer screen. Children are told very strange tales about their families and fathers.
“Lavinia Flitter,” I muttered. “Had a brother. A younger brother.”
“He died,” Mills recalled with a nod.
“He did. But maybe he left something, or someone, behind,” I said, pulling my keyboard closer to myself.
“You think it’s a relation that close?” Mills asked. “Rather than a distant cousin?”
“Think about it,” I replied. “If he’d had a child before he died in the village, then that child might not even know that they’re related. Maybe they just found out.”
“I suppose that villagers wouldn’t really want to see the place passed onto some random cousin,” Mills muttered. “But I’ll keep looking into it whilst you go down the brother route.”
I nodded, eagerly waiting for my screen to load. I found the death notice for him; it wasn’t that hard. Lord Timothy Flitting died over a decade ago when Teddy would have been a teenager. The man himself had only been nineteen, and Lavinia became the sole heir.
Timothy Flitting. I imagine that if he did have any children, they wouldn’t exactly be walking around with his name. I did a little digging into him, but there wasn’t much to find. Younger son of Baron Theodore Flitting and Lady Margery Flitting, brother to Lavinia and uncle to Teddy. Either his life hadn’t been very remarkable, or it hadn’t been the sort of stuff his family wanted him remembered for. I found a few pictures of him, though, mostly from the local papers. There really was something familiar about him, the shape of his face and his eyes. It was annoying me that I couldn’t quite place him.
Someone knocked on the door, and as I looked up, Wasco strode in, a beaming grin on his face.
“Dear Wasco,” he announced when he walked in, in what I took to be an imitation of my voice. “You really are a brilliant man. What would we do without you?”
Mills started chuckling, and I sat back, folding my arms.
“Is my voice that deep?”
“Yes,” Wasco said, walking over to my desk and shoving everything aside. “But you’re not allowed to criticise me today because I managed to get something useful from that soggy brick you call a phone.”
Mills got up quickly, walking around to join us at my desk. “What did you get?”
“Not much, I will admit. Still working on the memory. But I did get into his recent calls,” he said, hitting a few keys on his laptop. The list of calls came up, all from the past few days before he died.
One to his mother, a missed one from Sybil that he returned not long after. But the last one he had ever made, only lasting ten seconds, was the one that caught my eye.
“999,” Mills muttered. “He did call us.”
“Call must have got cut short,” I said, looking at the short time. “But nobody looked into it?”
“Ten seconds isn’t that long,” Mills said. “They might not have had time to figure out where he was.”
I hummed. He’d called, though. He had overheard that conversation, left the inn and tried to call us.
“Look at the time,” Mills said, leaning forward and poking the screen. Wasco batted his hand away, but Mills didn’t look bothered. “Ten thirteen. Gives us a window.”
I reached over my desk to grab the case file, flicking through to find the alibis we’d taken from the staff.
“Norma Burns said she left around ten,” I murmured, looking down the list. “Same with Wilson and Daisy. Everybody was home in time to watch the news, apparently.”
“The news at ten?” Wasco asked, frowning.
“Half ten on ITV,” Mills answered. “Who confirmed Burns’s alibi?”
“Her husband said they were both home all night.”
“Whose her husband?”
I hummed, flipping through. “Hugh Burns. She,” I paused on the page.
“Sir?”
“Norma’s maiden name is Wheeler,” I said.
“Wheeler? Like the farm that Teddy told us about?” Mills stood up straight, grabbing the map. “The one down by the river?”
“One of the places you can get a phone signal,” I pushed. Mills unfolded the map, looking at the farm. It was just where Teddy told us it was, not far from Jim’s place, down towards the river with a little lane leading up towards the inn.
“Her family runs the farm?” Wasco asked.
“Her bro
ther,” I said, looking over her details. “Have done for years.”
“They all left after ten,” Mills said, pacing around a small circle. “Maybe they had that conversation before they left, Riggs overhears, heads out to make the call, and thirteen minutes later, he’s dead.”
“Would he have known where to get a signal?” Wasco asked.
“Apparently, all the locals know that the farm is a good spot, he might have asked on his arrival, or someone might have told him beforehand. If he heard it at the inn, though, I doubted he’d have stayed too close,” I pointed out.
“So, Norma Burns, nee Wheeler,” Mills frowned. “What stake would she have in all of this?”
“Her brother runs a farm, she works in the inn, I’d say a fair amount.”
“We should get down to the farm,” Mills said, jogging over to his desk and grabbing his coat. “Go over the area and see what we can find.”
“Private land, we’ll need a warrant,” I reminded him. He nodded and strode out the door, heading for Sharp’s office. I stood up, grabbing my coat.
“Thanks, Wasco, you really are brilliant.”
“I try. I’ll see what else I can pull off for you,” he said, grabbing his laptop. “Best of luck.”
I nodded, pulling my coat on, then paused and walked over to Fry’s desk outside.
“I need you to do something for me,” I told her. She perked up, nodding. “I want to look into Timothy Flitting. He died a while back, but he was the baroness’s brother, and we don’t know much about him. Find out if he was close to anyone before he died. Find out if he had any children,” I added meaningfully.
“On it,” Fry said. “Where are you going? Mills looked like his coat was on fire when he came out just now.”
“We think we have a lead for a possible location and a suspect.”
“You need back up?” She asked.
“Have it ready. I’ll call if we do.”
Fry nodded again, pushing her black hair from her face. “I’ll see what I can find with Flitting,” she said. “Keep your phone on.”
I chuckled. “Yes, boss.”
She smiled back, flushing a little, and I tapped her desk before walking over to Sharp’s office. The door was ajar, and she and Mills were both standing, her brows furrowed as he filled her in. She spotted me in the gap and nodded me in, and I walked over, pushing the door too behind me.
“You have a suspect?” She asked.
“We do,” I confirmed. “We want to check out the scene first, but the farm is private land.”
“Private land belonging to the Flitting’s,” she reminded me. “You think they’ll give you permission to search?”
“Mills,” I ordered, “go and call Teddy Flitting, try to get permission, written would be ideal.” Mills nodded, stepping from the room.
“Wheels are spinning now, Thatcher,” Sharp observed as Mills zipped away.
“I know. About time.”
“What’s this Mills said about an heir?”
I nodded. “We think that if the villagers are looking to change who inherits the land, then they must have somebody else in mind to take over.”
“Sensible.”
“The baroness had a little brother; I’ve got Fry looking into any possible children he might have had. Someone in the village, most likely.”
Sharp listened to me, my words tripping over each other in my haste to get them out.
“If they knew they were related, why not get a lawyer?”
“They might not know,” I said, “And if they do, they might not have evidence that would hold up in court. Not against Teddy’s claim, anyway.”
Sharp rolled her eyes. “These sorts of people, Thatcher. I’ll put a warrant in place for you, just in case you don’t get permission. Are you going inside?”
“We just want to check out the surrounding land,” I told her, “specifically down by the river. We might be able to find the other shoe.”
One of her eyebrows flickered up. “I see. Good luck with that Cinderella. News from forensics?”
“DNA matches from the coat for Riggs and someone else. If we bring anyone into custody, we might be able to get a DNA match for them.”
She smiled. “Good. That’ll make things hard to fight against. But,” she pointed out. “DNA could come from his sister or her fiancé, so be ready for that.”
“Taking it on board, ma’am,” I assured her.
The door opened, and Mills stuck his head in.
“Teddy’s given us the go-ahead, and he’s sending over an email to you and you ma’am,” he added. “We have permission to access the land, but not the house.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. If we make any arrests, that’ll be clearance enough.”
“Are you taking any back up?” Sharp asked as I made to walk away.
“No, but I’ve got Fry on standby.”
“Good luck then,” she said, giving us a smile. I nodded back, turning and leaving her office, walking beside Mills to the stairs.
“How do you want to proceed?” Mills asked as we walked.
“Play it by ear. I think I want to see what the situation is when we get there.”
“They’ll be some resistance,” he pointed out as we jogged down the stairs. “Always is.”
“We’ll manage it. We’ve got permission from the Lord of the land. What can they do?”
Mills made a face. There was always something they could do, but I was hoping that they wouldn’t. We sped over to the car, jumping in, and Mills had barely gotten his seatbelt into place before I was squealing from the car park and hitting the main road. It was growing dark already, the sun setting over the hills before us.
“Got a torch?” I asked.
“Ready to go, sir,” Mills confirmed.
“Good.”
I focused on the drive, thinking about our plan of action when we got there. We hadn’t seen much of Norma Burns, other than when we took her alibi, and we’d never met her brother, but I suppose that would be exactly how they wanted it. Well, we knew them now, whether they wanted us to or not.
Twenty-Five
Thatcher
I was thankful that, if nothing else, the rain had stopped. The roads were muddy, and the farm would be slippery, but that was manageable. At least we wouldn’t be searching around in an onslaught of water.
We didn’t talk as we drove, nothing much to say anyway, and Mills kept his phone on his lap, ready to see if anything came in from Fry or Wasco or forensics whilst we were out. At one point, the email came through from Teddy, with his clear permission for us to search the land, including and surrounding Wheeler farm. I wished we’d had a little more time to look into the farm itself and the family that had run it for so long, but time was of the essence, so we were going in with one eye shut, which was how we’d been doing most of this case, anyway.
I drove us into the heart of the village, pulling up and parking by the green in the centre and jumping out. I thought about going down further to the farm itself, but it would be easier on foot, and I didn’t want to tip off too many people to our being back. I didn’t want to give them any time to hide anything if they had anything to hide. I hoped they did. This case had been slow going for us to fall short now. We walked round to the boot, grabbing wellies, raincoats and our gear.
“Torch?” I listed off as we strapped things into place and stuffed our feet into the clunky shoes. Practical for the weather, but for not much else annoyingly.
“Check,” Mills confirmed.
“Handcuffs?”
“Check.”
“Taser?”
“Check.” Not that either of us wanted to use it.
“CS spray?”
“Check.”
“Right then.” I zipped my reflective jacket up. “Let’s get to it.”
When we were both ready to go, I slammed the boot closed and made to follow the road down towards the farm. As we walked, my phone chimed, and I fished it out, wondering if Fry had found
me something already. But I didn’t recognise the number that flashed across my screen.
“What is it?” Mills asked.
“A text,” I said, opening the message.
Inn. Trouble.
“That bodes well,” he muttered as I angled the screen towards him. “Who sent it?”
“No clue. You head on to the farm,” I said, dropping back. “I’ll go and check it out.”
Mills nodded, picking up his pace along the road.
“And be careful!” I shouted after him.
“You too!” he shouted back, jogging away. It was darker out here than it was in the city, and I hoped he’d be alright down there. I doubted I would be long.
I turned back, heading along the road, up towards the inn. A few windows were lit up, but the place was quiet and would be for some time, I imagined, unless some tourists found the whole dead soldier thing to their interest. People really were odd.
Walking up the front door, I looked around to see if anyone else was there. It was very quiet, and I wondered what this so-called trouble was. A trap, very possibly, so I reached around, my fingers finding my baton as I pushed the door open and walked in.
There was nobody at the desk or sitting in the dining area or by the fire, which was starting to burn low. My brows furrowed as I stepped in, quietly closing the door behind me. I was about to call out when someone moved in the shadows.
Daisy stood in the hallway, shrouded without a light on behind her, and her eyes were wide. Very wide. I made to walk towards her, but she stopped me, holding her hand out, then she raised a finger to her lips. Right. Quiet. She pointed up the ceiling. I pointed at the stairs, and she nodded.
Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller Page 20
