Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller

by Davies, Oliver

  “Stay here,” I mouthed. She nodded, retreating further against the wall, her slight frame trembling a little.

  I moved towards the stairs, peering up through the bannister. I could hear footsteps above, creaking on the floorboards. Daisy had texted me then. Why, what did she know? I started climbing up the stairs, making sure I didn’t make too much noise as I headed up. There weren’t any guests, I knew that much. I reached the landing, sweeping my eyes down the corridor. No sign of anyone. I crept forward along the rug that wrapped around the corner to a few other rooms. Including, I realised, the room that had been booked out for Sara to use. Was she here? What was she doing here?

  I trod carefully, a floorboard creaking beneath me and winced, freezing. Nobody came round the corner, so I kept going, peering around the wall. One of the doors was slightly open, a shaft of light stretching across the floor. I moved towards it and heard another door open inside. A woman’s voice shouted out, the sound of a crash and sloshing water, and I charged in.

  “Police!” I shouted as I barged the door aside. The bathroom door was wide open, water running out over the floor. I ran over, and somebody came out, catapulting into me. Norma. She pushed at me, hands flailing, striking me in the face. I grabbed her arms, holding her still, my fingers gripping the side of her neck, squeezing the pressure point until she drooped in my arms. I grunted as I took her weight, holding her upright and dragged her over to the bed, cuffing her to the bedpost before running to the bathroom.

  The whole place smelt like roses, bubbles floating over the tiled floor. The water was tinged pink. I swore and dove for the tub. Sara Graham was under the water, blood streaming from a wound on her head. I reached in, hauling her out by the shoulders and got her onto the floor, her body slippery. I threw a towel over her and bent my head to her chest. No breathing, still a heartbeat.

  I could do this.

  I started compressions on her chest, counting under my breath. Thirty compressions, open her mouth, blow, and back to her chest. On the third one, her body convulsed, and she started coughing, bath water dribbling from her mouth as she gulped down air.

  I helped her sit up, muttering soothing nonsense as she spluttered and reached for another towel, draping it over her shoulders. As she caught her breath, I looked around. It didn’t look like there’d been a fight of any kind in here. A wine glass was toppled over by the bath, and the shelf was wonky, its contents littering the floor. It looked, I supposed, like she’d stood up too quickly, after having a wine or two, and whacked her head on the shelf.

  Daisy appeared, sticking her head around the corner, eyes teary. She handed me a dressing gown that I hung around Sara’s shoulders. She was sitting up, her head between her knees.

  I looked up at Daisy, and she pulled her phone out, showing me the screen. She’d texted 999, and an ambulance was on route. Good, clever girl. I turned to Sara.

  “You alright?” I asked her, helping her to her feet. She adjusted the dressing gown, sticking her arms through and tying it tightly around her waist, swaying a bit on her feet.

  “Come through,” I said, letting her lean on my arm, “let’s sit you down.”

  I led her through and sat her on the other side of the bed, away from Norma. Daisy was looking down at the cook, chewing her nails. I reached out, lightly touching her arm. She jumped and looked up at me, tears falling down her face.

  “Did you know?” I asked, making sure to enunciate for her to read my lips.

  She lowered her eyes, bowed her head and nodded, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Daisy.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and rang Fry, muttering with each ring she didn’t answer.

  “Sir.”

  “Get to the inn,” I told her. “We’ve got an ambulance on route for an attempted murder, and I have a girl here on suspicions of accessory to murder.”

  “We’re coming now, sir,” she said, her breathing picking up as she walked. “And I tracked down something about Flitting if you want to hear it.” There was noise all around her as the team sped into life.

  “Go ahead,” I ordered quickly.

  “Before he died, he gave a substantial amount of money to a young woman called Jessie Bird. Around that time, Jessie Bird is on record for giving birth to a baby, and after Timothy dies, she gets married, takes the husband’s name.”

  “Do we have a name for the child?” I asked.

  “Daisy Quinn.”

  I looked over at Daisy, who was hovering nervously, trying to stay out of the way of both Norma and Sara. She hadn’t run, though, which I suppose was interesting.

  “Thanks, Fry. Get here ASAP.”

  “Leaving now,” she said, the sound of a car door slamming shut and an engine in the background.

  I hung up and turned to Daisy. I wasn’t sure this was a conversation we could have through lipreading and typed notes on the phone. But I saw it now, the resemblance between her and Timothy in the shape of her face and her eyes. There was even a look of the baroness about her. Perhaps that was why the old lady had always been so fond of her.

  She sniffed loudly, making a soft croaking noise in the back of her throat and pointed at Norma, then signed something, her hands shaking a bit.

  “Type it out,” I told her, hearing the impatience in my voice.

  “Brother,” Sara called in a raspy voice. She was holding herself up against the bedpost, blood drying down her face. “She said brother.”

  “Norma’s brother?” I asked Daisy. She nodded, signing something else.

  “Farm,” Sara interpreted.

  Mills.

  I pointed at the chair by the desk, and she shuffled over, lowering herself onto it as I called Mills.

  He answered straight away, good lad.

  “Sir. All well?”

  “Not really. Just caught Norma Burns attempting to kill Sara Graham.”

  He swore loudly. “You need me up there?”

  “The situation is handled. An ambulance is coming, and Fry is on her way with backup. I’ve got Daisy here, but no sign of Wheeler. He at the farm?”

  “I haven’t seen him, sir,” Mills told me, his voice carrying with the wind. “I did knock on the door to let someone know I’d be here, but no sign.”

  “Be careful. I’ll join you as soon as Fry gets here.”

  “I’m heading down towards the river now,” he told me. “I’ll have the torch on so you can spot me.”

  “Alright. Mind how you go,” I said, hanging up and leaving my phone screen side up on the bed. I walked over the chest of drawers and poured some water for Sara. She clutched it in her hands, looking around the room.

  “She tried to kill me?” She asked, looking at the still unconscious cook.

  “She did,” I confirmed gently. Sara sniffed, tears falling from her eyes.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “But I will find out, and she will be punished. You’re alive though, Sara,” I reminded her. “You’re alright.”

  She nodded, sipping her water, wincing. Her throat must be sore.

  “Thank you,” she croaked. “You got here just in time. How did you know?”

  I looked over at Daisy. “She told me.”

  “She didn’t help her?”

  I studied Daisy for a bit, her pale skin and wide eyes, the shadows underneath them.

  “I don’t think she wanted to,” I said quietly. She looked over as if knowing we were talking about her. “Can you sign, Sara?”

  “Not well. A little.”

  “Do you feel up for it?” I asked. She nodded, putting the glass down and turning towards Daisy. Her movements weren’t as fluid or as fast, and she spoke aloud as she signed.

  “The inspector wants to ask you a few questions,” she said.

  Daisy just nodded.

  “Did you know about Major Riggs?” I asked.

  She screwed her face, signing something slower than usual so that Sara could keep up
.

  “She said she wasn’t here that night, but when she heard about it, she knew.”

  “You didn’t tell us.”

  “She was scared.”

  “Of her?” I asked, pointing at Norma. Daisy hesitated, then shrugged, fresh tears falling.

  “Did you know that they wanted to hurt Sara?” I asked instead. Another nod. “But you didn’t want to hurt her?” A shake this time. “Do you know who your father is, Daisy?”

  She frowned now, nodding.

  “She says my dad is Alfred. He’s at home.” Why’d you ask her that?”

  “Do you know who your birth father is?” I asked again. Daisy’s face screwed up, her hands moving angrily.

  “She said that’s gossip. What’s gossip?” Sara demanded.

  “Timothy Flitting,” I told her. “Gave money to Daisy’s mother before he died. Not long after she had Daisy.”

  Sara’s mouth fell open. “She’s--? His daughter?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Sara looked back at Daisy, who did not look pleased by this. “I see it,” she muttered. “She looks a bit like Teddy.”

  I nodded. “We can do a DNA test to prove it. Did she know?” I asked Daisy with a nod to Norma. She nodded.

  “So, if Teddy and I died,” Sara pieced together, “Daisy would inherit?”

  “She would have a claim to yes. But that doesn’t mean she would,” I added, and we both looked over at her again.

  My phone started ringing, and I picked up to see Mills’s number on the screen.

  “Mills,” I greeted him swiftly.

  “I think I’ve seen something, sir,” he said, panting in the wind. “Down by the riverbed, I’m bringing it up now, but we’ll need forensics on it. Looks like—”

  He cut off, the line going dead. My stomach dropped.

  “Mills?” I called pointlessly, calling him back. It rang and rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

  I swore, a string of muttered curses under my breath and my ears pricked up as the sound of sirens came singing over the hills. About time. Daisy turned her head as the lights of the ambulance shone across the window, and I paced, energy thrumming as the paramedics ran up. I grabbed one, showing my badge.

  “I’ve got a team of officers on route to handle this situation,” I told him, “but I need to go. These two,” I pointed at Norma and Daisy, “do not leave until PC Fry tells you otherwise, got it?”

  “Got it,” she nodded. I glanced back at Sara, currently being looked over by the other paramedic and took off, catapulting myself down the stairs and bursting through the front door, a fresh stream of curses flying from my mouth as I ran through the village.

  Mills, Mills, Mills.

  Twenty-Six

  Mills

  I left Thatcher to deal with whatever trouble awaited him at the inn and continued down towards the farm. I wasn’t fully sure as to what I’d be looking for, but at this point in the game, anything would be good. It wasn’t too dark out here yet, but the rain had left the roads on the slippery side, and I knew trudging through the mud in the growing dark wouldn’t be the most pleasant experience. At least I was sufficiently bundled up this time, the layers I wore like padding underneath my coat, making it just a little tricky to move my arms freely.

  I made sure that my phone was turned on, gripped my torch and headed down towards the farm. A few lights were on in the farmhouse, but I couldn’t see any movement inside. I decided to go down there and knock on to see if anyone was in and give them the heads up that I’d be scoping around their land. The porch light flickered on as I stepped towards the front door, knocking with the heavy iron knocker. It echoed through the house, and I stepped back, hands behind my back. There was no sound of anyone inside, and I knocked again, just in case, but nobody came. With a shrug, I turned away and walked away from the house, headed towards the barns and outbuildings to scope around.

  “Hello?” I called. “Mr Wheeler?” I pushed open the door to the barn closest to me, scanning the dark room.

  “It’s Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police,” I added, wondering if that would do more harm than good.

  There was no reply. He must have stepped out. I sighed and closed the door, walking to the next barn. There were a few tools inside, hung up on the wall, and I strolled over, giving them a look over. They looked well kept the metal shining. I looked up to the hooks on the wall and spotted an empty one in the middle. Whatever tool hung there was gone. But there was one, I noticed, scanning the dust patterns on the wooden walls. Something long, like the hoes beside it. I wondered if it was the shovel that Crowe had theorised about before. If it was, where had it gone?

  My phone rang abruptly loud in the quiet barn, and it made me jump. I pulled a glove off with my teeth, fumbling for my phone. Thatcher was calling, and I hit answer.

  “Sir,” I tried not to pant too much. “All well?”

  “Not really,” he muttered, his voice gruffer than usual. “Just caught Norma Burns attempting to kill Sara Graham.” What? I swore, staggering back towards the farm, the signal getting better as I left the barn. Norma Burns tried to kill Sara Graham? A million questions ran through my head, but I just asked the one that I knew Thatcher would want to hear.

  “You need me up there?” I asked.

  “Situation is handled,” he assured me. “Ambulance is coming, and Fry is on her way with back up. I’ve got Daisy here, but no sign of Wheeler. He at the farm?”

  “I haven’t seen him, sir,” I answered, looking back up towards the house. It was still quiet there, no sign of anyone walking around, all the curtains pulled wide open. “I did knock on to let someone know I’d be here, but no sign.”

  “Be careful. I’ll join you as soon as Fry gets here,” he said.

  I nodded, not that he could see me. “I’m heading down towards the river now. I’ll have the torch on so you can spot me.”

  “Alright, mind how you go.” He hung up, and I put my phone back in my pocket, fishing the torch out and turning it on, shining it down towards the river.

  It ran towards the bottom of the land, with the farming fields stretching out on the other side, some planted for the winter, others empty until it was time to bring cattle back out for grazing.

  The banks were wider out here than where we found Riggs, with fewer plants growing up over the water, fewer trees stretching out over the bank. The water ran lazily along, and I made my way down towards the bank, carefully traipsing down the mud, trying not to fall and go slipping down.

  I walked down from the farm, following the river along, scanning the beds for anything unusual. This would definitely have been easier with two sets of eyes rather than one, but I doubted that Thatcher would be kept at the inn for long, not if Fry was on her way. I kept my eyes down, stopping and stooping to examine every glint of metal or dark shape in the weeds. Other than a few rather interesting rocks that shone bizarrely in the light, I wasn’t finding much. I stood up straight, pushing my hair back from my face irritably. My knees ached, my feet hurt, there was mud splattered over my trousers, and thus far, I had nothing to show for it, typical. Other than a missing tool, that was, and the farmer who owned it was just as AWOL.

  I swung my torch down, the light dancing on the water and stared down the river. There had to be something here, there just had to be. I made myself go further down, my feet hitting the cold water of the river and sloshed along. From down here, I looked up towards the farm and could see the village above, a few orange lights and the church spire in the distance. I wondered if the inn could be seen from down here, but I didn’t really know quite where to look for that.

  Turning back to the river, I walked back up towards the farm, following the river’s curve from the village, my torch pointed down, casting a beam through the murky water, my feet sending water splashing up my legs. The torchlight bounced off something, and I wandered over, lacklustre, ready to examine another weird rock.

  But rocks weren’t thin and long, I
realised as I strolled over. Nor were they metal.

  I bent down, holding the torch between my teeth to reach into the water and reeds, gripping it. It was wedged into the bank, hard to pull out. I grunted, taking the torch from my mouth and angling it down towards the flat end of the shovel. Something dark was splattered on the metal.

  I stood up, drying my hands on my coat and pulled my phone out, calling Thatcher.

  He answered quickly, “Mills.”

  “I think I’ve seen something, sir. Down by the riverbed,” I told him, looking back down at the shovel. “I’m bringing it up now, but we’ll need forensics on it. Looks like—”

  Something hit me from behind, sending me falling into the freezing river, the water weighing me down from above, filling my nose and mouth. I scrambled against the weight, forcing myself to my knees, lifting my head to the air and sucking down a few great mouthfuls of air.

  Arms grabbed my shoulders, pushing me back down, and I swung an arm out, clocking whoever it was in the stomach and scrambled to my feet, my eyes stinging and my lungs aching. I turned around as a burly man, bent over clutching his gut, looked up at me and grimaced.

  “Mr Wheeler, I take it,” I panted. My torch was at the bottom of the river, the light still on, and my phone was down there too. Damn it.

  His face twisted more, and he reared back and charged at me like a goat, arm grabbing me around the middle and talking me down. My back hit the riverbed, rocks digging into my shoulder. My hands scrambled for Wheeler’s arms, fingers digging into him. He wasn’t wearing a coat, thank god, only a thin shirt that made it easy for me to push my nails in, making him loosen his grip enough to push him off and break free of the water, gasping and spitting water.

  I reached down and grabbed his collar, hauling him up and shoving him towards the bank. He fell face first into the mud, quickly rolling over and righting himself, fist swinging. I didn’t move in time, and his hit landed, smacking across my face.

  My nose cracked, head ringing and eyes watering as I staggered back, managing to not fall into the water again. Blood streamed from my nose, and I sniffed loudly, forcing my eyes open as he lunged for me again. The man was strong, years of working the land making him deceptively so, but I was quick. Or I hoped I was, at least.