Blood Ties
A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller
Oliver Davies
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
2. Thatcher
3. Thatcher
4. Thatcher
5. Thatcher
6. Thatcher
7. Thatcher
8. Mills
9. Thatcher
10. Thatcher
11. Thatcher
12. Thatcher
13. Thatcher
14. Thatcher
15. Thatcher
16. Thatcher
17. Thatcher
18. Thatcher
19. Mills
Chapter 20
21. Thatcher
22. Thatcher
23. Thatcher
24. Thatcher
25. Thatcher
26. Thatcher
27. Thatcher
28. Thatcher
29. Thatcher
Epilogue
A Message from the Author
Prologue
I was running late. Unsurprisingly, really, given that I had little inclination of even going this evening. I knew if I didn’t, Sally would be here to drag me out by the heels. Some work event of hers, important enough to warrant a black-tie situation. She had even gone so far as to inform Sharp about it. So I was shooed from the station before I could find myself a new mountain of work to stay behind for. Even Mills knew it was a damn conspiracy. Not that I wasn’t proud of Sally, but I had never been a black-tie man myself, nor was I a fan of spending my evenings drinking fancy wines and listening to gossip about things I had no understanding of.
I stood in front of the mirror, fixing my bowtie several times, somehow always getting it wonky and off centre, and my phone rang, Sally’s face flashing across the screen. I answered, hitting the speakerphone button before going back to sorting my collar.
“Sally.”
“Where are you?” she asked, her voice muffled, a strange whirring noise all around her.
“Just leaving now. Where are you?” I asked, fed up with my tie and abandoning it, and instead focused on my cufflinks. “you sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”
“We’re in the car,” she replied.
“Hi, Max,” Tom’s voice called through.
“You haven’t left yet?” she protested.
I finished dressing, slipping my jacket on and picked up the phone, turning off the speaker and holding it to my ear, to hear her lovely scolding all the better.
“It’ll only take me twenty minutes to get there, Sally.” Fifteen on the way home if traffic was light.
“You better not be flaking on me, Max. This is a big deal. You promised to be there.”
“And I will be there,” I told her as I walked around the house, picking up the things I needed. Much as I didn’t want to. Sally worked in a gallery which meant the evening would be a large country house stuffed to the brim with rich, fancy people discussing art; of which, I knew very little. Mills had given me a short master class yesterday, but I remained hopeless. I liked Van Gogh, Elsie had a print of his sunflowers in her kitchen, they’d been there since the day I was born, but anything else went over my head.
“If you’re not,” Sally’s threatening tone drew me back to the present.
“Well, I won’t be if you keep me on the sodding phone all evening, will I?”
She scoffed, Tom’s laughter in the background, and then she muttered very quickly, “Don’t be late,” and hung up.
I laughed down at my phone, slipping it into my pocket with my wallet and keys. My coat was draped over one arm. It had been a warm day so far, too warm for it now, but there was a chill drawing in as the night drew on.
Leaving the house, I locked up and pulled a pair of sunglasses on as I slid in the car and started it up. It was turning out to be a very nice summer, in fact, good enough weather that would probably be better spent getting some work done in the coaching house, not sweating through my only good suit. Sharp had told me to wear it, fussing over me as I left the station like a worried hen. Apparently, my everyday suits were not classy enough. Out of spite, I was wearing colourful, mismatching socks. I’d even been tempted to put on the novelty cufflinks Mike had got me for Christmas, but decided that I was on thin enough ice with Sally already.
The event, I believe we were calling it, was out at a large country house, just outside the city. One of those sprawling Georgian places with endless gardens and well-dressed staff still milling around. Privately owned, still in the family rather than donated to charity or opened to the public. Must be a bugger to maintain, I thought as I pulled into the gravel driveway, around a large stone fountain. I’d thankfully not hit any traffic, though out here traffic was only ever a tractor or some sheep crossing the road. A man in a smart red jacket ran over to take the keys, which I reluctantly handed over, drifting towards the sweeping stairs that led up to the wide-open doors, my coat gripped tightly in my hands.
A woman stood, guarding the gates, in a plain black dress, her hair clipped neatly back, a clipboard in hand and an earpiece in. I fished out the invitation Sally had sourced and handed it over. She waved me through with a polite smile.
The house felt more like a museum. Everything was very clean, very ordered, very old. The tiled floor of the foyer spread out into the various rooms connected to it, a large stone staircase curving upstairs, a velvet rope strung across. That would keep the rabble out, I thought to myself with a smirk, dropping my coat off at the small closet, sticking the tag I was given into my pocket.
Here to stay now, I thought somewhat bitterly, looking up at the expansive ceiling before wandering around the statues in the middle of the room, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
I felt, somehow, underdressed. It was a sea of rippling gowns, elegantly cut suits that looked like they’d wandered from a Harrods store window. Jewellery glittered on the necks and wrists of women as they circulated. The men, most of them dressed in three-piece suits, had shoes that shone in the lights. I wondered how many of them polished them themselves.
“Max!” Sally’s voice caught my ear, and I turned to one of the doors as she appeared from the crowd, Tom at her heels, beelining for me with a relieved expression. I looked her over, somewhat impressed.
“You look lovely, Sally,” I told her, leaning down to kiss her fondly on the head. She wasn’t one for scrubbing up often, neither of us was. I usually found her in a pair of paint-splattered dungarees and a ratty old jumper she nicked from her brother. But tonight, she had fished out a long, beaded dress that played with the light from the chandelier above us as she moved. Her usually tangled mane of hair was pinned up, her face lightly dusted with makeup. She looked beautiful, and yet completely uncomfortable. I’d wager she was not wearing heels under that frock, and no doubt that’s why she chose such a long one.
“Tom,” I reached around her to shake his hand.
“Max. You made good time.”
“Told you I would,” I said, looking around the room. “Your brother here?” I asked her.
She shook her head with a pout. “Still in Iceland.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me, Max. The boy’s a mystery.”
I laughed and nodded to the elaborate room we stood in. “It’s a nice place, this. Who owns it?”
She stood by my elbow, pointing subtly to the other side of the crowd. “That man over there,” Sally pointed to a large, ruddy-faced man in the corner of the room. He was dressed like an Edwardian gentleman in a tweed suit with a walrus moustache and a large glass of port in his ringed hand. A woman hung on his other arm, her silver hair in coils around her face, the only person here who looked as though she belonged in the house, in her black
evening dress. Old money, it was usually easy to tell the difference.
“Yes, of course. How could I miss him?” I muttered, earning a grin from Tom but a hard swat on the arm from Sally.
“He’s a patron of the gallery,” she hissed in my ear, “the reason I have a job.”
“Good gracious. Shall I thank him in person?”
Sally stared up at me with a deadpan expression, leaning against Tom, who ran a hand good naturedly up and down her arm with a bemused expression. We might get on this evening, that would be a rare chance.
“Why did I invite you again?” She rubbed her temple. “I could have asked Molly to come.”
“Because you’ll need me here when one of these hoity academics stands up to make a speech.”
“Excuse you,” Tom shot back.
“And because, other than him,” I gestured to her husband, “I’m your best friend,” I mocked her.
“The perils of staying in touch with the idiots you grow up with,” she retorted. She kept a sour look on her face for a moment until I smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out and grinned back. “Do you want to look around? Can’t go upstairs, but there’s enough to see down here.”
I swept my eyes around the foyer, towards the various rooms, with their doors swung open, people spilling in and out.
“Go on then.”
“Tom?”
“You two go ahead, I’ve just seen Dr Walford.”
“From the university?”
“Yes,” he kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll find you before the speeches start.”
Sally waved him off and looped her arm through mine, pulling from the large statue in the centre of the room towards one of the doors.
“This is the library,” she told me as we walked in.
“You don’t say,” I replied dryly, looking up at the towering bookshelves that lined each wall of the room. Marble busts stood in the windows, long, sturdy-looking sofas pushed against the wall, high backed reading chairs close to the unlit fire.
“Figured you might like it,” Sally added as I pulled us towards one of the shelves to inspect the collection.
“Lots of local history,” I commented, scanning the spines for something of more interest.
“Hardly unexpected in a place like this, Max.”
“Sally!” We were interrupted by a small gaggle of people, dressed in flowing dresses and tailored suits.
“Hello, everyone.” Sally smiled. “So good to see you all.”
“Well, we could hardly not show when they are so wonderfully recognising you for all your hard work,” one of the gentlemen said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. He pulled away, looking up at me.
“And who is this?” he asked, nudging her with his elbow.
“This is Max. He’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Max.”
I nodded politely, taking a sip of my drink. I felt Sally tighten her grip on my arm.
“Max, these are some of my work colleagues. Sue, Ahmed, Gavin, Lois and Alex.”
“Nice to meet you all.”
“Are you in the art world, too, Max?” one of the girls, Lois, I think, asked me.
“No, not at all.”
“Not at all?” The man from before looked surprised. “Why do you say it so fervently?”
“Not a fan of the art world?” another asked.
“A novice, is all.”
“So, what do you do, Max?” the older of the ladies inquired.
“I’m an inspector,” I told them.
“Really? A detective inspector?” She looked thrilled.
“Yes.”
“How delightful.” Nice to see someone thinks so.
“I take it, you are not overly accustomed to events such as these?” another of the men asked.
“Not really, but anything for this toe rag,” I grinned down at Sally.
“These places can be intimidating. I always get lost,” he said.
“These events or these houses, Gavin?” Sally asked him.
“These houses! Too many rooms, it’s unbearable. You agree with me, don’t you, Max?”
“And how many houses like these do you suppose our busy detective has been in, eh?” the first man asked. “Any like these?”
“For events like this? Never-”
“See?”
“But for work, one or two times,” I finished, taking a long sip of champagne, Sally smirking beside me.
“Really?” The younger lady looked unsure. “For cases?”
“That is what his work is, Lois,” Sally pointed out.
“Not murders, surely?”
“Not in the actual house,” I allowed. “Robberies are the most common.”
“What would someone steal?” Lois asked, looking around the extravagant room, as if nothing in here were of any real value.
“All sorts. Jewellery, ornaments. Paintings.”
“Paintings? Do they get sold?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“You worked one of those not long ago, didn’t you, Max?” Sally remarked, waving down a waiter to replace our glasses. I nodded in thanks to the young lad who blinked, surprised. Must have been the first one to do that all night. I hope they were getting well paid.
“Back in the spring,” I took the glass she handed me, passing over the empty one.
“In a place like this?”
“Quite like it,” I remarked, looking around.
“Where?”
“North of the city, privately owned house. A painting got stolen.”
“Oh, dear. Was it valuable?”
“To some, less to others.”
“How cryptic,” Lois teased. “Do tell, detective.”
“I’m here to celebrate Sally’s work achievements,” I gave her hand a quick squeeze, “not regale everyone with boring stories of my own.”
“I’m afraid Max doesn’t really like to share his stories,” Sally told them, “though they are very rarely boring, you git.”
“Some of them are.”
“Not since you became an inspector, they’re not. I don’t remember this one, anyway. A painting got stolen, and you didn’t ask me for help?”
“You were in France,” I reminded her. “You weren’t back until a few days in and by then.” I shrugged.
“Oh, yeah,” she mumbled disgruntledly.
“Was the painting recovered?” Gavin asked.
“It was.”
“And the thief?”
“All taken care of,” I answered shortly, wishing I had something stronger in this little glass flute.
“Tell the story, Max,” Sally ordered.
“We’re here for you,” I protested.
“Exactly, you’re here for me. And I would like to hear about this case.” She grinned up at me triumphantly. “Take my mind off having to give a speech later one.” She pinched my hand meaningfully.
Dear Sally was not a fan of public speaking, in any way, shape, or form. She had to give a speech in a school assembly once when we were children, and she made me go up there with her for ‘moral support’.
I flinched, pulling my hand away from her sharp nails. “Really?”
“Really.” She stared up at me stubbornly, and I let out a defeated sigh.
“Can I at least sit down?” I asked, nodding to the sofas.
“Fine.” She dragged me there, the group following excitedly, and we all settled down on the stiff, velvet cushions. I wondered if these sofas were as old as the rest of the house, certainly as old as their owner, in any case.
“Go on then.” Sally slapped my knee. “Get telling, maestro.”
“I should just buy you a stick to poke me with,” I told her, flicking her hand away, “like the kind you get to make monkeys dance.”
“Monkeys are easier to train,” she retorted. “You can get them to things for grapes or juice. You, on the other hand,” she rolled her eyes, “blackmail and physical violence. It’s the only t
hings that have ever worked.”
Light laughter tittered around, and I slumped back against the sofa.
“Very well, your majesty. Like I said, it was a house quite like this, earlier in the Spring. Just as the frost was starting to disappear, the family were having a party.”
One
The party was an annual affair; wedged between birthdays and anniversaries, in the early warm days of spring. It had a permanent place in the calendar of all those who were regularly invited, and amongst the wealthy group, to not be invited was a snub. People drove up from the south to attend, the house filled with people for several days, all of them giddy and drunk. They spent their days wandering the vast land that the estate lay upon, the gardens and fields, perfect, apparently, for shooting and riding. In the evenings, they dined and drank, all excited for the party itself.
When it came, at last, it came with a bang. For the whole morning, it had been a circus of people coming and going, trekking throughout the Elizabethan house. It had to be decorated, first of all, everything dusted and polished to within an inch of its life before being draped with silks and beads.
Serving staff came next, in identical smart jackets, polishing glasses and filling buckets with ice to keep the drinks cold. The doors to the gardens were thrown open, the lawn had been mowed, the hedges neatly trimmed, and the smell of honeysuckles wafted in on the faint breeze. Flowers were cut and brought inside in vases; a trail of petals left behind to be swept up before the Lady of the house saw them.
The kitchen was a hot, steaming room of endless trays of canopies and small, dainty pastries. The cook periodically leant out of the open window, fanning her red face.
The family did little to assist. They drifted around barking orders and watching as the house became a glittering dance floor. Of course, they were only really excited about the affair when they went up to change into their ornate clothes, and the guests began to file in.
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