“Morning,” I greeted her. She narrowed her eyes and looked me over, taking in my damp hair and clean clothes.
“You’re up early,” she commented, sliding onto the other chair.
“Couldn’t really sleep,” I said, taking a bit of cereal.
“I noticed. I woke up at one point and saw you staring at the ceiling like a vampire.” She tilted her head to one side, long hair brushing her arm. “Is it the case?”
I nodded, pushing cereal around the bowl. “The case. This time round and back then.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and leant forward, arms folded on the table. “Twenty years ago?” When I nodded, a sympathetic look crossed her face.
“Your mum?” she asked softly.
Another nod, and she was on her feet, walking around and crouching by my chair. One hand rested on my arm, and the other reached up, pushing my wet hair back from my face. She leant forward, kissing my head, then crouched back down. I turned to look down at her, the mix of curiosity and sympathy in her eyes. I sighed through my nose and placed my hand on top of hers.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I told her. “Tonight? If you’re not working late.”
She quickly shook her head. “I’ll be here.” She looked relieved that I was finally sharing this particular story with her. I’d shared plenty of others over our time together, stories with dead bodies and murder and all sorts, but this one had long been a secret for me, one that very people knew. But this case wasn’t getting solved in the next twenty-four hours, and with Jeannie back in the city, hovering round, it only seemed fair to give Liene the whole story.
I jumped slightly as the coffee pot started bubbling on the stove and rose to go and take it off the heat. Liene followed, grabbing two mugs, and we worked in quiet synchronisation, filling the mugs, adding the milk, until we were both back at the table, Liene with some toast before her, and me reclining at the table, sipping the coffee. It was nicer than the instant stuff I usually drank, but I didn’t want to tell Sally that and give her the satisfaction.
“So,” Liene cleared her throat, “you have a lead? Usually, you can’t sleep when you have a lead.”
“I think so,” I said with a crooked smile at her observation. “I found a link between this victim and one of the others that might get us somewhere.”
“Well, that’s something,” she replied. “Why do you look so annoyed about that?”
“Because it means that we’re most likely dealing with the same killer, not a copycat.”
“Ah. You know his patterns by now, though, right?” she asked, taking a bite of toast.
“I think I do,” I answered, scratching the back of my head. “At least, I hope so, anyway. What have you got today?”
Liene grimaced. “I have to finish off that inventory in the archives before the new collection comes in. But I’m seeing my mum today. She wants to get lunch.”
“That’ll be nice,” I said, finishing my coffee and placing my mug in the sink. “Say hello for me.”
“I will. Have a good day.”
I bent down, giving her a quick kiss. “You too.” I strolled out into the hall and pulled my coat on, grabbing my keys before leaning back around the doorway. “Love you!”
“Love you too!” she called, waving over her shoulder.
I unlocked the front door and stepped out into the sun. Despite the brightness of the day, it was deceptively cold, and I wrapped my coat around myself as I strode down to the car. A few other neighbours were up and about, taking out the bins or letting their dogs out in their dressing gowns and slippers. They made retirement look quite nice, to be honest, hanging around in the morning with nowhere to go. I jumped in the car and set off down the road, pausing to let a frazzled looking dad walk across with his children, all begrudgingly shuffling forward in their school uniforms. He gave me a weary, thankful wave, and I watched him herd them up the pavement. That I didn’t really envy. It would be Sally and Tom soon enough, poor things.
The traffic was light, and I got to the station earlier than usual, running into Crowe in the car park.
“Morning, Lena,” I called as she climbed from her car.
“Morning, Max. How goes things?” she asked as she joined me.
“Same old,” I muttered. “I’ll be glad to see this case through.”
“Can’t blame you there, love,” she said, pulling the door open. “I should finish up today. Got a few analysis reports back, and then I’m done. The afternoon, most likely.”
“You can’t give me anything now?” I asked. “Any little telltale signs that might mean more to me than to a coroner?”
“I hope you’re not pestering her,” Sharp interrupted, leaning against the front desk.
“Me? Pester Lena? Never.”
Crowe chuckled, patting me on the shoulder as she walked past, nodding to Sharp as she made her way to her lab.
“Ma’am.” I nodded. Sharp gave me a fixed look. Her eyes narrowed, and my thoughts went to the old files in the boot of my car. I’d need to smuggle them back in. If she hadn’t already figured me out, that was. She was in charge for a reason.
“Go get them,” she said firmly.
I turned on my heel, holding the door open for a woman coming through, and headed back to my car. As I grabbed the box from the boot, Mills pulled into his parking spot and climbed out, looking at the box.
“Sir.” He shook his head.
“It was worth it,” I informed him, balancing the box in my arms. Mills chuckled, reaching over to close my boot for me, and we walked back into the station, where Sharp had now vanished. I blinked, wondering if she’d actually been there. Maybe that coffee was too strong.
“Why?” Mills asked as we walked to the stairs.
“Why what?” I asked.
“Why was it worth it? What did you get?”
“I think, a lead. A connection between the victims.”
Mills’s face brightened. “Really? What is it?”
“Let’s get in first,” I said, walking into the office and dropping the box on my desk. I shrugged my coat off, looking at the board we’d put together. I hoped it was a connection.
“So?” Mills asked, dropping onto his chair and waking his computer up.
I stretched my arms out, cracking my knuckles and reached for the box, pulling out O’Flynn’s report and Clare Manston’s file.
“Clare Manston,” I said, holding up the file. Mills looked away from his computer screen, propped his elbows on the desk and fixed his attention on me. “Twenty years old. A university student working part-time at a local pub. She went to the same university here in the city that Julia Brook went to. Both of them belonged to a conservation society.”
I dropped the file on my desk with a thwack as Mills sat up straighter. “A conservation society?” I nodded, and he breathed out slowly. “That explains the locations,” he muttered. “How he would have been able to get them somewhere so remote.”
“He played on their interests, and I’m guessing that the other victims shared it too. Only Clare and Julia are the only ones we know for sure were involved in a society at school.”
“Did any of the others go to uni?” Mills asked, keenly rising from his desk.
“Not here in York,” I said with a shake of my head. “And we know it’s likely that he’s based here.”
“Maybe they had other clubs or something,” Mills said, walking around towards me. “Julia wasn’t in uni anymore, but she might still have been involved. Even if it wasn’t a club, she must have known some other people with the same interest. If they came to the restaurant, she’d have easily gotten along with them.”
“I think it’s likely. Her mother wasn’t surprised at her going for a walk in the moors, even with someone she hadn’t met.”
“A regular occurrence?”
“Sounds it to me. I think it might be worth us visiting the university, checking out the society and any past alumni they’ve had.”
Mills nod
ded, looking jittery. “Shall we head there now?”
“Might as well, but call first,” I told him, spotting Fry coming in through the window. “Make sure someone’s free. Ideally staff, someone who’s been there a while.”
Mills walked back to his desk to pick up his phone, and as he got to work, I stepped outside, catching Fry as she dropped her things on her desk.
“Morning, Fry.” She jumped at my sudden arrival.
“Christ. Sorry! Morning, sir.”
“Mills and I think we have a lead to follow up; we’re going to head out to the university.”
Fry nodded, pulling her coat off. “I’ll keep working on the bookings from the restaurant,” she offered.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said. “You’re good to have around, Fry, you know that?” I turned to walk away.
“It’s nice to hear it from time to time!” she called back.
I chuckled, heading over to Sharp’s office. Her door was open, and I knocked, leaning against the doorframe. She looked up from her computer and spotted me, raising an eyebrow.
“Usually,” she said in a dry voice, “when an officer removes confidential information from the station, they get themselves into a heap of trouble.”
“Technically, a cold case, until we get confirmation otherwise,” I reminded her.
She glared at me. “Don’t push your luck, Thatcher,” she warned me. “I want to see this case settled as much as you do, and I know what it means for you, but don’t get cocky. Follow protocol and don’t do anything stupid.”
“I do anything stupid.”
“You have a scar on the back of your head that says otherwise,” she reminded me, looking back at her screen.
“That was ten years ago,” I said. “And my hair has grown back. You can’t even see it.”
She looked up once more to give me another stern look.
“Nothing stupid,” I promised, backing from the room.
Mills met me outside, handing me my coat.
“Got a meeting set up,” he said as we walked to the stairs. “But we’ve not got long before the professor has a lecture.”
“Lead the way then,” I muttered.
We piled into Mills’s car and zipped quickly across the city to the university campus, parking outside reception where a tall woman dressed in a long dress and coat stood waiting.
“Professor Francova?” he called.
“Yes,” she said as we walked towards her, extending a hand.
“Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher.” I shook her hand.
“And Sergeant Mills,” Mills added. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Hello,” she greeted us, leading us over to a bench sheltered under a tree.
“Thank you for meeting us,” I said.
“No problem, I’m sorry it’s so rushed.”
“You have a busy schedule. We understand that. You are the staff member who helps oversee the conservation society?” I asked.
“I am.” She nodded. “Professor of environmental studies, so…” She folded her hands in her lap.
“Did you know Julia Brook?”
“I did.” She sighed heavily. “Such a bright girl. She was in the society. I thought perhaps she’d go on to do some more work in the area, but she stayed on as a waitress, I hear.”
“She did. How long have you worked here, Professor?” I asked, glancing briefly at the strands of white in her dark hair.
“Fifteen years this September,” she said proudly. “Why?”
“We’re looking into a possible connection with a previous student who was also a part of the society twenty years ago. Clare Manston.”
The professor frowned as if the name rang a faint bell. “I’m afraid I do not know her. I can give you this,” she said, handing me the folder she carried. “It’s a list of previous students who’ve been involved, as well as donors as patrons and all that.”
I flipped it open as Mills asked her a few more questions, looking through the list of names. The society was founded the year before Clare Manston joined, and the names went back that far, though sadly, there weren’t many students in the club each year. I scanned them swiftly, then looked over to the donors and patrons of the club. A name leapt out at me, and I paused on the page, fingers gripping the corner.
Dominic Haspel.
Why did I know that name? I wondered. A memory jolted into place, and I grabbed my phone, stepping away as I called Fry. I heard Mills make our polite excuses as he got up to join me, and the professor got back to work.
“Sir,” Fry answered after the third ring.
“Booking list,” I said quickly. “Anyone under the name of Haspel? H-A-S-P-E-L.”
“Hang on,” she said, the phone going quiet. Mills stood by my shoulder, looking rightfully confused.
“I’ve got a Haspel,” she said. “But no first name listed.”
“That’s fine. Cheers, Fry,” I said, hanging up a second later and turning to Mills.
“Sir?”
“One of the patrons, a supporter of the club the year Clare Manston was there. Dominic Haspel. And a customer from the restaurant marked down as Haspel. No first name, but—”
“A name,” Mills finished.
We have a name.
Twelve
Thatcher
I felt a little guilty for our sudden and abrupt meeting with the professor that wasn’t, in hindsight, the most professional one we’d ever had, but as we high-tailed it back to the station, I didn’t really care all that much.
Not when we had a name, anyway.
I tried not to get my hopes up too high that this Haspel chap was the man we were after, but his name appearing in the lives of both Clare and Julia couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been involved in the conservation society when Clare had been there, an easy way for them to have met. And a mention of his interests at the restaurant whilst Julia was serving him would have easily been enough to catch her attention. A shared passion that meant when he drove them out to the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t a shock. It would have been deliberate. Somewhere he knew they would have liked to go. A garden, the moors, the river.
All we had to do now was track the man down.
I wondered how old he would be, and that was a conundrum. He’d have been an adult, old enough to be involved with the conservation society when Clare was there and contribute to the cause, old enough perhaps, to have gone to the pub where she worked and continued a friendship there. Twenty years had passed, so even if he was the same age as me, going out with a young woman like Julia seemed odd. Creepy, for sure, and I wondered if theirs had been a physically romantic relationship or if they had just enjoyed each other’s company.
As we got to the station and climbed out of the car, Mills studied me, frowning slightly.
“You’re thinking something, aren’t you, sir?” he asked, knowing my expression well.
“Just wondering who exactly this man would be, that twenty years on, he’d be able to seduce a young woman and lure her into the moors the way he did before.”
Mills pondered that himself as we walked inside and up the stairs. “Is it exactly like it was before? Because if so, should we worry about a repeat?”
His voice was quiet in the station, not wanting to be overheard, but his words hit me hard, as though he’d shouted them. It was a fear, and a very real one at that. There had been four women twenty years ago. A few months between each one, up until Clare, anyway. She’d been killed almost a year after Monika had been. The gap had seemed odd at the time, but perhaps it had taken him that long to build her trust.
“Once we get word from Crowe,” I decided patiently, “we’ll know where we stand and can issue a warning to the public to be safe. But I don’t want to stir up fear if we don’t know for sure.”
“A copycat might go again, sir,” Mills pointed out bleakly.
“Copycats are always easier to catch,” I said. “But let’s not jump to any decisions just yet and look into this Haspe
l chap.”
We reached our office as we finished speaking, where Fry had set herself up at the end of my desk, where she was closest to the board.
“How goes it, Fry?” I asked as we walked in, peeling my coat off and draping it over the back of my chair.
“I’ve pulled together a few more names from the bookings,” she said, tiredly sitting back from the desk. “A young man and a young woman who might fit the profile.”
I walked over to where she was working and picked up the list of names, looking for Haspel. No first name, as she’d said, but that was alright for now.
“How often does the name Haspel show up?” I asked.
“A while back, actually,” Fry said. “First time the name shows up is five months ago. Then nothing for a while until they came back a little over a month ago. Once a week from then, twice a week sometimes.”
“Any details about them?”
“Not on the staff ledger,” she answered. “But I’ve not checked Julia’s book.”
“I’ll do it,” I told her, taking the notebook from her pile. “Go get yourself a brew or something, Fry. You look ready to drop.”
She rose gratefully and sighed. “Late night.”
“Good late night or bad late night?” I asked, watching Mills turn his head slightly at the question.
“Bad,” she groaned. “My dog ate something weird, and she vomited a few times last night. Nothing worse than just dropping off and hearing a retch from the living room. On my rug as well,” she added as we walked to the door. “My cousin sent it to me from Tibet. Tea for you too?”
“Please, Leila,” Mills answered. I gave her a nod, and she smiled and walked from the room.
“Tibet? Quite the journey for a rug,” I commented.
“Her mum is from Tibet, I think,” Mills answered. “Tibet or Nepal.”
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 10
