He carefully packed up the remains and put them away, sealing the door, then went around, gathering his bag and his laptop and slipping from the lab, turning the lights off behind him. He hurried through to the reception, nodding with a smile to the security guard sitting at the desk, a book propped in his hands. The guard raised an eyebrow.
“Think you’re the last one tonight, Dr Schmidt,” he said, rising from his chair to follow Stefan to the door and lock it behind him. “Burning the late-night oil, are we?”
“Better a late night than an early morning,” Stefan replied with a smile.
The guard chuckled, unlocking the door and holding it open. “Have a good evening, Dr Schmidt.”
“And you,” Stefan replied, momentarily blinded by the fact he had forgotten the guard's name, and he bid the man goodnight, hurrying out into the carpark and over to his car. He jumped in, throwing his bag on the passenger seat, and locked himself inside, starting the engine.
His eyes swept the car park, studying the shapes in the dark as he turned his headlights on and reversed from the spot, turning onto the road, the volume of his radio turned all the way down.
He drummed his hands against the steering wheel, eyes darting all over the place, legs shaking as he braced his feet on the pedals, fumbling with the clutch and the gear stick. He almost stalled at one point, he hadn’t stalled since he was eighteen, but he made it home, thankfully, parking in his spot and grabbing his keys from his bag, holding it in his hand as he walked to the front door, quickly letting himself in.
The door shut behind him with a firm click that had him relaxing a little as he walked up the stairs to his flat, letting himself in, breathing in the familiar smell of home.
This morning he had been smart enough to leave a lamp on in the living room, so the flat wasn’t in complete darkness when he walked in. He flipped the lights on as he walked through until the whole place was flooded with light, then closed all the curtains and peeled his coat off, collapsing on the leather armchair in the corner of the room, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
The cat mewed by his hand, rubbing his head against his fingers. Stefan opened his eyes and peered down at the grey fur ball with a smile.
“Good thing you’re here, eh?” he asked, ticking the beast behind the ears. A little company to get him through the night, someone other than himself to talk to and feel a little less insane.
He felt himself relax slowly as he settled into his usual routine, habitually moving around the flat. He watered the plants, fed the cat, then he fed himself before hopping into the bath and washing, pulling on some tartan pyjama trousers from his mother and a plain jumper, settling down on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea. Ginger, it was. According to his mother, it would help him relax. It had taken a few months to acquire himself to the taste, and he drank it more out of routine than genuine enjoyment, but Stefan would try anything that promised to calm his nerves. His bag was beside him, and he fished his laptop out and placed it on the coffee table, rubbing his hands together as he waited for it to turn on.
He needed a new one. Lina had told him he needed a new one. This one was slow and wheezy, sounding like it was about to sputter and die every time he asked it to do something. But Stefan had never had much of a head for technology, and he was rather loyal to this old machine. It had gotten him through his PhD, after all.
Stefan opened up his emails, watching the inbox load with a sense of dread, sipping at his scolding tea. A new one came in, sent from his computer at the lab with the carbon results. He sucked in a harsh breath as he opened it up, sending the results to the printer, wanting to hold the pages in his hands. As he got up to collect the pages from his desk, his phone rang, and he answered it as he walked, pleasantly surprised to see Lina’s number there.
“Evening,” he greeted her.
“Do you have the results?” she asked eagerly. “Because you could be about to win me fifty quid, you know that?” Her voice was a welcome distraction, light and excited against the dread that Stefan felt.
“I thought it was twenty,” he said, grabbing the pages from his desk, almost knocking over a candlestick in the process.
“It was, but Dr Fisch got wind of it and wanted to throw his hat in the ring. You know what he’s like. Anyway, he thinks Saxon, so do me a favour and tell me I’m right. Middle Ages, please, I am not losing to that man, Stefan.”
Stefan’s eyes traced the page with a frown, his stomach dropping.
“Not that old, I’m afraid, Lina,” he said. “Neither of you wins.”
“Bollocks,” he heard her mutter. “Victorian?” she asked.
“Not quite. Sorry, Lina, do you mind if I call you back later?” he asked. “Or tomorrow morning? I just need to check on something.”
“Go for it.”
“Sorry about the fifty quid.”
“You can make it up to me. Night, Stefan.”
“Night.” He hung up, dropping his phone into his pocket as he gripped the pages and scanned them over, walking slowly to his sofa and sitting down.
Not old remains, nowhere near old enough. Ideas whirred through his head, and he tried to think about what to do next. He dropped the pages and sat there, head in his hands, knees jogging again and thought.
A knock at the door had him hurtling to his feet with fright, staring at the wood as though he could see who was on the other side. Whoever it was knocked again, and Stefan made his way over to the door, peering through the peephole. He stepped back with surprise and opened the door.
“Dr Schmidt,” his visitor said. “Sorry for calling round so late. I was in the area; thought I might see how you are.” A bottle of wine was passed into Stefan’s hand as his guest walked in, strolling through to the living room.
“Not at all,” Schmidt said feebly, voice and hands shaky as he trailed after. “Though I was planning on calling it an early night. A lot to do tomorrow,” he said, hurrying over to the coffee table and grabbing the pages, ready to shove them under the sofa.
A hand stopped him.
“May I?”
Stefan tried to argue, but the pages were yanked from his hands, and he was left standing there, fingers trembling.
“My, my,” his visitor said. “Not as old as we thought, eh?”
“Afraid not,” Stefan replied. “I’ll have to let the police know about it. See if they can help identify them.”
“The police? I don’t really think that’s necessary, do you? They’re probably there from when the church had more land. Or back when they used to bury Catholics and Protestants in different places, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Stefan replied stiffly. “I’m Jewish.”
“Of course, my mistake. Well, I’m sure there’s no need to get the police involved.”
Stefan reached out and took the pages back, the paper crumpling in his clammy hands. “I’m a forensic anthropologist. This is my job.”
“I know that. It just seems unnecessary, is all. The police have enough on their plates without us dropping this in their laps.”
Stefan frowned. “Either these remains can be identified, or they can’t, but I’m not going to sit around and let them be forgotten. I have a duty to do. This person had a family. That family might still be here and want to rebury again. Properly this time.” Stefan would even shell out the cash for a decent coffin if he had to.
“Of course you do. I’ll leave you to it then,” his visitor said cheerily. “You do look exhausted, old boy, try to get some rest.”
Stefan led the way back to the front door, swinging it aloft and waving his visitor outside, relaxing when he was once again alone. He let the door close, then he rushed across the room, grabbed the pages, and stowed them safely in his desk.
The police. He couldn’t just send them that, though. Surely, they wouldn’t know what it meant. He thought of his friend, the one who worked for them. That might be the right road to go down, but he’d need more evidence.
Stefan grabbed hi
s bag and turned it over, tipping the contents onto the coffee table. None of it was here. He must have left it all at the lab.
Damn it.
He could go back, claim to have left something there. He’d done it before, and the guard wouldn’t mind. But it was late, and he was tired, and they’d still be there in the morning.
Perhaps that was better, though, to wait until morning, when he didn’t feel quite so skittish. Then he could get everything together and go there in person and explain what he knew. Or what he thought, anyway.
Yes, tomorrow would be best. Maybe he could see Lina first, get her to go with him for moral support. He was sure she’d say yes. She had a macabre interest in this sort of thing.
Stefan was so caught up in his thoughts, hands wrung together, head bent down, that he did not hear the door of his flat opening.
The drawn curtains meant he could see no reflection in the window.
The thick carpet that ran through the flat meant that the footsteps made no sound as they neared towards him.
The cat hissed, and Stefan looked up and turned around, his mouth falling open in shock as something swung down and lodged into his neck, ripped out a second later.
He fell to the ground, blood spilling from his neck, coughing up through his mouth, his eyes open, watching a set of feet walk back towards the front door. The cat ran out too, and the door swung shut. Stefan’s world had gone black before the latch clicked into place.
Two
Thatcher
There was something about sitting in a courthouse that always gave me the same feeling of being in church when I was a boy. I sat against the stiff wooden bench, my back straight, my shoulders squared, fidgeting in my coat as we watched the judge confer with the lawyers. Mills looked like he was about to drop off beside me, and I stuck my elbow into his ribs, jabbing him awake.
“Anything new?” he asked, blinking and tugging on his tie.
“Nothing yet. Though with all the evidence we gave them, it’s a wonder why they’re taking so long.”
Mills hummed. “Maybe they want to make a bargain.”
I grumbled under my breath, scowling at the back of the man’s head. We’d arrested him with enough evidence to close the case up with no further questions, including his fingerprints on the crime scene. But apparently, the bureaucrats still had things to discuss.
The man had been arrested for assaulting another man, almost to death, and whilst the victim was still in a coma in the hospital, we had everything we needed to put the assailant away without his word. However, it would have been nice to have. I leant forward, bracing my arms on the bench in front of us, hands wrung together. I hated court. Hated watching all of our hard work get dragged out and picked to pieces as though we hadn’t spent days, weeks, months pulling it all together.
The victim’s wife sat down the row from us, her face twisted into the same scowl as mine. She had the better reason to be annoyed; she’d dealt with us asking questions and poking around their house for weeks only to have it all aired out again. She glanced over and looked at us hopefully. I sent back what I hoped was a reassuring nod. Mills and I made our statements to the jury, and I’d made sure that every detail I gave had no room for his lawyer to unravel. Years of experience more than Mills had, and I hoped it had been enough. But he had pleaded not guilty, so here we were. And I would really rather not be here.
Beside me, Mills’s phone buzzed quietly, the noise almost lost in the constant hum of the courthouse, and he stood up, looking relieved, slipping from the bench and outside into the corridor, his phone against his ear. I watched him go bitterly and turned my face back to the courthouse. The prosecutor turned around and met my eyes over the crowd, her face a patented blend of unreadable expression.
To most.
I’d worked with her for many years to know that the slight curl to her lip meant success for us, so I rose from the bench and went to join the victim’s wife as the jury filed back into the room. The courtroom hushed as the judge asked the verdict. A man rose from the bench.
“Your Honour, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”
I watched as the woman beside me let out a heavy breath of relief, sinking down against the bench in front of her. I touched her arm and gave her a nod, leading her outside as they wrapped up the finer details.
As soon as we stepped outside into the quiet corridor, she let out a light laugh, tears down her face, and stepped forward to hug me quickly.
“A good result,” I said, offering her a tissue. She sniffed and nodded.
“Thank you, Inspector. For everything.”
I offered her a polite smile. “All part of the job. I hope your husband recovers soon.”
She nodded. “The hospital said it shouldn’t be long.” She glanced at the doors we had just come through. “What will happen to him?”
“He will serve time for Grievous Bodily Harm,” I said. “I believe the prosecutor was pushing for a few years, given that your husband remains in a coma.”
She nodded, dabbing at her face, and I glanced to the side as someone moved into my eye line. Mills hovered, phone in hand, studying me with a grave expression.
The doors opened, and the prosecutor came out, so I left them to it, receiving one more hug before striding off to join Mills.
“Looks like a good result,” he said, glancing over my shoulder to the woman, who was laughing as she cried.
“A very good one, today. What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing that look on his face. “Who called?”
“DC Fry,” he said. “They’ve got a body for us. Looks like a homicide, and Sharp would like us on the case.” I glowered. I wanted an excuse to leave that room, but this seemed excessive. We’d only just finished that case, and now we had a new one on our hands.
“And they called you,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Apparently, I’m more expendable to the court proceedings than you are,” he replied as we strode towards the exit.
“Give it a few more years, and you won’t be,” I said firmly.
“Sounds like a promise,” Mills remarked. “Or a threat.”
“Need to make sure whoever steps into my shoes can bloody well fill them when the time comes,” I said, shouldering my way outside.
Despite the bright day, there was a cold edge to the wind, and we hurried over to my car, sliding in and shutting the breeze out.
“Right.” I rubbed my hands together and started the car. “Where am I headed, Mills?”
He gave me an address, a block of flats down by the river. I headed off, listening to the radio as I drove.
“Any news on our victim?” he asked as I drove.
“His wife seems hopeful,” I said. “And at least now the man who did that to them will pay for it. I just hope he wakes up soon, for her sake as much as his own.”
“Can’t be easy,” Mills replied, staring out the window. “Having the one you love so close and yet kept from you.”
“Rather poetic, Isaac,” I told him.
“My mum got to choose the film we watched on the weekend. She chose Wuthering Heights.”
I chuckled. “Not a bad choice.”
“If you like moody Yorkshire men,” Mills replied. “And toxic relationships.”
“It’s a legendary love story, Mills. Even I know that. The moody Yorkshire man sitting beside you.”
Mills turned and smiled at me. “Happy to sit beside you, sir, but if you ever order me to dig up your long-lost love, I will put you in an institution.”
“Fair enough. A nice one?”
“The best money can buy.”
“Will you visit me?”
“Sometimes.”
I chuckled, shaking my head slightly and drawing my attention back to the road. I knew vaguely where we were headed, knew where to find the road, anyway. We headed towards the south of the city, a residential area not far from the racecourse my grandad used to drive into the city for.
It was only a short distance to t
he place in question, where flashing lights of police cars and an ambulance filled the air. A small crowd gathered, huddled by the police tape, a few constables keeping them in check. I parked down the road, and we walked over, coats dancing behind us, towards the nearest PC.
“Sir,” he said with a nod, holding up the tape.
“All good here, Dunnes?” I asked with a nod towards the crowd after ducking under the tape.
“So far, sir, aye. I’ll let you know if things get rowdy.”
I nodded, clapping him on the shoulder as Mills and I walked to the large brick building, the front door held open by another constable, who nodded as we passed.
DC Fry waited for us inside, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her notebook in hand.
“Sir,” she nodded to me. “Mills. How was court?”
“A win for us, Fry, which was a nice way to start the day, I suppose,” I told her. “What have we got?”
“Dr Stefan Schmidt,” she said, leading us up the stairs. “Thirty-five years old, murdered in his flat. No sign of forced entry. The landlady found him about an hour ago, said his cat was outside clawing at the door, which was unusual. So, she tried the handle, the door was unlocked, and there he was.”
“Schmidt?” Mills asked as we climbed the stairs. “English?”
“According to his landlady. Born and bred in Yorkshire,” Fry answered.
We reached the door in question, propped open so that SOCO could amble in and out unbothered.
“SOCO hasn’t found any prints,” Fry added with a grimace, stepping aside to let us in. “And Dr Crowe is on her way. She just had to finish up something with Sharp.”
“Thank you, Fry. Do we have a statement from the witness?” I asked.
Cradle to Coffin (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 10) Page 2
