Cradle to Coffin (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 10)

by Oliver Davies

  “I can get an official one now, sir,” she offered.

  “Thank you… and keep her here. I’d like to talk to her myself.”

  Fry nodded and walked down the hall to where the stairs continued up. A white-haired lady sitting on the bottom one, a blanket around her shoulders and a grey cat in her arms.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing the cat wasn’t in there with him,” I muttered, walking into the flat. “Don’t they eat your face if you’re there long enough?”

  “I think any animal would, sir, especially if they hadn’t been fed.”

  I made a thoughtful sound and followed the buzz of people into the living room, stopping at the edge of the room, where blood had spread across the wall and the carpet, dried black on the cream fabric. A lot of blood.

  A man lay down in the middle of it, unruly brown curls poking out from his head. He lay facing us, lying on his stomach, arms and legs straight out behind him. I grimaced.

  “Crowe’s going to have a field day with this one,” I murmured. Someone handed me a pair of plastic socks to go over my shoes, and I leant against the wall to yank them on, followed by a pair of gloves before walking towards the man.

  He was dressed in pyjama bottoms and a plain grey jumper streaked with blood. A chain fell out from his collar, caked in dried blood. I reached forward and unhooked it from his neck, wiping the blood off with my thumb.

  “Star of David,” Mills murmured, looking over my shoulder. I handed it to him carefully.

  “He was Jewish. That’s something. We should make sure we get that to his family.”

  Mills nodded, carefully placing it in an evidence bag. I looked down at our victim. I couldn’t touch him too much, not wanting to move a hair until Crowe arrived. But I examined what I could. His jumper sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and I could see no bruising on his arms, no sign of a fight, at least.

  I rose to my feet and looked at the coffee table in front of us, the contents of his bag tipped over the surface. A leather wallet sat there, thankfully spared from the spray of blood, and I reached for it, opening it up to examine what was inside.

  His driver’s licence was there, name, date of birth, address. A debit card, some loyalty cards and some cash. Not a robbery, that much we could tell. Nothing was out of place. A photograph was also in his wallet, a photo of who I took to be him, standing arm in arm with an older couple, with his curls and dark eyes. His parents. I sighed through my nose. Only child. I put the wallet down and picked up a lanyard on the table. Attached was an id safely tucked in the plastic case, the name of a company I vaguely recognised on the front.

  “Know this place?” I asked Mills. “It rings a bell.”

  “No,” he replied slowly, pulling his phone out and searching. “Oh. Forensic anthropology company, providing services to museums in the local area.” He put his phone away. “Maybe Liene’s mentioned them.”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “So, he was a forensic anthropologist. If I knew what that meant, I’d be impressed.”

  “I’m still impressed,” Mills replied. “And I’m not even really sure of how you’d spell that.”

  I chuckled and backed away from the body, looking around the flat.

  “No forced entry, Fry said,” I recalled. “Windows all shut; curtains all closed.”

  “Bottle of wine,” Mills pointed to the coffee table. “Fancy bottle by the looks of it too, I’d say he knew whoever it was.”

  “Let them in for a quiet evening,” I suggested. “A love interest that went sideways. This could be self-defence,” I said, pointing to the body.

  “Could be,” Mills replied. “Why would all his stuff be tipped out from his bag?”

  “No clue,” I murmured, turning and walking into the kitchen.

  There was a little bowl of water and some dried cat food in the corner, so maybe it wouldn’t have eaten him.

  I looked at the countertops, where a knife rack was shoved out of the way, all knives spoken for.

  “Mills!” I called back into the living room. “Is the wine screw top or cork?”

  There was a pause. “Cork!” he called back.

  I started opening the drawers, and Mills wandered in. In the third one, I found a bottle opener, tapping against the side before putting it away.

  “All the knives are here, bottle opener still in the drawer. They must have taken the weapon with them, of course, but did they bring it here?” I wondered, leaning against the sink.

  “Bit of a weird evening,” Mills said. “I wonder what they planned?”

  “I doubt it was a cheese board and Scrabble,” I muttered, checking the fridge. It was almost empty. Only the dreg remains of a bottle of milk, a pot of yoghurt, some apples and a single large potato remained. When I closed it, I spotted the shopping list stuck on the door with a magnet. No alcohol on the list, or maybe he had a penchant for fine wine.

  “I’ll ask Fry about CCTV in the building,” Mills said. “See if there’s a chance anyone was seen on camera.”

  I nodded, and he stepped away, out into the hall. I walked back into the living room, pulling one of the curtains open. The view outside was rather nice, the wide street outside, though that street was now admittedly full of us and some rather nosy sightseers. A few were already wandering away, clearly growing disinterested. The body wouldn’t be moved yet, not until Crowe got here anyway, wherever she was. Usually, she beat us to it and was here when we arrived, knee-deep in blood in her white plastic suit. I closed the curtains and checked the other windows, checking the one in the bedroom too. All the same.

  No broken glass, no balcony outside someone might have climbed up, and no blood out in the hallway either.

  What on earth had happened here?

  Three

  Thatcher

  I walked out of the flat, my attention drawn to the woman sitting on the stairs holding a feral looking if docile cat. Fry and Mills stood a few metres away, talking quietly, and as I walked over, Fry straightened and nodded.

  “According to the landlady, there’s a CCTV camera at the back of the building, but nothing at the front.”

  “Residents need a key to get into the building and then a key to get into their flat,” Mills added, “I suppose they’ve never much thought about needing one before.”

  “They’ll be rethinking that, no doubt,” I answered, glancing at the other doors along the corridor. “Has anyone been around to any of the neighbours?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Fry said. “Waiting for your orders.”

  I checked my watch and frowned. “What’s Crowe’s ETA?”

  Fry also checked the time. “Another five minutes or so, sir.”

  With the way Lena drove, that could very well be fifteen more minutes.

  “Let’s talk to the landlady,” I said. “See what she can tell us and then speak to a few other neighbours and see if anyone saw anything odd. We’ll take this floor, but I want some officers on the lower floors as well. Someone came up those stairs,” I said, pointing at them. Fry nodded and led us over to the woman on the stairs.

  “Mrs Philips?” The woman looked up, her face blank and ashen. “This Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills. Sir, this is Laura Philips. She owns the building and is the one who discovered Dr Schmidt.”

  “Thank you, Fry,” I said with a nod. Fry offered Mrs Philips a well-meaning smile and stepped away, ready to get some officers speaking to the neighbours downstairs.

  “Good morning, Mrs Philips,” I said politely, getting down onto the stairs as well so that I wasn’t towering over her like a behemoth statue. “We are very sorry to have kept you here for so long.”

  She shook her head, absently stroking the cat’s head. “The young lady said it might be a wait until you all came.”

  I nodded, more to myself than to her, grateful that Fry had the foresight to offer apologies in advance.

  “You own the building?” I asked conversationally.

  “I do,” she sniffed. “For
about sixteen years now.”

  “And how long has Dr Schmidt been a tenant of yours?” I asked, noting Mills leaning casually to the side, his notebook in hand.

  “Around eight years now,” she answered.

  “What was he like as a tenant?”

  “Oh, ideal, Inspector,” she said. “Always paid his rent on time, always nice to talk to. Never any complaints from him or the other tenants. And he kept good control of this one,” she added, patting the cat’s head. “Which is why I thought it was odd to find him outside this morning. Alone, anyway, usually, they go down to the garden together, Schmidt with his coffee.” She was rambling, nerves making her speak hurriedly, but it was all interesting stuff. Useful, under the right light.

  “Can you talk me through what happened this morning?” I asked her. “In your own time, of course.”

  Mrs Philips breathed in a deep breath, clinging onto the cat for support and nodded.

  “I was coming down from upstairs,” she said, “I live upstairs. And I heard mewling, so I came to have a look and found this one pawing at the door. I wondered if Stefan had left the door propped open and it had shut by accident or something, so I came along and I picked him up to make sure he didn’t run away, and I knocked on the door.” She sniffed again, tears in her eyes, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “He didn’t answer, so I knocked again. Then I got worried, so I tried the handle. I didn’t think it would open, but it did. So, I only meant to put the cat inside and then leave, but I saw all this red on the carpet, and I walked in a little more, and there he was—” She broke off, her voice cracking.

  “Did none of the other neighbours notice anything? Hear you?” Mills asked, his voice soft as water.

  Mrs Philips shook her head and pointed a shaky hand to the door opposite.

  “Glenn is out the door every morning at eight, same with the couple next door. None of them will be home until this evening.”

  I nodded slowly. That ticked one extra thing off of our to-do list, then. It also gave the three of them alibis, whether or not they were in need of them.

  “I take it that only the residents of the building have keys to the outside door?” Mills asked.

  Mrs Philips nodded. “That’s right. But people bring guests over all the time,” she added.

  Perhaps our killer didn’t need a key, just needed to be walking towards the door at the same time somebody else was walking out, someone to hold the door for them or catch it just before it closed.

  “Did Dr Schmidt ever have guests?” I asked.

  “None that I ever saw,” she replied slowly, stroking her hand down the cat’s back. “But he must have had some around. He lived here eight years, after all.”

  “Were you aware of any romantic relationships Dr Schmidt might have had? Either currently or in the past?”

  Another shake of the head. “I’m afraid not. But he was a handsome man and very friendly, so there must have been someone at some point. I just never met them,” she said with a shrug.

  “I see. Do you have a spare key to his flat, Mrs Philips? We’d like to restrict access and make sure the place remains secure.”

  She nodded, fishing a large loop of keys from her pocket like a Victorian housekeeper.

  “And naturally, there will be one or two of us hanging around here,” Mills added as she pried off a key and handed it to me.

  “Yes, I understand,” she replied.

  “I think that’s all the questions we have, for the time being, Mrs Philips,” I said, rising from the stairs and offering her my hand. She took it and stood up; the cat bundled under her other arm. “We are sorry for what you’ve gone through, and we promise to do all we can to ensure the safety of you and your other tenants.”

  She smiled, squeezing my hand once before letting go. “Thank you, Inspector. Am I alright to head back upstairs now?”

  “Of course,” I said, stepping out of her way. She smiled, teary-eyed, at Mills, then shuffled towards the stairs, sniffing all the way up. I turned to Mills and handed him the key to the flat.

  “Our Dr Schmidt sounds rather the model citizen so far, doesn’t he?” I asked.

  “No guests, though,” he added. “And he sounds rather private about his personal life.”

  “How much does your landlord know about you?” I countered.

  “As it goes, Bertie offered me some very useful love advice the last time I saw him,” Mills replied with a smirk. “Though I’m not so sure I’m about to follow it.”

  I chuckled, thinking of my own nosy Ms McIntosh, who seemed to know everything about everyone and have an opinion on it all.

  “His closest neighbours have all been out since early this morning,” I muttered. “But I’m wagering that he was killed last night.”

  “Which doesn’t give them an alibi,” Mills added. “Just gets them out of the building for when we arrived.”

  I hummed and nodded, rethinking my approach to these neighbours.

  “We have their details,” Fry said, joining in with the conversation. “I got them from Mrs Phillips before you arrived.”

  Mills and I shared an impressed look.

  “You’re making yourself rather indispensable, Constable Fry,” I told her. She smiled, her chin lifting and then she turned to the stairs and leant over the railing.

  “Dr Crowe is here,” she said. Mills joined her, peering down as Lena began her way up the stairs. I clapped Mills on the shoulder as I walked past, back into Schmidt’s flat.

  “Dr Crowe is on her way up!” I called, clapping my hands to get their attention. “Make sure she has space to work!”

  It wouldn’t be easy in the small flat, a great deal of which was now covered with blood, but the team inside got moving, tidying around themselves and clearing a space for her like a well-oiled machine.

  An officer helped me drag the sofa back slightly, making enough space for her and all her gear to fit beside the body, and I turned to the door as she strode in, white, blonde curls dancing around her face.

  “Morning, Max,” she chirped, stopping in the hallway to pull her white suit up over her shoulders.

  “Morning, Lena. Took your time,” I replied, leaning against the wall.

  “Don’t start.” She rolled her eyes. “I had to go over the forensic budget with the boss, and then I got stuck behind a sodding bin lorry,” she grumbled, angrily zipping her suit up.

  “Well, you’re here now and thank goodness for it,” I said.

  She waved a hand in the air, picking up her bag. “Thought I’d be here sooner, myself, Max. The address is very familiar, but I’ve not been here before.”

  I frowned and let her pass me, following her through to the living room.

  “We’ve got some basics,” I said as we walked. “About the man, he—”

  Lena dropped her bag to the floor with a thud, a sob wrenching from her. She stumbled back into me, and I grabbed her under the arms, taking her weight as she crumpled to the floor.

  “Lena?” I asked, helping her down. I waved a hand at the room, and the others dispersed as Lena leant against my chest and cried. “Lena?”

  Mills ran in and knelt beside us. “What happened?”

  I looked at the body, then back at Lena. “You know him, don’t you?” I asked her softly.

  She managed a nod, her hands pressed to her face, eyes wide, tears streaming down her cheeks. I muttered a quiet curse.

  “Mills, get her outside.”

  Lena shook her head. “I can do it,” she said in a croaky voice. “It’s my job. I can do it.”

  “He’s your friend, Lena. We’re not letting you do this.”

  “I’m the doctor here,” she reminded me, her face flush.

  “And I’m the senior investigating officer. This is my crime scene, and you have a conflict of interest, and I haven’t seen you cry since that time you made me watch Moulin Rouge. Mills, take her outside, fresh air, avoid the crows. In fact, tell the crows to sod off now.”

  M
ills nodded and reached forward, taking Lena’s hands and pulling her to her feet. He angled himself so that she was facing him, her back to Dr Schmidt, and he slowly wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her from the room.

  I stayed put, sitting on the ground, staring at the body, my mind split. Annoyance that I’d need a new pathologist, battling with my affection for Lena. He was her friend. Both in forensics, I suppose, I doubted that there were really all that many in York.

  Footsteps reached me, and a hand was offered. I grabbed it, letting Fry haul me to my feet, her brow furrowed.

  “Dr Crowe?”

  “She knows him,” I said, nodding to the body. “We need another pathologist.”

  “I’ll call, see who’s free,” Fry muttered, stepping away.

  I sighed, looking down at the body and raked my hands through my hair. We needed answers now, and I didn’t want this body laying here for much longer. Poor bloke had a hard enough death without his body starting to decompose in the middle of his own living room. I stood there, stewing for a short while until Fry appeared at my shoulder.

  “Dr Cavell is on her way,” she said, slipping her phone into her pocket. That was good. I’d worked with Dr Cavell once or twice before when Lena was on holiday or sick. “ETA five minutes.”

  We were both looking down at the body.

  “Job’s hard enough, and then it’s someone you know,” I muttered. “A friend.”

  I heard a noise outside, and Fry crossed over to the window and sighed.

  “If you don’t need me in here, sir, I’ll go and help disperse the crowd.”

  I nodded gratefully, and she left me in the flat, a few members of SOCO drifting back in to finish their work. I chewed my lip and walked over to the large bookshelf that dominated the back wall of the living room. There was an eclectic collection with no real sense of order, which I always admired.

  On the bottom shelf, a few thick leather photo albums were wedged in, and I reached for the last one, pulling it out and resting it on my knees as I flicked it open.

  The pictures were mostly of a young Schmidt, on holiday with friends, looking a few years younger. Student days, most likely. I flipped through them until I landed on a familiar face. A group of young twenty-somethings all sitting around a table in a pub, Lena amongst them, Schmidt to her side. They knew each other well.