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

by Oliver Davies

  I kept flicking through the pages, and towards the back, a stack of photos had been wedged in haphazardly rather than stuck to the pages like all the others. I pulled them out and started sifting through them. A woman featured in most of them. A young woman with dark hair and a bright smile, in many of the pictures, her arm was looped through Schmidt’s, or they were sitting together on a chair, her kissing his cheek. There had been a relationship. But there were no other pictures of this woman anywhere that I had seen. Schmidt appeared to have grabbed them all and stuck them in the back of the album. Not on display, but not able to bring himself to get rid of them. An ex.

  I wondered who she was, wondered if Lena would know. I put them back and picked up the album, placing it with the laptop that was on the coffee table. The screen was black, no sign of a charger, and no doubt the thing would be password protected, anyway. A job for Wasco, then. I looked around the living room for the sign of a phone but couldn’t spot one. He’d been here, though, at this coffee table, by this sofa, so unless the killer took it, it wouldn’t be far.

  Someone walked into the flat, and I turned as Dr Cavell strode towards me, her bright eyes narrowed at the state of the flat.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said after shaking her hand.

  “No problem. I saw Lena on my way up, poor thing.” She pulled a pair of gloves on with a snap and looked up at me. “Shall we get to work, Inspector?”

  Four

  Mills

  Lena leant against me as I helped her outside the flat, away from the blood and the stench of death, her body heavy and sluggish. I glanced back once to see Thatcher still crouched on the ground, staring at the body. As I slipped into the hallway, I gave Fry a subtle nod, and she tore her sympathetic eyes from Lena and drifted into the room. The cluster of people in the hallway parted for us as we walked to the stairs, Lena sobbing and hiccupping, her hand fisted in the sleeve of my coat.

  There was an officer at the door, and he pulled it open as we neared, looking at Lena with an expression of great confusion.

  “Thatcher wants to clear the crowd,” I told him as we walked to the fresh air outside. He nodded and walked out with us, beelining over to where PC Dunnes stood post by the police tape.

  I took Lena to the side of the road, sitting her behind the ambulance so that the onlookers couldn’t see her, settling her down on the kerb, her head resting against her knees. I left her for a moment, reaching into the ambulance for a blanket which I draped over her shoulders and a bottle of water which I opened as I sat beside her, one hand resting on her back, waiting for her breathing to settle.

  She leant forward, her head between her knees and breathed in and out in long, deep breaths. After a little while, she lifted her head and looked at me, her face blotchy and tea streaked. I silently offered her the water, and she took it, taking a small sip.

  “Thank you,” she croaked. I nodded, offering her a grim smile and rubbing my thumb on her back.

  “I’m so sorry, Lena,” I said. It was all I could offer her. I dreaded to think how she felt. It was fear we all had every time we were called out to another victim, another body. Would I know them? Would I love them? Would I have to study their body and interrogate their death, discover something about them I didn’t know and didn’t want to know? It was a threat that lurked for all of us, but I’d never seen it happen before. I sat beside her, and we watched as Dunnes got started on clearing the crowds, who slunk away in dribs and drabs. Thatcher would have them gone with one shout and one glare, possibly leaving one or two of them mildly traumatised.

  Lena sucked in one more shaky breath, then turned to look at me.

  “Sorry about this, love,” she muttered. “Wholly unprofessional.”

  I tutted. “Don’t be daft, Lena. No one’s expecting you to be professional at a time like this.”

  She nodded, giving me a grateful smile, then frowned. “He’s getting someone else in,” she muttered.

  “Not much of a choice there, Lena,” I reminded her gently.

  “I’m still the best,” she said.

  “The best there is, but Thatcher’s your friend, and he’s not going to put you through that. None of us are.”

  Crowe smiled, her eyes welling with fresh tears, and she took my other hand, squeezing it tightly.

  “Thank you, Isaac.”

  I nodded, smiling back. “Want to talk?” I asked.

  She sighed and put the water bottle down, interlacing her hands together. “I suppose we ought to, really.”

  “How d'you know him?” I asked.

  “Medical school. We were both on the forensic track, he went anthropology, and I went pathology. Good man, brilliant scientist,” she added. “He could tell the age of a skeleton just by looking at it.”

  “I can see why you were friends,” I offered.

  She chuckled faintly. “Stefan’s a good man,” she said firmly. “He didn’t deserve that.”

  “We’ll put it right,” I said quickly.

  “I know you will,” she replied, resting her head against my shoulder, the white plastic suit she wore crinkling as she moved. More noise erupted across the street, a few onlookers, press most likely, refusing to move. I glowered at them but stayed put, my feet tapping the road.

  “You go and help,” Lena said, poking me in the rib with her elbow. “I’ll be fine here.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I replied calmly. I didn’t want to, for one thing. Thatcher had made a good point about seeing Lena cry, a grand total of zero times for me, and I didn’t leave my friends when they cried. Especially when they cried because they had just been confronted by the bloodied corpse of another friend.

  I didn’t need to either. A second later, Fry was storming out of the building towards the police tape with a very good imitation of Thatcher’s scowl on her face. Even Dunnes took a steady step back as she approached, not raising her voice. She didn’t need to. In fact, I’d never heard Fry raise her voice for anything. People just listened to her whenever she spoke, whether she spoke nicely or not. It was a useful talent and really was making her rather invaluable to the station. I just hoped she wasn’t snatched up by some place else like Smith had been.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Lena asked. “I shan’t mind working with her.”

  I nodded my agreement, looking away from Fry and back to Lena.

  “That’s quite the compliment from you,” I said. “You’re very picky about the detectives you like and don’t like.”

  “High standards, Isaac. My mother always said a woman must have high standards. She was talking about getting a man, which didn’t end up applying to me, but there we have it.”

  I laughed softly, by attention caught by a car that swerved up to the tape, scattering a few more curious people as it came to an abrupt halt. I frowned, ready to get up and investigate, but Lena looked at the car and nodded a little.

  “Dr Cavell,” she said, as the car opened and a woman climbed out, long legs striding across the pavement towards the tape. She flashed an id at the PC walking towards her and ducked underneath, heading to the door, her eyes sweeping the scene. She spotted Lena and me, and her expression softened as she walked over, bag in hand.

  Once she was close enough, she dumped it on the floor, bent down and hugged Lena, saying nothing until she let go and stood up straight again.

  “You alright?” she asked.

  Lena shrugged. “I’ll manage. I’m glad it’s you,” she added.

  Dr Cavell grinned. “I was nearby. And anyone else would be too scared to take over your job for you.”

  Lena looked satisfied by that, and Dr Cavell turned her attention to me. I’d met her before in passing but had yet to really work with her. She nodded politely, then made her way into the building, people parting for her like a cat walking through a flock of pigeons.

  “She’s a rather commanding woman,” I muttered as she vanished into the building.

  “Used to be a medic in the army,” Crowe told me. �
�That woman can make a full barrack of fully trained soldiers feel like children whinging over a splinter.”

  “You sound like you admire her.”

  “She’s the only person I’d give a job to, that’s for sure,” Lena said, her face falling a little as she remembered why the job was being given over.

  “When did you last see him?” I asked her gently.

  “Christ. A while now, sadly. He’d been on a job, and they don’t half consume him,” she said. “Saw him in person around Christmas, and since then, only the odd text here and there. He’s not the most social of men,” she added.

  “You recognised the address,” I said.

  She nodded. “Knew he lived in the area, but I don’t have the head for remembering addresses, Mills.”

  “You never visited him here?”

  “Oh, no. Stefan doesn’t invite people over, hates having people in his space. We always met out somewhere, a pub or a restaurant, or our house.” I thought about that for a bit; he’d had someone over, let someone in.

  “You haven’t spoken to him properly for a while then?” I asked.

  She shook her head, wiping at her cheeks as more tears fell. “No. And I thought about calling him the other week, checking in, but the wife got the flu, and everything else fell by the wayside.”

  I remembered that she’d been in a right state of mind at work, checking her phone every five minutes in case her wife needed her. For a medical woman with very little sympathy for most of us, Lena unravelled at the seams when her wife had so much as a paper cut.

  “You said he was on a job. Do you know what it was?” I asked.

  She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “What it usually is. Someone finds some bones, and the museum makes him check them to see when and where they belong. There’s all sorts round here, Mills, you know that.”

  I did know that. York was dated time immemorial, and there were remnants all over from Roman and Viking settlers, the plague Middle Ages and the two world wars. I imagine that a man like Stefan Schmidt would be very busy every time ground was dug, and another burial was found.

  “I don’t know much about it,” Crowe was saying. “He was never one to talk about work, really, not until he knew what he was dealing with in any case. And he’s a hard worker. Shuts himself off until the work is done, then he emerges again like a bloody hibernating bear or something.” She added a fond chuckle.

  “His landlady said he never had any guests that she saw of,” I told her. “And no ideas about a romantic relationship either.”

  Lena shook her head. “Not one for entertaining, I’ve told you. Nor really for relationships either, in truth. There was a girl. She was at university with us, Luisa. They were together for a long time, broke up a few years ago.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “Last I heard,” Lena said with another sigh. “She was down in Wales somewhere, working at the University Hospital in Cardiff. Married, two children. She moved on once she settled there, really, no point in dwelling on the past.”

  “What about Schmidt?”

  “I think for him,” Lena said softly. “It was either her, or it was no one. Not because he loved her that much, but more because he was never one for relationships anyway, but he made the effort for her. If she hadn’t moved, they probably would have stayed together.”

  Reminded me of myself and Suzanne, though I hoped I’d be able to move. I didn’t want to die alone in my home with a cat scratching at the door. I, of course, didn’t say as much to Lena.

  “Does he have any family?” I asked.

  “Parents,” she said, pinching her eyes shut. “They’re close, all three of them. Family home out towards Huntington. I’ll have their address somewhere, I think. I can find it for you.”

  “We’ll find it, don’t worry,” I assured her. I wondered how many Schmidts there were in the Huntingdon area, anyway. I doubted we’d be spoilt for choice.

  Lena looked up at the sky and shook her head slowly. “I just can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I can’t. Stefan, just gone like that.”

  I held onto her a little more securely, and she rested her head back down on my shoulder, curls of hair poking me in the face.

  “I am sorry you had to see it,” I said.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Not on someone you care about,” I replied.

  Lena sighed and smiled grimly. “Laceration of the throat,” she said automatically. “Didn’t need to get much closer to know that. The spray of blood around the room means he was standing, fell face down, bled to death.”

  I winced as the words tumbled from her easily, followed by another sob. It did seem fairly cut and run in that regard, but we needed a closer look to determine a time of death or any other marks on the body.

  “Thatcher will be down soon,” I said casually. “He can drive you to the station, and I’ll follow in your car if you trust me to drive it.”

  “I can drive,” she said, but her hands trembled, and her skin was uncharacteristically pale and clammy. I fixed her with the same questioning look she often shot towards Thatcher, and she reluctantly nodded.

  “Keys are the bag,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to the building behind us. Thatcher would bring that too; I had no doubt.

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt him?” I asked her after we sat for a little while longer.

  Lena thought about it, genuinely thought about it and looked at me. “I suppose, someone at work maybe. A little competition, but personally, no. He had a very small group of friends, and I don’t like to imagine any of them are killers. Else I’m going to have to rethink who’s invited to my birthday party this year.”

  I smiled faintly at the joke, but my mind latched onto the possibility of workplace competition. He was good, clearly, if he managed to extract such praise from Crowe, perhaps someone had been annoyed by his expertise, wanted their own chance in the spotlight. A visit to his workplace was on the cards, of course, wherever his office was and wherever this new excavation was taking place.

  Maybe he’d upset some local environmentalists or some of those odd Druid sorts of people who hated seeing any remains being dug up and stuck in a museum. Even I had to admit, whenever I saw a mummy on exhibition that there was something disrespectful about it. Yanked from their resting place and stuck behind a glass wall in a cold white room where children with sticky hands ogled them, and old men in tweed debated their significance when they were alive. I did have such views, but never to the extent that I’d see a man killed over them. But there were always extremists in every walk of life, from every belief and opinion, however gentle they appear at first glance.

  Lena poked me in the face. “You alright? You vanished there.”

  I shook my head and looked back at her. “Sorry. Very rude of me.”

  She just smiled. “You have a case to solve. Of course, that’s where your mind has gone. You can’t sit out here with me and miss all the action upstairs for too long.”

  “Not necessary,” a gruff voice interrupted. We both craned our heads round as Thatcher wandered towards us, a bag over his shoulder, one in his hand. His face was grim as he collapsed on the kerb beside Lena, dropping her bag on the pavement and taking her hand.

  “Tell me what Cavell said,” Lena ordered, “and I’ll tell you if she’s right.”

  Five

  Thatcher

  Dr Cavell knelt down beside the body, gently rolling his head to the side. I grimaced, stepping back at the side of his gouged neck, the exposed, blood-encrusted flesh. Nothing I hadn’t seen before, but it didn’t diminish the grisliness of the whole thing. I was very glad that Lena was outside, not having to see this. Dr Cavell hummed thoughtfully.

  “What is it?” I asked, swallowing once and joining her down on the floor as she bent closer to his neck, her hood tightly drawn around her head.

  “It’s not a slash,” she said, showing me the short wound. “It’s a stab. You don
’t often get stabbed in the neck. It’s a tad more effort.”

  I looked at the spray of blood on the wall, a single direct hit of it on the wall, rather than an arc of it that I had seen a few times before.

  “Why stab instead of slice?” I asked.

  “Might have been the weapon at hand,” Cavell suggested. “But this did kill him. He bled out,” she said simply like she was commenting on the weather.

  I nodded and helped her roll him onto his back, his clothes sticky with blood. As he moved, I noticed something underneath him, something he had been lying on. A phone, spared from getting too bloodied by his jumper. I picked it up, trying the power button, but it was a goner. I placed it with the laptop on the coffee table, another job for Wasco.

  Now that he was face up, I got a proper look at the man. He had a handsome sort of face, clean-shaven, with a long, slightly crooked nose. His eyes were open, glazed over, and I reached up, gently closing them.

  I stood up then and let Dr Cavell carry on without my hovering and continued looking around the rest of the flat, wandering into the bedroom.

  The bed was neatly made, the corners folded down with the sort of stiffness you could bounce a penny off, with a woollen blanket spread over the top, the pillows plumped and stacked. A painting hung on the wall above the headboard, a simple ocean landscape.

  On his bedside table were a lamp, a phone charger, an empty glass on a round coaster and a small box of tissues. No drawer to look in, no boxes or anything else. Everything was plain, simple, and tidy. A stark contrast to the mess on the coffee table, the contents of his bag turned out in a big pile. I opened the wardrobe, finding a similar tidiness in there. All of his clothes looked freshly ironed, hanging up in an orderly row, a few things folded on the shelves to the side, polished shoes neatly lined up at the bottom. Even the mirror on the inside of the door was spotless, not a single smudge or smear to ruin the reflection.