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

by Oliver Davies

  I opened the files up to find no folders, no organised files. Just a single page of everything he had all lobbed together. Though, to be fair, there wasn’t much of that either. A few PDFs, as Wasco had said, most of them with long, strenuous titles that I imagined all pertained to Schmidt’s work. One caught my eye though, the name on it did, anyway.

  Dr Walton.

  Lena had mentioned that name, I was sure of it. One of Schmidt’s colleagues that he had mentioned. I opened the Pdf to find a paper written by Dr Lina Walton. She must have sent it to Schmidt to get his opinion or something. The paper was called “Identifying Biological Sex of Infants”. I imagined that it would be challenging since a newborn baby’s skeleton wouldn’t have much to give it away. I didn’t read it, but I sat there and considered Dr Walton and what she might know about Schmidt.

  The office door was pushed farther open, and Mills wandered in, looking much better than he had yesterday, the powers of a shower and good night’s sleep.

  “Morning, sir,” he said cheerily, dropping his bag, sipping from the coffee cup in the other.

  “Morning, Mills.”

  He wandered over to my desk to stand behind me and look at the Pdf.

  “Heavy reading for a Sunday morning,” he commented.

  “Written by Dr Walton.”

  “The colleague that Lena mentioned?”

  “Must be,” I said. “And this is one of the few documents that Schmidt actually has. It doesn’t look like he used his laptop for much, especially not for work.”

  Mills nodded slowly. “A lot of people like to keep work and play separate. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking it might be worth us speaking to some of his colleagues. People who would have been in that lab with him and maybe gave him a hand when he needed one. They might have seen his work before it went missing and might be able to give us a few answers.”

  Mills nodded again but then said, “It’s Sunday. They won’t be in on Sunday.”

  “Then we call Dr Bayat and see if she can help us with that. Either they meet us in the lab, or they get round their houses to ask them questions about a murder victim.” I wasn’t in the mood to beat around the bush today or to pander to anyone who might be able to give us actual information about this case.

  Mills needed no further pushing, and he wandered over to his desk to grab his phone. As he made the call, I turned back to Schmidt’s computer, opening up the internet. His emails weren’t on here, and I wondered if he did them from his computer at work. I checked his internet history, but it had been cleaned recently. I frowned and sat back, tapping my fingers on the surface of the desk.

  No sign of his work on the remains, his internet history was wiped, no emails, his phone was practically ruined. There wasn’t much for us to use here. Wasn’t anything, in fact.

  Mills finished up on the phone and looked over at me.

  “She’s making the calls now, everyone who worked in that lab with him. Said we should be good to go over in half an hour or so, give them time to arrive.”

  I nodded, a good result at last. “Thank you, Mills. Question: How often do you wipe your internet history?”

  Mills reached up, scratching the back of his head. “Not sure. Every couple of months or something, I guess? It’s been a while.”

  “Same here. And yet Dr Schmidt’s,” I turned the screen so that he could see it from his desk. “Is completely wiped.”

  Mills frowned. “Maybe he had particular… habits… he wanted to hide,” he said carefully.

  “Or maybe he never used it,” I offered. “No documents, only downloads or things he could have transferred with a memory stick. No apps, just gaming things.”

  “Then he used that for his free time and used his computer at work for everything else, except maybe for when a colleague asked him to read something for her, in which case, he took it home.”

  I nodded. The explanation made sense, though it still struck me as odd. Perhaps Schmidt himself had just been a little odd.

  “I suppose the people who actually saw him every day might know more,” I said after a while. “Lena knew him for a long time, but she didn’t see him often, didn’t know his routine.”

  Mills nodded along with me, glancing at his watch. “If we leave now, we have time to stop for a coffee.”

  “Didn’t you just finish that one?” I asked, pointing to the empty cup he’d dropped in the bin.

  “That was tea,” he replied.

  “Ah. You might have a mild-to-moderate caffeine addiction, Isaac,” I told him.

  “It could have been green tea.”

  “Was it?”

  “No.”

  I rolled my eyes and pushed my chair back from my desk, shutting the laptop. “Come on then, but I’m getting you a bottle of water too. And something to eat,” I added. The fruit and yoghurt I’d grabbed this morning weren’t filling for very long, and I got the feeling that I would need something a little more substantial to get me through the day.

  Mills perked up, grabbing his coat and bag and following me out of the office and to the stairs.

  “Billie working today?” he asked as we left the station, walking out into the rain.

  “Not today,” I replied. “I think Liene said something last night about the two of them doing something together.”

  “You think?” Mills repeated with a grin.

  “I might have almost fallen asleep on my plate of pasta and so missed some of the finer details of conversation.”

  Mills chortled, climbing into the passenger seat of my car. He was right about the timing. We left the café with cups in hand and a free muffin each from Agnes and were at the lab directly at the agreed-upon time.

  The car park was almost empty, with only a few cars parked close to the doors. Another one pulled in just as we climbed out, parking a few spaces a way. A woman climbed out, a long coat thrown over some joggers and a jumper, a pair of thick socks poking it from her boots. She must have had a lazy morning planned. I felt guilty for a short second, but she strode over to the doors with great determination, so my guilt was short-lived. They had all known him. Of course, they would want to help in finding out what had happened to him.

  Mills and I walked in not long after she had, to find a small group all gathered in the reception, perched on the chairs or leaning against the walls. Dr Bayat stood at the centre of them all, looking remarkably well put together despite the early hour. She noticed us as we walked in and came over to meet us, nodding politely.

  “Inspector, sergeant. Long time no see,” she said with a quiet laugh.

  “We are sorry to be bothering you again so soon, and on a Sunday,” I replied, shaking her hand.

  “It’s quite understandable, Inspector. I’m sure you lot are often breaking the nine-to-five in your line of work.”

  “Annoyingly often,” I said. Dr Bayat smiled and turned to the group.

  “Everyone!” she called, immediately grabbing their attention. “This is Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills. They are the men investigating what happened to Stefan.” She turned to me and took a small step back. I cleared my throat, speaking up.

  “I’d like to thank you for all coming to meet us on a Sunday. We’ll try to get through this as quickly as possible so that you can all get home to your families. Sergeant Mills and I will be talking to you all individually, and once we’ve spoken to you, you’re good to go. Would anyone like to be first?” I asked.

  They shared a look, and then a man walked towards us. Dr Bayat let us into a meeting room on the ground floor, and the three of us sat at one end of the large table, the noise outside cutting off as the door shut.

  “Dr Davidstow,” the man introduced himself in a thick Welsh accent. His ginger hair and beard were both flecked with grey, and he was decidedly more dishevelled than Schmidt was, his skin hardier, his hands calloused. Perhaps he spent more time in the field than Schmidt usually did.

  “Thank you for coming
in, Dr Davidstow,” I said. “How well did you know Dr Schmidt?”

  “A few years now,” he said. “I was working here for about two years before Stefan joined us. A talented man, even at that age.”

  “We hear he was rather the best in the business,” Mills said. Davidstow nodded.

  “That he was. Had a real knack for this work that you can’t always teach.”

  “Did you know much about his current work?” I asked.

  “The remains from the churchyard,” Davidstow answered immediately. “We all had a running bet on how old they were,” he admitted. “My money was on Victorian, but I didn’t always win those bets.”

  “Did Dr Schmidt share any of the details with you?”

  “Oh no,” he shook his head. “Never. We all tend to be pretty close when it comes to the details, at least until we know for sure. Schmidt liked to keep us all on our toes, especially when he knew we had a bet. I’m afraid all I know about those remains is what I’ve guessed for myself seeing them on the table.”

  “And what have you guessed, Dr Davidstow?” I asked.

  “A male, most likely. Young man, I would say, perhaps eighteen or older looking from the height of him. Perfect dead soldier in a field age,” he added with a sigh. “Which is what Dr Fisch must have thought when he guessed Saxon.”

  “I see. What about Schmidt’s work? Where did he keep it?”

  “His desk,” he answered easily. “Not a man for the computer, really. He preferred making his own notes as he went.”

  I nodded. The testament matched what we knew but didn’t help us in finding anything more about it. I thanked Dr Davidstow and sent him on, asking him to send the next person in.

  Over the course of half an hour, we spoke to Schmidt’s few colleagues, all of whom said the same, varied thing as Dr Davidstow. Schmidt was hardworking, a good colleague to have. Private but not rude, always remembered birthdays, that sort of thing. A talented man, but there was no jealousy amongst them, just pride in their field. There was their running bet on the remains, but none of them had a closer look than what they had seen from across the room.

  I leant back in the chair, emptying my coffee cup and sighing. “Last one,” I muttered.

  The door was knocked on and opened, and the woman we had seen outside walked in, taking the empty chair.

  “Dr Walton,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Dr Walton,” I greeted her, shaking. “I found your paper on Dr Schmidt’s laptop on identifying the sex of infant remains.”

  “You did? I’m surprised he kept it. I sent it to him last year to read.”

  “He must have liked it,” Mills said.

  Dr Walton smiled. “I know you have questions,” she began, holding up a hand. “But I want to say first that I spoke to him on Friday evening.”

  “You did?” I asked, sitting forward.

  She nodded, a strand of hair falling loose from her head. “I called him in the evening to see if he had the results back on our little bet. He sounded busy, though, and asked if he could call me back later or the next morning.”

  “He sounded busy,” I repeated. “What time was this?”

  She quickly dug her phone out and checked her recent calls. “Eight fifty-two,” she said, showing me the screen.

  “And he sounded busy?”

  “I thought so,” she said. “Or worried about something, anything. He said that the bones weren’t as old as we thought but didn’t say anything more than that. I was worried when he never called me back. He always calls back. Now I know why.” Her eyes started watering then.

  I looked over at Mills. He had been worried, worried about those bones, which means he had some results, and likely had them there on hand, in his flat. It seemed we were due another look around, this time with two sets of eyes.

  Fifteen

  Thatcher

  We left the lab with a little intel; if nothing else, we knew that Schmidt had been alive at ten to nine in the evening, which fit into the window that Dr Cavell had given us. Our image of Dr Schmidt was forming, with the testimonies from his colleagues fitting the private, polite man we envisioned. A carefully constructed image that he maintained, or the man himself? Somehow, he knew something about Jack Wellins, and I’d known enough cases that the most perfectly put together people were often the ones with the most to hide.

  We jumped back in the car and headed back to Schmidt’s flat, where police tape still hung around the road, though we couldn’t very well seal off the entire building, not with the other tenants needing to come in and out. I wondered how many of them were actually staying there or who might have sought out somewhere to sleep in a hotel or at a friend’s house until the matter was settled. Seemed to me to be the most comforting option, rather than sleeping seven feet away from where a man had been murdered. But people could be odd about those sorts of things. Some people even enjoyed the macabre aspect of life like that.

  The building was quiet as we walked in, the door left open by the landlady so that our team could easily come in and out, and our feet echoed in the silent hallway as we headed up the stairs and down the corridor.

  There was an officer stationed at the building to keep away any nosy or curious locals, sitting on a chair outside with a book in hand, a bottle of water and a thermos on the floor beneath him. He hopped to his feet as we walked towards him with a polite nod.

  “Sir,” he greeted me.

  “Any problems?” I asked as he fished the key from his pocket.

  “None, sir. Neighbour across the way isn’t happy about all this, but that’s people for you.”

  I rolled my eyes. If there was something to complain about, there would always be someone to complain.

  “Let me know if you need someone to step in.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “When are you swapping shifts?” I asked.

  “Lunchtime, sir.”

  I nodded. “We appreciate you doing this. I know it’s not the most fun job in the world.”

  He shrugged, “I don’t mind it, sir. It’s a bit of peace and quiet, at least.”

  I chuckled, and he unlocked the door to Schmidt’s flat and stepped back to let us in, shutting the door behind us.

  A nasty smell lingered in the air, the smell of blood that had been here for too long; rusty and metallic and sour. It smelt like the back room of a butcher’s. Mills grimaced as we walked in, heading straight to the living room.

  The blood-stained rug still sat there, the blood black and crusty. Without the body itself and the cluster of people milling around, I stopped and had a proper look at the place. I looked at where the blood splashed across the wall, a direct spurt from where he’d been stabbed in the neck. Which means we knew where he had been standing, but not much else.

  We each pulled on a pair of gloves and plastic shoe covers. Then I walked over to where he would have been standing. Was he looking at the door, or had he been facing the other way, turning when he heard someone approach?

  Mills picked up the empty teacup from the table, giving it a sniff. “Ginger,” he said. “Good for the stomach. And colds.” He looked at the old tea bag and the label hanging over the side.

  “If he was nervous about something, that might make him feel queasy,” I said.

  Mills nodded and put the cup down, walking over to me. “This is where he stood?”

  “I’m guessing so. He fell face down, and the blood on the wall sprayed that way, so he was facing the door when he was killed.”

  “Did he turn?” Mills wondered.

  I spun around and found myself facing the window, a small desk underneath it. It was uncluttered, like the rest of his flat, but I hadn’t searched it yesterday.

  “Maybe he was here,” I said, taking a few steps over towards the rickety piece of furniture. “Here,” I tapped on the surface, “and turned when they came near.”

  The curtains were closed, so he wouldn’t have been able to see their reflection as they walked over, and when Mills
walked towards me now, I couldn’t hear his footsteps on the carpet.

  “He couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them. But he turned,” I said, spinning to face Mills. “Why did he turn?”

  “They said something?”

  “And lose the element of surprise? He wasn’t alone in the flat, remember?”

  Mills thought for a moment. “The cat?”

  I shrugged. “Cat makes a noise; he turns and ends up facing his killer. It would have made more sense for his killer to kill him here, not be seen just in case. Not have to look him in the eye when it happened. But Schmidt turned around, saw them, and then died.”

  “He was over here,” Mills said, walking to the desk. “Why was he here?”

  I turned back to it. There was only one drawer in the middle of the desk, a thin thing from back when people would have only kept their writing equipment here. I pulled it open, only to find it empty. Or at least, almost empty. A few sheets stayed behind, badly wrinkled, the edges crumpled. I looked at where the page was rumpled. The top half pulled down like somehow had grabbed it. Grabbed something on top of it.

  “Looks like a similar story to his desk in the lab,” I murmured. “Someone took something from the desk.”

  “Dr Walton said he knew the bones weren’t that old,” Mills reminded me. “Which means he knew the results, and if he sounded worried on the phone, maybe that’s because he only just got them,” he hurried over and bent down to the desk, pulling a printer from underneath. The power light was flashing. It had been turned on but not turned off again.

  “He gets the results and prints them off,” I muttered. “Speaks to Dr Walton, and at some point, empties out his bag. Before or after that wine came?” I asked, pointing at the bottle on the coffee table. “If it had been a gift given a few days ago, it wouldn’t be there. It would be in a cupboard or passed on to someone else. But it’s there on the table because he put it there and never got the chance to put it away.”

  “He emptied his bag because he was looking for something,” Mills said. “Maybe the killer upended it. Maybe they were looking for something else, something that wasn’t in his desk.”