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

by Oliver Davies

  “Ah,” I crossed one leg over the other. “Of course. And quite the location, too,” I said, looking around the room. “You’re both members?”

  “Just me,” Wadham said. “Father Harte here is my guest.” He raised his glass and took a sip.

  “My, my,” I replied. “It’s a lovely building.”

  “What brings you here, Inspector?” Harte asked.

  “You, actually. Well, you and Dr Wadham here. We were in the village, you see vicar, and I thought I’d knock on and see how you were. But your neighbour told me that you were out, so then we thought we’d see how the museum’s doing,” a nod to Wadham, “so we came to see you.”

  Wadham bristled. “And may I ask how you knew I was here?”

  “Your wife told us,” I said. “Lovely woman and that dog is delightful.”

  “He’ll be a big one,” Mills added.

  Wadham was still staring at me. “You saw my wife?”

  “I did. Though I must say, I was surprised to learn that you would be here, rather than at home with her. It is Sunday, after all.”

  “Are you here to enquire into my marriage, Inspector? Because I don’t believe that to be any of your concern.”

  “You’re quite right,” I said. “No, I thought you were due an update.”

  “On?”

  “The remains that Dr Schmidt was working on. They have been removed from his lab.”

  Wadham blinked. “Why? And where?”

  “We have them.”

  “You have no right!” He slammed his fist on the table. “They are historical artefacts; they belong in a museum—”

  “They are no older than I am, Dr Wadham, and they are currently the centre of a homicide investigation, which means I have every single right. And they will remain in my possession until they can be returned to the family for correct burial,” I let my voice darken with every word, watching Wadham shrink back into his chair with each glare I sent his way.

  There was a pause of tense silence, with Mills grinning across the table. Then Miles cleared his throat.

  “Homicide investigation?”

  “Dr Schmidt was murdered, vicar, you recall?”

  “Oh, yes. Because of the bones?”

  “We believe so,” I said, turning to him now. “Actually, vicar, since you are here, I did have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind. Village business.”

  “Certainly, my boy, ask away.”

  “It’s about Jack Wellins.”

  I watched his face carefully for any twitch, any flicker. But his face remained passive, turned to me with that blank, smiling façade.

  “Local boy,” he said to Wadham. “Went missing from the village ten years ago. We had a service this morning,” he added. “Ten years to the day.”

  “Blimey,” Wadham muttered. “Child?”

  “Fourteen,” Harte told him.

  “Probably ran away,” Wadham said. “God knows I wanted to when I was fourteen, and those villages aren’t half dull for a growing lad.”

  “Jack Wellins was very fond of his village,” Mills told him pointedly. “Did everything he could for his neighbours. Didn’t he, vicar?”

  “That he did. Always helping the older residents with their shopping and what not.”

  “Helped you out a few times as well, vicar,” I said. “Or so his mother tells us.”

  “You spoke to Elizabeth? Today of all days?”

  “We did. Another lovely woman, very strong in her grief. Such a shame to have lived ten years with no answer for what happened to her son,” I added.

  “Hopefully not for much longer,” Mills said.

  “Why’s that?” Harte asked.

  “I’m afraid we can’t disclose that. But I am curious to know if Jack might have been at the church that day, Vicar? If he stopped by to do a chore for you if anyone might have seen him there?”

  “I can’t see what this has to do with Dr Schmidt being brutally murdered,” Wadham interrupted. “Seems to be you’ve got your priorities out of order here, Inspector. Is this what the police are doing these days? Accosting a mother and a priest of the church about a boy who ran off ten years ago rather than solving the murder of an esteemed scientist? It’s ridiculous. I should write to your superior, to the Chief Constable if I have to. I’m sure he would agree with me. What a waste of taxes.” He huffed.

  “By all means, write to the Chief Constable, Dr Wadham. I’m sure that she cares very deeply about concerns from the public. But in this instance, sir, I am doing my job to the letter.”

  “Are you really? I can’t see what connects that boy to Dr Schmidt,” he said haughtily.

  “Just because you don’t understand, Mr Wadham, does not mean that it is not there,” I told him tartly. “One thing does connect them, in fact. One very obvious thing that all of us know about.”

  “And that is?” Harte inquired.

  “What happens if those remains turned up a good result?” Mills asked abruptly. “If they do turn out to be the grave of a fallen Saxon warrior or something? Will the surrounding area be excavated as well? If there was a battle there before, there’d be all sorts of finds that could change the way we think about the history of the area.”

  “The whole county,” Wadham corrected him proudly. “Such a find would be of huge benefit.”

  “Annoying for the locals, though,” I said. “Having a full archaeological site made from one of your fields, but no doubt the landowners would be properly recompensed.”

  “The church, though,” Mills added.

  “What about the church?” Harte asked.

  “It’s an old building, ancient. Disturbing the surrounding land could unsettle its foundations, risk collapse.”

  “Though, of course,” I said. “If there was a great archaeological find to be had, there’d be financial compensation for the church as well.”

  “Just what are you insinuating, Inspector?” Wadham demanded.

  “The church seeks no financial compensation from anyone,” Harte added defensively. “We are in service of God and our community. I will not sit here and be insulted like this.”

  “I meant no insult, vicar. I assure you,” I said. “I am sure that the church does a great deal for the village.”

  “It does.”

  “But so would this find. It would put the village on the map, bring in visitors and tourism, a boost like that would do the villagers wonders, and I believe, Mr Harte, that you are a man who would do anything for your village.”

  He nodded.

  “A devoted life of service, every waking moment committed to your parishioners.”

  “I do my best; I have not always been so capable.”

  “Well, who would be? You’re only human,” I said. “But certainly, doing now, no? Since you came to the village at least, I can tell you’re not a local man. When did you arrive?”

  “The bishop gave me the position some years ago,” he answered.

  “How many years?” Mills asked. “Twenty? Fifteen?”

  “Twelve,” he said. “I have been there for twelve years, though it feels as though it could have been my whole life. I am right at home there.”

  “I still don’t see the point in all of this,” Peter Wadham moaned. “Why are you here, disturbing us like this, Inspector? If you don’t have a proper reason, I will call down to Mr Chestnut and have him make you leave. Being police doesn’t give you the right to be anywhere you like.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and thank goodness for that,” I said.

  “What is the point of all of these questions, Inspector?” Harte asked.

  “I’m just trying to get a grasp of the timing of it all,” I answered honestly.

  “The timing of what?”

  “Of Jack Wellins’s death.”

  Twenty-Five

  Thatcher

  The silence that fell when I spoke the words was like that of a mortuary. It fell on us, sudden and tense. You’d have to throw a stone to get it to break. I looke
d at all their faces in turn. Miles Harte looked shocked, his round face turned pale, his eyes wide, hands fallen flat in his lap.

  It was an odd image. The local village priest still wearing his black clergy clothes and white-collar, sitting in a darkly lit gentleman’s club, the threat of a murder investigation dropped at his feet. Mills, sitting beside him, looked merely thoughtful. We hadn’t come in here with a plan of action, hadn’t come in expecting to see Miles Harte at all, so the conversation had gone off the rails that it had come in on. But I knew he trusted me, and I trusted Crowe, and I knew full well that she’d have an answer for me soon before this got too out of hand.

  It was a good thing Sharp wasn’t here to witness it all. No doubt she would have a choice word or two about my tactics. Then there was Peter Wadham. He gripped his glass of brandy tightly in one hand, and I doubted that it was his first drink. The other hand was balled into a fist on the table, the knuckles white. His face was a picture and one that I have had to look at many times before. His prideful face was flushed red, his eyes angry, mouth curled. He was the sort of man who thought himself above being accused, above being questioned. The sort of man who believed that the police were around to find the person who spray-painted the wall of his office or stole his car, not to find him possibly guilty of anything. The sort of man who would tell me that I was doing my job wrong when I was, in fact doing it right, and that meant putting him in the wrong.

  Looking at his face made me angry, looking at Harte’s doe-eyed innocent face made me even angrier, so I decided to look at Mills, who met my stare with his usual calm one, the slightest quirk to his eyebrow as he wondered what was in store next. I wasn’t that sure myself. I wasn’t doing any forward-thinking here, just going off of what the others said, taking their tone and moods and seeing where I could push and what response we could get. I knew our time was running out; we had no real cause to be in here interviewing them, and one call to old Mr Chestnut would see us out on the street. But then we’d lose them, and I did know that I wanted to keep them in my sight until I received word from Crowe.

  The silence was broken by Miles Harte, delicately clearing his throat. “You’ve lost me, Inspector.”

  “Have I? Whereabouts?”

  “When you insinuated that Jack Wellins has been killed and is in some way connected to Dr Schmidt and ultimately,” Wadham muttered, “us.”

  Mills cocked his head at the man’s casual mention of Jack, the name rolling off his tongue as easily as it did ours. Since it had seemed that Wadham had only just learnt of the boy during this conversation, that caught my eye.

  “I see,” I replied, turning to Mills. “I wonder how we can make this a little clearer?”

  He sent me a slight look, one that the other men at the table with us wouldn’t be able to perceive. A warning look. We didn’t have the word from Crowe, didn’t have the definitive answer that the bones were Jack’s, just a theory, however much we believed it in. Lying, being wrong, being caught out would come down on us like a ton of bricks. Even I couldn’t worm my way out of that one, and Sharp certainly wouldn’t want to let me try. But we needed to keep them here, here at this table, and they were losing interest and patience. Something had to be said.

  “We don’t believe that Jack Wellins ran away,” Mills said. “New evidence is leading us to believe that he is, in fact, dead. We are pursuing this new line of evidence.”

  He spoke so politely, calmly and diplomatically that despite Wadham’s clamouring, there wasn’t anything either of them could say against him. I flashed him a small smile across the table, good lad.

  “Since you,” Mills now said to Harte, “knew Jack when he was alive, we hoped that you might have some information that could be useful to this new line of enquiry. And you both knew Dr Schmidt,” he added, looking to Wadham now. “And since he worked in the village itself, we’re considering any possible connections. No stone unturned, as it were.”

  Wadham opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and took a loud slurp of his brandy, emptying the glass.

  “Well, that makes sense,” the vicar said slowly. “I think I understand. But you must understand, Inspector, that everything I knew about Jack Wellins I told the officer at the time about.”

  “Never hurts to go over things again with a fresh perspective,” I answered. “Mills and I tend to take a different approach to our cases, and sometimes, a bit of distance can help to focus the mind a bit. Remember any old details or memories that at the time were too clouded by shock and grief.”

  “Trauma can strongly affect our memories,” Mills said. “Memory distortion, I’ve heard it called before.”

  “Why should the vicar suffer trauma?” Wadham asked abrasively.

  “A member of his congregation vanished, Dr Wadham,” I answered casually. “He still sees the boy’s mother; anyone would suffer from that. No doubt the whole village still recalls that time with great pain.”

  Miles nodded to himself, looking at the bottle of port behind Wadham’s head with a slightly desperate expression.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, standing when I saw Lena’s name.

  “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen. I’ll leave you with Sergeant Mills.”

  Mills watched as I turned and walked through to the next room, empty of any members and answered the phone.

  “Lena,” I greeted her.

  “Hiya, Maxie.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

  There was a pause. “Why are you talking so quietly?”

  “I’m in a quiet building. It’s called being respectful. What have you got?”

  “DNA match,” she said. “From the brush and against the mothers. It’s Jack Wellins.”

  I felt the pressure released from me like a balloon and leant against the wall, closing my eyes for a second.

  “Lena, you’re a marvel.”

  “I know. I tested the blood too, once forensics passed it over.”

  “It’s blood then?”

  “You already knew that. And it is Jack’s. My guess is that he fell, knocked his head and bled there on the floor.”

  Knocked his head on the missing pew perhaps, the stain covered with a rug and his body dragged out. It could have been an accident, though. Unless the way he fell needed closer inspection.

  “Thank you, Dr Crowe,” I told her earnestly, ready to bring both men into the station now.

  “One more thing,” Lena quickly added. “I took a look at Stefan whilst we waited for the results. Dr Schmidt, that is.”

  “Lena,” I groaned.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Love gave me the go-ahead, and I even checked with the boss. Fry was overseeing the whole time, though she looked a little pale by the end of it. I should check on her actually, get her some tea—”

  “Lena,” I interrupted.

  “Sorry. I checked out his wound, and Love is right. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a knife.” She sounded alright, as though she was talking about any other victim, not necessarily one who was her friend.

  “Edges aren’t straight,” I recalled, wanting to hear her thoughts.

  “The edges are almost patterned,” she corrected me. “It was a straight object, but it wasn’t flattened, wasn’t crisp. Something blockier, carved. And the wound itself is an odd size, not narrow like most knife wounds. Almost rounded and the flesh got as badly treated as it came out as when it went in. I noticed some faint marking on the skin outside as well, light bruising. I think whatever the weapon was, something stopped it from going any deeper. A hilt or a handle or something evenly sized on both sides.”

  I paused, my mind wandering to the missing object from Stefan’s shelves. His collection of artefacts, cultural, religious. A Hindu deity, a menorah. Something was missing. My eyes drifted back to the other room, to the table, past Mills until they landed on the priest.

  “Metal?” I asked Lena.

  “I’d say so. No splintering.”

  “The drivi
ng edge wouldn’t have been pointed?”

  “More curved. It was the force of it more than the weapon itself,” she added. I looked at the priest again, and this time, he caught me looking. My gaze went from his white-collar to the chain around his neck.

  “Lena?”

  “Mhm?”

  “Could it have been a cross? A crucifix?”

  There was a pause. “It would have to have been a big one, but yes. That would fit and explain the markings on the flesh. The arms of the cross would have been what kept it from going any further.”

  “Do me a favour, try to get a measure of the depth. Then we might be able to get an estimate on size,” I said.

  Mills got up from the table and made his way towards me, standing sideways so that he could still keep an eye on the table. The two men stayed put, probably smart enough to know that running now would do them no good.

  “I’ll get on that now, Inspector,” Lena said, hanging up without further ado. I closed my phone and stuffed it back into my pocket, my eyes still on the table.

  “I don’t know what that expression of yours is, sir,” Mills told me.

  “DNA match,” I told him. “Hair from the brush and cross-referenced with Elizabeth Wellins’s. The body is Jack.”

  Despite the fact that we had strongly suspected it, the confirmation was a jolt, and Mills sucked in a hissed breath.

  “She ran the blood from the floorboards too. It’s his. Jack died in the church.”

  Mills sighed heavily, a low sound in his throat and looked at the table too. “We’re bringing Harte in then. What about Wadham?”

  “Him too,” I said. “I get the feeling he knows more about this than he’s letting on. Send word to the station for me,” I said. “Let them know we’re bringing them in. Fry should still be there if Lena hasn’t blanched her too much. She took a look at Schmidt.”

  “She did?”

  “Got some information on the possible murder weapon. I want to get search warrants in place for Harte’s house and Wadham’s office, maybe his house, but Mrs Wadham might be able to help us there.”