Mills nodded, his phone already in his hands as he typed. “What are they looking for?”
“A crucifix. Crowe is going to get the closest measurements from the wound.”
“A crucifix?” Mills repeated.
“Or anything similarly shaped or significant. Whatever it is, was taken from the shelf in Schmidt’s flat, and it wasn’t sharp. Some sort of hilt or arms, according to Crowe.”
Another nod from Mills as he typed, with me keeping a close eye on the pair. Miles Hart sat quietly, staring at the table as Wadham poured himself another brandy. Well, the alcohol might make him chatty, at least.
“Done,” Mills said, putting his phone away. “And I’ve sent an officer round to Wadham’s house to see about searching the place with Mrs Wadham.”
“I can’t imagine she’ll have much objection,” I muttered, thinking about the kind woman.
“Nor I,” Mills muttered. “Cuffing them?” he asked.
“Only if they resist,” I answered, cracking my knuckles and walking back over to the table. “Sorry about that, gentlemen,” I said with a polite smile. “Just got word from our pathologist. And I’m going to have to ask both of you to come with us to the station. You’re welcome to accept the invitation, or if you would prefer to be arrested and dragged from the building, we can arrange that.”
“On what grounds?” Wadham demanded, rising from the table.
“Suspicion of murder or manslaughter,” I answered darkly, letting my voice rise a little so that another man in the other room glanced up from his paper.
“Keep your voice down!” Wadham hissed.
“You can walk to the car, Dr Wadham,” I said, unclipping my handcuffs from my belt. “Or you can be escorted.”
He glared at me for a second, and Miles Harte stood and nodded.
“May I call a lawyer?” he asked.
“That is your right,” Mills said, leading the man to the stairs.
I stayed with Wadham, raising one eyebrow. “What’s it to be, sir?”
“My lawyers will be all over this,” he snarled. “You’ll lose your job.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best, Dr Wadham,” I replied dryly. He made a sound like an angry elephant seal, downed his brandy and stormed away from me to the stairs. I kept a few paces behind as he trudged down, through towards the foyer where Chestnut stood, looking bewildered.
“You let him in!” Wadham cried, pointing a finger in the old man’s face. “You let this man!” He grabbed Chestnut’s collar, shaking, and I reached forward, gripping his elbow and tugging him away from the man. He swung wildly, and I dodged, his fist just clipping the edge of my jaw.
I grimaced and grabbed his collar, turning him onto his stomach on the desk and pulled his arms behind his back, snapping the handcuffs tightly around his wrists. I let him lie there for a bit, panting, and turned to Chestnut, delicately touching my aching jaw.
“I apologise for that, Mr Chestnut,” I said.
The old man looked scandalised and shook his head, fixing his jacket. “Not your fault, Inspector,” he replied, looking at Wadham with an expression that made me think even if the man were innocent and able to come back, he would no longer be welcome.
“I’ll remove this man for you,” I said, grabbing Wadham by the jacket and hauling him to the door. Chestnut let us out without another word, and when we walked out, there was no sign of Mills or Harte. I stopped Wadham on the pavement, holding him in place like a rowdy child until the car appeared round the corner, Harte already seated in the back.
Mills jumped out, looked at my jaw and took Wadham from me, shoving him into the back seat and locking the door.
“You alright, sir?” he asked me as I walked over, taking the keys from him.
I looked at the two men in the back. “Feeling better now, Mills.”
Twenty-Six
Thatcher
We managed to get both men into the station and into an interview room without any more punches being thrown. I slammed the door on Peter Wadham and walked back towards the office, face still tender. Mills stood outside, chatting to Fry, who looked me over with a wince.
“Alright, sir?” she asked, holding me an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. “Mills said you might want this.”
“Cheers,” I said to them both, holding the cold pack against my face. I’d not looked in a mirror yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was already some swelling starting to emerge; I’d always bruised easily, much to my own annoyance.
“I called Sharp for you,” she said, sliding her hands into her pockets. “She said she trusts the pair of you to handle this but to call if you need her to throw any weight around.” Her voice trailed off slightly at the end.
“Or?” I prompted.
“Of if we think you need reeling in, sir,” Fry quickly added. “Her words, not mine.”
“I don’t doubt that, Fry, but I doubt we’ll need to take such measures.”
“Even though he landed a nasty hit on your face?” Mills asked casually.
“Even then. Any word from the uniforms?” I asked.
“Warrants are sorted,” he answered. “We’ve got Harte’s house being searched and Wadham’s office at the museum.”
“His house?”
Fry grinned. “Apparently, his wife let them in, no questions asked. Even made them all a cup of tea while she was at it.”
“And biscuits,” Mills added.
“And biscuits.” Fry nodded. “I heard a brief mention of a Jammy Dodger before they got back to work.”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, despite the bravado she exuded. Though her husband being tied up in a homicide investigation might make things easier for her if she decided to divorce him.
“Any update from Dr Crowe?” I asked. “Why aren’t you down there anymore?”
“Dr Cavell came in to help her out. They’re both out in the hallway now enjoying a coffee while they wait for the results from the carbon dating. Not that we need them desperately,” Fry added. “She got the measurements after you asked, and I sent them to all the officers searching. You think it’s a crucifix?”
“I think it’s a possibility,” I said, removing the ice pack from my face before it went numb.
“Stabbed with a crucifix.” She shook her head. “There’s something morbidly poetic in there somewhere.”
“Vampiric,” Mills agreed. “Though I don’t think Schmidt was that way inclined.”
“He did spend a lot of time with dead people,” I pointed out, handing Fry the ice pack back. “Stay out here for me, Fry. I want you on the phone for when one of the team gets in touch.” She nodded, lifting her chin.
“Mills,” I turned to him. “I reckon splitting up will get us through this the fastest.”
He nodded in agreement. “Who do you want to take?”
“At first, the vicar, but now I’d like a chat with the man who clocked me in the face. You handle the priest?”
Mills nodded, looking satisfied with that, and I clapped him once on the shoulder, grabbed all our files, and we set off down the hallway.
The two rooms were opposite each other in the hallway, so there’d be no issue in grabbing the other one if we needed to. I paused at the door, turning to give him a nod before turning the handle and walking in. I propped the door open with my foot long enough to let the constable inside out. He was heading into the room next door to observe, and then I let the door shut, sat myself down at the table and turned on the recording device. Wadham stayed silent as I prepared everything, spreading my files out on the table.
“Hello again, Dr Wadham,” I greeted him. “Can I get you anything? Cup of tea, water?”
He shook his head, and his alcohol buzz looked like it was wearing off. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and clammy.
“Well, feel free to ask if you change your mind,” I said, propping my hands together under my chin and meeting his stare. His eyes lifted to mine, to the newly growing bruise on my face, then dropped do
wn to study his own hands, secured on the table.
“So,” I said, “I’m not going to sit here and try to figure out what you may or may not know about the death of Jack Wellins. I doubt you ever met the boy in your entire life.”
“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I’d never set foot in that village until a month or so ago.”
“A bit out of your way, I agree. You never met the boy, didn’t know a thing about him. At least, until the bones came up.”
He said nothing, just lowered his gaze back to the table.
“Dr Stefan Schmidt,” I pulled his image from the file and placed it on the table. “Was one of the best forensic anthropologists in the country. And that testament comes from one of the best forensic pathologists in the country, and she does not give compliments lightly. He could tell the age of a skeleton just by looking at it, could guess how old it was and how long it had been buried, and according to his colleagues, he was nearly always right. But he delayed himself on this one, slowed down the process, and kept it to himself. Why might that be?”
Wadham opened his mouth to speak, but I waved a hand, shutting him up.
“A rhetorical question, Dr Wadham, more for my own musings than yours,” I told him. “See, at first, I thought, well, he’s being paid by a museum. A museum takes care and consideration. You can’t rush into anything headfirst, not your studies, not your exhibits. You certainly can’t put some remains on display unless you know everything there is to possibly know about them. My girlfriends in the museum. So, I have some experience with how it all works. This had to be done thoroughly with no mistakes, no oversights. Every dot joined, every number double-checked. This would, of course, explain why he was taking so long to determine what he could about the remains, would it not?”
Wadham nodded. “Certainly would.” He cleared his throat. “We take great pride in our exhibits.”
“As you should. I’ve been to the museum once or twice myself. It’s a rather splendid collection. Though, nothing new ever really gets added, does it?” I asked. “New exhibits are a blue moon event, always stir up a lot of interest. I remember the last time, a big exhibit opening, covered in all the local papers, people buying up tickets. It means big business for the museum, a new find. Especially.” I leant across the table. “When it was found by the museum itself. Now a body is one thing, but if that body opened the gates to a wider dig, to a whole site being unearthed, that is something else entirely, is it not?”
Wadham said nothing.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Dr Wadham. You were hoping for the bones to reveal a larger find, were you not?”
“I was,” he said, his voice thick. “For the museum.”
“Naturally. How long have you worked there?” I asked, making my tone lighter, more conversational.
“Twenty years this March,” he said.
I whistled quietly. “Twenty years? But no promotion in sight? Seems unfair, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “I like my position and my work.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “I’m sure it’s a fine job. One that demands plenty of respect. And from what I’ve heard, it takes up a lot of your time.”
“From what you’ve heard?”
“When we were looking for you earlier, your wife surprised us by saying that you had stopped at the museum this morning,” I told him. “Do you often get dragged in on the weekends?”
“We are open on the weekends,” he told me. “So, yes, sometimes I am.”
“But not for the whole day,” I said. “You were happily in the Sloane Club when we found you.”
“I got my work done quickly, and Father Harte wanted a word with me.”
“About the church?” I asked. “About the site of the dig?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“An old church,” I said. “Been the cornerstone of that village for centuries. I’ll bet it’s seen so much history come and go. Probably plenty of history of being found in it as well as around it.”
“Usually is in places such as those,” Wadham answered.
“Yes,” I agreed. “You must have been quite hopeful when you first got there.”
Wadham nodded.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “That initial visit.”
“Well—” He cleared his throat again. “We, the museum, were asked to come out and take a look to determine whether or not it was a site of historical interest.” I nodded along. “My colleagues and I drove out, looked around the surrounding land and the village, spoke to the vicar and then went to look at the remains ourselves. They were still rather buried at this point, so it was hard to say for sure, but with the village and the land to the side, I thought it very possible. They weren’t in the graveyard, and there was no marking of the burial at all.”
“But nothing else in the burial,” I said. “No other artefacts, no arrowheads or trinkets that he was buried with.”
Wadham shrugged. “Sometimes those things are found and taken, but the bones are left behind. Especially when a skeleton has been there for so long,” he added.
“Makes sense. So, you convince your team to take on the site for the museum.”
“I did. I said that it could lead to a wider excavation in the area, which would mean big things for us.”
“I see. Then what?”
“Then we employed the services of Dr Schmidt.”
“Who employed him? You directly?”
“No,” he shook his head. “The museum director. Said that he wanted this done properly.”
“And Schmidt was the best,” I said. “That must have been a good feeling,” I said. “To know that your hopes for the discovery lay in such promising hands.”
He nodded dimly, still looking sickly.
“Or it must have been jarring,” I offered instead. “That the dig would lie in Schmidt’s hands. Schmidt, who could turn around quick as a flash and dismiss the site and your ideas so easily. That wouldn’t be good. A loss of money and time for the museum, and since you encouraged it, I doubt that it would reflect well on you.”
“Perhaps, but it didn’t come to that,” he said. “Schmidt did not dismiss the remains. He seemed very interested in them, in fact.”
“You went out to see him work a few times?”
“Just the few,” he said. “I’m a busy man, and I know better than to interrupt another busy man.”
“Naturally. What about the vicar? The two of you seem to make good company. You’ve met him before now.”
“Yes, of course. Since the site is so close to the church, we wanted to have plenty of discussion with him about potential disruptions. And he was our meeting point for the village; any concerns or questions came through him.”
“And what was his reaction?” I asked. “To the bones being unearthed?”
“He was shocked,” Wadham said carefully, his eyes lowering back down the table. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“Indeed.”
“But he was happy to learn that the village might be a site of historical interest.”
“I have no doubt that it will,” I said. “A lot at stake then, for both of you. If the bones turned out to be worthless, that’s your neck in it. And that might land the vicar himself in hot water. Especially once that village got word.”
“Got word for what, Inspector? Why am I here?” he demanded suddenly, getting a second wind of that outrage he’d had in the club. “And why am I handcuffed to this table?”
“You are handcuffed because you assaulted a police officer, Dr Wadham, and you are here as a suspect of murder.”
He scoffed. “You established at the beginning of this nonsense that I never knew Jack Wellins.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “You knew Stefan Schmidt. And you knew,” I said darkly, leaning over the table. “That those bones weren’t that old. They were recent, in fact. You learnt that, and you couldn’t have such a failure landing at your feet, could you?”
“Not recent?” he cursed. “Nonsense.”
“Those bones have been identified as the remains of Jack Wellins,” I told him carefully, slowly, making sure he listened. I watched as he blinked at me, his mouth opening and closing like a clam.
“DNA tests from his hair and from his mother,” I added before he could find room to argue, “have confirmed it. Jack Wellins was buried there, in the earth. No coffin, no casket, no headstone. Nothing. He was dumped in a hole and forgotten about for ten years. Now, I’m no expert, but ten years in the earth without protection, especially where it’s warmer. Since there were all those problems with the church’s pipes, we know that it was oddly warm there, and that speeds up the skeletonization process. So, it’s no wonder the bones looked so old. He’d had absolutely nothing to shield him from the elements. Just the clothes on his back, but they were quick to go.”
Peter Wadham stared at me blankly, a thin sheen of sweat over his face.
“So, you can understand, Dr Wadham, as can I,” I continued, “that supposing the bones to be older, to be ancient in fact, is an easy mistake to make. But not one that would have remained a mistake when Schmidt got a hold of them. He’d have pieced it together quickly. In fact, he had pieced it together. He knew, or at least very strongly suspected that the remains were those of Jack Wellins. And planned to come forward about that. And that,” I drummed the desk, “would be bad news for two people: Whoever killed Jack, of course, and you.”
“Me?”
“You’d lose the site. What was a historical site, a possible new exhibit for the museum, would not only be wrenched from your hands, but it would turn into a police site. A homicide investigation. Not the sort of publicity the museum would likely want. You might even lose some of the sway you hold there. You were the one who pushed for the site, who bargained on it. What might you have lost if you were wrong, Dr Wadham? Just respect? Or your job altogether?”
He grimaced, staring at tables as though he could bore holes into the surface.
“I made it clear when we started that you never knew Jack Wellins. But, Dr Wadham, I think you learnt about him. You knew they were his bones, and you helped to hide that to further your own career. And I think,” I said, my voice lowering, “that you wanted to make sure that Dr Schmidt didn’t finish his work, not when that work would have led him here, to me. What say you to all that?”
Cradle to Coffin (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 10) Page 21
