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

by Oliver Davies

I grimaced. “And he took advantage of that?”

  “A little. Grabbed Jack’s hand and touched his face. The boy fought him off, tried to turn and run, but he fell, whacked his head on the pew. The vicar buried him, moved the pew, and put down the rug. And the dust space in the cupboard,” he said.

  “Jack’s school bag?”

  Mills nodded. “Currently in the boot of Dr Wadham’s car at the Sloane Club. He panicked, so Peter offered to get rid of it. What about you?” he asked after a heavy sigh. “Any luck?”

  “Wadham’s requested a lawyer,” I muttered, and Mills groaned at that. “But the teams are back from the search. Paulson found what looks like our weapon in Wadham’s shed. Forensics have it right now.”

  “Well, that’s something, isn’t it? And we’ve got one confession at least.” He shuffled closer, sitting up straighter. “Harte said when Wadham came to see him before the dig got started, they had a very frank discussion about what was going to be found there. He said he confided in Wadham, that it was Jack Wellins and that he had buried him there, and Wadham agreed to keep silent about it so long as the vicar let him do his work.”

  “Christ,” I muttered.

  “Then they both realised that Schmidt was starting to pick up on things. According to Harte, it was Wadham who went over that night to talk to Schmidt. He had no idea the man was going to be killed.”

  “Convenient.”

  “And he does have an alibi for that night,” Mills added. “One of his parishioners is very sick, and he went over to pray with them. The whole family can vouch for that.”

  “He still knew about it,” I said. “And lied to us about it, the same as he covered up Jack Wellins’s death for all these years.”

  “Though he did have more of a starring role in that one,” Mills remarked as Fry returned, sliding three mugs of tea onto the desk.

  “Thank you, Fry.”

  “Cheers, Fry.”

  “No problem. Wadham’s lawyer is en route,” she told me, cradling her mug in her hands. “Shall I have him sent straight up?”

  I nodded, sipping carefully at the tea and looked at Mills. “Get Harte’s confession sorted out as quickly as you can. If we can have that and any evidence forensics can pull up, there will be little he can do about it.”

  “And until then, you can still book him for assaulting a police officer,” Fry pointed out.

  “Very true, and I just might,” I said. “My face still hurts.”

  “That’s why people invented painkillers, sir,” Mills told me as I rose from the chair.

  “I’ll manage well enough,” I said. “Is Crowe still here?”

  “Downstairs, sir,” Fry answered.

  I nodded. “Give me a shout when the lawyers here.”

  I let Fry take my chair and left the two of them as I headed down the stairs, then down again. I was expecting to find Lena buzzing around restlessly, but when I walked into her lab, I found her slumped in her desk chair, her cheek resting against her arm, eyes closed. I wandered over, giving her a light nudge.

  She snorted and lifted her head with a jump, blinking blearily up at me. “What? What is it?”

  “You were asleep,” I told her.

  “Never.”

  “Snoring away like a little pug,” I said, dragging another chair over to sit with her. Crowe sat up, brushing her hair back and rubbing her face.

  “Christ,” she muttered. “More tired than I realised. You know Mills was giving me decaf.”

  “Good lad.”

  “I never liked pugs,” she muttered, shaking her computer to life to check the screen before looking at me. “Any news?”

  “Slow but steady. Waiting on forensics to pull something for me now. You should get on,” I said. “Head home. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

  “There are the results from the carbon dating,” she said.

  “We’ve got DNA confirmation that the remains are Jack Wellins,” I said. “The exact time and date of his death can wait until tomorrow, Lena, and you’re falling asleep at your desk. I’ll have a PC take you home.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Dunnes. You like Dunnes, right?” I said, pulling out my phone.

  Crowe was picky about anyone she worked with, especially anyone who might poke around where her dead bodies were, but Dunnes had always been a good egg. Kept his distance, stayed polite, never touched anything unless very specifically ordered too. Plus, he had children, and Lena always liked talking to people about their children. It would keep her distracted long enough to get her home.

  “I’ll be alright, look!” She lightly tapped her face, trying to wake herself up.

  I sighed quietly, reaching over to take her hand. “Lena.”

  “Yes?”

  “Either get a lift home with Dunnes, or I’m calling your wife.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I showed her my phone screen, Miriam’s contact page already brought up, and she scowled.

  “Bully,” she muttered before turning off her computer and slipping from the chair.

  “Yes, nothing says bullying like getting your tired friend home safe and sound,” I drawled back.

  She smiled, pulling her coat on. “You’ll let me know when there’s any update.”

  “Schmidt’s family will be the first to know,” I told her, “but you won’t be long after, I promise.”

  She nodded, and I draped my free arm around her shoulder, walking her out of her lab, which she naturally locked up tight, then upstairs to the entry.

  “Dunnes!” I called. The constable popped out from behind the desk.

  “Sir,” he nodded.

  “Do me a favour and drive Dr Crowe home, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir,” he said, taking her bag from her. I gave her a one-armed hug then released her to Dunnes, who led her outside to one of the station cars.

  “She looked bloody exhausted,” the desk sergeant commented, leaning over his desk.

  “I think she looks how we all feel,” I replied.

  He nodded. “You’ve pulled a busy few days, sir, that’s for sure.”

  I smiled at him, watching as a sleek black car pulled up outside. I’d bet that’s our lawyer. I turned back and wandered down to the forensics lab, knocking on the door. Unlike Crowe, I knew better than to walk in uninvited and risk getting sprayed with some rancid chemical thing that took six showers to wash the smell from my hair. I’d done it once and once had been enough. It wasn’t a high-tech lab, there was a specialist place for that, but for simple tests and checks, it sufficed well enough. That meant that we didn’t have to traipse around all the god-forsaken time just for someone to say yes, that is blood, well done.

  The door cracked open, and one of the scientists peered out at me.

  “Here about the weapon?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Hang tight,” she replied, slipping back inside and shutting the door in my face. I leant against the wall, sipping my tea until the door opened again, and she walked out, a file in one hand and a clear evidence bag with the crucifix in the other. She pulled the door shut behind her and handed me the bag.

  “It’s heavy,” I muttered, unsurprised. Crowe did say that it would have been the force of the thing rather than its sharpness.

  The scientist nodded. “Ran a quick check on the blood caught on the engravings,” she said. “Pulled a match for Dr Schmidt.” She handed me the folder.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I told her, already turning for the stairs. “I’m buying you all cake and biscuits!” I heard a faint chuckle behind me as I jogged up the stairs, all the way to the main floor, where Fry now stood, talking to a sharply dressed man.

  She clocked me over his shoulder and nodded subtly at him as he looked around. I tucked the folder and bag under one arm, transferred my mug to my left hand, and walked over, arm outstretched to shake his hand.

  “Sir, this Dr Wadham’s lawyer, Mr Harris. Mr Harris, Detective Inspector Thatcher.”
He shook my hand, not looking all that pleased to be doing so. Nor was I, for that matter, but the news from forensics had put me in a cheerier mood. The man let go of my hand, pushing his lanky grey hair back into its perfectly placed style.

  “My client, Inspector?”

  “Just this way,” I said, leading him to the hall. “Where’s Mills, Fry?”

  “Gone to finish that report you asked him to get, sir,” she said with a glint of amusement in her eyes. Ah, gone to get that confession in full.

  “Thank you, Fry,” I said, leading Harris down to the interview room. I opened the door and stood inside, holding it open for the man.

  He ambled in and beelined for Dr Wadham, who was looking rather peaky but cheered up to see his legal counsel. I gave them a few minutes to talk, standing in the hallway, drinking my tea and quickly going over the folder that forensics had given me. Courtesy of Paulson, I had also had a few photographs of the weapon in the place it was found, as well the written permission Mrs Wadham had been kind enough to give us to break into the shed. As I stood waiting, the other door opened, and Mills walked out, still with his mug of tea and holding a thin file which he waved in the air triumphantly.

  I grinned. A written confession from his co-criminal, the murder weapon found in his shed; not even the finest lawyer would be able to argue me on this one.

  “I take it the lawyer’s here?” Mills asked quietly.

  “You take correctly.”

  “And that?” he asked with a nod to the folder I had. I passed him the crucifix, letting him study the weight, the gilded style. “Would have looked right on that shelf in his flat,” he muttered. “Nasty way to die, though.”

  I nodded. “Wadham must be a strong man,” I said.

  Mills glanced at my bruised face. “I think we already knew that, sir,” he said.

  “I bruise easily anyway,” I said, lightly touching my face. “How bad is it? Will Liene be repulsed?”

  “I doubt it,” he chuckled. “She isn’t the sort to easily frighten, in any case.”

  “No, she isn’t, really.” I checked my watch and breathed in deeply. “Shall we finish this once and for all then, Isaac?”

  He looked up at me with a grin. “I think we should, sir.”

  I turned to the door, knocked solidly on the wood, then pushed into the room, Mills on my heels. The door shut behind me with a gratifying clunk as we took our seat before the two men, laying everything out on the table.

  “Now then,” I said. “Shall I repeat my question to you again, Dr Wadham? This time, I highly encourage answering.”

  Epilogue

  As I came to the end of it, I realised I’d never told my mother about any of my cases. When I first joined the force, there was little to tell, and by the time I was working proper cases, homicides mostly, we barely spoke at all, certainly not long enough for me to pop over and share my woes with her. And it was strange, ending such a story with silence. I was used to questions, curiosity, pestering about what happened next and what happened to the others left behind.

  “I imagine you’d want to know,” I said to her headstone. “Even if I can’t actually hear you ask. Mrs Wadham did leave him. She got the house, the dog, everything. He’s still serving time, so is the priest. They have a new one in the village now, a woman, like Rev Wendy. Jack Wellins got a proper funeral, as well.”

  That had been the hardest thing. Knocking on Elizabeth Wellins’s door to tell her. Of course, there had been some small relief in finally having an answer after all this time, but it had been short-lived and curdled by the knowledge that Miles Harte had seen her son die, had buried him in the ground, and forgotten him. That she had gone into that church where he died, looking for answers and comfort for ten years. There were lots of tears, and Mills and I did not stay long. But we were surprised when, a little over a week later, after the court had finished up, to receive an invitation to his funeral.

  We’d gone, naturally, and it had been an odd thing to attend. His bones had been carefully cleaned, placed into a warm coffin alongside some of his things. A spare hoody Elizabeth had kept on hand and his teddy bear, all packed in to give him comfort this time round. He was buried inside the churchyard this time, a space beside him for when Elizabeth died, and the whole village had turned out, the grave covered with flowers. The site of his first burial had been turfed over, hidden beneath a new bed of flowers, and he was far away from the place, buried towards the front of the church, looking out over the fields. It had been a sunny day, which was nice, no sign of rain in the sky, and Mills and I had hung back, listening to the vicar talk, listening to them singing the hymns, but before we had gone, Elizabeth had come over to us.

  “Thank you,” she said, ignoring the tears that ran down her face. “For getting him back to me.”

  “I’m so sorry that it took so long,” I replied. “And in such circumstances.”

  She gave a weak nod. “I know where he is now,” she said simply. “And that’s comfort enough. Has to be.”

  “Please accept our apologies, Miss Wellins,” I asked. “That the police let you down these ten years.”

  “Not your fault, but I will accept it if it puts your mind at ease.” She turned around, looking over at the grave. “Odd to say it, but he would have liked the mystery.”

  “And now you can visit him,” Mills offered quietly. “Talk to him, fill him in on what he’s missed.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “That I can. Come and visit him on his birthdays and Christmas.” Fresh tears welled up and ran down her face, and she patted her pockets for a tissue. I pulled a packet from my own coat pocket and handed it out.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, taking one and dabbing her face.

  “We’ll leave you now, Miss Wellins,” I said. “You have our deepest sympathies.”

  She sniffed. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Both of you.” We nodded and quietly stepped back, leaving her to her loved ones that gathered around in our absence. We trudged back to the car, our hands in our pockets.

  “You really think it helps?” I asked Mills as we walked.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Visiting the grave. Talking to them?”

  “I’ve always thought so,” he said. “I mean, that way, it’s like they’re not really gone. They’re just somewhere else.”

  I had nodded thoughtfully at that, but the thought hadn’t left me, and after dropping Billie off at the train station, it had only grown stronger.

  “So, I’m here,” I mumbled quietly to the earth. “To visit you. Talk to you. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I suppose I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me, which is stupid because you did want to. And I didn’t come. I’m sorry for that, too. Sorry for a lot of things. Especially now.”

  Especially after seeing Elizabeth Wellins. Ten years of not knowing where her son was, what had happened to him. Ten years of questions, doubts and fears. I had known the whole time. Knew exactly what had happened to my mother and where she was, and I had squandered that knowledge by moping around full of guilt and irritation.

  Now I felt like a child again, curled up on the grass, my knees to my chest, hoping to receive whatever comfort my mother could offer. A lot of wasted time and nobody to blame but myself.

  Some twigs snapped behind me, and I turned to find Elsie there, standing with her walking stick in one hand and an umbrella in the other. She looked at my face, then where I sat, and ambled over, saying nothing. She rested her hand against the weather-beaten stone with a soft smile.

  “What have you been talking about?” she asked.

  “My last case,” I replied.

  “The dead doctor?”

  “And the missing boy.”

  Elsie sucked a tooth and nodded understandingly. Elsie had never needed much explanation, not when it came to me, anyway.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, Marie, what did I tell you?” She chuckled towards the sky. “Told you to drag his sorry arse out here soon.”
/>   “Elsie,” I protested.

  “The pair of you,” she rolled her eyes. “Stubborn as mules, I tell you. You should have come sooner,” she pointed at me, “and you,” the finger turned to face the headstone, “shouldn’t have gone so long without talking to him back then.” She tutted, then offered me her hand. “Up you get, before you ruin trousers, and walk me home.”

  I chuckled, taking her hand and climbing to my feet, touching the headstone one last time.

  “I’ll come by again soon, mum,” I murmured before wrapping Elsie’s arm through mine and turning to the path.

  “Miserable old day, isn’t it?” Elsie muttered.

  “Be good for the garden,” I said. “Bit of rain never hurt anyone.”

  “Suppose not,” she replied. “I stopped by the coaching house earlier,” she said. “Place is looking as fair as it ever did, Maxie. They’d all be proud of you for that.”

  “Not a waste of time then?” I teased, remembering every insult and scold and tut she had hurled my way as I had worked on the old place night after night.

  “I suppose not,” she said with a sniff. “Will you be moving in then?”

  “Still haven’t settled that fully,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “Work-wise, it’s a bit tricky, and I don’t want to end up sleeping on a camping bed in the office.”

  “No, who would?” she said thoughtfully. “Well…”

  “Well, what?”

  “Work’s been taking a toll on you of late, Max. All these hard cases make you think and mope. I mean, this last one with that poor boy, enough to drag you out here.”

  “What’s your point, Elsie?”

  “My point, Max Thatcher, is that maybe taking that old promotion wouldn’t be so bad after all.”

  “They’d stick me at a desk!” I protested.

  “Better than retiring at your age,” she pointed out. “Max, look at your life now. The coaching house is finished, you have Liene and Billie, and you have a few friends for once. Sally’s back out here, and you came to visit your mum today. I haven’t even heard you say the word mum for months. Once a year, I managed to wheedle it out of you.”