Dangerous Relics (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 3)

by Oliver Davies

  “How was Rita?” Mills asked, leaning forward on his arms.

  I watched as Harry’s face changed, his mood lifting, and he perked up in his chair. “She’s alright. Much better, I called her this morning to check-in, and she’s home now. Some nasty stitches, but she was alright. Though I doubt her brother will be letting her out and about on her own for a while.” Thinking of Freddie, I couldn’t argue with that.

  “So,” I put the music box and nodded to Mills, who pulled his notebook, “let’s begin. Viviane Charles went to a coffee shop the morning that she died, where she met up with a gentleman whose description we believed to have been you. The same man Rita saw Viviane with at a restaurant several weeks ago.”

  Harry nodded. “The very one. Viviane and I had been meeting up for a few months now. We met up on Saturday morning before I went to the conference.”

  “Why were you meeting her?” I asked, not bothering with much diplomacy at this point. “What was the nature of your relationship?”

  “Professional,” he answered simply. “She’d only just broken up with her girlfriend. I can’t see why, though, she talked a lot about missing her.”

  “So, what were you discussing?”

  Harry turned serious, meeting my gaze head-on. “Viviane had all the making to become a very talented conservationist. Her work at the house and with her grandfather’s collection was impeccable. I was helping her. Get the right experience, get the right credentials, to take over really. Become the head conservationist of the house, oversee all of that side of things.”

  “You met up to discuss her career?”

  “She was looking into doing her Masters, maybe even a PhD at the university, only money was tight. So, I would ask her to oversee some extra work at the house and pay her accordingly. I was investing in her,” he said lightly. “In the easiest way of framing it. Investing in her, to make sure the house does well. She planned to pay me back, but I wasn’t holding her to it. On Saturday, I asked her to meet with me after speaking to the university Dean about getting her a placement for next year.”

  “Rita did say she was in a better mood than usual on Saturday,” Mills recalled.

  “And it makes sense why she wouldn’t have said any of this to Goddard.” I nodded. “She would have stopped working whilst she studied?” I asked Harry.

  He gave a small nod, turning his attention away from the dog.

  “Best way to do things, hence the money. I was supporting her. She was doing some occasional work, helping me at the university with my own curating. Like an apprenticeship,” he said. “Just a lot more well paid than usual.”

  “She was saving a lot of money,” I told him. “She was saving it from you?”

  “She planned to do it all on one go,” he answered. “Save up as much as she could, and go straight into studying, get through it all at once.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I said.

  “Viviane was smart, very smart, Inspector. When I heard it was a suicide at first, I thought it made no sense. She had plans,” he said with pride. “Big plans, but then you never know what’s going on with someone in their mind.”

  I nodded, leaning back in my chair. It all made sense, a lot of sense, but still left a large hole where Viviane’s killer ought to be.

  “Your work with the collections in the university,” Mills began suddenly. “Do you ever encounter any forgeries?”

  “A few,” Harry deliberated. “Most of the time, they’re not very good. Too obvious. But occasionally, we get some in.”

  “As good as this?” I asked, handing him the box.

  “No.” He shook his head. “This is very skilled work. I wouldn’t have been able to tell just by looking at it. But usually,” he went on, turning it his hands. “They leave something there. A little mark or sign of their work.”

  “Seems reckless.”

  “Hubris, Inspector. If you can make something this good, some part of you wants the world to know it. You have a forensics team?” He asked me, brows drawn together.

  “We do,” I answered, somewhat surprised.

  “Tell them to get a high-powered microscope on it. If there is a maker’s sign somewhere, it’ll be hard to see.” He passed it back over.

  “Thank you. We’ll give it a go.”

  “Can you tell us anything more about Viviane?” Mills asked.

  “We didn’t talk much about our personal lives. The occasional chat about her ex, or a particularly bad date I’d been on recently, but it was small talk. We’d entertain it for as long as we’d talk about the weather. She was brilliant at what she did,” he suddenly added solemnly. “If something was missing from her collection, she would have known.”

  We left shortly after that, sitting in the car and looking up at the house, letting everything Harry had told us sink in.

  “Back to the station, sir?” Mills asked.

  “No. Let’s go and speak to Rita. Now that she’s home and not bleeding all over the shop, we can ask her a bit more about last night.”

  Mills nodded and turned the car away from the house as I found Rita’s address. She was past the station, so we dropped the fake music box in with Philips, to see what he could find without fearing damaging the blasted thing.

  Twenty-Three

  Thatcher

  As we drove, I pulled the mirror down and gently eased the large plaster away from my head with a wince. It had scabbed over, as Elsie had predicted, the surrounding skin bruised and still slightly swollen to the touch. Mills glanced at me and grimaced.

  “How is it, sir?”

  “A bugger,” I replied through my teeth, gently securing the plaster back down. “Getting a bump on the head doesn’t help with the intimidating suspects business.”

  “Well, when you scowl like that, it works,” Mills said happily. “Looks like you got it in a fight or a very high stakes rugby match.”

  “How kind of you to say,” I answered, looking out of the window. “What’s new with you?”

  “Nothing much,” he said with a shrug. “I spend most days with you, anyway.”

  “Lucky thing. How’s Susanne?”

  “She’s got a new job,” he recalled brightly, posture easing as he spoke about his new girlfriend. “Family liaison, we might see her around the station from time to time if a case comes up with a child.”

  “Let’s hope one doesn’t, but good for her. She must be chuffed.”

  “I think she’s just glad to be out of that dusty old records room,” Mills laughed. “What about you? You seemed to have a nice chat with Dr Dorland.”

  “She’s a nice lady, very smart, very hardworking.”

  “Your type of girl,” Mills muttered. “So?”

  “So,” I replied slowly, “I am professional, Mills. We’re investigating a murder, and she’s helping.”

  “Right,” he nodded. “Very smart, very professional. And when the case is over, you’ll ask her out?”

  “Why the sudden interest in my love life?” I asked, turning slightly in my seat so that he could see me glare at him without taking his eyes on the road. He had a smile, a childish grin, plastered to his face.

  “When you retire, I don’t want you rattling around in that coaching house all on your lonesome.”

  “You mean you won’t come and visit me?”

  “Only on Sundays. We can have a game of Scrabble.”

  I laughed through my nose. “I’m not playing Scrabble with you, you cheat.”

  “I don’t cheat!” he protested. “I just know a lot of words.”

  “Words that none of us happen to know,” I added.

  “Yes. I had a really good set of encyclopaedias when I was a lad,” he told me sheepishly.

  “How different our childhoods were. I used to catch worms and keep them in an old tin bucket,” I recalled fondly. I was made to put them back in the soil whenever someone realised I dug them up, but the memory was still a nice one. Better than helping my grandfather weed the vegetable patch anyway.
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  “What for?” Mills was asking. “What did you do with the worms?”

  “Nothing, I put them back. It was a countryside village, Mills. Entertainment was scarce after my football deflated, and we couldn’t find the pump.”

  He laughed, and swooped the car down a quiet little road, the SatNav politely informing us that we had arrived.

  “I think this is the place,” Mills muttered, peering out through the windscreen as he shut the engine off.

  The Jones siblings lived on one of those pretty little streets tucked away quietly from the bustle of the city. It wasn’t far from Henbell House, and the tall spires of the Minster poked up across the roofs. It was nice, the sort of street that tourists used to take pictures of the painted front doors and gates covered in flowers.

  We got out of the car and strolled to the house, ivy crawling up the sides, and the uniformed officer we had posted met us.

  “Sir, Mills,” she greeted her with a polite dip of the chin.

  “Afternoon, Brown. Anything happen?”

  “Not last night, and it’s been quiet this morning.”

  I nodded. I didn’t expect our killer to try again right away.

  “Head for now then,” I told her. “We’ll get someone to take over.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she smiled and headed across the street to her car.

  “Think the killer got too spooked to try again?” Mills asked as we walked towards the front door.

  “I’d say so. They’d be likely to wait for an easier opportunity if they were going to try again.”

  I reached up for the long chain beside me and rang the bell. I could hear it chime through the house, hollow and old fashioned.

  The door opened to Freddie, who wore an apron around his waist, and despite the tired look on his face, he smiled when he saw us.

  “Inspector, sergeant. Come inside, please.” He stepped back to let us in, shutting the door with a grimace. “Nasty weather we’re having.”

  “Can’t make its mind up,” Mills agreed.

  “Come through to the kitchen. I’ve just got the kettle on.” He led us down the neat, tiled hallway to the kitchen, where a kettle hummed on the stove. The exposed brick walls were painted white, the doors to the garden letting in the faint afternoon light, and the cupboards were all painted dark green. Freddie indicated the round table, and we sat as he went back into the hallway and leant up the bannister.

  “Rita!” He shouted once and came back, clapping his hands together as he fetched some mugs from a cupboard. “Any sugar, chaps?”

  “Not for us, ta,” Mills answered, peeling his slightly damp coat off.

  “How are you, Freddie?” I asked him as we waited for Rita. “It’s been a strange few days for you, I reckon.”

  “That’s a way of putting it,” he answered with a sigh. The kettle started whistling, and he quickly turned it off, filling the mugs. “Been worried mostly.” He glanced to the ceiling. “Don’t want anything bad happening to her. I owe you thanks, by the way, for getting there in time. Helping her.”

  “We’re just glad we got there in time too. Your sister’s been a big help to this case.”

  “And no longer a suspect?” he asked, carrying the mugs over and sliding them our way.

  “Unless she managed to lock herself in that cellar, no, it’s not looking that way.”

  “Good,” he said, relieved, untying his apron. “Rita won’t even kill bugs. Makes me do it.”

  “Your shoes are bigger than mine,” her low, lilting voice answered as she wandered into the kitchen. She had bundled herself in a large, strangely knitted jumper that fell to her knees, her feet stuffed into slippers. Her shiny black hair fell in slightly damp waves, and other than the shadows under her eyes and the tender way she carried her arm, she looked alright. Better in fact, than she had before. She sat down beside Mills and took the mug Freddie offered as he hovered behind a chair.

  “Shall I leave you to it?” he asked. “Doubt I can be much help here.”

  “You’re welcome to stay if you want,” I told him, glancing at Rita. She was toying with her sleeves again, but she looked up at her brother and smiled slightly. He sat down, folding one leg over the other and looked at us all expectantly.

  “I’m guessing this is about last night?” Rita finally asked, her eyes on my face.

  “It is. If you’re up for talking about it.”

  “Sure,” she shrugged.

  “How’s the arm?” Mills asked her in a gentle voice. Rita rolled up her sleeve, pushing it to the elbow. Her forearm was completely bandaged, and she tilted it to where the cut would be, staring as though she could see through the bandage.

  “Quite a few stitches. Hospital said it should be fine.” She pulled her sleeve back down. “They only kept me there for the bump on my head. I didn’t even notice it. Must have been when I fell down the stairs.”

  “Through the stairs,” I pointed out.

  “Didn’t see that last night either.” She smiled, her eyes flickering up to the plaster on my head.

  “I also had an incident on the stairs a few days ago,” I told her comradely, not wanting to get fully into the details. “No stitches, thankfully. Nor did I have someone locking me in a cellar.”

  Rita paled and swallowed, pulling her tea towards her and tracing the shape of the handle. “They were going to kill me, weren’t they?” she asked in a hushed voice, eyes fixed on where her fingers moved on the mug.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” I asked her lightly. “From the start. You left the station, and then you came here?”

  She nodded. “Came back, had a shower, and then I got to thinking about the box. I was so sure I had seen it before; I couldn’t shake it. And then I remembered the time I went down into the cellar for the dust sheets, and I saw something similar. So, I wondered if it was like something we had down there, and maybe that’s where Viviane saw or something.”

  “I just needed to look,” she added slightly urgently. “You ever get that? When you know you just need to go and check something?”

  I nodded and took a sip of tea, letting her continue at her own pace.

  “So, I headed out,” she said with an apologetic look to Freddie. “And went to Henbell House, down into the cellar.”

  “How d'you get in?” Mills asked. “Without the key?”

  “Hairpins,” she admitted sheepishly. “Learnt to do it when we were kids.” Her eyes widened suddenly, and she looked up. “Is that bad? Am I in trouble for that?”

  “It’s alright,” I assured her. “Just carry on. We’ll deal with all the little details later.”

  Rita nodded and cradled her mug. “So, I go down into the cellar, and I look through this one box that doesn’t look as old as the others, and I found the music box in there. I didn’t really know what to make of it,” she said with a little shrug. “Wondered if they were a pair or something, but I thought you’d want to know, so I sent the picture to you. I was about to get and out and wait for your reply, but the lights turned off suddenly.”

  Her voice trailed slightly, the words struggling to make it out of her throat. Freddie reached over and squeezed her shoulder, keeping silent. Rita lifted her hand to his.

  “So, I make for the stairs, and it’s an old house, the lights are dodgy, and then the door shuts. So, I run up and try to open it, but it won’t budge. So, I hammer against it,” she added, and I glanced at the faint red scabs on her hands. “And start shouting, but it doesn’t open. And then I hear feet.” She stopped for a moment and swallowed loudly, her jaw tensing. “Someone was up there, walking around, moving things. It scared me, so I go back down, and on the last step, the bloody things break, and I fall, scratch my arm up. And then you called.”

  “Your battery died when we were on the phone,” I recalled, keeping my voice low and gentle. “What did you do then?”

  “I hid behind the crates. It was pitch black, and I could hear them moving around, and I just curled into a ball and
hid. Pathetic,” she added.

  “Smart,” I corrected her. “What you did was very smart, Rita, and very brave. Do you remember anything next?”

  She took a deep breath. “I heard the sirens then,” she said. “And then there was lots of noise upstairs, and then the door opened, and you came down.”

  I nodded and leant back in my chair, letting her gather herself, take a sip of tea before I asked. “Do you know if they were here before you? Was there a car around that you didn’t recognise?”

  Rita thought back, and I let her focus for a moment. “No,” she said slowly. “There are only a few places to park out there, and it was the usual cars. The people next door. Everything was shut up when I got there. The lights were all off, and the alarm was on.”

  “So, they must have arrived after you,” Mills said.

  Rita shrugged. “Must have.”

  “Do you know if anyone followed you?” Mills asked. “I know it's a daft question, but did you feel in any way unsafe as you went? Like someone else was there?”

  “It was raining,” Rita answered. “So, it was fairly quiet out there, you know? Not a lot of people, but I was on my bike, so it’s hard to really know what’s going on behind you. I felt okay. I didn’t feel like anyone was around me, and that’s something you sort of learn to pick up on.”

  “You do that route a lot on your own?” I asked, and she nodded. I understood. A young woman, going down that route on her own in the dark evenings, would have her senses about her.

  “When you got into the house,” Mills changed the tone of the conversation. “Did you lock the doors behind you?”

  “I did.”

  “So, whoever it was, they had a key or came in some other way?”

  Rita nodded.

  “The things down in the cellar,” I began as Mills made a note of all of this. “What sort of stuff is down there?” We’d gotten a faint glance, but I was too distracted by the bleeding, almost murdered girl to do a full stock.

  “Josephine’s the only one who knows for sure,” Rita told us. “She’s got the key. Occasionally when she goes down to do inventory or tidy things up, she finds something and brings it up. Like a fancy vase or an old clock. It’s always exciting when we put something new on display, reels in some more visitors.”