DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

I nodded. “What do you know?”

  “Man was found this morning, sir,” he told me as we drove away from the city, “by a farmer in his field clearing up after last night. Victim’s not a local, apparently.”

  “Bonfire night,” I muttered. Fireworks, smoke, crowds, never an easy thing to pin down one man from the bustle of all that.

  “Who made the call?”

  “The farmer, sir. Soon as he found the body and collected himself. The call was made about half an hour ago. Uniforms are on the scene.”

  I nodded and sipped quietly at my coffee, watching the landscape change around us. The fields opened up suddenly, sparse and lined with old trees. There were lots of villages around here, one as much the same as the next. Much like the one I grew up in myself, old families and buried secrets. It was never easy rooting for the answer in places where they kept them hidden away long enough that they forgot they ever happened.

  “Here we are,” Mills muttered. The village was built into a slope between hills, the stone buildings low-lying and identical. Even the new buildings here would be built in the same stone, same style. You wouldn’t likely get an avant-garde architect traipsing through with slabs of glass and concrete to concrete a glorified greenhouse to live in. Not without the local council getting involved.

  We pulled up beside a large field, scattered remains of a bonfire across the grass, and already the area was growing crowded. Villagers stood by the edge of the field, wrapped up in large coats, watching like crows around a dead fox. Well, it was the right weather for it, I thought as I climbed out of the car. All grey and damp and cold.

  Shutting the car door, I slipped past the throng of onlookers and walked to the nearest officer, Mills on my heels, and looked over his shoulder to the field. Soco were on sight, figures of white milling around like sheep.

  “Sir,” Constable Smith greeted me as we neared her. She was bundled in her coat, coils of black hair curled around her face; olive skin turning red in the chill.

  “Smith,” I replied, “what have we got?”

  “Man’s not got any I.D. on him,” Smith led us past the tape into the field, “but he’s been identified as a Mr Samuel Hughes.”

  “Not a local?”

  She shook her head, “no sir. Businessman visiting from London. Apparently, he was buying some land in the local area.”

  “Bet that made him popular,” I muttered.

  “The farmer?” Mills asked.

  “Gave his statement when we arrived,” she told us, leading us to the man in question. “This is him, Mr Goodwin.”

  “Thank you, Smith.” She gave a nod and hung back, letting us approach him alone.

  The farmer had his arms wrapped around himself, looking fairly gaunt. He was a big man, well-built and dressed, and he looked them over somewhat disapprovingly. His coat was well made but old. Darned at the elbows and loose threads hanging from the cuffs. Same with his boots, sturdy quality, but the leather was wearing thin, and the laces were scraggly and thin. I could make out the outline of a pipe in his breast pocket, and he stood bravely without a hat, scarf, or gloves in the biting November wind.

  “Mr Goodwin?” A terse nod. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, and this is Detective Sergeant Mills. I understand it was you who found the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is your field?”

  “It is.”

  “In your own words then, if you please, Mr Goodwin.”

  “I came out early, same as every day. Did my rounds,” he nodded to the cows grazing across the road, “then headed here.”

  “At what time would make that, Mr Goodwin?” Mills asked, notepad in hand. Mills was not at all a local lad, but he had a kind face that people trusted and did a good job at hiding how clever he was. I was growing fond of him, settling in well after only being here a few months.

  “About six, I reckon, is my usual time. Anyway, started taking down all that lot,” he waved an arm to the pyre, “pulled a few branches away and there he was, tucked underneath he was.”

  “The bonfire wasn’t lit last night?”

  “No. We had some concern over having it in this field. We usually have over the other end on old Pickering’s farm, but they thought this was better for the kids or something.” He shook his head. “Land’s too soft, and not a lot of the wood was dry enough, so we built them both just in case. Ended up having it in the usual place anyway since that’s where the stalls were all taken. Waste of time,” he grumbled.

  “How soon did everyone know that the location had moved?”

  “Sent out word a few hours before. Everyone knew that needed to know.”

  “And when you found him?”

  “Well, I had a bloody sit down is what I did. Wasn’t sure he was really dead at first, so I pulled him out a bit, then I saw the mess on the side of his head and called you lot.”

  “And you identified the man as Samuel Hughes? We understand he’s not a local.”

  “That’s him. London chap. Fancy coat and all. We rarely get many passers-through, you understand, not this time of year, anyway.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mr Goodwin.”

  “When will I get my field back?”

  “A soon as possible,” I replied, shaking his hand and strolling away. Mills caught up as Smith retrieved the farmer.

  “You think whoever killed him planned to see him burned in the fire?”

  “Odds are. Clean up evidence. Lucky for us they moved it. Dr Crowe.”

  The tall, familiar figure clad in the white suit looked up from where she knelt beside the body, her white hair poking out from beneath her hood, her clever blue eyes smiling up at us from her round face. The farmer was right, the victim was a well-dressed man for all I could see. Smart coat, smart shoes even though caked in mud. Decent haircut, all over very smooth and proper. Completely impractical in a place like this but made an impression I had no doubt.

  Of course, the greatest impression was that of his bashed-in head.

  “Morning boys,” Dr Crowe smiled up at us, “Thatcher, Mills.”

  “Morning, Doctor,” Mills replied.

  “What have we got?” I asked, moving to stand closer to her.

  “First glance,” she stood up and pointed at the man’s head, “blunt trauma. He was hit over the head very hard, repeatedly. Found this.” She held up an evidence bag with a small scrap inside.

  “What is that?” I asked, peering closer.

  “Looks like a very small piece of metal. Rusty. So it was likely old, whatever hit him.”

  I nodded, scratching my chin, “and it was the hit that killed him?”

  “Most likely. Not sure whether or not that was here. Not really enough blood, but that might not be the main cause of death. I’ll know after the autopsy. Either way, he certainly didn’t hit his head and crawl into the bonfire to die like a hedgehog.”

  “Guarantee?” I asked hopefully.

  She frowned at me. “I can’t guarantee anything yet, Thatcher, you know that.”

  I smiled at her. “Time of death?”

  “I’d put it around early evening, late afternoon. Four or five maybe, no later than seven. He’s been out here a while. It’s why he’s a bit soggy,” she announced, “from the dew.”

  “What about the object?” Mills asked, looking around the victim.

  “No sign of any weapon nearby,” she told him, “but we’re checking this field. More your area really, looking for where someone stashes a weapon.”

  “Blunt?” I checked.

  She nodded. “Big and blunt.” Mills scribbled down some notes.

  I nodded, took another sip of coffee, and handed it to Mills, slipping on a pair of gloves as I knelt down beside the man. The injury was not a pretty one. Dried blood was plastered to the side of his head, blackened and scablike, the dew mingled with it, streaming dismally down his jaw. He looked a bit like a jack-o'-lantern three days after Halloween, caved in and sunken. They did a thorough job, whoever they were.<
br />
  “Age?”

  “Middle-aged, I’d say, a few years older than yourself, Thatcher.”

  “Smart chap. But he has no ID on him?”

  “Not on his person.”

  “Smith said that they confirmed his identity with his assistant.” Mills put in. An assistant. Of course, a man like this had an assistant. Probably a nice young lady who wishes she’d gotten a job with a different London businessman. Rather than one who traipses her all the way up here and then gets murdered. I made a note of having a good chat with this assistant.

  “Man like this goes around with no wallet? What about a phone?”

  “No phone on him either.”

  “Maybe he left it in the hotel room?”

  “Businessman from London here to buy land leaving his phone in the room? He’d have worked from that, emails and everything.”

  I lean forward, pushing back his collar and scarf, checking his pockets.

  “Might be left where he was killed.”

  “If that’s the case, I imagine our murderer has it.” I looked at his hand, at the splattered stains of blue on his fingers. “Wrote something. Fountain pen, maybe. My grandad had a fountain pen that used to leak all over his hands like that.”

  I reached into his inside pockets and pulled out a damp receipt. No pen. Mills passed me an evidence bag for the receipt, which seemed to be from a coffee place in London dated several months ago. I flipped it over, finding a phone number scrawled on the back and a smudged name.

  “Meena. Seems he was hit with the girls,” I muttered, passing it to Mills.

  “Worth calling?”

  “Worth a shot. No pen though.”

  “Why didn’t he clean it?” Mills asked. “The ink? Smart guy like that.”

  “Probably didn’t notice. Too used to it.” I leant back on my heels. “Where is his pen? No point in the killer stealing a pen, that’s not of any use. And if it was a fountain pen, a nice one from the look of him, he wouldn’t just leave lying around.”

  “Maybe the killer wants to sell it?”

  “Don’t get much for someone else’s fountain pen, Mills. And anyway, who takes a pen but leaves a watch?” It was a nice watch, probably German. “Watch must cost more than your car, Mills.”

  “It could have all been in a bag?” Mills suggested, “He’d need one for contracts or a laptop or something. I’ve seen guys like this before they all carry them, little satchels and things.”

  “Any sign of a bag?”

  Dr Crowe shook her head.

  “Let’s hope we can find something in the hotel room. At least some clue to next of kin. I want to talk to this assistant.” I peeled my gloves off and took my coffee back. “Let me know what you find, Lena.”

  Dr Crowe nodded and waved us off, strangely chirpy for an early morning murder.

  As we walked, Mills looked around, scanning the fencing and borders.

  “Hedges aren’t too high, and It’s a pretty open piece of land,” he scratched the back of his head, “you’d have trouble dragging a body in here and dumping under a bonfire without anybody seeing.”

  “So you would,” I agreed, watching the villagers from the road. The man wasn’t one of theirs, so there was little sadness on any of their faces.

  Smith waited for us by the car, notebook in hand.

  “Smith.”

  “According to Mr Goodwin, he was in this field, building the fire until just before lunch. Then they went over to Pickering Farm and were there all afternoon. Nobody came to the field.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Four of them. I have the names of the three other men and Goodwin says his daughter can vouch for him as well. She came to collect him for his tea, said he was sitting at the kitchen at six on the dot, else,” she glanced at the notes, “his wife says he can make his bloody dinner.”

  “How nice. This assistant?”

  “Cynthia Renner. She was here when the news spread out. Came to see what was happening and since her boss had not come back to the hotel room last night, she was worried. Identified him as Mr Hughes, then Morris took her back to the hotel. She has all his contact information and everything. Next of kin.” She ripped the page from her notebook and handed it over to Mills.

  “Thank you, Smith. Get a few statements from some of the locals and put out a word that anyone who saw anything strange should come forward.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Soco about done?”

  “Just clearing up, sir. We’ll be gone in the hour they think.”

  “Get your report to the Chief, tell her we’ll be back once we’ve spoken to this assistant and checked his hotel room.”

  “Yes, sir,” she tucked her notebook away, sticking her hands deep in her pockets.

  “Has the media caught wind?”

  “We don’t think so, sir. But The Post is usually pretty speedy on these things.”

  “Anyone who pitches up,” I ordered darkly, “you just send them my way.”

  “Will do, sir.” She nodded smartly and headed back as we clambered into the car.

  “Where’s this hotel?”

  “Over the bridge. Quite popular apparently in the summer. Lots of tourists like to stay,” Mills told me as he pulled away from the field.

  “Can’t imagine that having a Londoner buying up land will be any good for tourism,” I muttered.

  “Happening a lot these days, I hear. People can’t afford not to sell, and there’s always a need for more housing.”

  “How diplomatic of you, Isaac. What did you study at university?”

  He grinned at me in the mirror, “politics, sir.”

  I glanced at him and looked out of the window at the passing landscape. “And yet you became a detective.”

  “Figured you could do more good out here and then over there. Make a difference.”

  “Good attitude to have.” Certainly make more of a difference than MPs anyway. However, it was hard to tell who the public disliked more.

  “What about you, sir?” he asked, “what did you study?”

  “I didn’t go to university myself. Worked up the food chain here.”

  Mills nodded thoughtfully as we bundled over the uneven lanes. “My mum would say you have a degree in life, then.”

  “Your mum sounds like my kind of person.”

  “I think anyone with a properly functioning set of brain cells would be your sort of person, sir.”

  I laughed at that, turning away from the window and back at him. “There’s not many of them. People either have too few or too many.”

  “Glad to know my mum might make the cut,” he said happily.

  “Well the apple never falls far, does it?”

  Mills turned to me with a beaming smile. “Was that a compliment? For me? I didn’t think you knew how to give compliments.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Piss off.”

  “And to think you used to call me Oscar,” he said wistfully.

  “Well, I don’t anymore, do I?”

  He shrugged. “Only took five weeks.”

  “A month.”

  He shook his head. “Five weeks,” he said surely. I narrowed my eyes, turning to the road ahead as we turned down a long drive lined with trees.

  “Oh, look! We’re here.” Isaac shook his head and pulled up in front of a nice little hotel, the gravel drive crunching beneath the tires.

  “Cynthia Renner?” I checked.

  “Cynthia Renner,” he confirmed, turning off the engine.

  “Let’s go.”

  Three

  Thatcher

  I was wrong about the assistant. I had, in my mind, expected a young woman, fresh-faced and new to this underbelly world she’d ended up in. Someone, and I knew women who’d hate me for saying as much, but somebody doe-eyed and innocent, following Mr Hughes around on his many business adventures.

  Cynthia Renner was not a naïve doe-eyed girl, not wholly anyway.

  Mills and I were taken to a set of a
rmchairs by the fire downstairs, in a room that resembled very much every other country pub I’d even been in. The floors were wooden, the walls half-clad, half papered with a floral, bird design that could be seen in every inn and bed-and-breakfast from Penzance to John O’Groats. The fabrics were a warm mix of tartan and tweed, books about local wildlife, history and landmarks lined the wonky shelves and were neatly stacked on end tables.

  Sat in one of the high-backed chairs, a cup and saucer in one hand, a book in the other, was a woman a little older than me, her brown hair streaked with silver tied into a simple knot at the back of her neck. The residue of eye makeup clung to her lashes, smeared beneath her eyes which were pink and bleary. She’d been crying. She was as smartly dressed as her boss, though in a far more practical way. A high-necked jumper and trousers, proper countryside boots that must have been recently cleaned or were brand new from the look of them. Didn’t look like she’d worn them in properly. She must get some terrible blisters.

  Mills stepped aside as we approached, ducking behind me.

  “Ms Renner?”

  She looked up, scanning us in turn with very shrewd, very experienced blue eyes.

  “Are you the police?”

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I showed her my card, “this is Detective Sergeant Mills. May we?” I indicated the chairs opposite her own.

  She nodded, placing her tea and book down beside an untouched breakfast. Mills craned forward, glancing at the title.

  “You’re Cynthia Renner. You were Mr Hughes’s assistant, yes?”

  “I was.”

  “How long did you work for him, Ms Renner?”

  Mills flipped open his notepad beside me.

  “Oh, a long while,” she sniffed, “it would have been twelve years this year.” Twelve years and still an assistant? Perhaps she was naïve and doe-eyed after all.

  “He was a good boss, I take it?”

  “He was. Always very generous, always gave a Christmas bonus and let me take my birthday off.” it sounded rehearsed, as though these were facts she used to justify working as his assistant for twelve years. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she bent her head to study them, picking at the peeling nail polish on the jagged-edged nails. Bitten, I knew. Dr Crowe was a nail biter too.