There was no sign of any wives or children in the cottage, a few crayon drawings stuck to the fridge, but this wasn’t the family home. I wondered what brought her sons here this early in the morning, saving the smaller lad who pattered around making tea in his pyjama bottoms. No ring on his finger, either.
“Land belonged to your husband,” Jeannie said, “It’s always sad to let go of something with that value.”
“Was Mr Hughes offering a fair deal?” I asked.
“Fairer than that other bloke, the local one. Who was he, Jack?”
“Johnson, mum,” one of the larger men called.
“Heard of him?” She asked me.
“Only recently. Mr Hughes outbid him?”
“He did. Can’t say who’d I be happier with, truth be told.”
The youngest son placed the tea on the table between us, earning himself a pat on the back from his mum,
“Good boy, Alfie. Go and get dressed, you swine.”
Alfie shuffled off, his older brothers laughing as he went.
“Did you ever meet Mr Johnson in person?”
“No. Only ever Mr Hughes.”
“How many times did he meet you himself?”
“Three times. First, when he came to look at the land, then when he made his final offer, which I accepted,” she added disagreeably, “and then the day before last. The day he died, I suppose.”
“How did he seem? When he came to see you? Did it appear like anything was bothering him?”
“You’re asking me? I barely knew the man.”
“I’m asking you, Mrs Babbage. I get the feeling you tell a lot about a man when he sits in your home, stranger or otherwise.”
She squared her shoulder, proud. Every village had a woman like Mrs Babbage. They needed them, else the whole place would fall into crumbs. Shrewd, wise old women who could tell the cut of a man by the simple way he sits or ties his shoes.
“He was in a good mood, happy about something, I think. Didn’t actually tell me what he was here to see me about but was pleased enough when he left.”
“No changes to your deal?”
“None.”
Strange and annoying.
“Did you like him, Mrs Babbage, aside from the fact that he was buying your land?”
“He was polite,” she answered after a moment’s thought, “well enough. Fancier than my liking and if he were doing something good with my land, I’d have nothing bad to say about him. That assistant of this though, she was a bit pursed lipped. Didn’t seem to like me.” She chuckled. “He weren’t too bad.”
“But?”
“But that land was my husbands,” she said firmly, “and I was sorry to see it pass to a man like him.”
“What will you do now?” Jeannie asked, “now that he’s gone?”
Mrs Babbage sighed deeply and picked up her tea, “my boys were here early to discuss just that, weren’t you lads? Find someone else to sell it too, I suppose.”
“Is Johnson a likely candidate?”
“As a last resort, him. There are always people wanting land. More farming or a place to build,” she nodded, “more and more people are moving to the countryside these days. You’re a village lad yourself, aren’t you?” She phrased it like a question, but it wasn’t one.
“I am.”
“Can tell,” she winked. I couldn’t help but smile, but then Sharp’s voice ricocheted through my head and forced my face into sobriety.
“Mrs Babbage I do have to ask where you were on bonfire night. Between four and seven.”
“We were here, all of us, children and all. Had our dinner then went out to the bonfire. Came back after the fireworks. It was a late one, after nine, those children were half dead on their feet.”
“The whole family?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone outside the family vouch for this?”
“The whole village was at that bonfire, lad.”
“We stopped at the pub,” Jack called over, “took the children to the toilet before the fireworks. Around eight, it were by then. Landlord was there,” he told me, “Mr Cravitt, he’ll tell you as much.”
They were a tight-knit family, and as much I might have thought these sons would kill for their mother, I highly doubted their mother would ever let them. Money was hard, times were tough, and losing their buyer only set them back even further.
“Thank you, Mrs Babbage, gents.” I nodded at them. “Might I leave you my card, just in case?”
“Stick it on the fridge, Jack,” she said as she took it from me and passed it over.
“And if I have any more questions…?”
“Any way we can help, my lad.” She patted my hand. “Now sit and drink your tea.”
I slowly sat back down beside a smirking Jeannie, picking up the mug. My phone buzzed again in my pocket. It was Mills. I scanned his text briefly, my eyes catching on “Johnson”, “book” and “Renner.”
It looked like our business in the village would take longer than expected.
Seven
Mills
“He’s sending you alone?” Dr Crowe repeated, standing in the hallway in her lab coat, her pale hair fluffing out from her face. “Really sending you alone? Is it a test?” There were splatters on her coat, and I was fighting my better instincts of asking what they were. When it came to Dr Crowe, it was really better not knowing. Thatcher had told me my first week here, and I’d asked once and severely regretted it. Now, when Thatcher gave me a warning, I held onto it.
“He really is, and no, I don’t think so. I hope not. Would he do that?” I was suddenly worried, pausing with my scarf halfway around my neck.
Dr Crowe’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Probably not. No. He hasn’t before, not to my knowledge.”
“He hasn’t?”
“But I’m not partial to much of his doings, and he’s never responded to any sergeant like you before, so really who knows? Hard to tell with Thatcher, even Sharp can’t tell what he’s up to all the time.”
“Reassuring, thank you, Lena,” I said dryly as I tied my scarf.
She was the third person to stop and ask me about this. It was taking me half an hour to leave the bloody station. She was the only one to have abandoned her work and ask me, but that was her business, I supposed.
They were all surprised. I had been, a little, but they were positively bewildered. They had all known Thatcher a lot longer than me, especially Sharp, who had watched me leave our office with a smug, proud look on her usually stern face. She’d even winked at me, which had been a shock.
It was strange, apparently, for him to send me alone. He didn’t have a history of giving his sergeants free rein, especially after only being here a few months. But then they were also surprised by how quickly he’d learnt my name. I felt a bit bad for his previous sergeants, one of whom now worked in London, the other who had simply left the force and now, I was told, owned a pub down in Lincolnshire.
“Well, he really must like you,” Dr Crowe went on.
“He won’t like me if I never actually go,” I gently pressed. “I’m supposed to be back by lunch.”
“Oh, of course. Off you go then, my lad.” She stepped out of my way, the expression on her face reminding me of my mum when she was about to snap a picture.
I did my coat up and hurried outside lest someone else stop and question me. I’d found the address from Johnson’s office on his website. It wasn’t far a walk, so I started off, pushing through the cold November wind.
It was one of those tall, modern buildings that were mostly glass, concrete and iron. Neat flower beds lined the small courtyard outside, stone benches that looked entirely unsuitable for actually sitting on in pristine condition beside them.
I stepped into the foyer, the glass walls trapping the heat inside. Everything was white inside, like a hospital, and even smelt vaguely like one, like citrus and bleach. There was a woman at the sleek desk in the centre, in front of the sweeping staircase
that ran up the first floor, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her dress free of any creases and her lipstick applied with a precision that would impress a scientist. I sent Thatcher a quick text, letting him know I was here and walked up to her.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” she asked in a routine voice.
“Detective Sergeant Mills,” I showed her my ID, “I was hoping to talk to Mr Johnson.”
She blinked. “Is he in trouble?”
“No, miss.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you, I’m afraid.”
Her face fell slightly, but she pushed a button on her intercom and spoke into it. “Mr Johnson? There’s a policeman here to see you. A detective.”
“A detective?” came the muffled reply. “Send him up, please, Helen.”
Helen smiled up at me and stood up from her desk, waving me towards the staircase. She walked me up, stopping outside a set of huge wooden doors that wouldn’t be out of place in a castle and knocked smartly.
“Come in,” the same voice from the intercom called out, now muffled by the wood.
She pushed the door open, letting me inside and shut it again. I could just hear her heeled feet clipping back down to her desk.
I walked into the room, amazed. The office was huge, the walls panelled with pale wood, the floor a polished concrete. The far wall was glass, looking out over the sandstone city. Bookshelves lined one end, neatly ordered with leather-backed editions that barely looked read. I’d been inside Inspector Thatcher’s house once and saw his books. Hundreds of them, stuffed in where he could find a space, dog-eared and well-read. The difference, I figured, between some who loved books and someone who loved the image of them.
A coat hung on a stand, a pair of old muddy boots shoved beneath it, silk scarves that surely didn’t do much to keep your neck warm draped over the hooks.
Across the long room, opposite the ordered shelves, was a massive desk, on the edge of which, watching me interestedly, was who I took to be Mr Johnson himself.
“Mr Johnson?” I queried.
He nodded. “Correct.”
“Detective Sergeant Mills.”
“Welcome, Detective. I take it you are here about Mr Hughes?”
“You heard about what happened?”
“Briefly, on the news. Please, sit.” He waved to the chair by the desk before walking around to the other side and sitting, hands holding the armrests.
I sat down, looking around the room as Thatcher would. There was a marble bust in the corner of the room behind him. I had no idea of who. The desk was as ordered as the rest of the place, a fountain pen placed before him, a picture frame facing away from me, a small clock to one side, a book to the other. A familiar book, but I wasn’t sure where I’d seen it before. Perhaps Thatcher had a copy. I wouldn’t be surprised, his house was basically a library.
“I understand you were also bidding on the same plot of land as Mr Hughes,” I began, taking out my notebook and flipping through to an empty page.
“A good few acres,” he told me. “Fine piece of land. Cigarette?” He held out a box.
“No, thank you.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Your office, sir.”
“Good man. People are bloody sensitive about it these days.” He lit one up and leaned back in his chair, crossing a leg over the other. Sensitive about lung cancer, generally speaking, yes. But it was easier to let men like this feel in control if you actually wanted them to answer your questions and not start hammering on about lawyers and such like.
“He outbid you, I believe?”
His face twitched slightly, affronted pride that he shrugged off. “He did. A lot of money too.”
“Must have been disappointing.”
He splayed his hands out haughtily, “there are plenty of villages around here with land to spare,” he grinned cockily.
“Did you meet him in person?”
“A few times. He was staying here in the city for a little while. Article about him in the Post,” he drummed his fingers on his desk.
“I know, I read it.”
“Shame that the old bat sold to him, rather than a local man,” he puffed his chest out partially, “but that’s money for you isn’t it?” He took a long, slow drag.
“What would you have done with the land if you bought it?”
He blew out a languid curl of smoke. “There were a few options.”
“None that the locals would have supported, I take it.”
He cocked his head to one side, an eyebrow flicking up. “What makes you say that?”
“I met a few of them.”
Johnson laughed, flicking ash into a crystal bowl, “odd breed, aren’t they? You’re not one of them?” I thought briefly of Thatcher and what he might say to such a statement.
“Born and raised in the city.”
He nodded with camaraderie. “Me too.”
“Always liked the countryside though,” I added, “good to see some nature, get some fresh air.”
“Certainly is,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to the table.
“When was the last time you spoke to Mr Hughes?”
“Would have been the morning of his little interview.” He forced a smile. “He’d had word from the old lady,”
“Mrs Babbage,” I quickly corrected.
“Mrs Babbage. Closed the deal, came to tell me.”
“In person?”
“No. Gave me a call. She still selling?” He asked me abruptly.
“I really wouldn’t know.”
“You haven’t been to see the old thing?”
“Detective Inspector Thatcher has gone to see Mrs Babbage,” I replied shortly.
“Thatcher,” he murmured, flicking off some more ash, “familiar name. Was he the chap that solved that case last year? The man who was found shot over by the minster?”
“Yes.”
“I hear he’s a good detective,” he looked down at his cigarette, “best in the city.”
“I think so, sir.”
“Shame if she doesn’t sell. From what I gathered, she rather needed the money.”
“I’m more focused on finding a murderer, Mr Johnson.”
“Course you are,” he beamed. “Good man. A bit of a shock, I suppose. Hope Cynthia’s alright.”
Cynthia Renner? I made to ask him more about her but stopped myself, making a small note for Thatcher. He’d decide what he wanted to do with that.
“She seemed shocked,” I told him, “rather upset.”
He looked faintly surprised and turned to stare out one of the many windows, “Yes, well she would be. I like to think that Helen down there would be equally distraught.”
He got up suddenly, putting out his cigarette as he started wandering his office. He was as well dressed as Hughes. A tailored suit, smart leather shoes, fancy watch. His haircut probably cost more than my coat, and his skin had that happy flushed colour of men who never worried over paying their bills on time.
“Did you consider him a business rival?”
“I suppose so,” Johnson mused. “Bit of a feeding ground sometimes. But he would have slunk back South again, eventually.”
“Quite soon, from what his assistant told us.”
“Always do those London sorts. Can’t stay for long, can they?”
City boys, I thought, as if he were any different.
“Mr Johnson, where were you the evening of the fifth? Between the hours of four and seven?”
“Me? You hardly think me a killer, do you?”
“Standard procedure, Mr Johnson. I have to ask.”
“Well, I was here until five. I see my days to the end like my employees,” he said, “and then I went home.”
“You didn’t join in with any of the entertainment? No bonfires, fireworks?”
“I’m not eleven anymore, so no. I didn’t.”
“And can anyone vouch for you?”
“Helen will tell you that I was here until five. And then I was home all evening with my wife.” He walked back to the desk and flipped the frame around. A wedding photograph, himself in an even finer suit than this, holding the hand of his bride.
“We’ll need to confirm that with her,” I told him.
He nodded and pulled a card from his wallet, scribbling on the back of it. “Our home number. She’s usually in, works from home, the lucky duck.” He smiled again, boisterous and eager. Co-operative, I noted.
“Thank you, Mr Johnson,” I placed the card in with my notes and shut the book, dropping it into my pocket, “I think that’s everything for now. If you think of anything that might be useful,” I slid my own card on the desk. He looked at it like I’d dropped a dirty sock in front of him.
“Please get in touch,” I added with my own smug smile. I rose from the chair, my eyes falling on the book again. The title jumped at me, as if I ought to know it. Something from school, perhaps, or college.
It could wait, I decided, shaking Johnson’s waiting outstretched hands and making my escape from the office, nodding once to Helen and out into the fresh air.
As I made my way back to the station, I passed a group of students, rushing along with their bags weighing them down on one side. I thought back briefly to my days as a student, and about how Thatcher had never himself gone to university. It was dreadful to think about what he would be like if he had. He’d be almost unbearable.
I froze in the road, glancing back at the students as the book popped into my head again.
Ridolfi, that was it. The Ridolfi plot to overthrow Elizabeth I. Interesting reading material for a man such as Johnson but I supposed men like him liked to know their history, liked to know as much as they could, really. Liked to be smart.
It still nagged at me, and I couldn’t think why, strolling back to the station, it bothered me. It would come, my mum always told me, once you stop thinking about it. And I had more important things to be thinking about, anyway.
A murder victim, for one. And Johnson’s casual mention of Mr Hughes” personal assistant for another. Men like that don’t usually know the names of other people’s assistants; I highly doubted that Hughes could name Helen. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Thatcher, ultimately ending our lunch plans, but since he was in the village already, he might as well check in with her, anyway.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 7
