Eight
Thatcher
Jeannie and I left Oxeye Cottage, wandering out into the village. She slumped against the garden wall and tipped her head back to the sky.
“Do you also feel like you’ve just been told off by your Gran and you can’t think why?”
I chuckled, pulling my phone out to see what Mills wanted. He’d been to see the rival, made a few notes, but apparently, Mr Johnson had mentioned Cynthia Renner by name, casually enough that it caused his interest. Lunch was off, and I had wanted to have another little chat with Ms Renner at some point.
“Are we going?” she asked. “And can I drive?”
“Not yet, there’s someone else I want to have a word with. And no, you cannot drive.” She’d held out a hand for the keys, and I grabbed it, lacing our fingers together and pulled her along. We’d walk to the hotel, maybe see whatever Hughes saw that day, something that took him off the main roads.
She arched a brow. “I thought you had a lunch date with Mills?”
“I’ve replaced him. You’re much prettier, anyway.”
“How unkind. He’s a very dashing lad.”
I pulled her closer into my side. “Dashing?”
“Yes, dashing. Like the hero from a novel.”
“And what am I?”
“You’re from the same novel,” she looked up at me, “only you’re that tall, brooding man in the big ugly house all on his own.”
“My house is lovely.”
“Your house looks like an antique shop exploded inside it.”
That was fair. When I started repairing my grandfather’s old coach house, I brought everything that was in it with me, squeezing it into every spare nook and cranny I could afford. It would all go back, eventually.
“It’s got character,” I said to Jeannie, “unlike yours.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. I smiled, and we reached the farmer’s field where the bonfire lay. Cynthia Renner stood by the fence, looking out into the spare empty expanse. I slowly let go of Jeannie’s hand and walked towards the assistant.
“Ms Renner?”
She jumped, placing a hand over her heart. “Oh, Detective, you scared me.”
“My apologies. What brings you out here?” I glanced about. “It’s a miserable day to be standing out on your own.”
She looked back to the field. “Just wanted to pay my respects, I suppose. Should leave some flowers. People usually leave flowers.” She studied the field, the matted grass where the bonfire had stood, sighed deeply, then turned back to me as if only remembering I was there. “I’m sorry, detective, did you need something?”
“I wanted to chat with you a little more about your boss. My friend and I were just coming to meet you at the hotel.”
Ms Renner glanced over my shoulder to where Jeannie stood in the road. “Your friend is a reporter. She interviewed Mr Hughes.”
“Journalist, it was part of an ongoing series she’s doing.” A series I ought to read if I ever wanted Jeannie to show up at my antique-shop-house again.
“I see.”
“Why don’t we walk back to the hotel?”
“Too far and too cold.” Ms Renner shook her head. “Pub’s closer and I could do with being around some more people, even if they are, well, the odd sort.”
Unsure of quite what to say to that, I merely took a step back and offered her a hand down from the verge, back onto the street.
“Ms Renner, hello again,” Jeannie said warmly.
“Miss Gray, was it?”
“Jeannie, please.”
Cynthia nodded, sticking her hands into her pockets as we walked back the way we came. “Why were you walking to the hotel?” she asked me. “Makes better sense to drive, surely?”
“I wanted to follow the route Mr Hughes took,” I explained as we made our way towards the pub. “He walked, after all. I thought something might have caught his eye as he went, drew him from the road.”
“Mr Hughes didn’t have much of an appreciation for nature, detective,” she said. “Not unless it is shiny and pulled up from the earth.”
“He didn’t have a car with him?” Jeannie asked curiously.
“We drove up together, but he didn’t like the thought of bringing the car down these roads,” she indicated her muddy boots, “save him the trouble of cleaning it, I suppose. Or my trouble.”
I smirked at that. “Did he keep anything in his car?”
“No. Nothing fancy either. He was never one for driving, always took a taxi when he could. Hated it when people let their cars fill up with useless junk.”
He would have hated Mills’s car. The thing was a bin on wheels.
“I let one of your officers have a look at it,” she said, somewhat unimpressed, “the uniformed girl.”
“Smith?”
“That’s right.”
As far as I knew Smith hadn’t pulled any evidence from the car, nothing noteworthy.
“He didn’t keep anything in the glovebox?” I asked, sticking my hands in my pockets as Jeannie bumped into my side.
“Just the registration paperwork. Maybe a packet of mints.”
“You’ll be driving it back to London, then?” Jeannie asked.
“Suppose so. Take it to his house. Haven’t the foggiest what happens with all of that, now,” she sighed, glancing meaningfully in my direction.
We reached the pub, a quintessential building of stone with a creaking sign with a picture of a dog on it. It was quiet this morning, a few people hunched over mugs of tea and coffee with newspapers unfolded or leant back on their phones. Jeannie took Ms Renner over to a quiet table at the back whilst I headed to the bar.
“Help you, sir?” the landlord, a tall, burly man dressed in what looked like a very itchy jumper, asked.
“Three teas, please,” I told him. “Are you by any chance Mr Cravitt?”
“I am.”
“Detective Inspector Thatcher. I’m here looking into the murder that happened a few days ago.”
“Miserable business,” Mr Cravitt muttered as he set about making tea. “Good thing we changed the field, eh?”
“Does that happen often?”
“Oh, there’s always someone coming in with new ideas, isn’t there? Young’uns thinking, they can do a better job and whatnot. Third time,” he told me with a nod, “third year in a row they’ve done this. Mrs Babbage’s land one year, McKay’s the year after that, and this time it was old Goodwin’s farm. And every year, like clockwork, they realise they’ve buggered it, and we all end up on Pickering’s farm, anyway.” He gave an annoyed shake of the head. “I tell you. Waste of time and waste of firewood.”
“Were you at the bonfire?”
“In and out. People came in for a drink every now and then.” He shrugged. “I missed the fireworks. Three Labradors, I’m more needed in here with them.”
“I understand that Mrs Babbage and her family came in that evening, around eight?”
“Oh yes, you can hear that lot coming, all those little ones. Eight grandchildren, hard to miss. And those sons,” another shake of his head, “have you met them?”
“Hard to miss.”
“True enough.”
“Did you ever meet Mr Hughes?”
“Mr Hughes?” Mr Cravitt considered it for a moment. “No. Came in once or twice for a quick pint but he never stayed very long. Don’t think he was all that comfortable here, not like his usual haunts down London, I reckon.”
“Probably not. He came alone?”
“He did.”
“Thank you, Mr Cravitt, you’ve been very helpful.”
I paid for the teas and carted the tray over to the table where Jeannie and Cynthia sat.
“Took a while,” Jeannie commented,
“Had a nice chat with the landlord, lovely bloke.” I looked at the assistant. “Tea, Ms Renner?”
“Thank you. You said you wanted to talk more about Mr Hughes?”
“Yes.” I shrugged my coat
off over the back of the chair and folded my arms on the table. “My sergeant went to meet Mr Johnson today.”
“Kerry Johnson?” She blinked. “Why?”
“They were business rivals, weren’t they? The motive is there, we just wanted to meet him. Check his alibi.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know yet, Ms Renner. I’ll have to talk to my sergeant.”
“Of course. Detective?”
“Yes.”
“When can I leave? I’m staying in a hotel, far away from home, my brother’s all alone down there, and I am quite ready to leave this village and go back to London.”
“I understand, Ms Renner. But you are the only person here who was close to Mr Hughes, who knew him. Your help is invaluable.”
“I can’t see how much more I can help!” she argued.
“Maybe if you just tell us more about what he was like that day,” Jeannie suggested softly. “You saw him when he left. How did he seem?”
“Same as ever. Business was going well, and he was happy. He didn’t come back to the hotel around dinner, so I thought he was off celebrating somewhere.”
“You yourself didn’t go down into the village? See the bonfire or the fireworks?”
“No, I didn’t. And I believe I already covered all of this with the police,” she sent Jeannie a withering look, “the actual police.”
“We’re just trying to understand Mr Hughes’s character a bit more, Ms Renner.” I shifted forward, taking her attention from a scowling Jeannie. “Figure out where he went. He wasn’t found in the bonfire until the morning, but he was killed before then. He must have gone somewhere else.”
“I wouldn’t know where. There’s nothing around here to go and see. It’s not as if he popped into the cinema.”
“Is there another route to the hotel that he might have taken?”
“I don’t know,” she said exasperatedly, “I might have worked for him for twelve years, but we weren’t friends. I have no more an idea as to what he was up than I would about you, detective.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Jeannie straighten, her head tilting to one side. She probably knew the routines and habits of all her co-workers, the same way I could always guess where Sharp or Dr Crowe were at any given time. Twelve years, a long time to be around somebody so much. Long enough to learn their habits, the little ways they think and act.
“What was his love life like, Ms Renner?”
“What does that matter?”
“It could help give some insight into where he went.”
She sighed, drawing her finger around the rim of her cup. “He was a bit of a player, though I hate to say. Always seeing all these different girls every week, but he never really took anyone’s fancy when we came on business like this, to other places. He was too focused on work.”
“What about Meena?”
“Oh, she was just the next in a very long line. He would have gotten bored with her, eventually. He always did.”
“But never of you?”
“We were a team, and a good one.”
“You said before that Meena could have changed the way he thought, the way he did business.”
“He might have fancied himself up a bit or started doing something new for her, but he got that way with girls,” Ms Renner clarified. “He’d meet one, start wearing new clothes or eating new food, and then she’d leave, and he’d be back to his usual self again. It wouldn’t have lasted. I suspect it was already fizzing out, that’s why he came up here so much earlier than we needed to.”
“They met a while ago?”
“Months ago. Almost eight months, I think.”
“He carried a receipt in his pocket, the one she wrote her phone number on. It was on him when he died.”
Her eyes widened, her expression faltering slightly, and she looked away to study the other people in the pub. “That was unlike him. Hardly the sentimental sort. Probably just forgot it was in his pocket, silly thing. He had a habit of leaving things lying around.”
“The maid in the hotel said something similar. Did you pack his things?”
“Of course,” she said brusquely. “If I hadn’t, we never would have left the hotel until afternoon. I always did, he never minded, knew where to find everything.”
“Was he that careless with other things? His laptop, phone?”
“No. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he were. He got quite easily distracted, if something pretty or shiny went by. You probably picked up on that,” she said to Jeannie, “always looking around, seeing who or what was wandering past.”
Jeannie nodded slightly, but there was a faint crease between her brows that caught my eye.
“Thank you, Ms Renner,” I said to bring things to a close. “I think that’s all for today.”
“I need to go home at some point, detective,” Ms Renner pressed.
“As soon as possible, Ms Renner. The more you help us, the sooner that will be.”
I pulled my coat from the chair and took Jeannie’s arm, pulling her up from her chair. She smiled at Ms Renner and let me tug her along past the landlord who gave me a deep nod, and outside. A few feet away from the pub door, I let go and pulled my coat on.
“Twelve years. Twelve years in those close quarters with someone, working and travelling, and she wouldn’t be able to even hazard a guess to where he went? She’s either blind or stupid.”
“Or lying,” I took her arm again, leading her over to the car.
“You think so?”
I opened the car door for her, waiting for her to climb in then closed and walked around to the driver’s seat, turning the engine on to get the heat going, but not yet leaving.
“You were frowning,” I commented. “You didn’t seem to fully believe her either.”
Jeannie turned in her seat, folding her legs up beneath her. “He was distracted, during the interview, always looking and what was coming and going but not leering, you know? More of like an instinct. Making sure he knew what was happening.”
“On edge?”
“Maybe. People like him usually have enemies. Or at least the sudden arrival of young ladies with paternity tests that throw the odd spanner in the works. And certainly,” she held up a finger, “not the sort to just let his laptop and phone go missing. His whole business was on those devices, his whole life. That would be like me losing my memory drives.”
“And the girl’s receipt?”
“Why would you work for a man who barely acknowledges your presence, who treats you like a maid or a mum, who makes enemies all over, pissing people off and going through women like a Pez dispenser?”
“For twelve years,” I added.
“For twelve years.”
“You think she loves him?”
“I think she’s there for more than just the steady hours and holiday bonuses, Thatch. She was getting something out of working with him, even if it was just around him.”
“She knew his name. Johnson, knew his first name.”
“Not that weird, Thatcher. They were in the same business.”
“Kerry Johnson.” I started driving. “Do you know many men called Kerry who have it widely known they were called Kerry? Why would someone’s assistant ever need to know that?”
“Maybe he’s very proud of his name.”
“He knew hers too,” I murmured as we left the village behind.
“Most people do remember names, Max Thatcher.”
I smiled at her. “I knew yours, straight away.”
“Names don’t matter that much. Thatch. People matter.”
But names were telling, I knew that much. Very telling.
Nine
From the shadows
There was a tension growing in the village. The murder swam around their heads, turning them all suspicious and uncertain. They were a close community, always had been, but none of them had been murderers before. Doubt circled around, names muttered in quiet conversation between bent heads, narro
w-eyed stares following people as went about their lives. They all avoided the field, skirting around it or taking shortcuts. None of them seemed to know what to make of it all, what to do about the thought of one them being guilty. Hard to tell which one, luckily.
And then there were the others that came to the village, prying and poking about the field and the hotel room. The detective, pitching up in his long wool coat, the collar popped up around his neck. I wasn’t even sure he was the inspector at first. Rough stubble lined his jaw, his grey eyes bleak and shadowed, clutching his coffee cup like an addict. He spoke little, just walked and looked and watched while his puppy of a sergeant made notes.
Thatcher.
His name was familiar to me the first day I’d heard it. Thatcher. Murders didn’t happen all that often, not really in places like these. Nothing that made the national news, anyway.
It wasn’t hard to look him up and dig around a bit. I found some of his old cases in police statements, the odd article from local newspapers. Murders, break-ins, arson, all of them solved and all of them solved fairly quickly. He was a good detective, all the stories seemed to say. The village seemed to think so too, his name familiar to a few and once they got talking, it grew even more. He’d find them, they all said to one another, then everything would be back to normal.
That was worrying.
Not about things being normal. I was more than ready for life to get back to normal, get back to what it should be now that Hughes wasn’t around anymore. But Thatcher was worrying.
He’d come again today, a close call, asking more questions about Samuel Hughes. About his life and things, who he was, where he went. He didn’t get many answers, not from anyone he asked. Hughes was a mystery, a dead little mystery. This time he hadn’t come alone. The journalist was with him. I waited until they left the village, watching them drive away, and then I pulled out my phone and called him with slightly shaky hands.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 8
