“People do mean things,” she had told me as she patched it up, “when they don’t think they have a choice. When they get pushed into a corner, they push back.”
Apparently, that was what I did to the boy at school. Something about a girl’s ponytail getting pulled and me wanting to tell the teacher. You get pushed, when you put them in a corner, when you scare them, when they don’t know what else to do. Back then though you got a kiss and a biscuit from your mum, a Spiderman plaster on your knee. Now, you got killed in the woods and buried in a bonfire.
I put the picture back in the box, but I didn’t wrap it back up, nor did I shut the lid.
Hughes backed someone into a corner, and they could find one way out of it. They pushed back.
I leant back in the chair, taking another swig of beer, spinning around the room.
If someone ever found Mills’s notebook, they could tell a lot about him. All his thoughts laid out for anyone to see. He made notes of place and times, if ever anyone wanted to know where he was, that’s where to check. I hoped, I begged in fact whoever might be listening, that Hughes’s phone was much the same.
Tomorrow’s business, though. Tonight, it was beer and whatever I could find in the cupboard.
Thirteen
Thatcher
My timing with the roof was well done. Rain streamed down from the sky, endlessly bouncing off cars and umbrellas. People scurried along, hunched under their coats, running towards buildings and buses, splashing up puddles from the cobbles as they went. I kept my umbrella held high, trying to avoid colliding with anyone else. Perhaps not the best day to walk into work, but I’d wanted to stop for coffee on the way.
“Sir!” Mills waved at me across the road, jogging across, his coat over his already wet head of curls.
“Morning, Mills. Did you have a quick swim on your way here?”
He sent me an unamused stare that had a grin growing over my face. I held my umbrella out slightly, letting him shelter beneath it as he fixed his coat and tucked his hands into his pockets.
“My umbrella broke,” he told me over the rain, “right as I left the house.”
“Only the one? Always be prepared, Mills.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”
“You at least have a spare change of clothes? Sharp won’t think well of you dripping all over the station.”
“Luckily, yes. My gym bag is there. I always have a spare shirt.”
“You go to the gym?”
“You don’t?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You look as if you do, sir.”
It was all the work on the coaching house. The hard labour seemed to pay off.
“Flattering as this all is, Mills. We should probably save it for some other time. Inappropriate office talk and all that,” I joked as we reached the door of the station.
“Naturally, sir.” He opened the door and held it aside as I let down the umbrella, shaking off the droplets.
“Any word on the phone yet, do you know?” I asked Mills as we strode through the hallway together.
“I’ve not had any word. I’ll pop by IT, see if they have a timeframe.”
“I’ll go. That amount of water shouldn’t be around computers and such. Go and change, I’ll meet you in the office, no doubt Sharp will want a quick word.”
“Yes, sir.”
IT was a rather small space, cloistered and covered in wires, whirring machines pushed against the walls. A few dim lights provided the light, the blinds almost always shut, and the permanent smell of coffee clung to the air. I stuck my head through the door, watching as our resident genius bent over his computer. His long fingers flew over his keyboard, a few discarded mugs surrounding him, the light of the screen giving his dark skin an ominous glow.
“Morning, Wasco.”
His head snapped up, glasses halfway down his nose. He pushed them back up, peering up at him from his mop of thick black hair.
“Morning.”
“How’s it going with that phone?”
“We’re not far off. Should be today. He had a few measures in place that have made it difficult to get it without wiping it. But we’re nearly there.”
“Good man. Let us know as soon as.”
“Will do.”
I grinned at his dishevelled face and headed up to our office, where Mills was now dry and buttoning up his new shirt.
“Better?”
“Much. What did IT say?”
“Should be today. Hughes kept it pretty safe.”
“If he had as much on there as we hope he did, he’d want to keep that safe.”
“Here’s hoping that will be the case. Any word from Sharp?”
“Not yet, sir, but Dr Crowe dropped this off.” He held up a folder. “Blood samples match Hughes, we know it was definitely him, and a fingerprint of his on the phone. All his.”
“Good,” I leant against my desk, “that’s good.”
“Do you think the killer will be looking for the phone?”
“I’m surprised they didn’t find it sooner.”
“Maybe they forgot where to look. If they didn’t know their way around the woods, it’d be easy to get confused.”
“Rules out most of the locals, then doesn’t it? Apparently, it’s popular for dog walking.”
Mills laughed. “How do you know that, sir?”
I pulled out my phone and opened the internet, showing him the page. “Woodland trusts. Best local dog-walking routes.”
“It’s number four.”
“Decent ranking.”
“Isn’t it just? Get some layers on, Mills. We’re heading out again soon.”
“Sir?” He passed my phone back.
“We’ll head to Johnson’s office today, see what I make of him. Whilst I talk to him, you talk to his assistant a bit more, see if she opens up at all.”
“Should we mention the phone?”
“Not yet. Wait to see if anything happens first. But if we need to make a few people squirm or pull the rug out from under their feet, it’ll be a handy way of doing that.”
“What’s this about squirming?” Sharp’s voice called from the doorway. She stood there, arms folded, her hair in a neat bun at the back of her head, her long black dress crisp and her heeled feet tapping the floor.
“We’re going back to Johnson’s office,” I told her. “I want to meet the man myself, see what he says. See what his assistant might be able to tell us too.” I nodded to Mills who was already pulling a new jumper on, looking at his damp coat unhappily.
“And we might mention the phone if it comes up.”
She raised a groomed eyebrow. “And how likely is that?”
“Remains to be seen, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she hummed. “Good work on finding the phone. IT says they’re almost in.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Put another word to the village,” she told us. “If we mention the woods, then perhaps a few people might be able to narrow down the events of the day a little better. I can’t imagine that nobody saw him go in or suggested the route.”
“Landlord mentioned that he went in there a few times,” I recalled. “Might have picked up on using the path through the woods from there.”
“Mills, you go and see about that. DCI Thatcher’s old enough to go and speak to Johnson on his own.”
“Your confidence in me is astounding,” I placed a hand over my heart.
Sharp rolled her eyes and walked away.
“You’re off to the village then?” I asked Mills.
“Seems so,” he muttered, picking up his damp coat.
“Take a jacket from tactical,” I told him, “and leave that near the radiator.”
“I should keep a spare one of these as well, I suppose.” Mills draped it over the back of his chair which he dragged to the wall.
“Most likely.”
“Do you?”
“No. But I have an umbrella,” I
raised it up and gave him a pat on the shoulder as I passed, heading back out into the rain. I stopped and stared at the sky.
I think I’d take a bus.
The building was as ugly as Mills had described. A great big cube of glass and white painted brick, the floor concrete and great slabs of the stuff rose up to the glass balcony that lined the room. Fluorescent light like that in a supermarket filtered down, the smell of cleaning supplies overpowering the diffuser that sat on the reception desk.
The girl there looked up as I walked in, her eyes roaming curiously. She smiled and stood as I reached her, flicking her long ponytail off her shoulder.
“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”
I pulled my ID out. “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself. “I believe you met my sergeant the other day.”
“Of course. How can I help you, detective?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr Johnson if I can.”
Her eyes lowered to the desk quickly, then to the intercom and finally back up to me. “He’s in a meeting right now, sir. You might have to come back.”
“I can wait,” I told her happily, glancing at the uncomfortable-looking chairs that sat against the walls. I had the horrible feeling that they were also concrete, and my body was in enough hardship as it was.
“Let me go up,” she said, “and let him know.” She gave me a professional smile and hurried up the staircase, knocking on a set of wide wooden doors, pausing a moment, then opened them a fraction and slipped in.
I chose not to sit. Instead, I paced around the foyer, crossing to the desk and glancing down. The computer screen was filled by a screensaver, pictures of buildings that I took to be Johnson’s, sliding across the screen. A small calendar lay to one side, schedules and notes filling each day.
No meeting scheduled, I noticed but what did I know about businesses like these. Spur of moment meetings no doubt happened all the time. Personal matters, perhaps. Or outright lying, either one.
Nothing else sat on the desk. No personal effects of the assistant; no photographs, no trinkets. Not even a fun pen or a post-it note. It was tidy, minimal, almost clinical.
The rest of the room was much the same. Nothing that made it the sort of place you’d want to sit and wait. No magazines about architecture, no information about what the company does. In fact, without the address Mills gave me, I’d hardly know it was here. People must walk past every day without knowing. Perhaps given the man’s reputation, and the colourful opinion Mrs Babbage had about him, that was rather the idea. People couldn’t hold protests if they didn’t really know where you were.
The doors opened again, and the girl returned, standing at the top of the stairs and waved me up.
“He says it has to be short,” she told me.
“Short it is,” I answered.
She nodded and opened the door for me, closing it quickly and quietly the moment my feet were inside. I looked around the office. I hated it. However, it didn’t have the same bleached feeling of downstairs. It was more personal, even though it was ridiculously tidy. I knew enough about Jeannie to know that if I opened a cupboard, the mess might be neatly hidden away in there.
I turned to the grand old desk that looked like it could belong in a mariner’s museum, surprised. A man, Johnson, sat there, and opposite him, looking slightly nauseous, was…
“Ms Renner,” I greeted her, “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I invited her,” the man said, rising from his chair, “all alone in that hotel. I thought she could use some time chatting with a more familiar world.” He strode towards me as he spoke and stopped, holding out his hand, “Johnson. And you must be the detective inspector Thatcher.”
“I am.”
“I met your sergeant. A good lad. Answered his questions.” He held his arms behind his back. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to meet myself, Mr Johnson. Clarify a few things, if that’s alright.”
“By all means. Ms Renner, I’m sure Helen can find you a cup of tea or something,”
“Thank you, but I best get back. I’m due to call my brother this morning. Detective,” she pulled her coat on,
“Ms Renner.”
She nodded to us both, cheeks pink, glancing down at her feet and she left the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
I sat down, glancing at the closed door and then to the man himself.
“You know each other?”
“We met once when Mr Hughes was here. Couldn’t remember her name, Helen had to find it,” he said smoothly. “Thought it might be good for her to get out of the village, see someone a little more familiar. We come from the same sort of world, after all.”
“I quite understand,” I told him, “acquaintances can be very important.”
“Have you gotten anywhere with the case?” Johnson asked as he sat himself.
“We are making some progress. We managed to find the exact location where Mr Hughes was killed.”
His eyes widened. “Indeed? That is good news. And the suspects?”
“I can’t digress quite so much with you on those matters, Mr Johnson.”
“Of course not. You’ll forgive me. I was always fond of a classic whodunit. My wife even bought me the entire works of Sir Arthur Conan himself last birthday. Leather-bound.” He nodded to the shelf behind me.
“Quite the gift.” I wondered if it had ever actually been read.
“I’m a lucky man,” he smiled. “What can I clarify for you?”
“Your relationship with Mr Hughes. Working relationship, I mean.”
He laughed boisterously. “I wouldn’t say that we had one.”
“No?”
“No. Met him once when he was in the city and talked a bit of business. But most of the interaction happened through the woman selling the land. I’d give her a number; she’d come back with his. On and on it went.”
“But he offered just that bit more?”
“More than it was quite worth it, really.”
“So, you’re not likely to buy it now? Now that he’s gone.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective?”
“Not at all. Just asking.”
His face relaxed, and he shrugged nonchalantly. “If I don’t, I doubt anyone else will. The village has a bit of a bad image at the moment. It’ll need someone like me to come in and help.”
“Will you match the price he gave her?”
He leant back in his chair, folding his arms. “I don’t imagine I can. I don’t think anyone would give her that price.”
“What would you do with the land?”
“Develop it, most likely. The countryside is becoming more and more popular these days. We need something to pull the tourists in.”
“The open spaces and historic sights don’t do enough of that?”
Johnson laughed and waggled a finger at me, “not as much as they used to. Times are changing.”
“Not for the folk in those places. They quite like them as they are. Why not boost tourism here?”
“What more could I do? The place is riddled with tourists in the summer. But out there, all that space.”
“Space you’re going to fill?”
“No more than Hughes was planning to. Are you familiar with his work?”
“Vaguely.”
“Last year,” he leant towards me, “he bought this plot of land down in Kent, I think it was. Beautiful. Amazing views up on the hill overlooking a postcard town. And he put, on top of that lovely hill, a brand-new industrial estate. Suddenly this town and these little country roads are filled with lorries. Lots of unhappy people, detective. And I doubt his plans for that village were any better. I imagine the locals were unhappy.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Another shrug. “I couldn’t say.”
There was a knock at the door, and Helen’s face peered in. “Sorry, Mr Johnson. Your wife, sir.”
“Send her in, send her in
.” He waved, standing up and crossing the room as she entered, plating a kiss on her face.
“Darling, this is Detective Inspector Thatcher, asking about Mr Hughes. Detective, my wife, Sophia.”
“I thought you already talked to the police,” she frowned.
“I did, but they are thorough.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re almost late for our appointment. Doctor’s appointment,” he told me. “We’re trying for a baby.”
“Good luck to you both.” I stood up from the chair, smiling at his wife. “If I might ask, before I leave, you were both at home, correct, on the night of the fifth?”
She looked to her husband and then back to me. “We were,” she said tightly. “Had an early night. The dogs don’t like fireworks.”
“Thank you. Good day to you both, and again, good luck.”
I opened the door and strolled downstairs, back out into what was now a torrential downpour. Bad to worse, it seemed. I hoped the roof held up.
Fourteen
Jeannie
Max Thatcher was a lucky man. Anyone else at this paper might have sent him kicking or would have taken several days to do what he asked. I ended up with more time than I thought, fortunately for him. He seemed a bit hasty when he came here, lounging at my desk like he owned the bloody thing. As much as I knew about Thatcher, I knew that he didn’t ask for help, from anyone, unless he really, truly needed it. It was that slight hound-dog look on his face that made me agree. That and the fact I was getting quite invested in this case; a murder very much changed the tone of the series I was working on. It was getting a little vanilla for my taste.
Our editor called a sudden meeting, dragging us all away from our desks to huddle around the large table in his office, a round table, like he was sodding King Arthur.
I drowned out most of it, all the usual drivel about preparing for the end of the year, tying up loose ends. All the nonsense that I’d pretty much already done, really. I looked around at everyone else’s faces, focused on him. Some of them were making notes. My eyes wandered to the window where some pigeons were fighting on the ledge.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 12
