“And Jeannie…?”
“Yes, boss?” I snapped my gaze back to him.
He looked a bit ruffled himself as he stared back. “Any more on that Hughes story? Coppers given you the go-ahead?”
“Not yet,” I told him, “but I’ll get it.”
“Slow going, isn’t it?” A flash of irritation went through me at that, like Thatcher didn’t have a hard enough time as it was.
I tilted my head to the side. “Just how many murderers have you caught, boss?” I asked innocently.
His cheeks flushed. “None.”
“Not an easy business. But rest assured, the story’s mine,” I told him certainly. “I’ll get the go-ahead, and we’ll have the full thing before any other paper, don’t worry.”
“When it comes to you, Jeannie,” he said darkly, “it’s very difficult not to worry.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re forgetful, last minute and often in trouble.”
“But I’m good,” I grinned, “you always like my stories however last minute.”
“The printers, less so.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “We’ll get them something nice for Christmas, no harm done. Are we finished?” I asked, looking around the room at the other amused faces.
“Deadlines done by Friday,” he announced, “and get back to me with your thoughts for December.”
There was a muffled chorus of “Yes, boss,” and, “On it, boss,” as everyone rose and shuffled out from the room.
I gathered my things into my arms, not a single note taken, and picked my shoes from where I had kicked them off under the table. I padded back to my desk and put everything back in its place.
I hated meetings. They were long and slow and pointless. Could have said all of that in an email that would have taken me five minutes to read, but no, I had to sit on a chair with itchy woollen covers and listen to everyone butter up to him for half a bloody hour.
I collapsed in my chair with a grunt, Thatcher’s aftershave faintly lingering on the fabric, and tipped my head backwards to glance out at the city. It was a miserable day out there. The grey seemed to seep down from the clouds and fill the streets, permeating the faces of everyone who skirted along, trying to avoid the splashes from cars and bikes in the road. My Gran would be happy at least, good for her rose garden, this weather. I watched as two people tried to navigate around each other on the narrow pavement with their umbrellas. Went on for a while, like watching birds of paradise in the jungle only instead of beautiful colours and dancing this was more of a damp, soggy shamble that ended with the man just stepping into the road so the lady could pass. Polite of him.
“Hiya, Jeannie.”
I lifted my head back up, my hair falling over my shoulders. Tom, a fellow reporter, leant against my desk, pushing the plant there over several inches. I frowned at him and sat forward, pushing it back.
“Tom.”
“Boring meeting, wasn’t it?” He folded his arms and smiled at me. I pulled my legs up, crossing them together and looked up at him.
“Rather. He likes to waffle.”
“And pick on you.”
“I’m the only here he can pick on without them calling HR,” I answered. I’d worked here long enough.
“Really wants that story, doesn’t he? Weird, your interview only came out the other week, and now he’s gone.”
“It’s a cruel, strange world, Tom.”
“I heard there was a policeman here talking to you.”
“There was.” I reached out and started rearranging things on my desk, hoping I’d look busy enough to make him leave.
“Haven’t done something naughty have you?” He smirked at me and bit back the urge to grimace at his smug face. He was a city lad, a private school, good university, pale-faced-rosy-cheek type person. The sort who knew he was handsome and smart enough to be popular. The exact sort that I did not want leering over me as I rearranged my plant pots.
“Probably, but that’s not why he was here this time.”
“No? Was he here to talk to you about the case? What did he say?”
“I can’t really talk about the case,” I told him, “nor can he.”
“Why was he here then?” Tom asked in a feigned casual voice, picking at imaginary fluff on his sleeve.
“He stops by from time to time. Thatcher’s an old friend.” I emphasised the friend which he ignored.
“Didn’t think you’d be friends with the police, Jeannie,” Tom pushed. “Don’t seem your sort.”
“How would you know my sort?”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I let the silence drag on a while. “We are. Now, I need to get to work here, Tom, do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry.” He pushed himself off my desk but didn’t leave. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink after work?”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. Got some things to chase up.”
He frowned. “Didn’t think you cared for deadlines.”
“Today is the deadline, and it wouldn’t be fair to give our nice editor a heart attack this close to the festive season,” I quipped.
“When you’re finished then? I don’t mind waiting, got a few things to do myself.”
“I’m meeting Thatcher,” I told Tom firmly.
“Oh. I see. Some other time?”
“We’ll see.”
I smiled up at him, biting my tongue. At last, Tom gave a shallow nod before drifting off back to his desk. My face fell the moment he was gone, and I glared at the back of his head. He should have tried that when Thatcher was here. I could have used the entertainment.
I opened my computer and finished off a small piece that needed polishing. It didn’t take me long, and the only reason I hadn’t finished was that I got distracted, really. I owed the editor that much, at least, adding a little smiley face to the end of the email.
Once it was gone, I started rooting through my drawers for the memory stick.
My desk was tidy, everything in its proper place. But the drawers were a little more, personal, let’s say. Pens, paper, blue-tac, pins, a pencil sharpener and what seemed, as I picked it up, to be a packet of sweet chilli sauce I must have stolen from a restaurant. Always handy, I thought as I dropped it into my bag.
At the back of the drawer, I kept a small blue box inside of which was a scrambled mess of memory sticks and SD cards, some of them going back to my first ever job. My notes on Samuel Hughes were on one of them, and it was times like this, I considered buying a label maker so that I had a fighting chance of figuring out which one. My sister had a label maker, swore by it, kept telling me to get one. But then that might mean I start labelling mason jars for my three children, and that wasn’t a world I wanted to step into just yet.
I was glad that Thatcher had come to me about it. He could have done the research himself really, but that was too sluggish for him. Most of the time, he dealt with all this on his own. Had a girlfriend about a year back who dumped him for all the times he slipped off at the drop a hat to some murder scene halfway across the moors or a robbery the other side of the city. I never minded. Usually, when he got that call, it was long after I got mine. Someone had to cover the story, and I was the only one at the paper Thatcher would talk to. He’d been quite rude, in fact, to Alice the last time she tried, poor thing.
At least his new sergeant seemed capable of surviving him, that was nice. He seemed a good one and was positive that Thatch already knew his name. Never learnt the last one, kept calling her Susan.
I pulled out a card at random and stuck into the drive.
Nope. This was an old one. Local elections from two years ago, how boring. I tried another, and another, slowly making my way through the box. They were all too important to throw away, some of the best work was on these, even the ones that didn’t go to print. There was even one from the first case of Thatcher’s I ever covered, a picture of him that the paper used. He looked quite a bit younger the
re, clean-shaven for once rather than the stubble he sported now.
I found the right one, eventually. The interview was in there, I recorded most of it, but there wasn’t anything he said there that wasn’t in the piece; not that Thatcher bothered to read it, and then there was file after file about his projects all around the country. My notes from the time I spoke to Mrs Babbage. She was a nice lady. Reminded me of my landlady a little, only without the slippers and pipe, and a few scrawled things I had scanned in, more personal notes that nobody else had seen yet.
I got to work printing off the files, spinning around in my chair as I waited. It was an odd case, no real clear leads as far as I could tell, and that would get on his nerves. He was on edge, had been ever since we first went into the village and spoke to Mrs Babbage. Nobody seemed to have a steadfast motive, nobody really seemed to care that he was dead. Poor man. I hoped people would miss me. Gran would, of course, Thatcher too maybe but then again, he’d probably just miss having someone to talk to and dig up information for him.
It was a good stack of notes, he better be grateful. I slid them into a folder, tucking it tightly into my bag and tossed the memory stick back into the box, awkwardly jamming it back into the drawer which I quickly closed. Out of sight out of mind, I thought happily, pulling my coat on and winding my scarf around my neck. It was a bloody long scarf. Gran had knitted it though, so I wore it without grumbling.
I picked up my phone and called Thatcher as I hoisted my bag over one shoulder and left the newsroom, sauntering down that stairs.
“Jeannie,” his gruff voice came through after the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“The station.” He paused. “What’s wrong?”
“You asked a favour of me, remember?”
“Already?” I could hear him smile down the phone, the bustle of the station muffled around him. “Thought it wouldn’t be until tonight.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m bringing it over.”
“I’ll let them know. Come up to my office.”
“Shall do. See you, Thatch.”
“Jeannie.”
I hung up, slipping my phone into my pocket and pushed the doors open, getting blasted by the cold air. November, I pulled my scarf grumpily up my face, wishing I had a hat at least as I started walking to the station. My umbrella kept off the drizzling rain, but not the wind.
It was after I left the street, ducking down a cramped little alley when I faltered, feeling something at the back of my neck. I’d been followed before, came with the territory sometimes. Came also with being a woman walking around a city on her own. I didn’t have anything in my bag except my keys and that packet of chilli sauce. Could be painful I supposed if you launched it into somebody’s eyes.
I picked up my pace, waiting until I was back onto a main road with more people milling around before glancing over my shoulder. A few people lingered in the street behind me, but none of them caught my interest, all them hidden under umbrellas too. All the same, I couldn’t shake the feeling as I strode briskly along. Any time I glanced back; I couldn’t see anyone. Cold sweat gathered under my scarf, and I swallowed a lump in my throat, taking the long route to the station to avoid the quiet lanes and corners that I usually took.
Eventually, the station loomed into view and I skirted inside quickly, stopping inside the doors and turning back to look through.
“Everything alright, miss?”
The man at the desk called, looking worried. Fair enough, I was breathing pretty heavily. I plastered on a smile and looked at him,
“Oh, Miss Gray. Detective Inspector Thatcher told me to expect you. Said you can go right up.” He waved me along to the stairs.
“Thank you,” I said breathlessly. I gladly hopped up the stairs, weaving through the officers as I headed for his office.
Thatcher was at his desk, legs swung up on the surface, looking at a board with Mills. He smiled when I entered, and it quickly slipped away when I kicked the door shut, dropped my bag and crossed to the window, looking out into the street.
“You alright, Jeannie?” He came up behind me, his sergeant quietly slipping from the room.
“Weird feeling. I thought someone was following me when I left the paper.”
Thatcher joined me at the window, a frown deepening between his brows. “Did you see anyone?”
“No, but I couldn’t shake it off.”
He studied the street, grey eyes darkening and glanced down at me. “Stay here for a while. If anyone did follow you, they wouldn’t wait long in this weather.”
I nodded and brushed past him, picking up my bag. “Your notes, as requested.” I handed them to him as I slid into his chair, letting my pulse settle. He barely spared them a glance, his eyes remaining on me.
“You want some tea?”
“Yes.”
He smiled, and the office door burst open, Mills panting in the doorway.
“IT,” he said, “they’re in.”
Fifteen
Thatcher
It was hard to focus on Mills after seeing Jeannie. I’d never seen her like that before, pale and shaken. Her hands trembled as she passed me the folder, now tucked under my arm, her eyes not focusing on any one thing. She felt someone follow her, the way I thought someone was watching me when I left Johnson’s office. I sent Smith to her with a cup of tea to chat and calm her down until I could go back to her.
“Is Miss Gray alright?” Mills asked as we strode away from the office, towards Sharp. “She seemed a bit shaken back there.”
He’d left, quietly, when she stood by the window, eyes burning, breathing hard and I owed him a thank you for that later.
“Call her Jeannie. She hates being Miss Gray.” I raised a hand to rub the back of my neck.
“She felt like she was being followed,” I told him, “when she left the paper.”
Mills frowned at that. “Didn’t you say you felt like someone was watching you?”
“I did.”
He thought for a moment, glancing back at our closed office door and then to me again. “Should we do anything?”
There wasn’t much we could do. She hadn’t been able to make anyone out, no description to watch out for and even if someone was following her, we didn’t know it was for certain because of what she was doing for us. For me, I corrected, she was doing this for me.
“She’ll stay here with us for a bit, and odds are if someone did follow her, they’ll head off soon.”
“We could post uniforms outside her house,” Mills suggested.
“Not without hard cause.” Still, while I didn’t say it, but I planned to stay at her home myself. If someone was following her, they were doing it for a good reason, and someone was already dead. Besides, the uniform would draw attention, and it would be a difficult time for whichever poor sod got stuck with the job. Jeannie wasn’t the sort to make that easy for any officer.
“Thatcher, Mills,” Sharp stood at one of the tables outside her office where Wasco loitered, holding a stack of papers, the phone balanced on top of them. We walked over, leaning against the desk, and Sharp nodded once to Wasco who put everything down and slid it across to us.
He looked tired. Shadows had formed under his eyes, his wiry hair poking out in every direction. Even so, he gave a lopsided grin.
“That was fast, Wasco, thank you.”
“Pleasure was all mine,” he said.
“What have we got?” I asked.
“There are a few folders that he kept protected by passwords, give us a bit more time, and we can get into those,” he turned over one of the sheets, lists of numbers crawling down, “but everything is clear. His messages, phone record, search history, calendar, all there.”
I sat down and pulled the stack of paper towards me, “Anything of interest?”
“At first, glance not really. A few calls were made to London the day before he died, from the regional code, but he didn’t save a lot of contacts, so you’ll have to
do a bit of work figuring out who the numbers belong to. A few back-and-forth texts with several people, just plans for drinks and general chit chat. The calendar is fairly empty, except for this one note he made on the fifth. Update Renner,” he recited, “short and sweet.”
Renner?
“He was going to meet Ms Renner?” Sharp asked, her arms folded together, hands holding her elbows.
“They had dinner together,” Mills recalled, “but updating her? Updating her on what?”
“Updating over dinner?” She suggested. “Was it scheduled for the evening?”
“No before. Scheduled in the afternoon,” Wasco told us, “for four.”
Four.
“That would have been after he left Mrs Babbage’s cottage,” I nodded to Mills who flipped open his notebook to the crude timeline he’d made.
“So, we know he was definitely going back to the hotel,” Sharp said, drumming her fingers on the table, “decided to go through the woods. He wasn’t, you know, bird watching or anything.”
“We think they were meeting at the hotel,” I told her, “maybe they went on a walk through the woods together?”
“Nobody made mention of seeing her in the village,” Mills pointed out.
“Nobody remembers seeing Hughes in the village. I don’t think they’re the most observant locals in the world,” Sharp snapped displeased. “Did anyone in the hotel see her leave? Do we know for certain she was in her room the whole time?”
“According to the staff, yes,” Mills confirmed. “Nobody saw her pass-through reception, and as far as we know, there’s no other way out of the hotel.”
“People coming and going all the time though,” I added, “it’s not impossible that she left without being seen.”
“She must have known about this?” Sharp indicated Wasco’s findings.
“Never mentioned it. Unless it was more for his sake, something that he wanted to go over before signing the contracts? She did say he was forgetful,” I recalled, “might have made it a reminder for himself, rather than a scheduled thing between them.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 13
