“You can tell?”
“He learnt my name quickly,” I told him, “and he sends me on my own every now and then. Trusts me.”
“So, he should. Been there a while, has he?”
I gave a steady nod. “Seen a lot. Far more than me.”
“Well, you’re a rookie, aren’t you? Did you read that book I told you about?”
“The one about the civil war?”
He nodded.
“Not yet,” I admitted, “been a bit swamped.”
“You should never be too busy to read, Isaac. Not ever.”
I smiled and glanced up at the shelves. There was no real organisation to them, no alphabets or genres or timelines. Dad just shoved them in wherever he thought was right. There were signed copies in there, I knew, first editions, rare covers, new translations. If there was a special version of a book, he would have it, rather than the one they likely sold down the high street.
One of them jutted out slightly, and I reached up, pushing it back in with the spine.
“Good one that,” Dad acknowledged. “Only ever seen that one with that cover too, no other like it. You’ll find that with niche genres. Never meet two people with the same book. Unless you’re in Oxford or Edinburgh, maybe.”
I brushed over his faint disgust with Oxford as his words rang through my head.
You never meet two people with the same book.
A niche genre.
The Ridolfi Plot.
The book that Kerry Johnson had on his desk when I went to question him. The only one in that great ugly room that wasn’t brand new and leather-bound, one that was cracked, sun-bleached, and dog-eared. The exact same one that sat on the table in the hotel beside Cynthia Johnson the first time we saw her.
That’s why it bothered me, that’s why I couldn’t forget it. They had the same book.
“Excuse me, dad.” I ducked away, into the hall to where my coat hung, grabbing my phone from the pocket and scrambling for the right name.
It rang twice.
“Please don’t tell me someone’s dead,” Thatcher grouched down the line.
“You remember when I came back from meeting Johnson, and I was talking about that book he had?”
“The history one?”
“Yes, the Ridolfi Plot.”
“You made a note,” he recalled succinctly. “What of it?”
“I remember where I saw it before,” I hissed into the phone, drifting away from the open doors where my family’s voices leaked out from. “That exact one. Same cover, same state, the actual book.”
“Where?” he asked, his voice more alert.
“It was the one Cynthia Renner had in the hotel lobby when we first questioned her. She was reading that exact same copy.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You’re certain?”
I knew books, I was certain. “I am.”
I heard him sigh heavily down the phone. “They do know each other, and they’re lying about not. We’ll see what she says when we bring her in tomorrow.”
“Sorry if it’s of no use, sir,” I said, suddenly worried that I’d bothered him with yet another tenuous idea.
“Don’t be stupid, Mills. It’s very useful. If they’re sharing books like a suburban wives book club, then they’ve known each other longer than they’re letting on.”
“No way of proving that, though.”
“No. Ridolfi Plot?”
“That’s the one.”
“Remind me.”
“It was a plot by Robert Ridolfi to kill Elizabeth I and replace her with Mary Queen of Scots.”
There was another long, drawn-out pause.
“Kill the king, clear the way,” he muttered.
Queen, but I didn’t interrupt.
“Just like what old Fawkes had in mind,” he mused, almost as if he wasn’t on the phone with me.
“Sir?”
“Hughes was king of the castle, right? The big cheese, the boss, in charge and powerful. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, if someone wanted him out of the way. If they wanted what he had, that power or money or business, the easiest way of doing that…”
“Would be to kill him,” I finished for him.
“I don’t think bonfire night was an accident,” he continued. “I think our killer’s taking inspiration from history, and if we have a few history fans in our midst, sharing books and lying about their connections, we’re more than right to be calling in Ms Renner.”
He was quiet again, and I heard the muffled sound of a door opening and closing, a very creaky door. His voice echoed too when he spoke again. “Aren’t you meant to be at dinner?”
“I am. Well, I’m in the hallway.”
“I don’t know whether to tell you off for your poor manners or be proud of your work. Both, I think. Good work, now piss off.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Right, sir. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Mills.”
Wherever he was sounded very gloomy, his voice falling like he was standing in a cave. He hung up before I could inquire, and I shoved my phone back into my pocket.
I knew there was something about the bonfire, far more than just convenience. The timing of it, the feel of it. It was nice knowing that Thatcher agreed, but unless we found some real hard evidence, we’d still be wandering in circles dealing with guesses and old lessons from history.
Always related though, as Dad likes to remind me, history always comes back in some way or another. These days, it wasn’t the kings and queens ruling over everyone who people wanted gone and out the way. It was the businessmen, the accountants, the rich men and women in suits with more money than conscience. They backed people into corners and made them feel small. Made them feel desperate. Desperate remedies for desperate diseases, was the saying. Not quite treason, but still a crime.
I returned to the living room, where nobody seemed to notice I had left, except for dad, who watched me as I picked up my drink and headed over to my nephews, sitting on the floor beside them.
He saw things, Dad, observed people’s faces and mannerisms. Quite like Thatcher in that regard too. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t driven me out of the station yet. I’d grown up with a man like that. Whatever he saw, he was satisfied with, strolling over to mum and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
I was distracted by suddenly becoming a road for a small car, my nephew driving up and over my head. I didn’t mind, it was a welcome respite from the fog I left the station in. At least now, however tenuous it was, we were pulling things together. Tomorrow business. Tonight’s involved toy cars, avoiding setups and what I really hoped, coming from the kitchen, was cottage pie.
Seventeen
Thatcher
Mills had caught me as I headed back to the coaching house to check on the roof. It was a loose thread to follow, a book that they both had, but the relationship between Johnson and Ms Renner was grating on me; there was more there than any of them were giving away. Either way, we’d find out more when she came in tomorrow.
I stood upstairs in the coaching house, looking up at the roof. It had held against the rain, thankfully. At least the place wasn’t quite literally falling down around my feet anymore. I’d spent a few hours plastering the walls, thinking about what Mills had told me, thinking more so on the notes I’d taken from Jeannie’s work. Several mentions and side notes about nature reserves, solar farms and wind turbines. They didn’t fit in with Hughes’s usual business routes. They sprung up out of the blue, interesting enough for Jeannie to have made a note of, but clearly not something he was planning on. But all I really knew about his business I knew from Renner and Johnson, most of which I took with a pinch of salt, but so far I find Jeannie to be the most reliable source these days. Johnson and Renner were vague, far too vague to build this case around.
It wasn’t late when I locked up the coaching house, Elsie wandered out from her house and leant against her garden wall in her dressing gown, hair in curlers
, glaring at me.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and drifted over sheepishly.
“Evening, Elsie.”
“Here again, are you?”
“Roof’s good. Needed to plaster a few walls.”
Her face screwed up. “I still don’t understand you, Max. You’re busy enough as it is, surely. How is this case of yours going?”
I sucked on a tooth and leant beside her. “Slow. Can’t make much sense of it at the moment.”
“You’ll get there, pet. You always do. Your mother did use to say you were too smart for your own good.”
“She also used to say it was bad luck to put new shoes on a table.”
“She was right about that too, Max.”
We both went quiet, looking over the narrow road to the old building.
“Your grandfather was fond of the old place,” she said quietly.
“I know. Always told me I’d have it one day. Never thought it would be in this condition. But I’ll get it back.”
“At least get some help, pet. Sally would help you if you asked, her brother too.”
I let out a long sigh, “I know.”
“But you won’t ask for help,” she replied snippily.
I looked down at her with a sorry smile. “Not with this.”
“Stubborn,” she scolded, “the pair of you.”
“Determined.”
“I was there you know,” she reminded me coldly, “I was there the whole time, watching the two of you act like fools--”
“Elsie…”
“You shouldn’t be dragging it on for the rest of your life. Live a little.”
“I do live!”
“Do you? When you’re not at work, you’re here, Max. It’s not what she wanted.”
“Well I wouldn’t know what she wanted, would I?”
“Max--”
“I should head home. Busy day tomorrow. Take care, Elsie.” I kissed her on the cheek and pushed myself off the wall.
“You take care of yourself, Max, don’t worry about me.”
“I always worry about you,” I called over my shoulder, waving back at her before sliding into my car. I turned the engine on, the heat blasting and looked back in the rear-view mirror. I came here to see her too, to check-in and make sure she was alright.
I drove home, the lights of the town dimming and fading into several miles of darkness before I reached the city.
Ms Renner sat in one of the interrogation rooms, an untouched cup of water on the table before her. Her greying hair was neatly tied into a bun, her clothes crisp and pristine. She kept her eyes focused on the wall in front of her, her hands folded together on the table. Occasionally she twisted the ring on her finger round and round before clasping them tightly together again.
Mills and I watched on through the two-way mirror, waiting for Sharp. Renner had come easily without argument, had followed Smith through the hallways with a stern, blank expression.
“She won’t be happy,” I muttered, frowning through the glass.
“Who won’t be happy, sir?”
“Sharp. She’ll say we don’t have enough cause.”
“We know that Hughes was going to meet her the day he died,” Mills argued. “That’s surely enough cause.”
“Not if we’re wrong.”
“What about Jeannie’s notes? The ones you put on the board. I checked them this morning, they’re interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Seems like Hughes might have been looking into a new stretch of business.”
“Can you tell me why that would get him killed?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor I. I don’t like this Mills,” I told him, turning my back on the stone-faced woman, and leant against the desk with my arms folded. “Whatever happened to scorned lovers and robberies gone wrong?”
“They get assigned to other DIs, ones that wouldn’t know what to do with all this.”
“I barely know what to do with all this.”
“I’d say we’re on the right track, sir. We have a hunch; we just need to connect the dots.”
“Dots keep bloody moving.”
Mills was quiet for a little moment. “I hope I didn’t disturb you last night,” he said, “when I called.”
“You didn’t. Anyway, you were the one supposed to be at a family dinner, not me.”
“Quiet night for you, then?”
“Something like that.” I rubbed at a scratch on my arm that I had got yesterday lugging equipment up the stairs.
“Do you think she’ll talk?” Mills nodded to Renner. “Or just call for a lawyer?”
“I don’t know, Mills. She’s a tricky one to read.”
“She might crack a bit when we mention the phone.”
“If she’s guilty.”
“You suspect her,” Mills said. “So do I, sir. I just can’t pin down on why exactly she would do it or how. I can’t imagine her lugging Hughes into a bonfire alone.”
“No. Someone helped her.”
“Johnson?”
“Not according to his wife.”
The door opened, and Sharp strolled in. She looked through the window to Ms Renner, looked at Mills, at me, then shut the door and placed her hands on her hips. “Well?”
“Do you trust me?” I asked her.
“Don’t start with all this on me, Thatcher.”
“Do you?” I pressed. “Trust my instincts, have I ever let you down?”
“Yes, I do,” she allowed after a pause, “and no, you haven’t. But my opinion is not what holds up in court, Thatcher, you know this. We need evidence, hard evidence. One note on a phone and suggestible notes made by your journalist friend are not enough.”
“We’ll get the evidence,” I assured her, “but what I’d really like right now is some honest, straight forward answers and if bringing her into the station is what I need to do to get them, then that’s what I will do.”
“Fine.” Sharp’s eyebrows pulled together, her mouth pursing. “But do not blow this, Thatcher. I’m counting on you,” she said firmly, nodding to the door. I blew out a long breath, picked up the phone records and notes, and left with Mills on my heels.
We walked into the room where she waited, sitting down at the table. The red light on the recording equipment blinked at the end of the table.
“Morning, Ms Renner,” I said. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Why am I here?” She asked shortly.
“We have a few more questions to ask you.”
“Why here? It’s not as if you don’t know where I’m staying,” she reminded us curtly, picking at her nails.
“This time, we thought it would be better to continue here,” I told her, keeping my voice level.
She unlocked her fingers, folding her arms across her chest. “Alright.”
“Ms Renner, we found Samuel Hughes’s phone, a few days ago and managed to get inside.”
“You did?” Her eyes widened, her haughty expression slipping slightly, her arms loosening around herself.
“We did. He kept it fairly blank, not many contacts or ongoing conversations, but we did find a reminder he made for the fifth. A reminder to meet with you, Ms Renner.”
She reared back in her chair slightly. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“For dinner, surely,” she said dismissively, “I told you we ate dinner together most nights.” She reminded us, tightening her grip once more.
“He scheduled it for around four o'clock, we believe, after he finished his business with Mrs Babbage at Oxeye Cottage.”
“He made no mention of it to me,” she said quickly, her eyes flicking around the room.
“So, you are unaware that he had planned to see you after leaving the cottage. What was the exact word, Mills?” She looked to him as I did, her face wary.
“Update, sir.”
“Update yes. Your boss wanted to update you on a certain matter and given as it was after he left Oxeye Cottage, an educated
guess would be that it pertained to the deal with Mrs Babbage. An update on the contracts, perhaps.”
“I was not aware of such a meeting, nor of any update!” She gripped her elbows, her blank expression turning angry.
“None at all?”
“No,” she shot back firmly.
“Then it was a common occurrence for him to spring up on you, unplanned, with business information? He often consulted you without prior warning, without calling and checking your availability?”
“Sometimes,” she gritted. “And if I had known about this so-called update, then I’d have told you about it. Why does it matter anyway? He didn’t see me.”
“Because it was during this time where he had planned to see you,” I rested my arms on the table, “that we lose track of his whereabouts and he is killed.”
She slumped back in her seat, glancing to the red light, to the water, then back up.
“His phone. Was it in the field? Near the bonfire?”
“No. It was found at the location he was killed at. In the woods.”
“The woods?” She repeated, blinking rapidly.
“We believe that Mr Hughes left Oxeye Cottage and was making his way back to the hotel. We think that he decided to take the path through the woods and strayed.”
“Had he ever taken that path before?” Mills asked her, “or expressed any interest in the local woodland.”
“No,” she scoffed. “Why would he?”
“Well. With his growing interest in nature protection and reservation, the local flora and fauna might have caught his interest.”
“What growing interest? He had no interest in nature,” she protested.
“So, he hadn’t mentioned to you his interest in nature reserves or wind farms?”
“No.” I watched as she looked away from us, her gaze flicking up to the ceiling and down to her lap.
“Strange. You worked for him for twelve years. Surely you’d be privy to one or two of his business ideas.”
“Working with someone for a long time does not guarantee trust in all those matters,” she replied. “I’m sure there are things about you that your sergeant doesn’t know.”
“There are. But we’ve only been working together for just over a month now. But I do know,” I pointed at him, “that he studied politics at university and had dinner with his family yesterday.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 15
