DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  Sally nodded keenly,

  “A good one.”

  “He quotes literature,” Molly said, impressed. “What an array of talents you have, detective.”

  “Only those,” Sally corrected her. “Max and I read a lot of old Holmes growing up, didn’t we? Even played it out sometimes on the village green.”

  “You were always Holmes,” I remembered, disgruntled, “and I had to be Watson.”

  “Well, look how that turned out,” Mike laughed.

  “I looked better in the hat,” Sally said in that same, insistent voice she used to use at the time. Haughty little Sally, yanking the hat on her head, her face scrunched up in determination, all scabby knees and stubbornness.

  “For the better. It hid your face,” I retorted, “I’m sure everyone appreciated that.”

  I dodged the cushion she lobbed at my head, narrowly avoiding spilling my drink on Molly.

  “It’s such a terrible way to go,” Mike’s new girlfriend said quietly, lowering the mood again, “and by someone that he trusted so well.” She lifted her head, glimpsing at me. “It must be difficult to do.”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. She smiled simply, peacefully, and I decided that I liked her, more than Tom, anyway. Just had to remember her name now. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

  “Especially if you nearly drown,” Mike added.

  “Oh, yes!” Sally leant forward off her chair and kicked me in the shin. “You failed to mention that particular little detail to me, you lying little git! You nearly drowned?”

  “I was fine!” I shifted myself away from her sharp little feet. “I am fine!”

  “Almost dying isn’t fine, Max Thatcher.”

  “Sorry,” I offered, “sorry, Sally.” She dropped her legs and leant back against Tom’s side, arms folded, face pouting.

  “I’m buying your sergeant flowers. Or chocolates. Poor boy deserves a raise.”

  “I’ve bought him a few pints,” I told her. In truth, I was more grateful to Mills than I let on. Most of the events of that night were a dim blur, but every now and then I woke up in a cold sweat, feeling invisible weeds wrapped around my legs, a sharp pain ringing up my back.

  “Did it leave a scar?” Molly asked, her eyes drifting to my back, “the rock?”

  “No, all better.” Thanks to Lena and her manic administering of a very foul-smelling ointment. Mills found the whole thing hilarious, sat and watched as she fussed over me, grinning the entire time. The only one who didn’t tease me about was Smith, at least not to my face, anyway. Not that it mattered, now that Sally knew, I’d never hear the end of it. I could only hope she didn’t tell Elsie. Then I would be in for a world of trouble.

  “Nightmare,” Sally was muttering to herself, “you’re a bloody nightmare. How you haven’t died yet is a sodding mystery.”

  “If I die, there’ll be nobody for you to torment. It’s for everyone else, really, that I’ve stuck on so long.”

  “We appreciate your sacrifice,” Mike raised his glass to me, and Tom smirked, but he rubbed a hand along her back as he did so.

  “That’s very mean. I’m telling Elsie you said that.”

  My face fell. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would. I’m going to hers for tea tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come as well, then. She’ll take my side.”

  “No, she won’t, she’ll take mine.”

  I scowled at Sally’s triumphant face. She would, in fact, take her side. Elsie would take anyone’s side if they were arguing against me.

  “Well,” Mike swung his hand down on the arm of the sofa, “you told your story. Fair’s fair, you are free to go, Max.”

  I laughed,

  “So, kind.”

  “Will you stay?” Sally pleaded.

  “Best not. Don’t want to get caught short with a phone call at four in the morning feeling like I’ve been pulled out of a bog,” I told her, finishing my drink and standing up. I said goodbye, and everyone fanned out again, falling into their own conversations.

  I went out into the hall, searching for my coat, and Sally followed me, leaning against the wall. Her skin was flushed from the drinks and the warm room, but her eyes were as focused as ever. She regarded me with a very annoying sense of knowingness, head tilted to one side.

  “You alright, Max?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked, searching through the crowded coat rack like I was trying to get into bloody Narnia.

  “I know you don’t like pulling up stuff like that.” She scratched her jaw, “not your favourite pastime.”

  “Just a case, Sally. I don’t mind talking about them that much. Just a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  Puzzles with a lot more death and sorrow but still just puzzles.

  “I mean, talking about getting hurt. Bringing up Elsie and Jeannie.”

  “Jeannie’s Jeannie,” I replied, “I’m not about to get upset over her.”

  “What about Elsie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Seen her recently?”

  “Every time I go out there. Tells me off for doing it.”

  “So, she should,” she snapped, then asked more gently, “Why bother, Max?”

  “I owe it to her.”

  “She forgave you,” Sally reminded me in a soft voice,

  “Well, I haven’t,” I replied as softly, finding my coat and yanking it on.

  “Still need to borrow that cement mixer?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. What for, anyway?”

  “The fireplace has a few loose bricks.”

  “Would you like help?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll help,” she decided, patting me on the arm and wandering back into the room.

  “Sally!”

  “I’m helping,” she called back, giving me a crude hand gesture over her shoulder. I shook my head, smiling, and wound my scarf around my head.

  More footsteps came into the hall, lighter feet, less certain. I turned to find Molly standing there, looking at me root around for my gloves.

  “I meant it, you know,” she said, stepping closer, “I really would like to hear some more stories.”

  “They’re not all that nice, you know.”

  “I know.” She was holding a piece of paper in her hands, folded over a few times and she reached out, slipping it into my pocket. She lingered there a moment, then drifted away a few steps.

  I stood there by the front door, a little struck. The only person who’d ever been so forward was Jeannie, and she didn’t slip me her number so much as she just showed up one day and told me we were going for dinner.

  “Molly,” I called, halting her.

  “What?”

  “I really do get phone calls at four in the morning,” I told her. “Long shifts, suddenly getting up and going.”

  “And?”

  “People don’t really like that in a partner.”

  “People? Or girls?”

  “Last I checked, girls are people.”

  She laughed. “Shut up, Max. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. It’s fun at first, but after so many cancelled dates and rain checks, it gets a bit old.”

  “What about Jeannie?”

  “She does as much cancelling as me.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone not cancel on you, Max?”

  “I’m just warning you. Before I call this number,” I pat my pocket, “and woo you.”

  “Woo me?”

  “Yes, I woo. See you later, Molly,” I smirked down at her, swinging the front door open and slipping out into the night.

  I was glad to leave, even into the rain. To feel the cool breeze and fresh air, the quiet city with its empty streets, nobody asking for stories or rambling on about boring dead Greek men.

  I had never been one for dinner parties. I pulled my gloves on, flipped my coat collar up and strode off into the rain misted streets.

  Blood Ties

  Book 2
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  Prologue

  I was running late. Unsurprisingly, really, given that I had little inclination of even going this evening. I knew if I didn’t, Sally would be here to drag me out by the heels. Some work event of hers, important enough to warrant a black-tie situation. She had even gone so far as to inform Sharp about it. So I was shooed from the station before I could find myself a new mountain of work to stay behind for. Even Mills knew it was a damn conspiracy. Not that I wasn’t proud of Sally, but I had never been a black-tie man myself, nor was I a fan of spending my evenings drinking fancy wines and listening to gossip about things I had no understanding of.

  I stood in front of the mirror, fixing my bowtie several times, somehow always getting it wonky and off centre, and my phone rang, Sally’s face flashing across the screen. I answered, hitting the speakerphone button before going back to sorting my collar.

  “Sally.”

  “Where are you?” she asked, her voice muffled, a strange whirring noise all around her.

  “Just leaving now. Where are you?” I asked, fed up with my tie and abandoning it, and instead focused on my cufflinks. “you sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”

  “We’re in the car,” she replied.

  “Hi, Max,” Tom’s voice called through.

  “You haven’t left yet?” she protested.

  I finished dressing, slipping my jacket on and picked up the phone, turning off the speaker and holding it to my ear, to hear her lovely scolding all the better.

  “It’ll only take me twenty minutes to get there, Sally.” Fifteen on the way home if traffic was light.

  “You better not be flaking on me, Max. This is a big deal. You promised to be there.”

  “And I will be there,” I told her as I walked around the house, picking up the things I needed. Much as I didn’t want to. Sally worked in a gallery which meant the evening would be a large country house stuffed to the brim with rich, fancy people discussing art; of which, I knew very little. Mills had given me a short master class yesterday, but I remained hopeless. I liked Van Gogh, Elsie had a print of his sunflowers in her kitchen, they’d been there since the day I was born, but anything else went over my head.

  “If you’re not,” Sally’s threatening tone drew me back to the present.

  “Well, I won’t be if you keep me on the sodding phone all evening, will I?”

  She scoffed, Tom’s laughter in the background, and then she muttered very quickly, “Don’t be late,” and hung up.

  I laughed down at my phone, slipping it into my pocket with my wallet and keys. My coat was draped over one arm. It had been a warm day so far, too warm for it now, but there was a chill drawing in as the night drew on.

  Leaving the house, I locked up and pulled a pair of sunglasses on as I slid in the car and started it up. It was turning out to be a very nice summer, in fact, good enough weather that would probably be better spent getting some work done in the coaching house, not sweating through my only good suit. Sharp had told me to wear it, fussing over me as I left the station like a worried hen. Apparently, my everyday suits were not classy enough. Out of spite, I was wearing colourful, mismatching socks. I’d even been tempted to put on the novelty cufflinks Mike had got me for Christmas, but decided that I was on thin enough ice with Sally already.

  The event, I believe we were calling it, was out at a large country house, just outside the city. One of those sprawling Georgian places with endless gardens and well-dressed staff still milling around. Privately owned, still in the family rather than donated to charity or opened to the public. Must be a bugger to maintain, I thought as I pulled into the gravel driveway, around a large stone fountain. I’d thankfully not hit any traffic, though out here traffic was only ever a tractor or some sheep crossing the road. A man in a smart red jacket ran over to take the keys, which I reluctantly handed over, drifting towards the sweeping stairs that led up to the wide-open doors, my coat gripped tightly in my hands.

  A woman stood, guarding the gates, in a plain black dress, her hair clipped neatly back, a clipboard in hand and an earpiece in. I fished out the invitation Sally had sourced and handed it over. She waved me through with a polite smile.

  The house felt more like a museum. Everything was very clean, very ordered, very old. The tiled floor of the foyer spread out into the various rooms connected to it, a large stone staircase curving upstairs, a velvet rope strung across. That would keep the rabble out, I thought to myself with a smirk, dropping my coat off at the small closet, sticking the tag I was given into my pocket.

  Here to stay now, I thought somewhat bitterly, looking up at the expansive ceiling before wandering around the statues in the middle of the room, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

  I felt, somehow, underdressed. It was a sea of rippling gowns, elegantly cut suits that looked like they’d wandered from a Harrods store window. Jewellery glittered on the necks and wrists of women as they circulated. The men, most of them dressed in three-piece suits, had shoes that shone in the lights. I wondered how many of them polished them themselves.

  “Max!” Sally’s voice caught my ear, and I turned to one of the doors as she appeared from the crowd, Tom at her heels, beelining for me with a relieved expression. I looked her over, somewhat impressed.

  “You look lovely, Sally,” I told her, leaning down to kiss her fondly on the head. She wasn’t one for scrubbing up often, neither of us was. I usually found her in a pair of paint-splattered dungarees and a ratty old jumper she nicked from her brother. But tonight, she had fished out a long, beaded dress that played with the light from the chandelier above us as she moved. Her usually tangled mane of hair was pinned up, her face lightly dusted with makeup. She looked beautiful, and yet completely uncomfortable. I’d wager she was not wearing heels under that frock, and no doubt that’s why she chose such a long one.

  “Tom,” I reached around her to shake his hand.

  “Max. You made good time.”

  “Told you I would,” I said, looking around the room. “Your brother here?” I asked her.

  She shook her head with a pout. “Still in Iceland.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me, Max. The boy’s a mystery.”

  I laughed and nodded to the elaborate room we stood in. “It’s a nice place, this. Who owns it?”

  She stood by my elbow, pointing subtly to the other side of the crowd. “That man over there,” Sally pointed to a large, ruddy-faced man in the corner of the room. He was dressed like an Edwardian gentleman in a tweed suit with a walrus moustache and a large glass of port in his ringed hand. A woman hung on his other arm, her silver hair in coils around her face, the only person here who looked as though she belonged in the house, in her black evening dress. Old money, it was usually easy to tell the difference.

  “Yes, of course. How could I miss him?” I muttered, earning a grin from Tom but a hard swat on the arm from Sally.

  “He’s a patron of the gallery,” she hissed in my ear, “the reason I have a job.”

  “Good gracious. Shall I thank him in person?”

  Sally stared up at me with a deadpan expression, leaning against Tom, who ran a hand good naturedly up and down her arm with a bemused expression. We might get on this evening, that would be a rare chance.

  “Why did I invite you again?” She rubbed her temple. “I could have asked Molly to come.”

  “Because you’ll need me here when one of these hoity academics stands up to make a speech.”

  “Excuse you,” Tom shot back.

  “And because, other than him,” I gestured to her husband, “I’m your best friend,” I mocked her.

  “The perils of staying in touch with the idiots you grow up with,” she retorted. She kept a sour look on her face for a moment until I smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out and grinned back. “Do you want to look around? Can’t go upstairs, but there’s enough to see down here.”

  I swept my eyes around the foyer, towards the various roo
ms, with their doors swung open, people spilling in and out.

  “Go on then.”

  “Tom?”

  “You two go ahead, I’ve just seen Dr Walford.”

  “From the university?”

  “Yes,” he kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll find you before the speeches start.”

  Sally waved him off and looped her arm through mine, pulling from the large statue in the centre of the room towards one of the doors.

  “This is the library,” she told me as we walked in.

  “You don’t say,” I replied dryly, looking up at the towering bookshelves that lined each wall of the room. Marble busts stood in the windows, long, sturdy-looking sofas pushed against the wall, high backed reading chairs close to the unlit fire.

  “Figured you might like it,” Sally added as I pulled us towards one of the shelves to inspect the collection.

  “Lots of local history,” I commented, scanning the spines for something of more interest.

  “Hardly unexpected in a place like this, Max.”

  “Sally!” We were interrupted by a small gaggle of people, dressed in flowing dresses and tailored suits.

  “Hello, everyone.” Sally smiled. “So good to see you all.”

  “Well, we could hardly not show when they are so wonderfully recognising you for all your hard work,” one of the gentlemen said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. He pulled away, looking up at me.

  “And who is this?” he asked, nudging her with his elbow.

  “This is Max. He’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Max.”

  I nodded politely, taking a sip of my drink. I felt Sally tighten her grip on my arm.

  “Max, these are some of my work colleagues. Sue, Ahmed, Gavin, Lois and Alex.”

  “Nice to meet you all.”

  “Are you in the art world, too, Max?” one of the girls, Lois, I think, asked me.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Not at all?” The man from before looked surprised. “Why do you say it so fervently?”