DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  The waitress from before came out, taking the cigarette from one of them and slumping against the van. Most of their eyes now on her, and her colourful description of the type of people that were inside. He safely crept away from the house, the painting in his possession, and none of the idiots inside ever the wiser. A good night’s work, all told.

  Two

  Thatcher

  I had spent my day off in the coaching house, re-plastering walls and receiving mild verbal abuse and the odd cup of tea from Elsie as I worked. The place was now, at least, not falling down completely. The closer I got to finishing it, the stranger I felt. Once it was done, then what?

  My body ached from the work, muscles strained, joints complaining as I hit my alarm and rolled up to sit on my bed. It had been a cold night, but now the spring sunshine was drifting through the curtains, spirals of dust in the air. I pushed myself up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains aside and lifted my face to the warmth coming in. I took my time showering and dressing, slumping over my kitchen table with a coffee and some toast, waiting for Mills to show up.

  He wasn’t late, he was never late, knocking on the door a few minutes early, in fact. I headed outside, locking up the house, and joined him in his car. His black hair was swooped back, eyes bright for the morning as he smiled and pulled away from the house.

  “Morning, Mills.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “You seem cheery today.”

  “I’m glad winter’s over. Nice bit of sunshine.”

  I nodded, looking out of the window as the city blurred past. People were out and about already, making the most of the break from the rain.

  “Be summer before you know it,” I mumbled.

  “Not a fan of summer, sir?”

  “Not particularly.” It was the heat I wasn’t fond of, that and the mosquitos.

  “Did you enjoy your day off?”

  “I did, all told. Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone?”

  “Nothing interesting happens when you’re gone, sir, you know that.”

  We arrived at the station, heading up to our office, when Sharp shouted for me over the busy room.

  “Thatcher! My office.”

  Mills looked surprised. “How can you have done something wrong? You weren’t even here yesterday.”

  “Bring Mills!” she added, poking her head out from her door.

  I shrugged and gestured for him to follow as we weaved through the desks and milling officers to where she waited in her doorway, foot tapping on the carpet. She waved us in towards the chairs opposite her desk, closed the door and sat down herself.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning, Ma’am.”

  “Good day off yesterday, Thatcher?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, thank you.”

  “Straight back into it today,” she told me. “We’ve had a robbery.”

  “A robbery?”

  “Yes,” she folded her hands on her desk.

  “Since when do you put me on robberies?”

  “Since this is a very high-profile robbery, and I’m putting my best detective on it before HQ comes swarming in.”

  “How high profile?”

  “You’re familiar with Lord Hocking?”

  “Used to be an MP, right?”

  “Father was. They’re an old family, own a large estate, still private. He had a party last night, an annual affair I’m told, during which a very valuable painting was stolen.”

  “A painting?”

  “From a locked room, with nobody seeing who went in or came out. Or for that matter,” she added, “who wandered about with a great big frame in their arms.”

  “I see.”

  “SOCO’s been on the scene, looking for any prints that might be useful, but this is going to be slow going, Thatcher and I need someone there who will think creatively if need be.”

  “I don’t have a say, do I?”

  “No.”

  “Right.”

  “Do we know how many people were at the party?” Mills asked her.

  “I’m told the guest list was very tight knit and closely monitored. I wanted you here,” she told me, “because I need you to treat this properly. I know it’s not a homicide, but it’s important, got it? Be professional and polite.”

  “I’m always professional.”

  “Not with cases you think are beneath you.”

  “And this one isn’t?”

  “A painting stolen from a locked room with nobody coming in or out in a crowded house?”

  “Hard to see anything specific in a crowd,” I pointed out. Especially in a big house like that, no doubt, with all the booze that would have flowed throughout the evening.

  “I’m counting on you, boys,” she said sternly. That was a face I knew better than to argue with.

  “We had better get going then, Mills.”

  We stood up, Mills taking the address of the estate that Sharp handed to him, and left her office, returning to the car.

  A robbery, I thought as Mills navigated our way from the city. Couldn’t remember the last time Sharp had assigned me to work a robbery. She had seemed a little frantic, almost, and I couldn’t really blame her. It was always a high-profile case when lords and ladies were involved, and they weren’t always the easiest people to deal with.

  I glanced over at Mills, who was frowning at the road. He hadn’t been called in.

  “Must be a very valuable piece to call you in for it,” he muttered as he drove.

  “Men like Lord Hocking can throw a lot of weight around. He’s got political connections,” I told him. “That can make life tricky for Sharp. Better to give him what he wants, play ball and get it all over and done with as soon as possible.”

  “Putting the best foot forward.”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Doesn’t explain why I wasn’t called in,” he said. No, it didn’t, nor did I have much of an explanation for him on that one.

  “Sharp probably just waited for the two of us,” I suggested. “Uniforms would have been called out, and then it turned out that this was a tricky case to navigate. Take it as a compliment.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We make a good team.”

  He turned his head to me, surprised. “A compliment from you?”

  “Enjoy it because I shan’t give you another. Not until we’re done gallivanting around Lord Hocking’s place.”

  “You know about him?”

  “A little. The family’s been in the area for centuries, I believe, old money. Do well for themselves, though, have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. Don’t go aggravating any of them,” I warned him. “It can backfire immensely.”

  “You’re the one who does the aggravating, sir, not me.”

  I ignored that, turning the radio up as we passed fields and paddocks.

  “Is that it?” Mills asked incredulously as a large, sweeping house came into view.

  “That’s it.”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling up outside the front steps. We climbed out and stood outside for a moment, looking up at the place.

  “Looks like something from a period drama,” Mills scratched the back of his head.

  I walked up to the front door, ringing the bell that chimed in the house like church bells. Mills hopped up to stand beside me as the door opened, a well-dressed gentleman standing there in a black suit.

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself, “and Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. We believe Lord Hocking is expecting us?”

  “Lady Hocking is waiting for you in the drawing room,” he announced, standing back to let us in. Mills let out a quiet whistle as the man closed the door. Period drama indeed. The foyer rose up several floors, a large chandelier hovering above our heads. The stairs led up to the multiple floors, the bannister of ornately carved wood.

  “This way,” the man, the butler I imagined, led us do
wn one of the long corridors, lined with the tall windows to a room that looked out over the gardens. It looked like it had been designed three hundred years ago and barely touched since. Purple wallpaper lined the walls, stiff-looking sofas draped with blankets by the fireplace. Paintings hung on the walls, and a large bookshelf sat behind us.

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills, Ma’am,” the butler announced us before withdrawing, shutting the door behind himself. The family had gathered in the room, dotted about. A young man stood at the writing desk, dishevelled from the evening before. A couple sat together on one of the sofa’s, hands clasped together, and two more people stood behind the opposite sofa from which a woman arose. Her silver hair was neatly pulled back, and she was dressed plainly, the residue of makeup still clinging to her eyes.

  “Lady Hocking, I take it?” I walked towards her, taking her outstretched hand.

  “Yes. Thank you for coming,” she replied, indicating the chairs for us to sit.

  “My son,” she nodded to the young man at the desk who came closer now, “Rupert. My eldest boy Henry and his wife Eloise,” the couple on the sofa, “and our dear friends,” to the people behind her, “Marjory and Philip. They have been staying with us these last days.”

  “You all attended the party last night?”

  “We did,” Philip nodded.

  “We never miss it,” his wife added enthusiastically.

  “If you may,” I asked Lady Hocking, “could you run us through the events of last night and this morning?”

  “We’ve done this already,” Rupert scoffed, “with the uniformed officers.”

  “These are detectives, Rupert, and we will do it again if need be,” his mother scolded, grabbing his arm and pulling him down beside her. He lounged back in his evening suit, watching us.

  “When was the painting last seen?” I offered as a place to start.

  “Last night. As the guests started to arrive, at around seven, my husband went into his study before locking it up. He swears it was there. He likes to check.”

  “Father is something of a control freak,” Rupert threw in. “Should ask him how many lightbulbs there are in the place.” Lady Hocking tutted at him and turned back to me.

  “This morning,” she continued, “as everything was being cleaned up, he went in as usual to drink his tea and read the paper. And it was gone.”

  “And what time would that have been, Lady Hocking?”

  “Around half seven.”

  “Like clockwork,” Rupert muttered.

  “If you can’t be useful, go somewhere else,” his mother snapped. “Go and have a shower.”

  “You asked for me to be here, so I’m here!” he protested.

  “Rupert,” his older brother leant forward, “it has been a trying enough morning for us all.”

  Rupert scoffed, but didn’t move, only slumped further down the sofa, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Where is your husband now, Lady Hocking?”

  “He’s been walking the grounds. He is very upset,” she said carefully. “We all are. Having your home, your sanctuary, violated is a very horrible feeling.”

  “Are we sure we want to use the word violated?” Rupert asked. “Rather extreme.”

  “Are you telling me that you feel safe in this house right now? Knowing we have been robbed?”

  “It was one painting,” he groaned.

  “One very important painting.”

  “If I might interrupt,” I leant forward, drawing her attention, “it would be useful for us to know how many people were here last night, and to take a copy of the guest list.”

  “Oh, none of our guests did this,” she said surely.

  I leant back, surprised. “No?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Must have been some of those youngsters,” Philip weighed in, “the ones hired to serve the drinks and such like.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that, folding my own arms, blaming the staff, how original.

  “Yes, it must have been,” his wife agreed.

  “We shall be investigating every lead,” I assured them. “We like to be thorough in high-profile cases such as these.”

  It had the right effect. Lady Hocking straightened up in her seat, her shoulders squaring, lifting her chin.

  “Certainly, I should think so. I shall find the guest list for you. The contact details are included.”

  “Thank you. Has anyone else been staying here? Or just your friends here?”

  “We had a few others staying for some nights. A bit of shooting and such. They’ve all gone home,” she told me. “They have children, and most of them need looking after.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Last night, if I recall.”

  I turned and glanced at Mills, who was looking back at me, mid pause in writing in his notebook.

  “They would have had luggage, I presume?” Mills said slowly.

  “Of course, they would,” Rupert scoffed again.

  “But they would not steal from us,” Lady Hocking insisted. “They are our friends. They know how much my husband’s collection means to him.”

  “Are any of your guests still here, Lady Hocking?”

  “Yes. We had a few ending up staying the night. Too much gin, on their half. But we’re not exactly short of rooms.”

  “No, I imagine not. Your husband’s study,” I asked, “how many ways in and out are there?”

  “There’s only the one door,” she told me. “He likes his privacy. A few windows but they lead out onto the terrace in the garden, and there were people out there almost all night.”

  “The corridor that it lies down is out of the way,” Henry added. “Father made it very clear to all the guests that it was off-limits.”

  I nodded to Mills, who made a small note, and looked around the room.

  “Do you have much security here? Any cameras? Alarms?”

  “We have security cameras at the front door, the garages, and in the garden. None of the doors are alarmed, unfortunately, else they’d be going off all the time. Every hour of the night,” she added with a sour look to Rupert.

  “Would it be possible for us to get access to the footage?” I asked.

  “I think so. Henry?”

  “Dennis will know about that, mother. The butler,” he told us, “who showed you in. He handles all of that.”

  Probably handles a great many things, I thought to myself. Knows the ins and outs of this place better than the family themselves, I would imagine.

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “Oh, Dennis has been part of the family for years.” Lady Hocking waved a dismissive hand. “His father was our butler before him. When he retired, Dennis took over. Shame he doesn’t have his own son, to carry on the tradition.”

  “He has a daughter,” Rupert pointed out.

  “And?”

  “You can have female butlers, mother.”

  “Do you have any other permanent staff?” I quickly asked before they fell into another spat. “Besides the people you hired specifically for last night?”

  “A few maids.” Lady Hocking seemed to think very carefully. “Maud, Daria and who’s the other one?”

  “Lara,” Rupert provided quickly.

  “Them,” Lady Hocking continued, “and our cook, Ellen. She has been with us a great while too.”

  “We, of course, have all the information from the catering staff,” Henry added. “The ones hired last night. We use their company every year for this, sometimes over the New Year too.”

  “We might have to find somewhere new now though,” Eloise spoke at last.

  “Yes,” Marjory agreed, “I wouldn’t want them back here after all this.”

  “Well,” I breathed, “if we may, Lady Hocking, my sergeant and I would like to have a look around the property? The study, in particular.”

  “Oh, of course. Henry, show them where to go. I will talk to Dennis and get thos
e lists for you.”

  “Much obliged, Lady Hocking.”

  I stood up, nodding politely, and followed the eldest son from the room, Mills quickly at my heels.

  There was something to be said for blaming the staff, but it was never clear exactly which ones to blame.

  Three

  Thatcher

  Henry led us back down the bright hallway into the entrance, across the marble floor and down another set of halls, taking a sudden turn and ending up in a long, narrow hallway, at the end of which a single door was blending itself into the wooden walls.

  “Dad’s study. Nobody was supposed to come round here, and there’s not really anywhere to hide.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a key. “I’ll be in the foyer. Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” I answered sincerely, taking the key. He nodded, strolling back along the corridors, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  “You can’t exactly sneak in or out, can you?” Mills remarked, looking down towards the door.

  “You might, if enough people were around.”

  “Apparently, they were very well informed not to come down here.”

  “Because drunk people are notorious for following directions,” I mused, looking down at the rug that ran along the wooden floors.

  “Someone came down here,” I murmured, walking towards a stain on the woven rug. I bent down, running my fingers over it. It had long since dried, hopefully not damaging the rug beyond repair, the stain dark against the green fabric. I bent down closer, smelling the rug. The faint, lingering traces of vodka rose up to meet me.

  “Spilt drink?” Mills suggested, hovering over me.

  “Most likely.” I stood up, lifting the key. “Shall we?”

  It was an old key, for an old lock, the kind that would be all that difficult to break into, from a first glance. I opened the door, pushing it widely aside before walking in. Another little time capsule of old furniture, paintings and heavy fabrics.

  “Nice room,” Mills commented as we strolled inside, “lovely books.”