DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “We need a plan,” she halted me, “an actual one. Like last time. Better than last time.”

  “Better? My last plan was brilliant.”

  “It was,” she allowed, “but you knew what you were getting. We don’t even know what in the library you want to take.”

  “I’ll know,” I assured her, emptying my mug. “When I see it, I’ll know.”

  She didn’t look overly convinced, but I knew more about all this than she did, so she drank her tea and nodded. “Back to the lions’ den, then.”

  We did much of it as we had before. We dressed in plain, uninteresting clothes, myself with a flat cap pulled over my head like the local men wore in the surrounding fields and villages, not looking too unlike a local, stray dog walker. I parked us in the same place, hidden in the thinning woods again, not unlike a local walker, close to the public footpath that swept around the estate and ended up in the village, not far from the pub. It was a good thing that the car was already filthy, splattered in mud, and I made sure a few stickers were up in the window of the boot. National Trust memberships and all those. Cars like these were a ten-a-penny around here. No one would think too much of it.

  It was nice out here, peaceful, and I rather enjoyed our walk along the footpath, noticing the sprouting blooms of flowers and the odd squirrel rocketing from tree to tree. We reached a bent old pine, a small, tattered ribbon tied to one of the higher branches and from there, we left the path, skewering east towards where the public woodland and private Hocking land merged. A small, low wooden fence marked the perimeter, not so much of a deterrent as it was a reminder. We climbed over it easily enough and pushed into the woods that circled the estate. Not too far ahead, the woods would thin out towards the gardens and the lake, the smell of geese droppings somehow always lingering in the surrounding air. It was a hearty walk, got the blood pumping and tinged our faces with colour as we huffed our way almost completely around the estate until we ended up on the side of the house, the garage roof just visible between the branches, the little yard that led into the kitchens just behind it.

  We stopped for a moment to gather our strength, leaning against a trunk, sipping water.

  “So,” she dabbed at the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve, “plan?”

  “I go in, get to the library, find what we need, and get out,” I told her.

  “And if someone sees you and asks what the hell you’re doing in their house?”

  “I’m sorry,” I deepened my voice, taking on a stronger accent of the countryside, “I was walking down to the village, and I was so desperate for the toilet that the young man downstairs let me in. I’m afraid I’ve got a bit lost.” I added a hearty chuckle. “Beautiful home, you have.”

  She glared at me, at the accent I put on that wasn’t hugely dissimilar to her own. “You think it’ll work?”

  “Who wouldn’t let a local rambler in to use the bog?”

  She shrugged. “Risky.”

  “This whole thing is risky,” I reminded her, handing her back the water bottle.

  “And if they catch you with a painting in hand?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” I sighed at her. “Have a little faith.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Be here,” I told her. “It might be a case of me getting it to you and you legging it.”

  “Give me the keys then.” She held out her hand, and I passed them over.

  “I might need you to make a disturbance,” I added, glancing over towards the house. “Distract them, you know?”

  “Alright.”

  “I’ll text you. You’ve got your phone?”

  She pulled it from her pocket and waved it in my face. “I don’t leave mine lying all over the place like you do,” she said smugly.

  “Shut up,” I grumbled, pulling my hat firmly down on my head, letting the rim shadow my face.

  “If I’m not back in forty minutes,” I told her, “go home.”

  She nodded sternly, though she didn’t seem quite enthused by the idea. I gave her a pat on the arm and made my way to the garage, slowing inching from the trees and towards the walls. It was quiet, nobody outside. There was CCTV by the garage door, I knew that much. Hocking cared more about his cars than he did his house. Easily avoided, though, much like last time.

  I made it to the yard where again, it was silent. That was odd. I had thought there was always at least one person out here, emptying things or carting them about. We’d spent enough time watching the place to see how busy it gets. But there wasn’t a soul. I ignored the nerves that such a fact gave me but carried on, crossing the yard, sticking close to the walls and making my way to the door. It opened without fuss, not bothered to be locked. For a family that just got robbed, I thought as I stepped inside and carefully closed it behind me, they were awfully cavalier when it came to securing their entrances and exits.

  Again, more silence. The usually busy corridors that connected the kitchen to the rest of the house was meant to be a busy place. I was grateful for the quiet, happily making my way towards the hall. Shadows moved into the entrance, and I dropped down into the cellars, pressing myself against a wall.

  “How’d that go then, sir?” a voice filtered down the hall.

  Sir? They were coming this way, and I ducked into a small broom cupboard as they passed, feet trudging down the stairs.

  “Better than I thought it would,” came a deep, grumbling reply. “They didn’t seem all that surprised.”

  I knew that voice, I realised, and stuck my head out from the cupboard. Detective Inspector Thatcher. I retreated quickly as he paused and made to glance over his shoulder. I pressed my head to the door, a lump in my throat as my head thudded annoyingly loudly.

  “Sir?” I could still hear them, their voices slightly muffled.

  “Thought I heard something.” There was quiet, and then I heard their feet moving again, further into the cellars. “The maids?”

  “A few useful bits. Richard and Selene spent some time in the library together. The view from there looks down over the lake.”

  I froze. They knew that? I was right then, that was a relief. So why were they down here? I inched the door open a fraction, straining to hear them.

  “To the summer house?” Thatcher was asking the sergeant, I realised, the younger man with the gangly legs.

  “Yes. Apparently, they kept a ledger for when books were removed so if I can find the right year, we can see if there are any particular favourites Selene or Richard had.”

  I pressed a hand to my mouth to stop the disbelieving laugh coming out. A ledger? They were going to find it, find it before I did. A string of curses ran through my head, and I gritted my teeth, hand curling into a fist.

  “You do that then, might take a minute. I’ll start on the paintings,” Thatcher grumbled. “I’m guessing, anything to do with the lake or the library.”

  “Better place to start than any other.”

  “On your bike then, Mills.”

  They parted ways, Thatcher ducking into the room beside him as Mills strode along, opening doors, peering in, and closing them again. A ledger, a favourite book. That struck me as more her style than anything else. But with the two of them here, finding it would be a fine thing. I needed to leave; we both did. Figure out the next step, move onto the backup plan we had in place. She didn’t like it, buts needs must. First things first, I left the broom cupboard and slipped my shoes off, my socks making no noise as I padded gently down the hall after Mills, carefully slipping past the door Thatcher had gone into.

  A door down the hall and around the corner was open, held that way by a tall stack of boxes. I peeked around the frame to spot the sergeant sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes, sifting through the pages of a ledger, dust in his black hair. I crossed the space to stand closer to the boxes, tripping and scuffing my heel on the floor. I froze, hiding behind the door as he called out,

  “Is that you, sir? I might have something here.�
�� I bit down on my lip, hoping the Inspector wouldn’t hear him. I carefully lent forward, bracing myself against the door and pushed. The boxes held for a moment, but eventually, they shuddered with the impact, scraping forward and toppling over, the door pushing them into the room as it swung shut.

  “Thatcher!” came a muffled shout from inside, fists hammering on the door. Time to go. I yanked my shoes back on and took off down the hall, passing Thatcher’s door as he came to the hall. I was gone before he saw me, but I heard him shout something in my wake.

  I sprinted from the house, not caring about being seen as I took off through the yard and back into the woods. She saw me coming, dashing towards her and took off too, and we ran quickly and quietly back to the footpath and to the car. We hurtled inside, and she rammed the engine into life, peeling off down the road.

  “What happened?”

  “Police,” I panted, “were there.”

  She cursed. “What do we do next?”

  I flopped my head to the side to look at her. She was staring at the road ahead, but she glanced around at me. I couldn’t get the words out, didn’t have the air, but she blanched somewhat and grimaced, turning back to look ahead with a set jaw. Our back-up plan wasn’t nice, but it would be effective.

  “Rose?” she asked.

  “Rose.”

  Twenty-One

  Thatcher

  If I had an eye for art, I might have appreciated this more. The number of paintings seemed almost endless. They were stacked against the walls like an exoskeleton, overlapping each other, draped in sheets or wrapped in paper.

  I shrugged my coat off and stood, staring at the frames with my hands braced on my hips. Ah well, as Elsie liked to say, you can’t bake a loaf by staring at it. I pulled the first one towards me, surprised by its weight and untied the string holding the paper together, peeling it back just far enough to get a grasp of whatever was painted. It looked like a bowl of fruit, fairly unremarkable but no doubt it was worth more than my car. I replaced the wrapping carefully, reminded of how I used to sneak a glance at Christmas presents before the big day, and replaced them with no-one being any the wiser. I had later learnt that I wasn’t quite as sneaky as I thought I had been, and my mum had gone as far as to not wrap some presents or wrap up random things around the house instead.

  It was slow going, a nice sheen of sweat running down my back as I hefted frames around. I found a few of the house, one of a woman sitting in an armchair reading, one of a couple in a boat on a lake, and these I set aside, curious to see if they might be the ones Selene had any particular interest in.

  A shadow shuttled past the door, and I glanced up, but nobody came in. Probably a mouse, I thought. Houses like these must always have mice crawling about, especially down here.

  I set a few more frames aside, but the pile of discarded ones grew and grew, and with them, my impatience. I wondered if Mills was having any more luck with his ledger, but doubt had begun to swirl in my mind, curdling all the brilliant thoughts we’d had about this case. Maybe Selene wasn’t so clever a girl. Maybe she didn’t leave a note. Maybe there wasn’t some great seeking of justice. Maybe someone stole a painting to get rich. Maybe they left the note as a prank. Stranger things had happened, stranger things would happen again.

  I leant back against the cold stone wall, dusting a cobweb out of the way, and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Something wasn’t right, I could feel it. Something I’d missed or overlooked. Jumped to a conclusion, perhaps, it wouldn’t be the first time for me to do such a thing. I was surprised Sharp hadn’t called me up on it, to be perfectly honest. Usually, she revelled in such a task.

  Shaking my head, I forced myself to sit up, determined not to give up on this task just yet, and pulled another frame towards myself, unwrapping the white dust sheet that protected the painting. It was beautiful, I knew that much about it. It was a portrait of a woman, a young woman, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Rose Hocking. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her wide eyes gazing straight out through the image. A necklace hung between her collarbones, a small, ornate R resting against her skin.

  Rosemary, I realised. The painting was of Rosemary Hocking. I frowned, wondering why it had been shut in the dark down here. But then, perhaps her face stirred up bad memories, unwelcome feelings. I had done much the same with my own photographs.

  A loud thud broke me from my thoughts, the sound of something falling and then shutting. I gently placed Rosemary’s portrait against the wall and clambered to my feet. No sooner had I reached the doorway than something, someone, hurtled past me in a blur of colour. I reached out to stop them,

  “Oi!” I shouted, taking a few steps after them, but they ran like they were on fire, leaping up the stairs two at a time and out the door. I made to race after them, but paused, glancing back to the hall they had come from. The hall Mills had gone down, where the thud had come from.

  I muttered a curse that would earn me a slap over the ear from Elsie and turned away from the fleeing intruder, running down the hall. I could hear a faint hammering and Mills’s quiet voice.

  “Thatcher!”

  “Mills?” I roared back, trying to find which door he was calling from. Most of them opened, revealing empty, dusty storage rooms.

  “Mills?” I shouted again.

  “Sir?” His voice was muffled by the doors.

  “Mills?” This was absurd, I felt like I was playing Marco Polo. I rounded the corner, met by more and more doors.

  “Thatcher!” His voice was louder. I sped up, ramming doors open and moving past. I came to one, reaching for the handle which didn’t budge. I shouldered the door, and it barely moved. Clearly it was locked. I made to move on, but then the hammering started.

  “Sir?” Mills’s voice was right behind it.

  “I’m here,” I called, trying the handle again. Nothing. “It’s locked.”

  There was silence.

  “Locked?” His voice was muffled. “It wasn’t locked before.”

  Maybe whoever came hurtling past me had locked it, but they’d probably need a key for that.

  “Is there a window in there?” I asked him, running my hands over the door. Cold, it was, metal. Couldn’t really kick through metal.

  “No, sir,” he answered. “It’s airtight. Built like a bunker.”

  Airtight? Bollocks.

  “Alright,” I called through, “stay calm, hang in there. I’ll get this door open. There’s no handle from your side?” It seemed a stupid question, but if Mills panicked, he might have missed it. People missed obvious things when they panicked.

  “No,” he answered calmly.

  I stepped back, letting out a long breath as I raked my hand through my hair. Mills, in an airtight room, locked in said room. Not good. It was a small room, too, I imagined, like the rest of them. Poky little cupboards stuffed with forgotten artefacts. I let out another curse just as feet came rattling down the stairs.

  “Inspector!” Rose came skidding down the hall, Rupert and the butler on her tail. “There was a man!” She panted and caught her breath. “We saw him from the window. There was a man in the house!”

  “I know,” I muttered darkly.

  “You know?” Rupert repeated. “What on earth are doing down here then? Go and get him!”

  “Is there another way into this room?” I ignored them both, my question pointed to Dennis, who shook his head.

  “No, Inspector. Why?”

  “My sergeant’s in there, and it’s locked.”

  The butler, to his credit, paled slightly, his eyes widening. The Hocking siblings didn’t share his worry, looking more peeved at me for having stayed down here rather than pursuing the intruder.

  “Is there a key?” Rupert inquired calmly.

  “Is there?” I demanded of Dennis.

  He gave a nod. “Upstairs, I can fetch it.”

  “How did it get locked if the key is upstairs?” Rupert asked. Good lad.

  “It’
s an old door, sir,” Dennis informed him patiently. “Reinforced in the early 1940s, of course, it was. It automatically locks if it’s not closed properly.”

  “That’s absurd, we should fix that,” Rupert drawled, he looked over his shoulder. “The key, Dennis?”

  The butler nodded, skittering off back down the halls. I looked away from the siblings and pressed myself closer to the door,

  “Mills? Don’t speak to me, alright? Save your air. Knock once for no, twice for yes. Understood?”

  Two dull knocks came in reply. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was better than talking, but it seemed the appropriate measure.

  “Are you feeling lightheaded? Dizzy?”

  Two knocks.

  “Did you see someone down here?” I asked, hoping to keep him awake.

  One knock.

  “Did someone shut you in there, old boy?” Rupert called over my shoulder.

  Two knocks.

  “I’ll bet it was our intruder,” the young man said amiably. “Didn’t want to get caught.”

  “You saw them through the window?” I asked.

  “Went past the garage,” Rupert told me, “running like his feet were on fire. Out into the woods.”

  “The woods?”

  “Why would he go out there?” Rose asked.

  “There’s a public footpath not far from where our land ends,” Rupert said easily. “Takes you right to the village pub.”

  “Why do you know that?” his sister asked.

  “Because I like the pub,” he answered, “and I’m not as hopeless as you like to believe.”

  I turned my back on them, letting them squabble away. I was worried about Mills, more than I usually would be. Usually, I’d have gone straight after the intruder, chased him over hills and fields, devil may care. But I liked Mills. He was a good sergeant, a good friend. Didn’t deserve to suffocate in a musty old room full of old library knick-knacks.

  “You with me, Mills?” I called. The siblings fell quiet so we could hear the faint two knocks. Very faint.

  “Dennis!” Rupert hollered over his shoulder. The butler appeared shortly after, a ring of keys in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Smart man, I noted, stepping aside so that he could search through the ring of keys, looking for the right one.