DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  I watched them go and let out a sigh, flipping the key in my hand and crossed to the double doors that led out into the garden. I supposed it was a good thing that Sharp assigned me to this particular theft, it seemed to get worse the further in we went, like one of those hedge mazes that get narrower the further you go, scratched by thorns. You’d probably get rained on as well, just for good measure. I stepped out into the garden and made my way down the sloping pasture towards the lake, hoping to all hope that there would be something of use here. Or somewhere in that grand old estate. Or maybe, for all we knew, Selene had planned all of this. One last laugh against the family that had caused her so much grief. A wild little goose chase, digging up all their wrongdoings. I’d applaud her for that, but I’d spent too much time in this house now. My feet sank into the soft earth, the grass slightly damp, leaking into the end of my trousers. I could smell the lake as I approached and there, against the grey water, the summer house sat.

  Twenty-Three

  Thatcher

  For all that I heard about the summer house, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. It was a round building, made of glass, but the windows were covered in a thin layer of dust, and when I unlocked the door and pushed the handle, everything creaked and groaned and was hard to move. I eased the door open and stepped inside. The floor was the same polished granite that ran through the estate itself, the ceiling domed like an Italian church. The walls were painted pale blue, thin curtains draped alongside the windows, dragging on the ground. Against one wall, a small white piano sat untouched, an open book of music left on the stand. The bench was pushed in, and a small pair of gloves were discarded on top of them.

  I crossed over, the space silent and cold and picked them up. They were soft, made of cashmere or alpaca, the fingers small like a child’s. I pulled the wrist back to find a small R.H. embroidered into the wool. Putting them back down on the bench, I looked at the sheet music. Schubert, I liked Schubert, my mother used to play him around the house. The pages were well worn, bent and creased, with a few faint pencil marks scored around here and there. I made a note of the page number before flicking through the rest of the sheets, wondering if I might find something hidden within the pages. Nothing.

  I returned them to the piece they were open to and lifted the seat of the bench. A few booklets sat inside, more sheet music and a beginner’s book on learning scales. I sifted through them all, again, empty-handed.

  Letting out a breath that clouded in the cold room, I looked around. Two wooden armchairs sat to one side, thick fur blankets draped over them, with a small wood stove in between with a kettle on top. The ash lay in a thick blanket inside, the glass completely smudged in black. A basket of logs, covered in dust and cobwebs, was kicked to one side, and a small, narrow desk occupied the other wall. I went towards it, sitting in the uncomfortably cold chair and looked over the desk.

  A few frames, dusty again, sat on the surface, and I wiped them with my sleeve, finding a young Lord Hocking and Rosemary staring out at me from a boat they were in on the lake. Another, of the family dog with a large stick between its jaws and the last one, of the three Hocking children, Richard included, beaming up at the camera. They were very young here, Rosemary held in her eldest brothers’ arms, a rattle clutched in her fists. I popped the frames off one by one, finding nothing on the backs except the dates the photos were taken, and little notes made by, I’m assuming, their mother. There were an old inkpot and fountain pen, a dead flower in a ceramic pot, a glass paperweight filled with small flowers and a little lamp.

  I pushed the chair back slightly to open the drawers. The first was filled blank writing paper and envelopes, a few pens rolling around inside. I pulled the lot out, flipping through the stiff, heavy pages before putting them all back carefully. I wished I’d brought that tea Dennis was fetching with me, I thought as I opened the second drawer. Its contents were random. There was a doll, a dog leash, an empty hip flask with the Hocking insignia engraved into the metal, a book on local bird watching and a box of matches. Right then. I took the doll out first, carefully, since she seemed to be nothing more than delicate china bones and lace. I wondered if she had been Rosemary’s, and then why she was left out here. Not for me to question though, I decided, placing her gently back into the drawer and pushed it shut, leaning down to open the third and last drawer.

  Maps, I realised, pulling them. Local ones, Ordnance Survey mostly, of the county and a few more close to the home of local walking routes. I flipped through them, finding another of the estate itself and unfolded it over the desk. The house, in comparison to the rest of the Hocking land, was small, they owned more than I realised. The lake, the woods, even the rows of cottages that led down into the village. Some farmlands surrounding the area and most likely all the houses that lived there too. It was a hefty job running this place, by the looks of it, no wonder Henry was in such a state of disarray over all this.

  Poor bloke, I thought, unfolding the map to look at where the Hocking woodlands meet the public woods, and the walking paths that skirt around the border heading down, as Rupert had said, to the local village, coming out just by the pub. A good walk, several miles of woods and hills, and ending with a pint, lovely.

  Where there were local walking routes, as I knew well enough, there would be places to park. There was one opposite the coaching house, Elsie complained about it to this day. Muddy cars and Labradors would pull up, left for a few hours while the owners strode off into the woods. Back when the coaching house was up and running, we made good work from the ramblers.

  There was always a place to park, even if it was nothing more than a trodden down path of dirt that was flat enough and wide enough to pull up on. There’d likely be one somewhere, if not down in the village then further up, nearer the woods themselves. Since no one had seen our intruder with a vehicle anywhere near the estate itself, I’d wager they made use of public land. Nobody would question that, an empty car by a local walking route, not round here anyway. Deciding that it might come in handy, I folded the map back up and put the others away, tucking it into my coat pocket as I returned the desk to normal. The only other things in the sunroom were a small cupboard filled with walking boots and sticks and a little basket filled with firelighters, kindling, and yet another box of matches.

  I left it there, locking up the door as my phone rang. I answered, pressing it between my ear and shoulder as I turned the cold, unused lock.

  “Mills,” I muttered into the mouthpiece.

  “Sir,” I could hear him walking, “Rupert and I are returning to the living room.”

  “You find something?”

  “We think so. Rose is back there now too,” he added, “as is Lord Hocking.” There was a pause as he bent to put something down. “Henry’s fetching his mother and Eloise.”

  “Good,” I answered, making my way up the slope, the roof of the house coming into view above the rising garden. “Give me a few minutes.”

  I hung up then, trudging up the hill and stopped when I reached the top, turning back to look down over the lake. It was a nice view, I had to admit. I imagine that come sunset or sunrise, it would be magnificent. The light reflected off the water and the glass building, mingling along the landscape. You could be in a painting, standing here, staring out. I wondered how much time Selene had spent doing just that, losing herself in the light and the gentle ripples of the lake, the trees that bowed over the surface, the willow on the other side with its long leaves touching the water. It was peaceful. More peaceful than how her life ended up being, at any rate. I sighed, stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and turned back to the house, crunching over the gravel back up to the doors I had left open and into the living room. I was greeted by Dennis first, who offered me a cup of tea, a little biscuit tucked onto the saucer.

  “Thank you,” I smiled, taking it, and wandered over to Mills, who cradled his own tea like it was an anchor as he stared at the unfolding argument that resurfaced between the family.
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br />   “What did you find?” I asked him, but the others fell quiet too, turning to look at us. Mills tore his unimpressed stare from the Hockings and walked to the table where he and Rupert had dumped their findings. A few books, neatly stacked, a small standing frame with an image of a woman I didn’t know, and the ledger itself, the red leather glinting in the light from the lamp beside it.

  “Anyone else?”

  “We found this,” Rose held up a small book of poetry, “in Auntie Rosemary’s room. Selene gave it to her.”

  “How do you know that?” Lord Hocking asked.

  Rose fixed him a withering glare and opened it to the front page. “Dear Rosemary. Happy Birthday, love Selene,” she read.

  “Is there anything inside?”

  “Not that we took much stock of,” Henry said, taking the book from his sister to pass to me, “but there are some extracts that have been underlined, we wondered if that might mean anything.”

  I took the book with a grateful nod. “Lord Hocking?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing in there. Only piece of sheet music I could find was for Led Zeppelin.”

  Rupert nodded enthusiastically. “Guitar lessons. Wasn’t much good,” he told Mills and me. “Too impatient.”

  “Lady Hocking?”

  “No, but I wasn’t expecting to. We spend most of our time in here, after all.”

  “We did bring these.” Eloise placed a stack of photographs on the table and nodded to a larger painting leant against the wall. “Just in case.”

  I waved a hand, and she sat down with an air of excitement, Lady Hocking beside her, opening the frames, glancing inside and then handing them to Henry who quietly did his wife’s bidding and put them back in their rightful places.

  “Inspector,” Rupert piped up, “if Selene really wanted them to know, why would she just not have told them?”

  “I think she was torn,” I answered him as I ate my biscuit. “This was her way of getting the information out there without actually having to say it. Without,” I glanced at Lady Hocking, “jeopardising anything.”

  “We would have helped her,” the Lady told me stiffly, her back straight. She’d cleaned her face, wiping away the pink splotches and tear stains. “We do things properly in this house,” she added with a bitter touch towards her husband, who clasped his clammy hands together and fixed his gaze on the photograph Rupert and Mills had brought in from the library.

  “That’s good to hear,” I answered, though little good it all did now.

  “If they can’t find it, what will they do instead?” Rupert carried on, ignoring the glares from his siblings. I gave him a small nod of encouragement, grateful someone was talking rather than yelling, and the lad asked the right questions, even if his timings were a little off. “If they are as keen on all this blackmail lark as they appear to be. Which they haven’t actually done anything about! Do they want money? What is it?”

  “There’s little they can blackmail with without proof,” I reminded him. “All they, and we, in fact, have is suspicion.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Hocking added, moving his stare at last. “For all we know, the child isn’t even a Hocking.”

  “He is,” I told him shortly, “if his appearance is any indicator.”

  “He looks like him?” Lady Hocking leant forward, her wide eyes flicking from me to her husband.

  “He shares the resemblance that your husband and his brother share, Lady Hocking. It’s hard to tell which of them he would favour more.”

  “Back to my question,” Rupert flopped a hand lazily in the air, scratching his curls with the other, “what will they do?”

  I sat down slowly, unsure. “It’s hard to say,” I told them carefully. “Maybe they’ll back off, and we can focus more on arresting them. Maybe they’ll try some other tactic.”

  “Heavens!” Lady Hocking had crossed the room to smooth down the hair that Rupert had just sent askew. “Like what?”

  “Again, hard to say. My advice would be to take careful measures until we have arrested this person. Make sure your security is tight, don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Is it him?” Rupert asked. “For all we know, it’s the child himself who’s wanting to make us go through all of this.”

  “For what purpose?” I asked.

  He snorted. “That’s your job.”

  “It’s worth considering,” Rose supported her brother.

  “It’s being considered,” I assured them. “Everything is.”

  They nodded and settled down to help sort through the various items they’d brought in. I took the map from my pocket and handed it to Henry,

  “The public footpath borders your land closely,” I said as he unfolded it and laid it on the desk.

  He nodded. “We get a few people who lose the trail every now and then, or dogs that get off the lead. They’re always locals though,” he told me.

  “Is there anywhere around the path where people come from further away? Where they might park their cars?”

  His eyes flashed with understanding, and he nodded, hair flopping in his face the way his brother’s did as he bent over the map.

  “This one’s the most popular,” he drew a little X just off the main road, “halfway point really. People park here, come up through the woods, down into the village then back up again.”

  “If they don’t park in the village itself,” Lord Hocking added.

  “Otherwise, here,” another X in the woods themselves, “just where the footpath begins. You think that’s where they parked?”

  “Public land,” I shrugged and sat back down, “better place than any.”

  I started to flip through the pages of the poetry book as Mills and Rupert dug into the stack of books they had brought in.

  From what I could tell, the extracts were erratic, random lines that Rosemary must have liked and wanted to remember. No pattern or sense to any of them.

  “Sir,” Mills’s voice was deadpan, and my head snapped up. He held a copy of Twelfth Night in one hand, and a small envelope in the other.

  “Rosemary’s favourite play,” Lord Hocking told us gently. “She had us perform it every Christmas.” He sank down slowly into his chair, and his wife laid a comforting, if still slightly reluctant hand on his arm.

  Twelfth Night. I cast my mind back, trying to remember my Shakespeare and turned up little other than Macbeth and that one quote from Henry the Fifth everyone seemed to know. Luckily, I had Mills on hand.

  “One of the main characters, sir. Sebastian.” He held out the envelope to me, a faded ink address on the front. Lord Hocking and Richard were both addressed to, Selene’s handwriting curled and looping across the stiff white paper. Rather like the stiff white paper that was kept in the summer house, I realised with a small smile.

  I looked up to Lord Hocking and held out the envelope, but he shrunk back and shook his head.

  “You do it, Inspector,” he muttered, looking world weary. “I haven’t the nerve.”

  Twenty-Four

  Thatcher

  The silence was uncomfortable, and I hesitated, still holding the envelope out towards Lord Hocking. But he had closed his eyes, one hand raised to pinch the bridge of his nose. The rest of the family sat around in nervous anticipation, Rose and Rupert together on the sofa, while Henry stood behind them with a hand on each shoulder and Eloise at his side. Lady Hocking hovered for a moment, before taking her place with her children, and only when she gave me a nod, did I flip the envelope over and open it. The paper inside was the same heavy, stiff material, and as I unfolded it, a small picture slid to the ground. Mills bent forward to pick it up and handed it back to me. It looked like a sonogram, the shapes and shadows indistinct. Lady Hocking reached over, taking the picture and frowned down at it.

  I cleared my throat, really, truly wishing that I didn’t have to do this, and began to read:

  My dear boys,

  I was sorry to leave the house the way I did. Sorry to leave
you both behind. But we all know it was for the best. You have your duties to your family, and I can’t be a part of that. Nor, I think, do I want to.

  I had planned for this to be the end of it, not much use in digging up the past is there? But something’s happened, something that I need you both to know. Only, I’m not sure I really want you to know. I heard about the marriage, and the baby, congratulations. I have no wish to ruin that, none at all.

  I’m pregnant. There it is, easier to write than it is to say. Funny how that works, isn’t it? How much easier it is to say something when you don’t have to look someone in the eye when you do. I’m pregnant. There’s a sonogram here too, it’s a little blurry, but I thought– Well, I thought perhaps you’d want to see.

  I addressed this to you both because I want you both to know. I’m not exactly sure what you’ll do. I wonder if you already know. Maud does, maybe she’s told you, the tricksy old girl. Either way, I’m going to be a mother. Strange that, isn’t it? For all the times I said I never wanted to be. And I fear, or I know, that I’m going to be a single mother. I’m not asking you for anything, and I know there’s no place for me there in any case. It’s up to you, I suppose, what you want to do, if you want to do anything.

  I can picture you both, you know, reading this. Brows furrowed in that way you both do, jaws clenched. I can almost hear you as well, ‘get on with it Selene! Who’s the father?’ Part of me wonders if it matters. Well, it will do, in fact. One of you is the heir to Hocking estate, one of you isn’t. Messes things up on that account, doesn’t it?

  You’ll forgive me for saying it, but oh how I wish it was you, Richard. How I wish there would be no confusion of inheritance or the eldest born or any of that nonsense. You and I might even make it work. I’ve seen you, you know. How unhappy that place makes you. You and I could do well together. But, my darling, for all that wishing, it isn’t you. I know it isn’t.