DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  She laughed. “No. Fret not. Covering a piece.” She picked up the notebook that her hand covered on the bar.

  “You don’t usually do arts,” I mentioned.

  “No. Never quite as much to say about a party full of fancy people as there is say about murder or robbery. That Hocking story,” she poked me in the arm, “never was fully released.”

  It hadn’t been, Sharp’s orders mostly, and it had seemed strange to me at the time that Jeannie hadn’t pressed further for than she had when she called that day at the mill. It seemed our Chief Superintendent’s reputation could keep the journalist quiet as well as it could us.

  “They wanted it quiet, them and the twins. It’s hardly my job to go around showcasing everyone’s family drama.”

  “Family drama, no, how dull. But a stolen painting, knocked-up maid, missing girl, and an abandoned mill? Someone could do something with that. Make into a piece of fiction, a drama.”

  “Like a BBC series?”

  “Exactly. Not family-friendly, of course,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “They’d showcase it on New Year’s.”

  I smiled down at her and relaxed against the bar. “I’m glad you’re here,” I told her, “I don’t know how to talk to any of these people. Sally will be gone soon too, whisked away by her adoring fans.”

  Jeannie chuckled. “It’s a hard life for you, isn’t it, Thatch? You’ll be swept away soon, I reckon. All those adoring fans of your own. That one girl,” she mused, looking down and running her fingers along the grooves of the wood, “the blonde. She looked most interested as you told your story.”

  “People like hearing them, but they don’t like being in them. The reality of being with an inspector isn’t quite as interesting as it seems.”

  Jeannie looked me over, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. “Trouble in paradise, Thatch?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bad schedules make for bad bedfellows.”

  “I never minded it.”

  “No,” I looked at her again, eyes glittering in the light of the many candles around us, “you didn’t, did you?”

  “Nor did you,” she countered, “and I’m never as polite about it as you are.”

  That was true. Jeannie was bad at making plans, especially after cancelling them, and even worse at not finding something more interesting to do. Arranging a date with her was like herding a cat into a bath. It was always much better to bump into her like this, so I took my refilled glasses and offered her my arm.

  “How would you like to be introduced to the guest of honour at this very fine event, Jeannie?”

  She grinned and looped her arm through mine, picking up her notebook. “I’d be delighted. What a gentleman.”

  “I’m always a gentleman on dates.”

  She scoffed. “No, you’re bloody not.”

  “I can be.”

  Jeannie rolled her eyes and tugged me from the bar. “Introduce to me to the right people then, Thatch. I want the fancy cats with red faces and heavy pockets. The sooner I get this story, the sooner we can leave.”

  My smile grew, and as we walked through the crowds, I felt far more at ease now than I had before with Jeannie traipsing along beside me, scanning everything and everyone that we passed. Her hair was escaping the do she’d put it in, random, corkscrew curls flinging around her face. She blew one away and tugged on my sleeve.

  “I like being in your stories,” she told me quietly as we walked back to the library.

  “You should be in them more often, then,” I replied.

  “I’ll make an effort,” she decided, “only if I can wear the hat, too.”

  “What hat?”

  “An inspector hat, like that tweed one you don sometimes.”

  I laughed. “Deal.”

  We rejoined the crowd, but once Sally’s speech was over, I doubted we would stay long.

  Dangerous Relics

  Book 3

  Prologue

  It was a nice enough day, sun shining, parks full of families and children, old people on walks, young couples strolling along arm in arm. Dogs ran about, dragging sticks that were much too big for them along, getting tangled in each other’s leads. Shop doors and restaurants were open to the streets, letting in the sunshine. Table pushed out onto the cobbles, people reclining in the warmth. Music from shops filtered out quietly, along with buskers that made the most of the fair weather. Cigarette smoke lulled about in the clear sky, battling with the perfumes and soaps that came from the shops, sweet pastries from the bakeries and once point, as I walked passed at just the wrong time, vomit, as a little boy was sick down his father’s back.

  I always felt strange without my coat, with the collar and reassuringly deep pockets. I’d never known what to do with myself in the heat, wasn’t bred for it, my grandfather used to joke. All pale skin and broad build, built for the cold, wet moors he had moved down from. I’d had a haircut recently, which left me feeling bare, with no locks to push back when they fell in my eyes. I strode along in a pair of jeans, making the most of the weekend and a thin jumper. It was warm, but it was June, and I didn’t trust the clouds that were lurking about above the tall spire on the Minster. I checked my watch, frowning that more time hadn’t passed as I’d strolled around, dodging prams and tourists, trying not to kick pigeons in my wake.

  I was early, for once in my life, for my meeting with my friend Mike. He’d come back from a few months travelling around Thailand and Indonesia, and since work had kept me from his welcome home party, we’d arranged to catch up alone. A coffee and a stroll around the city. I’d been looking forward to it, glad to see him alone. Parties weren’t my environment in any case, and Mike and I always could talk more without other people knocking about. I’d set out a little too early, after waking up even earlier, and got bored with kicking around the house with nothing to do. Everything was clean, all the chores done, and I knew if I sat down to watch television, the shows would draw me in and then I would certainly be late. So, I’d walked out into the city, taking strange loops and random lanes here and there to kill time. All for nought, I was still early.

  We were meeting down by the river, so I made my way down there, passing a group of street performers who had drawn in a large crowd to circle them. I shuffled past, hopping down the stone stairs and under a bridge to the quieter stretch of the river. A few boats were moored along the bank, all of them freshly painted with little flower boxes on the windows. Some rowboats made their way up and down the river, some with the current, others slowly chugging against it. A few birds flocked to where a mother and her child were tossing them food, the child almost falling in at one point before its mother yanked it back by its dungarees. I smiled at that and turned back to the river. Trees grew up around me, all bushy and green again, bright against the yellow sandstone.

  It really was a very nice day. I sat down on a bench, my arms propped up on the back, leaning my head back against the stone wall and closed my eyes, letting the sunlight warm my face. After the very wet spring we had just escaped from, it was a welcome change. I listened to the birds, some singing, but also the geese and the ducks honking away down where the feeding was all taking place. I listened to indistinct murmurs coming from a group of tourists on the bench a little way down from me, trying to pinpoint what language they were speaking. Germanic, I could guess that much, but they moved away before I could pinpoint anything more specific. Across the river, a pub had opened its doors to the garden, people sitting close to the bank, glasses shining in the light. Their laughter somehow made it over the river, carried by the gentle breeze that rustled the trees above me and cooled my face down. And to think, it hadn’t been long ago that everything was cold and damp and stormy.

  I frowned when a shadow was cast over my face, blocking the warmth.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” came a familiar, slightly sarcastic voice. I cracked my eyes open a tad, careful of the sunlight, to find Mike grinning down at me. He was holding
two coffee cups, and he handed me one wordlessly.

  I looked him over. His skin had darkened, a bit red and peeling in some places, his teeth suddenly very white. His hair had grown, the curls now reaching his chin, and he had a new necklace looped around his neck. A new tattoo had been added to the sleeve that ran up his left arm, visible only because he, like me, wore a thin jumper and had shoved the long sleeves up out of the way. He looked rested, which was nice to see, happy.

  I was glad for it. The last time I saw him, he’d been hunched over a computer looking like a poster boy for anaemia medication, and I’d wheeled his chair away to the balcony to get him some daylight before he turned into a stone gargoyle before our eyes. Had to spray him with a hose in the end, so this was a very pleasant change to find.

  I finished my examination and met his eyes, taking a sip of coffee. “You’re tanned.”

  “It’s been known to happen when you actually leave Yorkshire once in a while, Max,” he replied with a smirk. I laughed and stood up, hugging him quickly and tightly with my free arm. He gripped me back, thumping me between the shoulder blades a few times before I pulled away.

  “So, the weary traveller returns,” I said, as we walked along the river. “How was it all?”

  “Oh!” He sighed fondly, looking like he was already eager to head back. “You’d like it out there, Max. All the food, the culture, the history.”

  “Because we’re so starved of history?” I elbowed him jokingly, indicating the tall walls before us.

  “Very funny,” he replied, “not that I’ve ever heard you brag about our proud heritage.”

  “That time we went to the Viking Centre, I enjoyed that.”

  “We were eighteen.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Mike laughed, and we walked along some more, him telling me tale after tale, getting side-tracked or hyper-focused on one specific detail.

  “Worth all those years saving then?” I asked when he trailed off eventually, a distant look on his face.

  “Absolutely. Here,” he emptied his coffee cup and threw his and mine away. “You should take a holiday. When’s the last time you went anywhere?”

  It had been a while, that was true. I’d had a week off at the start of the summer, but I’d spent it mostly working in the coaching house, which now had windows.

  “I went on that walking holiday,” I remembered. “In the moors.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “You went on a walking holiday, not an hour from where you live. I mean a proper holiday!” He raised his arms excitedly. “I mean sunshine, Max, sunshine and sand. And elephants.”

  “I don’t like sand,” I scoffed. “It gets in my socks, and you know how easily I burn.”

  “Alright, a city break, then. Outside the UK,” he added right as I was about to suggest somewhere like Edinburgh. “Go to Oslo.”

  “Oslo?”

  “Norway.”

  “I know where Oslo is,” I chided him. “Just curious as to why you picked it.”

  Mike didn’t seem to know either, probably just the first place that came to mind. He shrugged and let out another happy sigh, his hands stuck in his pockets.

  “I don’t really need much of a holiday,” I said, and he scoffed. Loudly.

  “I’d say otherwise. That party of mine you missed,” he said. “Sally mentioned a case you had a few weeks ago. Some girl murdered in a museum?”

  I nodded. Viviane Charles. That had been a case and a half.

  “I did have my holiday after that one,” I allowed, “but it was more forced on me.”

  By Sharp, who had entailed alongside her the assembled efforts of Dr Crowe and Mills, all of whom had figured out how many holiday days I had and forced me to use them.

  “She said it was a bit on the rough side,” Mike carried on in a quieter, subdued tone.

  “Was rather. That Regency place,” I told him. “You know one of those historic houses people can go and look around?”

  “Far from here?”

  “Not really.” I shook my head. “Townhouse, nice building.”

  “Bet it’s not as popular anymore.”

  “Weirdly, more so,” I corrected him. “People are always interested in stuff like that. Why do you think they’re always making so many Jack the Ripper documentaries?”

  “Lack of creativity,” he answered quickly. “And people still like an unsolved puzzle.”

  I gave him that, though I myself had never been much interested in the craze that a lot of people seemed to find themselves in when it came to old Victorian murders. People liked it, though, the sense of danger, the history of it all.

  “You could have been helpful in that one,” I told him. “What with all the Antiques Roadshow you used to watch.”

  “Cash in the Attic,” he told me.

  “My apologies.”

  “So, tell me about it then.”

  I turned and looked at him as we headed up some stone stairs back into the main bustle of the city. We were in a market, weaving through stalls, and it didn’t strike me as being quite the best place to tell such a story.

  “Tell you about it?” I repeated questioningly. “Why?”

  “Because Sally only knew half the details,” he told me, “and she’s always been a bit rubbish at telling stories. I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Honestly, Mike!” I rolled my eyes. “We’re here so you can tell me all about your lovely holiday and try to coerce me into taking one.”

  “We can do that some other time,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I want to hear it before all the details get muddled in all your other stories.”

  That happened a lot. As time went on, I forgot which particular thing happened in which particular case. The details got vague and distant as I let them fade from memory. I didn’t much want to be walking around through life with a clear-cut roll of everything murder and robbery I’d ever had to deal with in my life. Seemed a horrid thing to do. It would make a man very jaded and bitter.

  I looked around the busy streets and squinted in the sunlight.

  “I’ll buy you some chips,” Mike tried.

  “Alright,” I said as I gave in. “Just so long as I’m not telling it in the middle of the street with children and half a dozen pigeons listening in.”

  “Fair enough.” Mike clapped an arm around my shoulder, and we headed away from the market, through a quick cutting alleyway until we were in more familiar streets. The old haunts from our university days.

  “That’s the pub you threw up in.” I pointed to the green awning as we passed it, and Mike’s face fell flat.

  “That’s the gutter you almost fell asleep in,” he retorted.

  I followed his pointed finger to the gutter in question. Had it always gone down into an alley reeking of old beer? Thank God Mike had been there to haul me out.

  We ducked into the old chip shop we knew and loved, and I headed to the back to find us a quiet, if slightly sticky, table whilst Mike got the chips. He returned quickly, two drinks in hand as well, and started dousing his chips in vinegar the moment he sat down. I shook my head at him, and he looked up, his expression defensive.

  “You like vinegar too!” he reminded me as he passed the bottle over.

  “Not so much it turns my chips into a liquid,” I replied. Mike took a chip and wolfed it down with his eyes closed, nodding appreciatively. “Did you miss these?”

  “I did. Not that the food wasn’t exceptional,” he added hastily. “Though I did eat a cricket at one point. Alise dared me too.”

  I laughed, imagining the sight.

  “But these,” Mike held up a golden chip. “These I would swim the seven seas for.”

  “They should quote you on that,” I muttered. “Stick it on the menu.”

  “Oh yeah, they’d get all the customers then.”

  “So, how’s it going with you and her?” I asked after he inhaled a few more. “After the trip? All good?”

  “Better than ev
er. We’re moving in together,” he told me with a proud smile. “My place.”

  I smiled back. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Once it’s all done and dusted, we’ll have you over. We can have a cheese board and play Scrabble,” he offered.

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Don’t think you can distract me anymore,” Mike said abruptly. “I’ve allowed it this far because of the chips and Alise, but now…” He took a loud swig of his drink and propped his hands up beneath his chin. “Tell me the story, Max.”

  “It’s the same as all the rest,” I assured him, toying with a chip.

  “You always say that, but they never really are.”

  “My cases always are, in some way, shape, or form,” I replied wryly. “Someone gets hurt, I find who did it, end of.”

  “Same goes for Miss Marple, but people still watch that,” Mike replied.

  I looked over at him, at his peaceful, hopeful expression. “You watch Miss Marple?”

  “Yes.” Mike quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Always pegged you down for more of a Morse man.”

  “Blame my nan. Now,” he reached over and pulled my chips away, leaving me aghast, “you can have your chips when you’ve told your story.”

  “They’ll go cold!” I protested.

  Mike considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Then I will give them back once,” he held up a finger, “you really get into it. Come on,” he said in a more solemn tone, “Sally said this was a big one, talk to me about it.”

  I realised what he was doing then, the sly git. Mike had his roundabout way of doing things, and this was yet another. I bet he’d even planned that party for a day he knew I wouldn’t be able to get away just for this. From the smug little glint in his otherwise concerned eyes, I very much suspected so.

  “Fine,” I spread my hands flat, “it was in the spring, as you well know. And it had been raining. Non-stop.”

  One