“Why here?” I wondered aloud as Mills joined me at the window. “If Viviane Charles committed suicide, why would she do it here? A full day’s work, most of the house already locked up, ready to go. And then do it here?”
“I haven’t a clue, sir.” Mills shook his head. “But I don’t think we’ll find much to make it any clearer here. Most people don’t bring their problems to work.”
I reached up and scratched the back of my head. “What do you make of the young woman?”
“Rita?”
I gave a grunt in response.
“She seemed nervous. Downright skittish,” he finally admitted, looking at me. “You think she knows something?”
“They worked together for three years.” I scratched my cheek. “You’d think she might have some sort of insight into her, that they might have been friends, especially in a small team like this.”
“Hopefully, the security cameras will give us a few more answers,” Mills muttered.
“Not much security,” I pointed out as we moved onto the next room. “Museums like these usually have a team of security. At least one bloke lingering around to scare off teenagers with sticky fingers.”
“I’ll take a look into the security system that they have,” Mills told me. “See how well the company fares, what sort of alarm system it is. Might be cheaper than hiring an actual security guard.”
“Usually is. We’re not learning much from this,” I sighed, looking around the rooms again.
“If we’re treating like a murder, we ought to.”
“All the rooms are still locked,” I pointed out. “Let’s take a look at Viviane’s things, see if there’s anything more useful there.” I locked the door, and we stuck our heads in a few more, just to be on the safe side, before heading back downstairs and into the drawing room. Smith was sitting on the sofa, the contents of a bag laid out on the table before her. Rita stood in the corner, watching the constable pick over the items with a faint line between her brows.
I nodded to Mills, who loitered in the door, keeping an eye on the girl as I joined Smith.
“Well?”
“Usual stuff, sir. House keys, phone charger, granola bar.”
“The bag?” I nodded to a small bag, zipped up. Smith gave me a wry smile.
“Makeup bag, sir. She did keep this.” She held up a diary, the ribbon lodged in place for the week.
I flipped it open, scanning the pages. Her hours were dotted in the corners for each day, but little else. And yesterday, no mention of a doctor’s appointment. Perhaps she wasn’t the sort to need to make a note of things like that, but then why have a diary? I flipped through more pages, catching glimpses of remainders to pay her phone bill, to have dinner with a friend. I went forward a few pages, and found next week, with a note she’d written to get a quote from a contractor.
“Why would she need a contractor?” Smith muttered quietly. “The week after she killed herself?”
“Why indeed?” I replied, closing the book. “I’ll take this one, Smith. See if there are any other things like that to ponder over. How was she?” Still bent over the table, I cast a subtle glance towards Rita, hands still bundled in her sleeves.
“Uncomfortable,” Smith answered quickly. “Nervous. Though most people are when someone they knew is found dead.” She looked at me sideways. “You think there’s something else there, sir?”
“I think she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Want to bring her into the station?”
“No. Sharp wants this to follow protocol, then I can hardly bring in a suspect.” I stood up. “I’ll be back in a moment. Mills?” He looked at me. “Give Smith a hand with this.”
He nodded, a confused frown on his face that I ignored as we left the room and headed for the stairs that led down into the kitchens. The basement was something of a maze of small rooms and cupboards, but the kitchen was a large, bright room, glinting in the light that bounced off the copper pans hanging from the ceiling. At the large table, Ms Goddard and Mrs Jenkins sat sharing a pot of tea, the cleaner looking more at ease, though it would take more than a cup of tea to shake today from her head.
“Ms Goddard,” I called, stepping in. She looked up and stood.
“I’ve sent word to our security company,” she told me. “They’ll send you the footage.”
“Much obliged. I wondered if I might talk to you about Miss Jones?”
“Rita?” Josephine blinked in surprise. “Of course, why?”
“She seems very uncomfortable.” I indicated for the manager to sit back down and did so myself. “Almost a little skittish.”
Josephine and Nia shared a look. “We had noticed too, Inspector. Rita’s a quiet girl, a little shy when she's not giving tours. But she’s never usually quite so… what’s the word, Nia?”
“Jumpy?” the cleaner supplied.
“Yes.” Josephine looked at me. “They weren’t all that close, I don’t think they saw much of each other anywhere.”
“Do you know if she had any particular attachment to Miss Charles?” I asked carefully. It took her a moment to catch my meaning, her eyes widening slightly, and she shook her head.
“If you’re asking me if she had feelings for her, then I really couldn’t say. I don’t think so, certainly. But it’s hard to tell with Rita. She keeps things very close to her chest, more so than Viviane, in fact.”
“Do you know much about Viviane’s personal life? Her family?”
“She lived alone, I know that much, but otherwise, no.”
“Did she ever complain about living alone?”
“Never to me,” Josephine admitted. “But loneliness can sneak up on you, can’t it? Maybe the thought of going to an empty home was too much for her in the end.” Her voice stayed clear, but she dropped her gaze to the table, looking forlorn.
“What about Miss Jones?”
“Lives with her brother, I think. I really don’t think there was a fancy there, Inspector. This place,” she indicated the surrounding house, “was probably all they had in common.”
“Thank you both. If you think of anything that might be useful,” I slid my card across the table, “please do get in touch. And Mrs Jenkins,” I added in a much softer voice as I handed her another, “we can help guide you to some support, if you need it.”
She looked up at me with teary eyes and nodded. “Thank you, Inspector.”
I stood up and gave them one last smile and a nod before returning to Mills. By all accounts, there could have been a reason for Viviane Charles to take her own life, but as much as it might annoy Sharp, I couldn’t help but think Mills and Crowe were right to have called me in.
The house was hiding something. I was sure of it.
Four
Thatcher
As we left the house, more people had gathered outside. They stayed a respectful distance away, but they lined the road, staring up at the house, whispering loudly to one another. A news van loitered not far away, so we ducked into our cars before they could spot us, though I wasn’t all that eager to get to the station, to Sharp and her tapping feet. We were in for a fun meeting when we got there. Hopefully, I could take the brunt of it and let Mills get away to follow up on the security company that protected the house.
The station itself was quiet, figures, given it was a Sunday. And I was a little sorry that Sharp was here herself, though she didn’t bother looking as pristine as usual. As we clambered up the stairs, we spotted her at Smith’s desk, dressed in a red jumper, her jeans tucked into her tall boots. She looked up and gave us a sharp jerk of the head towards her office door. I shared a grim smile with Mills, heading inside and dropping myself in the chair opposite hers, dumping Viviane Charles’s diary on the desk. Mills dragged a spare chair over, sitting down and folded one leg over the other, ankle to knee.
Sharp strode in, kicked the door shut with her foot and sat down, hands perched under her chin, simply staring.
“I like the jumper,” I tol
d her happily. “Red suits you.” It wasn’t a lie. It brought out her brown eyes very nicely. She didn’t look impressed, so I pressed my lips together and waited.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the diary.
“Viviane Charles’s diary. With appointments,” I flipped it open to next week, “scheduled for the future.” There was another, a few more weeks along towards the end of the month, her car’s MOT.
Sharp looked them over and leant back in her chair, crossing her legs. “How much do you know about suicide, Thatcher? About mental illness?”
“About the first, not much, I’m quite glad to say. The latter, a little more.”
Her face softened slightly, only slightly, and she let out a low sigh. “An entry in a diary is not enough to suspect murder.”
“It might be enough to suspect foul play,” I countered. “Why would she take her own life now? Why there, in the museum? The museum she spent six years working in and caring for?”
“That’s what you're supposed to figure out,” Sharp reminded me. “In fact, it’s what Mills is supposed to figure out.”
“If we suspect foul play,” Mills put in quietly, “Thatcher’s assistance will be beneficial.”
“And is it suspected?”
“According to her colleagues, she had been in good spirits at work. She was happy when she came in yesterday. She had plans.” I tapped the open page. “Future plans.”
“More concretely,” Mills unfolded his hands, “from looking at the scene, it’s hard to work out quite how it happened. It did not look planned, ma’am, that much was certain.”
“Who spontaneously hangs themselves in the place they work with a curtain rope and chandelier?” I emphasized. “If it was an act of desperation, it certainly doesn’t look like one.”
“And Crowe?” Sharp asked.
“She suspects something’s not quite right with the body, but until she does her autopsy…” I trailed off with a shrug.
Sharp sucked in a tight breath, her eyes flicking between our two faces, her own expression unreadable.
“The story is public,” she said eventually. “Not sure how it got out as quickly as it did, but it has. If this is a suicide, we need to be seen handling it respectfully, discreetly, and quickly. Poking around in her life otherwise is discourteous and bold.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed.
“And until Crowe provides enough evidence from her autopsy to confirm homicide, I can’t release any such theory to the press,” Sharp continued.
“No, ma’am.”
“So,” she sat forward, “you must be discreet. Don’t go pulling people into the station, don’t go chasing down suspects. Don’t make threats.”
“I don’t make threats,” I argued. Sharp gave me a displeased look and then directed her attention to Mills.
“Don’t let him make threats,” she repeated.
Mills gave a small, crooked smile and nodded.
“As far as the public knows,” she continued, “you are handling this suicide in the proper way. And you are. If, on such matters, you find evidence of foul play or that which suggests an outside influence on Viviane Charles’s actions, you come to me, first. Is that clear?” Her voice had hardened, and Mills shifted a little under the weight of her stare.
“Crystal,” I acknowledged
Sharp sat back, letting her hands down and flipped Viviane Charles’s diary closed. “We’re on a timer with this one, Thatcher. If we take too long, HQ will be here falling on my head like a ton of bricks. I’d rather not get a call from the Chief Constable.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” She relaxed at long last, the stern hold to her face slipping away slightly. “So, plan of action?”
“We’ll head to Viviane Charles’s home, see if there’s anything there that might help us understand why this happened.” I chose my words carefully, Sharp giving a minute dip of the chin in acknowledgement.
“I’ll look into the security company that protects the museum, and we should be getting footage from their cameras soon,” Mills added.
“And the staff there? What did you make of them?”
“The cleaner, Nia Jenkins, is the one who found her. She was badly shaken up, and I left her the card for Liaison and Diversion.”
“Good man.”
“One of them,” I pushed on, “the younger girl, Rita Jones, seemed, very uneasy.”
“Nervous,” Mills said with a nod. “Clenched fists, wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes, kept a tight hold of herself.”
“Any relationship between them?”
“Not that she referenced to, nor does the manager have any inclinations.”
“And what of the manager?” Sharp asked. “If Miss Charles suffered from mental health issues, she’d have an obligation to her wellbeing. HR and all that.”
“She said Viviane was a professional,” I recalled, whatever that meant. “Left her problems at the door, didn’t seem to be struggling with anything in particular. She had a doctor’s appointment yesterday. Maybe there’s some clue as to what about in her house.”
“See if you can find who her doctor was, which GP she was registered to,” Sharp ordered. “If she had any mental health conditions she hadn’t disclosed to her work, then we might find something there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Start there,” she held up a hand and brought her computer to life. “Before you head to her house, it’s good to know a bit more about what you’re looking for. See what her doctor might be able to tell you before you start poking around her things.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed.
Sharp nodded. “Smith said she has her phone, found in her bag. Wasco’s working on getting into it, but he’ll pass it straight along.”
“I doubt it’ll take him long,” I said.
“Nor do I.” Sharp waved her hand at us, and we stood, ready to leave. “Things almost as old as I am.”
We shuffled from her office, crossing the floor through desks and abandoned wheely chairs to our own. I shut us in, and Mills slumped down at his desk.
“I’ll take security, you take the doctor?” he suggested.
I nodded, sitting at my desk, glancing at the mess I’d left here. I turned the picture of my mother to face me more and pulled Viviane’s diary closer to myself. I opened it at the back, where a few address pages and numbers were kept. They were all the usual, boring ones. Garage number, breakdown service, and luckily, her doctors.
I looked up the surgery quickly, finding it just on the city outskirts, not far from where Viviane’s address had been noted. Smith was a fast worker; she’d left the information on a post-it note stuck to my monitor. I dialled the number, listening to the slightly crackled music that played as I waited, spinning slow circles in my chair until the receptionist finally answered.
“Moor Lane Surgery, how can I help you?”
“Good morning. This Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. Can I speak to a Dr Miri, please?”
“One moment.” I listened to another half a song, muffled until the line cleared again.
“This is Dr Miri,” came a woman’s clipped, professional voice.
“Dr Miri. I am Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police,” I said to introduce myself. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your patients, Viviane Charles.”
“Yes?” Concern crept into the doctor’s voice.
“I’m afraid to say that Miss Charles was found in her place of work this morning,” I said gently.
There was a long pause, in which the phone line crackled again. “My God. How did it happen?”
“It looks like a suicide.”
“Suicide?” she repeated, almost incredulously.
“I understand that Miss Charles had an appointment with you yesterday morning?”
Another pause. I looked at the diary, tracing the lines.
“No,” Dr Miri answered in confusion. “She didn’t.”
I looked up, meeting Mills’s eyes across the room. “She didn’t?”
“No.”
“I see. Dr Miri, may I ask if Miss Charles had any experience with mental illness?”
“She did not,” the doctor promptly answered. “She came in for an annual check-up, mostly. The last time I saw her was a few months ago when she came in to change her birth control.”
“And there was no indication of her having any struggles?”
“None, I’m sorry to say,” the doctor replied in a mournful tone. “Otherwise, I might have helped.”
“Thank you, Dr Miri, for your assistance. Please do get in touch if you think of anything that might help our investigation.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.”
I hung up, sitting back in my chair. Mills watched me across the room, looking bored with whatever he was reading.
“According to her GP,” I told him, “Viviane Charles did not have an appointment yesterday.”
“She might have lied to her manager about that,” he suggested. “If she was running late, it’s a good excuse to not get into trouble.”
I hummed in agreement, but my mind still whirred.
“Any mental health problems?” Mills asked.
“None that the doctor was aware of. The last time she was in was to change her birth control.”
“That might mean something,” he pointed out.
“Might.” I doubted it, but it was better than nothing. “She could have been somewhere else yesterday morning, somewhere that made her late to work. Seeing someone, perhaps.”
“A partner?” Mills suggested. If she was on birth control, it was a possibility.
“We need to go to her house,” I said, rubbing my face, “and I need a coffee before we do. How goes it?” I nodded to his computer.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 54
