DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3

by Oliver Davies

  “Good evening?” I asked, pulling away from the curb and past the fatigued parents at their car.

  “Same as usual,” he muttered. I glanced at him in the mirror. He had turned to face the window, watching the streets past. There were shadows under his eyes, and his hair was in more of a state of disarray than he usually kept it, the black waves stuck up here and there. Even his clothes were unkempt, tie loose, collar unbuttoned. He’d been up late, I realised, and knowing him, had spent the hours mulling over the case and second-guessing himself.

  “Sharp’s friend in the museum, the expert,” I told him, trying to draw his attention back, “will meet with us this morning. Before the museum opens.”

  Mills nodded. “Hopefully, she’ll know what that missing item is.”

  “And be able to tell us a bit more about the rest of Viviane’s collection. Can’t help but wonder what she was keeping it all, and all the research for.”

  “I wondered if that’s what the savings were for.” Mills looked away from the window, at last, twisting in his seat to look at me. “Maybe she was saving up for another piece to her collection, or a better storage place for them all.”

  I turned my head and gave him a grin. “Good thinking, Isaac. Might explain why she was keeping it separate to her savings account.”

  Mills gave another nod, reaching up and scratching his ear. “A lot of money, though,” he said. “How much do you think she got paid to work at the house?”

  “Not that much,” I said. It had been bothering me too. A lot of money on a monthly basis. Even if the house did pay her well and her rent was bizarrely cheap, it was more than really made much sense.

  “I thought about her ex-girlfriend too,” Mills pushed on, the weariness slowly fading from his face. “If we can find her, maybe from Viviane’s things, and get in touch, we can see what she might know. I’m guessing she can tell us more than Viviane’s parents did.”

  “It’s a thought, but I want to speak to someone who saw her recently. A few days ago, or something. She went somewhere the morning she was killed, I’m sure of it. If we can find out where, we might chat with someone who actually saw her that day, before she put on her professional face.”

  “Someone new, maybe? New enough that she hadn’t bothered to tell her parents yet?”

  “Maybe,” I nodded.

  We headed straight for the museum, the small car park empty, and for once, it was nice to see the place without hordes of school children or tourists. It featured mostly local findings, a lot of Viking artefacts, and was one of the smaller museums in the city.

  Mills and I strode up to the front desk, the sergeant seeming much more energised than he had before and introduced ourselves to the receptionist. Thankfully, he knew we were coming, and sent us to the lift, up to the top floor where a few archives, studies and offices sat. I looked for the door with the name Dr Dorland and rapped against it twice. It swung open quickly, a woman’s face appearing directly opposite mine.

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher?” She asked. I blinked, momentarily stunned, and managed a nod.

  “Yes. Dr Dorland?”

  “Liene, please. Come in,” she opened the door wider and walked back in, Mills and I trailing after her. The room was not unlike Viviane Charles’s room. A wall of books, a glass cabinet with a small collection housed inside and in the centre, a large desk with a bright lamp, a strange array of tools and a laptop which the doctor unceremoniously slid to one side.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Mills,” I waved a hand in his direction as he pushed the door closed. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

  Liene waved a hand. “Anything for Mara. I’m told you have some questions about a private collection?”

  Mills handed her Viviane’s folder, and as she flipped it open, reading each page with interest, we sat down. Dr Dorland’s chestnut hair was loose around her shoulders, a straight, heavy curtain of hair that she tucked behind one ear as she read, earrings glinting in the light. She wore a ring on nearly every finger, but nothing around her wrists, not even a watch. A white sort of lab coat was thrown over a fitted skirt and jumper, her long legs crossed, a heeled foot tapping the leg of the desk as she flicked through the folder. Eventually, she looked up, her brown eyes filled with curiosity, and she gave a crooked smile.

  “Quite the collection,” she said. “A little odd. There’s not much rhyme or reason to it.”

  “Is there usually?” Mills asked.

  “Generally speaking. Especially with private collections, people have what they like, an area of interest but this.” She tapped the cover of the folder with nails painted in chipped polish. “This is a peculiar little hoard. Mara said that one is missing?” she asked, looking at me.

  I, in turn, looked to Mills, who dug the page from his pocket, unfolded it and passed it over. He must have been studying it last night, I realised, trying to identify it. Dr Dorland spread it on the desk and looked down at it in surprise.

  “Oh! It’s lovely,” Liene cooed.

  I leant across the desk, hopeful. “Do you know what it is?”

  “A music box,” she told me, turning the page so that she could show me. “This is the lid, and here, is where a key would fit. Was there a key?”

  ‘Not one that we saw,’ Mills answered, and her face fell slightly.

  “Can you tell us much about it?” I asked.

  “From the image, only a little. I’ve seen one before, a collection down in London. It was early Victorian, very beautiful. If it’s genuine,” she allowed, “the gold is likely real. And here, see these panels on the side?” She ran a finger across the image.

  “Enamel?” I asked.

  “Or ivory. From the picture, this is either worth not much, or a hell of a lot. You’d need the real thing to know, though.”

  “It is something someone would steal?” I asked.

  Dr Dorland nodded, dislodging her hair which she tucked behind her ear again. “Particularly from this collection.” She tapped the folder again. “Everything else in here is worth something for people like us.” She waved around where we sat. “The historical value is the main thing. But a music box like this, would also fetch a good price on the market. Out of everything in this collection, it’s definitely the most obvious one to have taken. Most people don’t even know what to do with Paleolithic stone carvings or Japanese teapots.” She let out a little, knowing laugh that Mills and I couldn’t return.

  “But it’s not worth as much as the rest?” Mills asked her. Her smile faded, her professional demeanour returning, and I felt a little stab of dismay at that. It had been a lovely smile.

  “Not really. There are lots of Victorian artefacts knocking about. It’s beautiful, and if the materials are genuine, then certainly expensive. But a museum would pay more for these,” another tap of the folder, “so your thief is not likely looking to sell to a museum.”

  “She kept no record on it,” Mills told her, “not like she did with others.”

  “No.” Liene looked down at the image. “Maybe it wasn’t a find, like the others. Could be a family heirloom or something she picked up from an antique shop,” she suggested with a shrug. “Or your thief has a brain cell and decided to steal that too.”

  “We need to find it, don’t we?” I asked her. “For you to really help us with this?”

  She gave me a knowing smile. “I think so, Inspector. But odds are, someone took this because they like the look of it. Without checking its authenticity, or without the key, it really is just pretty.” She held up a finger. “But seeing the rest of the collection, I’d say otherwise. Your collector knew her onions, so I’m guessing, it’s genuine.”

  “We need to find it then,” I declared, glancing to Mills, who had jotted traces of this conversation down in his notebook.

  “Bring it here when you do,” Liene told me, pausing the folder and the picture back across the desk. “I’ll be happy to authenticate it for you.”

  “That’s very k
ind,” I replied, taking the folder.

  “For Mara.” She rolled her eyes. “I sort of owe her,” she admitted, her nose scrunching.

  “We’ll get out of your hair, Dr Dorland,” I said, standing from the chair.

  “Liene, please, Inspector. Dr Dorland was my father.”

  “Very well, Liene, but in that case, it’s Max.”

  “Mara has my number, but just in case.” She smiled again and handed me a business card.

  “Thank you for all your help, Liene,” I slipped the card in my pocket and shook her hand, feeling the cool rings press into my hand.

  “Glad to be of use, Max. Sergeant.” She nodded to Mills, who was looking between us with an amused expression.

  “Dr Dorland.” He gave a little bow of the chin and swung the door open. We strolled out, feeling her eyes on us until the heavy door swung itself shut, and we headed back to the lift. Once the doors shut, Mills turned to me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Shut up,” I muttered, hitting the ground floor button with a bit too much force.

  “You’re blushing, sir.”

  “Notice how I haven’t teased you about Susanne?” I replied.

  He ignored me. “I didn’t know you could blush.”

  “Would you like to walk back to the station?” I practically growled at him.

  “Not really,” he replied happily. “Shall we stop in a café? I haven’t eaten yet.”

  Neither had I, I never did have much of an appetite early in the morning, and we had new things to discuss before walking into an onslaught from Sharp. When she was stressed, we were all stressed, and I would gladly avoid that for a while longer.

  “You have terrible self-preservation instincts, Mills,” I told him.

  “For not eating or for antagonising you?” He asked innocently.

  “Both. But yes, let’s fuel up properly before Sharp summons us back.”

  We stepped out onto the ground floor as we walked back to the entrance. We slowed down, Mills having a good gawp at the exhibitions we passed.

  “My mum would love this,” he muttered at one point, bending down to look at some stone carvings. I looked around at the various treasures and nodded. Mine would have too.

  “You should bring her one day,” I told him, tugging at my suddenly too-tight collar, the words getting a bit stuck in my throat. Of all the times to start thinking about my mother. We really did need to stop for a coffee before I lost the plot completely. This was turning out to be a strange morning.

  Eight

  Thatcher

  We left the museum, turning down a lane to a small coffee shop on the corner, the brightly coloured awning luring in walkers from the rain. It was quiet, thankfully, so with food and coffee in hand, Mills and I found a quiet table in the back, settling into the leather armchairs with a creak.

  “So,” I shook a sugar sachet and poured it into my large mug, “what do we know?”

  “We know that Viviane Charles had a collection of antiquities from a variety of eras and places,” Mills began, absentmindedly stirring his tea. “We know that one piece has been stolen, but nothing was reported.”

  “Good. Carry on,” I ordered, taking a large bite of my bacon sandwich.

  “We know that the morning she died, she was late to work, claiming to have a doctor's appointment, which was a lie. And that she wasn’t seen in her usual café that morning, having already left.”

  “So?”

  “So, we know she went somewhere the morning of her death, and maybe saw someone. Perhaps about her stolen antique?” he suggested.

  I nodded and sat back, chewing thoughtfully and letting him take his own mouthful of food before asking, “Why wouldn’t she report to the police?”

  Mills leant back, his expression brightening. “I did some research,” he told me.

  “Of course, you did.”

  “The black-market trade for stolen or smuggled artefacts is brutal. People have been killed for what they’ve stolen or traded before. We know that Viviane had no official document on the music box, so maybe, and this is a big maybe,” he added. “She got if from the wrong sort of people, and calling it in to the police would put her in some hot water.”

  “So, she decided to handle it herself?” I urged him on, and he nodded, taking a swig of tea.

  “And either got killed for it or got herself in a situation where there was only one way out in her mind.”

  “Take her own life,” I finished his train of thought and wiped my hands on the paper napkin.

  “Could also explain her reluctance for any involvement from her parents around it all,” Mills suggested.

  “It could be a sense of protectiveness. We need to narrow down the day for her. Find out where she went that morning, who might have seen her.”

  “We could have another chat with her co-workers,” Mills added, sitting back from his quickly emptied plate, cradling his tea. “Now that the shock might have worn off a bit, they might be able to tell us more.”

  “And away from the house itself,” I added, thinking about Rita Jones. “Any of them suspects?”

  “If they knew what Viviane could have been involved in,” he shrugged, “or if that involvement had any impact on the house itself.”

  “Potentially. I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t know anything about her. Nor that Viviane seems to have nothing in the way of friends. We’ll look into the ex.” I gave him a nod. “See if she can open any doors for us. And have a closer look into some of Viviane’s records, see if we can’t find any contacts that might be able to clear some things.”

  “If someone scared her,” Mills said in a low voice, “pushed her to take her own life, that still doesn’t explain why she did it there, or why her flat looked like she was about to go home.” He paused a moment in thought. “Or why she had all that money set aside for something.”

  “If she was scared into it, she wasn’t planning it. It was another day, plain and simple. I’m guessing it was a spur of the moment, then and there situation. Someone else was in the house,” I stated darkly.

  That felt right. Made sense. Someone else in the right frame of mind to think of the rope and the chandelier, to not bother with unlocking any of the rooms. They weren’t there to steal, that much for sure. But another person, someone who even locked the house on their way out.

  “They must have had a key,” I muttered. “If another person was there, they must have been able to get out and leave the place looking normal when Nia Jenkins came in the next morning.”

  Mills nodded. “We should have a look at the access into the property. There must be another way in, one that doesn’t get in the way of the public.”

  “Another old house,” I raised my cup slightly, “always have places to hide and escape those do.”

  Mills paled slightly, the memory of another old house with airtight rooms in the basement coming to the surface.

  “If we’re right about this being to do with some under the table antiques dealers,” I pushed past it before Mills turned too grey in the face. “We’re likely dealing with some pretty big fish. It’ll be hard to pin them down.”

  “And if we’re not?” Mills asked. “Who else are we dealing with?”

  “Likely suspects, let’s say, if she was murdered,” I suggested.

  “Someone who knew where she worked, knew she would be there late that evening.”

  “Most likely with access into the property and had just as likely seen that hallway before. They knew what they were getting into.”

  “But not someone who would have killed her at her flat,” Mills pointed out. “That doesn’t strike me as being a hugely personal thing.”

  “Nor professional. A black-market trade wouldn’t usually be so theatrical about it. More of a death in the alley, body in a river type situation.”

  “How cheery,” Mills muttered. “What sort of cases did you have before I turned up?”

  “My point,” I grinned at him, “is that thi
s doesn’t feel planned out, not by Viviane or by a killer. They took a chance, used the moment, but had enough insight to know what they were doing.”

  “One of her co-workers,” Mills commented. “They’d know their way around, know she was there, have access and knowledge about the house. Might explain why Rita Jones looked like someone was holding a knife to her throat when we were there.”

  I nodded at that. There was something about Rita Jones that made me think she knew more about this case than she let on, more about Viviane. But was she a killer? Viviane had been tall, built strong with broad shoulders. Even in death, she looked tough. Rita was almost half her size, dainty. She might be able to stab someone, but to string their body up to the ceiling? Either it couldn’t be her, or she was hiding some serious muscle beneath that baggy cardigan.

  I said as much to Mills, and he nodded in agreement.

  “What about the manager?” he asked.

  Josephine Goddard. She’d appeared to me to be a simple cut woman. Cared about her job, her position as a manager, seemed to lord over that house like she had built it herself. Would she tarnish it that much to kill a person in it? I wasn’t sure. She seemed to me to be the sort of person to write a bad review or complain to a manager herself, rather than get her hands dirty and break the law. Appearances could deceive, but I’d met many women like her before.

  The only other person was Nia Jenkins, the poor dear who’d found Viviane and called us in. She was a long way down my list. Notably shaken, borderline terrified, she’d trembled like a wet bird from what she had seen. I couldn’t picture her being our killer, not even a threat, but I didn’t cross her off yet, not without so much we still didn’t know.

  Mills and I both sat back, drinking quietly as we mulled over these things.

  “We should check some antique sites,” he said suddenly. “See if any auctions have gone on involving a Victorian music box recently.”

  “Good thought. Look for anything with an anonymous seller too, or a pseudonym. If this is a backwater operation, we won’t be looking for full names.”