DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 by Oliver Davies

Author:Oliver Davies [Davies, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-13T22:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Thatcher

With the family unable to offer much more in the way of help, Mills and I left them with two uniformed officers keeping watch on the house and followed Dr Crowe back to the station.

We hovered around, chatting to Sharp and Smith, trying to keep the media at bay with this particular advancement. Dennis sent over the footage from the security cameras, and as we waited for Crowe to analyse her nice new blood splatter, Mills and I slumped at a computer, watching the hours trickle by. We watched as we pulled up to the house ourselves, Dennis stepping out from the front door a few minutes beforehand and waited. There was nothing, I hated to say it, shifty in his manner. He simply stood and waited patiently, occasionally checking his watch. We arrived and went inside. The screen stayed the same, the minute ticking past and then a car pulled up and around, heading back towards the yard.

“Pause it,” I told Mills.

Leaning forward, squinting at the blurred image, I took a note of the number plate. I could just about make out a person in the car, and only one. They drove round the back, and as they slipped around the corner, a figure came from behind the camera. Mills and I sat forward as the hooded figure loped up the stairs, quickly dropped something down, dug into their pocket and pulled out a small bottle or vial, dipped their gloved finger in and scrawled on the wall, poured the rest over the photograph and scurried down the stairs. They were dressed head to toe in dark, plain clothing, hooded and shadowed. Nothing to give away who it was, not even a shape to determine if we were dealing with a man or a woman. A few minutes after they left, the car reappeared and drove straight away. Pausing it again, I could make out Nadia’s face in the driver’s seat, nobody else in the car.

I sat back, toying with a pen. “Send it to Wasco,” I told Mills, “see if he can’t get a clearer image.”

Shortly after, Dr Crowe called up and as expected, there were no fingerprints and it seemed that blood had once belonged to a pig.

“But,” she had added happily, “a hair. Got a bit stuck in the glue used to stick the photo to the card.”

“Any matches?”

“No.”

I dropped by head in my hands, letting a slew of curse words drop out. This was a slow-going affair.

That night, I headed to the coaching house, playing music and plastering wildly until my thoughts finally scurried away where they couldn’t bother me anymore.

I trudged into the station the following morning, tired and aching. There was plaster in my hair that I hadn’t managed to get out and wondered if paint stripper would be too extreme. As I headed up the stairs, I found Sharp waiting for me.

“You look awful,” she remarked.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Clean yourself up, you’ve got somewhere to be.” She sounded surprisingly cheerful, and I looked up, meeting her gaze properly.

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