Unusual Remains (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 1) by Oliver Davies

Author:Oliver Davies [Davies, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-07T23:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Thatcher

It was hard to focus on Mills after seeing Jeannie. I’d never seen her like that before, pale and shaken. Her hands trembled as she passed me the folder, now tucked under my arm, her eyes not focusing on any one thing. She felt someone follow her, the way I thought someone was watching me when I left Johnson’s office. I sent Smith to her with a cup of tea to chat and calm her down until I could go back to her.

“Is Miss Gray alright?” Mills asked as we strode away from the office, towards Sharp. “She seemed a bit shaken back there.”

He’d left, quietly, when she stood by the window, eyes burning, breathing hard, and I owed him a thank you for that later.

“Call her Jeannie. She hates being Miss Gray.” I raised a hand to rub the back of my neck.

“She felt like she was being followed,” I told him, “when she left the paper.”

Mills frowned at that. “Didn’t you say you felt like someone was watching you?”

“I did.”

He thought for a moment, glancing back at our closed office door and then to me again. “Should we do anything?”

There wasn’t much we could do. She hadn’t been able to make anyone out, no description to watch out for, and even if someone was following her, we didn’t know it was for certain because of what she was doing for me. She was doing this for me.

“She’ll stay here with us for a bit, and odds are if someone did follow her, they’ll head off soon.”

“We could post uniforms outside her house,” Mills suggested.

“Not without hard cause.” Still, whilst I didn’t say it, I planned to stay at her home myself. If someone was following her, they were doing it for a good reason, and someone was already dead. Besides, the uniform would draw attention, and it would be a difficult time for whichever poor sod got stuck with the job. Jeannie wasn’t the sort to make that easy for any officer.

“Thatcher, Mills,” Sharp stood at one of the tables outside her office where Wasco loitered, holding a stack of papers, the phone balanced on top of them. We walked over, leaning against the desk, and Sharp nodded once to Wasco, who put everything down and slid it across to us.

He looked tired. Shadows had formed under his eyes, his wiry hair poking out in every direction. Even so, he gave a lopsided grin.

“That was fast, Wasco, thank you.”

“Pleasure was all mine,” he said.

“What have we got?” I asked.

“There are a few folders that he kept protected by passwords, give us a bit more time, and we can get into those,” he turned over one of the sheets, lists of numbers crawling down, “but everything is clear. His messages, phone records, search history, calendar, all there.”

I sat down and pulled the stack of paper towards me. “Anything of interest?”

“At first glance, not really. A few calls were made to London the day before he died from the regional

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