Mournful Songs (DI Mills Yorkshire Crimes Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Allan made sure that all the bird feeders were full and that there was water in the baths, even though they were likely to freeze over. He went through the garden as far as the low stone wall and peered at the woods beyond. Pride flowed through his heart. He looked after this land, and it was one of the reasons he rarely left. It was his job, as much as it was his home, and he protected the wildlife in his domain as best he could.

  As he turned to leave, a pained squawk broke out from the woods beyond. It sounded like a grouse, if ever he had heard one. It came again, and it was definitely a cry of pain. Allan slung himself over the wall and landed on his dodgy knee, but he headed off regardless, making his way to the thin copse of trees that ran in seams along the hills.

  The fallen leaves were all sodden and worn into the ground, which allowed him to pick his way along with silent footsteps. He stopped now and then and listened, but the call only came twice more. Allan sped up, determined to find the poor beast. Dot would worry, but she’d understand that he couldn’t leave an injured bird out there, not in the weather they were having.

  When he was a good half mile from the house, he saw the bird. A red grouse was lying on the ground with her wing all askew. Allan hurried over and dropped down beside her, and murmured under his breath.

  “There now, lass, you’ll be all right.” He had a few things in his pockets, some string and bits of wood, but there wasn’t much he could do for a broken wing. There was no blood, which surprised him. Usually a bird got such injuries from fights with other birds, or from falls, but the grouse’s wing was almost neatly broken.

  “You’ll be fine,” he cooed gently as he scooped the bird into his large, coal-shovel hands. She pecked at his fingers, but he brought her in closer to better examine her injury. “What are you doing out here anyway, lass?” he asked her. “All on your own, as well. Where are the others?”

  He looked around, expecting to see another grouse or two somewhere nearby, but she was alone. Grouse were special birds, he had always thought, especially to the moors, and he put great pride in the work he had done, helping to keep the birds’ numbers up over the years.

  The bird was warm and nestled into his hands as he gently lifted her wing.

  “What happened here, then?” he asked her. “Trip over a stone or summat?”

  He looked ahead. There was a stone around there that he’d spotted a few times, and he’d nearly tripped over it himself more than once. He used it as a landmark to know how far he was from the house, so he turned to look for it. The stone wasn’t there, unless he’d walked past it when he was distracted by worry. He looked around at the familiar trees and the ferns beneath them, but the stone was gone. It should’ve been there.

  A patch of dark soil, untouched by leaves, wet and cold, caught his eye. The stone must have moved from there, Allan thought. It could have been tossed about in the gales they had the night before, but that was unlikely. He looked down at the bird.

  “Best to take you back to the house, I think,” he told her. “I’ll patch your wing up and see how you get on.” He had a chicken coop he could keep her in, and there would be enough food for her to manage until he returned. “I’ll give Dot a call and tell her what’s happened,” he added. He sat back on his heels and unzipped his coat slightly to cradle the bird inside and keep her warm.

  She fidgeted and pecked at his fingers.

  “Stop your fussing, lass. Come on. I’ll get your wing fixed and we’ll pop you somewhere warm. When I get back, we’ll see about finding the others, eh? I’ll bet they’re worried about you, but it shouldn’t be too long. Looks like a nice, clean break.”

  As Allan moved to pop the bird inside his coat, and nearby trees creaked behind him in the heavy breeze, he heard leaves shuffling along the floor. A shadow loomed over him and cast down over the bird. Allan lifted his head, ready to turn around, but something struck him.

  The bird squawked, trapped in his arms as he fell forward, hitting the cold, hard earth. Something warm swamped his head and trickled down the back of his neck, and something snapped beneath him. Allan stared at the ground as the world went black.

  After the second call went unanswered, Dorothea Bird left her house and climbed into her car. Her father must have had some trouble. The car had probably refused to start again. He needed a new battery and had done for a while now. Perhaps getting stuck at his house would make him decide to get a new one—and make him use his mobile for once.

  Will waved to her from the front door as she pulled out of the driveway. She returned the wave and then turned along the street and eventually made her way through the town and up towards the hills.

  She knew the old roads well and wound her way through the fields and farms until she reached the village, which was quiet at the time. People huddled in their houses in that kind of weather. She smiled at the Christmas lights that were draped between the buildings and on both sides of the narrow roads. As she got past the village, there were some wreaths on the front doors and a few trees in front windows, but otherwise, nobody ever decorated very much.

  After she left the village behind, Dorothea headed up towards the roads that led to the hills. A few cars had pulled over in lay-bys, where there were public footpaths that led to the hills, and then they’d come back down and go to nearby pubs. Dorothea glanced at a group of people as they pulled muddy boots from their feet and ushered even muddier dogs into their cars. The people were all red faced and looking ready for hot drinks.

  She passed the Crickley farm, where they’d grown Christmas trees this year to give business a boost. The sight made her smile for a moment, and she carried on. Her phone was on the passenger seat, ready to answer if Will called with news from her dad. Nothing came, and she drove through the gates and along the drive to the house. She frowned as she pulled to a stop outside.

  His car was there, sitting a short walk from the front door as it always did. Dorothea climbed out of her car, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and walked over to the front door. She tried the handle.

  Locked.

  She fished her keys from her bag and let herself in.

  “Dad?” she called as she stepped into the house.

  It was dark inside, with the lights all off and everything unplugged. He never could leave things plugged in if he left for any length of time, as he assumed the worst might happen otherwise.

  Dorothea walked through the house, skirted past stacks of books and papers, and went into the kitchen.

  “Dad?” she called a little louder, and then she looked up the stairs. “Dad, are you all right?”

  Still no answer. Chewing her bottom lip, Dorothea went outside and walked round to the garden and over to the low wall that led to the woods. He must have gone for a little walk before he left.

  “Dad?” she shouted into the woods. With a groan, she clambered over the wall and kicked her way through leaves and soil towards the woods. It was typical of him, even after she called, to lose track of time. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and trudged along as she called out now and then.

  Dorothea reached the woods and paused at the edge. It was quiet. It usually was at the beginning of winter, but the silence made her hesitate. She scolded herself for being wary of the woods she had grown up in and then carried on walking.

  She’d go to the old stone, and if he wasn’t there, she’d go back to the house and wait for him in the kitchen, she decided. She wasn’t about to wander around all the hills looking for him. Odds were that he was on his way back with an abandoned nest in his hands or something.

  The wind pulled at her hair and froze her nose as she walked along, breathing in the clear, cold air. She’d always loved the peace and quiet out there. There were no sounds of roads of traffic or loud neighbours. She was in the process of convincing Will to move out to the countryside. It didn’t need to be as remote as where her dad lived, but somewhere with fields and cows and a cosy old pub would be perfect. Although Will was a city dweller at heart, Dot suspected that she was starting to sway him.

  As she neared the small clearing, she called out again.

  “Dad? Let me know if you’re out here! Whistle like a barn owl or something,” she added, as she knew that he didn’t like to shout. “Come on, Dad, it’s cold!”

  Her foot snapped on a twig, and a startled crow took off with a squawk, making her jump.

  “Christ,” she muttered as she walked on towards a clearing where she’d spent many hours as a child.

  She stepped into the clearing and froze.

  Her father lay on the ground, face down, with his boots sticking out at her. His heart, she thought. There was trouble with his heart again.

  “Dad!” she shouted and ran over to him.

  She fell to her knees to turn him over and then paused. Blood caked the back of his head, ran down his collar and coat, and then spilled onto the ground and the surrounding leaves. Dorothea fell back, landing on her hands with a yell.

  “Dad?” she whispered as she reached forward to touch his face. He was looking her way with his eyes wide open and glassy. “Daddy?”

  He didn’t reply. Dot touched his neck to feel for a pulse, but there was nothing. She drew her hand back with a flinch, and her eyes burned.

  And then she screamed.

  Two

  Mills

  It had been another late night. Fry and I hunkered down in the pub with a map in front of us to trace out Jenna Tamblyn’s last few days before she went missing. We knew it all already, but there was something cathartic about mapping it all out and seeing it from another perspective. When Fry had nearly nodded off at the table with one hand propping her head up and her black hair a curtain around her face, I called it a day.

  I didn’t get much restful sleep because I dream
t of the moors, where we had first gone in our search for the missing girl. In the dream, I found myself wandering through the wilderness and getting more and more lost. The wind howled louder and louder, and the air was cold. I called out for someone, but I wasn’t sure who, and then I was woken up by my alarm clock, only to find myself in a pool of sweat.

  After rolling into the shower and managing to get some food down my throat, I was rather glad to be on the road and heading into the station, and I was secretly hopeful that Sharp might have a case to take my mind off ofJenna Tamblyn. Traffic dragged by at a crawl, which gave me time to look at the festive window displays in shops and the crowds of shoppers that were drawn to them. When I reached the station, another car pulled into the spot next to mine. It was Fry’s car, and she climbed out a moment later whilst clutching a thermos of coffee. She paused upon seeing me and waited by her boot as I parked and joined her.

  “Morning, sir,” she greeted me. “You look tired.”

  “Thank you so much, Sergeant,” I drawled as I wandered to the doors. “Bad night’s sleep.”

  She raised an eyebrow and looked at me through narrowed eyes as I held the door open for her. “Working late?”

  “No,” I assured her. “A deal’s a deal, Fry, don’t you worry. It was just a bad sleep with weird dreams.”

  She scrunched her nose. “I hate those. Sounds like we both need coffee.”

  “Haven’t you got some already?” I asked and indicated the thermos in her hand.

  “This, sadly, is empty. I’m making another. You want some?”

  “Please,” I replied gratefully.

  We reached the top of the stairs and parted ways. Fry headed towards the kitchen, and I made my way over to Sharp’s office, where I knocked lightly on the ajar door.

  “Come in,” her clear voice answered from inside.

  I shoved the door open wider, ambled into her office, and rested her hand on the back of one of the chairs opposite her.

  She glanced up from her typing and gave me a fleeting smile. “Morning, Mills.”

  “Morning, ma’am. Anything today?”

  “Nothing new for you,” she sighed and looked up at me properly, “but there are a few reports I need you to sign off on.”

  “Paperwork,” I muttered and accepted the bundle of folders she held out.

  She grinned at me. “Your favourite. I’ll let you know if something comes up.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And Mills?” she called after me before I could leave.

  I turned back, meeting her gaze. “Ma’am?”

  “You look exhausted. Try to get an early night tonight or something.”

  I nodded and left her office. After I shut the door, I ran my hand self-consciously through my hair. I hadn’t got a good look at myself that morning, but I didn’t think I looked quite so bad.

  As I made my way to my own office, Fry reappeared with a mug of coffee in each hand. She passed me one and nodded to the files in my other hand.

  “Paperwork?”

  “Sadly.”

  “Will you be all right without me? DS Porter wants a hand with looking over some evidence.”

  I smiled and waved her on. “Go. Escape the paperwork. I’ll be fine.”

  She returned the smile and turned away to head across the room to join DS Porter at her desk. I walked into the office, slumped in my chair, and stared at Fry’s empty desk. Paperwork was tolerable with good company. Without it, I grimaced and pulled my phone from my pocket and some half-decent music to at least listen to while I worked. I pulled the first file towards me, flipped it open, cracked my knuckles, and got to work.

  A few hours later and three reports down, my coffee was gone, and my music had shuffled onto something I couldn’t recognise. I turned the music app off, stood up with a groan, and stretched my arms above my head. Grabbing my mug, I wandered from the office and headed over to the kitchen, where a few officers, Fry included, stood chatting.

  I puttered my way through them towards the kettle and only half caught onto what they were talking about. There was some new show, it seemed, which was a popular period drama that everyone but me had seemed to have watched.

  “How’s it going, sir?” Fry broke off from the conversation, and I glanced over my shoulder to see her watching me.

  “My hand hurts. How’s that evidence looking?” She shrugged and deferred to DS Porter, who cleared her throat.

  “Not much yet, sir. I have to go through the digital files still, but DS Fry was a big help. I can see why you like having her around.”

  I smiled and then turned around and leant against the counter. “She’s all right,” I joked, which earned me an eye roll from the woman in question.

  “Very kind of you, sir, thanks.”

  “Anytime,” I replied. “What are you all talking about? That new show?”

  “There’s a new season out next month,” DC Reed told me from over at his desk, and his face lit up.

  “You’re a fan?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “My partner watched the first season, and I got a bit hooked. There’s quite a bit of action in it,” he added. “Duelling, sword fights, and all that.”

  “You’d like the soundtrack, sir,” Fry told me as she stuck her hands in her pockets. “There are lots of classical pieces. I recognised one,” she added proudly. “It was Schubert.”

  “Only one?” I asked.

  “We don’t all have encyclopaedic brains like you,” Sergeant Waters said as he dipped into the room to grab an apple from the fridge. “Not even Thatcher could remember stuff the way you do.”

  “He didn’t need to,” I reminded him. Thatcher got by on scowls, guts, and a steady supply of tea that was so strong you stand a spoon in it.

  Waters grinned, took a bite of his apple, and then pointed a finger at me. “Chief wants the pair of you. He then pointed to Fry.

  A brief exchanged look of surprise passed between us. I abandoned my half-made coffee and strode to Sharp’s office. Fry followed at my heels.

  Sharp was on her feet and glaring at her phone as we walked in.

  “Ma’am?” I called from the door.

  She looked away from her phone and turned her glower on us instead.

  “Sorry, yes.” She waved us into the room. “A call just came in. We’ve got a body a few miles outside the village of…” She trailed off and snatched a piece of paper from her desk to find the name.

  I had a rough idea of where the village was located. It skirted the Howardian Hills, and Thatcher lived out that way.

  “Homicide?” I asked as I took the paper she offered me, which had an address hurriedly scrawled across.

  “Local response hasn’t said, but they were quick to request an inspector, so I wouldn’t be surprised. SOCO is reinforcing up there, and I’ve just got word down to Dr Crowe. She’ll meet you out there.”

  My stomach sank. I had hoped for a case, but I never hoped for homicides. “We’ll head out there now, ma’am.”

  She returned to her seat behind her desk and sighed. “Good. Mind how you go with the local unit. They can be a bit prickly about territory sometimes.”

  “Noted,” I replied.

  I opened the door and held it for Fry. She followed as I marched back to our office, where we grabbed our coats—mine from over the back of my chair, and her from a hook on the back of the door—and her face was tight as we walked downstairs and out into the chilly midmorning.

  We beelined wordlessly to my car and climbed in, and I peeled out of the car park before she’d fully snapped her seatbelt into place. I handed her the address and made my way through the city to the dual carriageway.

  “It’s not close to the village, really,” Fry said after a moment of looking at the map on her phone. “It’s a few miles north, more into the hills.”

  “Great. I love traipsing around the wilderness in December.”

  “Did you put your thermals on this morning?” she asked with a grin.

  “You sound like my mother,” I told her.

  “I’ll take that. She’s a clever woman.”