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Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 20


  “He works for the National Park Authority,” I told her. “Get on the phone with them, see what they can tell us about him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered immediately, picking up her phone as I carried on skimming through the results. He knew the park well, then. Knew the good routes and the quiet areas, knew enough to lure someone like Julia out there.

  There were no social media results coming up with him. He was quiet on that account. Mostly, they were articles about conservation work that he had assisted with. There was enough of him online to not make him a ghost, but there was little else.

  I could hear Fry murmuring quietly over the phone, and I drummed my fingers against the desk, sipping coffee and staring at the screen. A son. Dominic Haspel had a son, and we found him.

  Thatcher needed to know, but I couldn’t drag him back into this without something more concrete to go on.

  “Thank you so much,” Fry was saying down the phone. “And you. Bye-bye.” She hung up, grabbed the notepad she had been writing on and walked round to me, leaning over my shoulder, dropping the page in front of me.

  “Keith Rosewall has worked for them for almost fifteen years, one of their best, apparently. A little over a week ago, he handed in his resignation, and they’ve seen nothing of him since.”

  I frowned. “Did he give a reason?”

  “Not one.”

  “That’s not suspicious at all,” I murmured.

  “They gave me his last known address,” she said, tapping the page. “But if he left that job out of the blue, it might not be likely that he’s stuck around, sir.”

  “No,” I said. “But people don’t just vanish, Leila,” I said, standing up and pulling my coat on. “They leave traces behind, however small.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To get Thatcher. Give Harris a call, tell her what we’ve learnt and see if you can be any help to her out there.”

  Fry nodded and walked back over to her desk, pulling her coat on. I grabbed the notepad, printing off the results we’d found to grab on our way out. I waited for her, and we walked out of the office and past the printer, where the last page was printing. I snatched them, folded them up and stuffed them into my pocket.

  “Call me with any updates,” I told Fry.

  “Will do, sir. And be careful,” she added, striding away from me.

  I turned to the stairs and jogged down, walking out into the growing evening, the cold air blasting my senses, making me focus. We had a lead, a proper lead, and there was no chance I was pursuing it without Thatcher.

  Twenty-Four

  Thatcher

  I realised, once Mills had driven away, that there was little for me to actually do around here. The place was tidy and clean, courtesy of Mrs McIntosh, and the only thing that wasn’t was me. There was still mud on me from last night, and the smell of the hospital clung to my hair. I peeled my clothes off slowly and wandered into the bathroom, studying myself in the mirror. It wasn’t the prettiest sight.

  Bruising ran across my ribs, from my pelvis, all the way up to my chest, spreading around towards my back and in towards my belly button, all purple and green, blotchy. No wonder it hurt so much if that was what it looked like. My face wasn’t much better. A few scratches here and there, but it was the bags under my eyes that took the prize. Great lurking shadows that turned the grey of my eyes black, stubble running along my jaw, longer than I ever usually let it grow. I hadn’t shaved at all since we’d found Julia Brook. I was surprised that Liene hadn’t complained, but then I’d not seen much of her recently.

  I turned the water on in the shower, waiting for it to warm up, steam coating the mirror, and hopped in, standing there long enough for me to feel like the hospital was washed thoroughly away. I scrubbed myself clean, slowly and painfully, then stepped out, pulling on a pair of clean joggers and a long-sleeved top, shoving my feet into some thick socks before positioning myself in front of the mirror with a sigh. Washing my hair had hurt, shaving would be no better, and it took precision, a steady hand.

  The front door opened, and I heard Liene walk in.

  “Max?” she called.

  “Bathroom,” I called back, staying put. Her footsteps sounded, muffled, along the floor as she walked into the bedroom, laying her coat on the bed and walking in, standing behind me, looking at me in the mirror. She gave me a soft smile, her eyes falling to the razor I’d placed on the sink. It was as far as I’d gotten.

  “Want a hand?” she asked. I nodded, and she put the toilet seat down, sat me on it, and grabbed the shaving cream.

  “How was work?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “The archives are sorted, for now,” she muttered. “Don’t talk, or I’ll get it in your mouth.”

  I smiled but did as I was told and looked up at her as she grabbed the brush and lathered my jaw up.

  “You feeling okay?” she asked as she put the brush down.

  “A bit stiff, but that I can manage.”

  Liene smiled and picked up the razor, hefting it in her hand as she looked at me. “Please don’t move. I really don’t want to slice your face.”

  “I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Not because you,” she said, stepping closer. “I’m quite fond of this face.” She bent down, close enough that her hair tickled my arm, and I stayed as still I was able as she ran the razor down my cheek, her breaths slow and even.

  “The case going alright?” She asked, rinsing the razor in the sink.

  “Slow,” I muttered, trying not to get any foam or hair in my mouth. I wished I could be there with them, but I knew nothing would happen until they found a lead, and I wouldn’t be all that much use, really. Just sitting, moaning at my desk.

  Liene lifted my face, making me look up at the ceiling so she could tidy up my jaw. “This isn’t a bad job, you know. I could open a barber.”

  “Cut-throat razor and everything?”

  “Quarter singing in the corner, the works.”

  I chuckled, and she smiled at me, grabbing a flannel to wipe my face clear. Then she kept me there for a moment, standing between my knees and looking down at me.

  “I’m glad you’re alright,” she said softly. “And I know you didn’t like staying in the hospital.”

  I nodded, my hands resting on her hips. “Reminds me of her.”

  “Your mother?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

  I nodded. “I wasn’t there with her at the end,” I said quietly. Liene dropped the towel and took my face between my hands. “I should have been.”

  Liene said nothing, just smoothed my damp hair back from my face.

  “She deserved a better son,” I managed to say, my throat tight.

  Liene sighed. “I’m sure you were a good son. You can’t define yourself over one mistake, Max. Tell me something you did for her. Something that made her happy.”

  I thought for a moment, thinking back to the memories I tried so hard to ignore.

  “The garden,” I said. “She went away for a few days, and when she came back, I’d planted all her favourite flowers. Right where she used to sit and read.”

  “What flowers were they?” she asked.

  “Foxgloves. Stock, borage, thistles, Chinese Lanterns.” They were probably still there, amongst the weeds. I hoped they were, anyway.

  “She must have loved them.”

  “She did,” I recalled. “The first spring when they all bloomed, she was straight out there on a blanket. It was cold, but she still went.” I’d gone out to join her, and we’d sat there together until it really had gotten too cold.

  “That sounds like a very loving son to me,” Liene said. “All children make mistakes, Max. I’ve been a bad daughter countless times.”

  “I should have been there,” I repeated.

  “Maybe,” Liene said, dropping her hands to my shoulders. “But we can’t spend our lives thinking about the past, and what we could have done differently, else we’ll n
ever get anywhere new. Your mother couldn’t hate you for it, Max.” She smiled down at me. “Would you hate Billie?”

  “Never.”

  Liene’s smile grew, and she leant down, kissing me on the nose. She moved away, cleaning up the mess around the sink, not asking me anymore, not pushing for details. I watched her for a bit and rose to my feet, rubbing some moisturiser into my skin and got ready to help her when the doorbell rang. We shared a look, both as confused as the other, and with a shrug, I headed down to the door, peering through the peephole.

  Mills stood on the doorstop, hopping slightly on his legs, energy thrumming from him. He had a lead. I wrenched the door open and let him in.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said, stepping into the warm house.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Everything good?”

  “We have something,” he said. I nodded him through to the living room and sat him down on the sofa, grabbing him some water from the kitchen. As I walked back in, Liene joined us, smiling at Mills.

  “Hi, Isaac. How are you?”

  “Not bad, Liene, thanks. You?”

  “Nursing this half-wit,” she said jokingly with a nod in my direction.

  Mills chuckled. “Not a job I envy.”

  “No. You here on work?”

  “I am. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” she waved a hand through the air. “I have some work to get through myself.” She grabbed her bag from where it leant against an armchair, kissed me on the cheek and wandered through to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

  I sat down beside Mills. “What have you got?”

  “I realised that when we considered the possibility of Dominic Haspel having a child, we didn’t find anything because we looked under his name. Rather than the mothers.”

  I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. A stupid, obvious mistake now that he had said it.

  “So, we looked into it. And I found a court case from twenty-one years ago between him and a woman named Susan Rosewall.” He dug some pages from his pocket and flattened them out, handing them over. “Custody case. She got full parental rights. So, we looked into Susan Rosewall and found a son. Keith. We tracked him down.” He tapped the pages. “Works for the North York National Park Authority or used to. He handed in his notice about a week ago with no reason why and nobody there has seen or heard from him since. They gave his last known address.”

  I looked through the pages as he spoke, trying to take in all the information.

  “He was twelve, back when the original killings took place,” Mills went on. “And he rather fits the profile. Minimal online presence, loves the outdoors and conservation, would have had knowledge about the first killings, despite the estrangement from his father.”

  “He used his name,” I muttered, thinking about the booking. Used it but spelt it differently. Spelt it wrong. “Good work, Mills. Where’s Fry?”

  “Back with Harris for now. I’m going to go and check out the address before it gets too dark. Are you well enough to join?”

  “So long as you don’t mind doing most of the leg work,” I said, handing him back the pages and standing up. A lead, a real one. A son who’d have been alive back then and knew the style and could copy it now.

  “Liene!” I called, wandering into the kitchen.

  “He’s got a lead?” she asked, looking around from where she stood at the kettle.

  “He does.”

  “Be careful,” she ordered, pointing a finger warningly at me.

  “I will,” I said, stepping forward and kissing her. “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll look after him,” Mills called, grabbing a biscuit from the kitchen table.

  “I know you will,” she replied, waving us both off.

  I ducked into the bedroom quickly, changing into more appropriate clothes and grabbed my coat and shoes, heading back to the front door with them both half one. Mills waited, chewing his biscuit as I tied my laces and buttoned myself into my coat.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Mills grinned and walked me out to his car, the address ready to go in the satnav, and peeled away from the kerb.

  “This is good police work, Mills,” I told him. “You’re coming along well.”

  “Cheers, sir. Fry was a big help.”

  “Kept up with your mad little brain, did she?” I asked as not many could.

  “She knew my Shakespeare reference,” he said. “And Oscar Wilde.”

  I whistled quietly. “Don’t let her go slipping away,” I told him. “We need a constable like that.”

  Mills smiled, the faintest touch of colour on his cheeks. He liked her, I could tell, but he’d do nothing about it. I knew that too.

  The address took us to a block of flats out towards the edge of the city, renovated from an old building, the brick work old fashioned, the windows long and thin.

  “Not a bad place,” Mills remarked as we climbed from the car.

  “If he worked in the moors,” I said, shutting the car door. “You’d think he’d live closer out there.” Or in the moors themselves, in one of the little villages there.

  Mills shrugged. “Maybe he likes being closer to the city,” he suggested as we walked up to the front door. He pressed the doorbell beside the name Rosewall, once with no answer, then twice with no answer.

  I reached around him and pressed another name at random.

  “Hello?” a woman answered.

  “Hello,” I replied. “My name is Detective Chief Inspector Thatcher. I’m with the North York Police. We need access into the building and wonder if you might help us.”

  “You’re police?” she asked in disbelief.

  “If you come down, I’ll show you my warrant card. We mean no trouble, miss,” I added. It went quiet, and we stood there for a while, wondering if the woman had just chosen to ignore us. The inner door opened, and a woman appeared in the glass, looking dubious. I held up my card, as did Mills, close to the glass so she could see. Her eyes went from the cards to our faces and widened, then she buzzed the door and let us in.

  “You’re actually the police,” she said.

  “We are.”

  “Detectives?”

  “Yes. We’re here to see Mr Rosewall.”

  She frowned, her nose scrunching. “Don’t think I’ve ever actually met him. But he’s on the third floor,” she said. “3C.”

  “Thank you,” I assured her. She nodded and wandered to the stairwell. We let her go up a floor before following, and she stepped back into her own flat, the door closing securely behind her.

  “Did you know that would work?” Mills asked as we climbed up to the third floor.

  “It usually does,” I said. “People won’t let you in on a word, but if you let them see you, they usually will. Having a police id often helps.”

  Mills hummed thoughtfully, and we stopped outside of 3C. I knocked on the door, not that I expected anyone to answer. To my surprise, it opened, unlocked, the weight of my fist pushing it.

  Mills and I shared a frown. I put my shoulder to the door, slowly pushing it open.

  “Mr Rosewall?” I called, stepping into the dark flat. Mills stepped in beside me, hitting the light switch on the wall. Light flooded the place or what was left of it.

  It was a decent sized flat, an open-plan kitchen and living room, a bedroom to one side, a bathroom connected. The long windows looked out onto the back of the building, where a small garden was thriving well. We walked slowly through the flat, checking the rooms.

  “All empty,” Mills said, walking back in from the bedroom.

  I walked back to the door and checked the locks. “No sign of a break-in, no broken glass, no blood. But someone left in a hurry,” I remarked, noting a scuff on the wall.

  The furniture had been left behind, bland grey sofas and pale wooden furniture that probably came with the place. There was nothing on the wall, but there were pale outlines from where things had been. I checked the kitchen, find
ing all the cupboards empty.

  “Sir?” Mills called me over to the desk he stood at. He’d opened all the drawers, rifling through, and pulled out a few loose pieces of paper that Rosewall must have missed on his way out. He handed one to me, a photograph of a couple, blurrily taken from a distance.

  I flipped it over, where some had written “Medinas” on the back.

  “He was monitoring them?” I asked.

  “Not just him,” Mills said, handing me another. It was of the same couple, but several years older, the edges of the photographs fading. Their name was written on the back too, the handwriting different.

  “Dominic Haspel,” I murmured. He’d worked for them.

  Where the hell was his son then?

  Twenty-Five

  Thatcher

  I strolled around the rest of the flat, looking for anything else that our man might have left behind. He was thorough on his departure. This had been planned. For all we knew, he was long gone now.

  But I doubted it. Something in my guts told me otherwise, especially if somebody else had come along and copied him. People didn’t like to see their work done badly by somebody else, especially killers. I knew that from sorry experience.

  No, Keith Rosewall wouldn’t be far. He’d be close enough to see his work do whatever he had intended it to do. I headed into the bedroom, where the sheets had been left in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed, the curtains across the window letting in some pale, filtered light. He had been here recently enough. The smell of aftershave still lingered on the bedding, not quite faded away. Only a few days, I would wager. There was a thin layer of dust on the chest of drawers against the wall, small spaces left in the pattern from whatever he had placed on the top.

  I walked over, leaving the photographs on the top and checking a few of the drawers. All empty. As I pushed the last one shut, the whole unit wobbled, and the photographs slid down the back between the drawers and the wall. I cursed and got down slowly to my hands and knees, peering underneath the bottom.