Gardners, Ditchers, and Gravemakers (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 4) by Oliver Davies (best black authors txt) 📗

know. That’s an assumption of our own. Could be that whoever attacked didn’t want her dead, just out of the picture for a while.”

“Hospitalized, in a coma, but not actually dead. No murder on their hands.”

“Whoever did it would have known she’d be in this morning,” Mills added. “Early as well, before anyone else really showed up, so chances of being seen would be slim.”

“They know their way around the gardens and the greenhouse,” I added.

“We ought to get Sonia’s alibi checked fairly snappily,” Mills mused.

“We will,” I told him. “And we’ll look into some of these protestors that Sonia mentioned. See if any of them have bites as well as barks.”

Six

Thatcher

Back in the station, we took the broken and bloodied shards of pot and glass from the greenhouse down to forensics, who seemed very happy with the dried blood and spurred to life immediately. They had some of Abbie’s details from the hospital, so if there was a DNA match with her, they’d found out soon enough.

We headed up to our office then, Mills carrying Abbie’s coat and bag, and we pushed a table into the middle of the room, emptying the contents out, each pulling a pair of gloves onto our hands, coats hung on the hooks, sleeves rolled up to our elbows.

“I hate these,” Mills said grumpily as he snapped one into place. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them.”

“Why such a strong opinion on gloves?” I asked, faintly amused.

“They make my hands sweaty,” he answered, looking over at me. “Don’t they make your hands sweaty?”

“A little. But you do get used to it,” I assured him. The concerned look on his face wavered, and I managed not to smirk at him, turning my attention to the work at hand.

We walked over to the table, looking at everything Abbie’s bag had to offer. I had asked Mills to give Paige a quick ring from the car to make sure there was no problem with us going through her things. She’d assured us, in a quietly colourful turn of phrase, that if he helped us find the bastard who put her sister in a coma, we could go through every bag she’d ever owned. There were a few more swear words thrown in there, quietly, because of wherever Grace was at the time, but it was good enough for us.

Less good enough for us, was that Abbie didn’t seem to carry anything of much interest. We had the purse that had been on her at the time, a set of car keys and house keys, a small folding umbrella and some of those reusable shopping bags that fold up into little pouches. It was a well-stocked bag, with wet wipes, a granola bar and a child’s juice drink. She had a makeup bag with a few tubes rattling around inside, a packet of sunflower seeds, hand cream, and a phone charger. No phone, though.

“Check her coat pockets,” I asked Mills, as I checked over some of the faded receipts. “See if her phone is there.”

Mills obliged, reaching into the deep pockets of the long dark purple coat, pulling out a lip balm, some pocket change and chewing gum from one pocket, and from the other, a phone, with a picture of Grace holding a cat almost the same size as she was on the case.

He handed it over, and I pressed the home button, happily cheering when it flashed to life straight away, almost fully charged for once.

“We’ll take it to IT,” I said. “Wasco should be able to get into it pretty quickly.”

“Grace is her background,” Mills pointed out.

“Yes?” I said.

“Sonia said that Abbie’s life revolves around her daughter. The code might be her birthday,” he suggested with a shrug. “Worth a shot, the worst that happens is we locked out for fifteen minutes.”

“Do we know her birthday?”

He reached over to his desk, where his notes from Susanne still sat. She’d left us with some basic information that we might need along the way, Grace’s date of birth included.

“The 14th of October,” he read quickly.

“1410,” I muttered as I typed it in. It went through, the phone unlocking, and I looked at Mills with surprise. “Well done, you.”

“I’ve noticed that a lot of parents are like that. It’s a set of numbers that get drilled into your head; you couldn’t forget them if you wanted to.” I wondered if he was thinking of his own nephews, and how it might then be to access his emails.

“Not exactly safe,” I reminded him.

“We’re in her phone, sir. Now’s not the time to be questioning technological safety measures.”

I grumbled, settling down in a chair and opening her messages. There weren’t many. A few too and from Paige, most of which I didn’t understand. The sisters seemed to know what the other meant with just a few words, and they discussed everything from what to have for dinner on Friday to that skirt that Paige apparently stole. She had a few between herself and Sonia, just standard little messages to tell each other that the greenhouse was locked, the plants were watered or if she’d be in late one day. The same with Dr Quaid, though he occasionally sent her links to articles in gardening magazines too. Aside from a few default messages about subscriptions or sales, that was about it. All of her other conversations were at least a year old, and there nobody in any of them that I took to be Grace’s father.

I opened her contacts list next and found much of the same people. Numbers for the doctor, the vet, Grace’s school, the electrician. And still no sign of anyone connected to Grace. No mention of a father, no skull emoji tied to a number. It was very much like he simply didn’t exist. It was enough to catch my eye, enough for me to tell Mills to make a note and stick it on the board.

Abbie’s emails were password-protected, and other than