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

a few social media apps, there wasn’t much there. Her photo albums were almost full. Snaps of her and Paige, of Grace all the way from a baby up until now. Pictures of gardens, plants and a rather fat cat appeared in most of the backgrounds.

“Nothing on here that strikes my notice,” I told Mills. “Maybe Paige will be able to tell us a bit more about it.”

I put the phone back with the rest of her things and pried the gloves off of my hand.

“Anything from the receipts?” Mills asked me, pulling his gloves off and throwing them happily into the bin.

“They’re pretty old,” I told him. “Mostly supermarket receipts or petrol stations.”

“I didn’t think we’d find much on her,” he remarked, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. “Her work seems fairly hush-hush, after all. Maybe we’ll have better luck in her home, with her computer and things.”

“I’d say so. We could try to get clearance to give the lab a proper look over, but since it’s not an actual homicide investigation, that might be a challenge, even for Sharp. Let’s stick to this for now,” I decided with a shake of my head. “Sort of Sonia’s alibi and cross that of the list, and we’ll look into the lab some more, find out what they do, who they do it with.”

“Who doesn’t like them doing it,” Mills added, blinking his eyes. “I’ll need a coffee. Want one?”

“Please. And some sort of biscuit if there are any left. I’ll give the hospital a ring,” I said. “See if anything’s changed.”

Mills nodded, and we parted ways briefly, me stepping out of the office for a moment, wanting a stretch of the legs.

As Mills fetched us some drinks and scavenged the cupboards for something to eat, I gave the hospital a quick call, hoping for a good update on Abbie and whatever it was she was drugged with. She remained in a coma, and the doctors had yet to identify what the drug was, but she was still stable, and they had informed Paige of as much too.

I hung up the phone, intercepting Mills as we walked back to the office, taking the larger of the two mugs he held, inhaling the lovely bitter smell of coffee.

“Any news?” Mills asked as we entered the office, pushing the door to.

“No changes,” I told him, settling down in my chair. “She’s still in the coma, and they’re working on finding the drug.”

“At least she’s still with us,” Mills pointed out.

“A small blessing. Now let’s figure out who put her there in the first place.”

I was not overly fond of research, never had been really, but with Abbie in the coma and without any strong leads to go on, our options were slim.

Sipping at my coffee, I turned my computer on and put in a search for Moorland Botanicals, surprised by the number of results that shot up across the page. The institute’s website came first, and I clicked on the link, having a brief scan of their about page, their past projects and recent studies. There wasn’t much on there, really. I imagined they couldn’t share a lot of what they did publicly. The website did not really suit the place as I had seen it, or the eccentric fleece wearing doctor behind all of its research. It was a clean, white, orderly website without any pictures, without anything at all really.

I went back to the main search results, scrolling down and pausing when I found several local news articles talking about the institute and the various protests that have been held against them. I opened the first one, dated from a few years ago, shortly after the researchers had brought out a new study for a drug to help with memory loss. The drug itself wasn’t mentioned. It seemed people had little issue with that. It was the methods that the researchers used, with animal rights activists at the forefront, condemning the studies for “immoral practices” and the lack of transparency the gardens offer to the public.

Going through some more articles, I found that some activist groups appear up time and time, constantly campaigning against the lab, with petitions, rallies and strikes outside their gates. Opening another tab, I put in a search for the name of the group that came up the most often and found their website, entirely dedicated to ending animal testing and cruelty. They had a whole page just for the botanical centre, listing its address, the studies it has completed over time, even the name of some of the researchers, Abbie’s included.

I put my mug down with a frown, concentrating on the site. They had archived posters from their various rallies, viciously coloured, graphically violent, old petitions that were shy a few signatures and images of letters that had been sent. Letters to the local council, governing boards, environmental agencies. And other letters, sent, though the names had been blacked out, to the researchers themselves with promises of violence and threats.

They were tactics, I knew they were. Fear mongering, and in my years in the force, I had rarely known anyone to actually act upon the sort of letters that they send. But someone had acted, so I sent some of the posters and the threatening letters to the printer, standing up from my chair with creaky knees.

I looked over at Mills, who had been murmuring quietly on the phone.

“Well?” I asked.

“Sonia’s parents confirmed her alibi, said she didn’t leave for work until half ten, quarter to eleven.”

I picked up my mug, taking a long swig. “She doesn’t live far from the gardens,” I observed, remembering her giving us the very specific time of ten fifty-two for her arrival to work.

“She could have gotten out and back again without them noticing she was gone,” Mills supplied.

“And whenever a parent gives an alibi, there’s always a grain of salt to be taken with it,” I remarked. “No matter how their child is now.”

“You don’t want to rule