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

colourful awning, holding the door open for a woman who came through with a pram before ducking inside. It was warm and smelt heavenly, and I quickly clocked Mills standing by a potted plant almost as tall as him, smiling down at his phone as he stayed out of the way of the other customers that drifted to and from the counter.

“Morning, Mills,” I greeted up, creeping up to his side. He jumped a little and put his phone back into his pocket with a grin.

“Morning, sir. Good evening?” he asked. We’d stayed at the pub a little longer than we intended to, sitting out by the river watching the world go by. Eventually, we’d staggered home, slightly tipsy, and I collapsed on my bed with half my clothes still. I wasn’t feeling all that fresh this morning, but it was nothing a strong cup of coffee, or several of them, couldn’t help to fix.

“Not bad,” I replied as we strode up to the counter, smiling at the curly haired lad with tattoo sleeves who greeted us. “Two Americanos, please. One white, one black. Any food, Mills?”

“I’m alright, thanks.”

“Just the coffees then, thanks,” I said to the youth. He smiled, sliding the card machine my way as he turned to the barista behind him, rattling off the simple order that it looked like she had already started. I found a few coins in my wallet, dropped them in the pig-shaped tip jar, and joined Mills at the end of the counter, where he leant against the hard edge.

“I thought we should get in touch with the hospital again,” he said as I stood beside him. “See if there’s any progress, any changes.”

“I’d leave it,” I told him, putting my wallet away. “They’ll call us when they’ve got something, and we don’t want to wind them up. They need to know what’s in her system just as much as we do, don’t forget.”

Mills nodded and breathed in and out deeply. “What about Abbie’s home then? Paige and Grace should be settled now. We could give them a call, see if we can stop by.”

That, I approved of. I wanted to have a proper talk with Paige as well, when she wasn’t still shell shocked and worried about her niece, and to take a peek around Abbie’s things would hardly be unhelpful.

“Call when we get into the station and sort ourselves out,” I told him, glancing at my watch. “Might be a bit early yet.”

Mills nodded, reaching behind us for the coffees that were slid our way, checking the contents before passing one to me and thanking the young woman.

“Black coffee,” I muttered as he took a tentative sip. “Disgusting.”

“Says the man whose Marmite consumption is probably what keeps them in business,” he retorted, swinging the door open and holding it there with his foot as I walked out, stepping into the street a moment behind me.

“There’s nothing wrong with how much Marmite I eat,” I protested as he caught up to me. The wide streets were fairly quiet, and our shoes clicked on the stones as we walked up the slight slope to the station.

“I’ve seen you eat it from the jar once,” Mills reminded me with a grimace on his face. “That’s not right by anyone’s standards.”

“It’s good for you,” I told him. “Puts hair on your chest, my grandad used to say. Like mustard.”

“Mustard’s alright.” Mills looked at me then with an unpleasant look on his face. “Please don’t tell me you eat that from the jar too.”

“Once,” I answered. “First time I ever got drunk; Sally dared me to.”

He laughed at that, the sound reverberating off the empty buildings. “I can believe that,” he said.

They’d met, at last, about a month ago after I made my way back to the city from my little holiday. Sally and Tom were over for dinner when Mills stopped by to drop off some stuff for a case, and Sally had hoodwinked him into staying with the exact same method she had used to make me eat the mustard. I owed her a call, thinking about it. A month ago, now, time really was flying. It’d be August soon. The feeling sat at the bottom of my stomach like I just swallowed something hugely unpleasant, a lump sticking in my throat. Less than a week, in fact. The thought made me feel sick, and Mills became white noise in the background as he talked on. We reached the station, heading straight upstairs to see what we could make of all of this today. I returned the smiles and nods and morning greetings numbly, feeling rather as if I’d been knocked over the head.

I reached the office and slumped down in my seat, cradling my head in my hands.

“Sir?” Mills asked, pushing the door to and standing in front of my desk. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I answered, not moving my head.

Mills hesitated there, unsure, but went to his own desk after a while. I tilted my head to one side, to where the picture of my mother stared at me and quickly reached out, gently turning her around. In the corner of my eye, I saw Mills watching, nodding to himself as he seemed to understand. He didn’t, of course, but he’d stop asking questions, for which I was grateful.

I distracted myself by sifting through my emails, sipping at my coffee as I worked my way through the rather full, unorganised inbox. A lot of them were very old now, and I clicked away, deleting and moving them about until my inbox looked more like Mills. Nothing for the case in there, though, but I’d asked Smith to take another look into Lin Shui, just in case.

As I debated whether or not to refill my now empty cup, the phone on my desk rang, the sudden noise in the quiet room making both myself and Mills jump.

With a muttered curse under my breath, heart still pounding, I answered.

“Thatcher,” I called into it.

“Detective Inspector