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

city made the most of it, with people eating outdoors in the sunshine, reclining on park benches with their coats thrown off, families having little picnics in the grateful refuge from the rain that had flooded us all spring.

We eventually settled on a small sandwich shop and decided to join the other happy looking faces in the great outdoors, mindful of the pigeons that followed us as we left the shop and headed to the small green patch outside. Sat on a bench shadowed by some trees, a small breeze pushing my hair back from my face, Mills took a large bite of his sandwich and somehow said through all the bread and cheese,

“What’s our next move, sir?” He swallowed loudly. “Do you want to head out to the gardens and speak to Sonia?”

“Not yet,” I answered, making sure to chew my mouthful before speaking. “Let’s take Abbie’s laptop in and see what’s on there. And I want to look into these studies a bit more closely. Maybe we can figure out why Sonia’s not really credited for any of them.”

“Maybe she just wasn’t as involved in them as she is in the current one,” Mills suggested.

“She didn’t really give that impression when we spoke,” I reminded him. “She made them sound as if they had been on an equal footing their whole career, made it sound like if anyone was the top dog, it was her, not Abbie.”

Mills nodded in agreement and turned his attention back to what remained of his sandwich. There was more for us to know about their relationship, or partnership, and I wanted to learn as much about it as I could before we went bolting in anywhere with accusations ready to throw.

I also wanted to know more about our poison, or drug. Dr Olsen had made it clear that our attacker either got it wrong, and Abbie should be dead, or they got it right, and that’s why she isn’t. It changed the feel of the case, from an attack to attempted murder, and the motives for those varied greatly. Would Sonia put her research partner in a coma to take full credit for a study? Perhaps. Would she kill her for it, turn her into a martyr that the botanical world would likely remember and honour for years to come? Perhaps not.

Until we had a clearer understanding, though, I wasn’t about to pull away the uniformed officer stationed at the hospital from Abbie’s side. Knowing my luck, the second I did that, we’d have a full-blown homicide case on our hands.

I crumpled up my empty sandwich wrapper, swigged from the bottle of water I’d also bought and then rose to my feet, my knees creaking slightly, enjoying the brief time in the outdoors. Birds tweeting, a slight wind in my hair, the smell of freshly mown grass threatening to kick off Mills” hay fever. As if on cue, he sneezed behind me and stood up, took the wrapper from my hand and threw them both into the bin. When he turned around, his nose and eyes were slightly pink, and he glared through the wetness in his eyes as well as he was able to.

“It’s the pollen,” he told me bitterly.

“I know,” I nodded, clasping an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside, granny.”

He muttered under his breath, fishing around his pockets for a tissue, but let me steer him back towards the car anyway, with no protest when I held my hand out for the keys. The last thing I needed was him sneezing manically in the middle of a busy roundabout and sending us racketeering into hedges.

We hopped into the car, and after a few seat adjustments that he really did scowl about, I pulled away from the street and took us back to the station, the hallways relatively quiet as everyone else stepped away for lunch too. Everyone but Sharp, naturally, who sat at her desk picking at a salad with disdain with one hand, the other holding a phone to her face. But for once, she was not sending withering stares to whoever was talking to her. Instead, she was smiling, nodding along and laughing occasionally, but she waved at me through the glass, and I stopped in the doorway. I waved Mills along to our office where his antihistamines were, and he scuttled along happily.

“Okay, darling,” Sharp was saying. “I’ll see you later then. Yep. Okay. I love you. Bye-bye.” She was still smiling when she put the phone down, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Your son?” I asked, and she nodded, pushing her salad away.

“What’s that?” She asked, pointing to the laptop under my arm.

“Abbie Whelan’s laptop,” I answered. “Her sister let us take it to give a quick once over. I think there might be something in her studies that can help us.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sharp agreed, lacing her fingers together. “Have you called her?”

“Ma’am?”

“Liene. Have you called her?”

I relaxed, realising that she hadn’t called me in here for a scolding or a lecture about paperwork or protocol.

“Not recently,” I answered. “She’s been rather busy.” Sharp’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she hummed. “As have I for that matter,” I added, holding the laptop aloft. “Woman in a coma, suspected attempted murder, remember?”

“I know,” Sharp’s face relaxed, and she waved a hand at me. “I just care about you both, is all.”

“That’s very much appreciated, Mara.”

“Go on then,” she nodded her chin to the door, “off you go.” She pulled her salad back towards her with a grimace as I turned away, a grin on my face and made my way back to our office, where Mills was already looking much more comfortable.

I put Abbie’s laptop down in front of him, and he quickly leant forward to open it and switch it on as I took my jacket off and hung it on the stand, walking over to our board. Mills had connected a few images and sheets of paper with string, linking the