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

to crash, and let her otherwise perfect garden be infiltrated by children’s toys and garden gnomes. Either motherhood had changed her drastically, or someone was giving us the wrong idea of the woman in the hospital bed.

“What about the rest of her family?” I asked, trying to move the topic along.

“Her father died when she was a child, her mother about eight years ago. It’s just her and Paige.”

“And you? Did your family not want to know your child? Be in her life?”

“My parents moved to Australia twelve years ago. And Abbie was hardly the sort of person to reach out to them, send baby pictures or anything.” He didn’t sound all that remorseful, all that invested, which surprised me, given his very sudden desire to fight for custody. Something had changed, and it wasn’t his opinion of either Abbie or Paige.

“Have you ever heard of Nerium?” Thatcher asked casually. Luke frowned.

“The plant? Of course. Why?”

“It looks to be one of the main components used to attack Abbie,” he told him, sitting forward. “Do you know much about it?”

“I don’t handle those sorts of plants,” Luke answered sternly. “I’m a succulent’s person, if you must know.”

“And whilst we have you here, Mr Campbell, is there any way you can confirm your whereabouts Tuesday morning?”

“I was in London,” he repeated with a twinge of venom in his voice. “I got here yesterday.”

“Do you have anything to confirm that?” I asked him in a slightly more patient tone than Thatcher.

“The train ticket,” he said with a shrug. “It’ll be with my stuff in the hotel.”

“If you can get that to us, we’d be obliged.” I stood up and opened the interview door room, walking back to the stairs that led to the exit, handing him my business card. “I take it you’ll be staying in the city?”

“I will,” he answered gruffly.

“We might have more questions for you at some point. In the meantime, though,” I told him solemnly. “It might be best for you to avoid the Whelan family altogether. We don’t want to be any more involved in the child’s life than we already are. I don’t doubt that Paige won’t take a legal route if she feels the need to.”

“So, I’m supposed to do what, exactly? Sit in my hotel room and twiddle my thumbs?”

“Wait for the hospital to treat Abbie. Wait for her to be healthy and recovered enough to be released, reunited with her daughter, and then if I were you, I’d speak to her, before you start suing her over her child.”

He opened his mouth, looking ready to argue, but shook his head and trudged off down the stairs looking like a dog with a grudge. I watched him leave and checked my phone. Another text from Susanne. Paige’s guardianship of Grace was ironclad, and short of beginning a legal battle that wouldn’t go far until Abbie was awake and would take at least a year to get through, Luke couldn’t go near her. It was a small comfort, and one that I took to Thatcher, who was switching off the recording device and removing the tape.

“That’s good,” he muttered. “The last thing Grace needs is a legal battle between two parents. One in a coma and the other she’s never met.”

“Strange timing, don’t you think?” I asked as we made our way back to our office. “For him to suddenly spring back into Grace’s life.”

“Almost opportunistic,” he agreed quietly.

I knew that tone. “You think he’s involved in some way?”

“He clearly isn’t the biggest fan of Abbie and doesn’t seem that bothered that she’s been hurt. In fact, it seems to be in his favour. Rather like somebody else.”

“Sonia.”

“What if they both needed a reason to get Abbie out of the way?” He asked, and I paused where I stood, my jacket halfway up my arms.

“She gets credit on the research, and he gets a leading start on a custody battle. Why now, though?”

“The research is nearly finished, in Sonia’s case. No point in doing it any earlier when Abbie could have made a full recovery, or any later when most of it was already complete,” Thatcher said, pulling his own jacket on.

“And Luke Campbell?” I asked, watching as Thatcher’s eyes narrowed at his name, his jaw twitching.

“Has been back in the country long enough to have an interest. Maybe the two stayed in touch,” he suggested. “Waited for the right moment.”

“In that case, Dr Olsen would be right about them being spot on with the measurements.”

“She would indeed.” He tossed my car keys over to me, and I caught them, already striding for the door.

“The gardens,” I stated.

“The gardens. Let’s have another good talk with Sonia,” he muttered, patting his pocket where his phone, and all the details he wanted about their studies lay in wait.

I checked my belt for a pair of handcuffs before we jogged down the stairs, heading for the car park.

Twelve

Thatcher

The idea that Luke Campbell and Sonia Petrilli were in some way entwined and involved in what had happened to Abbie Whelan took root in my head like a persistent weed. Sonia, who so needed this study for her PhD, who’d spent years of not receiving the fair share of credit for her work. And Campbell, though I wasn’t fully sure of what drew him back to York at this particular point of time, there was no doubting that he was keen to see his child, and people had worse things before in the name of parental concern.

And yet, the description that Luke Campbell had given us of Abbie as this mean, controlling narcissist was such a far cry from the person Paige talked about that I didn’t quite know where to look. Perhaps Abbie had been that person before, and then Grace had come along and changed her way of thinking. Perhaps Luke was bitter at being so carefully kept away from Grace. A man who didn’t even really know her name, had never seen her face. It would