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

I glared out of the window as Mills drove, I was too wound up, and he kept quiet as we made our way from the city, the radio turned onto some classic station that filled the car. He’d noticed, of course, he had, a smart man like Mills, that something had rankled me back in the station, face to face with Luke. It was an old wound, one that I couldn’t let get in the way of the job, so I was grateful for his surreptitious stepping in, glad that he had done so before Sharp had caught a whiff of my resentment and come swooping in herself.

This was turning out to be a close cutting case. A mother in hospital, and an absent father. And it was August in a few days. I could have laughed at it all, really, the sheer ridiculousness of it. I’d never been a particularly religious person, but there was a God he or she was having a complete field day with this. I tipped my head against the seat, watching the landscape unravel, and felt myself cool down as it did. Maybe Abbie was on to something about getting a place out here, amongst the hills and heather and cows. Perhaps I’d move into the coaching house when it was fixed, just me and my ghosts knocking boots until I was too old to care.

Mills started humming along to one of the songs on the radio, an elaborate piano piece that he could probably name without looking. It suited my mood and was starting to suit the weather. Out here, amongst the rising and sloping valleys, the clouds had gathered, the blue sky above the city turning grey, and the air grew crisper.

“I really hope it doesn’t rain,” Mills muttered, more to himself than me. “I left my washing out on the balcony.”

I laughed through my nose and shook my head. “Rookie mistake, leaving your laundry out when you’re not home.”

“I know. I don’t normally bother, but it was the duvet cover, and getting on the dryer is just such a faff.”

I nodded. “At least it’ll be nice to sleep in. Dried outside is always better for that.”

“Once you’ve made the bed,” he added grumpily. “I hate doing it. Always get tangled up somehow. Bet you’ve got it nailed.” He added, giving me a sideways glance.

I shrugged humbly; it was true. I used to help my grandmother around the coaching house, and she did proper bed making. Sheets and blankets and hospital corners that made my ex-army grandfather look on in admiration. Not like my own mother, who threw soft wrinkled duvets and pillows on haphazardly claiming, “it’ll only get messed up again later, anyway.” A fair argument, but not one that I carried with me. The memory of her voice, petulant face, arms folded as she stared down my neatly ironed grandmother was bittersweet. She’d been sick then, not that I had known at the time.

“I’m glad there’s no sheep today,” Mills announced, breaking from my moody reverie as we hurtled along the country lanes without trouble.

“Why would there be? How often do you think farmers move their flocks?”

“I have no idea, sir, but I know the exact route of the 23 bus. So that’s useful.” I laughed, and he grinned, relaxing slightly in his seat.

“Do you ever get the bus?” I asked him in the quiet moment once our laughter faded away.

“Not anymore. I used to get the 23 to get to college before my brother learnt how to drive. The stop was right outside the old sweet shop, so it worked out pretty well for me.”

“I’ll say. Straight out of school and straight into the toffees.”

“Not toffee,” Mills laughed. “it wasn’t the nineteen-forties.”

“Watch it,” I warned him. “Toffees were popular when I was a lad too. What did you eat then? Those horrible sour things that make your tongue bleed?”

“Sherbet mostly,” he told me. “The odd Wham bar.”

I nodded approvingly, my mood lifting for a moment before he turned left, taking us through the gates of the botanical gardens. We parked next to Abbie’s car, and I wondered briefly if we should bring Paige up here so she could take it home for her. As we walked towards the front door, a faint drizzle of rain began to fall on our heads, and Mills swore under his breath as I pressed the buzzer.

“Hello?” I faintly recognised Dr Quaid’s voice through the tinny intercom. I looked up at the camera and waved.

“Dr Quaid. It’s DCI Thatcher, and DS Mills. May we come in?”

“Certainly!” He replied quickly, and the door buzzed then. I pushed it open, and as we stepped into the foyer, he came running from his office, wrapped in a moss-coloured cardigan. “Inspector, Sergeant. Hello. Is it Abbie, is there news? How can I help?”

I held my hands out, calming the man down. “We’re just here to speak to Sonia Petrilli again. Is she in?”

“She’s outside,” he nodded to the windowed room that led into the gardens. “You should find her in the greenhouse. Can I show you there?”

“We remember,” I told him. “Thank you, Dr Quaid.” There must have been something grim in my voice as I spoke, as he quickly nodded and happily hurried back down the hallway to his office. I jerked my chin at Mills, and he followed me through the room of glass walls and white surfaces, out into the chilly gardens. I rather wished I still had my big coat, sticking my hands in the pockets of my jacket as we navigated the paths towards the greenhouse.

We found it after a momentary diversion, but I couldn’t see Sonia through the windows. I pushed the door open anyway, happy enough to step into the warm room and get out of the drizzle.

The greenhouse had been tidied up again, benches pushed back into the place, the floor swept up and cleaned.

“Sir,” Mills