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

“The levels are different,” she muttered.

“Inspector,” the front desk sergeant stuck his head in the door. “Dr Olsen for you.”

“Send her in,” I ordered quickly, moving over to stand with Crowe when the frazzled toxicologist drifted through the door.

“Hello, again,” she greeted us all, dropping her bag on a chair with a rattle and pulled her coat off, revealing her lab coat underneath. She and Crowe exchanged a nod, and then Dr Olsen swanned over to Lena, and the two of them bent their heads over the many pages and reports and Mills” notebook. He shuffled over to me, looking briefly at Sonia’s sheet-covered form before looking anywhere else.

The two doctors muttered together, too quietly for me to understand what they were saying, and then Lena moved suddenly, pulling a pair of gloves on with a loud snap and lifted Sonia’s sheet, giving her another look, running her fingers along the dead girl’s arms and back.

“Lena?” I asked.

“I presumed,” she began tutting at herself, ‘that our killer altered the measurements for the Nerium. Killed her outright, but that’s not what we’re seeing.”

“Yew,” Dr Olsen went on with feverish excitement to her eyes. “She was paralysed, died slowly.”

I winced and then looked back to Crowe. “That’s why she didn’t call out,” I realised, “why he didn’t need to stifle her.”

“He?” Mills asked.

“Whoever killed her was taller and stronger,” Crowe quickly told him, “and Sonia’s no small lass, so odds are we’re looking for a man.”

“So that’s what went wrong with Abbie?” Mills pieced together. “Why she was able to fight back, how she got out from the greenhouse before the rest of it kicked in? The paralysis didn’t work on her?”

“He got his recipe wrong,” Dr Olsen confirmed, looking over Crowe’s report. “Nailed it now, though. You have lovely handwriting,” she added randomly to her friend.

“Thank you,” Lena said earnestly. “These lot hate it.”

“You have doctor handwriting,” Mills pointed out.

“Fancy that,” Lena shot back, pulling the sheet back over Sonia.

“Yew is definitely a component,” Dr Olsen had fished out her own work and was cross-referencing, a pen lid dangling from her mouth.

“What about the others?”

“Not that I can tell, but their quantities are smaller, and there are other places you’d find these compounds.”

“But it’s safe to assume so,” I hedged, “given we know our killer’s a fan of plants.”

“I’d say so, Max,” Lena told me with a wink. “But these, as Mills has cleverly ascertained,” she added as she handed him his notebook back. “Are pretty common plants.”

“It’s not the plants that stand out,” Dr Olsen added. “It’s the method. You’re looking for someone with the know-how to pull this off, to see where they’ve gone wrong and adjust it accordingly.”

As good as it was to know all of this, it sat knocked me unpleasantly in the gut. Poor Sonia, poor Abbie. The hospital was still working on bringing her out of the coma, but there was nothing that anyone could do for Sonia now. Expect us, I supposed.

“Why not call it a day, sir?” Mills suggested quietly as the two doctors returned to their conversation. “Fill in Sharp and stop for a pint? I’ll buy.”

I smiled and clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Good lad, Mills. But I’m still not showing you my tattoo,” I added, watching his face fall slightly.

“Just catch him wearing shorts one day,” Lena called over. “It’s on his knee.” She sent Mills a roguish grin, and when he started laughing, I steered him from the lab.

“Yes, thank you, Lena!”

“You are very welcome, love!” she called back, her laughter echoing around the cold lab.

I suspected that Mills had other ulterior motives for hurrying through our debrief with Sharp and leading me out the pub, settling down in the garden with a large pint of cold beer. The same reason he’d been casting me wary glances since Sharp had her little chat with him. August, I thought grudgingly.

“How goes the coaching house?” He asked tentatively, his eyes focused on something out towards the park as he spoke.

I hadn’t been out there for a while, actually. Hadn’t really had the time, to my shame, and when Liene came back, I doubted I’d have much then. The guilt kicked me like an angry donkey, and I took a large swig of beer, hoping to push it all down.

“Stairs are fixed,” I told him with a small smile. He returned it with a chuckle, his eyes flicking up to my head, where the nasty cut I had gotten falling through said stairs had now faded, also conveniently covered by my hair.

“That’s good,” he said. “Offer still stands, sir. If you ever need an extra pair of hands, or just someone around to take you to A&E every now and then.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” I told him. He made a slightly uncertain sort of face, but it quickly faded when he leant back in his chair, face tipped to the sky, the sunlight bringing out an orange tint to his black hair. I looked up too, happy enough to enjoy a cold beer and warm weather before we delved back into the cold, dead gardens tomorrow.

Nineteen

Thatcher

When I woke up the next morning, there were some lilies delivered to my door. I took them from the courier, glancing down at the still unflowered buds with a frown and kicked the door shut, walking into the kitchen and fiddling for the small card attached to the stems. I wondered if they’d been delivered to the wrong house, not that I had a problem with free flowers. I found the card at last and flipped it open.

“Thatch. I know this time of year is hard. Thinking of you. J.”

Jeannie. White lilies, my mother’s favourite. I was surprised she’d remembered, surprised she’d sent them after months of silence. I found an old jug large enough to put the flowers in until I could take them to the church, my movements