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

“It’s work. Do you mind…?” She pointed to Grace, trailing off.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I assured her. She smiled gratefully, answering her phone and stepping outside into the hallway, where we could still see each other through the window.

I looked at Grace and felt awkward. Children were not my strong suit.

“I like your bear,” I told her, pointing at the familiar shape of Paddington nestled under her arm.

“Mummy gave me him,” she told me, looking sadly at Abbie. “She’s still sleeping.”

“My mummy slept in here too once,” I told her through the pain in my chest. She looked over, her eyes widening.

“Your mummy?” I nodded. “She woke up?” Grace asked.

I faltered, not really wanting to be the one to introduce this sweet little girl to the concept of death.

“She’s not here anymore,” I told her simply.

“Mummy’s tired,” Grace had already moved on. “That man came after bedtime.”

I looked over at her, cocking my head to one side. “What man?”

“Tall man. Talked to mummy at bedtime. She didn’t let him in,” Grace told me a loud whisper, like it was the greatest secret her four-year-old brain could imagine. “No tea.”

“No tea,” I repeated. “Have you seen the man before?” I asked her.

Grace shook her head, lying back down on Abbie’s shoulder and sticking her thumb back in her mouth. I watched them for a moment, my own grief threatening to spill tears from my eyes and was saved when Paige walked back in with a loud sigh.

“I might quit. When you wake up,” she told her sleeping sister, “you’re helping me find a new job. Everything okay?” She asked me. I quickly arranged my face in a more professional manner.

“Grace mentioned Abbie talking to a man,” I told her quietly.

Paige’s head snapped over to her niece. “What man, poppet?” she asked sweetly.

“Tall man.”

“Hair like yours?” Paige asked in a dark voice. Grace shook her head, and Paige relaxed.

“Any idea who?” I asked her.

“None at all.”

Twenty

Thatcher

I went straight home from the hospital, my mind whirring over who the man Grace saw with Abbie could have been. He’d been at her house, so whoever he was, Abbie must have known him. At least Luke Campbell was ruled out, faintly, though I doubted he’d have simply shown up at the door and demanded to come in. I considered Dr Quaid, but Grace knew him, having met him several times over her life. Toomas Kask, she did not know, and I wondered over just how involved he had been with that study as I made my way home, stopping at the chippy for a large cod and chips, the smell almost irresistible to ignore until I got home, where I sprawled out in front of the telly, watching reruns of an old sitcom and eating my dinner.

I also considered texting Mills and sharing with him what I had learnt from Grace, but he’d probably be home by now, maybe even with Susanne, and it was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning, where I’d have another good dive into Abbie’s laptop for a search of this mystery man. My house, at least, was spotless, and Mrs MacIntosh had even been kind enough to iron my laundry, so I had clean, smart clothes for the day ahead. It was a small load off my mind, but a useful one, and meant that I could draw the evening to a close.

Tidying up my mess and making sure the door was locked, the lights all switched off, I lumbered into the bathroom for a quick shower and then into my bedroom for an early night. Collapsing on the bed and with nothing to distract me, those unpleasant memories began to rear their ugly heads again, so I rolled over with a grunt and picked my phone up, finding some app that Elsie had made me download that was supposed to help you sleep. I put the phone back and slumped down, an arm thrown across my face as the low, rhythmic music quietly filled the room.

It did the trick, and before I knew it, I was out like a light, faint dreams skittering across my eyes of my grandparents and the coaching house back in its prime. Standing on a rickety stool, peeling apples in the kitchen whilst someone sang, slightly out of tune alongside me. I knew whose voice it was, but when I turned to look at her, she was gone, the song with it. Instead, some horrible ringing piped up, and my eyes shot open.

It wasn’t the smoke detector I quickly figured out, thank goodness for that, and it didn’t really sound like my morning alarm. I groaned, blearily blinking and pushed myself up onto my elbows, head spinning slightly, and the sound continued to play. I dared a glance over to the window, the curtains drawn, and no light managed to peek through. Still dark then, too early to be morning.

My phone, I realised with a moan. I reached for it with a fumbling hand, nearly knocking over my glass of water in the process. It was half two in the morning, and it was Smith’s name flashing across my screen.

“What?” I answered grittily, my voice still thick with sleep.

“Toomas Kask, sir,” she answered quickly and apologetically.

“Is he dead?” I asked, numbly, sitting up properly and rubbing my eyes.

“No, sir. He made an emergency call; someone broke into his house. He’s fine. We’ve picked him up and are bringing him back to the station whilst the house gets checked.”

It took a while for all of that to process, but eventually, it clicked, and I swung myself free from my sheets.

“A break-in?” I asked for clarification, reaching for a pair of trousers and propped the phone under my chin as I hoisted them on, nearly falling over.

“Yes, sir.”

“Has Mills been notified?”

“He’s on his way to pick you up,” Smith told me kindly. I breathed out in relief. Thank God. Good old Mills,