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

“Thank you, Smith,” I said, somewhat truthfully, and hung up the phone.

Still slightly asleep, I managed to find some clean socks and a shirt, not bothering with a tie as I stuck my head through a jumper and clattered to the kitchen, hitting the kettle and digging through the cupboard for a spare travel mug. Mills was lucky I went on so many walking holidays so that I quite a collection and several to spare. I scooped some coffee into each one and had just emptied the kettle and stirred in some milk when someone knocked on my door. Often Mills just honked at me, but it was now a quarter to three, and my neighbours would not take kindly to it. I carried the mugs over to the door, letting him in and handing him one as I sat down to pull my boots on. He took the coffee, looking like he might cry over it and slumped against my door frame, the cold night’s air wafting in and helping me wake up. We said nothing to each other, no words and frankly, no energy for it. My laces tied, I locked the door and followed Mills to his car, the comforting warmth of it nearly enough to send me back to sleep.

“I feel like when you go on holiday,” Mills muttered, his headlights filling the street as he pulled away. I rolled my head around to look at him.

“What?”

“You know when you go on holiday,” he paused for a yawn, “and you have to get up so early.”

“For the airport,” I nodded, with him now.

“Only we’re not going on holiday,” he added sadly.

“No,” I shook my head, rather wishing we could swing over to the airport and hop on a flight to Prague or somewhere. “We are not.”

By the time we reached the station, half the lights on, a befuddled collection of officers loitering around, the coffee had started to kick in. And by that, I wasn’t about to fall asleep on Mills” shoulder anytime soon.

I headed over to Constable Waters, who looked as tired as I felt, with great dark shadows under his eyes. He had a baby, I remembered blearily. Poor bugger.

“Waters,” I greeted him, slumping down at a desk.

“Sir.”

“What have we got?”

“Toomas Kask made an emergency call at two twenty-three am, asking for help with a suspected burglar in his house. He was advised to stay hidden and await assistance, but he got spooked and made a break for it out the back door. We picked him up just down the lane from the property.”

“And the burglar?”

“No sign of anyone, but definitely a sign of a break-in. Apparently, the place is a bit of a shambles. SOCO are there trying to see what they can find.”

“Kask?” Mills asked, leaning against the wall in a valiant attempt to stay vertical.

“Smith is bringing him now,” Waters informed me.

“And what about the boss?” I asked with a nod to Sharp’s dark office.

“She’s been notified but is leaving us to it. Expects a full report when she gets in, this morning. Or later,” he amended with a shrug.

Later. The word almost sent me into despair.

“Who’s on forensics?” I asked, rubbing my face, trying to get some life going.

“Porters. She’s ready for you if you want to take a look around the scene.”

I sat back and nodded, downing a large mouthful of strong coffee. “We’ll talk to Kask first. Get him somewhere secure.”

Waters nodded, drifting away to see his duties, and Mills prodded me in the leg with his foot.

“You think it’s our guy?” he asked.

“I think someone might be picking their way through that study team,” I muttered. “I want an extra officer at the hospital,” I told him. “If the killer went after Kask, they might go after Abbie again too.” Mills nodded and strode off to see to it. I leant forward and pushed myself up from the chair and into the bathroom, where I splashed my face with cold water.

Abbie, Sonia and then Kask. I left the bathroom and sent another uniformed officer to the street where Quaid lives to keep an eye on things, just in case, and then went in search of a fresh coffee, just as Smith walked in with Kask.

Poor bloke. He was shivering like a wet dog, dressed in his stripey pyjamas with a coat thrown over the top, feet stuffed into a pair of wellies that I assumed he kept by his back door. I pulled another mug down for him as Smith led him over to a chair by a radiator, and Mills joined me in the kitchen.

“Uniform at the hospital,” he informed me succinctly.

“I’ve sent one to Dr Quaid’s street as well,” I told him, looking at him properly and marvelling at the clothes he’d managed to find in his sleep-addled state. A pair of trousers, classic Mills, and a turtleneck jumper that, when he moved enough, lifted to reveal a graphic t-shirt underneath and a pair of glasses.

“No time for contacts?” I asked, passing him a mug of coffee.

“Sadly not. Didn’t want to put one in wrong or have my eye out.”

“Certainly not,” I agreed, taking two of the mugs and walking over the Kask. Smith gave us a grim nod and went to take herself home, having worked late anyway, and I sat opposite Kask, handing him the mug.

“Thank you,” he rasped, taking it in his long, shaky fingers.

“We’ll wait until a more reasonable hour to take your formal statement,” I told him, “but if you can, give us a quick rundown of what happened?”

He blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes as Mills sat down beside me, one leg crossed over the others.

“I was up rather late,” he told us, ‘there was a rather good documentary on that I wanted to see. And then I locked up the house, turned off the lights and headed up to bed. Woke up when something crashed downstairs,” he said with a slight shiver. “I