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

in a hotel around the corner. We offered to take him back to a relative’s house, but he preferred to stay there. If someone is after them, then that’s the safest call anyway,” I added, slurping my drink.

“And what do you boys have planned for today?” Sharp asked, “it’s not often you two have to deal with a burglary.”

“We’ll head out to the crime scene, take a quick look around and then we’re bringing Kask in for another chat. Hopefully a proper one this time,” I added. I was hoping that he would open up about the study now, now that it was a threat to him not too. Sharp listened as I spoke and gave a slow, considered nod.

“Sounds good. Don’t stay here late today,” she told us, leaving the kitchen. “You both look awful.”

“She’s nice in the morning,” Mills murmured as she vanished into the station, long hair swinging down her back.

“She’s nice when she didn’t have to get up at half-two,” I countered, finishing the remains of coffee and heading over to our office. It would have to be another early tonight, I thought to myself as I pulled my coat on over my shoulders. I wasn’t sure if I’d really need it today, the sky was blue, and the sun shone down, bright and warm. But when I was this tired, I rather clung to its heavy embrace, bundling up in it so that I could almost be in bed.

We didn’t faff about leaving, the city still slowly churning awake, café’s opening, shop windows coming to life, students milling about looking like they also would rather be in bed. Mills let me drive his car, more accustomed to the country roads than he was, and I was grateful. Driving out there with Mills was bad enough with a bad night’s sleep and several cups of coffee added to the mix. He still wore his glasses, pushing them up his nose as his legs bounced, staring out the window. Maybe too much coffee for Mills. He was like one of those wind-up toys that went on for hours and crashed suddenly. I’d have to keep an eye on that.

Smith had been the constable on the scene last night, and she met us outside Kask’s house, a thermos in her hand that she steadily clung to as we pulled up and climbed out of the car.

“Morning again,” she said through a muffled yawn.

“Morning,” we replied in unison, strolling over towards her. She passed us the key to the house and followed after us as we walked up to the front door.

Lock busted indeed, I noticed, bending down to have a proper look. The window in the front door had been smashed, likely so that the intruder only needed to reach through and down to turn the lock. Would have made a loud enough noise to wake Kask up, that was for sure.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open, my feet crunching over some small shards of glass that had yet to be swept up. The entrance of the house was in a state of muddle. The coats on the rack had been knocked over, the rug shoved up and askew like someone had tripped over or kicked it.

Mills and I split up, looking around the rooms downstairs that were more or less untouched, save for a few muddy boot prints, that to me looked as if the intruder had walked in, not seen what they were looking for, and turned around again. We met at the stairs, where we headed up to the landing. One of the doors, the guest room that Kask mentioned, was pushed open, swinging on its hinges. Further along, closer to the stairs, was Kask’s room.

I headed in, and nothing jumped out. No open drawers, no upturned boxes or any of the usual mess left behind someone who rifled through your belongings. I glanced over my shoulder to find Mills surveying the room with a grim expression. Whoever the intruder was, they definitely weren’t here for family jewellery or the rather impressive television on the wall.

I sighed deeply and turned back around, making my way back to the stairs with Mills on my heels.

“We need to talk to Kask,” I muttered.

As I drove back, Smith following along behind us, I had Mills check-in with the uniformed officers with Abbie Whelan and Dr Quaid, before calling to ask them to bring Kask to us. I kept the radio quiet and watched go by as he made his calls, and after he hung up the last one, turned slightly to give him an expectant look.

“Nothing unusual around the hospital,” he told me. “And everything’s as normal on Quaid’s street. No sign of any trouble.”

I nodded contentedly. I didn’t think our intruder would go after more than one person in the night, but after what happened to Sonia, I wasn’t much for taking chances. Not anymore.

Toomas Kask was already at the station when we arrived, sitting in a chair by constable Waters, cradling a paper cup. Someone had gotten him some clothes, and he looked better for not shuffling around in his pyjamas and wellies. He shot up as we walked in and made our way over.

“Inspector Thatcher, Sergeant Mills, I cannot thank you enough for last night.”

“We did nothing last night, Kask, that was all this lot,” I said, nodding to the clustered PC’s that loitered around. They all lifted their chins with pride, and Kask thanked them earnestly.

“If you’d come with us, Mr Kask,” I said once he’d finished his rounds. “We’d like to have a chat.” He nodded, emptying his cup and placing it in the bin, following us through to an interview room, his hands wrung together. Mills grabbed a folder from Waters and jogged after us, into the small, warm room.

We settled down, and Mills slid the folder in front of me as I switched the recording device on.

“This is Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills with Mr Toomas Kask