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

sighed. “I sent them eight years ago,” she pointed out. “Why would I do something to them now?”

“Because their research is going well,” Mills suggested. “Their well-funded, on their way to making a good name for themselves. Sonia Petrilli was working towards a PhD. Perhaps you didn’t think they deserved all that.”

“They didn’t,” she answered. “My baby boy is dead because of them. Why should I care?”

I held in a sigh, looking around the room. Pictures of a boy filled up the mantle, him as a baby, as a toddler, as a teen. Jordan.

“Abbie Whelan has a four-year-old daughter,” I told her. “Her name is Grace, and every day at the hospital, she curls up by her mother’s side for an hour waiting for her to wake up and take her home.” Michele’s stoic face flickered. “Because Sonia Petrilli had two loving parents who have just lost their baby girl. Someone did kill their daughter, Mrs Picard. Sonia was murdered. And I’d like to think, they deserve the same justice you wanted for your son.”

Michele looked away from my direct stare, over to the photographs, her eyes faintly lined with tears. Mills pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket and offered her one, which she took with surprise clear as day on her features.

“I made the website and sent the threats,” she admitted quietly. “The study got shut down, and I was happy about that, but then it all stopped. People stopped coming to the protests, people stopped coming to the website. It was like they’d all just forgotten. My husband nearly left me. We had to go to therapy, work through everything, and I told him I’d stop all the site business. And I kept my promise. I had nothing to do with what happened to those women.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have done?” I asked.

“Nobody else I know who has lost what I’ve lost, Inspector.”

“Mrs Picard, can I ask where you were last night? Around two-thirty am.”

“Two-thirty am?” She repeated, alarmed. “I was here. Sleeping. Where else would I be?”

“Can anybody vouch for that?”

She shrugged. “My husband. He was asleep, too, mind.”

“And what about Tuesday the 23rd, between ten and eleven in the morning?”

“I would have at home,” she said simply. “My husband came home at twelve for lunch.”

It was the same case for when Sonia had died, too, though at that time, her husband would have been with her.

“Where is your husband, Mrs Picard?”

“At work,” she answered firmly.

I nodded and rose from the chair. “Thank you for your time, Mrs Picard. And we are sorry to have brought all this back up.”

She stood up, sniffing again and walked us to the front door. “Will she wake up?” she asked, holding the door open, not meeting my eyes as she spoke.

“Abbie Whelan?” A small nod. “We hope so. For the sake of the investigation, and for her daughter and sister.”

She looked up at me then, and Mills and I left the house. I glanced at another picture in the hallway before she shut the door, a wedding picture of herself and her husband. We’d likely be in touch with him at some point, I decided. Just because she stayed out of it all doesn’t mean he did, and there was a man at Abbie’s house. Sharp would question me for believing the word of a child so strongly, but children didn’t have to lie, they said what they saw, and usually, they were right. I made a mental reminder to send a text to Paige and find out if the man Grace saw had dark skin, like Michele’s husband and son. It might not be much, but at least we might be able to cross them off our list.

Twenty-Three

Mills

Thatcher was deep in thought when we left Michele Picard’s house. Aspects of this case weighed on him. Michele’s love for her son, Abbie and Grace, given the time of year, it wasn’t surprising that he would be dwelling on those things. We climbed into the car and sat there for a moment, pouring over everything she had told us. Her alibi wasn’t solid, and out of anyone else we’d met, she had the clearest motive. She’d known Abbie and Sonia, maybe even Toomas, despite what he said. Thatcher didn’t trust the botanist all that much, and if it weren’t for the intruder in his house, nor would I.

“Shall we call Sonia’s parents?” I asked him, turning the radio down. Thatcher jumped slightly, so lost in thought that my voice startled him.

“Sonia’s parents?” He repeated.

“To look for the hard drive that Wasco mentioned. Maybe we can ask them if she ever talked about Jordan as well, whilst we’re there.”

“Right,” Thatcher mumbled, searching through his pockets for his phone. He found it eventually and thumbed his way through his contacts, looking for the number that the Petrilli’s had given us. Holding the phone to his face, he then proceeded to glare out the window until they answered.

“Mrs Petrilli?” He spoke in a much lighter voice. “Inspector Thatcher, here. No, no, I’m afraid not. Sergeant Mills and I were wondering if we could come out to you and have a little look at some of Sonia’s work things?” He was quiet for a pause, listening. “Fantastic. Thank you so much. We’ll see you in a bit.”

“I take it we’re off?” I asked as he put the phone away, already putting the car into first.

“That we are, Mills.” He reached over to put the address into the SatNav, and I peeled away from the kerb, heading out towards the moors.

“I’m so looking forward to bed later,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone, reaching up to push my glasses up my nose. Stupid things. They kept fogging up whenever I drank something hot and sliding down my face. I’d never been much of a morning person, especially when that morning was two am. Poor Susanne, I’d checked in with her earlier, and luckily, she had managed to get