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

book from his pocket and settled down with his face towards me, seemingly quite content to while away a few hours there. Good for him. I had more pressing matters to attend to.

The research was nearly complete, the success of it already filling me up with excitement. It worked, very beautifully, the second time round anyway. Measurements weren’t always easy, and there was always some learning curve to this. At least now I had perfected it, made something that the two of them never could. I wondered if it would impress her. Maybe she’d be awake when I got back to her. Maybe we could have a nice chat about her mistakes and my brilliance, let her see just how ignorant she was about it all before I finished what she had never even dreamed of starting.

I settled myself down at my workstation, pulling up the documents and getting them all into shape. Dotting all the I’s and crossing all the T’s. I double-checked some formulas, made sure all of my equations and measurements were correct, and after a few hours, my tea long gone, I sat back with a triumphant smile. Success. Now all that was left was getting it to the right person. There was an old boy down at Royal Kew who knew a thing or two about this sort of work. I wasn’t sure if he’d know my name, but I’d enjoy finding out what he made of it. I tracked down his email, still amongst the long list of contacts I had gathered in throughout my career, and fired it over, sitting back and spinning my chair in slow, idle circles.

Things were working out very well, indeed. Only one last thing to do, and then I would have clear seas ahead for the rest of my, soon to be illustrious, career.

I stood up from the desk, cracking my knuckles, and headed over to the back of the greenhouse, pushing back the lid to the array of equipment I’d kept where Lurch wouldn’t get a peek of it. The plant was surviving well enough, though as much as it pained me to admit, I’d never been able to keep them thriving as well as Whelan could. It was a thorn in my side that she was better than me, but it wouldn’t be there much longer.

My little concoction was effective, but it didn’t keep very well and the fresher it was, the better. And for Miss Abigail Whelan, only the best would do. I’d made that mistake the first time around but would not be doing so again. Before I got to work, I looked over my shoulder to Lurch, who was still sitting on the bench, basking in the fresh air, looking completely none the wiser.

Perfect.

I got to work, grinding, measuring, stirring. The smell of the plants and the chemicals filled the greenhouse, and I cracked open a window at the back to let some of it out. As with all good, brilliant things, it took time. It was a process, a hard-won endeavour that not just any old hack could stumble across. After another hour or so, I left it stewing on the Bunsen burner and stepped out through the backdoor for some fresh air. Lurch’s voice mumbled across the garden quietly, and I crept around towards the front to listen. He was on the phone and had stood up, practically standing to attention in fact, not that whoever he was on the phone with would know that. He was at the tail end of the conversation, and I crept along through the ivy at the back of the greenhouse, trying to make out what he was saying.

“Is there trouble, sir?” he asked in his gruff voice.

Sir? Must be DCI Thatcher. Trouble with what, though? Did they think I was in danger, or that I was the danger? I wasn’t particularly keen on finding out. PC Dunnes lowered the phone from his face, looking down at it with a slight frown. Then he lifted his gaze over the greenhouse and cleared his throat, tugging at his collar, and I watched as he straightened himself up and watched where I was working with far more attention than he had before. His hand hovered by his belt, where a set of handcuffs were clipped, and I didn’t like the sight of that. Nor of his intense stare and the way he squared his shoulders back, for all intents and purposes looking ready for a fight. I sighed quietly; I’d never really been much of one for a fight.

I made my way back into the greenhouse, where my genius was ready. I carefully loaded my needle up and stuck it in its case, which I then dropped into my coat pocket that was still slung over the back of my chair. I couldn’t take Lurch with me, and from the way he was watching the greenhouse, I couldn’t very well slip past him either. I reached into one of my cupboards, fiddling through the various tins and bottles until I found the small blue one that I was looking for. I fished through a drawer for a spare bit of cloth and, holding it away from my face, doused the cloth and put the bottle back. I then “fell” back against a desk and let out a yelp that brought the thundering footsteps of Lurch to the greenhouse.

“Alright in there, Kask?” He called from the doorway, not looking all that keen to walk in.

“I’m hurt!” I called back in the same scared little voice I’d given them at the station. “My ankle.”

He wandered over, hesitantly looking down at me, a funny look on his face like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“I think I might have dislocated it,” I panted, holding a trembling hand up towards him. Dunnes sighed and walked closer, bending down to grab my hand in his. I gripped his sleeve tightly, ignoring the look of surprise on his face as I yanked him