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

days had passed without much distinction, and I couldn’t often tell one day out in the gardens from another. It had been a grisly affair, that much I’d never forgotten. Nor would I forget Kask himself. The way he loomed over Abbie in her hospital bed, needle raised like a knife, or the way he’d looked in court. Prickly and cruel, something twisted in his face that I was so annoyed I hadn’t seen before. Mills had thought so too, glaring at the man from where we stood with Sharp. It seemed so strange, that it all came from the three of them, bonding over plants and trying to make them useful. I remembered what Mills had said that day in the garden, when we’d been too late and found Sonia’s body. The little quip from Hamlet about gardeners and ditchers seemed fitting, that a man so passionate about the lives of his plants would also have that same passion for death. Fitting and horrifying, and I was surely glad that it was all over now. The summer washed away by the rainy autumn that followed.

I opened my eyes, looking up at the beams above my head, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the bright, orange light of the pub. I had my fingers crossed for Liene. She deserved this grant. As far as I was concerned, she worked harder than anyone else at that museum. She’d stay there for hours, working well into the dead of night and early morning unless someone dragged her away. Recently, that someone had been me, and I was rather enjoying my new role.

I was also aware that I appeared to have a type when it came to girlfriends, as Liene wasn’t the only one I’d had to pull away from work before. I hadn’t thought about Jeannie in a while, didn’t need to, in fact, but after Liene had mentioned her, I thought back to the summer, to the lilies that Jeannie had sent. I’d been surprised she’d remember the time of year, surprised even more so that she’d remember my mother’s favourite flowers and, on top of it all, had bothered to send them. It wasn’t like her. She once gave me a Christmas present in February.

But as I had assured Liene, it had been silent ever since. I wasn’t sure if she was even working at the Post anymore. I hadn’t seen her looking for a story or the bright flash of red hair at a press conference. She was gone, I had grown accustomed to that fact, and it was a good thing too, I thought to myself as the pub door opened again. I twisted around, watching as Liene walked back over to me, wringing her phone in her hands. Her head was bowed slightly, her hair hiding her face, and I panicked for her, quickly standing up from my chair. As she got nearer, she lifted her face, and beamed at me.

“I got the grant,” she said.

I laughed and stepped closer, sweeping her small body against mine in a tight hug. Her arms looped around me, and I could feel her laughing against me, feel her breath on my neck. I pulled away, took her face in my hands and kissed her.

“Well done,” I praised her, kissing her again. “I knew you’d get it.”

Liene laughed and lifted her hands to mine.

“We should celebrate,” I decided. “We could order champagne.”

“No,” Liene stopped me before I could peel off back to the bar. “Let’s go somewhere to celebrate.”

“Somewhere else?”

She nodded and walked over to her chair, picking her coat up and pulling it on.

“Where?” I asked. “Do you want to get dinner somewhere fancier?”

“No dinner,” she replied, smiling at me mischievously. Understanding dawned on me a little slowly, and I smiled back, grabbing my coat and yanking it on, offering her my hand.

“Where to then, Dr Dorland?” I asked, leading her away from the warm fire and outside, into the cold, blustery evening.

“I don’t know, Inspector,” she replied, looping her arm through mine and pressing against my side. “My house is closer, though.”

“Your house, it is.”

Her laughter echoed down the street, and I joined in, happy for her, happy that things were going well and hopeful, beyond all else, that it would last.

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