Gardners, Ditchers, and Gravemakers (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 4)

by Oliver Davies

  “Hello,” Grace said as we walked in, Mills shutting the back door.

  “Hello, Grace. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  Paige handed her the smoothie and helped her down from the counter, smiling as Grace skipped away in her stripey tights and fairy wings.

  “Laptop,” she pointed to the table where it now sat, and Mills picked it up, holding it under his arm. “Did you find anything?”

  “We think so. Thank you, Paige. We’ll be in touch.” She smiled and nodded, walking us back to the door. As we got in the car and pulled away, she stayed there, looking at the garden with a sad, longing look on her face.

  Ten

  Thatcher

  Mills and I stopped for lunch before we went back to the station, leaving the car on the road, and we wandered up and down aimlessly for a while as we searched for a decent place to eat. The day was growing warmer, but across the roofs and chimneys of the city, a few clouds were beginning to gather. The city made the most of it, with people eating outdoors in the sunshine, reclining on park benches with their coats thrown off, families having little picnics in the grateful refuge from the rain that had flooded us all spring.

  We eventually settled on a small sandwich shop and decided to join the other happy looking faces in the great outdoors, mindful of the pigeons that followed us as we left the shop and headed to the small green patch outside. Sat on a bench shadowed by some trees, a small breeze pushing my hair back from my face, Mills took a large bite of his sandwich and somehow said through all the bread and cheese,

  “What’s our next move, sir?” He swallowed loudly. “Do you want to head out to the gardens and speak to Sonia?”

  “Not yet,” I answered, making sure to chew my mouthful before speaking. “Let’s take Abbie’s laptop in and see what’s on there. And I want to look into these studies a bit more closely. Maybe we can figure out why Sonia’s not really credited for any of them.”

  “Maybe she just wasn’t as involved in them as she is in the current one,” Mills suggested.

  “She didn’t really give that impression when we spoke,” I reminded him. “She made them sound as if they had been on an equal footing their whole career, made it sound like if anyone was the top dog, it was her, not Abbie.”

  Mills nodded in agreement and turned his attention back to what remained of his sandwich. There was more for us to know about their relationship, or partnership, and I wanted to learn as much about it as I could before we went bolting in anywhere with accusations ready to throw.

  I also wanted to know more about our poison, or drug. Dr Olsen had made it clear that our attacker either got it wrong, and Abbie should be dead, or they got it right, and that’s why she isn’t. It changed the feel of the case, from an attack to attempted murder, and the motives for those varied greatly. Would Sonia put her research partner in a coma to take full credit for a study? Perhaps. Would she kill her for it, turn her into a martyr that the botanical world would likely remember and honour for years to come? Perhaps not.

  Until we had a clearer understanding, though, I wasn’t about to pull away the uniformed officer stationed at the hospital from Abbie’s side. Knowing my luck, the second I did that, we’d have a full-blown homicide case on our hands.

  I crumpled up my empty sandwich wrapper, swigged from the bottle of water I’d also bought and then rose to my feet, my knees creaking slightly, enjoying the brief time in the outdoors. Birds tweeting, a slight wind in my hair, the smell of freshly mown grass threatening to kick off Mills” hay fever. As if on cue, he sneezed behind me and stood up, took the wrapper from my hand and threw them both into the bin. When he turned around, his nose and eyes were slightly pink, and he glared through the wetness in his eyes as well as he was able to.

  “It’s the pollen,” he told me bitterly.

  “I know,” I nodded, clasping an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside, granny.”

  He muttered under his breath, fishing around his pockets for a tissue, but let me steer him back towards the car anyway, with no protest when I held my hand out for the keys. The last thing I needed was him sneezing manically in the middle of a busy roundabout and sending us racketeering into hedges.

  We hopped into the car, and after a few seat adjustments that he really did scowl about, I pulled away from the street and took us back to the station, the hallways relatively quiet as everyone else stepped away for lunch too. Everyone but Sharp, naturally, who sat at her desk picking at a salad with disdain with one hand, the other holding a phone to her face. But for once, she was not sending withering stares to whoever was talking to her. Instead, she was smiling, nodding along and laughing occasionally, but she waved at me through the glass, and I stopped in the doorway. I waved Mills along to our office where his antihistamines were, and he scuttled along happily.

  “Okay, darling,” Sharp was saying. “I’ll see you later then. Yep. Okay. I love you. Bye-bye.” She was still smiling when she put the phone down, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Your son?” I asked, and she nodded, pushing her salad away.

  “What’s that?” She asked, pointing to the laptop under my arm.

  “Abbie Whelan’s laptop,” I answered. “Her sister let us take it to give a quick once over. I think there might be something in her studies that can help us.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sharp agreed, lacing her fingers together. “Have you called her?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Liene. Have you called her?”

  I relaxed, realising that she hadn’t called me in here for a scolding or a lecture about paperwork or protocol.

  “Not recently,” I answered. “She’s been rather busy.” Sharp’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she hummed. “As have I for that matter,” I added, holding the laptop aloft. “Woman in a coma, suspected attempted murder, remember?”

  “I know,” Sharp’s face relaxed, and she waved a hand at me. “I just care about you both, is all.”

  “That’s very much appreciated, Mara.”

  “Go on then,” she nodded her chin to the door, “off you go.” She pulled her salad back towards her with a grimace as I turned away, a grin on my face and made my way back to our office, where Mills was already looking much more comfortable.

  I put Abbie’s laptop down in front of him, and he quickly leant forward to open it and switch it on as I took my jacket off and hung it on the stand, walking over to our board. Mills had connected a few images and sheets of paper with string, linking the Nerium with Sonia and Dr Quaid. But we also know that Grace’s father was a plant man, as Paige put it, so I moved the blank square with a question mark on it over with the others.

  Mills gave a quiet, successful whoop, and as I turned around to join him at the laptop, my phone rang shrilly.

  “DCI Thatcher,” I answered, leaning against my desk.

  “Hello. It’s Susanne.”

  “Susanne?” I frowned, looking over at Mills, whose head shot up like a meerkat. “Did you mean to call Isaac?”

  “No. This isn’t a friendly call.” Business then, that was worrying.

  “Go ahead,” I told her, putting her on speaker as Mills got up from his desk and moved over, folding his arms as her voice came through again.

  “We’ve had some trouble with Grace’s father,” Susanne said.

  “Her father?” I asked.

  “He’s been in touch with us, trying to get access. Apparently, he went to the hospital too, but they wouldn’t let him in to see Abbie. I’ve been on the phone with Paige, and she’s not happy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I muttered. “Where is he now?”

  “I’m not sure. But he’s very determined to see her, talk of fighting for custody.”

  “Fighting for custody with a woman in a coma?” Mills asked incredulously.

  “Paige said the same thing,” she answered, “only with more adjectives. She doesn’t want him pitching up when she’s with Grace.”

&nb
sp; “Tell Paige to come here. We can keep Grace separate from him,” I told her.

  “Got it. I’m on my way in,” she told us. “Fifteen minutes or so.”

  “See you then,” Mills told her in a softer tone of voice before she hung up. I groaned and raked my hands over my face.

  “Typical,” I muttered. “Doesn’t anyone care that the woman’s in a hospital?” I asked, kicking the leg of my desk.

  “He’s got no legal rights,” Mills reminded me gently. “We will make that very clear.”

  I nodded, but in truth, his words went in one ear and out the other as I stormed back over to Sharp’s office, running her through the conversation. Her face grew darker with every word, and by the time I stopped talking, her jaw was set, teeth grit, not unlike the way Paige had looked earlier this morning.

  “They’re on their way in?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Susanne’s told them both to come here to handle things. But Paige doesn’t want him near Grace.”

  “I’ll take Grace,” she answered quickly, firmly. “She can come in here. You take them into your office. Do I need to bring anyone else in?” She asked.

  “We’ll handle it. Susanne knows this stuff inside out, she’ll manage it.”

  “Christ,” Sharp muttered. “It’s never easy when children are involved, is it?”

  “Not really, ma’am.” She turned her tired face to the window and then back to me.

  “You best get situated then; I’ll handle Grace.” I thanked her and joined Mills where he was now brewing tea, hands in fists on the counter.

  “You alright?” I asked him, leaning against the fridge.

  “I feel bad for Paige,” he muttered. “It’s one thing having something so awful happen to your sister, but then this? If someone tried to take my nephews from me, if my brother was hurt, I’d turn absolutely monstrous.”

  I smiled wryly at the image and also knew for a fact that the Paige that was about to come swooping in those doors would be nothing short of monstrous herself.

  “We have to stay calm,” I reminded him. “Impartial. Let Susanne do her job and step in when, if, we’re needed. Us losing our heads won’t help anyone,” I added. “Least of all Grace.”

  Mills nodded, and his shoulders relaxed slightly at the mention of Susanne and then Grace, but he still glared at the kettle as if he were contemplating punching it. I shoved him lightly aside when it finished boiling, not really wanting to see his shaky hands manoeuvre the hot water and filled up the mugs. We’d just carted them into our office when a constable led Susanne and Paige up the stairs, the young woman cradling Grace to her side like she was made of glass. She looked different to this morning, clearly dressed for work in a long black dress and a coat that swept around the ankles of her heeled boots. Grace still wore her fairy wings, striped legs stuffed into wellies. Paige slid her to the ground as we walked over to them, Mills squeezing Susanne’s hand surreptitiously. She looked concerned, a crease between her eyebrows that looked like it had been there for years.

  “Hello again,” I greeted them all. Paige looked furious, but she managed a smile, stroking Grace’s hair back from her face.

  “This must be the bairn,” Sharp called, striding over from her office with a hand that was shaken by Susanne and Paige in turn. “I’m Chief Superintendent Sharp. You can call me Mara,” she added to Paige and Grace. “If it suits you, I can keep an eye on Grace in my office,” she said to Paige, pointing over her shoulder to the office in question. “I’ve got a few toys in there that my son left behind.”

  “You have a son?” Paige asked.

  “A few years older than her now. But if I remember rightly,” Sharp’s voice was light and friendly. “Four years old are big fans of play-doh.”

  Grace’s face brightened instantly, and Paige bent down to her level. “Do you want to go and play with some play-doh with Mara while Aunty Paige has a long boring talk with the nice policemen?” She asked. Grace looked a little unsure but took Mara’s hand and clumped along beside her. Paige straightened up and watched her go.

  “He’s not here yet then?” She asked in a strikingly lower voice than the one she had just spoken to Grace with.

  “Not yet. Step inside,” I showed them to our office, “we’ve got some tea.”

  I’d dragged in a few more chairs, spaced out well, so that everyone could sit down at least during what would surely be a very trying conversation. Susanne and Mills stood by his desk, holding their tea and murmuring in low voices as I joined Paige, offering her a mug. She took it with a grateful, if slightly pained, smile and sat down.

  “I take it,” I said, lowering myself onto the chair beside her. “That you won’t be going to that auction after all.”

  She laughed. “No. Screw “em. I know my priorities. Thank you, for this,” she nodded to the room. “Letting us do this here, I know you’ve got bigger things to do. Like find the mad bastard that hurt my big sister.”

  “We know our priorities too,” I answered. “When there’s a child involved in any case, they come first.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Paige answered. There came a knock at the door, and the constable from the reception desk stuck his head in, meeting my eyes and gave me a grim nod.

  “Luke Campbell is here, sir,” he said, opening the door wide enough for a man to stroll through.

  “Thank you,” I called after him as he slipped away, shutting the door with a firm click. The silence was heinous, the glare that Paige directed at him even more so. I stood up, made simple, quick introductions, and then we were all sat down, holding our mugs awkwardly.

  “Hello Paige,” he said to her. He was tall, his skin tanned, and I recalled what Paige had told us, his research trip to South Africa. His hair, the same red as Grace’s, was bleached by the sun, so that it was hard to see too much resemblance. Grace looked just like her mother, and as Paige looked him over, she seemed glad to think so too.

  “Luke,” she spat back. He looked around the room.

  “Where is she?”

  “You think I’d bring a four-year-old into all of this?” She asked him incredulously. “You’re mad. And selfish.”

  “Selfish?” He asked, looked peeved.

  “My sister was attacked,” she enunciated the words very carefully. “My niece’s mother is in a coma. And now you swarm in from nowhere, wanting to take her away from the only family she knows, from her home, to go with you,” she waved a hand at him. “A complete stranger! Four years olds don’t like strangers, Luke!”

  “She’s my daughter,” he stated automatically.

  Paige scoffed. “Your names not on her birth certificate,” she informed him. “And according to the law, and to Abbie, I am her legal guardian in such events. Plus,” she added with rising passion. “I know her. I know what food she likes, her favourite story, what to do when she gets sad. I’ve cleaned her nappies, her vomit, dealt with tantrums and wet beds, and you—you don’t even know her middle name. You don’t even know what she looks like. And Susanne here,” she pointed to Susanne, who sat rigidly in her chair, the picture of professionalism. “Will not allow a stranger to take a child away from her legal guardian, especially, when said legal guardian is competent and safe.” The words were rehearsed, learnt, and I imagined what sort of conversation the two of them had on their way over here. With a look at Susanne, it wasn’t hard to guess. She wasn’t letting that girl go anywhere.

  “Competent?” He asked with a chuckle. “You? The girl who used to show up at her sisters” door every weekend in the middle of night drunk as all hell and throwing up?”

  “I’ve changed,” Paige told him in a cold voice. “I have a niece now. And you can’t take her.”

  “I can fight for custody.”

  “With whom? A woman in a coma?” Paige practically yelled, and she looked ready to lob her tea at his head.

  “Think about what you’re suggesting,” I said soothingly, looking at Luke. “Her mother is in hospital; she doesn’t kno
w why. Life is strange enough for her living with her aunt, coming here,” I waved an arm around the station. “Without a strange man coming in and taking her away from that. You do have a right to fight for custody,” I spoke quickly as Paige riled up for another bout of attack. “But perhaps not when the mother of your child is the hospitalized victim of a current police investigation.”

  Perhaps he didn’t care, I realised. Perhaps he was counting on her not being here to fight.

  He sighed and gave a defeated nod. “But once this is over,”

  Paige interrupted him with another scoff. “Like Abbie will want you anywhere near her. Can I take her home now?” She asked me. I looked to Susanne, who nodded and nodded myself. Paige stood up, and Susanne left with her, dropping her information card with Luke as they made their way over to Sharp.

  “Since you’re here, Mr Campbell,” I called his attention. “Might we ask you a few questions about Abbie Whelan?”

  Eleven

  Mills

  “Questions about Abbie?” The tall, tanned botanist that sat across from us looked confused. He’d relented, at long last, the business with Grace. Apparently, being in a police station with both Paige and Susanne and her barrel of legal papers that she had with her was enough to dissuade him for now.

  “That’s right,” Thatcher said. “We have a few questions for you, if you’re willing to assist us with our investigation?”

  Luke Campbell shifted in his seat and, by all accounts, looked ready to bolt. But then he glanced to the door where, from a text I had just received from Susanne, Paige and Grace had already walked from. He nodded, and I doubted it was less from concern for Abbie so much as it was gaining favour for the inevitable custody case he’d land at their feet. Thatcher stood up and opened the door,

  “This way then, please, Mr Campbell.”

  We led him down the hall to the interview room, taking a seat around the metal table, and Thatcher switched the recording device on, making the introductions, and then settled back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Something was annoying him, I could tell. I wasn’t sure if it was the man sitting across from us trying to claim the daughter he’d never paid any interest to, or whatever it was that turned him quiet this morning, staring at the photograph on his mother on his desk. Either way, I kept an eye on him, especially when he met the stare of Mr Campbell, his grey eyes closed off.