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

by Oliver Davies

  “Call it in,” I ordered Mills, shaking my injured knuckles. “We’ll need Lena.”

  He nodded, stepping away from me and pulling his phone from his bag. I turned my back on Sonia and stormed from the greenhouse, up through the gardens and the growing rain, straight into the building and towards Dr Quaid’s office. He jumped in his seat when I shouldered the door open.

  “Inspector Thatcher.”

  “I need all of your employees to stay exactly where they are,” I ordered him, “and the names of anyone else who has been in or seen today.”

  “Why?” he scrambled up from his seat. “What? Is something wrong?”

  “Sonia Petrilli is dead,” I told him shortly.

  He blinked like an owl, sinking into his chair, clutching his heart. “Sonia? Surely not. I just saw her, only a couple of hours ago, before lunch!”

  “Where?”

  “The kitchen,” he pointed to the door. “She was getting herself some tea, said it was getting nippy out there.”

  “Please stay here, Dr Quaid, and please instruct everyone else to do the same. We have a team coming in, and we’ll need statements from all of you.” He nodded hastily, his eyes already beginning to well with tears. I nodded and walked away, opening the front door and propping it there with a chair from the entryway before striding back outside.

  Mills was outside the greenhouse, pulling a pair of gloves onto my hands and offering me another pair.

  “They’re on their way,” he told me. “The staff?”

  “I’ve told Quaid that they need to stay put. We’ll need statements from them all.”

  “Christ,” Mills muttered. “We probably only missed him by an hour or so.”

  Or so. He didn’t say what we were both thinking that we’d missed them by a hair, that they’d slipped from us like a fish. Or, I thought grimly, staring up at the house, growing foreboding in the clouds and rain. They were still here somewhere.

  “Such a dismal thing to happen in a place like this,” I muttered. “You would think this sort of thing happens around gardeners.”

  “There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession,” Mills muttered. I looked at him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Hamlet,” he answered, turning around to look at the greenhouse. “My dad’s favourite.”

  We didn’t have to wait long, stewing as we were in the rain. Before long Crowe emerged, followed like a queen bee by her team down to where we stood. She had her suit on to the waist, and she hauled it up over her shoulders as she reached us, a sad, sorry look on her kind face.

  “Always nice to see you boys,” she said, “whatever the circumstance.” She gave Mills a pat on the shoulder before stepping into the greenhouse. Mills and I left her to it, heading up the house where some uniformed constables, and Smith, had arrived and had rounded up the employees, researchers and students in their lab coats and spectacles and safety goggles, already working their way through the statements. We joined them, taking some statements from the older researchers who all had the same things to say.

  “I saw her last at lunchtime, in the staff room. She seemed fine, a bit busy.”

  “I’ve been upstairs all day, Inspector. Last I saw her was getting a coffee this morning.”

  “I gave her a wave as she walked to the greenhouse, but I haven’t spoken to her.”

  “I was in the greenhouse down by the perennials. I haven’t seen her all afternoon.”

  They spoke to us in various levels of shock, grief, surprise. Some crying, others struck numb by the news. There was more emotion amongst them than there had been with Abbie. Perhaps because they were all right here when it happened, they had seen her only earlier, had waved at her, smiled at her, maybe one or two even flirted with her before she retreated outside. Someone knew she was out there. Something got out and then away without being seen. I spotted Smith across the way, in a very deep conversation with Dr Quaid, and was grateful that she was shouldering that particular burden.

  “Thatcher,” someone called. I turned around to find Crowe hovering in the doorway. She nodded to me and leaving Mills with the small group of people he was talking to; I followed her outside to where Sonia had been covered and lifted onto a stretcher. We stood outside on the paving stones; the rain kept off our heads by the overhanging roof.

  “What are we looking at?” I asked her.

  “At first glance, a very similar situation. She’s got a puncture mark on her neck, here,” she poked my neck in the corresponding place.

  I inhaled deeply through my nose and pinched my eyes shut for a moment. “You think our killer perfected their recipe?”

  “It’s likely. I’ll talk to Dr Olsen, get her opinion whilst I complete the autopsy.”

  “Thanks, Lena. Time of death?”

  “Nothing exact,” she told me, “but she’s been there a while, a few hours or so.” She rested a hand on my arm. “You wouldn’t have gotten in here in time, Maxie. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “We thought she was a suspect,” I told her, staring out at the rain.

  “She could have been. At least now, however horrible it is,” she added in a hesitant voice, “you’ve got a homicide on your hands.”

  That was true. It opened some doors, meant we could question people properly, meant that we didn’t have to tiptoe around them without a solid reason to.

  “SOCO?” I asked.

  “Still down there. Doesn’t look like they’ve got much to work with, though, Thatcher. Oh, I got a call from the lab about your blood samples.” I turned to her hopefully. “Most of them are a match for Abbie Whelan,” she told me, and my stomach dropped, “but they did find another person. No match, but we might your killer’s DNA to work with.”

  I let out a breath and a slow nod. That was something, a small little blessing that meant we could at least nail the bugger down when we found them.

  “Look at us,” I mumbled. “Looking for a silver lining in the murder of a woman. What does that make us?”

  “Professional,” Crowe answered succinctly. “Seasoned. Maybe in need of therapy.” I chuckled softly.

  “Maybe just a little.” I looked down at Lena to find her smiling up at me with sad eyes, and I wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get back to the station. You’ve got work to do,” I told her. She swatted my hand.

  “As do you, you toe rag. Here,” she nudged me with her elbow as we stepped back inside. “How are you doing?”

  “With this?”

  “It’s nearly August,” she said softly. “How are you doing?”

  “Too busy,” I told her after sucking in a long breath. “Suppose it’s good not to dwell though.”

  “Therapy,” she patted me on the chest before ducking away and re-joining her team. “Consider it.”

  I nodded as Mills stood beside me, his face fatigued.

  “What now?”

  Thirteen

  Thatcher

  I stood in the open doorway of the old house, watching as Dr Crowe and SOCO made their way back to the station. To the benefit of the researchers in the gardens, all the tight security measures meant that they were all accounted for. Card swipes from the readers upstairs, glimpses of faces on the security feeds. No sign of Sonia in any of them, save for one blurred image of her passing through the orangery. In the several hour window that Dr Crowe would place the time of Sonia’s murder, all of her colleagues were present and accounted for. Our killer had slipped in and vanished, just like they had with Abbie Whelan. Dr Quaid had got a hold of the security footage from Tuesday, and it was much the same. Abbie had gone in, then come out. Time trickled by, and then Dr Quaid went outside and came charging in a few moments later, the phone pressed to his ear until we arrived. Mills and I looked the footage over on his ancient computer as Smith and the other uniformed officers finished taking statements and securing alibis.

  Mills joined me at the door now, where the rain fell in slan
ting sheets, bouncing off the car roofs with metallic pings.

  “Dr Quaid gave me this,” he said, holding up a piece of folded paper. “Sonia’s details. Her address, her parent’s phone number.”

  “They’re only down the road,” I remembered rightly. “We should go in person. No use in calling them out to the station.” I kept my eyes on the sky as I spoke, kicking myself internally. We should have come up sooner.

  “We wouldn’t have made it in time,” Mills murmured. “Lena said as much.”

  “We should have come earlier,” I muttered darkly.

  “Paige and Grace needed us,” he reminded me sternly. “Children are the first priority, and we had no reason to believe Sonia was in any danger. We’re good, but we’re not miracle workers.”

  I nodded, knowing full well that he was right, and also knowing full well that he was likely kicking himself for it all the same.

  “Let’s clear everyone out and make sure the scene is closed off,” my voice lifted and got clearer as I gave out the familiar order. Mills nodded, a half-smile on his face and walked off to where the constables had gathered, effectively kicking them all back to the station. Smith gave me a pained smile as she passed with the rest of them, and most of the researchers followed suit, having stood around now with their coats slung over their arms, dangling car keys from their fingers. I watched them all peel off to their cars, grim-faced and stumped.

  “Inspector,” Dr Quaid appeared by my side, a large wax coat smothering his huddled figure, a set of keys in his hands. “We’ll be closed for a little while. I’ll pay them all for time off. Feel free to come and go. I have a spare key.” He unhooked one from the chain and handed it over. “We are at your disposal, Inspector.”

  I took the key and then his hand, squeezing it before letting go. “Thank you, Dr Quaid. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I wish I could do more,” he said with a sigh. “Any sign of Abbie pulling through?”

  “We haven’t heard anything yet, but they’ve figured out what was used to drug her.”

  Dr Quaid nodded, looking thoughtful. “Is it likely that they’ve used the same thing on Sonia?”

  “It’s a possibility. We’ll update you when we know more,” I assured him. “We should be getting on.” I said as Mills joined me again, still holding the piece of paper with Sonia’s details on. Dr Quaid looked at it and then nodded hurriedly, his face pale.

  “Of course, yes.” He stood aside, letting Mills join me on the step, and I gave the doctor one last wave before we strode over to the car, sealing ourselves in from the rain and feeling of death that had washed over the place.

  “You drive,” I told him, opening the sheet of paper and finding the address to check on the maps. “I’ll talk.”

  Mills nodded appreciatively. It was times like these where I thought he really looked his age. Times when a horrible conversation loomed, and there was little comfort we could offer but our assistance and support. His blue eyes were wider, his clean-shaven face stricken, and he looked every bit of the young man he still was. He pulled away from the gardens, turning up the road to head deeper into the hills, the rain making the slick country lanes difficult to navigate. Luckily, Sonia really didn’t live far away at all.

  We ended up pulling into the driveway of an old stone house surrounded by gardens. It was slightly wild-looking, with tufty heads, crawling holly and wildflowers poking out from every available space. The front door was painted red, the paint starting to peel and flake away, a jutting porch overhanging it with lights wrapped around the supports. The house had big bay windows and two huge chimneys on either end, the sandstone bricks turned grey in the rain, and the roof looked ready for some new tiles. A low, moss-covered brick wall surrounded it, with a rusty iron gate through to the back. We climbed from the car, holding our coats over our heads as we walked to the small porch where some wellies had been left kicked to one side, and I pulled on the long chain doorbell that echoed through the house. From where we stood, I could hear the sound of chickens from over the wall, clucking and squawking, and something else, a sheep or a goat bleating in the rain.

  The door opened with a sound not unlike a sigh, and a man looked out at us. He wore an apron over his smart shirt and trousers, a pair of over mitts in his hands and his grey hair curled outwards from his head. He smiled at us with eyes just like Sonia’s.

  “Hello. How can I help? If you’re looking for Rosebud House, it’s the next left, past the oak tree.”

  “We’re not. Are you Mr Petrilli?” I asked.

  “I am,” he confirmed happily enough. I pulled my warrant card from my pocket and held it out to him as I spoke.

  “My name is Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. This is Detective Sergeant Mills. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  Mr Petrilli’s face fell instantly, and he looked around, searching for something before stepping into the house.

  “You’d better come in then. Just through here,” he shut the door and led us through the kitchen to a small room beside it, warmed by large windows where a table sat covered in magazines. “Darling!” He shouted back into the house. “Can I get you anything?” He asked us. I quickly shook my head.

  “No, thank you.”

  Mr Petrilli nodded, and he fumbled with his apron strings, shouting out through the door again. “Darling! Esme!”

  “Alright!” A voice called back. “Give me a minute, darling. I’m not the Flash!”

  A woman appeared in the doorway and stopped.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Hello.”

  Her long white hair fell in a plait to her hips, her baggy dress spattered with paint and clay, and she looked to her husband.

  “Darling, these are policemen,” he told her, still struggling with his apron. She reached out and untied the knots as he spoke. “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant, Mills, was it?”

  Mills nodded.

  “I see,” Esme said in a concerned voice. Her husband finally broke free from his apron, and she indicated the seats. “Shall we sit?” We obliged her, and they sat across from us, looking worried.

  “I am very sorry to have to tell you this,” I began, meeting their eyes as I spoke. “But your daughter, Sonia, was found dead a few hours ago in her place of work.”

  “Dead?” Mr Petrilli repeated. I nodded grimly.

  “No,” Esme said, her face still bright. “No, not my Sonia.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I managed to grit out.

  Her face fell, and a heart-breaking sob wrenched itself from her, her shaky hands fluttering up to her face. Mr Petrilli tucked her into his side, his face buried in her hair. Mills and I sat back, and turned our attention to the view outside, to a small pond where some ducks happily waded. We’d give them as long as they needed, but the borderline screams coming from Esme Petrilli made me want to get up, run away and never come back.

  We sat there for some time, and then Mr Petrilli cleared his throat, and we looked back at him. He was sitting upright, his wife still cradled against him. His face was red, eyes swollen, but he met my gaze and gave me a small, determined nod.

  “Was it an accident?” He asked in a croaking voice.

  “It doesn’t appear that way, I’m afraid. We are investigating it as a homicide, in connection to another attack on her research partner, Abbie Whelan.”

  “Abbie,” Mr Petrilli nodded. “Yes, Sonia said she was in the hospital. You think it was the same person?”

  “We believe so, but we can’t know for sure yet.”

  “Where is she?” Esme Petrilli asked, pushing herself up from her husband’s arm. “Where’s my Sonia?”

  “She’s been taken back to the station with our pathologist, Dr Lena Crowe. She’ll establish exactly what happened to your daughter, and then you will be free to make whatever arrangements necessary.”

  “Well, it was probably her, wasn’t it?” Esme said, wiping at her face.

  “Who, Mrs Petr
illi?” I asked.

  “The girl. The partner, the one who always took the credit. Abbie.”

  “Abbie Whelan has been in a coma in hospital since Tuesday,” I assured her patiently.

  “Her family then,” she cried. “They must have done it!”

  “Esme, come now,” Mr Petrilli took his wife’s hands in one of his and smoothed her hair down. “Why would they do that?”

  “Maybe they suspected Sonia of hurting Abbie,” she pointed out, looking at me. “Was she a suspect?”

  “She was a person of interest, purely due to her proximity to Abbie,” I told them, not wanting to lie.

  “See?!” Esme cried, fresh tears rolling down her face, and she looked at her husband. “Her family must have done it.”

  “Will you investigate such a lead?” he asked me.

  “At the time of death for Sonia, Abbie’s only relatives were with us,” I answered.

  “With you?” He asked. “Why?”

  “Abbie has a daughter, a four-year-old. There’s been some trouble from her father trying to take her from her aunt and file for custody.”

  “He’s trying to take custody from a woman in a coma?” he repeated, the shock of such a notion stemming his grief.

  I nodded. “We were asked to help quell the situation. He has no legal rights, so our presence was a help.”

  Esme listened to all of this, breathing in jilted, gulping breaths, the anger on her face subsiding as Abbie’s side of things became clear. Mills dug out a clean tissue from the packet in his pocket and held it out. She took it, looking somewhat surprised at the gesture, and dabbed at her face.

  “Can you think of anyone, anyone else,” I amended, “who might have wanted to hurt your daughter?”