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

by Oliver Davies

  She turned the radio on, listening to Grace half-singing along with some of the songs, the smile on her face growing. They reached the school where the art club had been opened in the reception classroom, and Abbie helped Grace from the car, walking into the school and leaving her with the kind art teacher who had paint down her dungarees and flowers on her shoes.

  “Good morning, Miss Whelan. Hello, Grace!” the chirpy teacher greeted them as they walked in. “Love the boots, Grace!” They were cool, Abbie had to admit. If you could get wellies for grown-ups that had yellow polka dots on them, she’d have a pair of them herself.

  “Hi, Miss Brown. Good to see you,” Abbie told her, bending down to pull Grace’s coat off and hang it on her peg. Grace skipped away to a table, picking up a crayon, and Abbie smiled.

  “Wellies again?” Miss Brown asked humouredly.

  “Can’t get her out of them,” Abbie laughed, “but I suppose it’s better than a bumblebee costume. At least they’re practical.”

  “That’s true. My sister’s boy wore a Spiderman outfit once for almost two months straight.”

  Abbie whistled. “I’ll take wellies and stripey tights over that any day. Holly is picking her up today, by the way,” she added, and the teacher’s face became serious.

  “No problem. I remember her. Working this morning?”

  “Annoyingly. Something to finish up before I’m off for a few weeks with that little monster,” she said with a smile in Grace’s direction.

  “At least once it’s done, it’s done,” Miss Brown offered.

  “Very true. Bye, Grace!” Abbie called.

  Grace turned around and ran back over, almost tripping over her feet but made to Abbie and wrapped her arms around her waist. Abbie pressed a kiss to her head and sent her back inside.

  “See you at lunchtime!” she called into the room. “Thanks, Miss Brown. I’ll see you in September.”

  “Take care, Miss Whelan.”

  Abbie looked back at Grace once more, making sure she had everything she needed in her bag, and left the school, waving to a few familiar parents before jogging to the car. She wouldn’t be late, and Sean wasn’t expecting her to be there at any given time anyway, but the sooner she was done, the sooner she and Grace could go home.

  Driving away from the city, Abbie sang along to the radio, looking out at the clear, bright morning with a smile. She’d thought about moving out here from time to time, in a nice house surrounded by the hills and fields, where Grace could run around happily. Maybe somewhere with a tree for a swing and a sweet local village. Maybe Paige could even come with them for a while. Abbie had looked at some houses on a few real estate websites, but they were all rather large, too big for just the two of them, and far from her budget. Plus, as Paige liked to remind her, the city was more convent. Though convenient for what, since Abbie worked out here, she wasn’t sure about. Convenient for a slightly tipsy twenty-five-year-old to pitch up at her big sister’s house after a long night in the pub and sleep there for a few days with a four-year-old brushing her hair and playing dolls.

  With a sigh, Abbie couldn’t put too much hope in it. But as she drove away from the busy streets, out into the wild, rocky hills, she couldn’t help but feel lighter. One day, perhaps, if they got better funding after this research project was done. Sean reckoned they’d be set up for good if this went well.

  When she reached the gardens, parking on the muddy slope, there was only one other car here, the rear peppered with stickers for garden charities and the RSPCA. Sean, Abbie smiled and swung her keys around her hand as she headed to the lovely old house. The wisteria needed sorting, she noted, pushing the front door open and walking inside. Sean was huddled in the office in one of his large green fleeces, a mug of tea by his elbow as he glared at the computer screen, the loud humming of the machine grating Abbie’s ears.

  “Morning,” Abbie greeted him as she walked in, carefully unloading her things onto the other desk.

  “Morning, Abbie.”

  “How’re things?” she asked, taking in his scowl. “I’m telling you to get a new computer, Sean.” She peeled off her coat and hung it on her hook, taking the lab coat down and pulling that one over her dress.

  “It’s not that.” He shook his head, still not looking up at her.

  “What is it then?” she asked, concerned.

  Sean wasn’t one to worry, not really. If something was wrong, then it never sat well with Abbie either. He looked up, at last, his friendly, tired face drawn with tiredness, but he gave her a bright smile.

  “Nothing for you to worry about. No Grace?” he asked, looking around hopefully.

  Abbie grinned, buttoning up her coat. Sean was not one for a family himself but watching him with Grace always warmed her heart. He was a good uncle of sorts, and she was glad for Grace to have a male figure in her life even if he did smell of Olbas oil and had a better fitting pair of glasses.

  “Art club. Holly will drop her off in a few hours. I should be done then,” she said, making sure she had all of her equipment.

  “No bother if not,” Sean assured her. “I can always go worm hunting with her if need be.”

  Abbie grinned. “Good to know. I appreciate it, Sean. Right, I’m off.”

  “Get yourself a brew before you go out there,” Sean told her. “It’s cold down there still. Sun hasn’t come up enough.”

  The one downside to the hills and valleys they worked in.

  “Ta, Sean. See you later,” Abbie said with a light wave. She fetched herself a tea, anyway. The one she had this morning was lukewarm by the time she actually got to drink it, thanks to Grace managing to spill orange juice all down herself and needing a change of clothes.

  Mug in hand and her worn leather bag over one shoulder, Abbie stuffed her feet in her heavy shoes and strode out into the gardens.

  She loved being out there at this time of day, with the low sunlight just breaking through the trees, drops of dew still clinging to the plants and the air. Her feet crunched over the gravel as she made her way through the sprawling beds, breathing in the sweet, bitter and earthy smells around her as she went. It was always nice having Grace here, picking up worms and beetles, rubbing herbs between her little hands and breathing in the smell. But Abbie was planting or weeding today. The new research had taken a turn, and if she didn’t make sure it was okay today, there was no telling what might happen to it in her absence. Plus, the last thing she needed was making sure Grace didn’t eat anything that would kill her while Abbie was trying to work.

  Her greenhouse was near the back of the garden, a large wide room, warm and humid, lined with benches that were long since grooved by tools and littered with plant tags, soil and leaves. Abbie pulled the key from her pocket and unlocked the greenhouse, stepping into the muggy air. She dropped her bag on her desk and walked around for a bit, sipping her tea and checking on the plants. Most of them were imported, and if they died, it would be a pain in the neck getting new ones, as well as expensive. She watered some, pulled out a few weeds and repositioned one or two as the light finally began to stream in. Happy with the state of everything, she walked to the back of the greenhouse where the research was unfolding, and bent down to examine the plants closely, using gloves to check their leaves. They looked happy enough, and she took a sample of the soil over to her microscope. They were useful plants that could be very valuable in the drug industry if the research went well.

  Abbie turned on the little radio on one of the benches, the hazy, unfocused sound quickly filling the room as she worked.

  She had been there for some time, bent over the bench with the heat bearing down on her neck when a shadow flicked across the glass window. She looked up, expecting to see Sean with an offer of another tea or one of her co-workers moving amongst the beds. Abbie blinked, rubbing her eyes and saw no one. A bird, she imagined, there were plenty of them, picking off all the annoying caterpillars and slugs that kept crawling in time and time again. She turned back to her work
, carefully grinding down some dried leaves in a mortar and pestle, and the shadow moved again.

  Abbie stood up this time, determined to see what bird or badger, or whatever the hell it was, kept distracting her. There was nothing out there on the paths, no particularly large black bird picking around anywhere. Abbie frowned, an uncertain feeling building up in her chest. She shook her head, feeling ridiculous. It was all the caffeine, most likely and not enough food. One Weetabix really didn’t cut it. She needed to go food shopping. At least Grace enjoyed that. They could go on the way home.

  Abbie carried on working, carefully weighing out the crushed leaves and turned to the locked cupboard of chemicals above the bench. As she unlocked it, pulling out a clear liquid with a striking number of warning symbols on the label, the shadow moved again, and this time, she heard it, feet crunching on the gravel. She put the bottle down and turned around, spinning as she looked out of all the glass walls. Nothing. She swallowed and picked up the trowel closest to her, inching towards the door. If this was Sean, or one of those young volunteers, she was going to give them a right good scolding. As she reached for the door, someone stepped into view and opened it for her, and she was surprised, briefly, then pressed her hand to her chest with relief.

  “God, you gave me a scare,” she laughed, putting her trowel down. “Fancy seeing you here this morning.” She walked towards them with her arms outstretched. They hugged her, their hood soft against her head, and before Abbie could pull away, something struck her in the neck. Something sharp.

  “Ow!” Abbie pulled away, lifting her hand to her neck as they lowered their hand, slipping a syringe into their pocket.

  Abbie blinked at them, her world blurring and spotting, and when she opened her mouth, she couldn’t get a sound out. She took a stumbling step, legs and feet like rock, and she fell, clattering into the bench and knocking everything down to the floor with her. Something hit her head, and she felt it, but it didn’t hurt. She managed to get to her knees, crawling towards the door, and a pair of hands grabbed her neck, squeezing. Abbie choked, black spots dancing in her vision, and she tried to flail a heavy arm up, hitting one of the hands with a shard of glass she had fallen on. There was a yelp, and the hands were gone.

  Abbie sluggishly used another bench to haul herself to her feet, panic running through her. She was slow. Why was she slow? Using the walls, Abbie stumbled along to the door and into the garden, turning into the beds, hitting her shins on the raised beds and knocking into everything she passed. Footsteps were behind her, and her vision was blurry, her skin sweaty, stomach rolling like she was about to be sick. She was cold and burning, and as she heaved her leaden feet along, she noticed the footsteps stop. Abbie came to a wobbling halt, swaying on her feet as she looked around. Gone. No one there. Abbie frowned, or at least tried to, her mouth dry, blackness rolling in.

  Somewhere behind her, a voice called, “Abbie?” But she had fallen, and her legs wouldn’t move anymore, her arms wouldn’t move anymore, and the world slipped away.

  Two

  Thatcher

  I sat in my chair in the office, spinning in slow, easy circles, and Mills finished reading aloud the article in the paper from our last case. It was always interesting, hearing what the general public made of everything, and despite how complicated the case had turned out to be, people seemed to be in our favour for once.

  “Detective Inspector Max Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Isaac Mills of the North Yorkshire Police,” Mills was reading, “were the lead investigating officers on the case. They have not given any statements themselves, but Chief Superintendent, at a press conference earlier in March, expressed her pride in her team and gratitude towards the public for their assistance and patience.” He folded the paper down, looking at me from over the top. “What sort of statement would they have wanted us to give?”

  I shrugged. “God knows. Any pictures?”

  “Not of us.”

  “Shame that. Right.” I launched myself upright, leaning on my desk. “Back to it, I suppose.”

  “Back to what?” Mills asked, folding the paper up and slapping it down on his desk.

  “You know.” I waved my hands around the office. “General police business. We should probably sort out those files for Sharp,” I muttered, glaring at the filing cabinet with boredom already setting in. Mills followed my eye line and scowled.

  “Sounds dreadful,” he muttered.

  “I know. A necessary evil,” I announced as I stood up from my chair. “As my own grandad would have put it once.”

  I walked over to the filing cabinet, yanking the first drawer open, and gazed sorrowfully down into the tangled mess of papers and folders. I heard Mills sigh from his desk, and then his feet padded over to me, and he stood at my side, looking down into the drawer. His black hair had grown, the curls falling down around his temples, and the early stages of a beard were beginning to grow along his jaw. He looked older than he had when he first joined us. His blue eyes darkened, his face more drawn. I wondered if that was my fault but shrugged it off. He’s the one who joined the force.

  “Any word from Liene?” he asked, pulling out a handful of sheets which he started to separate into piles.

  “Safe and sound in France,” I answered. “Apparently, the hotel’s nice. Got a pool and everything.”

  “Some people have such fun jobs,” he muttered as we got stuck in.

  “Our job is fun. Remember last week when that duck managed to get inside the station? That was good.”

  Mills was staring at me from the corner of his eye, looking perturbed. “I’m not used to this,” he remarked. “You in such good spirits. It’s weird. I want gloomy Thatcher back.”

  I clapped an arm around his shoulders. “Gloomy Thatcher’s never far,” I told him in fake earnest, tapping my chest. “He’s in here.”

  “Christ,” Mills chuckled, shrugging me off. “If I’d known getting a girlfriend would make you so much nicer, I’d have helped Sharp ages ago.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I added morosely. “We’ve been on two dates.”

  “Mmhm,” Mills hummed. I rolled my eyes and scowled at him, and he grinned. “There he is! Gloomy Thatcher. Start complaining about your knees next. You haven’t done that for almost a week.”

  I swatted him over the head with the folder in my hand, and the office door opened, Smith standing in the doorway, looking at us with amusement and the slightest bit of concern.

  “Sharp wants you,” she told us.

  “Oh, thank God,” I muttered, shoving everything back in the drawer. “Come on, Mills. Did she say what?” I asked Smith as she walked with us from the office.

  “Not to me, sir, but she didn’t seem happy,” Smith told us.

  “She never usually is,” I pointed out, but my mood ebbed slightly as we reached her office, and I knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” she called from inside.

  Smith gave us a wry smile and drifted back over to her own desk while Mills and I headed inside.

  I shut the door behind us, and we sat down opposite her as she finished scribbling something down. Her brown hair, with a few silver streaks running through, was tied up in a bun, and she shoved some escaped strands away as she dropped her pen and looked up at us.

  “I’ve got something for you two.”

  “Very kind of you,” I answered.

  “A woman’s been found in Moorland Botanical Gardens.”

  “The research place?” I asked. “Sort of like Kew Gardens?”

  Sharp nodded. “That’s the one. SOCO’s on the way, Dr Crowe’s with them. I want you two on this. Nobody’s gone near her yet.”

  “We’ll head straight there,” I told her, standing abruptly from the chair. “You have the address?”

  She handed Mills a small sticky note, her neat writing already sprawled across it. “Keep me updated on this one,” she insisted.

  I gave her one last nod and jerked my chin to Mills. We left Sharp’s office
, returned to ours to grab our things and headed straight downstairs, out into the car park and piled into my car.

  I pulled from the station as Mills set up the sat nav that took us out of the city, just out into the moors.

  “You ever been there before?” Mills asked, making conversation as we drove through the city.

  “No. I don’t think it’s much open to the public. Not all of it anyway,” I amended. “But I went to Kew Gardens once. If it’s anything similar, we should be in for an interesting day.”

  “Sharp said that nobody’s gone near her yet,” Mills murmured thoughtfully. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

  It was just over a twenty-minute drive into the rolling hills, to an old country house that now belonged to the horticultural research faculty. Mills and I parked and quickly jumped out, met by a uniformed officer who nodded briefly and led us around the side of the house to where the gardens sprawled out. They were vast, and I imagined it would be easy to get lost out here amongst the winding gravel paths. A few greenhouses poked up here and there, and at the back of the house itself, a large orangery opened out into the gardens. It was beautiful, the air scented, the wind gentle.

  “She’s in the garden off-limits to the public,” the constable told us, holding up some police tape for us to duck under. “It’s where most of their research takes place, lots of imported plants. Apparently, most of them are pretty deadly.”

  “Deadly?” Mills repeated.

  “Poisonous,” the constable said. “It’s why we’ve been told to keep our distance. Dr Crowe’s just arrived.” He nodded to the curly haired figure just down the path, donning her white suit.

  “Thank you.” I gave him a pat on the arm and headed down to where Crowe stood, looking down between a row of overflowing beds, signs stuck all around them with warnings clearly marked.

  A woman lay on the ground, her white lab coat sprawled over her, pale ginger hair scattered around her head.