Gardners, Ditchers, and Gravemakers (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 4) Oliver Davies (best way to read e books .txt) 📖

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