Gardners, Ditchers, and Gravemakers (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 4) by Oliver Davies (free e books to read online TXT) 📕

before it got better. I’d have Elsie on the phone more often, Sally and Mike pitching up with bottles of wine and board games, all of them suddenly flocking around me like mother hens until the week past. Shouldn’t complain, I told myself, pulling us out from the car park and onto the roads as Mills strapped himself in. I didn’t bother with the sat nav just yet, preferring to get out into the moors myself before we started messing with directions and the annoying tinned voice that gave them.

“I mentioned Toomas Kask to Wasco before we left,” Mills told me, turning down the radio. “So that he can keep an eye out for any mention of him as he works on Sonia’s computer.”

“Good thinking,” I told him approvingly. “I’d like to know as much about this study as possible.”

“Do you think he’ll tell us much?” Mills asked.

“I think he’ll share as much as he can without ruining his own career and reputation,” I answered dryly. “Whatever that amount is, we shall have to wait and see.”

Mills pulled a face and turned to the window, watching as we rolled out from the city and the surrounding suburbs, out into the countryside. I relaxed as we went deeper and deeper into the hills, the earth around growing wild and untamed.

“Have you ever thought about living out here?” Mills asked me, taking in my no longer tightly wound posture. “There’s probably a place that’s not too far from the city.” He added, his tone thoughtful. He’d been to the coaching house; he knew it wasn’t far. A good thirty- or forty-minute drive that wasn’t unspeakable for a daily commute.

“From time to time,” I answered. “But everyone I know is in the city, might get a bit lonely out here on my Larry.”

“Because you’re such a social person,” Mills said dryly. I chuckled.

“Alright, that’s fair. If I lived out here, we couldn’t go to the pub as often.” I pointed out.

“You could always crash on my settee,” Mills told me. I spared him a quick glance.

“You trying to get rid of me, Isaac?” I asked him in an accusatory tone.

“Trying to get you to relax more often, sir,” he answered in a more solemn voice than I had used. “You always seem more at ease out here, so,” he shrugged. “Just a thought.”

It wasn’t a bad thought, it was one I had even been contemplating myself, but I wasn’t going anywhere until the coaching house was fully repaired. Ready to live in or ready to sell on, I’d yet to decide fully what the fate of the old place would be. Though, I did have to admit to myself, the thought of some other family behind my grandfather’s bar or of someone chopping down our oak tree in the garden made me feel ever so slightly sick.

“Type in his address,” I told Mills in a low voice, now that we were far enough out into the moors. He obliged, quietly doing so without any more attempts at conversation. We drove the rest of the way in relative, comfortable silence, with the odd mutter at something on the radio, or observing something outside as we passed.

Soon enough, we trundled through a village, out onto a long road that wound up the side of the hill where a few large houses were sequestered in the trees and heather. Toomas Kask lived in a rather large home; the steep points of its roofs visible above the trees as we climbed up the hill towards it. A large fountain, slightly grubby and covered in moss, sat outside the house, with its crumbling façade, peeling paint and gothic features.

“Why is it,” Mills was muttering as we climbed from the car, ‘that we can’t ever work a case in a nice, normal house that doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking into an episode of The Twilight Zone?”

“Because you’re not stationed in Leeds, that’s why,” I told him, marching over the stones up to the house, pausing at the door. The knocker was an old, worn head of what I think was once a dog. Mills looked at me pointedly as I opted not to use it and rapped my knuckles hard against the door instead.

We waited there for a while, with no answer. I turned around. There was a car over by the garage, and up in the house, several lights were turned on in the windows. Perhaps I hadn’t knocked loud enough. This time, I closed my palm around the metal head and knocked with it, the action sending vibrations through the door and up my arm.

This time, it wasn’t long before a muffled voice called out from inside, and the door was heaved open. The man who stood before us was not what I was expecting. I expected someone like Dr Quaid, huddled in a fleece and some oversized trousers, covered in soil and looking like he’d just been blown in from the gardens. Toomas Kask was a tall man, dressed in a pair of what looked like ironed jeans and a plain jumper, the collar of a crisp white shirt peeking out over the top. He smiled at us, brushing a piece of pale brown hair back from his face.

“Hello,” he said. “How can I help?”

“Are you Toomas Kask?” I asked.

“I am,” he said, the smile on his face not dropping.

“I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher, and this is Detective Sergeant Mills,” we showed him our cards. “North Yorkshire Police.”

His smile faded from his face then, and he nodded bleakly. “Is this about Sonia Petrilli? I just heard on the news.”

“It is. And Abbie Whelan.”

His eyes widened, and he stepped aside, waving us in. “Please, come in. I think that rain’s due again,” he said pleasantly, leading us through the hall. It was old fashioned, with sturdy furniture, dark, heavy fabric and old oil paintings. Mills” face twisted at it all as we looked around, following Kask through to a large conservatory at the back of the