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

“Sounds to me like people didn’t want that news getting out,” Sharp said, standing up properly. “Even rumours like those can damage an institution such as theirs beyond repair. I imagine they’d have wanted to keep it safe.”

“Hence,” I said, “why we’re going to talk to Dr Quaid again. He stands a lot to gain if that came out. Especially back then,” I added. “He’d only just taken over as head researcher.”

Sharp nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Don’t waste time, Thatcher, if you think he’s involved, act on it. Will you call him in?”

“We’ll head out there,” I decided. “I don’t want to stir anything up with the press by bringing him here.”

“Thoughtful of you,” she said. “Maybe one day you’ll even do a proper press conference and spare me the snotty journalists and camera flashes.”

“Maybe one day,” I told her with a grin. She smiled back, though her eyes were still concerned, and she turned and left the office.

Once she was gone, Mills pushed his chair back from his desk with a sigh and groan, stretching his arms out. “I’m not finding much here, sir. But I think we are right that the women had copies of their side of things. I don’t think Abbie got sole credit; I think they received full credit on their share of the work.”

“I think so too,” I added, drumming my pen thoughtfully on my desk. “Eight years ago, Abbie Whelan and Luke Campbell were still an item. Do you think he knew about what happened to Jordan Picard?”

“Maybe,” Mills nodded. “Could be why his opinion of Abbie is so bleak.”

“And why he wasn’t keen to stay in touch,” I added.

“And why he came back?” Mills suggested. “If it looked like the story was coming out of the cracks, that could be what spurred his sudden paternal interest.”

“Might be worth having another chat with him at some point,” I said. “Has there been any trouble with him?” I asked, wondering how much of her work Susanne shared with Mills.

“None,” he answered. “I asked Paige as well when she dropped by. She said there’d been no word from him, but she’s keeping a watchful eye, anyway. She’s not letting anyone take that girl away from her,” he added with a touch of pride.

“Nor should she,” I replied. “Though I worry it’s taking its toll on her.”

“She’s got family liaison to help her out,” Mills told me. “And hopefully, Dr Olsen’s made some headway on getting Abbie back up and running.”

“They’ll not let her out of the hospital for a while, I imagine. But we live and hope, Mills. Let’s finish this folder and then go and see Quaid. I’m bored with Latin names and chemical compounds now.”

We hadn’t been plodding through the research long, finding a few traces and patterns that stuck out to us, names of plants that were vaguely familiar, when a call came through from the desk sergeant.

“Thatcher,” I answered, leaning back in my chair with my knuckles rubbing into my temple.

“Sir. We’ve got a man down here asking to see you. A Dr Sean Quaid.”

I sat up straight. “Send him up,” I ordered, rising and yanking the office door open.

“Sir?” Mills piped up.

“Quaid’s here,” I told him, hearing him hurry up from his desk as I strode over to the stairs, watching as Dr Quaid shuffled up them, his hands wrung together.

“Just the man we wanted to see,” I called down as he reached the top steps. He looked up at me, his face flushed.

“Inspector,” he panted. “Sergeant. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Certainly not,” I waved him over to an empty desk as Mills stepped away, muttering about water. “Is everything alright?” I asked him, taking in his frazzled appearance with some concern.

“I’ve just had a rather interesting conversation,” he said, taking the water from Mills and guzzling it down. We sat down opposite him, waiting, somewhat patiently for him to elaborate. “An old colleague of mine,” he stated, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Called me this morning for a catch-up. He mentioned that he received a new piece of research that they were all very excited about.”

“They being?” I asked.

“Kew Gardens, Inspector, down in London. He told me that he wanted my opinion on it before they made any commitments and sent through the basic hypothesis. And this,” he pulled a staple bunch of paper from his deep coat pocket and laid it out on the desk, “bears a striking resemblance to the work that Abbie and Sonia were working on.”

Mills reached forward with a frown and took the pages, giving them a quick once over. “Same plants,” he muttered. “I thought they didn’t finish the work?” He asked.

“They didn’t,” Quaid said. He leant forward as he spoke, his voice lowered like he was sharing some great secret. “Either someone had the exact same idea as they did or,”

“Someone’s stolen their work,” I finished. “Perhaps the same person who stole the plant from Abbie and Sonia’s greenhouse,” I added to Mills, who nodded along.

“Who submitted it?” He asked, looking for a name on the research.

“No clue,” Dr Quaid said with a shrug. He’d taken his glasses off and was methodically cleaning them on the sleeve of his jumper. “As soon as I saw what it was, I brought it straight over. It’s not right,” he said vehemently.

“Do you have the number for this colleague of yours, Dr Quaid?” I asked, pulling the phone on the desk closer to me.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, closing his eyes to concentrate, rattling off the number. “His name is Dr Sam Moshiri.”

I dialled the number, sitting back as Mills led Dr Quaid over to the kitchen, leaving the study with me. It rang for some time before it was answered.

“Dr Moshiri,” a deep voice greeted me.

“Dr Moshiri, this Detective Inspector Thatcher with the North Yorkshire Police. I’ve just been chatting to an old colleague of yours, Dr Sean