The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3)
Page 22
“We need to talk,” Zoe said. “About your predecessor and your DS.”
“Dennis?” Lesley asked.
“Can we meet for a drink later on?”
“Of course.” Lesley looked at Sharon. “Second thoughts,” she said to Zoe. “You come here, have a drink with me and Sharon. Bring Nicholas if you want.”
Sharon grimaced. She wasn’t a kid, didn’t need to hang out with her mum’s friend’s son.
“It's OK,” said Zoe. “Nicholas is out tonight. But I'll take you up on that drink. Seven o'clock?”
It was a sunny afternoon, and would morph into a sunny evening. They could sit in the garden. “See you then,” Lesley said.
Three hours later Zoe was sitting at Lesley's kitchen table, watching as Lesley heated up a meal that Sharon had brought out of the fridge. It was lasagne, one that Sharon had apparently done most of the work for. Lesley preferred that, not liking the idea of eating food that Julieta had cooked.
She scooped out three portions and placed plates in front of Zoe and Sharon and then one for herself. Behind her, rain battered at the kitchen window. So much for sitting in the garden.
Lesley poured a glass of red wine and offered Zoe one.
Zoe shook her head.
“Sorry,” Lesley said. “I forgot you don't drink. Hang on.”
She went into the fridge and checked the shelf in the door. “Have we got any non-alcoholic stuff?” she asked Sharon.
“I'm fine with a glass of water,” Zoe said.
“It's OK,” Lesley replied. “I'm sure we've got something better than that.”
She landed on a can of kombucha. “Oh. Fancy.” She lifted it up, looking at Sharon. “Is this yours?”
Sharon nodded. “I thought I'd give it a try.”
“Do you mind if Zoe has some?”
“No. I'll have one as well, please.”
Lesley took two cans out of the fridge and placed them in front of Sharon and Zoe. She sat down and started to eat.
“So,” she said to Zoe after a few mouthfuls. “What was it you needed to talk to me about?”
“I had a call from your DS,” Zoe said.
“He saw that you'd been sniffing around the Mackie file.”
“Yes,” Zoe said. “But then I found evidence that somebody else has been downloading files in recent days.”
Lesley looked at her. “Somebody else here?”
“Somebody in Dorset. I figured it was legit, but I thought I'd run it past you just in case. You've been working on that Brownsea Island case, haven't you? Not on anything to do with Mackie?”
“The Mackie case was closed, coroner pronounced it death by suicide.” Nobody should be accessing those files.
Zoe nodded. “You've definitely got somebody in your team who doesn't think that.”
“Who?” Lesley asked.
“I couldn't tell, it's just a Dorset Police stamp.”
Lesley frowned at her. “Are you sure?”
Zoe nodded. “If I knew who it was, I'd tell you. But somebody has been on HOLMES, checking where Mackie was found, looking through the forensics.”
Lesley stared at her.
Who in Dorset Police had been investigating Mackie’s death?
She'd been considering doing so herself, but she'd been so busy with her own workload that it had been put on the back burner. She knew that Carpenter took an interest, but also that he wanted to keep himself at arm's length from it.
So who? Dennis? Johnny?
“Thanks for telling me,” she told Zoe. “I'll follow it up.”
Zoe nodded. “No problem. This lasagne is good, well done Sharon.”
Sharon grinned. “I try my best.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
Lesley unloaded the last of her boxes into her cottage. She wasn't quite sure why she'd bothered bringing all this stuff here. After all, she was spending most of her time at Elsa's. But she preferred to have it with her than up in Birmingham with Terry.
Most of the boxes were full of books. There were a few CDs, some ornaments, a couple of photo albums, things that she hadn't thought urgent enough to bring down for six months. But now, she wasn't sure if she’d go back after six months.
Every time she considered October, when her secondment would end, it felt like a brick wall in front of her. She couldn't see past it. Couldn't see where she'd work, where she'd live.
Frank Dawson was happy acting up as DCI back in West Midlands Force CID. But Carpenter didn't expect her to stay here for more than six months. And who did she want to be with more: Elsa or Sharon?
Her daughter had to come first.
Lesley slammed the car door shut and hauled the last box into the house. She was about to close the door behind her when she spotted movement behind her. Elsa was walking towards the house. She carried a large bunch of delphiniums.
Lesley smiled. “Are those for me?”
“Nah,” Elsa said. “I thought I'd give them to your next door neighbour. Commiseration prize for living so close to you.”
“Oi,” Lesley told her. “Don't be cheeky.”
Elsa grinned and gave Lesley a kiss on the cheek. “How about a drink? I'm not working in the Duke of Wellington tonight, but we could go there.”
Lesley screwed up her nose. “You really want to drink in the pub where you work?”
Elsa shrugged. “Best pub in Wareham.”
“Is it?”
The Duke of Wellington was fine, but it was an old-fashioned pub that smelt of beer and sometimes sweat.
“Let's go to the Kings Arms,” she said. “We can sit outside in their beer garden.”
It was another sweltering evening. The heat would keep up through the night, and Lesley would be roasted alive in the eaves bedroom of her cottage.
“Fair enough,” said Elsa. “What d’you want to do with these flowers?”
Lesley put the box of books down on the coffee table and took the flowers from Elsa. “I'm sure I've got a vase somewhere.”
She looked down at the boxes. There was a vase in one of them, but she had no idea which.
Elsa was grinning, her eyes glinting.
“OK,” Lesley said. “I'll put them in a pint glass.”
“Sophisticated, aren't you?” Elsa laughed.
Lesley gave her a mock punch on the arm.
Ten minutes later the flowers were safely in the sink, and Lesley and Elsa were in the beer garden of the Kings Arms. Lesley had a gin and tonic in front of her and Elsa a glass of red wine.
Lesley sipped at her drink and leaned back, feeling the evening sun on her face.
“I could get used to this,” she said.
“So do,” Elsa told her.
Lesley opened her eyes and looked at her girlfriend. “You do know I've got to go back to Birmingham in four months?”
Elsa's face darkened. “Let's not discuss that.”
Lesley looked into Elsa's eyes. She knew that at some point they would have to talk about this.
“You wanted to leave your firm,” she said.
Elsa shrugged. “Looks like that's not going to happen.”
“No?”
Elsa shook her head. Her body had slumped and her face hardened. “Let's not talk about work.”
“OK.” Lesley grabbed Elsa's hand and squeezed it. “Let's enjoy the evening.”
Elsa raised a glass. Lesley held hers up to it.
“Here's to you being in Dorset for as long as possible,” Elsa said.
Lesley smiled. “I'll drink to that.”
Read a free novella, Deadly Origins
It’s 2003, and Zoe Finch is a new Detective Constable. When a body is found on her patch, she’s grudgingly allowed to take a role on the case.
But when more bodies are found, and Zoe realises the case has links to her own family, the investigation becomes deeply personal.
Can Zoe find the killer before it’s too late?
Find out by reading Deadly Origins for FREE at rachelmclean.com/origins.<
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Read the Dorset Crime Series
The Corfe Castle Murders, Dorset Crime Book 1
The Clifftop Murders, Dorset Crime Book 2
The Island Murders, Dorset Crime Book 3
The Monument Murders, Dorset Crime Book 4
…and more to come!
Also by Rachel McLean: The DI Zoe Finch Series
Deadly Wishes, DI Zoe Finch Book 1
Deadly Choices, DI Zoe Finch Book 2
Deadly Desires, DI Zoe Finch Book 3
Deadly Terror, DI Zoe Finch Book 4
Deadly Reprisal, DI Zoe Finch Book 5
Deadly Fallout, DI Zoe Finch Book 6
Deadly Origins, the FREE Zoe Finch prequel
Copyright © 2021 by Rachel McLean
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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