Deadly Fallout
Detective Zoe Finch Book 6
Rachel McLean
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Read Zoe’s prequel story, Deadly Origins
Coming in Summer 2021 - the Dorset Crime Series
Chapter One
The house was a burglar’s dream.
Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, with an alleyway on one side and a high wall on the other, it had no houses overlooking it.
The front garden was shielded by a high hedge, with access to the garden down both sides of the house. Sure, one side had a gate but that was secured with nothing more than a slide bolt.
Amateurs, he muttered as he strolled along the road towards it, hands in pockets, rucksack shifting as he walked. He’d been keeping an eye on this place for a couple of weeks, working out if and when anyone opened the place up. He’d seen the estate agent come once to collect post and two more times for appointments with potential buyers.
The family had moved to Germany and the house had been on the market for four months. Interest was dwindling, which made it the perfect target. No visitors, no occupants, no neighbours looking in. But the furniture was mostly there, still, making the place attractive to would-be buyers and waiting to be shipped once a sale had been agreed.
He slowed his pace as he reached the bulb of the cul-de-sac. It was twelve minutes past midnight and the residents in this dull suburban corner of the city were tucked up safe and warm. Curtains had been drawn in every window of the neighbouring houses, and most of the lights were out.
He kept moving as he neared the house, and walked onto the front drive without slowing or shifting his gaze. He knew how to look like you were supposed to be somewhere, even if it was gone midnight in a road where no one came home after the witching hour.
He allowed himself a small smile as he placed one hand on the side gate. He knew from Google Streetview that this gate was invisible from the neighbours’ windows, even if someone did decide to look out.
There was movement at his feet, the brush of a small body against his leg. He froze, then forced himself to look down.
Don’t be such a fucking twat. It was only a cat. The stupid thing looked up at him, streetlights reflecting on its retinas. It had blood on its cheek; it had been killing. Good for you, pal. It stared at him a moment longer then swished its tail and moved on, shimmying under the fence separating this garden from next door.
Don’t look round, he told himself. You’re supposed to be here. He hated those scenes in films and TV shows when people looked up and down a street just as they were about to smash a window or break into a car. No one who was supposed to be doing what they were doing would ever check if they were being watched. Sixteen years and four months in this game, and he was the only guy he knew who hadn’t been caught. His mates thought he was charmed. He knew he was careful.
He hooked his hand over the top of the gate and slid the bolt back. It squeaked a little; he ignored it. He pushed the door open – swiftly, silently – and slipped through, pushing it closed behind him and sliding the bolt partway back again. Just enough to stop the door from swinging open, but not enough to make it squeak.
He took a deep breath and blew on his hands. It was April, a week after Easter. The day had been warm and the sky was clear, making it chilly tonight. A full moon shone over the garden.
He was wearing his Reeboks. The ones with the thick soles that suppressed all sound. The ones he’d filed down so they had no discernible print. No one was going to finger him via a misplaced step into a patch of mud.
The kitchen was at the back, with a sliding patio door leading to raised decking. He bloody loved Rightmove, all those photos of the insides of people’s houses proudly displaying just how shit their security was.
The door looked old in the photos. He’d easily be able to shift its weight and disengage the crappy lock.
At the bottom of the garden, on the side where he was standing, was a shed. He considered checking it out, seeing what tools might be in there. But if the owners had any sense, they’d have taken their tools with them. The photos had shown plenty of stuff inside the house – beds, a monstrous glass-topped dining table, a couple of trinkets on the mantelpiece. But a full shed wasn’t necessary to make the house look occupied for those photos.
No matter. He had his rucksack. Nothing in there to arouse suspicion, but enough to help him get where he needed to be.
He grabbed a screwdriver from the side pocket – flat head, quarter inch blade – and slid it into the bottom of the patio door. He’d been right; these looked like they’d been fitted a generation ago. He jimmied the bottom of the frame and it shifted. He hoisted it up and felt the whole thing pull towards him as the lock disengaged.
Idiots. Leaving their bloody house unsecured but keeping half their stuff in there just to make the place look nice.
His sister-in-law had been shown round a week earlier. She enjoyed being his advance party, loved nosying around o
ther people’s houses. She had a way of irritating the estate agents enough that they never called her back. And in return for a substantial fee, she’d pass on to him what she’d found on her little investigations. In this case, there was a box of goodies upstairs.
He shunted the door across and squeezed through. The kitchen was dimly lit by the moon over the garden. The room was as outdated as those patio doors, with tile-topped counters and units that looked as if they’d fall apart as soon as you looked at them. He’d burgled enough houses to know what a half-decent kitchen looked like, and this wasn’t it.
The box he was after was upstairs, in the front bedroom. He slid off his Reeboks and shoved them into his rucksack, then crept into the hall, sliding his feet across the bare floorboards so as to not make any noise. Not that it mattered. No one was going to hear.
He hurried up the stairs and rounded a corner into the front bedroom. It had a walk-in cupboard off it, tucked in under the eaves. Tina had found a box in there full of old photos and coins. Knick-nacks, the sort of stuff people never looked at in between house moves. But he had a mate in Digbeth who could get money for those coins. These suckers never knew how much they were hiding in their lofts.
Shining his torch into the cupboard, he found the wooden box precisely where Tina had said it would be. He pulled it out of the cupboard and into the room, hoisting it onto the bare bed. The streetlight shone through the thin curtains. He was careful to keep low, just in case.
He rifled through the box. At the bottom, wrapped in a dingy cloth, was a leather bag full of old jewellery and coins.
His heart rate picked up as he sifted through them. This would sort him out for a few weeks, maybe even months.
He shoved the cloth into his backpack and pushed the box back into the cupboard. He liked to leave places tidy, despised those arseholes who would shit and piss all over their targets. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Amateurs.
He blew out through his mouth and padded down the stairs. Back in the kitchen, he pulled on his Reeboks. As he was about to leave, he spotted the open door.
It led under the staircase in the hall beyond, and a cold breeze wafted out of it. The door eased open and closed, caught in the breeze from the open patio door.
A cellar.
If these people hid old coins in the bedroom cupboard, God knows what they might have down there.
He smiled and pushed the door fully open. He sniffed. He could smell damp, overlaid with something heavier and more cloying.
He grabbed his pepper spray from a jacket pocket and held it up as he shuffled into the tight space. A set of stairs, immediately below the ones he’d just descended, led down. A light cord brushed his face as he felt his way forward. He wasn’t about to pull it, however dark it was.
He put a hand out to the wall beside him and took the stairs slowly in the darkness. After a few steps he pulled out his torch and switched it on. His mobile was back at home, he knew better than to bring it out on a job. He was working old-school.
He directed the torch downwards, his other hand shielding the beam so it didn’t shine back into the kitchen. Either side of him, wallpaper flaked off the walls. A patch of damp as long as he was tall adorned the ceiling above him.
He sniffed again. The smell was getting stronger. But he couldn’t resist carrying on, finding out what was down here.
The cellar led off to his left, under the house’s living room. This house was built on a hill and he guessed this was what filled in the gap between the edge of the building and the sloping earth. He wondered if there was a way out down here.
It didn’t matter. He’d tidy up after himself. Go out through the patio doors and leave them as he’d found them. It satisfied his sense of neatness and meant it would be longer before anyone suspected the place had been burgled.
He shone the torch around the low space, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. There were more boxes, mostly browning and a few almost disintegrated. He wondered how long they’d been here, if they even belonged to the current owners.
He was disturbed by a sound. Heart thumping against his ribs, he span round to shine his torch into a low nook behind him.
Something moved.
He tightened his grip on the pepper spray and took a step forward. A small black creature darted out and ran over his foot. It was all he could do not to yelp.
A rat. Now his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, he could see a pile of them, wriggling in the corner. The little fuckers were all over something.
His eyes were watering. He blinked and pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose. Whatever it was, it bloody stunk.
The rats stopped moving as his torch passed over them, then just as suddenly all moved as one, scurrying towards him. He raised his hands, dropping the torch.
He heard them flowing up the stairs, obnoxious little claws scratching on the wood.
He bent down and felt for the torch. It had hit his foot and only rolled a few inches. He raised the beam to the spot the rats had vacated, and gasped.
The rats had been chewing at a face.
Not an animal’s face. From what he could tell, it was a man. Thin and yellow, with one eye staring blankly at him and the other an empty socket.
He turned away and retched. Choking, he ran back up the stairs, almost slipping in his haste. He gagged as he slammed the cellar door shut behind him.
He leaned against it, his chest rising and falling. He threw a hand out in front, his latex glove hitting the side of the kitchen worktop. He yelped and pulled it back.
He leaned over the kitchen sink and threw up again, violent and noisy. After he’d emptied himself out, he leaned back. He took a few breaths, slapped himself on the chest, and ran the tap. It worked, luckily.
He washed away the vomit, averting his eyes. When the sink was clean, he washed out his mouth. He hurried through the patio doors and quickly closed them again. He rushed around the side of the house and stumbled into the gate, his fingers fumbling as he pulled the bolt.
Forcing himself to focus, he pushed through the gate and reached back to secure the bolt. He gagged once more, his eyes darting towards the empty street.
Stop it, you fucker. Focus. Slow down.
He pushed his shoulders back and walked out onto the street. He turned left and left again, making his escape via the alleyway next to the house. Twenty minutes later, he was back home, assessing his haul and trying to forget what he’d seen.
Chapter Two
Zoe Finch swung her legs out of bed and let her feet drop to the floor. Carl’s flat had parquet flooring throughout, all very nice, but damn cold at this time in the morning. It was five thirty am and she’d been lying awake for the last hour, the day ahead circling in her mind.
She felt a hand on her bare back. “Everything OK?”
“Can’t sleep. You want a coffee?”
Carl rolled towards her. She looked back at him, her limbs softening.
“That would be great,” he murmured. She’d woken twice in the night, and on one of those occasions, he’d found ways to distract her. She still tingled at the thought.
“Great.” She hauled on a hoody and pair of joggers she kept at his place and went into the kitchen. There were advantages to living in a flat, she thought. Back at home she’d have to go down the stairs, through the living and dining rooms to get to the kitchen and her morning fix. Here, it was in the next room.
Carl kept his coffee in a tin mounted on a high self. When they’d met he’d been an instant drinker. She’d soon put paid to that. She grabbed the tin – easy enough at five feet eight inches – and spooned some into the filter machine she’d encouraged him to buy. She ran water, then switched the machine on and wrapped her arms around herself.
She went to the window and gazed out while the coffee brewed. The flat was on the second floor, looking out onto communal gardens and then the Bristol Road beyond. The dual carriageway was starting to busy up, a bus rumbling past and a short line
of cars in its wake.
She spotted movement reflected in the window and turned to see Carl in the doorway. He wore his work shirt and trousers. She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s only half five.”
He shrugged. “No point putting one set of clothes on, only to have to change into another one later.”
“You not going to have a shower?”
“Who are you, my mum?” He crossed the room and put a hand on her arm. “Besides, we both took a shower just a couple of hours ago.”
She smiled. “True.” She stepped into his arms and smelled him: clean, musky. She let herself relax.
“You’re worried about today,” he said.
She stiffened and pulled back. “Of course I’m bloody worried about today.”
Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6) Page 1