Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6)

by Rachel McLean

  “Yeah.”

  She turned away from him and checked the coffee. Today was the first day of the trial of former Detective Sergeant Ian Osman. Ian had briefly been her DS, her second in command. She’d known he was bent, but that didn’t make giving evidence against him any easier. She’d met his wife, his kids. She had history with that family.

  “They might not call you today, you know.”

  She grabbed the coffee pot and poured her own mug. “I’ve still got to be there, just in case.”

  “Sorry.”

  She swigged her coffee. Turning to see the disappointed look on his face, she remembered he’d asked for a cup too. She handed him her cup and made a second one.

  He closed his eyes as he drank. “The best thing about going out with you, Zoe Finch, is this damn coffee. It’s superb.”

  “The best thing? Really?”

  He smiled. “OK. One of the best things.”

  She nodded and slumped into one of the two kitchen chairs that flanked a minute circular table. She cradled her mug with her hands.

  “Penny for them,” he said.

  “I can’t. You know that.”

  He sat down opposite her, his eyes on her face. “Because I’m a witness too.”

  “Yup.” She drank, not meeting his eye. “I probably shouldn’t even be here.”

  He leaned back. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe until the trial’s over…”

  “Seriously?” she said. “You’re doing that to me again?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Zo.”

  She raised a hand. “Don’t call me that. Only Mo gets to call me that.” Mo Uddin was her current DS and her oldest friend.

  “Zoe. This is different.”

  “Last time you thought I was bent.”

  Carl dragged a hand through his cropped hair. “I thought we’d got over this.”

  She threw her head back and blew up at the ceiling. There was a stain above the extractor fan. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m being a dick. I just want to get this farce over and done with.”

  “It’s not a farce, Zoe. Ian Osman was working for organised crime. He planted evidence at the scene of a terrorist bombing.”

  “He’s not the one you want, and you know it.”

  “I can’t talk about any other…”

  She nodded. He was right. Carl’s job in the Professional Standards Department, or PSD, made it difficult for them to discuss cases.

  “He’s been called as a witness too,” she said. They both knew who she was talking about.

  “How d’you know?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Lesley.” DCI Lesley Clarke, her boss.

  She shrugged. “Not saying anything.”

  “Play it your way then,” he said. “But I’m serious. We can’t have any suspicion that we’re conferring. Not in between you giving your evidence and me giving mine.”

  She downed the last of the coffee and slammed the mug onto the table. He flinched. “You’re right,” she muttered. “I’ll get my stuff.”

  “It’s only a few days.”

  She hesitated in the doorway. “We have no idea how long it’ll take. There are witnesses neither of us know about. I mean, what if they find Hamm?”

  Trevor Hamm had been missing for a couple of months but she knew the Organised Crime team was determined to track him down before this trial. Ian Osman hadn’t directly admitted he’d been working for Hamm, but the evidence was there. And if they found Hamm, the repercussions would stretch across the whole region.

  Carl said something in response. Zoe didn’t hear as she was already in the bedroom pulling on clothes. She had time to go home and change. Her son Nicholas would be there; it would be nice to have breakfast with him. If eighteen-year-olds did breakfast.

  “I’ll call you when it’s all over,” she said as she put a hand on the front door handle.

  He walked to her and put his arms around her. She let her bag drop to the floor and returned the embrace.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “I understand. You’re anxious. I am too.”

  “I’ll miss you,” she muttered into his chest.

  “Me too, darling. Me too.”

  Chapter Three

  Anita Randle sat at the kitchen table, watching her husband get ready for work. He wore his blue suit, the new one she’d bought him for his birthday. How many men asked for a tailored suit for their birthday? When she’d met him he’d been the same, but then it was designer jeans and expensive leather or suede jackets. Eighteen years later, and he still knew how to make clothes look good.

  He was facing away from her, peering into the mirror in the hallway. He probably didn’t even know she could see him from the kitchen; it was dull in here, the low sun still at the front of the house.

  He leaned into the mirror, straightening his tie. He frowned at his reflection, licked a finger and pushed a hair into place. She couldn’t decide whether she still found this attention to his appearance endearing, or if it had become tiresome.

  He straightened, gave himself a final once-over, then strode into the kitchen. Her grip on her mug – porcelain, bought on a trip to Devon – tightened.

  “Darling,” he said, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes.

  “Darling,” she replied, trying to make her own smile more sincere. “Good luck today.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “They won’t be calling me. I have to leave the court after they’ve kicked things off.”

  “But you’ll be in the corridors, monitoring the situation.”

  His face darkened. “I’ve got a bloody job to do, Anita. You think being Head of Force CID is easy?”

  She felt her chest flutter. “That wasn’t what I meant. You know…”

  “Hmpf.”

  She stood up and pulled her dressing gown tighter. It was Italian silk, a present on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Back before he’d gained that near-permanent harried look he wore right now.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m worried about you.”

  He shrugged it off. “You needn’t be.”

  “Still. You haven’t been sleeping. I know you’ve been coming downstairs in the night.”

  “Sometimes I get a bit of insomnia. Nothing unusual when you reach your fifties, love.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Good opportunity to get some work done without interruptions.”

  She nodded, not ready to pursue this line of conversation further. She’d taken to creeping onto the stairs, sitting halfway down and listening to make sure he was OK. On two occasions she’d heard him on the phone. At three in the morning.

  There was only one reason to make a phone call at that time.

  She shuddered and pushed the thought to the back of her mind. If he wasn’t going to admit to it, she wasn’t going to make any accusations. They had two daughters to think about, each with an expensive education to pay for. She hadn’t worked since he’d become a DCI eight years ago. She could never risk letting him leave for another woman.

  She lowered herself into the chair, working to control her breathing. Don’t cry. He had his briefcase open and was rooting through it.

  “Have you lost something?” she asked, trying to hide the crack in her voice.

  “No,” he snapped. “Just being thorough.”

  “You’re going straight to court?”

  He looked up. “Yes, I’m going straight to court. Not much point going into the office then having to walk straight out again.”

  “I’m just interested, darling.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer than she felt comfortable with. She forced herself to hold his gaze, not to blink. After a moment his face softened. He put a hand on her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m just a bit irritable with this bloody trial. I’ll be fine once it’s over.”

  I certainly hope so, she thought. She gave him a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat.

>   “Right,” he said, his voice back to its usual morning brusqueness. “Kiss the girls for me.”

  “I will.” Like I do every morning. Maria and Carly hardly saw their father. She hardly saw their father.

  Anita sighed. She’d known what she was signing up for when she’d married a police officer. Her father had warned her; he’d been a traffic warden and had seen it up close.

  David turned and breezed out of the room, leaving a trail of expensive aftershave in his wake. Anita closed her eyes and breathed it in. His scent still made her heart race.

  She heard the door slam. She downed the last of her coffee and threw the toast in the bin – she wasn’t hungry. She made for the stairs.

  Time to inject some lightness into her voice, to smile through the nagging dread, to pretend to be her girls’ bright and happy mother.

  Chapter Four

  “Morning all.” Zoe pushed open the door to the team room. It was an hour before she had to be at the court. She wanted to spend it grounding herself with a dose of normality.

  DC Connie Williams and DC Rhodri Hughes were at their desks, peering into screens. Rhodri turned round, swivelling his chair from side to side. “Morning, boss.” He looked her up and down – she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday – but didn’t comment. Instead, he gave her a lopsided grin.

  She ignored it and walked to Connie’s desk. “Morning, Connie.”

  Connie frowned at her screen then blinked and turned to her boss. “Sorry, boss. I was miles away.”

  “You working on the Rolands case?”

  “Yeah. Got some new forensics in. Implicates Fred Roland even further.” Fred Roland had attacked his wife with a hammer after she’d told him she was leaving for another man. “This one’s going to be an easy charge, boss.”

  “Don’t count your chickens. I still need to get CPS on board.”

  “It’s a shoe-in, boss,” said Rhodri. “You’ll walk it.”

  Zoe laughed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She peeled off her jacket and walked to her private office, which was in a corner of the main room, surrounded by glass windows. The main door opened behind her.

  “Boss.”

  Zoe turned to see DS Mo Uddin holding two steaming mugs. She smiled. “One of those for me?”

  “I thought you’d need it.”

  “I already had one at Carl’s, then two at home. Nicholas had it brewing when I got in. You’re all looking after me.” She took the mug off him. “Thanks. And not just for the coffee.”

  Mo shrugged. “I know how much you’ve been dreading today.”

  She glanced at the constables. “I always dread standing up in court. Those lawyers have a way of twisting everything you say, the bastards.”

  “Bastards,” Rhodri muttered in agreement.

  “You got a minute?” Mo asked.

  Zoe checked the clock over the door. “Better than that, I can give you ten. Come through.”

  She pushed open the door to her office and sat at the desk. Mo took the seat opposite and slurped his coffee.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  He twisted his lips, hesitating.

  “Spit it out,” Zoe said. “You’ve got me worried.”

  Mo scratched the side of his nose. “It’s Rhodri.”

  Her gaze flicked out to Rhodri, who was leaning into his screen more intently than usual. His neck was pink; he knew they were talking about him.

  “What’s up with Rhodri?” she asked, feeling her chest dip. Not long ago, her DCI had been given a transfer to another region after an injury. Zoe didn’t want to lose two trusted colleagues.

  Mo leaned back. He cradled his mug.

  “Mo, you’re getting me worried here. Just tell me, please?”

  “He’s asked to sit the Sergeants’ Exam.”

  Zoe felt her mouth hang open. She forced it shut. She stared at Mo for a moment, trying to read his expression. It told her nothing. He’d practised for this.

  She leaned across the desk. “Rhod has?”

  Mo nodded.

  “Seriously?”

  “He got that commendation last month. Thinks he’s up to more challenge.”

  She looked out at the constables. Connie was watching Rhodri, who’d turned even pinker.

  She looked back at Mo. “Yeah, but… Rhodri.”

  “He’s a good copper, Zo.”

  “He’s a good DC. He hasn’t shown any sign of leadership ability.”

  “Nor do I, not very often.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re the steady hand that keeps this team on the straight and narrow.”

  “Oh, great. You make me sound really dull.” Mo’s eyes sparkled.

  “There’s more to you than that, Mo, and you know it. You’re quick to spot connections in the evidence. You’re excellent at engaging witnesses, and much more level-headed than me when interviewing.”

  “That’s not what Dawson said when I—”

  “Forget Dawson.” Zoe ground her fist into the desk. “He doesn’t know you.”

  Mo sighed. “Anyway, now you’ve finished embarrassing me with praise, what about Rhodri?”

  Zoe shook her head. “He’s not ready, Mo. Not yet. You know that.”

  He looked down. “Yeah. Thought I’d run it past you though, just in case.”

  “Sorry.” Zoe checked her watch. “I really have to go, sorry. I can tell him. We can give him six months, a year. Then review the situation. It isn’t a no. Just a not yet. And why is he asking, and not Connie?”

  Mo gave her a tight smile. “She’s closer than he is, but she’s not there either.”

  “No.” Zoe stood up.

  “You’re busy with this trial,” Mo said. “I can tell him.”

  “It should be me as the team manager.”

  “It’s fine, boss.” He stood up. “Go, before you end up in contempt of court.”

  “It’s Zo. And it doesn’t work like that.”

  “No.” Mo turned towards the constables. Both of them quickly turned away. “He can read my damn mind, can’t he?”

  “I think you’ll need to have a chat with him immediately, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Send him in here on your way out, could you?”

  Zoe walked around the desk and patted her friend’s shoulder. “Sorry you have to start your Monday morning with this.”

  “It could be worse,” he said, looking up at her. “Say hello to Ian Osman for me, will you?”

  Chapter Five

  Ian sat across the Formica table from his solicitor, his hands clasped between his knees. He was wearing his best suit, the one Alison had bought for him to wear to her brother’s wedding last year.

  He was grateful that she’d thought to bring it in for him, even if she wasn’t living in their house right now. Staying at her ghastly mum’s with the kids, having bile dripped into her ear all hours. It was a wonder she didn’t hate him by now.

  “Ian?”

  He screwed up his eyes and forced them open. “Sorry. Yes.”

  “Did you hear what Mr Syed said?” His solicitor Jane Summer, a ruddy woman wearing an expensive suit that didn’t fit properly, cocked her head at him.

  Ian turned to the barrister. “I’d be grateful if you could repeat it, please.”

  Khalid Syed, the barrister Jane had recommended to him, took a deep breath. He was tall and slim, wearing a bright green tie with his dark suit. Ian wondered if barristers were supposed to wear bright green ties. But then, he’d be changing into his fancy dress before the trial began.

  “The evidence they have on your connection to Hamm is weak. It’s all circumstantial,” Syed said, tapping his pen on the table top.

  Ian nodded. He’d provided Trevor Hamm with information about police operations. In return, Hamm had arranged for one of his associates, a builder called Stuart Reynolds, to renovate Ian’s bathroom. The man was supposed to have fixed his roof too, but work had stopped when Ian had been taken in by PSD
.

  “Reynolds is connected to Hamm, we can’t deny that,” said Syed. “They’ve got evidence of him working on Hamm’s old flat in the city centre. But his firm does legitimate work too. You’ve said your bathroom work was one of those jobs.”

  “It was.” Ian struggled to hold the barrister’s eye. “Cash in hand, that’s why I’ve not got a receipt.”

  “Well, Reynolds could get into trouble with the Inland Revenue for that, but it’s not a crime on your part. We can deal with that.”

  Ian leaned back in his chair, then caught himself as he felt its flimsy back give under his weight. “But…”

  Jane shifted in her chair. Ian heard voices outside the door; was he being summoned? He rubbed his fingertips together, trying not to focus on the way they slid against each other.

  “But the explosives residue they say you planted on Nadeem Sharif,” the barrister continued, his eyes widening. “You were actively involved in an anti-terror operation. Our contention is that you’d been near the plane, and that’s how the residue found its way onto you.”

  “And then onto Sharif from your fingers,” Jane added.

  “When I was checking the bodies,” said Ian.

  Syed nodded. “When you were checking the bodies. As you were perfectly entitled to do given your place in the investigation.”

  Ian nodded. Zoe had seen him crouching over Sharif’s body. Leave this on one of the victims, he’d been told. Preferably male, preferably Asian. But Zoe hadn’t confirmed to PSD which body she’d seen him with; she hadn’t known who it was at the time.

  He just had to hope she was telling the truth, and would stick to the same story in court.

  “One of the prosecution witnesses is the pathologist,” said Syed. He checked his notes. “A Doctor Adebayo. I’ll plant the idea in the jury’s minds that she’s just as likely to have planted evidence on the body as you are, that you weren’t the only one with access. Which makes the idea of either of you doing it absurd. Two professionals, doing their job. And of course, I’ll drive home the fact that you were near the plane.”

  “Thanks,” Ian said. “I owe you one.”

  “Just doing my job, mate.” The barrister stood up. He smelled of soap. His chin was smooth and his hair perfectly neat. “Try not to worry. You won’t be called for a while yet. We’ve got plenty of witnesses to get through before you. And we’ll talk beforehand. You’ll be fine.”