Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6)

by Rachel McLean

  She eyed him. “Everything OK?”

  He sniffed. “Bloody stinks down there.”

  Changing the subject, she thought. Don’t push it.

  “OK.” She squeezed past him, noticing that he pulled back so as not to make bodily contact, and went down to the cellar.

  Adana was alone, packing up her case. She looked up at Zoe’s entrance. “Poor soul.”

  “Not the best place to end your days.”

  “Indeed. Getting him out of here without causing any damage is going to be a nightmare.”

  “Can you do some of the PM here?”

  Adana wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her protective suit. “The light’s dreadful, we’ve got barely any space, and the dust’ll just contaminate his organs once I open him up. We’re going to need to move him out as carefully as we can.”

  “You want me to summon your team?”

  “We’ll need more bodies to get this right. Form a kind of conveyor belt, pass him up the stairs instead of having a couple of people heaving him up on their own.”

  “You want to bag him first?”

  “It’ll contaminate the area around the body. It’s all too tight down here. Charlie and Graham can bag him upstairs.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Zoe said. “I’ll bring some Uniform down.”

  Adana bent over, her hands on her thighs. “Thanks.”

  “You want me to get you a bottle of water or anything?”

  “That would be lovely, if you’ve got one.”

  “Ah. Sorry.” She didn’t have anything of the sort.

  Adana laughed. “Don’t worry.”

  Zoe trudged back up the stairs. Adi and Rav were at the back door, examining the scratches on the sill.

  “This was done with a screwdriver, I reckon,” Adi said. “Maybe a chisel. Someone jimmied the door from the outside. Lifted it in its frame so the lock would disengage.”

  “We’ll talk to neighbours,” said Zoe. “See if anyone’s noticed any activity in the garden.”

  “You’ve looked at the angle of these houses?”

  Zoe shook her head. “From the front, it all looks pretty random, but…”

  “No one can see into this garden. Not close to the house, anyway. I reckon if we drew a line from the back of that decking to the fence at the side, it would give us a blind spot.”

  “Still,” she said. “Someone might have seen them come in via the side.”

  “It’s worth a shot. But your killer knew there was an empty house. He knew it was in a secluded spot, with no other houses overlooking it. He did his research, Zoe.”

  “Don’t assume it’s a man.”

  Adi pointed towards the cellar. “The victim’s over six feet tall.”

  “Still,” she replied. “We can’t assume anything till we’ve got the evidence.”

  Adi shrugged.

  “Right,” Zoe said. “Adana wants to move the body out. Are you ready for her to mess up the staircase?”

  “We’ve dusted the stairs, taken impressions. I know she’ll do her best to preserve the area around the body.”

  “She’s setting up a conveyor belt,” Zoe told him. “Less disruption that way.”

  “Good thinking.” Adi turned to Rav. “We can help out.”

  “I’ll get some Uniform,” Zoe said.

  She went out to the front drive and spoke to the constable she’d checked in with. He was one of four uniformed officers on the scene. Within minutes the other three were in the kitchen, filling the space with their bulk.

  “Adana!” Zoe called down the stairs. “How many d’you want me to send down?”

  “Two please,” came Adana’s voice. “Two who’ve got some sense and won’t make a mess.”

  Avoiding the eyes of the constables, Zoe gestured to Adi. “You and Rav.”

  “Good choice.” Adi headed through the doorway and Rav followed him. Zoe heard Adana speaking indistinctly, and then the sound of a heavy weight being moved. She drew in a breath, her eyes on the doorway.

  “Right,” she said to the uniformed officers, two men and a woman. “What are your names?”

  The woman spoke. “I’m PC Gilbert, ma’am. This is PC McDougall and PC Kale.”

  “Right.” Zoe looked at one of the men. “PC Kale, you get close to that door. Be ready to take the body as it approaches and pass it back. Be bloody careful, yes?”

  “No problem, ma’am.” The constable hurried into position.

  “Good. PC Gilbert, you stand two feet behind him, next to the door to the hallway. Same drill. PC McDougall, you stand in the doorway, make sure that door stays open.”

  “I’ll wedge it, ma’am.”

  Adana’s two assistants were in the hallway. Zoe indicated towards them. “When the body comes through, you pass it on. Slowly and steadily. Be careful not to bring it into contact with the walls and furniture as far as possible. Hand it through to the pathology team. And they’ll get it out to their van.”

  “Ma’am.” PC McDougall took up his spot behind his colleagues. The three of them donned protective gloves.

  Zoe licked her lips. She went to the window and looked outside. Mo was on the phone again. Trying to get contact details for the owners, she imagined. Connie would be best placed to do that.

  She turned at the sound of movement in the cellar doorway. The body was making its way upwards. Adana had secured the limbs in place, but the face was visible. The stench filled the room, making PC Kale gag. Zoe watched him, her breathing shallow.

  He took some of the weight off Rav and passed the body through. He did a good job, avoiding contact with the walls despite having to get the body around an angle. Zoe was glad Adana wasn’t watching this.

  The load moved on, into the waiting arms of PC Gilbert and then PC McDougall. Instead of passing it through to the pathology assistants, he froze.

  “Constable, keep the line moving please,” Zoe said.

  He said nothing, instead staring into the face of the victim, his mouth open.

  “Is there a problem?” Zoe approached him.

  He looked up at her, the body shifting in his grip. PC Gilbert to one side and the pathology assistant behind him stepped in to help take the weight.

  Zoe was annoyed. She’d given clear instructions. “PC McDougall, what’s the matter?”

  “I know him, ma’am,” he breathed.

  She looked down at the body. The clothes were heavily bloodstained and the face was already desiccated, making the victim look twenty years older than Adana had put him at.

  “You recognise him?”

  PC McDougall swallowed. “He’s force, ma’am.”

  Zoe felt her stomach plummet. “He’s a copper?”

  A nod. PC McDougall’s face was pale. “His name’s Detective Sergeant Raif Starling, ma’am. He works out of Erdington CID. Or at least he did, until a couple of months ago.”

  Chapter Ten

  The girls had gone to school and Anita was alone in the house. She hated mornings, so empty and quiet with no one here and nothing to do.

  She should tidy up. Maria’s room was a mess, hair products scattered across surfaces and a pile of clothes next to the desk, among which Anita had no idea which items were clean and which were dirty. Her eldest daughter had a habit of pulling clothes out of her wardrobe when deciding what to wear and then not putting any of it back. The rejects joined the dirty laundry on the floor, meaning Anita did twice as much washing as she needed to.

  Maria had gone out last night. It was her boyfriend Joe’s birthday, and they’d gone for a pizza with his parents. Carly had shut herself in her room, on WhatsApp with her friends. Anita and David had drifted around the house, him distracted by thought of today’s trial and her distracted by her thoughts. More than once she’d been about to question him, to ask him why he’d been behaving strangely lately. But she knew he would be angry at her for raising it when he was under so much stress.

  Once this damn trial was over, she’d bring it out into
the open. Or she might not. She had no idea what to do. She couldn’t risk losing him. But she also couldn’t live her life like this, always watching for evidence of another woman. Sniffing his clothes when she pulled them out of the laundry, stopping herself from checking his receipts in the bedroom waste basket.

  She heaved herself up the stairs, scratching an insect bite on her arm, and wandered into the bedroom. His trousers from last night lay on the bed, perfectly arranged. If he took the trouble to put them out like that, why didn’t he hang them up? Something about airing them, he said. Surely he could air them on a hanger.

  She grabbed a hanger from the wardrobe and folded the trousers over it, careful to keep the creases in place. David ironed creases into his trousers after he’d got them back from the dry cleaner’s. Thank God he didn’t expect her to do it. She had enough on her plate with all the clothes the girls wore.

  As she brushed the trousers down, something fell out of the pocket. She frowned. David was fastidious about this. He emptied his pockets every evening when he got in from work. Rubbish went into the waste basket and anything else into the tray on his bedside table. Then he put on his jeans – Levis, he ironed them too – and came downstairs for dinner. Maybe with a detour via his study. Those detours were lasting longer recently.

  Anita bent to pick up the object. It was a scrap of paper, folded up. She held it between the tips of her fingers like it might burn her. Was it rubbish? Anything that didn’t go into the bin, he filed or photographed immediately. He never left scraps of paper like this in his tray. And he never left anything in his pockets.

  She pulled in a long breath, her chest shaking. She placed the paper on the bed, trying to pretend it wasn’t there.

  She turned away from it and placed the hanger with her husband’s trousers over the wardrobe door knob. He didn’t like that; it made the bedroom untidy. Not as untidy as leaving your trousers lying around on the bed, she thought.

  She surveyed the trousers, picking off a couple of white cat hairs – another reason not to leave them lying around, Sheba must have got into the bedroom when the girls were moving around this morning. After what felt like an age, she turned back to the folded-up piece of paper on the bed.

  If it was rubbish, she should bin it. It was probably rubbish.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  In that case, she should put it on his bedside table, in the tray. She glanced at the tray; empty. Keys gone, phone gone. Of course. When David wasn’t at home, you’d barely know he lived here, so little evidence of himself did he leave behind.

  If she put it in the tray, it would be like a beacon announcing she’d touched it. It was probably rubbish.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  She swallowed. Only one thing for it.

  She had to know. Then she could decide.

  If it was rubbish, she’d take it downstairs, throw it in the kitchen bin. Pretend it had never existed. It was probably rubbish.

  She picked it up, thinking of the protective gloves David wore when he handled evidence. There’d been one time they’d suspected Maria had been smoking weed – she hadn’t, thank God – and he’d put them on to search her room while she’d been out with friends. As if his daughter would come home and dust for prints.

  Anita pursed her lips as she unfolded it. From outside she heard a car door slam. She flinched. He’s not coming home, she told herself. He never came home in the daytime. David was far too meticulous to leave anything he needed behind.

  She opened it further, holding her breath. Inside was a printout of a photo.

  She bit her bottom lip as she opened it fully. Her eyes prickled.

  It was a photograph of David. He was at some kind of police function, a glass of white wine in his hand and a crowd of people surrounding him. Some of them were in uniform, most not.

  Next to him, a blank smile on her face, was a young woman. She had smooth brown hair and dark eyes. She wore coral lipstick. David hated bright lipstick.

  He had his arm around the woman. Anita could see his fingers on her waist, his arm encircling her out of sight. He was squeezing her.

  Who was this woman, that her husband could embrace her like that?

  She stared at the photo.

  Now what?

  This wasn’t rubbish. He’d kept it in his pocket for a reason. Was it a keepsake, a treasured memory?

  She lay the photo on the bed, wishing she’d worn gloves now. She took her phone out of her cardigan pocket and snapped an image, jumping as the fake shutter sound kicked in.

  She picked it up and refolded it, very carefully. She took the hanger off the wardrobe door and lifted the trousers off it. The photo still in her hand – she needed to let go of it, her palms were sweaty – she lay the trousers on the bed and pushed the photo back into one of the pockets.

  She froze. Which pocket had it been in? She felt her chest hollow out. If she put it back in the wrong one, he’d know.

  The left pocket. She’d watched him empty his pockets on so many occasions. She knew his habits. Phone and keys in the right, everything else in the left. She patted the pocket, feeling the folded up image inside, her fingers tingling.

  She surveyed the room. The hanger. She put it back in the wardrobe and backed away from the bed. She closed the door.

  At the top of the stairs, her grip on the bannister tight, she allowed herself to cry.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zoe walked into the team room. Connie swivelled in her chair.

  “I’ve got the phone number for the house owners, in Germany.”

  Zoe nodded. “Ta.”

  “Shall I give it to the sarge?”

  “Did he ask for it?”

  A shrug. “He told me they were in Germany. I called the agents.”

  Zoe smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Give it to Mo. He’ll be back here soon.”

  “Anything you want me to do in the meantime?”

  Zoe pulled in a shaky breath. “I need to think.”

  “Of course. Boss.” Connie turned away and dipped her head to her work.

  Zoe walked into the inner office and threw herself into the chair. DS Raif Starling. That was all she bloody needed, a murder case, and the victim turns out to be a copper.

  Not retired, either. PC Kale hadn’t known why Starling had left Erdington. Maybe he’d got a transfer. Maybe he’d resigned.

  But her spidey senses were telling her it was neither of those. Had Starling been suspended?

  Until she knew whether that was the case, and why, this was a regular murder inquiry. His death might be unrelated to the fact he was a detective. He might just have been unlucky.

  Yeah, she thought. Carry on telling yourself that, and it might turn out to be true.

  Normally she wouldn’t even have come straight to the office. She’d have been in front of Lesley, asking for her advice. Trusting her experience.

  But Dawson was the one in Lesley’s office now. OK, so he was her acting boss, but he wasn’t a DCI. And he’d been at court when she last saw him.

  No reason to think he wasn’t still there.

  She opened the door to the inner office. The constables both shuffled in their seats, not looking up. Was she being that obvious?

  “Rhod, can I borrow you for a minute?”

  Rhodri shared a look with Connie. Shit, thought Zoe. He thinks it’s about the Sergeants’ Exam.

  She clenched her fists. Might as well address it.

  Rhodri stood up, smoothing down his tie, and walked to her office. Connie watched him. Zoe sat behind her desk and waited for him to take one of the other chairs.

  “Boss,” he said. “How was the crime scene?”

  “Bloody smelly,” she replied. “Victim had been there at least a week, according to Adana. Mind you, it would have been worse if he hadn’t dried out.”

  Rhodri grimaced. “He killed there, or brought in?”

  “We’re not sure about that yet. There’s signs of a break-in, but more recent.”
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  “So he was killed somewhere else, then dumped at the house.”

  “Not according to the amount of dust around his body.” She leaned back. “Adi’s still there. If there’s anything else to help us work out the sequence of events, he’ll get it to us.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “There is, Rhod, but first I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  He flushed. “The sarge already…”

  “I know. But I’m your DI, and you deserve to hear this from me. I’m impressed by your ambition.”

  “But.”

  “You’ve been a DC for two and a half years, Rhod.”

  “I was a PC for three years before that.”

  “I know. And you’ve got a good record. But if you want to become a sergeant, we need to see more from you.”

  “That’s what the sarge said.”

  “And he’s right. I’m not saying you don’t have it in you to make sergeant. Just that you’re not ready yet.”

  He nodded, his eyes lowered. “So how do I get ready?”

  “You’ll need to take on more responsibility. Cover areas of investigation alone. Maybe with Connie’s help. Although I have no idea if she’s thinking along these lines too.”

  Rhodri looked up. “She’s not.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno, boss. She’s only been in CID less than a year.”

  “Fair point. Connie’s more patient than you, that’s for sure. But you’re both good detectives. You both show potential. I’ll talk to Mo, work out how we can help you build on that.”

  “I appreciate it, boss.”

  “Good. And sorry to disappoint you.”

  He grinned. “I kinda guessed it was a long shot.”

  She smiled back at him. “Doesn’t do any harm to ask.”

  Zoe looked through the glass at Connie, who was on the phone. This was one of the reasons it was so hard for women, especially black women like Connie, to rise up the ranks. Rhodri had role models coming out of his ears. The senior ranks were full of outgoing, confident white men. Men with networks stretching across the region, just like him. He simply assumed he’d work his way up, and fast. Connie, on the other hand, while showing more potential, didn’t.