Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6)

by Rachel McLean

  Her hand flew to the chain around her neck. Gold, thin. Tasteful, unlike the thick makeup she wore. “He’s not. He’s at a business meeting.” She bit her lip, her eyes huge. Mo wondered how she could blink with all that mascara.

  “Is that what he told you?” he asked.

  She blinked back tears. “He’s not dead. You just did that to get me to admit he’d broken his terms.”

  “I’m not concerned about him breaking his terms right now, Mrs Petersen. I’m more concerned about finding out about the circumstances of his death.”

  “Death?”

  Mo nodded. “We found him yesterday. I’m afraid we weren’t able to identify him until today. And naturally we came straight—”

  He was interrupted by a howl. Selina Petersen stood on her doorstep and screeched like an animal. Rhodri shifted back. Mo stood his ground, his muscles clenched.

  “Mrs Petersen, please. Let’s go inside.”

  “He’s not dead! My Howie is NOT dead!”

  “Sarge.” Rhodri’s lips were near Mo’s ear. “The neighbours are starting to come out.”

  The Petersens lived on a broad road in the affluent suburb of Four Oaks. The houses were separated by expansive front lawns and driveways that rivalled the Harborne police station car park. Even at those distances, the neighbours had heard the commotion. Mo looked round: of two houses opposite, one had a face peering from the front door and the other, a window in which the curtain had been parted a crack.

  Mrs Petersen looked over the detectives’ heads, easy with the steps leading up to her front door, and shouted. “Fuck off, all of you! You were bastards to him! Still are!”

  Mo stepped up to put a hand on her arm. “Come on, Mrs Petersen. Let’s get you inside.” He turned to Rhodri as he steered her into the house. “Rhod, get a Family Liaison Officer sent out here asap.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The girls were upstairs doing homework. Anita could hear Carly’s music blasting out. She’d have to go up and tell her to turn it off, it was one of the conditions of her curfew. The thought of it filled Anita with dread.

  She scrolled through her phone, her mind far away. The conversation with Lesley Clarke had rattled her. She knew what the female officers thought of her and the other wives. Trophy wives, to be paraded at social events like dolls, hanging on their husbands’ arms as if they were another medal. The force liked married men, even in these days of equal opportunities. Having a stable home life helped a man like David to rise up the ranks.

  Stable home life, like hell.

  Who was that woman? What was the event he’d attended with her? Something where wives weren’t required. She wondered if his colleagues also had mistresses they took to these things. If there were specific events suitable for the illicit women, the ones without rings on their fingers and their names on the mortgage.

  She stopped on the local news website. There had been articles about Ian Osman’s trial for the last three days. David refused to talk about it, despite his agitation. She wished he’d confide in her.

  There was a new piece. Senior Police Officer in Liaison with New Street Bomber. It was accompanied by two photos: a shot of David leaving the court, and a mugshot of a woman with long dark hair.

  Anita held her breath. It was the same woman.

  New Street bomber?

  She jabbed on the photo to access the article, her chest tightening with every word.

  When she’d reached the end, she threw her phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.

  He’d not only been having an affair. He’d been having an affair with the woman who set off that bomb.

  She stared out of the window, her mind numb. Did he have something to do with the bomb? Had he been working undercover?

  She’d read about that undercover officer in the Met who’d cultivated a relationship with a suspect. He’d been sacked. Had he been prosecuted?

  She ran to her phone and dusted it off. The screen had a small crack in the top corner but still worked, thank God. She dialled David.

  Voicemail.

  “David, it’s Anita. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

  She hurried into the front room and stared out of the window. He wouldn’t be home for hours. Knowing David, he’d creep in and go straight to his office. She had to intercept him.

  She checked the clock on the mantelpiece: five fifteen. She could be in for a long wait.

  She dialled for a takeaway pizza. The girls would be happy, and she wouldn’t need to go to the kitchen to cook. A margarita and a ham & pineapple. Nothing for her, she felt sick already.

  She put the phone in her lap – call me back, David – and watched the street outside, her nerves thrumming.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The office was quiet, Mo and Rhodri not yet back. Zoe dialled Mo and got voicemail. She tried Rhodri’s number.

  “Boss.” His voice was low.

  “Are you at the Petersen house?”

  “Yeah. Hang on a minute.” She heard him moving, walking to somewhere private.

  “How did she react?” Zoe asked.

  “She bloody howled, boss. She was a wreck. Still is.”

  “Genuine?”

  “Looked it to me. She tried to make out like he was asleep, still in the house. She knows he’s been going out, but we don’t know where he told her he was going.”

  “Mo’s interviewing her now?”

  “The FLO has just arrived. There’s a bit of an argy going on.”

  “About what?”

  “The FLO thinks we’re being too hard on her.”

  “What? Who is this FLO?”

  “PS Lowe, boss.”

  “Never heard of her. Or him.”

  “Him. Bit of a jobsworth, if you ask me. From Erdington nick.”

  “That place keeps rearing its ugly head.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, there’s talk of a lawyer being called. We’re not going to get much out of her.”

  “She’s not a suspect. She doesn’t need a lawyer.”

  “S’pose not.”

  “But then,” Zoe said. “She is the widow of Howard Petersen.”

  Connie was watching her, taking her coat off and sitting down at her desk. Connie gave a shrug which Zoe returned.

  “OK, Rhod. See what you can get from her. We might have to bring her in for more formal questioning.”

  “A caution?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ll see you back here when you’re done.”

  “Er…”

  “Rhodri. We’re about to lose this case to PSD. We can’t wait till tomorrow.”

  “OK, boss. See you in a bit.”

  Rhodri needed to understand that hours were fluid when they were working a murder investigation. Connie sat back in her chair and looked up at Zoe, showing no sign of going anywhere.

  “OK,” Zoe said. “Carl didn’t say he was taking this off us yet, but we have to assume he will. In which case, we’ve got another fish to fry.”

  She walked to the board and scrawled Trevor Hamm?

  “You think he’s the key?” Connie asked.

  “He was involved with Petersen. He might have got in with this new gang. And there’s still a warrant out for his arrest for what he did to those women. That case is open, we should be looking for him.

  “But we already—”

  “I don’t care what we already did. He’s the missing piece of the jigsaw. And I’m sure the CPS would be grateful to have access to him for Ian’s trail.”

  “How was it today?”

  “I’m not talking about it.”

  “That bad, huh?” Connie asked.

  “It wasn’t good. God knows which way it’s going to go.”

  “But you saw Ian…”

  “I saw him standing near a body, Connie. I can’t be sure it was Sharif’s body and I didn’t see Ian plant anything. If they’re relying on my evidence, he’ll walk.”

  “They can’t be. The CP
S would never have prosecuted.”

  ‘That’s what I’m assuming.”

  “DI Whaley hasn’t filled you in on the details?”

  “Something I’ve learned, Connie, is that when you’re going out with a PSD officer you become the very last person he’ll tell about his cases.”

  Connie nodded.

  Zoe sighed. “Let’s review what we have on Hamm. I think he’s connected to Petersen breaking the terms of his suspended sentence. I want to have the right questions for Mrs Petersen, when she comes in. And there’s Jory Shand to consider.”

  Jory Shand was a former newspaper editor, another of the three who’d been arrested in the Canary case. Just like Petersen, he’d got off with a conviction for money laundering and a suspended sentence.

  “You want to go see him?” Connie asked.

  “We’ll probably need a warrant, I don’t imagine he’ll welcome us with open arms. But yes. He was one of that nasty little gang and we have to hope he can tell us something.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It was eight pm when Carl was disturbed by a knock on his office door. He put a hand to the back of his neck, stretched and yawned.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and his visitor slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Carl caught his breath, his hand dropping to his lap. “Sir.”

  Randle nodded and took a seat. Carl glanced at the door. He walked to the window that separated his office from the one next door and closed the blinds. The neighbouring office was in darkness, but he couldn’t be too careful.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “You’ll have heard about my evidence today.”

  “The photograph.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think you should be talking to me. We’re already—”

  Randle put up a hand. “I want to cut a deal.”

  Carl felt his mouth fall open. He closed it again.

  “A deal.”

  “I provide evidence against Trevor Hamm’s organisation, and you don’t arrest me.”

  Carl stifled a laugh. He stared at the Detective Superintendent. Was he dreaming?

  He put his hand up to the back of his neck again. He pinched the skin: fully awake.

  “I think you should be talking to Superintendent Rogers.”

  “You’re closer to this case. Jackdaw, you call it?”

  Carl felt heat rise up his neck. How much did this bastard know about what he and his team were doing?

  He stood up. “We can’t have this conversation alone. Give me a moment, and I’ll fetch a colleague.”

  Randle placed his perfectly manicured hands on his knees. He said nothing.

  Carl opened the door to his office and scanned the corridors. Should he lock the door? The man wasn’t under arrest. God knows, what had come out in court today had put a firework under PSD, but they didn’t have a warrant yet. Randle was due to give the second part of his testimony tomorrow, and Superintendent Rogers wanted to wait for that. See if he incriminated himself.

  The corridors were empty. Randle worked up on the tenth floor, five stops away in the lift. Carl had seen him moving around the building often enough. But he’d never appeared in Carl’s office.

  Superintendent Rogers’s office was at the end of the corridor. Carl ran towards it, knowing it would be empty. He hammered on the door, but it was locked.

  A door opened behind him. “Boss? Everything OK?”

  “Layla. Thank God. David Randle’s just appeared in my office wanting to cut a deal.”

  Her eyes were huge. “He’s what?”

  “You heard me. I can’t do this alone. We need two of us.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” She dived into her office and grabbed a pad and pen. “You got an audio recorder in your room?”

  “I doubt he’ll consent to us using it. He’s not under arrest, remember.”

  “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Yeah.” He pressed his fist into his temple. The door to his office hadn’t budged since he’d been gone. “Come on.”

  Carl walked back into his office, trying to look like this was bread and butter to him. In truth, he’d never gone after such a high ranking officer as Detective Superintendent Randle. And he’d certainly never done it without a senior colleague at his back.

  “Sir. This is DS Kaur.”

  Randle turned and smiled at Layla. “I know.”

  She gave Randle an uneasy smile and grabbed the chair next to him. She pulled it away so it was at the side of Carl’s desk, the three of them forming a triangle.

  Carl rounded the desk, his heart racing, and sat down.

  You can do this.

  He leaned across the wood and placed his elbows on the table, his hands in a steeple grip. “Detective Superintendent Randle. Thanks for waiting.”

  A shrug.

  “You say you want to cut a deal. What are you proposing?”

  Randle leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed. “I tell you what I know about Hamm, and you put me and my family in witness protection. No arrest.”

  “Your family?”

  “Two daughters. Carly and Maria.” He nodded at Layla. “I suggest you write that down. And my wife Anita. She has no idea about all of this. Although after today…” He shook his head, just a little.

  “I can’t authorise witness protection just like that,” Carl told him. “I’ll have to speak to Superintendent Rogers, and things will need to be put in place.”

  Randle eyed him. “You work closely with Rogers, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet you do. You’re his eyes and ears. I’m sure the two of you are as one mind.”

  “Nothing I do here tonight can be inter—”

  Randle waved a hand. “OK. Call him.”

  “And then you’ll tell me what you know about Hamm?”

  “Not until I have a guarantee that I’ll be immune.”

  Carl pulled in a shaky breath. “My role isn’t to catch Hamm. You know that PSD is here to—”

  “I know what you people do.” Randle leaned across the table. “But how would it feel to be the man responsible for bringing in the bastard behind the New Street bomb?”

  Carl nodded. As far as he was concerned, Randle himself was the biggest fish. But for West Midlands Police as a whole…

  Rogers would understand the politics of this better than him. But could Carl believe a word Randle said?

  “Do you know where Hamm is right now?” he asked.

  Randle smiled. “Uh-uh.”

  “If you don’t even know where he is, why should I believe you’ll have any valuable evidence?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.” Randle scratched his chin. “Just ring your boss, like a good dog.”

  Carl bristled. He shared a glance with Layla then picked up his phone. It rang out six times, then Rogers picked up.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so late sir, but I have Detective Superintendent Randle in my office.”

  “You have… what?”

  “He wants to do a deal with us. He provides evidence on Hamm, we don’t arrest him. And we put him in witness protection.”

  Rogers snorted. “Put him on the phone.”

  “I’ll put it on speakerphone.”

  “Just hand him over.”

  Carl held his phone out to Randle, flinching as the man’s fingers brushed his own. Randle put the phone to his ear, his face impassive.

  “Malcolm.” Randle sat back and jiggled his foot as he spoke. “Uh-huh… yes… of course… I will… that’s for me to know… not yet… that’s not good enough… I know you can… yes… I’ll talk to her… very well.”

  Carl watched, wondering what Rogers was saying on the other end. Who was more important to his boss, Randle or Hamm?

  Or did he hope to get both?

  Randle cupped his hand over the phone, muttering. Carl felt irritation seep through his body. Layla shifted in her chair, her p
en sweeping across her pad in terse strokes.

  At last Randle lowered the phone. “Your boss will give you your instructions in the morning.”

  “Which are?”

  “Like I say, he’ll tell you in the morning.” Randle stood up.

  “Wait,” said Layla. “You can’t just leave.”

  “Why not?” said Randle.

  “Because…”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.” He tipped a finger to his forehead. “I’ll see you around. Maybe.”

  The Superintendent moved smoothly to the door. Before Carl could think of the best thing to say, he was gone.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Layla asked.

  “No idea,” replied Carl. He dashed to the door and opened it to see the lift doors closing, the corridor empty.

  He ran back into his office and fumbled for his phone, which Randle had left on the desk. He dialled Rogers: voicemail.

  “What the hell?”

  “He’s not picking up?” said Layla.

  Carl shook his head. “I guess we have to wait.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “My client is prepared to talk to you, but only with me present,” said the solicitor. He was a young man wearing a bright blue suit. Something about him made Mo want to wash his hands.

  “Fine. She’s not under arrest. Or caution.”

  “You can’t be too careful.”

  Mo and Rhodri were in the kitchen of the Petersens’ large house, with its ugly portico porch and white-rendered walls. The kitchen was vast and gleaming, the surfaces covered in grey granite. They’d been here almost two hours waiting for the FLO to arrive, and then the solicitor.

  “Where is she?” Rhodri asked. He was perched on a stool at the gargantuan island and had been stroking the granite absentmindedly, humming to himself.

  “She’s in the snug. Follow me.” The lawyer, whose name was Charles Greening, led them out of the room. They left the FLO behind, trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked.

  The so-called snug was anything but. It was a room as big as the downstairs of Mo’s house, with a projector screen at one end and a vast wraparound sofa in cream leather at the other. Mrs Petersen sat on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her and a cat snuggled beside her. She’d removed her makeup, making her look like a child.