Deadly Wishes
Detective Zoe Finch Book 1
Rachel McLean
Contents
Find Out More
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
Find Out More
Find Out More
If you want to find out more about the events of this book, you can watch the video case file by joining my book club at rachelmclean.com/zoe.
Thanks,
Rachel McLean
Chapter One
Bryn Jackson was pissed off.
With his wife, who’d been worse than useless at his retirement party.
With DCI Randle, forcing him to meet before the party. Trying to wheedle out of promises he’d made years ago.
And with the man who’d just left his study, or rather with the man’s boss.
Jackson closed the door leading from his study to the garden, not waiting to see the man leave by the side gate. He was tired.
He took the key from his pocket and locked the doors, testing the top and bottom to be sure the bolts had fully engaged. He turned to the desk – mahogany inlaid with red leather, his pride and joy – and dropped the keys into a hidden drawer beneath the main compartment. He wrinkled his nose at the paperwork scattered across the surface and gathered it together. Jackson hated mess. His desk was a grid of rectangles, everything arranged just so. The study itself was orderly, still filling up with files. Files he would have to somehow return in the next two weeks.
He slid the papers into a brown envelope and crossed to a metal filing cabinet. The drawer squeaked as it opened, exacerbating his headache. Tonight had been a disappointment. First there’d been the meeting with David Randle at the Botanical Gardens – necessary, but unpleasant. Then the party. It was supposed to be a surprise, but the idiots that worked for him had been about as subtle as an elephant in a paint factory. He’d known about it for weeks. And then this final meeting, one he’d been anticipating for a while. He’d rolled over what he would say in his head, preparing his defence. But he’d been drunk, and his brain was slowing. This was what he had to look forward to, now he was leaving the force. A slow decline into oblivion.
He turned at the sound of the door handle. He’d made it clear he wasn’t to be disturbed. He tensed and chewed his bottom lip. This was still tiresome even after thirty-two years.
The door opened a crack and a face appeared. Bryn put a hand on the desk. There were two empty whisky glasses on marble coasters. His best malt, wasted.
“What are you doing here?”
“I know what you’ve been doing.”
He shook his head. “It’s almost midnight. This can wait.”
“No.” The intruder glanced back into the hallway. “We need to talk about this now.”
Jackson shook his head. A tight, irritated gesture familiar to his subordinates at West Midlands Police. A gesture that said fuck off and leave me alone.
“You never were any good at listening. Come back tomorrow.”
He rounded the desk, turning his back to the visitor. He grabbed the decanter and pulled out the stopper. It made a satisfying thunk. He started to pour.
A hand landed on his arm. “Now.”
He shook it off. “I said no. Now bugger off, for fuck’s sake. Can’t you see I’m busy.”
“You can’t ignore me this time.”
He felt pressure on his back as his visitor leaned in. He shrugged a shoulder, pushing them away. The grip on his arm tightened.
“Leave me. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
“No.”
Jackson felt a stinging sensation at his throat. He grunted and shifted his weight to push the intruder away. Fuck. His chest felt tight.
He raised a hand to his dress shirt. Wet. He brought the hand up. Red.
What the—? he thought as he fell over the desk.
Chapter Two
Four hours earlier
“Go on, boss. It’s your big moment.”
Detective Constable Rhodri Hughes stared at Zoe, his expression intense. He worked on holding his head as level as he could. Not surprising, given that he was on his fifth pint of Foster’s.
Zoe leaned back in her chair. “Watch it, Constable.”
Rhodri laughed. “Chicken?”
“No.”
“Hey. That’s too far, son,” said Detective Sergeant Mo Uddin, sitting between them.
“Sorry.” Rhodri slumped in his chair.
“He wants to speak to you, boss,” said Mo. “Congratulate you.”
“Go for it, boss.” Rhodri leaned towards Zoe. She got a gust of lager breath and wrinkled her nose. She put her Coke Zero on the table and glanced in the direction of their subject.
“It would be rude to ignore him,” said Mo.
“I hate this stuff,” she said.
“Comes with the territory,” said Mo. “Now you’re a DI.”
“Acting DI. I’ll be right back to being a DS with you soon as DI Dawson gets back from his secondment. And Rhodri,” she said to the constable, “don’t forget who your bosses are.”
Rhodri turned pink. Zoe laughed.
“Relax. It’s a party. And I’m not expecting special treatment.”
“You’re about to get it, I’m afraid,” said Mo.
She sipped at her Coke. “Wish me luck.”
“G’luck,” slurred Rhodri. She reminded herself to make sure someone bundled him into a cab at the end of the night.
She stood up and tugged at her shirt. Behind her, Mo sported a black bow tie with his usual grey jacket and black trousers. Rhodri wore the crumpled blue Top Man suit he’d had on all day. The group of senior officers who’d summoned her were all in black tie.
“Go,” said Mo. He gestured with his glass. His eyes crinkled in the way that so endeared him to her.
Zoe looked across the function room. The man was middle-aged with a protruding stomach, no more than five foot six tall. She wondered how he’d got past the historical height restrictions, or if he’d shrunk. Next to him sat DCI David Randle, her new boss. The two of them had their heads close, deep in conversation.
She turned to Mo. “It’s Jackson’s retirement party. Maybe another time…”
Rhodri necked the last of his pint. Mo cocked his head. “He’s only going to be here for another two weeks. D’you want him coming down to the nick and seeking you out?”
She shuddered. No. No, she didn’t want that. The journalist who’d chased her as she’d left the station tonight had been bad enough. She just wanted this to be over.
“Alright. For you, Mo.” She grimaced at Rhodri. “You need to stop drinking that muck.”
Rhodri looked into his glass. “Tomorrow.”
Always tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d stop bingeing on Fruit Pastilles. Tomorrow he’d go to the gym. Problem was, Rhodri Hughes was so tall and lean, that no matter how unhealthy his lifestyle, it never showed. Except in his complexion.
Zoe stood and squared her shoulders. This was tougher than any arrest.
She made for the table at the front of the room. They were in a banqueting suite at Birmingham Botanical Gardens, celebrating the imminent retirement of the man she was about to apprehend.
Zoe had never spoken to him before. Why she needed to do so now, when he’d be planting daffodils in his suburban garden in two weeks’ time, she’d got no idea. But she couldn’t afford to be rude.
Eyes dragged on her as she moved past the tables. It wasn’t often this many coppers got together for a shindig, and one with a free bar at that. They were making the most of it. A few couples had slunk outside, despite the rain.
At last she reached the front table. The Assistant Chief Constable sat with his hands clasped behind his head and his bowtie draped around his neck. Next to him were high-ups from other sections of the West Midlands police force. The table was stacked high with empty glasses, and ringed with red faces and loosened collars.
Opposite them, looking less relaxed, was a group of women. The senior officers’ wives. One of them watched Zoe intently. A mousy woman with the kind of hair that’d stay exactly where it was, no matter how abruptly its owner moved. She wore a beige dress that made her stomach look larger than it should, with a matching handbag perched on her lap. She glanced from Zoe to the ACC, her expression like that of a hunted animal.
Zoe turned her attention to the high-ups. They’d stopped talking, all eyes on her.
“Zoe.” David Randle gave her a lopsided smile. She returned it. “Guv.”
“Oh no, no, no,” he replied. “We’re all friends here. Call me David.”
Another of the women, this one taller with lipstick like a personal statement, gave Zoe a look. A proprietorial one, the kind Zoe had seen before. She knew how insecure police wives could get. She knew they had reason to be, sometimes.
“Ah. The heroine of the hour,” the ACC said. Zoe held his gaze, unblinking. She could sense Rhodri and Mo’s eyes on her from across the room.
“Detective Inspector Zoe Finch, sir,” said Randle. “One of my brightest and best.”
The ACC smiled at her. “I’ve been hearing all about you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I authorised your promotion.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Your work on Canary was outstanding,” he said. “Not everyone would have made the connections you did.”
She nodded. Canary had started as a low-level fraud case, looking into a prominent businessman. It had ended with the arrest of the businessman, a former Lord Mayor and the editor of one of Birmingham’s local newspapers. The three of them had been grooming teenage kids in care, abusing them and sharing videos privately.
The ACC’s gaze snagged on her breasts, firmly encased in a white shirt, and continued to her black linen trousers. This event was supposed to be black tie, and the other women wore dresses. This was her compromise.
“Teamwork, sir.” Zoe gestured back towards Mo and Rhodri, hoping Rhodri’s expression didn’t let her down.
“Ah, yes.” The ACC looked past her at Mo. “DS Mohammed Uddin. Our token musselman.”
Zoe felt a ripple run through the group. David Randle gave her a leave it look.
“But don’t be so modest,” the ACC continued. “Take the credit. That’s how you get on in this job.”
Every fibre in Zoe’s body strained to get back to the team. “Thank you, sir. Good to meet you. Enjoy your retirement.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m going to be bored out of my fucking mind.” He glanced at the beige woman, who gave him an uncertain smile.
The ACC sighed loudly. “Stick with the job, Inspector Finch. Don’t let your family hold you back. I’d have been Chief Constable now if it weren’t for…”
The Chief Constable, two seats away from Jackson, cleared his throat. The ACC laughed again. He had a shrill laugh, the kind of laugh you could hear from a hundred paces.
“Well, maybe not,” he said. “You look after yourself, girl. Keep taking down those criminals for us.” He gave her a wink. The tension eased around the table. She was being dismissed.
“Sir.” Zoe glanced at David Randle, who nodded at her. She went back to Mo and Rhodri, her pace relaxed. She didn’t want them thinking she was running away.
“That was bloody torture,” she said as she landed in her chair.
“Drink?” said Rhodri. “You look like you need one.”
“You know the answer to that, Rhodri.” Zoe downed her Coke Zero and slammed it on the table.
“Everything OK?” asked Mo.
She gave him a smile. “Fine. Thanks. I did my duty.”
Zoe watched the ACC lean towards the Chief Constable, sharing a joke. She considered telling Mo about the musselman comment but decided against it.
“Thank God I won’t have to cross paths with him again.”
Chapter Three
“Well, that was a shitstorm.”
Margaret Jackson tensed her shoulders and stared ahead, saying nothing. Rain pounded the windscreen as they stopped abruptly, tail lights flashing ahead.
“Bloody morons,” he continued. “Don’t they know it’s raining. Keep your distance!”
Bryn, her husband, leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “Bloody wipers are playing up again. Thirty grand worth of vehicle and they can’t even get the shitting mechanics right.”
At least his anger was aimed at the car now and not her. He alternately loved and hated his Jaguar. When talking to his friends he was full of praise for it. But in private, he treated it with the same contempt he’d lavished on his wife over the years.
“You could have at least made small talk,” he said. She realised he was talking to her.
“You know I hate those things.”
“So do I. But you have to make an effort. Compliment one of the wives on her dress. Talk about how nice the food is. Surely even you can think of something.”
He turned to her, his eyes wide. Watch the road, she thought. It was raining and he’d been drinking. She’d offered to drive home (she never drank at these things), but he’d insisted. His beloved car was too precious for her to drive.
And he knew that if he was stopped, all he’d need to do was say who he was.
“Sorry,” she said, aware of the inadequacy.
“Sorry.” A fleck of his spittle landed on her cheek. She resisted the urge to wipe it off, instead planting her hands in her lap.
“Always bloody sorry, you are.” He sighed and turned back to the road. He turned a corner, clipping the pavement. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Retirement. Dull as pigshit.” He turned to her and narrowed his already small eyes. “We’ll kill each other within a month.”
The thought of him retired, at home with her all day, every day, filled her with dread. He restricted her movements enough as it was. CCTV on the front door monitored her excursions and GPS tracked her phone. But at least when she was alone in the house, she was free.
Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Page 1