Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “What about the side gate?” she said. “You said it was open when you got home.”

  “It would have been banging if it was open. I’d used it in the morning and it was locked then.”

  Randle folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. Zoe leaned in.

  “Mrs Jackson, what about the CCTV? Can you tell me if that was on?”

  “I don’t know. That’s Bryn’s job.”

  “You don’t have access to it?”

  Mrs Jackson shifted in her chair. “No.”

  The lawyer put down his pen. “Is this going anywhere? My client is a grieving widow. She really needs to be at home.”

  “We need to work out if there was a break-in,” said Zoe.

  “Well it’s clear that somebody broke in,” he replied. “How else do you account for the open gate?”

  “We need to check everything.” Zoe turned to Mrs Jackson. “What kind of mood was your husband in when you left for the party?”

  “He was impatient. He wanted to get there quickly.”

  “How did he display his impatience?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Did he keep checking the time? Did he ask you to hurry? Did he lose his temper?”

  Margaret was stroking her fingernail. “He was impatient. I’m not sure exactly what he did. We left as soon as he was ready.”

  “Not when you were ready?”

  “No.”

  Unusual, thought Zoe. All the couples she knew did things the other way around.

  “Did you normally wait till your husband was ready, before you left the house?”

  “I always make sure I’m ready before Bryn.”

  Zoe nodded. Mrs Jackson stopped stroking her fingernail and held it tightly between thumb and forefinger.

  “Did anything unusual happen at the party?”

  “It was a party. People drank. The Chief Constable gave a speech. Bryn gave one, of sorts. The men got drunk.” Margaret glanced at Randle, whose face was impassive. “Nothing unusual.”

  “Did your husband speak to anyone new? Did he leave the room at any time?”

  “Just you. He left the room a few times, to go to the gents. He was drinking, Inspector. What do you expect?”

  Randle spoke. “I’m sorry. I know this is traumatic for you. We’ll have this wrapped up as soon as we can.” He looked at Zoe, waiting for her to continue.

  “Did the two of you argue on the way home?” she asked.

  “What would make you think that?”

  “You said he’d been drinking. Did that annoy you?”

  “No.”

  “Who drove home?”

  A pause. “I did.”

  Zoe thought back to their conversation the night before. “Did you normally drive home, after a party?”

  “Yes.”

  She was lying. Zoe glanced at Randle.

  “When you got home, was there any sign of a break-in? Any cars, or anyone walking along your road?”

  “I wasn’t looking for anything like that, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think your car engine might have disturbed someone?”

  “No. Bryn always turned the ignition off before rolling on to the drive.” Her neck flushed. “And so did I. He taught me to do it, when the children were small.”

  Zoe could hear Randle’s breathing quicken. Jackson had driven home drunk. He was two weeks off retirement, West Midlands Police’s longest serving copper.

  “Thank you, Mrs Jackson,” Randle said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I don’t understand. When we were at the house, you wanted to know how I found Bryn.”

  “I’m sure the forensics will give us everything we need to know.” He smiled. Zoe felt her blood chill.

  Randle stood up.” With me, DI Finch.”

  They left Margaret muttering with her lawyer. Randle slid into another interview room and Zoe followed. He looked up at the cameras to check they were switched off.

  “You could be right,” he muttered. “I think she might have killed him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The briefing room was filling up. Zoe grabbed a seat next to Mo, Lesley on her other side. Behind them, Rhodri sat with one of the DCs from Lesley’s team. The two of them looked like they’d be more at home with Nicholas and his friends, whispering in the back row in assembly. Not that Nicholas did that kind of thing. She wondered what he’d cooked for his tea, and if he’d saved any. She’d texted him before coming in here, just before deleting the ones from her mum. It was eight thirty pm – she’d be asleep.

  Randle came in with Adi, who looked like he’d just started work. His button-down collar was still buttoned down and his chinos had tight creases that made her think of Margaret Jackson’s outfit earlier. Randle’s tie was undone and his hair needed attention. Zoe had never seen him looking anything other than immaculate.

  She’d spent the last hour with Mo, organising the files in DI Dawson’s office so they could work through them the next morning. The office was locked and the key in her pocket. There were twelve boxes from the box room and four more from the study. Nothing from the bedroom yet.

  “Evening, people.” Randle looked up from the desk at which he was standing. On it was a laptop. Gone were the days when briefing rooms were full of photos pinned up on the wall. If he had anything to show them, it would be in a slideshow.

  Tired responses buzzed through the room. Murder investigations were tough at the best of times, everyone expected to work overtime until the case was solved. And they were near the end of the first twenty-four hours.

  But this was bigger. This was personal.

  “We have a new line of enquiry,” Randle said, his voice catching on the last word. He looked around the room as if trying to gauge who already knew. He pressed a key on the laptop and brought up a photo of the letter Zoe had found.

  “This is a letter written by the victim’s wife, Margaret Jackson.” Next to Zoe, Mo leaned forwards. Lesley side-eyed Zoe.

  Randle tugged at his tie. “What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential. We will not be briefing the press on this development, at least not until we know more. This stays in this room. Does everyone understand?”

  Half the people on the investigation were absent. Carl Whaley and his team were nowhere to be seen.

  “You can rely on everyone here,” said Lesley.

  “Thanks. This letter, as I say, was written by Margaret Jackson. We don’t know who she was writing to. And we don’t know why she didn’t send it. But it’s dated just two weeks ago.”

  He clicked through to a close-up of the relevant text. “In it, she says that she’s thinking about killing her husband and committing suicide.”

  Randle looked at the closed door. He strode to it and yanked the handle on the blind covering the glass in its top half. It rattled closed as he returned to the laptop.

  “We’ve interviewed Mrs Jackson, and we’ve got reason to believe there were problems in the couple’s relationship. We haven’t asked her directly about the letter yet, as we’re still working through the files left at the house. Zoe, any progress on that?”

  “All the documents are here and in a secure room. I’ll be starting on them as soon as we’re finished here.”

  “Get a team on it. I want this done quickly.”

  “Of course.”

  “Adrian, what do we have from blood spatter so far?” Randle continued.

  “The pattern is consistent with the victim being attacked from behind. Blood hit the desk at almost ninety degrees, suggesting he was already bending over it. No sign of anyone getting in the way of the spatter. The knife found on the floor of the study was a hunting knife. Double-edged, serrated. It’s consistent with the injuries to the victim’s neck and torso, according to the pathologist.”

  “Right. Lesley, anything of interest from the post-mortem?”

  “They haven’t finished it yet. There were wounds in his side, but it’s the one in the
neck that they think was fatal. I’ll let you know when we get more.”

  “I need everyone to shift things up a gear,” said Randle. Mrs Jackson will have access to the house, and she could try to destroy evidence. It’s vital that she isn’t allowed anywhere near the murder scene.”

  “Have you considered that we should arrest her?” said Lesley.

  “She’s the widow of the Assistant Chief Constable. The Chief Constable is already asking me for a press statement. I want to be one hundred per cent sure we’ve got this right before we do that.”

  “What about the rest of the house?” asked Zoe. “We’ve got the files, but what if there’s something else?”

  “We’ve taken the computers. We have Mr and Mrs Jackson’s phones. I want your team on those.”

  “I’ll get Connie on them when she’s finished with the CCTV. Have we checked for drugs, or any other weapons?”

  “There’s no reason to think drugs could have been involved,” said Lesley.

  “He was pretty drunk when he got home. It might not have just been alcohol.” Zoe thought back to the conversation with Mrs Jackson, trying not to imagine a man who’d been drugged driving home.

  Lesley shook her head. “We have to wait for the post-mortem report, but there’s no evidence of any substances. Or of a second weapon.”

  “What about fingerprints? DNA?” said Randle.

  “Mrs Jackson’s prints are on the knife handle,” said Adi. “But we think it came from the house.”

  “And she said she dropped it on the floor,” added Zoe. “Any other prints?”

  “None.”

  “Right,” said Randle. “Check the pattern. I’m assuming there’s plenty of her prints in the room, but what about evidence of anyone else being in there? Any stray hairs, fibres from clothing?”

  “That’s the odd thing,” said Adi. “Her prints are nowhere in there.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “Nope. Nowhere except the knife.”

  “She told us she never went in there,” said Zoe. “I don’t think he let her.”

  “If the murderer cleaned the knife,” said Mo, “they would have cleaned the room too.”

  “Good point,” said Zoe. “The killer wiped the place down, then Mrs Jackson picked up the knife and got her prints on it.”

  “How long are we talking about, from when they got home to when she found him?” asked David.

  “They got home at half past eleven, according to Mrs Jackson. She’s told us that twice,” said Zoe. “The 999 call was made at 12:03. That would give the killer half an hour to commit the crime, clean up and get away without being detected. Either whoever it was knew what they were doing, or it was someone already inside the house.”

  “Mrs Jackson,” said Mo.

  “Most murders are domestic,” said Lesley. “But we can’t go following hunches. I find it difficult to believe that room doesn’t have evidence of anyone except Jackson having been in it. Not even his wife. Adi, are you sure?

  “Sure as a month of Sundays.”

  “Hmm.” Lesley narrowed her eyes at him.

  “But we can get a dog in, if you want. Check for traces we haven’t been able to spot.”

  “OK,” said Randle. “You do that. That study is ground zero. No one goes in or out except Adrian and his team. If anyone has been in there apart from Jackson, we need to know who. Otherwise, we have no choice but to look more closely at Margaret. Zoe, you need to get onto those files. And the CCTV. Keep me posted, everyone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “They can’t do this,” Margaret said. “That’s my home.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, but they can. It’s a crime scene.” They were in Bryn’s lawyer’s car. “I’ve booked you into the Marriott. You’ll be comfortable there, and I’ll be liaising with them to get you home as soon as possible.”

  Until today, she’d never said more than hello to Edward. Why her husband needed a lawyer she had no idea, but Bryn had reassured her that it was for financial advice, for himself and Paul. Their son could get his own financial advice, she was sure. He was an accountant at a big firm, after all.

  And now it seemed Edward was not only a financial expert, but a criminal one too. He’d been waiting for her at the station when she’d arrived, extending his hand as she’d entered like this was some kind of social call.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he’d said. “I want to help in any way I can.”

  She’d accepted his help, too polite to turn him away. And maybe having a solicitor with her in that interview was for the best. David had behaved oddly. He’d looked at her too intently a couple of times, and he’d let that young inspector question her instead of doing it himself.

  Did he know? Had they found more of the letters? The thought filled her with dread.

  “Thank you,” she said as he pulled up in the hotel car park. This place was expensive. Bryn had been here for the occasional meeting over the years and she had a friend whose aunt had stayed while visiting, but she’d never stepped through the doors herself. She walked slowly, aware that she didn’t have a suitcase.

  “I need someone to go to the house and fetch some things for me,” she said to Edward.

  “I’ll talk to Chief Inspector Randle. I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  She felt herself stiffen at the thought of David coming here to question her. Her face would be in tonight’s Evening Mail. She needed to stay away from public spaces.

  She walked to the reception desk as confidently as she could.

  “Room reserved for Mrs Margaret Jackson, please.”

  The girl stared at a screen in front of her. Margaret hated the way no one made eye contact anymore, but tonight she was glad of it.

  When she did look up there was a glint of recognition in her eyes, curiosity vying with the discretion that would be drummed into the staff at a place like this.

  “Certainly, Mrs Jackson. Do you know how long you’ll be staying with us?”

  “Not for long I hope.”

  “Of course. Here’s your key. I’ll need a credit card and your signature here.”

  Margaret did as she was asked, the experience alien to her. Bryn was the one who booked hotels, who chose holiday destinations, who signed cheques. When the children had been small, holidays had been blighted by Bryn’s calls back to the office. And once Winona and Paul had left home, the holidays had dried up. She’d suggested taking herself on a ladies’ walking trip once, when his workload was particularly heavy. But he’d shut that down.

  She left Edward in the foyer and made for the lift. There was a man in a purple uniform standing inside, ready to push the button. She eyed him, wishing she could push the button for herself. Just pushing the button in a lift felt like a declaration of independence.

  The lift jolted to a halt and she thanked the man. She clutched her handbag, unsure if she was expected to tip him.

  The man was smiling at her, his hand on the lift doors. He didn’t have a palm outstretched, or an expectant look in his eye. She returned the smile and stepped out, counting the room numbers under her breath.

  A night alone in a hotel, the vast bed to herself. No one to tell her what to do. No one to berate her for behaving inappropriately. She wished she could go downstairs, sit at the bar like those women she’d envied for so long. But tonight, she would hide.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The letters weren’t confined to the one box. As Zoe and Mo worked through, they found more of them, hidden in files and among other paperwork. Always paperwork that was decades out of date.

  Zoe knew there could be more concealed in the house. If Margaret was hiding secret letters, she would slide them behind drawers, into the back of wardrobes, and into cracks between furniture. She would find spots that no one would look at, random places she thought were safe.

  “Maybe he found the letters,” suggested Mo. “He confronted her. They fought, and she killed him. Self-defence.”

  “Ther
e were no defensive wounds. On either of them. He’d have struck back. Or if he started it, there’d be her DNA in the room.”

  “She had that gash on her palm.”

  “But there’s no bruising on her,” Zoe said. “Lesley will know about any marks on his knuckles or palms.”

  “So the theory is she snuck up on him and slashed his neck.”

  “Put like that, it sounds daft.”

  “Everything sounds daft in this job.”

  She looked down at the pile of letters. The marriage was clearly in a bad way, the woman was anticipating her husband being at home twenty-four hours a day, and her prints were on the knife.

  “This is dafter than usual.”

  “Yeah.” Mo leaned back. They were both on their knees in the side office, the boxes on the floor around them.

  She smiled at him. “This is more like it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You and me, working together. Sifting through evidence. None of the boss stuff.”

  He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  “Randle was weird in that interview,” she said. “He shut it down too fast.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting till he can caution her.”

  She shook her head. “I wanted to hear what she had to say about when she found him. Surely if she killed him, her story wouldn’t stand up. There’d be inconsistencies. We need to ask her about that again and again. But he didn’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  “He just skipped it.”

  “Maybe he asked her when he interviewed her at the house. With Whaley.”

  “Yeah.” She wondered where Carl was. She’d not seen him all day.

  Randle had been reluctant to accept that Margaret might be the killer at first, but once the evidence had looked more convincing, he’d thrown himself behind the theory. Why?

  They now had a pile of thirty-three letters, dating from 1996 onward. The first one referred to a previous letter, but gave no indication of when she’d written them. There were long gaps between them, then there might be a flurry of three or four in a month. The longest gap was from 1999 to 2008. The next letter, dated February 2010, had attempted to explain the break.