“We’ve found quotes. Roof work, the kitchen, a doorway you blocked up.”
“Nah.”
“You didn’t do the work?”
“Must have found someone else.”
“So you gave him a quote, and he didn’t hire you?”
“That’s about it, yeah.”
“So how come you know the Jacksons so well?”
“What makes yer think that?”
“You asked how Mrs Jackson was. Surely if you’d just given her husband a couple of quotes, you wouldn’t be worried about her.”
“Who says it was him that got the quotes?”
“So it was her? Mrs Jackson?”
A shrug. “How’m I supposed to remember? All I know is it was a big ’ouse. Would’ve been a good one to work on. They asked me to quote, I quoted. They didn’t hire me.”
“Why did they send you four different jobs to quote for, if they never hired you?”
“Beats me. Going through the motions, I guess. Maybe because he was a copper. Liked to do things by the book.”
The music stopped again. Reynolds looked towards the door. “Look, I’ve got stuff to be getting on with. If you don’t need anything else…”
“What stuff is that?”
He screwed up his face. “Work. What’s it to you?”
“Who are you working for right now?”
He grunted a laugh. “You think I’m dodgy. Tax evasion. Here.”
He yanked open a drawer in the desk and grabbed a file. It held a quote and some receipts. “There you go. This is what I’m working on. Wardrobe, in Brindleyplace. Bespoke job. Teak, supposed to look like it was from 1960. Happy?”
“No, Mr Reynolds. I’m not happy at all.”
“So what else you need to know?”
“The jobs you did for the Jacksons.”
“Uh-uh. The jobs I quoted for.”
“How did they pay you?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you? Like I said, they didn’t hire me.” He said the last words slowly, like he was talking to an idiot. “If you’ve got grounds to search my office and check, get yourself a warrant. If not, I’ve got work to do.”
“Fair enough. Enjoy your wardrobe.”
He snorted and pushed through the back door. The radio went up to full blast.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Margaret had cleaned up the kitchen. Winona was upstairs in her old bedroom, checking the police hadn’t ‘ransacked’ it.
She wiped the granite worktops until they shone, admiring the subtle pattern. Having the kitchen fitted had been arduous, Reynolds and his crew helping themselves to tea and snacks all day long. And nothing to cook on for two weeks, despite Bryn insisting she feed him in the style to which he’d become accustomed. But it was worth it.
She went to the back doors and gazed out at the pale day. It had stopped raining and the garden was brightening. There were footprints all over the lawn from the FSIs, but they would fade.
“Mum.”
She turned to see her son standing at the doorway to the kitchen. She felt the breath catch in her throat.
“Paul.”
“I came as soon as I heard. Who could do such an awful thing?”
She stayed were she was. “They’re giving it top priority. Your father was one of theirs, after all.”
“There were two guys in bunny suits just coming out. Have they finished already?”
“They fast tracked it. David Randle wanted to give me the house back.”
Paul put his briefcase on the counter. She would have to clean that again later.
“That’s not good enough.” He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and held it to his ear. “I’m telling Randle they need to do more.”
“How can you tell him to do more when you don’t know what he’s already doing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Look. Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“I don’t drink tea and you know it.”
“Sorry. Coffee, then. There’s some in the cupboard.” She started opening doors. The Family Liaison Officer, that nice Trish girl, had moved everything. “Damn. Where is it?”
“Can’t you find it?” Paul still had his phone to his ear.
“Please, put that down. You’ll just distract them.”
“Where are they, Mum? Why aren’t they here, gathering DNA or whatever it is they do?”
She smiled at him. “You always found your father’s work so dull.”
He shrugged. “It was dull. Lucrative, though.”
She found a bag of coffee and pulled out the filter machine.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
She turned to him. “What?”
“A machine. Don’t bother. I’ll get one back at the office.”
She went to the sink. “Here, a glass of water.” Anything to keep him occupied. To keep herself occupied.
“I don’t need a bloody glass of water, Mum. I want to know who killed Dad.”
She stopped moving, her back to him. “I know, love. So do I.”
“Right. Well why aren’t you giving them shit until they come up with an answer?”
“Hey, bro.” Winona was at the door. How long had she been standing there?
“Winona.” Paul didn’t raise his gaze from his hands, which were on the table. He was wriggling his fingers, turning them over and surveying the nails. Bryn had done that. Margaret put out a hand to steady herself.
“So you heard,” Winona said.
“Two PCs came to the office. They freaked Elaine out first, at the house. And the girls.”
“They’re just doing their job,” said Margaret.
“Yeah,” said Winona. “Don’t be such a misery guts.” She took the seat diagonally across from him.
Paul pulled a face at her. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Looking after Mummy. I made biscuits. What took you so long?”
“Some of us have got jobs to go to.”
She stuck her tongue out. “Bully for you.”
“Please, you two,” said Margaret. They’d been like this as children. “I know you’re upset, but be nice to each other.”
Paul dropped his head to the table. “Shit, Mum.”
She sat next to him and put a hand on his back. He stiffened but didn’t pull away. “I know, love,” she said. “It’s a shock.”
He turned his head so that it was still on the table, but facing her. “The house is so fucking empty without him.”
She nodded. He’d lived in that study. The house had been empty for years.
“Will you sell it?”
She withdrew her hand. “I don’t know. Why should I?”
Paul lifted his head. “It’s a bit big for just you, isn’t it? A bit grand. I mean, the artwork is worth thousands alone. And the work you’ve had done…”
“God you’re so insensitive, Paul,” said Winona. “Can’t you see Mummy’s out of her mind?”
“She doesn’t look it to me. Looks calm.” He sat up. “Why are you so calm?”
“I’m not calm.”
“You are. You look almost pleased.”
“I’m not…” her voice caught. “I’m not pleased.”
“I thought you’d be up in bed, crying your eyes out. But instead the two of you are down here, baking.” Paul stood up, his chair clattering to the floor.
“Paul. Please…” said Margaret.
“You don’t want them to solve it, do you? You probably killed him yourself, so you could get his death in service benefit.”
“What?” Margaret put a hand to her chest.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Two weeks off retirement? I checked. You get three times his salary, plus the pension. And the house. Not bad, really.”
“Paul, I think you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re upset. I understand. But I’d like you to leave.
”
“Yeah?” He went to the doorway. “I bet you would. You and my good-for-nothing sister. Get rid of Dad, and get rid of me. Fuck you both.”
Margaret flinched as the front door slammed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Oh, it’s good to see you lot.”
Zoe flung her bag onto her desk and sank into her chair. The sleep deprivation was taking its toll. She checked her watch: 3pm. Hours before she could go home and collapse into bed.
“There’s been a development,” said Mo.
“Oh yes?”
“Art theft arrest. Guy called Simon Adams, goes by the name of Stick. Organised Crime brought him in an hour ago.”
An hour ago, she’d been at the industrial estate in Selly Oak.
“He took the painting from Jackson’s study?”
“We think so. He had a Diebenkorn, a big one. David’s going to show it to Mrs Jackson, ask if she recognises it.”
“It’s a valuable one,” said Connie. “I checked with Zaf.”
“Zaf?”
“My brother.”
“There’d be a receipt somewhere, if Jackson bought it.” Zoe thought back to those bank accounts. There’d been nothing about artwork. More cash purchases?
Connie pulled out her phone. “The two in the hallway are worth ten grand between them. The one they’ve found is worth twice that.”
“Thirty grand, on paintings?”
“And that’s just three of them. There were more, remember?”
“How do you know this stuff?” asked Rhodri, sliding his chair over to Connie’s desk. She pulled back.
“Not me, Rhod. My little brother. Going to Uni next year to study modern art.”
Rhodri bit his lip. “Cool kid.”
“Rhodri,” said Zoe. “Leave Connie alone, will you?”
Connie looked shocked. “Oh it’s alright, boss. I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But if I see Rhodri hitting on you in this office, or anywhere outside it for that matter, I want you to come straight to me.”
“I will. Sorry.”
“Don’t you apologise.”
“I wasn’t hitting on her, Zo.”
Zoe stood up. Sometimes being five foot eight was a definite plus. “What did you say, Detective Constable Hughes?”
He shrank in his chair, pushing it a few inches towards his own desk. “I said I wasn’t hitting on her.”
“What else did you say?”
“It’s what Mo calls—”
“Sergeant Uddin and I have been best mates since we were twenty-three years old. He was the first person to hold my son after me. I think he’s earned the right to call me what the fuck he wants. Have you?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, boss.”
“Good. Now don’t do it again. And leave Connie alone.”
Rhodri dragged his chair away from Connie. She smirked. Zoe gave her a warning look and she dropped her face into a neutral expression.
“I did warn you,” muttered Mo.
“Still.”
“You’re stressed. Don’t take it out on Rhodri.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not stressed.”
“Have you seen the state of your palms?”
She turned her hands over. When Zoe was anxious, she had a habit of picking at the skin on her palms. They were red raw. “Shit.”
“You didn’t even notice, did you?”
“No.” She dusted her hands off and plunged them into her pockets. “Anyway.”
“The art theft.”
“Where is he?”
“In the custody suite. Sheila Griffin’s interviewing him.”
Sheila Griffin was a DS in Organised Crime. She’d been involved in Canary, working the physical evidence with Zoe.
“Good. She’ll do a good job. What now?”
“I guess we check the painting against those files.” He eyed the door to the office with the boxes. It was still locked, the keys in Mo’s pocket now.
Zoe sighed. “Again.” She looked across the room. “Rhodri, here’s your chance to redeem yourself. Help Sergeant Uddin out.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate this.”
“No problem.” Zoe closed the doors to the interview room and shook DS Sheila Griffin by the hand. “I thought David Randle would have wanted to do this one with you?”
“He’s busy at the Jackson house, apparently. Told me to drag you out of your exciting work poring over files.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” She’d left Rhodri working through the files, with strict instructions on what he was looking for. Mo was babysitting. She had to give the lad a chance, after all. She’d needed plenty back when she’d been a DC.
“So, what’s the plan with this interview?”
“Our guy was found letting himself into a lockup in Digbeth with over thirty original artworks in it. He claims he bought them all from a guy he met in the Prince of Wales.”
The Prince of Wales was a pub in Moseley, about three miles from Zoe’s home. Characterful, but not normally a venue for illicit art dealing.
“And you think he nicked them himself?”
“He won’t talk.”
“Of course.” Zoe flicked through a printout on the table. Photos of the artworks: landscapes, abstracts, semi-photographic and weird modern stuff. None of it made the slightest bit of sense to her.
“If he’s a private collector,” said Sheila, “he’s certainly got eclectic tastes.”
“Yeah?”
“Look at them. Frost and Diebenkorn. Two Doigs. No one would put those together in a gallery, or in their home.”
“You don’t think he’s a collector?”
“You take a look at him and tell me what you think.”
The door opened and the custody sergeant steered a man inside. He was mid-height, with short grey-brown hair. He had a deep tan and a tattoo that curled over his ear. Zoe narrowed her eyes.
The man sat down.
“My name is Detective Sergeant Sheila Griffin and this is Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. For the tape, please say your name.”
“Simon Adams.”
“Thank you. You’ve waived your right to have a lawyer with you, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to rethink that? These are serious crimes we want to talk to you about.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t want to rethink that?”
“Nope. No lawyer.” He shifted in his seat, his dark eyes on DS Griffin. Zoe studied the tattoo. It was a work of art in itself. A bird, an eagle she guessed, staring out in front of him like a second pair of eyes. Its eyes felt real, its beak sharp.
“Right.” Sheila glanced at Zoe then pulled out a file. “We found you with the paintings in these photographs, in a lockup on New Canal Street.”
The man said nothing.
“Are these your paintings, Simon?”
Again he said nothing.
“You won’t do yourself any favours by not speaking. Are these yours?’
“No comment.”
Zoe slumped back in her chair. Sheila leafed through the photographs, unfazed.
“Where did you get them, Simon?”
“No comment.”
“Did you buy them from a man at the Prince of Wales?”
“No comment.”
Sheila held his gaze. A smile twitched on his lips.
“Did the man tell you where he got them from?”
“No comment.”
“OK. Mr Adams, I recommend that you tell us what you know. If you’re trying to protect someone, we will find out who.”
He shrugged.
“For the benefit of the tape, Mr Adams has shrugged. Were you planning on selling these paintings?”
“No comment.”
“Are you scared of someone? Are you afraid that if you talk to us, someone will hurt you?”
He stared across the t
able, unflinching. The eagle stared with him. “No comment.”
Zoe leaned forwards. “What’s your interest in Robert Oulman and his trial?”
Adams turned to her and smiled, his eyes flat. “No comment.”
Sheila gave Zoe a sideways look but said nothing. “OK. There’s not much point in carrying on if you aren’t going to talk to us. We’ll come back later and talk to you again. In that time, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer or allow us to get one for you. And you talk to us. For your own sake.”
He shrugged.
“For the tape, suspect is shrugging again.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave Sheila a wide grin. Zoe clenched her fist under the table. The skin was dry.
“Interview terminated at six-fifteen pm.” Sheila flicked off the tape and stood up. She knocked on the door and a uniformed PC came in to take Adams away. The door closed behind them.
“What was that about?” said Sheila.
“Sorry. He was at the trial earlier.”
“Why did you throw it in like that?”
“Thought it might surprise him. Get him to talk.”
Sheila let the file of photos drop to the table. “You think there’s a connection?”
“To Canary? No idea. We think this guy is connected to the Jackson murder, or at least whoever he got that painting from is. If it’s the right one. But as for Canary… I don’t know. What else do you know about him?”
“We think he works for Trevor Hamm.”
“Who’s he?”
“Let’s get out of here.” Sheila gathered up her paperwork and headed for the door. Zoe followed.
They walked towards the suite of offices where Force CID were based, passing through a fire door. Two PCs passed them. They exchanged nods and waited till the corridor was quiet.
“He runs a construction firm,” said Sheila. “Posh flat in Brindleyplace. We’ve been watching him for a while now. Just got married to a mail order bride from Lithuania. We think the trip was a cover for bringing money into the country.”
“Customs find anything?”
“Nothing. He’s got lackeys to do his dirty work. Including Adams, we think. But we’ll be keeping an eye on him.”
“I need to know if one of those paintings came from the Jackson house.”
Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Page 12