“I know. If we can link Hamm to that…”
Zoe felt her skin prickle. “It changes everything.” She lowered her voice. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
Sheila raised an eyebrow. “If you mean that you think Jackson was dodgy, definitely not.”
“Good.”
“Has Randle got a suspect?”
“Jackson’s wife,” said Zoe. “Well, at least that’s what he thought yesterday. This case is all over the place.” Randle had given instructions that this was to stay within the team. But Sheila was interviewing with her. She was part of the team, technically. And Zoe trusted her.
“Ignore me,” she said. “I’ve only had six hours sleep in the last three days. I’m bloody knackered.”
“Yeah. Good to see you though.”
“You too.”
“Let me know if I can help. Jackson case.”
“Will do. Ta.” Zoe headed towards her office, her mind racing.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rhodri was pacing around the office, arms in the air and a look of horror on his face.
“What the hell’s going on?” breathed Zoe, closing the door behind her.
He stopped moving. Connie was in her chair, hunched over her computer.
“Sorry, boss,” Rhodri muttered. He went to his desk and perched on its edge.
He never did that. “Why aren’t you in there going through the files?” Zoe asked.
Mo came out of the side office. “He’s found something, boss.” He gave her a look that said he wasn’t going to be calling her Zo in front of the team anymore.
“What?” She went to Rhodri’s desk.
“Here, boss.” He held up an envelope in an evidence bag. His fingers were trembling.
“Thanks.” She snatched it from him, hoping it was as important as he seemed to think. “Where was this?”
“I was going through the bank statements again. Like you told me to. Looking for any transactions that looked like they might be something to do with that painting. Large numbers, payees that weren’t in any of the regular things. And I found this stuffed down at the bottom.”
It was a pale blue envelope.
“It’s different from the others,” said Mo. “It’s not from Margaret Jackson.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Read it.”
She grabbed the forensic gloves that Rhodri held out. “That big a deal, huh?”
He blew out a long breath and looked down at the bag.
She flicked the bag open and slid the envelope out. She opened that carefully and took out the letter. She walked to her own desk and put it down on top of the empty bag. She bent over it, squinting to read the scratchy handwriting.
Margaret Jackson’s writing was clear and looped. It was easy reading her letters. This was different.
Margaret,
Thank you for your letter. You might like to know I burned it. You know why.
I don’t think you should write to me again. What happened between us was a mistake, something we need to put in the past.
From your letter I don’t think you’ve told him. I imagine I’d know if you had. Please don’t. I’m married now, and I’m making a life. Let’s see this as a fond memory.
Yours in friendship,
David.
Zoe looked up. “David?”
Mo nodded, very slowly. “David.”
She grabbed the envelope. It was in the same spidery handwriting. The postmark was Birmingham. That told her nothing.
“You don’t think…?”
Mo looked back at the two detective constables then stepped towards Zoe. He lowered his voice. “That David Randle was having an affair with Margaret Jackson?”
She felt light-headed. Randle had been behaving oddly, that was for sure. But she’d been alone in a room with the two of them, and there was no sign. No chemistry.
She turned the envelope over in her hand. “October 1987. More than thirty years ago.”
“It might not be relevant.”
“No.” She dropped the letter on her desk. She thought of Randle, not coming in to interview Adams. Insisting on taking Margaret home himself. Now she was widowed, was he…?
“Rhodri. Connie. Come here.”
They approached her desk. The four of them formed a huddle.
“Look. I need to think about what this means. About what we do with it. But in the meantime, no one says a word. OK?”
“Right, boss,” muttered Rhodri. He looked disappointed.
“Of course,” said Connie.
Mo just nodded.
She put the letter in the evidence bag. This was dynamite.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Family Liaison Officer had returned. Trish Bright, the girl who had been here the night Bryn died.
Margaret watched her move around the kitchen, putting biscuits on a tray. The children had gone, Winona flouncing off not long after Paul with talk of needing to drown her sorrows. The girl couldn’t take her drink and Margaret only hoped she would hit the gin at home rather than in some pub. But she was an adult and Margaret had long since tired of trying to control her.
She took one of the offered biscuits and ate it in two bites. It felt good to enjoy something as primal as eating a biscuit. She was normally a nibbler, the kind of woman who would take half an hour to eat a hobnob. But today she felt like she could devour the whole packet in one go.
“Sit with me,” she said. “Have a biscuit before I make myself fat.”
The girl gave her a nervous smile. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
It was true; Margaret had remained slim, unlike Bryn. She was too nervous for food, too precise to let herself be absorbed by the pleasure of eating. Maybe that would change. Maybe she would become a glutton.
“I thought you’d all left,” she said.
Trish swallowed her too-hot tea and grimaced. “Not yet, sorry. It’s early days and we like to be sure you’re OK.”
“I’m fine.” Margaret wondered how many times she’d heard that.
“My job is to let you know what’s happening with the investigation. To act as a kind of shield between you and the outside world, if you want me to.”
“So what can you tell me? About the investigation?”
A blush. “Not much, sorry. There’s that painting. They think you might have had a burglary, someone who stole that. They were probably after more. You’ve got a lovely house.”
Margaret smiled in response to the compliment, knowing that was expected of her. But secretly she hated this house. It was too empty and too damn big.
“Thank you. So they think Bryn disturbed this art thief?”
Trish gave her a look. She would be wondering how Margaret could be so calm, talking about her husband’s murder like that. Inside, Margaret was veering from calm to hysterical today. After the children had gone, she’d spent an hour sitting at this table crying her eyes out. The thought that Paul blamed her filled her with horror. What kind of son thought his mother capable of a thing like that?
Trish shrugged. “I imagine so. They’ve arrested someone, though. A man who might have your painting.”
Margaret sat up straight. “They have? Who?”
“I can’t tell you that, sorry. You know what it’s like.” The girl blew on her tea and took another sip.
“Of course. But you do know that I haven’t been able to identify the missing painting?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Randle thinks it might be a Deemer-Something. Like the ones in the hall.”
Margaret thought of the paintings in the hallway and the ones that lined the stairs. They had hung family photos there for years, but Bryn had come home about four years ago with that pair of modern things and insisted on putting them on display. More had followed. She had no idea what they were, or where he bought them. But she did know he’d had a pay rise, and was able to splash out, as he put it.
“Do you think if we showed you a photo, yo
u’d be able to identify it?”
Margaret shook her head. This was humiliating. “I’m sorry. I never went in there.”
She downed her tea. She’d had enough of this conversation. There was something she wanted to find.
“I’m going up to my room. A lie down.”
“No problem. I’ll be here, if you need me.”
Margaret gave the girl a pat on the shoulder then headed up the main stairs. She didn’t like Trish watching her. Even with Bryn dead, the house didn’t feel like it was hers yet.
Her bedroom was to the left of the stairs, a spacious room with a vast ensuite and a view over the garden. She turned right instead, heading for the second guest bedroom.
She closed the door behind her and opened the wardrobe. Old dresses hung lifelessly, memories of more glamorous times. She and Bryn had enjoyed a busy social life when they’d first been married. There were satin dresses and velvet jackets, a fur bolero and dozens of pairs of shoes she wouldn’t dare walk in now. She needed to throw all this out, or donate it. But it reminded her of the times when they’d thrown dinner parties. When David had been a frequent visitor, before and after his marriage.
There were cardboard boxes on the top shelf. Two of them, both hat boxes. One was from Paul’s wedding to Elaine, a ridiculously formal affair in a hotel north of the city. The other was from the time Bryn had been invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. She’d looked forward to it for weeks but in reality it had been terrifying.
She stood on her tiptoes and reached for the second one. It was too high up.
She went to the dressing table and grabbed the stool. She dragged it across the floor, wincing at the noise then lifting it for the last few feet. She paused, listening. But there was no sign of PC Bright coming upstairs. This room was right above the kitchen. She needed to be quiet.
Margaret took off her slippers and stood on the stool. She leaned into the wardrobe and grabbed the box, coughing at the dust.
She lowered herself to the ground and placed the box on the bed, lifting the stool back into place. The box left a grubby mark on the bedspread. She cursed herself then remembered that no one was here to judge her.
She rooted around under the tissue paper that surrounded the hat, until her fingers found it. A small pile of letters, fastened together with a pink ribbon. She pulled it out and stuffed it inside her cardigan.
She held her breath as she put the lid back on the box, then shoved it back on top of the shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe. Maybe she should hire a house clearance company, or declare open house.
She eased the wardrobe doors shut and opened the bedroom door. She looked towards the stairs then scooted past them. Then she remembered she’d left her slippers behind.
Did she need to remove the evidence that she’d been in there? This was her house. She could go where she pleased.
But she didn’t want Trish snooping around.
She darted back into the bedroom and grabbed her slippers. The pile of envelopes slid to the floor and she fumbled for them again as she put her slippers on. Then she headed out to the hallway.
“Everything alright. Mrs Jackson? I heard a bang.”
Trish was standing on the half landing, the point at which the stairs split into two. Margaret gave her a nervous smile.
“Everything’s fine, dear. You go back downstairs.”
“Can I get anything for you? Anything I can help with?” She looked past Margaret towards the closed door to the guest room.
“No. Just let me sleep.”
Margaret eyed her bedroom door. Did the girl know which room was hers? Should she just retreat into the guest room and pretend it had been hers all along?
All her clothes were in her bedroom. Her nightie, and her face cream. But she felt like a change. That bed still smelled of Bryn.
“Goodnight, dear,” she said. She retreated into the guest room and closed the door.
Chapter Forty
It felt like Zoe hadn’t been home in weeks. She slammed her car door shut and trudged up the path, looking forward to a boatload of coffee and a long bath.
As she raised her key to the door, it opened.
“Jim?”
“Hi, Zoe. How are you? Working with David Randle on the Jackson case, I hear. Tragic. Really tragic.”
“Er, yes. You been here long?”
“Just brought Nicky back from a trip to McDonald’s.”
She winced. Nicholas’s dad still treated him like he was twelve years old.
“Don’t work too hard, eh? And look after that boy,” he said. She swallowed an urge to tell him to mind his own business.
“Bye, Jim.”
“See you, Zoe.”
She watched him walk to his Mondeo then closed the front door. She had no idea what mood Nicholas would be in; sometimes a visit from his dad made him jumpy.
“Hi, Nicholas. I’m home!”
There was a muffled reply from upstairs. She took the stairs two at a time then paused to knock on his door. After a few seconds, she let herself in.
“I just saw your dad.”
“Yeah. He took me to Maccies.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like Maccies.”
“I thought you were going vegetarian?”
“Nah.”
He was sitting with his back to her, flicking through channels on YouTube.
“Seriously, love. Everything OK? I haven’t been around much lately.”
He turned to her, his face blank. “I’m used to it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She reached out but he pulled away, shock and disgust on his face.
“Marcus dumped me.”
She felt herself sag. “I’m sorry, love.”
He shrugged. “Probably for the best. He was a dick anyway.”
“Really?”
“Whatever. I told Jim.”
“OK. How was he?”
“He was fine. Better than fine. Embarrassing.”
“How so?”
“You’d think he’d rather I was gay than straight, the way he acted. Like he was pleased with himself for being OK with it.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
She resisted an urge to hug him. “You want to talk about it?”
“Leave it, Mum. I’m busy.”
She glanced at the screen. He didn’t look very busy.
“Well, you know where I am. I’m hungry. Fancy chips?”
“Nah.” He turned back to his computer.
“Right. Chippy for me then.” She shuffled out of the room backwards like he was some sort of monarch. Nicholas laughed at something on his screen, oblivious to her. She considered asking if he’d done his homework but decided against it.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. Her mug from this morning was still on the coffee table, along with two from last night.
She grabbed her jacket from the chair. There was a knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” It would be Jim, back for something he’d forgotten. Or to talk to her about Nicholas and Marcus.
She threw the door open, ready for his serious face.
“Carl.”
“Hi. Am I interrupting anything?”
“I was about to go to the chippy. Then I was planning on sleeping. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“OK.” She closed the door behind her. “What?”
“Can we go for a drink or something?”
She leaned on the door. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“I just want to talk to you. Work stuff.”
“Right.” She eyed him. “Come with me to the chippy.”
She pushed past him and started walking. She pulled her leather jacket tightly around her as she sped towards the Bristol Road, not waiting for him to keep up.
“You walk fast.” He found his stride next to her, his breathing laboured.
“Do I?”
&nbs
p; “You do.”
“Well, I’m hungry.” Zoe’s stomach rumbled and she pointed to it. “See?”
“Right.”
“What is it you want to talk to me about then?”
He stopped walking. She paused to look back at him, irritated. “Look, I want these bloody chips. Are you coming or what?”
They were at the Bristol Road. He nodded in the direction of the Old Varsity Tavern. “It would be easier to talk in there. I’ll buy you a bag of crisps.”
“That’s no consolation for missing out on fish and chips.”
“I’ll buy you fish and chips.”
She wrinkled her nose. “The OVT isn’t that kind of pub. And I told Nicholas… alright then, seeing as it’s so urgent. Buy me two bags.”
He smiled. “You’re on.”
They pushed into the pub. It was filling up with students. Carl looked uneasy at suddenly raising the average age by ten years, but Zoe was used to it. Hers was one of just two houses in her road not occupied by students. The other one belonged to the landlord.
“A Coke Zero and two bags of salt and vinegar crisps please. He’s paying.”
Carl slid in next to her at the bar. “Mineral water for me.”
She turned to him. “This is a student pub. You aren’t going to get—”
“Mineral water and Coke Zero coming right up.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I stand corrected.”
They waited for their drinks then Carl made for a high table with stools in the far corner. She followed him, admiring his coat. It was long, in a deep shade of petrol blue. Not your normal copper attire.
“Right, then.” She prodded the ice cubes in her Coke with her straw. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait till the briefing tomorrow?”
He looked over her shoulder then behind him out of the window. Traffic roared past, getting louder when the doors to the pub opened. Which was frequent.
“Hurry up, Carl. I want to get my chips.” She fished the last crisps out of the first packet and opened the second one.
“OK. I’ve been watching you with the DCI.”
“Randle?”
“How well d’you know him?”
“Reasonably well, I suppose. He’s only been my boss for a week or two. Why?”
Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Page 13