Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “Damn.”

  “You think he’ll bugger off, boss?”

  “I do, Rhodri. Unless we track him down first.”

  “Where do we start?”

  The two constables faced her, their faces expectant. She sighed.

  “I would say to head over to the Hamms, but I’ve been told to drop it.”

  “Why, boss?” asked Rhodri.

  “That’s the million-dollar question. I need to talk to Lesley.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “I’m doing everything I can.” David Randle held the phone close to his face and covered it with his hand. He watched the door to his office as he spoke.

  “You need to try harder.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, mate. When you got yourself into this, you knew what it would mean. Just do your fucking job, alright?”

  Randle lowered himself to his chair, eyes still on the door. He’d been dreading something like this for years but had never expected Bryn Jackson to be murdered.

  “It’s complicated. The politics—”

  “Fuck politics. I know more about politics than you ever will. Just sort it. Clean the mess up, and do what you need to.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Did Jackson ever tell you to start giving an opinion?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. So don’t start doing it now he’s gone.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “How the shitting horses should I know? That’s your job. Investigate the crime. Arrest someone. Surely you can do that.”

  “It wasn’t Margaret,” Randle said.

  “Of course it wasn’t bloody Margaret. But your lot are always saying most murders are domestic. It can’t be hard to make that stick.”

  “I don’t like doing this to her.”

  “Once again, if your opinions were any use, you’d be asked for them. Just do your job.”

  “Right.”

  A shadow passed his door and he held his breath. The shadow moved on.

  “This is getting too dangerous,” he said.

  “That’s not my fault. The quicker you put this to bed, the quicker you can rest easy again.”

  The door opened. Randle almost dropped his phone.

  “Yes, thank you, Lesley,” he said into the phone. “I’ll pass that back onto the team.”

  “What. Who’s Lesley?”

  He winced. He shouldn’t have used a colleague’s name. He’d promised himself he’d keep them out of it.

  The Chief Constable’s assistant was standing in front of his desk. He looked uneasy. Randle shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyeballs, pointing at the phone.

  “Right, Lesley. Must dash.”

  “Don’t you hang—”

  He cut off the call and smiled at the assistant. “What’s up?”

  “He’s been getting complaints. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “No. He says now.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Trish was back again, watching her. Margaret had no idea why they still insisted on leaving an officer with her. The forensic people had long since gone and they’d searched the house, checked over the CCTV tapes. What was the point now?

  She’d spent most of the morning in her bedroom, keeping away from the girl. She hated this, being a prisoner in her own home again.

  But her stomach was growling, and she hadn’t eaten breakfast.

  She descended the stairs slowly, listening for the PC’s voice. Margaret had been eavesdropping on phone calls, trying to work out if they thought she’d killed Bryn. The house was silent.

  She crept into the kitchen. If she was lucky, Trish was in the camera room. It was a room Margaret had never entered and she could forget it existed, if she tried hard.

  Trish was leaning against the kitchen table, scrolling through channels on the portable TV next to the Aga. Margaret sighed.

  “Hello.”

  Trish turned, startled. “Hello. Sorry.” She flicked the TV off.

  “It’s fine. Might as well keep yourself occupied.”

  “Thanks. Your son was just leaving when I got here.”

  “Sorry if he was rude to you.”

  “He was fine. It can’t be easy for him.” Trish turned the TV back on but put the remote down on the table. “Anything I can do?”

  “No. I’m hungry. Getting myself some breakfast.”

  “Can I do it for you?”

  “No, thank you.” Margaret went to the fridge and grabbed the milk bottle. She wanted to potter, to make herself a fry-up. She hadn’t had one in years, despite the ones she’d placed in front of Bryn. But today she craved the carbohydrates, fat and salt.

  She opened a cupboard and scanned its contents. There was a box of Bran Flakes, probably past its best but it would do. She shook some into a bowl and swamped it with milk.

  “I’m going into Bryn’s study. Paperwork to sort out. You know what it’s like.”

  Trish gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t be easy.”

  “No.” She picked up her bowl and took it into the study.

  The desk was as she’d left it, with the fake drawer front back in place. Margaret closed the door quietly, hoping that was allowed. She placed her bowl on the leather of the desk top, feeling decadent. There was a coaster right next to it, and she would leave a ring of milk. Good.

  She looked back at the door then bent to the desk. She reached under it and grabbed the phone.

  She turned it on and checked the call log. No one had called this number since she’d discovered it yesterday.

  She found a pad on the desk. It was on top of a neat pile of books, placed at exact right angles to the edge of the table. She fished a pen out of the marble holder she’d bought Bryn for Christmas five years ago.

  She wasn’t about to use the same phone again. Even she knew how stupid that was.

  She stuffed the scrap of paper into the pocket of her grey trousers. She sneezed. The room was getting dusty already. The whole house was. She’d have to call their cleaner, Penny. Margaret had told the woman to stay away at first, paid her for the days she’d missed. But the house was collapsing into itself.

  She wedged the chunk of wood back into the side of the drawer front and slid the drawer into the desk, her eyes on the door. She stood up and brushed herself down.

  It would be safer up in her room. But this was her house. All she was doing was making a phone call.

  There was a leather chair on the other side of the desk, opposite Bryn’s. She sank into it, surprised at how uncomfortable it was. She lifted the phone on the desk and listened for a moment. There was no click, no sign that she was being listened to. She dialled.

  She held her breath, waiting. It rang out three times, then went silent. She waited for voicemail to engage.

  Nothing. She pressed the button on the receiver to end the call and tried again. This time it rang out once, then went silent.

  She needed a mobile phone of her own. If she was going to track down this Irina woman, she couldn’t use Bryn’s phones. She had no idea how to go about buying one. Maybe one of the children could help her. Then she imagined the looks of pity they would give her if she revealed she didn’t know how to do this. She would have to work it out herself.

  Chapter Sixty

  Lesley was alone in her office. Zoe knocked on the door then entered when beckoned.

  “Zoe. Something I can help you with?” Lesley screwed up an empty Twix wrapper and dropped it in the bin by her desk.

  “You on your own?”

  “Carl’s gone to speak to Paul Jackson.”

  “You’re not doing it yourself?”

  Lesley licked her fingertips then brushed her hands together to clean off the crumbs. “My team are capable of these things.”

  “Right.”

  “So how did you get on with Adams?”

  Zoe shook her head. “He’s been released on bail.”

 
“Shit. How did that happen?”

  “He appeared in front of the beaks yesterday. He’s free until his trial next month.”

  “Typical.”

  “I’ve got Rhodri and Connie trying to track him down.”

  “You won’t find him.”

  “No.”

  Lesley leaned back. She gestured for Zoe to sit. The office was dark and dingy, situated in the centre of the building with the only window looking out over a fire escape. Zoe’s own team office was a mess, littered with paperwork and piled with evidence bags they really needed to hand over to the Exhibits Officer. But at least they had a view over the car park.

  “Spit it out.”

  Zoe picked at the skin on her palm. “I think there’s a connection between Jackson’s murder, the art theft and the break-in at the Hamm flat. Irina just got in the way.”

  “Poor girl. On what basis?”

  “Adams was one of the men who broke in. He’s on the CCTV.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to check it.”

  “I wasn’t. But I’m glad I did.” She held Lesley’s gaze.

  Lesley whistled. “So. Trevor Hamm sends one of his own muscle to stage a break-in and make it look like his own stuff had been nicked.”

  “Forensics said there was a painting missing, and a new one in its place. I think the point was to hide the painting from the Jackson house.”

  “Why would they go to all the fuss of staging a break-in to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t a staged break-in at all. Maybe it was a genuine break in, or a genuine burglary at least.”

  “I don’t get you.” Lesley folded her arms over her chest and her jacket rustled.

  “I’m not saying this right. I think they ‘broke in’.” Zoe waggled her fingers in air quotes. “Took the painting that had been stolen in the first place. Got rid of it.”

  “So where is it now? And you don’t think the Diebenkorn that we found Adams with is the one from Jackson’s study?”

  “I think…”

  “Go on.”

  “OK. This is a long shot. You won’t like it.”

  “Go on.”

  Zoe looked back towards the door. “Don’t tell anyone I said this. Not yet, anyway.”

  “That depends.”

  Zoe looked up at the ceiling then back at Lesley. “OK. I think the painting wasn’t stolen. I think it was payment.”

  “Payment? From Hamm to Adams?”

  “From Jackson to Hamm. Via Adams maybe, or via one of Hamm’s other guys.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s the home renovations. They hired a company called Reynolds Contracting. Except they didn’t hire them, not officially.”

  “Hang on. You’re losing me.” Lesley pushed her chair back and crossed her feet on the desk. She had no shoes on and was wearing brown tights under her blue skirt.

  “Stuart Reynolds,” Zoe said. “I went to see him. He said he’d quoted for the work, but they didn’t hire him. They had the work done, but there’s no record of them paying for it.”

  “So maybe they hired someone else. Maybe they paid cash.”

  “It was thirty grand, ma’am. They got Reynolds to quote for four separate pieces of work, exactly a year apart. I can’t find any record of them getting any other quotes. And there’s no sign of large amounts of cash going out of either of their bank accounts at those times.”

  “Maybe there’s an account we’re missing.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Reynolds works for Hamm. When I went to see him, he was working on a teak wardrobe. Bespoke job. I think I saw it in the photos of the Hamm flat.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “I saw the drawings at Reynolds’s unit. It was the same one, I’m sure.”

  “You think Hamm provided the Jacksons with free house renovations?”

  Zoe blew out a long breath. Her shoulders were tense. “I know this isn’t going to—”

  “He was the Assistant Chief Constable, DI Finch. Are you suggesting he was bent?”

  “I might be.”

  “Phew. You really know how to stick your head above the parapet, don’t you?”

  Zoe shrugged. She hadn’t even talked to Mo about this theory.

  “I need to talk to David,” Lesley said.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “He’s the SIO, Zoe.”

  “I want to be sure of this before making it official.”

  “So why did you bring it to me instead of your line manager?”

  “After you defended me in briefing the other day. One woman to another.”

  Lesley raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m more likely to go chasing after allegations the ACC was corrupt, because I haven’t got a dick?”

  Zoe felt herself blush. “That’s not what I—”

  “If this has any foundation, David needs to know about it. But I won’t take it to anyone else. Heaven knows, I’m not insane.”

  “OK.” Zoe took a deep breath. “There’s something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “There may be evidence linking DCI Randle to Hamm, and to the murder.”

  “May be?”

  “First there was a letter. To Margaret Jackson. A love letter. From a David. It could be the DCI, probably was. But it was twenty years old.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything about this? When did you find it?”

  “A couple of days ago, ma’am. I’ve been trying to get you on your own to tell you, but…”

  “It’s twenty years old. And there are a gazillion Davids in the world.”

  “Randle was friends with the Jackson family, ma’am.”

  “So, someone who shares his name wrote a love letter to the victim’s wife twenty years ago. I really hope you aren’t implying that the DCI killed his boss out of jealousy.”

  “No. But then Irina—”

  Lesley raised an eyebrow. “Irina Hamm? The DCI was in love with her too?”

  “No, ma’am.” Zoe felt herself shrinking in the chair. Maybe she should have told Carl instead, let him take this to Lesley. “She knew his name. She told me she’d seen a business card of his, at her flat. Her husband had it.”

  Lesley blew out a breath. She leaned across to open a drawer of her desk and rummaged in it. She slammed it shut, annoyed.

  “Go on.”

  Zoe scratched the skin of her palm. The office seemed to be shrinking. “She told me she’d seen a business card. Force CID. David something.”

  “David something?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  Lesley withdrew her feet from the desk and leaned across to her computer, raising a finger for Zoe to wait. She shuffled her mouse around then leaned back.

  “Do you know how many Davids are working in Force CID, DI Finch?”

  “Twelve.”

  “You checked?”

  “I did. And I realise that means…”

  “It means that one of twelve men in this department at some point gave their business card to Trevor Hamm. We have no idea why, but it’s perfectly reasonable that he was a witness in a case.”

  “I think with the connection between Jackson and Hamm, and Randle and Jackson being close friends, this might be more than a coincidence.”

  “I bet you do.” Lesley flicked off her computer and opened the drawer again. She brought out a bag of crisps and opened it. “Do you understand what a massive can of worms you’re attempting to open, Zoe?”

  “I do. Which is why I’ve waited to—”

  Lesley swallowed a crisp and raised a hand. “Please. Let me make this clear. I hate bent coppers as much as the next woman. And if there is solid evidence – solid evidence – that a colleague is corrupt, I will pursue it. But we do things by the book. We build a case, we find evidence.”

  “I understand that, but—”
>
  “Your evidence is an ancient love letter and a business card that a witness suffering from concussion claims she saw. That could belong to one of twelve men.”

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  Lesley tipped her head back and inhaled the last of the crisps. She screwed up the bag and dropped it on her desk.

  “If you find anything concrete, you come straight to me. But in the meantime, drop this. We have a murderer to catch and this is a distraction.”

  Zoe said nothing.

  “I need to know you’re going to do as you’re told, Acting Detective Inspector.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. David Randle is a good copper. He’s done a lot for you. He deserves your loyalty.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lesley cocked her head. “Do you feel disloyal, right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “To David?”

  “To Jackson. He recommended my promotion.”

  “Pish.” Lesley poked between her teeth with a fingernail. “He said that to impress you. It wasn’t in his gift.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Zoe. If Jackson was bent, we need to know how it impacts on his death. Good policing is more important than loyalty.”

  “Right.” Zoe filed that comment away.

  There was a knock at the door behind them. Lesley pulled her chair back under her desk and shuffled a little, putting her shoes back on.

  “Come in!”

  Rhodri was at the door. “Boss?”

  “Come in, Rhod.”

  He eyed Lesley and slid in sideways, looking sheepish.

  “What’s up?” asked Zoe.

  “You aren’t going to like this, boss.”

  “Just tell me, Rhod.”

  He eyed Lesley again. She scratched her head, looking bored.

  “They’ve found a body. In the canals, by Brindleyplace.”

  Zoe felt her stomach dip. “And why won’t I like it?”

  “It’s Irina Hamm, boss.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “Right.” Randle brought up a photo of Irina Hamm on the screen. “Irina Hamm. Lithuanian, twenty-four years old. Married to Trevor Hamm. Speaking of which, how is Mo?”