“We need the CCTV,” said Mo. “Connie?”
Connie looked stressed. “Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute.” She looked up. “Can someone chase the CCTV companies while I look over this phone? I’ve got a list, I rang them all yesterday. But only one of them has got back to me, and they’ve got nothing recorded.”
“Typical,” said Mo. “Rhod, get on the phone.”
“OK.” Rhodri took the sheet Connie passed to him and picked up his phone.
Connie picked up Irina’s phone inside its evidence bag and started pressing buttons.
“She wasn’t very bright,” she said. “Password is 1234.” She looked up and put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That was pretty disrespectful, wasn’t it?”
“The fact she’s dead doesn’t mean we have to reinvent her,” said Zoe. “What you got? Any phone calls? Email, texts?”
Connie jabbed at the phone and scrolled through records. “Nothing. A few texts in what I guess is Lithuanian, via one of those services that does cheap foreign texts. Some emails about applying for residency. Oh, hang on.”
Zoe went to Connie’s desk. Connie stuck out her tongue as she scrolled through the photos. “That’s a surprise.”
“What is?” Zoe held out a hand.
Connie passed her the phone. It had gone black.
“There’s nothing.”
“Here.” Connie grabbed it and flicked the screen with her finger. “Look at that.”
Zoe looked at the photo. It showed Irina Hamm, sitting on a bench right by the stretch of canal where she’d died. She was smiling. Next to her, with an arm flung around her and an equally wide smile, was another woman. She had messy hair and wore a flimsy floral dress.
Zoe looked up. “How did Irina Hamm and Winona Jackson know each other?”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Randle hunched over his desk, Irina Hamm’s phone in his hands. It was just the four of them in his office: Randle, Zoe, Lesley and Carl. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation.
“I’ve sent Mo and Connie to Winona’s flat,” said Zoe. “To find out if she knew anything about Irina’s marriage. The people she knew in this country. If they were friends. She might be able to tell us something.”
“No, Zoe. That isn’t what you’re doing,” said Randle.
“Sorry?”
“You think Irina Hamm has something to do with the ACC’s death and you’re using this as an excuse to get back onto that case.”
“I really am not.”
“Hmm. What else have you got? CCTV?”
“We’ve had one decent one come in. It shows Irina running out of her building and going straight into the water.”
“What?” said Carl. “She just ran in?”
“That’s what it looks like. I’m trying to get hold of more CCTV, different angles.”
“What about the one that showed the break-in?”
“It’s a close-up on the building. Doesn’t show the canal. But yes, it has her running out too. She goes out of shot after that.”
“Right,” said Randle. “So, this isn’t a murder case after all.”
“We can’t be sure,” said Zoe. “We don’t know if she was being chased. Or if she’d been attacked again.”
“You said there was no bruising on her. No defensive wounds.”
“No.” She felt her body slump.
“Well, then. Death by misadventure is what the Coroner will say, I’ll put money on it. I want you to recall your team.”
“Just let them do this one interview.”
“They don’t need to. Irina fell into the water. It was an accident. I don’t see what badgering Winona Jackson will give us.”
“Let them do just the one interview,” said Lesley. “It could confirm what we suspect. Maybe Irina was suicidal. Maybe she was clumsy. Winona might know.”
“I don’t like it,” Randle said. “Winona’s just lost her father. She doesn’t need us asking her more questions. We’ve already grilled her about Jackson’s study.”
“Any news on the painting?” asked Zoe.
Randle raised his head and glared at her. “No. Leave it.”
Zoe ran her fingernails along her palm. She drew blood and quickly stopped.
“Right,” said Randle. “You can leave now, Zoe. I’ll come and talk to you after we’ve finished our case conference.”
Zoe looked at Lesley, who shrugged. From what she’d heard, they weren’t making much progress in the Jackson case, and the media were calling for resignations.
Slowly she stood and went to the door. Carl looked up and raised an eyebrow at her. She sneered back at him and jerked the door open.
She’d been made SIO on a murder enquiry that turned out not to be a murder at all. And now she was off the team’s biggest case in years. So much for being a DI.
Chapter Seventy
Mo looked at his watch. “She’s not in.”
“Let’s try one more time.” Connie rang the buzzer. They waited.
“She’s out. Maybe she’s at work.”
“She doesn’t have a job.”
“Then maybe she’s out shopping. God knows, she’s got enough of them within a ten-minute walk.”
They stood back from the building where Winona Jackson lived. It was another nondescript modern apartment building, just along the canal from the building the Hamms lived in. This one was dirtier, with litter piled up against the wall.
“Maybe we try the Hamm place again,” Connie suggested. “See if Trevor Hamm is around.”
Mo plunged his hands into his pockets. The wind whistled along the canal and it was threatening to rain. “What’s the point? He’s buggered off.”
“No harm in trying. Maybe there’s something he can tell us.”
“Trevor Hamm isn’t the kind of man who’s about to tell us anything. Let’s stick with what the DI told us to do.”
Connie peered at the buzzers again. There was a bank of twelve, four to each floor. “Hang on.”
“Hmm?”
“Let’s just try…” She pressed one of the other buzzers. They waited. She pressed another, and then a third.
At last, there was a crackle and a woman’s voice came through the tinny speaker. “Yes?”
“I’m from Amazon, delivering a parcel to Miss Jackson in flat ten. Can you buzz me in?”
“Sure.”
The door buzzed and Connie pushed it open. She smiled back at him.
“Nice one,” said Mo. “Glad you’re on the right side of the law.”
“Thanks, sarge.”
She held the door open and he went inside, looking for a staircase. They were in a narrow hallway, tiled floor and pale cream walls. A light flickered on over their heads.
There was a lift at the other end, and a door. Connie made for the lift and pressed the button for Winona’s floor. Mo touched her shoulder with his finger and pointed to the door next to it.
“Stairs,” he whispered.
She shrugged and followed him through the door. They made their way up, pausing at each door in case there was anyone beyond the glass. The building was deserted.
At Winona’s floor, Mo hesitated. “Which flat number was it that buzzed us in?”
“Six.”
“That’s on the floor below, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He pushed the door open and they emerged into a dark corridor. A light came on as Connie joined him: motion sensor. In front of them was the door to flat nine. Next to that, flat eleven. They rounded a corner and came to Winona’s door.
He raised a hand to knock on it then stopped himself “She’s out. Why are we bothering?”
“She might just be pretending to be out.” Connie put her face to the door. “Delivery from Amazon!”
Mo smiled at her and waited. There was no sound from within. He looked around at the other doors. They had to get out of here before other residents came to investigate.
“Once more. Then we give up,
” he whispered.
Connie put her hand to the door and leaned on it. It shifted inwards. She turned to him, eyes wide.
“It’s open.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Zoe slammed back into the office. She didn’t know who she was more annoyed with: herself, Randle or Carl. That raised eyebrow had made her want to thump him.
“You alright, boss?” asked Rhodri.
“No, Rhod. I am very much not alright. How are you doing with that CCTV?”
“Spoken to six more companies. They all promise it’ll be with me today.”
She grabbed her jacket, making her chair shake. “Come on.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s go visit them. Stick our noses in some of the local shops. Anything other than sitting here.”
“OK.” He grabbed his mobile from his desk and pulled on a blue duffle coat.
“Moonlighting as Paddington, are we?” she asked.
“My mum bought it for me. You know what it’s like.”
No, I don’t, she thought. Thinking of her own mum in that hospital bed. She would be awake now. Suffering from withdrawal. Perhaps this would be good for her.
“Good for you,” she said. “Come on.”
She strode through the station corridors, not stopping to let people past or to give way. Rhodri trotted behind her, apologising as they went. In the reception area. Sergeant Jenner was on duty again.
“Morning, Jenner,” Zoe said.
“Morning, ma’am. How’s Sergeant Uddin?”
“Back at work, would you believe. Some people are just too dedicated.”
“Good for him.”
“Yeah.” She pushed open the front door. A woman was coming in. She stopped as she saw Zoe and waited for her to pass. Zoe did so then waited for Rhodri, who was holding the door open for her.
She glanced back through the door. The woman was talking to Jenner. He looked past her at Zoe and Rhodri. He beckoned.
Zoe pushed back inside. “What’s up?”
“This woman says she’s got important evidence in the Jackson murder. You’re working that, aren’t you?”
“Not—” began Rhodri.
“Thanks, Jenner,” interrupted Zoe. “My name is Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. How can I help you?”
“My name’s Penny Bigton. I’m their cleaner. I think I know who killed him.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Margaret closed her eyes and waited for the solicitor to sit down. He’d fussed over her as she’d arrived, insisting on making Earl Grey and finding her just the right biscuit from a large tin he kept in his desk.
Get it over with, she thought to herself. Just sitting here like this, talking about things Bryn had done while he was alive, made her tremble. She’d been doing that a lot in the last twenty-four hours. This morning, she’d woken to find her legs convulsing in the bed. She’d only been able to calm them with a large pot of tea and a small glass of gin.
Daytime drinking. What would Bryn think?
She was wearing her most appropriate outfit. Not the one she’d put aside for the funeral next Tuesday, of course: that was not just black, but expensive. It even suited her, or so she liked to believe. Today’s outfit was a navy jacket over a dark grey tweed skirt and cream blouse, much like the ones she’d been wearing all week. Dowdy. Sensible. The perfect grieving widow.
“Will your children be coming?” the solicitor asked. He seemed to pop up everywhere, Edward Startshaw. She wondered exactly what Bryn had employed him for. Maybe she was about to find out.
“I’m not sure.”
He glanced at his watch. “Well, let’s give it another ten minutes in that case, give them time. Traffic’s dreadful today. The Aston Expressway was—”
“Please. Can we just sit quietly?”
He looked perturbed but wasn’t about to refuse the request of a new widow. “Of course, Mrs Jackson.”
“Margaret.”
“Of course, Margaret. Can I get you another cup of tea?”
Her cup was empty. When had she done that? She held it up. It would fill the time. “Yes please.”
He smiled as he took it off her. “Not a problem. Be right back.”
Margaret leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. The reading of the will. It was the kind of thing you read about in Agatha Christie novels, Hercule Poirot spotting his final clue thanks to the contents of the will. Hopefully that wasn’t about to happen here.
There’d been a full set of Agatha Christie novels on her shelves once. She’d devoured them as a young woman. She’d hoped Bryn would share her interest, being a policeman. But he’d turned his nose up at them, saying they were ridiculous. She’d stuffed them all in a box and put that in the guest wardrobe. Maybe they were still there.
“I’m back.” Edward breezed in and took his seat at the large modern desk. She looked at his empty hands. They were rough, not those of a solicitor at all. Maybe he was a keen gardener.
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I asked Letitia to make it. She’ll be right along.”
She nodded. Letitia. The kind of name Bryn would say was just as ridiculous as his wife’s taste in fiction.
Margaret drummed her fingers on her handbag, placed in her lap. It was a blue one that Winona had convinced her to buy on their shopping trip. Why she needed a new handbag, God only knew. But it had made her daughter happy.
“I don’t think they’re coming,” she said, just as the door opened and the woman she presumed to be Letitia came in with a cup of tea. She placed it on Edward’s desk and left in silence.
Margaret picked it up and sipped. It was too hot.
“No,” said Edward. “Let’s get started then.”
“Good.”
“Right.” He opened the file that lay alone on his desk. This office was neat and tidy, legal textbooks shelved by year and not a client file in sight except for this one. She liked that.
He thumbed through the first few sheets then sat back and looked across at her.
“Bryn made this will two years ago,” he said. “He made provision for you and for your children in the event of his death. He also left some personal items to each of them and to some of his colleagues. Where would you like me to start?”
“Where do you normally start?”
“Good question. Let’s begin with the big stuff. The house is owned in joint names, that becomes entirely yours on his death. There’s his pension. He won’t receive that as he died before retirement, but you will receive a widow’s pension of approximately two-thirds the amount. And there’s his death in service sum. Wisely invested, that will make up for the bulk of the missing pension.”
“Right.”
“And then there’s material assets.”
“What are material assets?”
“Did you and your husband buy the artwork that’s on display in your house together?”
“It was all him. I preferred the family photos we had up before.”
“Well, you might not feel the same way when I tell you this.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve taken the trouble of preparing an inventory of the paintings owned by yourself and Mr Jackson. He wanted to leave one of them to Paul, but apart from that, the rest are yours.”
“Which one?”
“Er, a Dieben-something. Thing is, it isn’t in the inventory. Just in the will.”
“Diebenkorn,” said Margaret. “I’ve been hearing that name a lot lately. It was stolen.”
The solicitor paled. “When?”
“The police think whoever killed Bryn took it. I don’t know. I’ve never seen the thing in my life.”
“That complicates things then.”
“What about Winona?”
“Sorry?”
“You say he left Paul the Diebenkorn. What about his daughter?”
“Yes. She gets one of the sculptures. A ballerina.”
“Is that the one on the stairs?”
“I don’t know. It’s wor
th twelve thousand pounds.”
“She likes that one.”
“Anyway, Margaret. I haven’t told you yet how much the collection is worth.”
“What collection?”
“The artworks. In your house.” He licked his lips. His pupils were dilated.
“Oh. Right.”
“They’re worth one million, two hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds.”
“They’re worth what?”
“They’re worth considerably more than your house, Mrs Jackson. I strongly suggest you get them properly insured.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Zoe took the woman into the interview room off the reception area. If they went further into the station, that would attract attention.
She frowned at Rhodri’s questioning look and shook her head, pointing at one of the chairs. He put his coat on the back of it and took out a pad and pen.
Penny sat opposite them. Zoe leaned on the desk, her hands clasped together. Her palms were sore.
“As I said outside, my name’s Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. This is Detective Constable Rhodri Hughes. Can you give me your full name please?”
“Penny Bigton.”
“Thanks. So, you work for the Jacksons?”
“I’m their cleaner. I was, I s’pose. No idea if they need me now.”
“Why wouldn’t Mrs Jackson need you?”
A shrug. “She never liked me.”
“Any idea why not?”
“She didn’t like me being in the house. At least, that’s what I reckon. Never said anything, but she was funny with me. Standoffish.”
“Right.” Zoe leaned across the table. “What is it you wanted to tell us?”
“Yeah. So I heard them arguing.”
“Arguing. When was this?”
“Afternoon before he died. I was cleaning in that fancy dining room, polishing the table. I like to get it proper shiny.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve.
Rhodri delved into his pocket and brought out a tissue. “Here.”
She grabbed it and started shunting it around her face. Zoe watched her. She was young, not more than thirty. Her hair was scraped back in a severe ponytail and she didn’t wear any make-up.
Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Page 22