“Where were they, when you heard this argument?” asked Zoe.
“In the hall.”
“Right outside the door of the room you were in. Was the door open?”
“Closed. He closed it.”
“Mr Jackson did?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Started off with something about a dress. She had a green one on her bed before. I remember, cos I had to move it out the way when I was hoovering. Silky it was, lovely. Not the kind of thing for a woman like her.”
“Why not?”
A shrug. “Well, look at her. She’s dowdy, don’t you think? All grey and beige. The beige woman, I thought of her as.”
“The beige woman, who employed you to clean her house.”
“It wasn’t her what hired me.”
“Who, then?”
“Her husband. Mr Jackson.”
“Really?”
“You think I’m lying?”
“No. It’s just… How many of your clients are women, and how many are men?”
“Well. I’ve got Ruth on a Monday, then the Latifs, then on a Tuesday there’s Victoria and her two houses in Moseley…”
“I don’t need the details. How many of your clients are women, and how many men?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Mr Jackson’s my only client what’s a man.”
“Right. And his wife has got nothing to do with this?”
“She cancels me, if they don’t need me of a week. She’s the one who’s there, of course, But he hired me, and he pays me.”
“Right. So this argument. It was about a dress.”
“Yeah. He didn’t want her wearing it.”
Zoe thought back to Margaret’s outfit at the party. It certainly hadn’t been green and silky. “To the party?”
“That’s the one. He thought she looked like mutton dressed up as lamb. He wasn’t wrong.”
“You sure it wasn’t a normal domestic argument?”
“She got angry. I’ve never seen her angry. Slamming doors and all sorts.”
“Did she threaten him?”
“No. Kept it to herself.”
“Did she attack him?”
“Of course not. He’s a big bloke. Was. Sorry.”
“So they had an argument, and you think that because of that, she killed him.”
“She hated him. I could sense it. Oozed out of her pores, like.”
Zoe moved her hands beneath the table where she stuffed them between her thighs.
“Did you tell DCI Randle any of this, when he came to see you?”
“Who’s DCI Randle?”
“Has anyone been to interview you about Mr Jackson’s murder?”
“Nope. That’s why I’m here.”
“OK. Well thanks for coming, Ms Bigton.”
“Mrs.”
“Mrs Bigton. I think that’s all we need.”
“She hated him. He really pissed her off about that dress. She was still angry when they left for the party.”
“You were still there?” asked Zoe. Rhodri flipped the page of his notebook beside her. “What time did you leave?”
“About half six. I thought I’d be gone before then, but I had to start late cos of the traffic. There’d been a snarl-up at Five Ways and I got there late.” She raked the tissue across her face. “I always work my hours. Never skive.”
“No. Did you see anything unusual, after they left? Any sign of another person coming to the house?”
“Apart from that brattish daughter of theirs, no.”
“Winona was there?”
“Yeah. Said she’d left something in her bedroom. Odd thing was, she went into their bedroom, not hers.”
Winona’s bedroom at the house had been decorated with floral wallpaper and lacy drapes, with a burgundy bedspread that had been entirely in keeping with the woman. Even with her own flat, it seemed she still had her old room. Zoe wondered how Mo and Connie were getting on at the flat.
“Did she leave before you did?”
“Not sure. I called out, but there was no answer. So I guess she did.”
“But you didn’t hear her leave?”
A shrug. “I was in the basement, putting stuff away. She could’ve left then. That’s where they keep all the mops and—”
“Thanks, Mrs Bigton. You’ve been very helpful.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Mo put a hand on Connie’s shoulder.
“Wait.”
She turned, her eyes wide. “Why?”
“We don’t know who’s in there. We haven’t been allowed access.”
“The front door’s open. It’s hardly breaking and entering,” Connie whispered.
He raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. Why is her front door open?”
“Don’t you think we should find out?”
“I do.”
“We’re working on a murder enquiry, boss. We should go in.”
“Alright. But let’s just try calling her one more time.” He leaned over Connie’s shoulder, not difficult as she wasn’t much more than five foot tall. “Miss Jackson? It’s the police. Are you in there?”
“Don’t just tell ’em like that,” said Connie.
“We have to. We can’t just barge in.”
“What if there’s an intruder? We just told them we’re coming in. We need to get in there, before they find a weapon or something.”
“Connie, you already shouted through the door that you were from Amazon.”
“So I did.”
“You’ve been watching too many cop shows. Come on. She’s out.”
Mo pulled away but Connie held him with her stare. “Let’s just have a look.”
He looked back towards the stairs. The door had been open. And if there was an intruder, Winona Jackson could be at risk…
“Alright then,” he said. “I’ll go first.”
“Fair enough.” She shuffled out of his way and he eased the door open, his senses alert.
“Miss Jackson?” he called as the door swung open. It opened straight into the living space, decorated with floral wallpaper on three walls and painted purple on the fourth. A pink sofa stood to one side with a coffee table in front of it. The coffee table was strewn with magazines and envelopes, mixed up with dirty mugs, plates and bowls. Mo wrinkled his nose.
“This place stinks.”
“Yeah.” Connie pinched her nose. “You don’t think there’s a body or something?”
“No, Connie. I think that congealing pint of milk on the kitchen counter might explain it.”
“Ah. Yeah.” She blushed. He smiled at her.
He stepped into the room, making for a door which he assumed led to a bedroom. He knocked and pushed it open. Inside, the room was as messy as the rest of the flat. The duvet was balled up on the bed and books were scattered on the floor along with magazines, clothes and a teetering pile of teddy bears. On the bedside table was a mug and a glass of water with a thin haze on the top.
“How does anyone live like this?” he whispered.
“Sarge?”
He turned back to the living room. “Connie?”
“I think you might want to see this.”
He went back into the living space, picking his way over discarded takeaway cartons and dirty clothes. Connie was standing over the coffee table, looking down at it.
“What?” he asked.
She beckoned him over. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing laboured. He shuffled towards her, trying not to identify the things he was standing in.
She pointed down at the coffee table. There was a brown A4 envelope, with a pile of photographs splayed out next to it. They were black and white, printed large format. The kind of thing you’d imagine a private detective sending to a client.
“Aw, hell,” he said. Connie nodded.
Mo pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and picked up the photos. They were all of Bryn Jackson. In the first one he was alone, getting out of a c
ar. Mo recognised where he was. Side road of Tennant Street. Back of Forelli’s bar.
The next two showed him shaking hands with two separate men, still outside the bar. Another man, dressed in a dark suit and wearing shades, stood next to them. He wasn’t looking at the other men in the shot but instead was looking past them, out to the street. Security.
“Are those who I think they are?” said Connie.
Mo nodded. “Oulman and Petersen.” He looked at the fourth photo. The three men were embracing, full of smiles. “I’m beginning to wish we hadn’t come here now.”
“I know what you mean, sarge.”
The fifth and sixth photos depicted Jackson being ushered into the back of the club via a fire exit. The seventh and eighth showed another man in a hoodie. He had a girl of perhaps thirteen with him and was ushering her through the same door. She was pushing at his arm but didn’t look as if she was trying to get away. Then the final photo showed Jackson emerging, accompanied by the security guard from the earlier photos.
All the photos had time and date stamps. All were taken on the same day: February the sixth. Two weeks before the bar had been raided. From the first to the last was a time period of ninety minutes.
“Oh, fuck,” said Mo.
“I’ve never heard you say ‘fuck’ before.”
“No. Well, I’ve never discovered that the ACC was part of the Canary paedophile ring before.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
Margaret’s vision blurred and she could feel a headache coming on. It was almost two weeks since she’d last driven, and even her Corsa was feeling unfamiliar.
Bryn’s SUV had gone already, taken by the police the day after his death. It was going to be her and this runaround from now on.
Good.
She pulled into the drive and eased her car into the spot normally reserved for Bryn’s. In her own usual place was Winona’s Fiesta. No sign of a police car. The FLO had gone at last.
She stopped the engine and sat for a few moments, gazing at her daughter’s car.
Had the children known the value of the artwork? Had Bryn told them? Paul had been into his study a few times and would have been familiar with that missing Diebenkorn.
She was an outsider in this family, always had been. When the children were little she’d believed it was Bryn who was the outsider, with his long hours and his preoccupation with the job. But she was wrong. She was like a ghost haunting that house, never really there despite being imprisoned within its walls
Well, now she had money. She would sell the place and find somewhere nice just for herself. Something cosy. Maybe in Solihull, near to her mother.
She slumped in her seat. She still hadn’t spoken to her mother properly since Bryn’s death. She’d rung her the day after, making sure she hadn’t found out from the papers. But she’d been too tired and too strung out to talk properly. Her mother hadn’t seemed surprised: their conversations were always brief and characterised by Margaret constantly listening out for the door opening and Bryn arriving home. He had a habit of dialling 1471 when he got home from work, to check if anyone had called.
And now Winona was waiting for her. Paul would be along shortly, that was in no doubt. They knew where Margaret had been today, and they would be anxious to learn about their cut. Spoiled brats, both of them.
She heaved herself out of the car and trudged to the front door, steeling herself for the worst.
Chapter Seventy-Six
“There’s a note,” said Connie.
Mo shifted his gaze from the photos. They were like hot metal in his hand. He didn’t have an evidence bag on him. He cast around the flat, looking for something he could put them in.
“It’s handwritten. Looks like a woman’s writing.”
He took it from her.
Darling Winona,
I am so sorry. I thought it would be best if you should know.
Your friend,
I x
“Irina,” he breathed. “She sent them to Winona.”
“But how did she get them?”
“Her husband, maybe? He’s got men on his team who used to work for Oulman. If anyone knew what was going on, it’s him.”
“What are we going to do, boss?”
“We’re going to tell Zoe. Come on.” He grabbed a carrier bag from the floor, tipped out its contents and stuffed the evidence inside.
They headed out of the flat and made for the stairs. He grabbed his phone.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. He followed Connie down, their steps echoing around the space. They weren’t bothering to be quiet this time.
“This is Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. You know what to do.”
“Damn.”
Connie turned towards him. “What’s up?”
“Don’t look at me, look where you’re going. I don’t need you falling and breaking your neck.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“Yeah. Zoe, it’s Mo. We’re at Winona Jackson’s building. She’s not here, looks like she’s been out a while. But we found something that connects Jackson to the Canary case. It’s not good. And it makes Winona a potential suspect. We’re going to the Jackson house. Call me as soon as you get this.”
He hung up.
“The Jackson house?” asked Connie.
“Winona might be there.”
“OK.”
Connie opened the door to the ground floor hallway and it quickly closed behind her. Mo landed on the bottom step and yanked it open, wondering why she hadn’t held it for him.
He almost stumbled over her in his haste. Connie was slumped on the floor inside the doorway, not moving.
He bent over. “Connie?”
He put a finger to her neck. There was a pulse, thank God. He shook her gently. “Connie. Can you hear me?”
No response. There was blood on her collar. He looked around, searching for her assailant. The hallway was empty.
“Connie, I’m calling an ambulance.”
Mo peered towards the front door, which was shut. The door was heavy and solid, and he had no way of knowing if there was someone waiting for him outside.
He fumbled for his phone as he heard a sound behind him. He turned to see a door to one of the flats opening.
“Stay back, please. I’m a police officer.”
The man was heavily built, with a tattoo that covered his ear. Stick Adams. The man looked down at Connie and smiled. He had a baseball bat in his hand. A clump of black hair stuck to it, and some blood. Mo felt his stomach lurch.
He stood up and grabbed his warrant card out of his inside pocket. “I’m arresting you for—”
The man raised the bat and Mo’s vision was filled with the sight of it coming at him. He reached in his pocket for something to defend himself but instead his phone clattered out onto the floor. He stepped backwards and fell over Connie, landing twisted on his back.
As he tried to push up, he felt the blow to his forehead. He raised his hand and felt the bones in his wrist crack. He cried out.
As the bat came in for a third time, the world went black.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Zoe sat in the room where they’d interviewed Penny Bigton. She’d asked Rhodri to take the woman out while she pulled together her thoughts.
Connie had checked the alarm and security records. She’d said no one had gone into the house after the Jacksons had left for the party. So there was no record of Winona having been in the house. But if the cleaner had let her in, there wouldn’t be. Did the system log when people left?
She grabbed her phone and dialled Connie. No answer. They should be done by now. Unless they were interviewing Winona Jackson, and she had a lot to tell them…
She trusted Mo to handle it properly. Winona needed to be interviewed here, in the station. As part of the official investigation. Randle was going to have her hide.
Rhodri pushed the door open and fell into the chair Penny had left. His long legs looked ridiculous in the compact institu
tional chair.
“What now, boss?”
“We need to do this by the book.”
She itched to run out of the station and head straight to Winona’s flat, to rain more questions down on her like a force nine gale. But if Winona was a suspect in her dad’s murder, Randle needed to know.
She dragged her hands through her hair and turned to Rhodri. “I need to speak to Randle.”
“You sure?”
“He’s SIO.”
“He’ll push us out.”
“I know he will. But if you and I go blundering in there now, we risk the integrity of the investigation. If CPS sniff that this wasn’t done properly, we won’t make it stick.”
“Make what stick?”
“Winona Jackson killing her dad.”
“Ah. That.”
She laughed at him. “You sound like this is just an everyday thing for you.”
He turned to her, his eyes bright. “Just trying not to act like an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot, Rhod. Come on. Help me find Randle.”
She grabbed her phone and headed back into the station. There was a missed call from Mo.
She knocked on Randle’s office door and waited. No answer. She knocked again and opened it.
“He’s gone. Where d’you think he might be?”
“No idea,” said Rhodri. “Sorry.”
Every time Randle had gone AWOL so far, he’d been slipping off to the Jacksons’.
“Zoe.” Lesley stuck her head round the door.
“Lesley. D’you know where Randle is?”
“He had to go to the pathologist’s office.”
“Why?”
“Not sure. I don’t ask him everything. Why?”
“We’ve had some new evidence.”
“In the Irina Hamm case?”
“In the Jackson case.”
Lesley raised an eyebrow.
“The cleaner showed up. Penny Bigton. She said Winona Jackson was at the house after her parents went out, on the night of the murder. Which explains why we didn’t catch her on the security system. The cleaner let her in.”
Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Page 23