Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “So, she went to visit her folks. What of it?”

  “I think we need to consider that she might still have been there when the Jacksons got home.”

  “You think she killed her father?”

  Zoe felt heat rise up her neck. “We have to be open to all possibilities.”

  “It’s a bit far-fetched, Zoe. That’s becoming a theme, with you and this case.”

  Zoe swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ve already got Mo and Connie at her building. We found out she was friends with Irina. I sent them over to interview her.”

  “Irina Hamm fell into the canal.”

  “I know, ma’am. But I wanted to find out more about her state of mind. To—”

  Lesley held up a hand. “You’re like a goddamn terrier, DI Finch. I’ll send someone over to assist them. If there’s any connection to her father’s murder, then we’ll follow it up.”

  “Right.”

  “Now. Is that all?”

  “There was something the cleaner said about Winona looking for something, in her bedroom. But she went into her parents’ bedroom.”

  “She’d moved out, hadn’t she? She could have meant any bedroom.”

  “She still had her own. You can’t miss it.”

  “OK. You think she was sniffing around her parent’s room, and she found something that made her want to kill her dad.”

  “Look, I know it’s—”

  “Leave it with me. Go and deal with the mounds of paperwork I know are littering your office.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Zoe trudged back to their office, Rhodri following behind.

  “Is that it, boss?” he muttered as they walked. “You not gonna do anything? What about Mo and Connie?”

  Her phone pinged: voicemail.

  Zoe, it’s Mo. We’re at Winona Jackson’s building… going to the Jackson house. Call me as soon as you get this.

  Zoe stared at Rhodri, her eyes wide. “They’ve got something. On Winona.”

  She dialled Mo’s number. There was no answer.

  She dialled Connie’s number. No answer again.

  “Something’s not right,” she told Rhodri.

  “They not picking up?”

  “Neither of them. Hang on.” She called Mo again and left a message.

  “If anyone asks,” she told Rhodri, “this was my idea. Not yours. Come on.”

  “It’s not our case, boss.”

  “You want to do paperwork, or you want to go and help Mo and Connie?”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Mo rubbed his head. There was drumming behind his eyes and a heaviness at the back of his skull that reminded him of the time he’d fallen off the waltzers at Drayton Manor Park as a teenager.

  He moved his head, just slightly. It screamed at him in protest. He put his palm to his temple and applied pressure, trying to push away the pain.

  He blinked a few times to bring the room into focus. He felt sick and needed the loo.

  “Sarge?”

  Connie was above him, peering into his face.

  “Uh?”

  “Sarge, it’s me, Connie.”

  “I know who you are.”

  She smiled. “Good. Not concussed then.”

  “Who knows?” He thought of what Catriona would say when he told her he’d got himself into this. But then, all they’d been doing was go to interview Winona Jackson. She wouldn’t have attacked them, would she?

  Then he remembered. The man who’d hit him with that bat. Stick Adams. Had he been in that flat all along? Did he live there? Or had he broken in?

  He sat up. They were in a portacabin. Light filtered through the windows and there was no noise from outside. It was late afternoon, early evening. There was no one else here, just the two of them handcuffed to a metal bracket on the wall.

  “Connie,” he said, tugging at the cuffs. “What if they’ve got Winona? What if that’s why she was out?”

  “I don’t follow.” She copied him, tugging at her own restraint. His hand slammed into the wall.

  “Stop.” he said. “We’re connected.” He pulled again then stopped. This was useless.

  “What’s your theory?” Connie asked.

  “Stick Adams. He attacked us. He could have taken Winona too. Did you see him?”

  She lowered her gaze. “Sorry. Didn’t see anyone.”

  “It’s not your fault. We had no reason to believe there was danger.”

  “Maybe he saw us go in,” Connie suggested.

  “Or Trevor Hamm did. It’s just along the canal from his building.” Mo tried to picture the view from Hamm’s roof terrace. Would he be able to see the entrance to Winona’s building?

  He wouldn’t need to, if he had his thugs doing it for him.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Warn the station.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She indicated the window with her head. “Before you came round, I worked out where we are.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a fence I recognise out there. It’s got a hoarding on it, massive ad for Carlsberg lager. And that way – she jerked her head towards another window – is a Pepsi ad. It means we haven’t been taken far.”

  “Go on then. Where are we?”

  “There’s a building site opposite Winona’s building. On the other side of that canal inlet where Irina drowned. New apartments.”

  “No surprise there then.”

  “No. But we’re in a cabin in the middle of the site, I reckon.”

  “Excellent deduction, Constable.”

  “Doesn’t do us much good though.”

  “No,” said Mo. He gave another tug at the cuffs and she gasped. “Sorry. But it’s better to know where we are than not to. At least they haven’t dumped us out in the sticks somewhere, or in a cellar.”

  “You reckon we can call for help?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too noisy around here. It’s Saturday, the canals will be full of people soon. No one will hear us.”

  Connie slumped. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Let’s think. We can work this out.”

  “I know you’re famed for your optimism, sarge. But we’re cuffed to the wall in the middle of a building site in a part of town where no one will hear us. Yeah, and the bastard who put us in here could come back at any moment. And if he doesn’t, his boss might.”

  “He won’t.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Hamm’s too slippy. He won’t come near us.”

  “Not unless he plans to kill us.”

  “Then he turns his wife’s apparent suicide into a hunt for the killer of two police officers. No chance.”

  “I sure hope so, guv.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Mo watched as she relaxed a little. He was lying, of course. He felt none of the confidence he was trying to project. But it didn’t help to have her scared. And Connie’s fast breathing and pimpled skin had indicated to him that she wasn’t far off a full-blown panic attack.

  “Right,” he said. “Let’s put our brains together. What have you got in your pockets?”

  She shifted to reach into her back pockets. “Two tissues and a stick of gum. Sorry.”

  He patted his back pocket. All he’d had in it was his phone, long since gone. He sighed. “Yeah. I’m even worse.”

  “I had a multitool in my jacket,” she said.

  “What’s one of them?”

  “It’s a little gizmo with every permutation of screwdriver, Allen key and the like you can think of. Useful for taking computers apart and fixing my bike.”

  “Those both things you do regularly?”

  She shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Good. But you don’t have your jacket.”

  “It’s over there, on the chair.”

  He followed her gaze. “You spotted that while I was out cold?”

  “I had to find something to do.”

  “Fair enough.” He ey
ed the jacket. “Now we need to work out how to get it over here.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  “Mummy.”

  “Hello, darling. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Margaret rubbed her eyes. “Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m tired.”

  “I’ve already waited a week.”

  Margaret paused taking her coat off and eyed her daughter. Then she deliberately composed herself and went into the cloakroom under the stairs. She put her coat on a hook, brushed it down and closed the door.

  “A week, you say?”

  “Come into the kitchen. I’ve made a pot of tea.”

  Margaret went first, listening to her daughter’s loping gait behind her. She’d nagged the girl to stand up straight since she was ten years old, but to no avail.

  In the kitchen, a pot of tea was indeed waiting on the table. And a plate of pastries.

  “You went shopping,” she said.

  Winona gestured for Margaret to sit. “I went to Loaf. Your favourite.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’m not stupid, Mummy.”

  “Shall I be mother?” Margaret picked up the teapot and started arranging the cups. Winona had brought out the best china, which was kept in a box in the cellar. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yes, but does that really merit—?”

  “Shut up and let me talk.”

  Margaret spilled tea on the table. She tutted and stood up to fetch a tea towel.

  “Stop fussing,” snapped Winona.

  “This table stains.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s pine.”

  “It stains. Believe me, I’ve cleaned it enough over the years.” Margaret mopped up the spillage and placed the tea towel next to her cup, folded neatly. “Now, what is it that’s so urgent?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Like what? Do you want milk?”

  Winona glanced at the milk jug. “Yes. Like I’m a child. You always do it.”

  Margaret leaned back with her cup. She gazed into it, longing for some peace. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t mean to. I’ll try harder.’

  “There you go, doing it again.”

  Margaret looked at her. “What? What am I doing?”

  “You called me sweetie.”

  “It’s a term of endearment, Winona. It’s my way of showing you that I love you.”

  “Don’t give me that bollocks.”

  “Winona! You know I don’t like you swearing.”

  “You put up with it from Dad. That and a lot more.”

  Margaret looked at the plate of pastries next to the tea pot, her throat tight. There were two apple danishes and a vanilla. Vanilla was her favourite. She wondered if Winona was expecting a third guest.

  “It’s not for you to judge your father’s and my relationship. May I?” She reached out to the plate.

  Winona nodded. Margaret took the vanilla danish and her daughter smiled.

  “Thank you, Winona. Is that what you want me to call you from now on?”

  “It is my name.”

  “Good. I’m glad that’s sorted. Now.” Margaret lifted the plate. “Have a pastry. They’re delicious.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Who’s supposed to eat the others? Are we expecting company?”

  “I just thought you might like a few.”

  “That would be greedy, swee— Winona. It would make me ill.”

  “Save them, then. Have one tomorrow.”

  “I might just do that.” She imagined a lazy Sunday morning. Waking late and lying in bed with a book. Wandering around the house without the constant unseen presence of Bryn behind his study door.

  She took a bite. The pastry tasted sour. “Are these fresh?”

  “I bought them today.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “You don’t want it? I go to all that trouble, drive halfway across town, and then you say they’ve gone off?”

  “No. Here.” She took another bite. Winona nodded, satisfied. It was getting dark. The back gate was banging, again. It sent a shiver across Margaret’s skin.

  “Did you know what he was?” Winona asked.

  Margaret placed the pastry on her plate and wiped her hands on the tea towel. “Who?”

  “Daddy, of course.”

  “There were a lot of things I knew about your father. Some good, some bad.”

  “He was a monster.”

  Margaret turned sharply to her daughter. “He’s dead, Winona. Have some respect.”

  “You knew all along. You had to.”

  Margaret felt a chill. “He wasn’t an easy man to live with. I protected you from that. You and your brother.”

  “You covered for him, all those years.”

  She nodded, her gaze still on the back window. “I did what I had to.”

  The doorbell rang. Margaret stood up slowly, her body complaining.

  “Leave it,” said Winona.

  “What if it’s Paul?”

  “He’s got a key. Leave it.”

  Margaret sat down again.

  Winona pointed to her mother’s plate. “Finish it.”

  Margaret picked up the last piece of pastry. She grimaced. It was definitely off. She wondered if Winona had been sold a bad batch. She didn’t have the energy to ask, to prompt another outburst. She felt tired, as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

  “You’re an enabler, Mother. That’s what you are.”

  “An enabler? I don’t know what you mean.” Her mind felt foggy now. She blinked at Winona, who was growing indistinct. “I think I need a lie down.”

  “You could say that.”

  Margaret placed a hand on the table. It was moving. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “He was one of them.” Winona’s face was in hers now, looming at her. She batted it away. “Those men, the ones who abused kids. Canary.”

  Canary? What was that?

  Margaret tried to prop herself up on the chair, but her limbs felt heavy. “What’s in this tea, Winona? Is there something…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her tongue was too heavy.

  “You shouldn’t have been so greedy, Mother. Too many pastries will kill you one day.”

  Margaret tried to make sense of what Winona was saying. But it was no good. Her daughter shimmered and blurred in front of her, or maybe it was her own vision shimmering and blurring. She fell forward, her face landing in the empty plate.

  Chapter Eighty

  David Randle pulled up in the car park of the White Swan pub, near the Jacksons’ house. He picked up his phone. Number withheld.

  “DCI David Randle.”

  “It’s me.”

  He knew that voice: Edward Startshaw, the Jacksons’ lawyer. He felt his heart sink in his chest. “Yes.”

  “We had the will reading.”

  “And?”

  “Margaret Jackson is going to be a very wealthy woman.”

  “No surprise there, then.”

  “Gives her a definite motive, I’d have thought.”

  “I already told you. I’m on it.”

  “And I hear she had the means too. The knife, and the case.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good work. But you need to hurry. I’ve been given a message for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s to call off the dogs.”

  “What dogs?”

  “A couple of your lot have been sniffing around in Brindleyplace.”

  “Not on my instructions, they haven’t.”

  “Irrelevant. You need to leave him alone. His wife’s death was a tragic accident. The man’s distraught.”

  I bet, thought Randle.

  “You’ll get your friends back when there’s been an arrest.”

  His skin prickled. “This is nothing to do with them. You can’t just—"

  “I’m not doing anything. All I know i
s I do my job, and you do yours.”

  Randle swallowed. There was a solid lump at the base of his throat, feeling like it might choke him. Until Bryn’s death he’d only ever been his senior officer’s bag man, the guy who made sure Jackson’s nose was kept clean and that the two of them could progress through the ranks. It had started as a favour for a mate who’d been promoted and whose coat tails he could ride on. It ended with him lying to colleagues in the Canary investigation.

  Now, without Jackson to shield him from the worst of it, he wanted out.

  “I suggest you take yourself round to her house,” Startshaw said. “I know you’re outside the pub.”

  David peered out of the windscreen. The car park was only a third full, with no one on foot. He turned and looked through the back window.

  “You won’t find us. Just get on with it, before things get worse for you.”

  Chapter Eighty-One

  “I think this might work,” said Connie. Mo looked up at her from his position on the floor. His head still felt as if it would be better off if it just got a move on and exploded.

  “Go on,” he muttered. The light coming through the windows had turned from mid blue to a pale yellow: a security light, high overhead.

  “I might be able to hook my jacket and drag it over here. I just need something to throw at it.”

  “Like what?”

  She eyed the chair and her jacket, slung over it. “It’s not that far away. I need about three metres. My belt isn’t long enough but if you’ve got one?”

  She reached down to her side and started pulling her belt out of its loops. She leaned sideways to make space between her and the wall and winced as the cuffs dug into her hip.

  Mo used his free hand to undo his own belt and started doing the same.

  “I just hope my trousers stay up.”

  She laughed. “Wish I had that problem.”

  “Catriona, my wife, she’s had me on a low carb diet. I have to say it’s had an effect.”

  “Well done sarge.” She pulled her belt the last part of the way and held it aloft. “Phew.”

  He tugged his belt loose and draped it in his lap. “Now what?”

  “This is the tricky bit.”

  “How so?”