Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “We’ve got to tie these together between us. One hand each.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” He reached out and she handed him her belt. He sat on the end of his own belt to keep it steady and poked hers into its buckle.

  “Can you hold onto yours?” he asked.

  She nodded, understanding. “Yeah.” She leaned across him and tugged at her belt. As it tightened, it looped around the buckle of his belt and the two became attached.

  “Genius!” She smiled at him.

  “So who’s going to throw it?” he asked.

  “Well, you’re the keep fit freak,” she said.

  He shook his head. “That’s next month. I’m about as fit as a dog with a lame back leg.”

  “OK. I’ll try.” She picked up the belt and held it firmly in her free hand. He leaned as far away as he could to give her space and she threw the belt into the room.

  It came down with a clatter on the floor.

  “Damn,” she breathed. She pulled it in again and grabbed the end loosely. She pulled it back behind her and tried again.

  This time, it hit the jacket and brought it sliding to the ground. It was too far away for them to reach.

  “Try again.” She gritted her teeth and gave the belt another toss, with her buckle at the end. He turned away, scared it might hit him.

  It landed in the middle of the jacket. She tugged it carefully, dragging the jacket along. At last it was within inches of her foot. She reached out but couldn’t get it.

  “Here,” he said. He shuffled downwards and slid his legs out across the floor. He stopped when he couldn’t get any further, back muscles yelling at him.

  “Got it.” He twisted his foot to grab the edge of the jacket with his shoe, then dragged it towards him. At last it was close enough to be able to shuffle back then reach over and grab it.

  He held it up to her. “I hope you’ve got the right tool in there after all this.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Randle pressed the button for the Jacksons’ doorbell. He’d rarely done this, as the ACC had preferred him to come round the back for their private meetings. There’d been one time last year when he and his new girlfriend had come over for dinner and they’d stood here in the cold, waiting for Margaret to open the door.

  He rubbed his hands together, fighting off the chill. He hated having to do this. Margaret was a decent woman. He’d loved her once. But she was the most obvious person to have killed her husband. And a simple domestic meant there would be no sniffing into Jackson’s activities. DI Finch had done enough of that already, but she’d been distracted by those letters. He cringed to think of them. Poor, desperate Margaret. Had she carried a torch for him for so long?

  No one was answering. Her car was here, along with another he didn’t recognise. One of her children, maybe. A witness. That was fine with him.

  He rang the doorbell again, then tired of waiting and decided to take the familiar route. A flower bed ran up the side of the house, bordered by a wide strip of stone. He’d taken to walking along the stones when he came here, as much out of habit as to disguise his footprints. Zoe had spotted it, but Forensics hadn’t found any footprints along it.

  He shuffled along the stones and pushed the side gate. The lock was loose, as usual. He pushed it open and slipped through, taking one last glance out at the empty street.

  Beyond the gate was a generous garden. Tidy lawn surrounded by flower beds that were dark mounds at this time of night. He crept along the path to the rear patio, careful not to make a sound.

  The first window would be the kitchen, followed by the study. He’d learned to dip beneath the kitchen window in case Margaret was in there. But there would be no one in the study. Tonight she would most likely be in the kitchen.

  He stood with his back to the wall next to the kitchen window then peered around the frame. He didn’t want to frighten her.

  He was right. One of the children was there. Winona, the irritating one. She had her back to him and was lifting something heavy. She grunted and swayed.

  He leaned round further to get a better look. Winona shifted to one side and he saw what she was holding. Margaret.

  He put a hand on the glass, about to knock. Then he saw the expression on Winona’s face as she looked down at her mother. Randle took a step back, hoping the darkness would hide him, that the brightly lit kitchen would be reflected back to its occupants.

  Winona heaved Margaret off her chair and dragged her towards the doorway that led to what would once have been a servant’s staircase. Margaret’s body was motionless, slumped in her daughter’s arms.

  Randle took out his phone. He hesitated, hearing a car pull up at the front.

  “999, please state which service you require.”

  “This is DCI David Randle, Force CID. I’m outside a property in Farquhar Road where I believe an assault has taken place. Suspect is still on the property.”

  “Stay on the line.”

  Winona reached the doorway. She lowered Margaret to the floor and Margaret twitched. David felt a long sigh of relief leave his lips. So he wasn’t a complete monster.

  “Assistance will be with you in nine minutes.”

  “Is that the best you can do? I’m only six minutes away from Harborne station.”

  “That’s the quickest I can give you, I’m afraid.”

  He gritted his teeth. Bloody 999. Should have called the station.

  Winona stopped moving and jolted upright. Voices came from around the front. He crept back towards the corner of the house. Then the doorbell rang.

  “That was quick,” he breathed into his phone.

  “Pardon?”

  “They’re already here.”

  “They’re eight minutes away. Sorry.”

  He looked back into the kitchen. Margaret was gone, vanished from where Winona had placed her on the floor. And Winona was heading out of the door.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  “You drive. I’ve got a call to make.” Zoe opened the passenger door and tossed Rhodri her keys.

  “Your car, boss?”

  “Yes, my car. You don’t know how to handle a Mini?”

  “Yes, boss. It’s just I’ve never—”

  “I know. You’ll be careful with it, eh? I trust you.”

  “OK. Thanks.” He looked along the roof of the car then pulled a face and got in.

  “Good job you’re tall,” he said, pushing the driving seat back just a little.

  “These things aren’t as titchy as they were back in the day. Get going, then.”

  He turned the ignition and she put her phone to her ear, impatient.

  “Hello, Forensic Scene Management.”

  “It’s DI Zoe Finch. I need to speak to Adi Hanson.”

  “He’s out, sorry.”

  “Where?”

  “On a job. Can I help?”

  “I really need Adi.”

  “Is this about the Jackson scene? I’m Yala Cook. I worked it.”

  “OK. I need to know if the bedrooms were dusted for prints.”

  “Hang on.”

  The line cut out and pop music began to play. Rhodri turned out of the station car park onto Rose Road.

  “Go via Harborne Road,” she said.

  “Somerset Road is more direct.”

  “And it gets snarled up at this time of night. Just go the way I say.”

  “Fair enough.” He paused at a T-junction.

  “Yes, we dusted the whole house,” said Yala. Zoe gripped her phone tighter.

  “And?”

  “It was me that went through the results. Really odd.”

  “What kind of odd?”

  “You’d expect in a big house like that for there to be a whole bunch of different prints around the place. Visitors, tradesmen, that kind of thing. But there were only four sets of prints anywhere in the house.”

  “Go on.”

  “The family.
The parents’ prints were everywhere, the son downstairs, and the daughter all over the shop too. Apart from the study. There was just the ACC’s prints in there. A partial that might have been the son, but that’s all.”

  “Did Winona Jackson leave prints in her parents’ bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the case that the knife was stored in? It was kept in a bedside table, next to the victim’s side of the bed.”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’d have to check.”

  “Please.”

  That case held the murder weapon. Whoever had killed Jackson would have got it from there. And now the cleaner was claiming Winona had been skulking around upstairs.

  Rhodri started humming as the car picked up speed. Zoe pointed left at the junction with Harborne Road. He followed her instructions, turning instead of going straight on.

  Yala was back on the phone. “It’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “The case. It should have been in the evidence locker, but it’s not there. Maybe one of the investigating officers.”

  “Has it been checked out?”

  “That’s just the thing. We keep going on at you to check things out and in properly. Chain of evidence is screwed when this kind of thing happens.”

  “Don’t look at me. Have you got any idea who took it?”

  “None. But whoever it is, I’ll bloody kill them when I get my hands on them.”

  Zoe hung up. They were nearing Farquhar Road now, the street dark and deserted.

  “Everything alright, boss?” asked Rhodri.

  “An important piece of evidence has gone AWOL.”

  “Shit. How?”

  “Here we are.”

  He parked the car outside the Jackson house. She scanned the road for Mo’s car but it wasn’t there.

  “Damn.”

  She picked up her phone and dialled.

  “Where are you Mo? I’m at the Jackson house, thought you’d be here. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  “That’s Randle’s car,” said Rhodri. He gestured towards the driveway. On it were three cars. Margaret’s Corsa, a Fiat, and Randle’s Audi.

  “Nice car,” said Rhodri. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  “You really do hero worship him, don’t you?”

  “Well, look at him. Drives a fast car. One of the best clean-up rates in the unit. DCI. I want to be like him, one day.”

  “Maybe not, Rhod.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Come on, let’s see what he’s up to.”

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Connie worked at the screws holding the bracket to the wall with her multitool.

  “You got the right one?” asked Mo.

  “Yeah.” She grunted and he felt his hand come loose. He winced at the pain where his wrist had been hit with the baseball bat.

  Connie turned to him, her eyes full of triumph.

  “Quiet,” he warned. “We don’t want anyone hearing us.”

  “You think they’re still here somewhere? It’s night-time.”

  “We need to assume they are.”

  The two of them were still cuffed together. They wouldn’t be able to split up.

  “Right,” he said. “First thing we do is check for our phones.”

  He slid over to the desk and chair, pulling out drawers. Something against the opposite wall caught his eye.

  “Whoah. Look what’s here.”

  Connie leaned around him. “The Diebenkorn.”

  Propped behind a cabinet was a modern painting. Landscape, splodgy. Not Mo’s thing. “Looks like it. What’s it doing here?”

  “Same people that brought us here stole it.” Connie tugged at the cuffs. She was trying to get to the painting.

  “Wait,” Mo said. “You got any gloves in that jacket?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.” He scanned the room, remembering the photos they’d taken from Winona’s flat. The carrier bag he’d put them in. “We need to find those photos too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on.” He pulled out the rest of the desk drawers. Connie managed to reach the filing cabinet. Its drawers were locked.

  There was a noise outside the cabin. Mo’s blood went cold.

  “Oh, hell.”

  “What?”

  “I think I know what that bracket’s for.”

  There it was again. Barking. Dogs, more than one of them. Low-pitched. Connie had heard, she was staring back into his eyes.

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

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Margaret’s limbs ached. All along her left side she felt numb and tingly. She shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, cursing this hard mattress Bryn had insisted on.

  She blinked a few times, trying to see through the darkness. There was nothing coming in through the curtains, no light from outside. It must be the middle of the night.

  She turned over, half expecting to find her cat next to her, and hit the wall.

  “Ow.”

  She brought her fingers to her forehead. It was rough and crusted. She pushed her eyes open and tried to get her bearings.

  This wasn’t a hard mattress, but a cold floor. Where was she?

  She heaved herself up to a sitting position, cursing her dead leg. She bent over and tried to rub life back into it. She was wearing the sensible outfit she’d chosen for the will reading, minus the jacket. She’d hung that over the back of her chair when Winona had started serving tea.

  “Winona?” she called. “I need a hand.”

  This was humiliating. Here she was, only sixty-three, needing to call out for her daughter to help her up. She kicked out her foot, trying to bring it back to life. Pain shot through her leg.

  She panted, feeling sweat rise on her brow. She could make out a doorway in the gloom, and a metal grille high in the wall. She was in the cellar.

  Why was she in the cellar?

  She’d been sitting with Winona, eating pastries. Drinking tea from the best china. She felt along the wall behind her. The box where it was stored was along here somewhere. The floor was dusty and the wall rough. She should clean down here, or get Penny to do it.

  “Winona!”

  She shuffled to bring her legs beneath her so she could kneel. There was no way she could go straight to standing with her body feeling like this. As she bent her right leg, a spasm of pain ripped through it.

  She gasped.

  She straightened the leg again, slowing her movements when the pain returned. Leaning over, she ran her fingers across it. There was swelling, at the ankle. Just a sprain, she hoped.

  There were shelves along from her, attached to the wall. She dragged herself along to them and realised it was Bryn’s wine rack. Pain came at her in waves, making her want to faint.

  Hold it together.

  There was a sound above her head, someone walking across the floor above. She reached through the fog to recall the layout of the cellar. There were two rooms down here. The one at the bottom of the stairs, and another where she never ventured. The wine rack was in the second room, the room she was scared to enter. Above her head was the hallway.

  She reached up to grab the wine rack. Bryn kept dozens of bottles down here. They were separate from the ones in the pantry upstairs, not for drinking. An investment. They can’t have been a very good investment, if Edward hadn’t mentioned them in the will reading. Maybe he didn’t know about them.

  She gritted her teeth and pulled herself upright. She put her weight on her left leg, trying to block out the pain in the right. She would have to find her way to the stairs, in the dark.

  “Winona?”

  Margaret clattered past the wine rack, almost falling. She put her hands out to the wall and managed to keep her balance. Her right leg dragged out behind her. She could feel that the foot was twisted, and was glad she couldn’t see it.

  She traversed the wall, realising too late that she’d gone the wrong
way. The doorway to the first room was behind her. Would it be easier to turn, or to keep going?

  She tried twisting her body around to face the other way. Her leg screamed at her.

  She took two deep, shuddering breaths and wiped her face. The pain subsided a little. She drew in all her strength and started to move.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  The dogs were getting louder. There were men too, shouting. Egging them on.

  “What about waiting till they come in and then jumping them?” said Connie.

  Mo shook his head. “Men, maybe, but dogs? Confined space. We’ll have no chance.” He shuffled across the room, bending over to stay low. She followed suit and they reached the door. Next to it was a window with metal venetian blinds. He parted them to peer outside.

  “I can’t see them. Yet.”

  “Is the door unlocked?”

  “Let’s hope so.” He tried it and it opened. He turned to her, sure his eyes were as wide as hers.

  “Right,” he said. “Quick practice. We’ll need to run. That means pumping our arms together. One, two.” He raised his arm and hers followed. He tried to ignore the pain in his wrist.

  “One, two,” she breathed. “I can do it.”

  “I know you can.” He smiled at her.

  He turned back to the window. “I can see them. Ready? One, two, go, go, go!”

  He exploded out of the door, praying she’d keep up. If either of them fell… But she ran with him, matching his pace. “One, two,” she chanted.

  Don’t look round, he told himself. Look ahead. Run straight. He gritted his teeth. Ignore the pain.

  “The gate’s blocked,” he panted. “We go over the fence.”

  “How the hell are we going to do that, with the cuffs?”

  He scanned the space. The blow to his head was catching up with him.

  “Hey!” They’d been spotted.

  “You alright, sarge?”

  “Yes,” he hissed. He was responsible not just for his own safety, but that of his young DC. “I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s a skip over there. We could climb on its edge and get up that way.”