Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “Yeah. Well, Jackson’s death meant there was some shuffling upwards. I’m a permanent DI now. I guess I have you to thank for that.”

  He bowed. “My pleasure. What about that drink?”

  “I’m about to have dinner with my son.”

  “You really think Randle deserves that promotion?”

  She sighed. “I’ve worked you out, you know.”

  A smile played on his lips. “You have?”

  “You got a transfer. You were only with us, what, three months, and now you’re in local CID.”

  “It’s a good job. I’ll be in charge of a big team.”

  “You’re undercover.”

  “Zoe, you really shouldn’t—”

  “You’re from Professional Standards, aren’t you?”

  He looked up and down the street, as if one of his PS colleagues might spot him giving the game away. “I’m saying nothing. And nor are you, I hope.”

  “I’ll keep your secret. And I’ll talk to you about Randle. But nowhere near here. And anonymously. OK?”

  “We could go for that drink now.” His cheeks were flushed.

  “No, Carl. Call me. We’ll meet somewhere neutral, somewhere they don’t know me. I’ll tell you what I know. God knows I’ll probably regret it.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Hmm. Anyway, I’ve got a moussaka to look forward to. Take care, Carl.”

  “You too.”

  Ignoring the knot that had formed in her stomach, Zoe closed the door.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  David Randle stood at the entrance to the industrial estate, shifting from foot to foot and wishing he’d brought a coat. He watched the building two along, waiting.

  A couple with a tiny dog walked past and threw him tight nods. He nodded in return. It was quiet along this street, two miles out of the city centre. He knew where all the working cameras were. There were none that would see him.

  The door to the building opened. There was no one in sight. He went inside, a heavy-set man he didn’t recognise making space for him.

  A dark corridor led to an office at the back. Trevor Hamm was inside, sitting at a cheap looking desk with a mug and a half-empty bottle of whisky on it. He grunted.

  “You’re late.”

  “I was bang on time. Your guy didn’t let me in. He’s new.”

  “Yeah well, your lot have a habit of arresting my guys.”

  “Gatiss is in custody. Adams has broken bail.”

  Hamm held his arms wide. “Has he?”

  “You know damn well he has.”

  Hamm frowned. “You cleared it up then? That ratty DI of yours doesn’t suspect me or my crew?”

  “Winona Jackson has confessed. Her solicitor is building a case for diminished responsibility, it’s written all over him.”

  “She’s not using Startshaw?”

  “She is.”

  Hamm whistled. “Balls of the man.”

  “It would have looked suspicious if he hadn’t taken on her case, after representing her mother.”

  Hamm scratched his chin. He picked up the mug and took a swig, then held it out to Randle. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Hamm splashed some into his mug. There were coffee stains around the rim but no coffee.

  “Your wife,” said Randle. “Did she have family in the Ukraine?”

  “Don’t talk about my fucking wife.”

  Hamm had had Irina killed, undoubtably. How he’d made it look like suicide, they’d never know. The coroner was still insisting on death by misadventure.

  Randle squared his shoulders. “Now that Jackson’s dead, I don’t think you’ll be needing my services anymore.”

  Hamm barked out a laugh, bringing deep creases to his tanned brow. “Don’t talk bollocks.”

  Randle stiffened. “I was Bryn’s bag man. He worked for you, not me.”

  “You’re in this up to here now.” Hamm mimed slicing his hand across his neck. Randle flinched. “It’s not as easy as that.”

  “Did you go and see him, the night he died? Have you got the painting still?”

  “DCI Randle, you know me better than that. I didn’t go to see your ACC. I sent Kyle.”

  “My officers found the painting. In your portacabin.”

  “No, they didn’t.” Hamm stared at him. The Diebenkorn had been gone when they’d sent Uniform back to raid the place. And so had Adams. The painting would be thousands of miles away by now.

  Randle turned for the door.

  “I heard you destroyed your SIM card.”

  He stopped, his hand on the door. “Yes.”

  “Your geek squad don’t need a SIM card to trace you to me, you know.”

  “No.”

  “Go on then. Bugger off.”

  Randle swallowed the lump in his throat and opened the door, his palms sweaty.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  The house was gradually being emptied. Margaret had sold the paintings and raised two-thirds of what Edward had said they were worth. She’d donated it all to charity. She could sell the house and start afresh.

  She’d been looking at houses with granny flats in Solihull so her mother could move in with her. A particularly nice one was right on the edge of the town, overlooking fields. It would be perfect.

  She’d already cleared out her own room and Paul’s room and was now emptying the wardrobe in the guest bedroom. She’d burned those letters that had been kept in here. Winona’s room, she couldn’t quite bring herself to deal with. It was full of remnants of her daughter, from childhood all the way up to the last month. The thought of her daughter in prison made her feel sick.

  The truth about Bryn hadn’t come out, of course. It would cause a scandal, and the West Midlands police certainly didn’t want that. The Chief Constable had given her some spiel about losing the trust of the public and how they couldn’t carry on their role if that happened. She didn’t believe a word of it.

  She shook open a bin bag and started throwing clothes into it. Things from the early years of her marriage to Bryn, and from later. The colours paled as the years passed. She came upon the emerald dress and paused for a moment to stroke it with her fingertips. She would wear it one last time.

  Ten minutes later she was in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, wondering how she’d ever thought she should wear this thing. Bryn was right, it made her look like mutton dressed as lamb. Winona would laugh at her, if she ever saw it.

  Winona. She’d been to visit her, once so far. There would be more. Margaret wasn’t the type of woman to abandon her children, whatever they’d done.

  Her new phone rang on the bed and she yelped, suddenly embarrassed by what she was wearing. No one can see you, she reminded herself, and picked it up.

  “Hello Margaret, I thought I’d check in to see how you are.”

  “David. You don’t need to. I’m fine.”

  “If you need anything from me…”

  “I think you’ve done quite enough already.”

  There was silence. Was he still there?

  “I did love you, you know.” His voice was muffled. He’d moved into another room, or put his hand over the phone. “Back when we were seeing each other.”

  “You always loved Bryn more than you loved me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She sighed. “Yes, it is, David. I didn’t realise it at the time, but it’s who you were. You were his puppy, his slave.”

  Silence.

  “If you’d cared anything for me, you would have told me.”

  “I had no idea—”

  “Don’t give me that. After everything you’ve done, don’t lie to me about that. You knew what my husband was doing, and you protected him. That meeting before the party. I saw the look on his face. He was angry. He was scared.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well that’s not a lie, at least.”

  “I’m sorry, Margaret.” She heard a TV in the backg
round. Did he have the gall to call her from home, with his kids in the next room?

  “Goodbye, David,” Margaret said.

  “I’ll keep in touch. Make sure you’re OK. It’s the least I owe you.”

  “No. Goodbye. Don’t call me again.”

  She hung up and tore off the dress. She went into Winona’s room and rummaged in her cupboards until she found something on the lower end of Winona’s flamboyancy scale. A pair of blue jeans and a stripy green shirt. Not dowdy. Not safe. She pulled them on then went back to her own room where she started throwing everything into a bin bag.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Zoe sat in her car and watched the house to her right. She’d been keeping an eye on this place for the last week, learning its occupant’s routine. If you could call it that.

  She hoped none of the neighbours had clocked her. A car as clean as hers would stand out here. Ahead of her was an Escort whose wing was painted a different colour from the rest of the body. The car behind her was missing two tyres.

  The net curtains of the house she was watching shifted. Zoe pulled back in her seat, hoping she wasn’t visible. The woman didn’t know what car she drove. She probably wouldn’t even figure why, if she did see it. Too absorbed with her own demons.

  She shook herself out, stretching her neck and reaching her hands up to touch the roof. She couldn’t keep doing this. She either had to stop coming, or get out of the car.

  A man walked past. He wore a torn grey hoody and had a dog with him. The dog had a collar, but no lead. Instead, the man dragged the poor thing along on a piece of string. It whimpered every time he tugged.

  Zoe had grown up here. She didn’t remember it being dog-on-a-string rough. It had never been well-to-do, but the car factory had kept residents in work and the street had been clean, if uninspiring.

  She took a deep breath, brought her arms down, grabbed the door handle and got out. All in one movement so she couldn’t back down. Not stopping to think, she strode up to the front door of the house. The front garden, if you could call it that, was full of litter. Discarded shopping bags, a broken flowerpot that had long since lost any flowers. McDonalds cartons.

  She knocked on the door. The police officer’s knock, the kind of knock you couldn’t ignore. She’d done it without thinking. Streets like this brought out the copper in her.

  The man walked past in the opposite direction. He muttered at the dog and picked it up. It barked and he laughed at it. “Stupid bugger.”

  He looked at her. She gave him a hesitant smile and he cracked one back, displaying gaping holes where his top front teeth should be. She held onto the smile.

  The door opened and she turned to it. It opened just a crack, the chain still on.

  “Who is it? Haven’t you read the sign? No Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  The door closed and then reopened. A scrawny woman in her early sixties, with hair piled messily on top of her head and a cigarette between her fingers, stood in the doorway. She cocked her head.

  “Zoe?”

  “Mum. How are you?”

  Zoe and the team will return in Deadly Choices, out in September 2020.

  Find Out More

  If you want to find out more about the events of this book and be the first to hear about new releases, you can watch the Deadly Wishes video case file by joining my book club at rachelmclean.com/zoe.

  Zoe and the team will return in Deadly Choices, out in September 2020.

  Thanks,

  Rachel McLean