Deadly Terror (Detective Zoe Finch Book 4)

by Rachel McLean

  “No comment,” she whispered.

  Dawson shook his head, his mouth tight. He slapped his file closed.

  “Interview terminated at fifteen twenty-two,” he said. Mo flicked the recorder off. They left the room, Mo feeling heat rising from his stomach.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Zoe pushed open the door to the team room and walked to the constables’ desks.

  “We need to find that man,” she said.

  “The one that pushed the bomber off the escalator?” Rhodri asked.

  “The very same.”

  Ian followed her, closing the door gently. He hadn’t spoken once on the way back from Sameena’s.

  “What do you think, Ian?” Zoe asked. “You were there. You think Sameena might have seen more than she’s telling us?”

  “No reason to. I think she’s doing her best to help.”

  “You’re right.” Zoe perched on Connie’s desk. “She might not remember everything though.” She took a deep breath. “She told us she’d seen the bomber staring at a man. She didn’t know if it was the same man we saw push her off the escalator, says she didn’t see him.”

  “Could we try hypnosis, boss?” asked Rhodri.

  Ian laughed. “Don’t be daft, son.”

  Zoe turned to him. “It might not be such a stupid idea. If we can’t get any images of the man, then maybe Sameena will remember more under hypnosis.”

  Ian snorted. “You’re serious? Get a quack in and put her under?”

  “It’s been used before.”

  “They use it all the time in the US, boss,” said Connie.

  “Yes, and convictions have been overturned because of it. It would never stand up in court,” said Ian.

  Zoe looked at him. “I’m not saying use it in court. But it might give us something to work with.”

  “I’d love to see what the DCI would make of the idea,” he said.

  He had a point. Lesley would laugh in her face. Either that, or give her a bollocking for even considering it.

  But Lesley wasn’t here.

  “It’s an option,” she said. “I want to exhaust all others first.”

  “What about Jamila?” Connie asked.

  “She wasn’t there,” Zoe replied. “Well, she was there but she was in her room. Sameena didn’t want to call her down, said she’d talk to her after we left.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Connie said. “She could be hypnotised too.”

  Zoe chewed her lip. “It was her that the bomber supposedly crashed into.” She shook her head. “She’s a minor. We’d never get her mum’s permission.”

  “An option though, boss, just like with her mum.”

  “Yeah.” Zoe pointed to Rhodri’s screen. “How are we doing with finding him or the woman on social media?”

  “I’ve got him on a video from Twitter,” said Connie. “It’s not very clear though. And there’s no way you can identify him.”

  “Let’s see it.” Zoe bent over Connie’s desk and waited for the rest of the team to join her.

  Connie opened Twitter in her browser and found the tweet. It had been posted by a user called brummygirrl, at 2:17pm. Twenty-eight minutes before the bomb detonated. The shot panned across the upper level of the shopping mall, catching the back of the bomber in her green headscarf and then shifting across to the other side of the space. There was a man in a baseball cap and hoody, facing across the empty space towards her. He was side-on to the camera.

  “Stop it there,” Zoe said. “Can you zoom in?”

  Connie pinched her fingers to zoom in but the image just became grainy.

  “Anything better?”

  “There’s this one.” Connie flicked to a photo taken from behind the man, showing his back and the side of his head. The image was centred on the bomber and Sameena.

  “They were being watched,” Connie said. “I think people thought the woman in the headscarf was going to jump.”

  Zoe shuddered. “They would have thought Sameena was trying to talk her down. Anything else?”

  “Nothing useful, boss. The guy was there alright, but he could just have been another random passerby, watching what was going on.”

  “Expect for the fact that the bomber’s staring in his direction.”

  “She could have been staring at anyone,” said Ian. “The place is packed.”

  “That’s not the impression Sameena got.” Zoe balled her fist on the desk. “Connie, Rhod, I want you to carry on with this. Build a picture of what happened between the two of them, if he gave her some sort of signal. Trace his movements before and after just like we’ve traced hers. Ian, I want you to check through witness statements. See if anyone mentioned him.”

  “There were hundreds of people there. Thousands.”

  “Which is why I want to see if anyone mentioned him, before I take it to the briefing.”

  “It’s a needle in a haystack.”

  “It’s all we have, Sergeant.”

  Ian rubbed his nose and headed for his desk.

  Zoe turned back to the screen. “If he made her do it, if he was working with her, we need to find him.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “You were tougher on her than I expected,” Dawson said to Mo as they drove towards the suspect’s house.

  “She was refusing to cooperate in a major investigation.”

  “Still. Her lawyer said we were persecuting her.”

  Mo pursed his lips. “I may be Muslim, but I’m a detective. If the evidence points us to a suspect who also happens to be Muslim, I treat them the exact same way as I would anyone else.”

  “You think she’s a suspect?’

  “She might be.”

  “Phew. And there was me thinking you’d take her side.”

  Every muscle in Mo’s body tensed. There were procedures for things like this, ways of raising complaints. The way Dawson was speaking to him – that kind of thing should have been consigned to the past.

  But the DCI was in hospital and the SIO was David Randle. Raising a complaint was not an option. And Mo was used to ignoring things like this. It had got easier over the years, but terror cases always brought it simmering to the surface.

  They parked halfway along the street. Outside the house were a squad car, a Dog Unit van and what he recognised as Adi Hanson’s car.

  “Here we go then,” said Dawson. “Make sure you’re suited up.”

  Mo rolled his eyes as he grabbed a forensic suit from the boot. The two of them made their way to the house. Mo scanned the neighbouring houses. Had the neighbours been interviewed?

  A curtain shifted in the house directly opposite and a small boy looked out at them. His eyes were wide and his face expressionless. Mo gave him a small wave, at which the boy jerked the curtain shut. Mo shrugged and followed Dawson inside.

  Inside, Adi’s team were in the dining room at the back of the house. It was a narrow terrace, with a separate living room at the front, dining room at the back and poky kitchen off that.

  “No Zoe?” Adi said as they entered.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” said Mo.

  Adi shrugged. “It’s fine. This job isn’t, though.”

  “Oh?” Dawson asked. He peered through to the kitchen, where an officer was working with a dog, opening cupboards one at a time and letting the dog sniff inside.

  “There’s nothing. No explosives residue anywhere, none of the equipment you’d expect. If he made the bomb, then he didn’t make it here, or do any preparation.”

  “We’ll need to talk to the wife again,” said Dawson.

  That’ll be fun, Mo thought.

  “If he’d been working with explosives elsewhere, would he have brought remnants of it here, on his clothes or skin?”

  “We’ve sent the clothes we found upstairs for analysis,” Adi said. “But there’s nothing on the carpets, the furniture. This place is clean as a whistle.”

  “Surely that’s suspicious, in itself,” Dawson said. “If it’s be
en cleaned too thoroughly…”

  “It’s just the kind of clean my granny used to get her house to every Thursday and Friday,” Adi told him. “Took her two days, she liked the house to sparkle.”

  “So Mrs Sharif is a meticulous housewife,” said Dawson.

  “Or Mr Sharif,” said Mo.

  “He was away in Pakistan, remember?”

  Mo nodded. “True.”

  Adi stretched his head back and rolled it around a few times. “We’ll be done soon. I’ll let you know when we get results back on those clothes, but I’m not holding out much hope. Like you say, if he manufactured a bomb then came here, he’d have left evidence.”

  “He probably manufactured it in Pakistan,” said Mo. “No point making it here then taking it on a two-way trip.”

  “Good point,” said Dawson. “I want you to get onto the Pakistani authorities. Find out if they’ve identified where he was staying. We need those addresses searching.”

  Mo nodded, not looking forward to threading his way through the inevitable maze of bureaucracy.

  “Mind if we go upstairs?” he said. “Have a bit of a poke around?”

  “Be my guest,” said Adi. “But like I say, you won’t find anything.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Sofia had given up trying to open the door hours ago. She’d spent the afternoon dozing on the bed, and when she woke she found herself with the duvet wrapped around her and the sky outside the window darkening.

  She yawned and dragged herself to the door: still locked. Titi would be home soon. She wondered if Mrs Brooking was still here, or if she’d been left alone here, locked up like an animal.

  At least this room had an en-suite. She hauled herself into it and used the toilet, then rinsed her mouth out with cold water. In the mirror her face was blotchy where it had pressed against the pillows. She rubbed at her skin and dabbed water under her eyes to remove the mascara stains.

  She emerged from the bathroom to find a tray on the bed: a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. She ran to the door, tugging on the handle and hammering on the wood.

  “You have to let me out! This is imprisonment!”

  No answer. She hammered on the door again, giving up when she remembered how fruitless it had been last time.

  Sofia slid to the soft carpet. Don’t cry, she told herself. She needed to have her wits about her so she could confront him. He couldn’t treat her like this.

  She felt a chill shift through her body at the thought of the conversation they would have. They’d never argued before, not properly. She remembered the way he’d looked at her in the kitchen the night before. Would he hurt her, if she defied him?

  She pushed herself onto all fours and crawled to the bed. Stand up. She tugged at the duvet and lifted herself onto her feet. Should she take a shower, would that bring her back to life?

  She was startled by the sound of the lock turning behind her. She span round to face it, her fists clenched at her sides. If it was Mrs Brooking, she would tackle her. She would fight her way out.

  The door opened silently. Her heart thudded against her ribs.

  “Sofia, you look like shit.”

  It was him.

  She wiped her face. “You cannot keep me prisoner.” Her voice was rough.

  He raised a finger to his lips and smiled.

  He stepped through the door. She considered rushing him, pushing him back and making her escape. But he was taller than her, and broader. He weighed almost twice what she did.

  “Come downstairs,” he said. His voice was soft.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Sofia pushed her fists into her thighs. A surprise. That could mean anything. It could mean he was going to apologise to her. That he had a present.

  It could mean he was going to punish her.

  Either way, she couldn’t stay up here.

  He turned towards the stairs and beckoned. She walked after him, her legs unsteady. She could smell garlic cooking downstairs. So Mrs Brooking was still here.

  Titi walked into the kitchen, not looking back at Sofia. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist following.

  Mrs Brooking was at the stove, stirring something in a pan. She turned and smiled at Sofia. “Good evening, miss. I’m making chicken Kiev. I’m told it’s your favourite.”

  She frowned. Chicken Kiev was Russian. Not her favourite.

  A movement by the door caught her eye. Sofia turned to it, expecting one of her boyfriend’s men to jump out at her.

  A woman leaned against the doorframe. She was skinny, with pale skin and spiked black hair. She had dark circles under her eyes and her face was bare of the makeup she normally wore.

  “Andreea?” Sofia said.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Zoe slumped into the sofa and pointed the remote control at the TV. They’d got nowhere with the social media trawl and she’d told the team to go home so they could be back with fresh heads the next day. Ian had still been working through witness statements when she left. He’d told her he’d be going soon but she knew he was always looking for excuses to delay heading home to his wife.

  “Zoe. Sweetheart. You’re home.” Annette came out of the kitchen. She wore a floral apron Zoe had never seen before.

  Zoe let the remote drop onto the coffee table. “What are you doing?”

  “Cooking tea.”

  “You don’t cook.”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  Zoe stared at her. She pushed away her gut reaction. “What are you cooking?”

  “Chops.”

  “Chops?” Zoe didn’t think she’d eaten chops in her life.

  “I saw them in the butcher’s window, thought they looked nice.”

  Since when did Annette notice things in butchers’ windows? The off-licence was one thing: she’d spot a special offer in there from the other side of Birmingham. But Zoe couldn’t recall Annette ever having been to a butcher.

  “What about Nicholas?” Zoe asked.

  “He’s gone out with that Zaf boy.”

  Good, thought Zoe. She hoped Nicholas and Zaf would be working out their differences.

  “So it’s just you and me.”

  Annette nodded towards the armchair. “And her.”

  Yoda stretched and yawned. Zoe smiled. The cat was getting bigger every day.

  “She’s wrecking your furniture, you know. I caught her scratching the table leg earlier.”

  “She’s a cat.”

  “You should get her claws clipped.”

  Since when was Annette an expert on pet care? She couldn’t be trusted with looking after herself, let alone an animal.

  “You’ve been here two nights now.”

  “That’s not much of a welcome.” Annette was in the kitchen, calling back to her. Zoe heard a clanging sound as something was dropped.

  She sprang off the sofa and ran to see what had happened. Annette was bent over, picking up an empty saucepan.

  “You don’t have to check on me all the time. You’ve hidden the booze, I’m safe.”

  “You went out to the butcher’s. Who’s to say you didn’t go to the off-licence?”

  Annette stared at her, not denying anything. Zoe leaned in a little and sniffed. Her mum’s breath smelled of mints.

  “You can’t boss me around, Zoe.”

  “If you insist on staying in my house, I can. If you’re around my son.”

  “He’s a good lad. He loves me.”

  “You’re the only grandparent he has.”

  “Jim not have parents?”

  “Jim denied Nicholas’s existence till he was eleven. He was hardly going to take him to family get-togethers.”

  “Poor lad.”

  Poor lad indeed, thought Zoe. A dad who didn’t want to know him, an alcoholic grandmother. Zoe’s dad, the only person who might have provided stability, had died while she was pregnant. She sniffed back a tear.

  “I miss him too, l
ove.” Annette took a step towards her.

  Zoe dragged her sleeve across her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Annette had made Douglas’s last months hell. She’d refused to believe he was dying, she’d drunk herself into oblivion when she should have been accompanying him to hospital appointments, and she’d left Zoe to pick up the pieces after the funeral.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” Zoe said. “Let me know when it’s ready.”

  “Zoe, please…”

  Zoe turned away. Part of her wanted to step into her mum’s outstretched arms, to pretend none of it had happened.

  But she couldn’t. She knew from raising Nicholas how much effort it took. You had to be strong, and steady. You had to put the child first. Annette had done none of those things. And any pretence she made now at remorse wasn’t good enough.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “Come in.”

  Ian pushed his shoulders back and opened the door.

  Detective Superintendent Randle looked up. He was in DCI Clarke’s office, which he’d commandeered while she was in hospital. A flicker of irritation crossed his face.

  “Did DI Finch send you to see me?”

  “No, sir.” Ian approached the desk, his back straight. He’d spoken to Randle a few times since the Digbeth Ripper case. Since Zoe had demonstrated the contempt she held him in. He’d used an unregistered phone that had appeared in the glove locker of his car one evening: never face to face.

  “It’s late,” Randle said. “I need to get home to my wife.”

  “I just wanted to know if you need anything more from me, sir.”

  Randle’s lips twisted. His tie had been loosened and his jacket was slung over the chair that Ian stood behind. His shirt was creased and he looked tired.

  “I need you to do your job, Sergeant Osman. Come along to the briefings like a good boy, do the jobs you’re given.”

  “If you need me to do any extra jobs, sir. Just let me know.”

  Randle’s gaze flicked past him to the door. He sighed and shook his head. “I suggest you leave.”