Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6)

by Rachel McLean

“I reckon he’ll want to know what’s going on with Ian’s trial.”

  “Makes sense. He won’t turn up himself.”

  “But he might send one of his goons.”

  “They’re all in prison, aren’t they?”

  “There’ll be more. We keep an eye out for them. These thugs all look the same. And there’s Sheena MacDonald.”

  “There is. That gym has to be a front for something.”

  “I sent Connie in there undercover tonight.”

  Mo put his mug down, spilling tea onto the table. “You did?”

  “She was wearing a wire.”

  “Even riskier.”

  “I was two minutes away, listening in with Sheila. And she had DC Solsby with her.”

  “He knows his stuff.”

  “They put on quite a show.” Zoe smiled. “Remind me never to go on a date with Solsby.”

  “He’s fifteen years younger than you.”

  She shrugged. “You never know… Anyway, they spoke to some guy who was hinting at drugs use in the gym. And MacDonald wanted something from Solsby. She was checking him out.”

  “They’re only letting people join if they’re buying.”

  “Or selling.”

  “Connie will stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “As Solsby’s girlfriend, she was pretty convincing. But they didn’t see anything tangible.”

  “You can’t send them back. MacDonald will have been warned.”

  “One more time. We wait a couple of days first.”

  “Even more time for her to twig to who they are.”

  Zoe ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “You’re right. OK, we send them back tomorrow. I’ll talk to Sheila.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We have to find him, Mo. Tell me, how did you get on with the grieving widow?”

  Mo shook his head. “Don’t joke.”

  “She did stay married to a man who was arrested for child sex abuse.”

  “She was devastated.”

  “By him raping kids, or dying?”

  Mo eyed her. “Dying. Her reaction wasn’t faked. It isn’t a domestic.”

  “In which case it might have something to do with our old friend Trevor Hamm.”

  “It might,” Mo conceded.

  “OK. I’ll talk to Dawson in the morning. Our priority is finding him. Now we’ve got MacDonald and the gym, and the attraction of the trial, we’re closer to finding him than we have been for weeks.”

  “You’re going to talk to Dawson?”

  “After the week I’m having, I need official backing for this.”

  “And he can take the fall when it all goes tits-up.”

  “I wasn’t thinking like that. Dawson’s surprised me with this case. He’s supported me, let me do stuff I didn’t think he would. I want to bring him in.”

  “And you’ll get a bollocking if you don’t.”

  She grinned at him over her coffee. “There is that.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The house was quiet, a looming hulk of darkness in the already gloomy sky. Randle waited for a moment, hidden by a prickly hedge.

  He watched the house, trying to ignore the hedge that was scratching his face. No sign of movement.

  This was the last known address of Trevor Hamm. The man himself hadn’t been here since they’d rounded up his associates after the brothel in Hall Green had been exposed. But it didn’t mean there weren’t clues here to where he might be now.

  Randle disentangled himself from the hedge and padded to the side of the house. He was dressed in trainers, black jeans and a black parka he hadn’t worn for years. He pulled up the hood as he approached the house, wondering what Carl Whaley would say if he saw him now.

  For all he knew, this was Carl Whaley’s fault. How many people knew he’d started to cut a deal with PSD? Whaley, Rogers. And that DS he’d brought in with him as a witness. Randle hadn’t even made a note of her name.

  He’d need to rectify that.

  He slid round the side of the building. There were no windows on this wall, and the hedge brushed up against the brickwork. He pushed through the thick foliage, cursing the barbs catching on his clothes.

  At last he emerged onto a wide patio with views over the countryside. In the distance he could see the lights of the M42.

  The back of the house boasted wide bifold doors. If there was anyone in there, they’d spot him as soon as he came near them.

  He was confident there was no one inside, but it was best to play safe. He kept to the line of the hedge and continued down the garden, careful not to disturb the foliage too much.

  When he was twenty metres away from the house, he reached into his pocket. He’d bought a night vision telescope online a few months ago. This was only its third outing.

  He raised it to his eye and scanned the back windows. There were no curtains at the bifolds and the upstairs curtains were open. He squinted, trying to get a view into the rooms.

  If someone was in there, they weren’t at the window, watching him.

  Randle slipped back along the edge of the lawn, raising the scope from time to time. Still no movement. Back at the house, he slid along the back wall until he came to the first set of doors.

  These were modern aluminium doors. Expensive. There was no way he was getting them open. But there might be a side door on the opposite end of the building. He had skeleton keys with him.

  He held his breath and stepped out past the edge of the door, waiting for someone to shout out from inside. He wondered if there was an alarm, a hidden camera.

  It was too late to worry about that kind of thing.

  Silence.

  He reached the opposite end of the doors – they had to be four metres long – and stopped to pull in breath. He was sweating. He shouldn’t have worn the damn parka.

  Past a second set of doors, he rounded a corner. Sure enough, there was a side door. Leading into a utility room, most likely, or a boot room. He’d looked into the kitchen as he passed it and the door leading out of that was internal, wooden.

  He took out his set of keys and fiddled with the lock. It wasn’t the easiest to break: Hamm had the money for a good locksmith. But after a couple of minutes he had it open.

  He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. He considered slipping off his trainers. No: they were soft-soled, and the floors in this house would be solidly made.

  Now he was in a laundry room, pegs on the wall and a gleaming washer and dryer side by side beneath a white granite worktop. The hooks were bare. The shelf below them held no boots.

  If Hamm had fled this place in a hurry, someone had come along afterwards to clean up. This was nothing new: Zoe had searched Hamm’s flat near Cannon Hill Park when they were looking for Ian’s kids, and it had been just as empty.

  He gripped the handle of the door ahead and turned it slowly. He emerged into a vast kitchen. Dim light from the back doors reflected off the gleaming surfaces. He opened a drawer: empty.

  This was hopeless.

  Leaning against the counter, he stopped to think. He’d visited this place, just the once. Hamm had invited him for dinner. His Romanian girlfriend had been here, the one whose sister had died. Randle still felt bad about that. But he didn’t even know the girl had a sister; what was he supposed to do about it?

  There’d been a safe, in the study. He’d seen Hamm opening it after dinner, carelessly not closing the door behind him.

  The study was at the front of the house.

  He crept through the kitchen and into the hallway. Which side was the study on?

  Beyond the door to his left he found a bathroom. Not that one.

  He opened another door: this was it. A single painting hung on the chimney breast, over the mantelpiece. It was two metres square, a modern landscape.

  He stared at the painting, his breath short. This was the Diebenkorn that had been taken from Bryn Jackson’s house on the night of his murder. The painting they’d sus
pected Hamm of staging a burglary to get rid of.

  It was the only painting in the house. The hallway was devoid of decoration, and the living space adjoining the kitchen had been stripped bare, too.

  Had it been left here for safekeeping, hidden in plain sight? Or was it just here to hide the safe?

  Randle lifted the painting off the wall, careful not to mishandle it. He leaned it against the wall and turned back to the chimney breast.

  He placed his ear against the safe. He’d seen this done in movies, but had no idea how it worked. He turned the handle on the left and pulled. Nothing. He spun the dial in the centre a couple of times, then tried again.

  Still nothing.

  If Hamm had left the painting here, then chances were that safe wasn’t empty.

  He stared at it as if he might open it by sheer force of will.

  He knew people who could crack safes. Trouble was, they worked for Hamm.

  A light shone outside. A car was pulling into the drive, headlights sweeping across the front of the house. Randle dropped to the floor. Had they seen him?

  He crawled to the window. The door to the hallway was still open.

  Did he have time to get out of the building?

  Did he even want to?

  He’d come here to speak to Hamm. It looked like that mission was about to be accomplished.

  But being caught breaking into the man’s house? Taking down a painting and trying to open a safe?

  They’d kill him.

  He scooted along the floor to the hallway, skidding as he rounded the corner. He had to hope the darkness inside meant they couldn’t see him.

  He darted into the kitchen and ran for the utility room.

  As he reached it, he stopped.

  His car. He’d left it along the road, parked partway into a ditch.

  Had they seen it?

  If they had, they would be waiting for him. Even if they hadn’t, they might still be waiting for him. He had to get out.

  He gritted his teeth as he turned the handle of the outer door. No-one beyond it, thank God. He eased it closed behind him and leaned against the wall, panting. He’d wait until they were inside, and then he’d watch them.

  Chapter Sixty

  “Hey.” Zoe put a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Anything good?”

  He waved the remote at the TV. “Natural history. You’d hate it.”

  “I might surprise you.” She flung her jacket on the arm of the sofa, ignoring his wince, and plonked herself down next to him.

  “Tough day?” he asked.

  “No more than usual. OK, maybe a bit more than usual. Kicked off one case, all but kicked off a second, and now we’re back to…”

  “Back to what?”

  “I don’t want to bring you into it.”

  “It’s fine, Mum. It’s not like you telling me will make some nutter more likely to go after me.”

  “We’re not talking about the Digbeth Ripper here, Nicholas. These are serious people.”

  He shivered. “Sounds like you need to watch out. Did you manage to speak to Gran?”

  Zoe sucked her teeth. “No.” She checked her watch: past eleven. “Too late to ring her now.”

  “She keeps even later hours than you.” Nicholas leaned forward to grab his mug of tea from the coffee table.

  “I’ll try. But it’s your fault if she yells at me cos I woke her up.”

  He grinned and settled back into the sofa. Zoe took out her phone.

  Annette’s phone rang out. Zoe waited for ten rings then hung up.

  “No answer.”

  “Maybe she’s asleep,” said Nicholas.

  “Or…”

  “She isn’t always drunk, Mum. You’re too hard on her.”

  Zoe rubbed her nose. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.

  “If she had to go to the hospital, maybe she isn’t well,” suggested Nicholas.

  “It was just a routine check-up. She’s not ill.”

  “OK.” He yawned. “Anyway, I’m off to bed. Got an assessment in the morning.”

  “You have them every bloody week.”

  “Tell me about it.” He took his mug into the kitchen. Zoe listened, her eyes closed, as he ran the tap to rinse it out.

  “Night.” He passed through the living room and towards the stairs. Zoe stretched out on the sofa while the sounds of him going to bed rang through the building: footsteps on the stairs, the bathroom door opening, water running, then his bedroom door closing.

  She glanced at her phone. Should she try her mum again?

  No. If she’s asleep, don’t disturb her. She could try again tomorrow. Not too early though: Annette didn’t do mornings.

  She hauled herself up from the sofa and followed Nicholas up the stairs, wishing she hadn’t stayed out so late.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Anita lay in the confined space, her legs and back repeatedly bumping up against a hard surface whenever she moved. Something was sticking into her shoulder, jabbing her again and again. She closed her eyes every time the car went over a bump, holding her breath and praying she’d be let out soon.

  She knew that getting out of the car boot they’d put her in could lead to worse than this. But right now, this was torture.

  The car rounded one bend, then another, taking both tightly. She tensed her muscles to brace herself against the jolts. The car slowed and stopped.

  She could barely breathe: they’d taped up her mouth. Her hands were tied behind her back and her knees were drawn up to fit in the confined space. Every muscle in her body screamed at her.

  But the pain was nothing. The fear for her own safety, her own life. All of it was nothing against her fear for the girls.

  They’d both been upstairs in their rooms. Had her attacker known she wasn’t alone? Had he been watching? Carly had come downstairs, getting that ice cream Anita had disapproved of. Maria had stayed in her room.

  Please God, let him not have seen them. Let him have left them alone.

  What was the last thing she’d said to each of them? Something about the inappropriateness of the ice cream to Carly. She’d offered Maria a snack, she couldn’t remember if she’d fetched it before falling asleep.

  Was that how they’d remember her?

  The boot opened above her upturned face. She screwed up her face, trying to call out through the gag. Something hard and heavy hit her cheek.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

  She whimpered. Blood ran down her cheek, warm and wet. It oozed into the creases of her neck.

  She opened her eyes. She’d been blindfolded, but she could make out dim light behind the fabric. Street lights, maybe, or the lights from a house. She struggled against the ropes on her wrists.

  “Stop it.” Another blow to her cheek. Anita screamed in pain; she wondered if it was broken.

  She gulped in what breath she could, worrying she might choke. A shadow fell over her and she felt a hand grab her under the arm. Two pairs of hands hauled her up and out of the boot. One at her shoulders, another at her knees. She kicked out and was rewarded with a slap.

  Cool air brushed her skin. Within moments they’d have her indoors.

  She wriggled in her captors’ grip, doing her best to scream. Nothing but a muffled gasp came out.

  Try again.

  She closed her eyes, took the deepest breath she could, and yelled for all she was worth. Or attempted to.

  “Shut the fuck up.” She felt something being wrapped around her lower face; more tape. No, it was some kind of bandage. Either way, she could barely breathe. She decided to stop screaming.

  Listen. Maybe she could work out where they’d taken her. Maybe she’d hear them getting the girls out of another vehicle. Please, no. She tried to push the sensation of movement away, to ignore her feet dragging against tarmac.

  The tarmac. It was rough, with ridges and bumps. Not a road, then. A car park, or driveway?

  Focus on the smells, she told he
rself. Anita had a good sense of smell; when the girls were young she’d been able to detect a dirty nappy as soon as she walked through the door. There was a smell of greenery. Trees, or bushes. Her guess was confirmed when she felt foliage hit her leg. She kicked out against it and her foot hit something hard. A tree trunk, maybe.

  Was she in the countryside? She could hear the hum of traffic behind her but she couldn’t hear birds. It was late, though; birds would be asleep.

  Anita threw her focus outwards, her ears straining. She could hear rustling. Animals, or the men?

  A door slammed and a light came on above her head, faint through the blindfold. If she didn’t call out now, it would be too late.

  She kicked and let out another muffled scream. This was useless. They could be miles from anywhere. No one could hear her, no one knew where she was.

  She was propelled forward and dumped on the floor. She heard a door shut behind her. A foot hit the back of her neck, making her writhe in pain.

  “Now, bitch. Just do as you’re told and we won’t hurt you.” The man’s voice was local, a Brummie accent. There was a singsong quality to it. Anita didn’t recognise it.

  Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt my girls, she thought. She consoled herself with the fact that they’d closed the door immediately after bringing her in. She hadn’t heard other female voices, and no one else had been brought in after her.

  She was lifted by the armpits again and dragged up a flight of stairs. Her back bounced off the steps.

  She would be black and blue in the morning. If she was still alive.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Randle buried himself in the prickly hedge to the side of the house, watching the car. He was parallel with the side door. At least it was dark here.

  The car sat for a while, the driver not emerging. Randle’s chest rose and fell, his heart racing. He wasn’t used to exertion. As a Superintendent, he spent his working life behind a desk these days and the closest he got to exercise was when Anita forced him to take a canal walk.

  He longed for one of those walks now. He’d never refuse her again.

  The driver’s door opened and someone got out. David pulled the night vision scope to his eye. It was a woman, dressed in a long coat, hair piled on top of her head. She had a prim expression, as if she disapproved of everything around her.