Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6)

by Rachel McLean

  “OK.” Adana screwed up the apron and shoved it into a bin. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Have you examined her yet?”

  “I only got back from the reservoir twenty minutes ago. Jukes has to be a priority. You’ll understand…”

  “Yeah.” Zoe pushed her hair out of her face. “Of course.”

  “But if it’s any help, Vince, he’s the person you spoke to, told me you were worried your mum had been drinking. He did a blood analysis. She was under the legal limit. Twenty milligrams per hundred millilitres of blood. That’s the equivalent to half a unit of alcohol.”

  In a woman like Annette, half a unit would be the residue from the previous night’s drinking. Annette had never been able to stop at one drink.

  “She wasn’t drunk?”

  Adana shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No. Maybe if you talk to Traffic…”

  “Yeah.” Zoe sniffed. Hold it together. She wasn’t grieving. Her mum had made her life hell, so why would she miss her?

  She stood up. “I want to see her now.”

  “You know how it is, Zoe. We need to prepare her.”

  “I observe post-mortems all the time. You don’t need to pretty her up for me.”

  Adana put a hand on her arm. “She’s not some anonymous crime victim.”

  Zoe pulled in a shaky breath. “Fine.” She thudded down onto the bench.

  “I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t drink tea.”

  “Coffee, then. Sugar?”

  Zoe shook her head. Sugar for shock. She grimaced.

  “No sugar. Give me five minutes.” Adana hurried back through the doors.

  Zoe leaned against the tiled wall, her head still throbbing. She felt like she might be sick. She still hadn’t spoken to Nicholas. It was after two now, he’d be finishing school in an hour or so. She wondered what was happening at the trial.

  After a minute or so, a man appeared with a plastic cup of coffee: Vince, she presumed. Zoe took it from him and blew on it. It smelled bitter. She sipped and screwed up her nose, then placed it on the floor next to her feet.

  “We’re ready for you.” Adana reappeared wearing a clean apron.

  “That was quick.”

  “She didn’t need too much work.”

  Zoe forced down the lump in her throat and followed Adana. The pathologist led her past the familiar doors to the two examination rooms and through a set of wooden doors. Zoe found herself inside a small, dimly lit room. This room was less clinical than the areas of the morgue she was familiar with. The walls were papered and the floor was made of a material that wasn’t scrubbable. Opposite her was another door, presumably leading to the outside. The way relatives normally entered.

  In the centre of the room was a raised bench covered in a dark red cloth. Annette lay on it, covered by another, lighter, cloth up to her shoulders. Her skin was pale and grey, her eyes closed. There was bruising to her forehead, and what looked like road rash on her chin.

  Zoe gulped in air.

  She took a step forwards and held out her hand, leaving it hovering in mid air. Annette looked smaller in death, like a different person. Her cheeks were sunken and her neck scrawny.

  Zoe realised that she’d never properly looked at her mum, not in years.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Did she die at the scene?”

  “She suffered internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen. I’m expecting to find brain trauma. One of her lungs collapsed. She would have lost consciousness immediately. She died in the ambulance.”

  Zoe’s chest hardened. She let her hand float down to her mum’s chest and rest on the sheet. It was chilly.

  “She didn’t suffer?”

  “No.”

  Zoe looked up. “You’re not bullshitting me, just to be nice?”

  Adana’s solemn face broke into a smile. “I never bullshit you, DI Finch.”

  “No.” She let her fingers travel up to her mum’s shoulder, where the skin was bare. It felt like wax. She pulled her hand away.

  “Thanks.” Zoe turned back to the doors.

  “Stay as long as you need.”

  Zoe turned back. “Have you brought Jukes in? I should observe.”

  “No, Zoe. You don’t need that right now.”

  Zoe’s vision blurred. She’d call the office, send one of her team.

  “I’ve already had a call from DS Uddin,” said Adana. “He’ll attend.”

  Zoe gasped. Mo, covering for her. Always there.

  “I need to find my son.” She pushed through the doors and hurried out of the building, her eyes filling with tears.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The team were upstairs in one of the meeting rooms, DS Griffin and Mo together at the front. DS Griffin had a laptop open and was scrolling through photos from the reservoir.

  “How did he die?” Connie asked.

  “The post-mortem’s later this afternoon,” Sheila replied. “But Dr Adebayo says it isn’t drowning.”

  “But he’s been in the water at least two weeks,” added Mo.

  “Yes.” Sheila met his eye. “He died before he went in. There were lacerations to his chest, who knows what else.”

  “So what’s the timeline?” asked DC Solsby.

  Sheila pointed her marker pen at him. “Good question.” She turned to the whiteboard behind her and wrote 1. Dwayne Jukes at the top. She then wrote the range of dates within which he most likely died.

  “Starling next, or Petersen?” asked Connie.

  “Starling was found on Monday,” Mo said. “Pathology said he’d been there a week or so.”

  “But Petersen had also been dead at least a week,” added Solsby.

  “So we’ve got Starling and Petersen killed at roughly the same time,” said Sheila. “Question is, why?”

  “And are they the only ones?” added Connie.

  “Let’s hope we don’t unearth more,” replied Mo. Connie gave him a grim look.

  “OK,” said Sheila. “I don’t know much about the Starling case. I’m not even supposed to be speculating on it. So let’s focus on Jukes and Petersen.”

  Mo walked to the board. He held out his hand for the pen, which Sheila passed to him. He wrote 2. Howard Petersen.

  “So was Petersen’s death related to Jukes’s?” he asked. “What motive would someone have?”

  “Petersen was one of Hamm’s lot,” said Rhodri. “If Jukes was running this other mob, then maybe his guys killed Petersen for revenge.”

  “Petersen can’t have killed Jukes. He’s serving a suspended sentence, tagged,” said Mo. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe it’s a turf war,” said Connie. “Two gangs, each trying to assert their authority. And besides, we know Petersen had worked his way around that tag.”

  “Hamm wouldn’t have been best pleased if another bunch tried to muscle in on his turf,” added Rhodri.

  “They’re different, though,” said Sheila. She pointed at Jukes’s name on the board. “This lot are small fry compared to Hamm. Drug dealing mainly, a bit of money laundering we reckon. Hamm’s been involved in human trafficking, terrorism…”

  “Yeah, but he lost his crew,” said Rhodri. “The men he relied on are all banged up, or stuck at home with tags on their ankles.”

  “You think he was trying to take over Jukes’s gang?” Mo asked.

  Rhodri shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, Sarge. Just chuckin’ ideas in.”

  “That’s what we need.”

  Sheila shook her head. “We need solid evidence, is what we need.” She turned to the whiteboard and wrote Forensics, CCTV, Post-mortem, Witnesses.

  She turned to the room. “OK. Any volunteers?”

  “I’ve already said I’ll do the PM,” said Mo.

  “Cheers. And I’ve heard Connie’s good with CCTV and digital evidence.”

  “Happy to take that,” said Connie. “Anything after the morning I’ve had.” She glanced at Mo
. Her interview with Simon Adams had not gone well; he’d spat at her and refused to talk.

  “We shouldn’t have gone to the prison,” Mo said. “They’ll have got word to Hamm that we’re looking for him.”

  “You really think he’s in the city?” Sheila asked. “We’d have found him by now.”

  “He could have left, then come back. For the trial. I know it seems like a daft idea, but the DI’s gut doesn’t normally let her down.”

  Sheila’s expression dropped. “How is she?”

  Mo sighed. “She’ll be OK.” He wasn’t about to tell everyone in the room what Rhodri had reported to him; that she’d been erratic and confused. He didn’t blame her.

  “Poor woman.”

  “Yeah.” Mo had promised to go and see Zoe. She’d want him to attend the PM first. He’d swing by her house afterwards.

  “I’ll talk to the forensics guys,” said Rhodri. Mo saw Connie’s lips twitch.

  “You want to swap?” he asked her.

  “No,” she said, too quickly. “I’ll take CCTV.”

  “That leaves me with witnesses,” said Solsby. “I’ll head back over there, see how door to door’s coming on.”

  “Find out if anyone’s got a camera on their house or business, will you?” asked Connie.

  Solsby winked at her. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  She paled. “No, it’s… OK.”

  “You know what you’re looking for, Connie. It’ll make your job easier.”

  “OK.” She gave Solsby a look like he was a dog about to bite her.

  Mo knew that Connie preferred to be behind a desk. But he also knew she had to drag herself out if she wanted to prove her readiness for sergeant.

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t forget we’re looking for Hamm, too.”

  “We need to prioritise Jukes,” said Sheila.

  “If Hamm is responsible for Jukes’s death, you’ll be grateful we were looking for him.” Mo gave her a pointed look.

  “Fair enough. Do we have any leads?”

  “Uniform says there’s signs of life at his house out past Solihull.”

  “Then we should get Uniform to knock on the door,” she replied.

  “And if he’s there, he’ll run. No, we need someone who’s working the case. And not alone. I’d come with you, if it wasn’t for the PM.”

  “It’s OK,” said Sheila. “I can take DC Sarpong.”

  “Makes sense,” said Solsby. “Femi terrifies me, she’ll have Hamm eating out of her hand.”

  Sheila gave him a stern look. Connie curled her lip.

  “Right,” said Mo. “Let me know how you get on, yeah?”

  “Yup.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Zoe was in the living room, staring at the blank TV, when the front door opened.

  “Hey, Yoda.” She listened as Nicholas stopped to fuss the cat in the hallway. The cat miaowed and led him inside. She’d be curling round his legs, guiding him into the kitchen and her bowl.

  “Mum?”

  She bit her lip and drew in a breath, then turned, attempting to pull her face into a neutral expression. “Hey, love.”

  “What’s up? You sick?”

  She stood up. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He tensed. “What?”

  “Sit down.”

  “Is it my uni application? Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have put Stirling first.”

  “It’s not that. Sit down with me, yeah?”

  His eyes didn’t leave hers as he rounded the sofa and sat next to her. The cat followed him, miaowing and jumping up to his lap. He pushed her off gently.

  Zoe looked into his eyes. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Just tell me.”

  She reached for his hand. He let her take it, his own hand limp.

  “It’s your gran,” she said. “She was in a traffic accident.”

  His eyes widened. He pulled his hand away. “Is she OK?”

  She shook her head. “She didn’t make it. She’s dead, love. It was quick, she wouldn’t have been in pain.”

  He stood up, his foot brushing the cat to one side. Zoe stood to meet his eye.

  “I’m so sorry, Nicholas. It happened yesterday afternoon. I only found out today.”

  “You should have called me at school.”

  “I’ve only been home quarter of an hour. I went to see her.”

  He shoved his hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “How… what was…?”

  “She was peaceful. They said she didn’t suffer.”

  “You’ve already said that. Of course she suffered!” He turned away and made a high-pitched noise.

  Zoe sat down, the wind knocked out of her. Now she’d told him, the adrenaline had left her body.

  He turned to her, his eyes wild. “She asked you for a lift.”

  “What? I…”

  “If you’d helped her out for once instead of being so focused on your stupid job, she’d still be alive.”

  “Hang on, Nicholas. That’s not fair.”

  “You’re going to say she was drunk. You always blame everything on that.”

  She stood up. He bent to grab the cat. He bundled her up to his shoulder and buried his face in her fur.

  “She wasn’t drunk, Nicholas. She had the equivalent of half a unit of alcohol in her system. Nothing, for… Nothing.”

  “You were going to say nothing, for a drunk!”

  “But she was a drunk. You didn’t see her at her worst.”

  He flung the cat at her. She fumbled to catch it then let it drop to the floor.

  “You’re glad she’s dead.” He marched towards the door.

  She stepped after him. “Of course I’m not glad she’s dead.”

  “So how do you feel? You don’t look like you’ve been crying to me.”

  “I wanted to be strong for you.”

  He slapped the side of his head. “Bollocks! You just don’t care, is all.”

  She reached towards him, but he flung off her hand. He threw the front door open and ran into the street.

  “Nicholas, come back. Be careful. I don’t want you to…”

  “I’ll be fine,” he shouted back at her. “Can’t have two of us killed under the wheels of a car in twenty-four hours.”

  Zoe spotted movement from the corner of her eye. Ollie, one of the students living next door, was at his front door, key raised to the lock.

  “Everything OK, Mrs Finch?’

  “Fine.” She caught herself. “Thanks.”

  Nicholas was halfway to the Bristol Road. There was no point running after him. He’d roam the streets for a while, and he’d come back. He was upset. He was angry. She didn’t blame him.

  She slipped inside, ignoring Ollie watching her, and closed the door. She leaned against it and let herself slide to the floor. Why did she feel so numb?

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Anita had now made a complete circuit of the room, and established that it had one door and two windows. She guessed that one window was at the front of the building, and one at the back. The door was to one side.

  If she banged on one of those windows, would she be seen? The glass felt flimsy, like she could make herself heard. Or break it.

  Right now, she was sitting behind the door. She’d worked out that the door opened into the room. In her current position, if someone came in, they wouldn’t be able to see her. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with this knowledge, but it was reassuring.

  She heard footsteps beyond the wall. It sounded as if someone was walking up a flight of stairs. The ones she’d been bumped up last night. She held her breath and leaned into the wall, trying to ignore her damp trousers. She’d tried to pee in a corner when the need became too great but had only succeeded in soaking her clothes. It made her disgusted with herself.

  “We can’t keep her here.”

  Anita held her breath. That had been a woman’s voice, with an accent. She pressed her ear closer to the wall.r />
  “We can’t take her anywhere else, not yet. You look after her for one more day, then we’ll deal with her.”

  A man, Brummie.

  “By then, we’ll know if he’s got the message.” The woman again. She was Scottish.

  “Who cares if he has? We’re not sending her back to him.”

  Anita trembled. Were they talking about David? Who else would she be sent back to? And if so, what was this message he was supposed to have got?

  She shuffled along the floor, away from the door. She wanted to be as far from these people as possible when they entered the room.

  The smell thickened as she moved; she was heading for the corner she’d designated as a toilet. She backtracked.

  “He’s done as he’s told so far,” the man said.

  “Lying his bent fucking mouth off.” The woman laughed.

  Anita heard the door open. She braced herself, waiting to be grabbed, or hit. She was hungry.

  “I need food!” she cried.

  “What’s that, girlie?” the woman asked. “You’re no making any sense.” She laughed.

  Anita faced in the direction of the voice. “Please. I need water.” Her mouth was dry, her throat sore.

  “Drink yer piss,” the woman replied. “Looks like you’ve left plenty of it over there.”

  Heat rose to Anita’s cheeks. “Where are my girls?”

  “Girls, was that you said?”

  Anita nodded.

  “They’re safe.” The voice was closer now.

  Anita didn’t know if they’re safe was good news, or bad. It meant that they knew about the girls. That they might have them.

  “Don’t hurt them.”

  “Wha’ was that?” The woman was right in front of her. She was crouching, or bending down. Their faces were close. If Anita struck out…

  She balled her fist and felt a hand clasp it.

  “No, you don’t. Your lasses are fine, don’t ya worry. Just sit tight and everything’ll be alright.”

  “Water.”

  “What does she think this is, the fucking Ritz?” The man laughed. He was over by the door. Don’t come any nearer, Anita thought.

  She felt a foot on her shin. She toppled backwards, unable to balance with the blindfold on. More laughter.