Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “No idea how you do it. But bring what you can, and you can do some more unpeeling at the station.”

  “I can’t bring it all.”

  “Might have known. What’s the snag?”

  “The video’s on a hard drive. I think it dates back to the eighteenth century. It’s fixed. It’s bloody massive.”

  “You stay here then. I’ll send a couple more officers to help you get through that footage. Can you watch different sections on the different screens, at the same time?”

  “With a bit of tinkering.”

  “Good. Fifteen hours between three of you. You can get that done tomorrow.”

  “I can speed it up a bit. Probably one and a half times. I’ll stay.”

  Zoe checked her watch. “It’s four o’clock. You OK with working late?”

  “The overtime will be useful, boss.”

  “Fine. I’ll come back for you later. Or you can get a lift with someone.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can get the bus.”

  Zoe laughed. “We’re in deepest leafy Edgbaston, Connie. No buses here.”

  “I’ll walk then.” Connie waved a hand, her eyes not leaving the screen. “I’ll be fine.”

  “OK.”

  Zoe heard a commotion behind her, the heavy front door opening. Voices. Adi was shouting at someone.

  “Oi! You can’t come in this way! It’s a crime scene.”

  “Where is she?”

  “What? Who are you?”

  “Sorry, Connie.” Zoe closed the door to the camera room and stepped into the hallway. A skinny woman with wild black hair wearing what looked like a genuine fox fur stole stood in the open doorway, gesticulating at Adi.

  “Can I help you?”

  The woman turned to her. “Who the bloody hell are you? And why aren’t you people letting me in?”

  Zoe took a breath. “My name is Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. I’m part of the investigating team for a crime that took place here last night.”

  “Yes, I know that. Where is she?”

  “Where is who?”

  “My mother, of course. What have you done with her?”

  Zoe looked the woman up and down. This must be Winona, the Jacksons’ daughter. She looked nothing like either of them. Under the fox stole she wore a lacy floral dress that was too thin for the October day.

  “She’s currently at Harborne police station, being interviewed.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “You’ve arrested her?”

  “No. She’s a witness.” She took a step towards the woman. She didn’t even know if she’d been told about her father’s death yet. “I’m sorry. Are you Winona Jackson?”

  “Yes, I’m bloody Winona Jackson. Who else would I be?”

  Zoe clenched her fists, the skin of her palms dry. “Have you been told about your father?”

  Winona narrowed her eyes. “If you mean that he’s dead, yes. I have.”

  “Good.” Zoe dragged a hand through her hair. “I mean, I’m glad you’ve been told. Look, would you like to sit down somewhere? We can get you a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t need tea. I need a gin and tonic, if I need anything.”

  “I can’t help with that.”

  Adi glared at Zoe. He widened his eyes in a do something gesture.

  Zoe grabbed Winona’s wrist, more tightly than she’d intended. “Come with me.” She tugged her towards the kitchen, avoiding Adi’s eye and keeping to the edge of the room. “Let’s get you that drink.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Margaret sat in the back of the police car, her blood running cold. In the front were two uniformed officers she didn’t recognise.

  David had taken her by surprise in her bedroom. She’d gone back up there like she’d been told, only to be dragged back out again after five minutes.

  Concerned about the integrity of the crime scene, he’d said. Let’s carry on talking somewhere out of the way.

  She blinked out at the dusk. Rush hour was at its thickest and Harborne Road was a mass of red lights. She could have told them not to come this way, Somerset Road was quicker at this time. Next to the car, walking faster than they were driving, a woman pushed a buggy, shopping bags hanging off the handles. A toddler stumbled next to her and she kept turning to the child, urging him to hurry. She reached into the pushchair, leaning over to speak to the baby inside, and the toddler took the opportunity to let go of her hand and run into a newsagent’s. The woman shouted and dashed in after him, the pushchair crashing over the threshold.

  Margaret closed her eyes and rubbed the ridge of her nose. Her migraine was swelling. The station would be bright, full of people staring at her. She only hoped David had the decency to take her in the back way.

  He was lying, of course, about why they were taking her in. She knew when David was lying. They’d found her letters.

  If they took every wife who occasionally wished her husband dead in for questioning, they’d never have time to solve the real crimes. She wondered how long it would take them to work out who the letters were addressed to, and felt her stomach dip.

  She’d started writing them when the children were small. They’d been a fantasy, a way of leaving her day-to-day existence behind and dreaming of what might have been.

  Only she knew who they were addressed to. She never used a name. She never sent them. She was too careful.

  The first had been when Winona was three years old and Paul one. Winona had been having trouble with toilet training, something Margaret had been told would be easy with a girl but was anything but. Her days were filled with washing, and scrubbing, and trying to coax her daughter into compliance without being too harsh on her. Winona had been a monster at times. Margaret had been ashamed of herself for occasionally wishing she’d never had children. Paul was a quiet baby, with a habit of staring at her like he was wishing something dreadful might happen to her. He still looked at her like that, at thirty-one. Mind you, he looked at everyone like that. Except his father.

  Her hand flew to her chest. She hadn’t called them yet. What kind of mother didn’t get straight on the phone to tell her children their father was dead?

  The police would have gone to their homes already, would have broken the bad news with grim faces and sugar-laden tea. Margaret knew they would resent her for not being the one to do it. That Winona would go into one of her episodes. That was nothing to how they would react if they thought she’d done it. If they read those letters, and the things she’d written about them.

  Bryn had taken to working long hours when the children were small, like so many policemen. She knew that some of this was work, and some of it was spent in the pub with his colleagues. He would come home smelling of beer, despite driving. She’d only challenged him about it once.

  She’d been on the sofa watching Lovejoy. Winona had been asleep and Paul was in his playpen staring out at her with those dark eyes of his. She’d stared back at him for a while, willing him to do something normal. To pick up a toy and play with it. To babble at her. Anything to make her feel like she hadn’t damaged him with her lack of love.

  Bryn had slumped onto the sofa, making it dip beneath both of them. It was one handed down by his parents, as if they’d been unable to afford such things now he was an Inspector. The money had been good lately, the pay rise bigger than she’d expected.

  “What’s that boy doing still up?” he’d grunted, nodding at Paul. Paul smiled at his father, the favouritism already developing.

  “He wouldn’t sleep,” she replied. “I thought being down here would tire him out.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish.” Bryn heaved himself up and went to the playpen. He gathered his son up and held him high in the air, making cooing noises. Margaret watched, unable to drum up enthusiasm.

  “Please, Bryn. He doesn’t need to be bounced around. He just had a feed.”

  Bryn jolted Paul downwards, making the boy gasp. Margaret bit her lip.

  “You look terrible,” Bryn said
to her.

  She put a hand to her face. She wore no makeup and hadn’t found time to shower. “I had a hard day.”

  He lifted Paul up to his face. “Your mother thinks she had a hard day. Sitting at home with you and your sister, watching TV.” He leaned over and switched the TV off. The room was plunged into an uneasy silence.

  “Where’s my tea?”

  “In the oven.”

  “It’ll be ruined.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know when you’d be home.”

  “I don’t have time to tell you what my movements are.”

  “I know. But I don’t feel comfortable about you drinking and driving home. If they caught you—”

  He plunged Paul back into the playpen so abruptly that the boy cried out. Margaret stared at him, suddenly overcome by maternal concern.

  “Bryn,” she whispered. “Be careful.”

  “He’s fine. Don’t lecture me.”

  She took a breath and met his eye. “I’m just thinking of you, love.”

  He took a step towards her and raised his hand. Then he froze, his eyes hard. His arm was raised, his palm flat with the back of his hand facing her. She stared at it, her heart racing.

  He lowered his hand, slowly. “Leave it, woman. Just leave me alone. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  He stormed out of the room. She heard clattering in the kitchen followed by swearing and then her name being called. “Margaret, get in here and sort my tea.”

  She’d looked at Paul, who was staring towards the kitchen through the open doorway. She’d pulled her shoulders back and hurried to follow her husband.

  That night, she’d sat down at the small table in the guest bedroom when Bryn was safely snoring, and written the first letter.

  Darling, it began. I miss you…

  “Here we are.”

  Harborne Police Station was familiar to her. Bryn had been stationed here for most of the nineties, when he’d been a Chief Inspector. The station itself had been his personal fiefdom, held in a tight grip.

  She wondered if there would be anyone left from those days.

  The car passed the familiar brick building and turned into a car park at the back. Beyond it was a modern, flat-roofed structure that she didn’t know. The car door opened and the PC who’d been in the passenger seat reached his hand in to protect her head.

  “If you can follow me, ma’am.”

  She slid out of the car and headed into the unfamiliar building, suddenly scared.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “That was grim.”

  “The CCTV?” asked Mo. They were in the Force CID offices at Harborne Police Station, back in the team room.

  “No,” replied Zoe. “Winona Jackson. Nutcase.”

  “You went to see her?”

  Zoe shook her head. “She came to the house. Barged in like she owned the place. I had to give her a large gin and tonic to shut her up.”

  “She still there?”

  “Uniform took her home. Can you believe we got her mother out of the house and then we’ve got her to deal with? For such an empty house, it’s been bloody hard to keep it clean.”

  “Where’s Connie?”

  “I left her there. She’s following a lead to do with the security systems. How did you get on with local CCTV?”

  “It’s pants, boss.” Rhodri slid his chair across the floor to join them.

  “Pants? That a technical term?”

  “No, boss,” Rhodri grinned. His teeth were crooked and sharp. He needed a better dentist. “Rubbish. Nothing useful.”

  “That’s not quite the case,” said Mo. “We might be able to get something from the house next door.”

  “They got CCTV?”

  “Yup. Rhodri’s going to go over the tapes now. Aren’t you, Constable?”

  “Er, yes.” Rhodri scrabbled in a box next to his desk. “It’ll take a while.”

  “It’s a murder case, Rhodri,” said Zoe. “You won’t be going home on time.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Tell me about Winona,” said Mo.

  Zoe looked over his shoulder at Rhodri then gestured for Mo to follow her to her desk. He grabbed a chair and dragged it up. She dropped into her own chair, aware that she hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.

  “Go on then.”

  “She’s a character, that’s for sure. Wearing a party dress in this weather. Yelling at everyone. And the amount of gin she put back. She knew exactly where to find it, too.”

  “Well, she did live there once.”

  “Not for a while. She’s got a flat in Brindleyplace.”

  “Nice.”

  “Soulless, more like. She’s gone back there but I’ve no doubt she’ll pop up again soon. In fact…” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “Anything I can help with, boss?” asked Mo.

  Zoe opened one eye to give him a warning look.

  “Anything I can help with, Zo?” He looked back at Rhodri.

  “It’s OK. I’ve got to head across to the interview suite anyway. I’ll do it on the way.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yeah. There’s a bunch of files going to be turning up very soon. Can you find somewhere for them?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks, Mo. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Nor do I.” He gave her a lopsided smile. So the accusation of resentment was forgiven, then. For now.

  The door to their office opened and DI Whaley put his head around it. Zoe sat up straighter in her chair. “Carl.”

  “Randle’s asking after you.”

  She yawned “Yeah. Be right there.”

  “Sure I can’t help?” asked Mo.

  “You can go to front desk. Tell them to be on the lookout for a skinny woman with dark hair. Looks like it hasn’t been combed since 1982. They won’t miss her. Tell them not to let her in.”

  “Right.” He stood up.

  “She said something surprising to me, after the first gin.”

  Carl had disappeared. Mo was at the door. “Which was?”

  “Could be shock,” she said. “Grief makes people say things they don’t mean.”

  “What did she say?”

  Zoe followed him to the door and lowered her voice. “Don’t repeat this to anyone. OK?”

  Mo mimed zipping his lips. “You know me.”

  “I do. But I’ve got my suspicions about Margaret Jackson. Randle has too, I think. That’s why we’re interviewing her.”

  “She’s under arrest?” he whispered. She heard Rhodri drop something then curse himself behind her.

  “Winona said her mum would be better off. Without him. Who says that, when their dad’s just been murdered?”

  “You think Mrs Jackson killed him?”

  “No. That’s daft.”

  Mo eyed her. “Well, you know what I think.”

  “Yeah. Forty percent of domestic killings are by the partner. But this one’s off. I can feel it in my nose hair.”

  “Maybe the interview will shine some light.”

  “Yeah. I bloody hope so.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Mrs Jackson,” said Randle. “Thank you for coming in. There are a few questions we still need to ask, and we thought it would be better here than at the house.”

  On the other side of the table, Margaret chewed her lips. Her starched blouse looked faded now, and her hair was messed up. Next to her a man in his late sixties was writing in a leather-bound A4 pad. His suit looked ten years old, but had been freshly pressed.

  “You aren’t under caution and this isn’t a formal interview. But I note that you have a solicitor with you.”

  Zoe watched as Margaret glanced at the solicitor. She looked like she was scared of him.

  The solicitor put his pen on the pad, at right angles to the edge. He looked back at Randle. “Edward Startshaw,” he said. “I thought it pertinent to assist Mrs Jackson, just to be on the safe side.” He gave R
andle a look that was familiar but not friendly. Zoe wondered how many times the two of them had faced off across this table.

  They were in interview room three, the only one that didn’t smell of damp or stale sweat. The room was a featureless box, with the table, four chairs and three cameras; one facing Zoe and Randle and the other two behind them. The cameras weren’t activated.

  They’d agreed not to say anything about the letter. Instead, the plan was to find out about Margaret’s state of mind the previous day. To look for any inconsistencies in her evidence.

  Randle leaned back in his chair. Zoe’s cue. She placed her hands on the table.

  “Let’s start at the beginning. We want to know the circumstances of your husband’s death, and the events leading up to it. I’m wondering about when you left for the party. Did anything unusual happen before you left the house?”

  “Nothing unusual, no.”

  “What time did you leave for the party?”

  “It started at 7pm. We left at 6.30. Bryn was worried the traffic might be heavy.”

  “The party was at the Botanical Gardens, is that correct?”

  “You were there. Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Which is a five minute drive from your house.”

  “Like I said, Bryn was worried about traffic. He didn’t want to be late. And he had a meeting.”

  “A meeting? On the way there?”

  “When we got there. He and David disappeared into the bar, leaving me waiting in the foyer.” Mrs Jackson eyed Randle.

  Zoe wondered why he hadn’t mentioned this. “Did your husband tell you what this meeting was about?”

  “Mrs Jackson,” interrupted Randle. “When you left, did you secure the house, or did your husband?”

  She frowned. “I always check the back door, and we left via the front door, so that was locked.”

  “Who activated the alarm?”

  “It wasn’t activated.”

  “No?”

  “We don’t always use it. Rose sets it off. That’s my cat.”

  Zoe hadn’t seen a cat anywhere; it had probably hidden, with the house full of strangers.