Deadly Terror (Detective Zoe Finch Book 4) Read online

  Deadly Terror

  Detective Zoe Finch Book 4

  Rachel McLean

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Read Zoe’s prequel story, Deadly Origins

  Read the DI Zoe Finch Series

  Chapter One

  Saturday

  Sameena Khan hated shopping.

  Even more, she hated shopping for shoes with her fifteen-year-old daughter Jamila.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour, Jamila picked up a pair of unsuitable shoes and shoved them in her mum’s direction, eyebrows raised.

  Sameena shook her head. “You know the answer.”

  “But Sarah’s got these.”

  Sameena eyed the shoes. Black patent – at least the colour was sensible – with a tiny pink bow on the back – not in the uniform guidance – and a two-inch heel. Where would she start?

  She sighed. “You know the rules. Flat, plain, black. Surely it can’t be that hard to find a pair you’re prepared to wear?”

  “All the ones you like are disgusting.”

  “Disgusting? They’re just plain black shoes.” Sameena poked a slender foot out in front of her, turning it this way and that. “Like mine.”

  Jamila wrinkled her nose as if Sameena had let off a stink bomb. “Exactly.”

  Sameena checked her watch: gone three. She needed to be home by four thirty, to take Khaled to his football practice and then cook dinner. “Come on. I’m taking you to Clarks.” She grabbed her daughter’s sleeve and moved towards the shop exit.

  “Mum!” Jamila tugged her arm from her mother’s grasp, so violently that Sameena thought she might topple over. A tall white woman beside them looked round and pushed her glasses up her nose. Sameena wanted to tell her to mind her own business.

  “There is no way I’m getting shoes from Clarks.” Sameena folded her arms across her chest. The white woman chuckled and moved away. Sameena felt heat rise up her neck.

  “You’re making a scene.”

  “I’m making a scene? You’re the one manhandling me in Hobbs.”

  “Let’s just get out of here, alright? We can get a coffee or something. Work out where to go next.”

  “Only if you buy me a muffin.”

  Sameena gritted her teeth. “A small one.”

  A smile spread across her daughter’s face. “You know what’s even better than a muffin? Let’s have churros.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “It’s just over there.” Jamila pointed over her mum’s shoulder. “Come on, they’re dope.”

  Sameena let her daughter guide her out of the shop and through the crush of Saturday afternoon shoppers. Unlike the rest of Birmingham this afternoon, Grand Central, the shopping centre over New Street Station, was at least dry. Which explained why it was so busy today.

  They passed the escalators just as a young woman wearing a green headscarf tumbled off and towards them. Sameena glanced at her, wondering if she’d been pushed. The woman gave her a wary stare and picked up pace, brushing past the two of them as she hurried away.

  “Oi,” muttered Jamila.

  “Shush,” Sameena said.

  “She hit me.”

  “She touched your arm with hers. That’s hardly hitting.”

  Jamila rounded on her mum. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

  Sameena took a deep breath. After the churros, she would take the girl home. She could wear her old shoes for another week. Gaping sole or no gaping sole.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get those churros.”

  “Bitch.” Jamila rubbed her arm.

  Sameena grabbed her hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not you. Her.” Jamila jerked her head towards the woman, who’d stopped at the barrier overlooking the station concourse and was leaning over. Sameena felt her heart stutter. She wasn’t going to jump, was she?

  Sameena flicked her gaze down to the crowded concourse below and back to the woman in the headscarf. The woman had straightened. She scanned the roof as if expecting to see something specific up there.

  “I don’t like you talking like that,” Sameena said, dragging her focus back to Jamila. There was something about the woman that made her uneasy.

  “It’s not a swear word.”

  “Would you say it to a teacher?”

  “Course not.”

  “Well, then. Don’t say it to anyone.”

  “But she hit me.”

  They were approaching the woman. Sameena made for the opposite side of the walkway, steering away from her. But Jamila was insistent on approaching her.

  “Jamila!” she hissed. “Get over here. D’you want those churros, or not?”

  Jamila gave her a dismissive wave and stopped a couple of paces behind the woman. The woman was oblivious to her, staring across the void over the station concourse. Sameena followed her gaze and saw a man, standing in the midst of a throng of moving people like a boulder in a fast-flowing river. He stared back at the woman, his eyes hard.

  “You hit me,” Jamila said. She reached her hand towards
the woman but didn’t touch her.

  The woman’s eyes were locked on the man. He was heavily-built, wearing a hoody pulled up over a baseball cap. The steel in his eyes made Sameena shiver.

  She grabbed Jamila’s shoulder. “Stop it, Jamila. Leave her alone.”

  The woman shifted her weight, aware of Sameena and Jamila but not turning to them. She straightened, her eyes still on the man. For a split second she dipped her body, as if about to fall or throw herself over the railing. Sameena felt her breath catch in her chest.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  The woman had something in her hand. She gripped it.

  A weapon?

  Jamila was right. The woman was dangerous. But she looked scared, more than anything.

  Sameena’s training kicked in. As a social worker she was used to dealing with volatile and uncooperative people.

  “Jamila, I need you to get away from here right now. Walk over there, to the churros stall. Wait for me.”

  Jamila turned. She must have seen the fear in her mother’s eyes, because for the first time today she did as she was told.

  When Jamila was safely out of the way, Sameena took a step forward. Her heart raced and her lips were dry.

  “Are you alright? Do you need help? You’re not going to jump, are you?”

  The woman turned to face Sameena. On the other side of the void, the man unfolded his arms and scratched his neck. Sameena caught a glimpse of a tattoo before he disappeared into the crowd.

  “Leave me alone,” the woman said. She had an accent.

  “I can help you.”

  The woman shook her head. She was sweating.

  “Go. Now.”

  Sameena took another step forward. “It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  The woman flicked her wrists, her eyes on Sameena’s face. Her coat – a cheap one made of blue polyester – fell open. Sameena looked down at her chest. Her mouth fell open.

  She wore a kind of rucksack strapped to her chest. Wires trailed from it. It was dark, faintly reflective.

  The object in her hand, Sameena realised, wasn’t a weapon.

  It was a detonator.

  The woman’s face tightened. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her nostrils flared as she blinked at Sameena. She was young, not more than twenty-five, and she looked as if she hadn’t had a good meal for a while.

  Sameena stared back at her, the words gone from her head.

  The woman’s breathing slowed. She stared back at Sameena, her eyes full of terror.

  “Run,” she said.

  Chapter Two

  “Fancy a brew?” asked DCI Lesley Clarke.

  “Yes please, ma’am.” DI Zoe Finch sat at the tiny table in the dingy Force CID kitchen, making the most of the fact her boss was doing the honours. To be fair to Lesley, if she was making a cup for herself, she tended to make Zoe one too.

  Lesley filled the kettle, her back to Zoe, her expression invisible. “How’re things with your team?”

  “They’re fine,” Zoe replied.

  Lesley flicked the switch and turned to Zoe. “You sure about that? I’ve seen the way Connie looks at Ian.”

  “It’s not a problem, ma’am.”

  “Does she know why he’s here?”

  “No.”

  “Should she?”

  “With respect, I think that would make things even worse.”

  Lesley poured water into two mugs and snorted. “You don’t need to do all that crap with me, Zoe.”

  “What crap’s that?”

  Lesley laughed. “With respect. Respect is earned. You know that, I know that. I hope you and I have both earned each other’s respect, or regard at least.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Lesley put Zoe’s mug on the table. Black, no sugar. Zoe would have preferred something other than instant, but this would have to do. “Glad we got that sorted. But your DC should at least pretend to have a bit of respect for her DS, in my opinion.”

  “Connie’s a good copper, ma’am. She’s not letting her feelings towards DS Osman get in the way of her job.”

  “She hates him that much, huh?” Lesley sipped her coffee and pulled a face. “I should have got you to make this.”

  Zoe set down her mug, glad she didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. “He said some stuff that wound her up, when we were working the Lovetree case.”

  “The Digbeth Ripper.”

  Zoe cringed. Her last big case had led them to a man who was attacking gay men and leaving them behind or inside pubs in Digbeth’s gay village. Alive or dead. “I thought we weren’t calling him that.”

  “Everyone else is, might as well join in. Come with me.”

  Zoe stood up. The office was quiet today, only a few people in besides herself and Lesley. Her friend DS Mo Uddin was out investigating an organised prostitution racket but otherwise, things were low-key.

  As they left the kitchen, a uniformed constable ran along the corridor.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Calm down, Constable. The place isn’t on fire, you know,” Lesley replied.

  “There’s been a bomb threat at New Street Station.”

  Zoe felt herself tilt, like she might lose her balance. Lesley’s face slackened. “When?”

  “We got the call at three fourteen pm.”

  “Shit.” Lesley turned to shove her coffee mug into Zoe’s hand. “I’m designated Silver Command this weekend. Our chat’ll have to wait.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Wait here. If we need you, we’ll call you. Uniform and anti-terror will be there.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Lesley dove into her office and ran out, dragging a stab vest over her silk blouse and suit jacket. She paused as if to say something to Zoe, then nodded.

  “Good luck, ma’am.” Zoe watched her boss run towards the exit, her heart racing.

  Chapter Three

  A squad car was waiting for Lesley. She threw herself into it and stared out at the dimming January afternoon as they sped towards the city centre. She checked her suit pockets for her ID and a few essentials – phone, notebook, pen. Everything would be laid on for her when she got there. She wondered if they’d established a base yet, and who would be there. Superintendent Gavin Sanders was designated Gold Command. She’d never worked with him before but had heard he was calm under pressure.

  Would she be? She was in a speeding car, heading towards a scene everyone else would be fleeing. She didn’t even know if bomb attack meant detonated bomb. Yet.

  The car came to an abrupt halt in Severn Street, quarter of a mile from the station. A cordon was being established on Navigation Street, Uniform hurrying to move the public away from the station.

  No sign of an explosion. Lesley felt her breathing level out.

  A female sergeant held the door open. “A base has been established in the Mailbox, ma’am. Please follow me.”

  “Where’s Sanders?” Lesley climbed out of the car and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the low sun.

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  “I asked where he is, not when he’d get here.”

  “He’s outside the station, ma’am. On the ramp above Stephenson Street.” A pause. “Briefing the negotiators.”

  The ‘ramp’ was a pedestrian walkway leading up to the Grand Central shopping centre, immediately over the station. Being at the scene, briefing the negotiators – that was Silver Command work, not Gold.

  “Then that’s where I need to be.” Lesley stuck her head back in the car. “Can you drive me to Stephenson Street?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said.

  The sergeant outside the car came closer. “Ma’am, I’ve been told that we need at least one of you safely away from the scene.”

  Lesley turned to look up at the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “PS Wareham, ma’am.”

  “Well, PS Wareham, tell your senior officers
that you passed the message on but that it didn’t get through.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Sergeant. I’m going to the ramp, now. Maybe I’ll see you later. Maybe not.”

  Lesley slammed the car door as it sped towards the cordon. She grasped the passenger door handle as they sped through it and round the bulk of the station complex.

  At Stephenson Street she jumped from the car and sprinted up the ramp. Superintendent Sanders stood near the top, talking to a woman and a man. Between them and the doors to the centre was the inner cordon, which right now comprised three armed officers facing the doors.

  “Lesley.”

  “Sir.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Neither are you, I believe.”

  “Touché. Right, I’m nearly done with these guys then I’ll brief you.”

  “Is there a suspect in there?”