Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Read online

  “I gather we’ve been through CCTV now, and have more from the pathologist. Let’s start with CCTV.”

  Connie sat up straight. Her hair was gathered on top of her head and she was wearing pink eyeshadow today. “Three of us watched the CCTV from the house yesterday. There’s a camera over the front door and another one at the side. Can I?”

  She pointed at the screen and Randle nodded. She pushed her chair back and went to the laptop. The image zoomed in on the front door. Above it was a camera, pointing downwards.

  “This one’s got a view of the front drive and a bit of the street. It wouldn’t get everyone who came past but it’d spot you if you walked to the front door or parked a car.” She pressed a key. “Look, there’s Adi leaving yesterday. I tested it.”

  Adi looked up and cocked his head. A ripple of amusement went round the room.

  “What about the garden?” asked Lesley.

  Connie nodded. “That’s covered by the camera at the side. Wait a minute and I’ll—”

  “I mean the front garden. If you look at the house itself, not just photos and video, you’ll see that the front garden wraps around the garage and leads to the side gate. Is that covered by the CCTV?”

  “No, but—”

  “So someone could have crept round the side of the garden without being spotted.”

  “It was raining heavily,” interrupted Adi. “If that had happened, we’d have prints.”

  “Have you checked?” said Lesley.

  “Of course we’ve bloody checked. That garden is spotless.”

  “There’s paving slabs,” said Zoe. “You could avoid stepping in the soil by walking on them, if you were good at balancing.”

  “We checked those,” said Adi. “No prints. Sorry.”

  Lesley shrugged. Connie looked at Zoe who gave her an encouraging nod.

  “Anyway,” Connie said, looking warily at Lesley who was engrossed in her yoghurt. “The side door’s got a camera too. There’s a blind spot in the front garden, like DCI Clarke said. But there’s nothing here either. If someone came in that way, we’d know.”

  “Did it catch the paramedics arriving?” asked Randle.

  “No. It’d been switched off by then.”

  Lesley’s head popped up again. “When did that happen?”

  “About ten minutes after they got home.”

  “So the CCTV is pretty much useless then.”

  “Well, yes. Which is kind of my point. But what’s more interesting is the way it, and the security system, worked. There were no keys, just codes. Personal codes. And Mrs Jackson didn’t have one.”

  Randle paled. Lesley swallowed the last of her yoghurt. “She must have used his.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” said Zoe. “We’ll need to look at patterns. But as far as we know, she didn’t have access to the locks and security of her own house.”

  “That makes no sense,” said Carl. The room turned to him and Zoe wondered how many people here even knew who he was. “She must have had a way of getting in or out. Maybe she shared Jackson’s.”

  “There’s a pattern,” replied Zoe. “The times he used it. It looks like it was just him.”

  “We need to look into this,” said Randle. “I can ask her.”

  “Is there going to be another formal interview?” asked Zoe.

  “No. She’s going home later. FSI say the house can be returned to her. What time do you expect that to be, Adrian?”

  Adi looked up from his notepad. “About eleven. We think.”

  “Good. I appreciate you fast tracking that. Now, what about the post-mortem? Please don’t tell me it still hasn’t happened, Lesley.”

  “It has. The wound to his neck was fatal, unsurprisingly. Thin blade, nine inches long, serrated. Matches the one Mrs Jackson found. Two more stab wounds to the victim’s side, neither of them deep. The pathologist thinks they were inflicted after the fatal one.”

  “What about defensive wounds?”

  “Nothing. His arms and hands were clean.”

  “So he didn’t know it was coming.” David’s face clouded. “Do we have any conclusions from blood spatter?”

  “Nothing much apart from what I already told you,” said Adi. “Most of the blood came from the neck wound and hit the desk. There would have been a lot of it, gushing very fast. No bloody footprints, or handprints.

  Lesley tossed her yoghurt pot into the bin. “Either the killer knew what they were doing, or it was all so fast they got away from the body before getting hit by too much blood.”

  “A wound like that would leave stains on the killer’s arm,” said Adi. “He or she was right-handed. Even if he pulled away immediately, there would be blood on his sleeve and hand.”

  “Mrs Jackson’s dress was covered in his blood,” said Zoe. “There was some of her own, but it’s mainly his.”

  “She told us she’d touched him,” said Randle. “She grabbed the knife. She found him, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “That’s not enough, Zoe.”

  Yesterday he’d been all over Margaret Jackson, eager to pin blame on her. Now he was backing off. Why?

  “I’ve found financial records that might point to something, too,” Zoe said. “Or more like, I haven’t.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  “They had work done on the house. Pretty substantial work. Every year, same time of year. There are quotes going back four years, all dated first of May.”

  “Nothing unusual about that. It’s a nice house.”

  “But I can’t find any record of them paying for it. The bank accounts are spotless. Too spotless.”

  Randle shook his head. “Maybe they didn’t have this work done. You say you only found quotes.”

  “That’s right. No receipts. No invoices. But the work seems to have been done.”

  “You’re an expert on home improvement now are you? Been watching Grand Designs?”

  Zoe ignored the jibe. “Mrs Jackson talked to me about one of the jobs. Bricking up a wall. They had a quote for it, the work was done, but there’s no record of payment.”

  “Not unusual for people to pay cash for that kind of thing.”

  “The quote for the kitchen was thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Surely you’ve got a decimal point in the wrong place,” interrupted Lesley.

  Randle looked between them. “Lesley’s got a point. I don’t see how house renovations has anything to do with a murder case. Drop that, Zoe. I know you like to find clues in financial records, but sometimes you can take the things too far.”

  “But sir—”

  He raised a palm to stop her. “Those letters. Focus on those. She wanted to kill him.”

  He’d swung back again, focused on Margaret Jackson as the suspect.

  “Look for more of them. Go back to the house if you need to. But do it quickly. Before she goes back. I’ll speak to Paul and Winona Jackson, find out if they can shed any light. You’re all dismissed. Get to it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  David’s car was an Audi TT, low slung and uncomfortable. Margaret was relieved when it pulled up outside her house and she could get out. She waited for him to walk up to the front door, his back to her, before trying to extricate herself from it. She was wearing a pale pink skirt and knew this would be undignified.

  She joined him at the front door just as a man in a white forensic suit opened it. David grunted at the man then stood back for her to pass through.

  Inside, the hallway was as it had always been. The pale walls stared back at her and the smell of baking came from the kitchen.

  She sniffed and looked at David.

  He smiled. “I think your daughter’s here already.”

  She felt her heart sag. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you, David. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “I’m just sorry it’s not in happier circumstances.”

  “Yes.”

  He hel
d out his hand and she shook it. His palm was rough, rubbing against her own. She felt herself flush and pulled back. “Now if you don’t mind…”

  “Of course.” He muttered to the man in the suit. “There’s just two FSIs in the study. They won’t be any bother. They’ll be gone by four.”

  She’d expected to have the house to herself. Now there were two strangers still here, and Winona in the kitchen.

  David closed the front door. Margaret was going to have to replace the security system. She had no idea who Bryn had given codes to.

  She pulled in the deepest breath she could muster and headed for the kitchen. The table was covered in flour and mixing bowls and the windows had been thrown open despite the chill.

  “Winona.”

  “Oh, Mummy!” Winona dropped a baking tray on the floor and ran into her mother’s arms. She leaned into her, sobbing noisily.

  Margaret stroked her hair. It was tangled and the roots didn’t match the tips. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here now.”

  “Winona pulled out of her arms and thumped her on the shoulder. “Where were you? I came here looking but you were hiding.”

  “I wasn’t hiding, they put me up in a hotel. At least… I’m not sure who paid for it. But I’m home now.”

  “I’ve been here for hours.”

  Margaret looked around the kitchen. She’d been told there was no access to the house that morning. But Winona could be persuasive.

  “You’ve been baking.”

  “I thought it might cheer us up.”

  “That’s a nice idea.” Margaret felt her eyes fill. “Thank you, darling. Have you spoken to Paul?”

  “He’s not answering his phone. Does he know?”

  “The police sent someone round to him.”

  She thought of her son in his modern five bedroomed house in Sutton Coldfield with his chippy wife. Twin daughters she rarely saw and couldn’t tell apart. She didn’t envy the poor constables who’d been given that job.

  “I should go and see him,” she said.

  “No, Mummy. He comes to you. It’s you we need to look after.”

  Margaret went to the kettle and flicked it on. “Thank you, sweetie. But I don’t need looking after.”

  Winona leaned into her and pushed her face into Margaret’s back. She’d never been affectionate as a child. Maybe this would change things, they’d become close. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to look after you.”

  Winona’s voice was muffled. “You’re better off, you know.”

  Margaret stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “He was a beast. He treated you like shit.”

  She turned to grab her daughter’s hands. “Don’t talk about your father like that. It’s not respectful.” She glanced towards the open doorway, mindful of those FSIs in the study. “Be quiet.”

  “He wasn’t respectful.”

  “I’m not listening to this. Your father loved you, in his own way. He loved me.”

  “No he damn well didn’t, and you know it.”

  “Winona! I won’t have that kind of talk. I can smell burning. See to whatever it is you’ve got in the oven and we’ll have lunch. And I won’t have you talking like that anymore, you hear me?”

  Winona yanked a tray of biscuits out of the oven, saying nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Zoe had been expecting this for weeks, but today wasn’t exactly the best timing. She stepped up to the stand and raised her hand.

  “I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  She sat down, focused on the CPS barrister. She’d rehearsed this in front of her mirror at home a dozen times. All she was here to do was give them an excuse to submit the documents she’d uncovered. It would be fine.

  “Detective Sergeant Finch, can you tell us what—”

  “Detective Inspector Finch.”

  The lawyer looked up. “Detective Inspector Finch. I’m sorry.” A faint smile quivered on his lips. “What was your role in the investigation into the subject of this trial?”

  “I was brought into the Canary investigation to go through paperwork. We were investigating Robert Oulman.” She glanced up to see Oulman standing along from his co-accused. He was a thin, sharp-jawed man dressed in an expensive grey suit that didn’t hide the fact that he was sweating.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “We had reason to believe he’d been laundering money through his restaurant business. There was a team of three of us going through documents, trying to find signs of cash coming into the business that couldn’t be accounted for.”

  “You were specifically looking at receipts, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Oulman’s personal receipts?”

  “That’s right.”

  The solicitor held up a sheaf of papers. “I’m holding exhibit 617. Can you tell me what these are please, Detective Inspector Finch?”

  Zoe looked up at the sound of the doors to the court opening. A man slid in and took a seat at the back. He was short-haired with a deep tan and a large tattoo of an eagle covering his right ear and neck.

  She looked back at the lawyer. “Yes, of course.” She kept her eyes on the documents. She’d expected David Randle to be in the gallery, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Those four sets of receipts showed that the three men would meet up every two weeks.”

  “How do they show that?”

  “We started with Oulman. He was going to Forelli’s bar every two weeks. It was showing up on his credit card. Always at the same time, and he always bought a pint of Diet Coke.”

  “You thought that was odd?”

  “Mr Oulman was a champagne and pinot noir man, judging by the rest of his receipts, so yes.”

  “And you decided to investigate?”

  “There was another team, looking into Mr Shand. A colleague of mine.”

  “Sergeant Uddin.”

  “Yes. We noticed that there was the same pattern of activity. Visiting Forelli’s every fortnight, drinking non-alcoholic drinks.”

  “And that led you to…”

  “Mr Petersen. He was the owner of the club. About as Italian as my granny from Halesowen. He didn’t have any receipts, of course, he didn’t have to pay. But a waitress told us she’d been propositioned by Mr Oulman. She remembered him being a regular, having private meetings.”

  “So you discovered that the three of them were meeting in private every fortnight, and you decided to investigate why.”

  “We did.”

  “What form did that investigation take?”

  “Surveillance mainly. We spoke to a few more employees of the bar. We put an officer at the next table, listening in.”

  “And that found what?”

  “Not much. They covered their tracks.”

  “But then things changed.”

  “They did. Oulman made the mistake of beating up his girlfriend. Siobhan Farley. She talked to us. Turned out they were getting together before those meetings in Forelli’s. In the basement. Where they were abusing children and videoing it.”

  A whisper went through the room. Zoe looked at the defendants. All three had their eyes straight ahead. Only Petersen flinched.

  She knew she wouldn’t be asked any more. They had the videos. And they had Siobhan’s statement, even if the poor woman was too scared to testify.

  “She’s on the witness list. Thank you. No further questions.”

  Outside, the corridors were busy. Zoe pushed through to the front entrance, impatient to get back to the Jackson case. Randle had told her to focus on the letters, but she wanted to follow up the house renovations angle.

  “Zoe.”

  She turned. “Carl. What are you doing here?”

  “Keeping an eye on the Canary trial. Saw your evidence.”

  “Yeah. Glad that’s over. Lesley send you?”


  “Something like that.”

  “Are you liaising with the pathologist on the Jackson case? I just… I haven’t seen much you in the briefings.”

  He smiled. He had a birthmark on his neck, very faint. “Don’t worry, Zoe. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. See you back at the station, yeah?”

  He pushed through the doors and she followed him out to her car, trying not to wonder why he was such a grumpy sod.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Stuart Reynolds was based in a nondescript office in a business park in Selly Oak, not far from Zoe’s home. She pulled up in her Mini. There were two vans parked and a 4x4. All had the company logo and strapline. No job too small. Original.

  She scanned the windows as she made for the main entrance. The place was quiet, but that didn’t say much.

  Inside was a small reception area with a desk behind a partition. A pile of yellowing architectural magazines sat on a side table.

  Zoe leaned across the partition.

  “Hello?”

  A radio was playing somewhere: Taylor Swift. She leaned over further. A closed door led to the back of the unit, where the music was coming from.

  “Anyone here?” she called, louder this time. She scanned the desk, looking for a buzzer. Nothing but a pile of post-its and a half-empty mug.

  The music stopped. A tanned man in his mid-forties kicked the back door open.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m here to speak to Stuart Reynolds.”

  “You after a quote? Best to use the website. We’ve got a form.”

  “I’m not after a quote.”

  “What you want then?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr Reynolds.”

  “You already are.”

  “You’re Stuart Reynolds?”

  “The one and only.” He balled his fists and dug them into his hips. Behind him, the music started up again.

  “My name’s Detective Inspector Zoe Finch. I’m investigating a murder.”

  “Bryn Jackson. Saw it in the papers. Bloody shame. How’s his wife?”

  “You did some work for them. On their house.”

  “Did I?” He leaned back, puffing his chest out.