Deadly Wishes (Detective Zoe Finch Book 1) Read online

  She dug between the last file and the side of the box. She pulled out a thin file, made of flimsy card. More receipts, probably.

  She opened it carefully. Inside were letters, handwritten on yellowing notepaper. The first one was dated five years earlier. It was addressed only to ‘Darling’, and signed ‘Margaret’.

  She skimmed it and set it aside. A letter to a friend, nothing to get excited about. Its contents were dry, something about a cat in a car accident. Luckily the cat lived.

  But why would Margaret keep letters, instead of sending them? And who was this ‘darling’?

  She flicked through more letters. Vague arguments with her husband, problems with the central heating. Domestic anecdotes, evidence of a woman leading a dull existence. The letters were tinged with frustration, but nothing more.

  Margaret had said she had no family except her mother and two grown-up kids, and no real friends. These letters were probably to her children. So why didn’t she send them? Why file them up here?

  The letter at the back was on softer paper, not as yellow. It was only two weeks old. The writing was clear, in bright blue ink. Zoe thought of the woman downstairs writing this and hiding it so recently. She smoothed it out, the gloves numbing her fingers.

  Zoe felt a flash of adrenaline course through her. She gripped the paper, then forced herself to relax her grip. Her breathing had picked up.

  She straightened, hitting her head on the ceiling. She looked back towards the door. This was what Margaret Jackson had been looking for.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It’s not your fault,” David said.

  Margaret’s chest felt heavy. “Can we continue later? I’m feeling light-headed.”

  David glanced at his colleague. He turned back to give her the kind of smile he’d previously reserved for Bryn. “We do need to find out more,” he said. “I don’t imagine it will take long. You rest now. If I’m still here when you’re ready, I can interview you. Unless you’d prefer to come to the station?”

  She shook her head. The thought of walking into that place, all eyes on her, chilled her bones. Widow of the Assistant Chief Constable.

  “Give me half an hour, please. Then I’ll answer whatever you need me to.”

  She looked towards the door. The female DI who’d surprised her in the box room earlier was there. She held a brown folder.

  Margaret placed a hand on her chest. She stared at the folder. Oh God.

  “Sir?” The young woman stepped into the room, her eyes on David. “I need to speak to you when you’re finished here.”

  David turned to her. “I said no interruptions.”

  “Apologies, sir. But I think you’ll want to see this.”

  David sighed. “Hand it over then.”

  The woman gave Margaret a look. “I think we should let Mrs Jackson get her rest first.”

  They didn’t want her in the room. She knew what was in that file, and she knew why they wanted her out. Damn that DI for finding it when she couldn’t.

  It was ridiculous of course. David would dismiss it in a heartbeat. But she’d seen the detective inspector last night, heard Bryn congratulating her on the infamous Canary case. She was a bloodhound.

  David went to the doorway. He muttered to the detective and she stiffened. Giving her a dressing down, no doubt. The young woman headed into the kitchen.

  David turned to Margaret. She caught the moment when his frown morphed into an insincere smile.

  “You rest a while, and then we’ll pick up where we left off. I need to speak to some other officers. Can you cope with that?”

  His voice sounded harsher. He was annoyed. With her, or with his colleague?

  “Of course.” Margaret passed him, glancing towards the kitchen as she headed for the stairs. The young woman stood in there, watching her.

  All the same, she thought. Like terriers. They need to calm down, was what Bryn always said.

  At the top of the stairs, she sat down. She needed to hear this.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Right, Finch.” Randle marched into the kitchen, his face beaded with sweat. “What the fuck is it that couldn’t wait until we’d done Mrs Jackson the courtesy of finishing the interview at her pace?”

  “Sorry, sir. But she’d already asked for a break.”

  He grunted. “You’ve been looking through his financial records, yes? Found anything?”

  “Well, no.” Zoe held her ground as Randle’s face darkened. “The financial records themselves, or at least what I can find up there, are a dead end. Bills, receipts, pay slips.” She held out the file, in an evidence bag. “But I found this.”

  He tugged a pair of gloves out of his pocket and snapped them on, then grabbed the file from her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Letters. Written by Mrs Jackson.”

  Randle sat at the kitchen table, ignoring the FSI who had to move out of his way, and started sifting through the file. “This is bollocks,” he said. “Chitchat about kids and stuff. School places. Gossip.”

  “Look at the last one, sir.”

  He pulled the letter out from the bottom of the pile. His back straightened.

  He stood up. “Outside. Now.”

  She trailed him through the passageway and out of the back door. He closed it behind him and turned to face her. Behind her, a tent had been erected across the lawn and two white-suited investigators were photographing the ground. Footprints, maybe.

  Randle waved the file at her. “This isn’t hard evidence.”

  “It runs to motive. I saw them at the party last night. She was scared. Maybe she bit back.”

  “Bit back? What’s that supposed to mean? I was with them all night, remember.”

  “With respect, sir. I wasn’t drinking.”

  He raised himself on his toes then caught himself and landed back on his heels. “You need to watch what you’re saying, Zoe.”

  “I know, sir. But sometimes a newcomer can see things.”

  “I’ve known the Jacksons for years. I’ve been to dinner parties here with my ex-wife. I’d have known if he was beating her.”

  “I’m not saying he was beating her.”

  He lifted the letter between them. “I can’t face it,” he read. “If he’s at home all the time, my life will be a nightmare. Sometimes I think about killing him, and then myself.”

  He eyed Zoe. “No sign of her killing herself.”

  “Maybe she was interrupted,” said Zoe. “Or she couldn’t go through with it.”

  “This is the Assistant Chief Constable’s widow you’re taking about. If this is a line we want to pursue, we’ll need very hard evidence.”

  “The knife had her prints.”

  “She picked it up. She said that herself.”

  “It could be a cover.”

  He took a deep breath, his eyes roaming her face. She felt torn between dislike of the way he was behaving, sympathy for his loss of a friend, and her own determination.

  He looked past her, towards the FSIs on the lawn. Spots of rain landed on the back of her neck. Randle narrowed his eyes, drummed his fingertips on his hip, then turned back to her.

  “Alright,” he said.

  “What d’you need me to do?”

  “First up, you keep this quiet for now. I don’t want her name dragged through the mud.”

  “OK.”

  “We’ll need to interview her again. I want you with me, I don’t trust Whaley.”

  Zoe raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “I didn’t say that, right? You really are getting too close for comfort, Zoe. Don’t think you’re made of Teflon just because of Canary.”

  “I don’t, sir.” Sticking her head above the parapet made her a target. But she also knew it meant more chance of the DI role becoming permanent.

  “Hmm. You go back up to that box room. See if you can find anything else. We’ll get the contents of his study boxed up and taken into the station.”

/>   “I’ve got experience working with document evidence.”

  “I know you have. Canary follows you around like a bad smell. But you’ll need help.”

  It hadn’t felt like a bad smell last night. Jackson had been full of congratulations. The high-ups had been over the moon when she’d unearthed the receipts that had linked the suspects to each other, and to their crimes.

  “We should ask her about the letters,” Zoe said. “At the station.”

  “We’re not arresting her.”

  “No. But she’s been sniffing around the box room. If I hadn’t got there when I did, she’d have destroyed this.”

  “You think she found anything else?”

  Zoe shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “OK. You worry about the box room. I’ll deal with Margaret. I don’t like having civilians at crime scenes anyway.”

  He opened the door into the house. “Get straight to that box room, before she does. I need to speak to the footprint nerds.” He pulled up the collar of his jacket and headed towards the FSIs. Zoe remembered he’d been wearing protective gear earlier, like her, but had removed it to speak to Mrs Jackson. His feet were still clad in shoe covers, but that was all.

  “And Finch.”

  She turned back. “Sir?”

  “Don’t tell anyone about this yet. Not Mo, not Lesley. Especially not Whaley. This is sensitive.”

  “But surely—”

  “Let me handle it, Zoe. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Margaret Jackson stood in the passageway, her hand on the door to the utility room opposite the kitchen.

  “Mrs Jackson,” said Zoe. “Have you been here long?”

  The older woman was pale. “I remembered I’d left a batch of washing in the machine.”

  Who thought about doing their washing, when their husband had just been killed?

  Margaret closed the door. “Silly me. I took it out yesterday. I must have forgotten.”

  “Understandable, given the circumstances.”

  “Yes.” Margaret drifted into the kitchen. PC Bright jumped up from a chair where she’d been yawning into her hand.

  “It’s alright, dear. I’ll get it myself.”

  Zoe eyed the door to the staircase. She’d need to brief Uniform not to allow access.

  “Mrs Jackson. Have you been in the box room again?”

  “No, dear. I’ve been lying down in my room.”

  Margaret held her gaze, a little too intently. Zoe wondered if she’d been listening in. Randle had closed the back door, but half of it was glass. If you put your ear to the pane…

  “I know it seems unfair,” Zoe said. “But we need you to stay upstairs,” she said. “The forensic scene investigators are working in the downstairs rooms and it’s important nothing is disturbed. Unless there’s someone you can go to, a friend or relative?”

  “But David took me into the lounge.”

  “Yes. If you could stay upstairs now though, that would be better. You can rest.”

  “I already had a lie down. David needs to finish the interview.”

  “He’s busy right now.”

  “I can wait. Where would you like me to wait?”

  “In your room, please. The quicker we can finish downstairs, the quicker we can let you have your home back.”

  “I’ve spent thirty-two years of my life married to a police officer. I do know this stuff.”

  “Then you should know to keep away from the crime scene.”

  Zoe needed to get better at the bedside manner stuff. Witnesses and victims had never been her strong point. She’d need to fix that.

  Either that, or find herself another Canary.

  Her phone rang. She eyed it then hit Ignore.

  “Who was that?” asked Margaret. “David?”

  “It was my mum, if you must know.”

  “And you didn’t pick up.”

  “I’m at work.”

  “You should always pick up for your mum.”

  Zoe gave her a dispassionate look. “PC Bright can bring you a cup of tea, in your room, and then I’ll send Detective Chief Inspector Randle up to you.”

  “He’s not interviewing me in my bedroom.”

  “No. Of course.”

  The woman’s husband had been murdered less than twenty-four hours ago, yet she was wrong-footing Zoe. Zoe wondered how Randle would do this, what I’ll deal with Margaret meant.

  “Please. Make your way upstairs while we continue the investigation.”

  “Of course.” Mrs Jackson’s voice dipped. Real grief, or was she putting it on? She knew what Zoe had found, after all.

  Zoe watched her leave the kitchen. She walked with a slight limp. Did Jackson do that to her? Or the grief?

  Zoe put in an order with PC Bright: coffee for herself and tea for Mrs Jackson. She told the constable not to let anyone up the stairs then hurried back to the box room. There were six more boxes, all a pale buff colour with no writing on them.

  She knelt in front of the first box. Instead of working through the neat files inside, she pushed to the bottom, feeling for anything that might be hidden.

  Nothing. Just records from when the Jacksons had bought the house fifteen years ago.

  She heard the door open and close downstairs.

  “DI Finch? Get down here.” Randle’s voice.

  Sighing, Zoe closed the box and pushed it behind her. She clattered down the uncarpeted stairs. Randle stood alone in the kitchen.

  “She’s already on her way to the station. We need to get a move on.”

  “I sent her to her bedroom,” Zoe said.

  “I intervened. We talk to her away from here.”

  “What about the files?”

  “Find anything else?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve only had a—”

  “Have them brought in. You can go through them more easily there. And the files from the study, once the blood spatter work is done.”

  “We need to check her bedroom too.”

  “Good point. FSM can check it over, bring anything in while Margaret’s with us.”

  “I can do it.”

  “No, you can’t. You’re coming with me. We’re going to interview her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In the hallway, Adi Hanson was in discussion with the blood spatter expert. Randle had already left.

  “Anything interesting?” Zoe asked.

  Adi smiled at her. “Not much. It’ll be in the report. What can I do for you?”

  She gestured back to the kitchen. “There’s a second staircase, off the kitchen. A box room at the top’s full of files. We’ll need to take them to the station. That OK with you?”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I know all about the mysterious back staircase. This house is a gift that keeps on giving, when it comes to hidey holes where things – or people – can be hidden.”

  “Yeah. So is it OK if we take those files now? You don’t need to check up there?”

  “Fine. No reason to believe our killer went up there. Probably didn’t even know that staircase existed. We’ve checked the cellar, in case you were wondering.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  Zoe glanced at the door to the camera room. “Oh, hell.”

  Adi followed her gaze. “What’s up? Files in there too?”

  “Connie. I almost forgot her.”

  She hurried inside to find Connie hunched over a keyboard. Her eyes darted between three monitors.

  “Find anything?” Zoe asked.

  “Last thing it has is the Jacksons getting home. Look—” Connie pointed at the screen. Zoe shuffled next to her to get a better view of the black and white image. “Mrs Jackson waited at the door then the ACC followed behind and opened it. The cameras were turned off about ten minutes later.”

  “Where do you turn them off from?”

&nbs
p; “In here.”

  “So why did they wait ten minutes? Why not come straight in here and do it?”

  Connie shrugged. “Maybe they forgot.”

  “Bryn Jackson didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d forget that kind of thing.”

  “It wasn’t him who turned it off though. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Go on.”

  Connie brought up a black screen with rows of green text. “Each member of the household had their own code. For the cameras and for the door. There’s one that’s used more than any others. I assume that’s his.”

  “But that wasn’t used.”

  “I’ve opened up the activity logs and it was used once, to open the door. Wasn’t used again.”

  “So whose was?”

  “Dunno. No one’s, far as I can tell.”

  “What about CCTV?”

  “There are three cameras. Front door, side door, and driveway. They were on and off during the day, about five hours in all.”

  “Have you watched them?”

  “It’s fifteen hours of footage, boss.”

  “Can’t you fast forward it?”

  “Too jerky. We’ll need to spend longer on it if we’re going to get anything useful.”

  “OK.”

  “But I’m wondering about that code,” said Connie.

  “The one used to turn it off.”

  “Yeah. There are five as far as I can see. One for the ACC, I guess. One for Mrs Jackson. Maybe the kids, a cleaner?”

  “We’ll need to find out who had access. Why would they let a cleaner control the CCTV?”

  “The codes aren’t just for the cameras. The alarm too. The locks. The front door looks like it’s got an old-fashioned bolt, but there’s a digital lock system too.”

  “OK. I want you to make a note of all the codes that were used and when. We can match them up to when people entered and left the house. Ask other family members.”

  “Already got it, boss.”

  “Thanks, Connie. And sorry I left you in here.”

  Connie turned to her. “What? I didn’t notice.”

  “No? It’s been an hour.”

  “Connie blushed. “I get a bit… engrossed, you might say. Systems like this. There’s always more layers to unpeel.”