Chapter One
Bryn Jackson was pissed off.
With his wife, who’d been worse than useless at his retirement party.
With DCI Randle, forcing him to meet before the party. Trying to wheedle out of promises he’d made years ago.
And with the man who’d just left his study, or rather with the man’s boss.
Jackson closed the door leading from his study to the garden, not waiting to see the man leave by the side gate. He was tired.
He took the key from his pocket and locked the doors, testing the top and bottom to be sure the bolts had fully engaged. He turned to the desk – mahogany inlaid with red leather, his pride and joy – and dropped the keys into a hidden drawer beneath the main compartment. He wrinkled his nose at the paperwork scattered across the surface and gathered it together. Jackson hated mess. His desk was a grid of rectangles, everything arranged just so. The study itself was orderly, still filling up with files. Files he would have to somehow return in the next two weeks.
He slid the papers into a brown envelope and crossed to a metal filing cabinet. The drawer squeaked as it opened, exacerbating his headache. Tonight had been a disappointment. First there’d been the meeting with David Randle at the Botanical Gardens – necessary, but unpleasant. Then the party. It was supposed to be a surprise, but the idiots that worked for him had been about as subtle as an elephant in a paint factory. He’d known about it for weeks. And then this final meeting, one he’d been anticipating for a while. He’d rolled over what he would say in his head, preparing his defence. But he’d been drunk, and his brain was slowing. This was what he had to look forward to, now he was leaving the force. A slow decline into oblivion.
He turned at the sound of the door handle. He’d made it clear he wasn’t to be disturbed. He tensed and chewed his bottom lip. This was still tiresome even after thirty-two years.
The door opened a crack and a face appeared. Bryn put a hand on the desk. There were two empty whisky glasses on marble coasters. His best malt, wasted.
“What are you doing here?”
“I know what you’ve been doing.”
He shook his head. “It’s almost midnight. This can wait.”
“No.” The intruder glanced back into the hallway. “We need to talk about this now.”
Jackson shook his head. A tight, irritated gesture familiar to his subordinates at West Midlands Police. A gesture that said fuck off and leave me alone.
“You never were any good at listening. Come back tomorrow.”
He rounded the desk, turning his back to the visitor. He grabbed the decanter and pulled out the stopper. It made a satisfying thunk. He started to pour.
A hand landed on his arm. “Now.”
He shook it off. “I said no. Now bugger off, for fuck’s sake. Can’t you see I’m busy.”
“You can’t ignore me this time.”
He felt pressure on his back as his visitor leaned in. He shrugged a shoulder, pushing them away. The grip on his arm tightened.
“Leave me. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”
“No.”
Jackson felt a stinging sensation at his throat. He grunted and shifted his weight to push the intruder away. Fuck. His chest felt tight.
He raised a hand to his dress shirt. Wet. He brought the hand up. Red.
What the—? he thought as he fell over the desk.
Chapter Two
Four hours earlier
“Go on, boss. It’s your big moment.”
Detective Constable Rhodri Hughes stared at Zoe, his expression intense. He worked on holding his head as level as he could. Not surprising, given that he was on his fifth pint of Foster’s.
Zoe leaned back in her chair. “Watch it, Constable.”
Rhodri laughed. “Chicken?”
“No.”
“Hey. That’s too far, son,” said Detective Sergeant Mo Uddin, sitting between them.
“Sorry.” Rhodri slumped in his chair.
“He wants to speak to you, boss,” said Mo. “Congratulate you.”
“Go for it, boss.” Rhodri leaned towards Zoe. She got a gust of lager breath and wrinkled her nose. She put her Coke Zero on the table and glanced in the direction of their subject.
“It would be rude to ignore him,” said Mo.
“I hate this stuff,” she said.
“Comes with the territory,” said Mo. “Now you’re a DI.”
“Acting DI. I’ll be right back to being a DS with you soon as DI Dawson gets back from his secondment. And Rhodri,” she said to the constable, “don’t forget who your bosses are.”
Rhodri turned pink. Zoe laughed. “Relax. It’s a party. And I’m not expecting special treatment.”
“You’re about to get it, I’m afraid,” said Mo.
She sipped at her Coke. “Wish me luck.”
“G’luck,” slurred Rhodri. She reminded herself to make sure someone bundled him into a cab at the end of the night.
She stood up and tugged at her shirt. Behind her, Mo sported a black bow tie with his usual grey jacket and black trousers. Rhodri wore the crumpled blue Top Man suit he’d had on all day. The group of senior officers who’d summoned her were all in black tie.
“Go,” said Mo. He gestured with his glass. His eyes crinkled in the way that so endeared him to her.
Zoe looked across the function room. The man was middle-aged with a protruding stomach, no more than five foot six tall. She wondered how he’d got past the historical height restrictions, or if he’d shrunk. Next to him sat DCI David Randle, her new boss. The two of them had their heads close, deep in conversation.
She turned to Mo. “It’s Jackson’s retirement party. Maybe another time…”
Rhodri necked the last of his pint. Mo cocked his head. “He’s only going to be here for another two weeks. D’you want him coming down to the nick and seeking you out?”
She shuddered. No. No, she didn’t want that. The journalist who’d chased her as she’d left the station tonight had been bad enough. She just wanted this to be over.
“Alright. For you, Mo.” She grimaced at Rhodri. “You need to stop drinking that muck.”
Rhodri looked into his glass. “Tomorrow.”
Always tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d stop bingeing on Fruit Pastilles. Tomorrow he’d go to the gym. Problem was, Rhodri Hughes was so tall and lean, that no matter how unhealthy his lifestyle, it never showed. Except in his complexion.
Zoe stood and squared her shoulders. This was tougher than any arrest.
She made for the table at the front of the room. They were in a banqueting suite at Birmingham Botanical Gardens, celebrating the imminent retirement of the man she was about to apprehend.
Zoe had never spoken to him before. Why she needed to do so now, when he’d be planting daffodils in his suburban garden in two weeks’ time, she’d got no idea. But she couldn’t afford to be rude.
Eyes dragged on her as she moved past the tables. It wasn’t often this many coppers got together for a shindig, and one with a free bar at that. They were making the most of it. A few couples had slunk outside, despite the rain.