At last she reached the front table. The Assistant Chief Constable sat with his hands clasped behind his head and his bowtie draped around his neck. Next to him were high-ups from other sections of the West Midlands police force. The table was stacked high with empty glasses, and ringed with red faces and loosened collars.
Opposite them, looking less relaxed, was a group of women. The senior officers’ wives. One of them watched Zoe intently. A mousy woman with the kind of hair that’d stay exactly where it was, no matter how abruptly its owner moved. She wore a beige dress that made her stomach look larger than it should, with a matching handbag perched on her lap. She glanced from Zoe to the ACC, her expression like that of a hunted animal.
Zoe turned her attention to the high-ups. They’d stopped talking, all eyes on her.
“Zoe.” David Randle gave her a lopsided smile. She returned it. “Guv.”
“Oh no, no, no,” he replied. “We’re all friends here. Call me David.”
Another of the women, this one taller with lipstick like a personal statement, gave Zoe a look. A proprietorial one, the kind Zoe had seen before. She knew how insecure police wives could get. She knew they had reason to be, sometimes.
“Ah. The heroine of the hour,” the ACC said. Zoe held his gaze, unblinking. She could sense Rhodri and Mo’s eyes on her from across the room.
“Detective Inspector Zoe Finch, sir,” said Randle. “One of my brightest and best.”
The ACC smiled at her. “I’ve been hearing all about you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I authorised your promotion.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Your work on Canary was outstanding,” he said. “Not everyone would have made the connections you did.”
She nodded. Canary had started as a low-level fraud case, looking into a prominent businessman. It had ended with the arrest of the businessman, a former Lord Mayor and the editor of one of Birmingham’s local newspapers. The three of them had been grooming teenage kids in care, abusing them and sharing videos privately.
The ACC’s gaze snagged on her breasts, firmly encased in a white shirt, and continued to her black linen trousers. This event was supposed to be black tie, and the other women wore dresses. This was her compromise.
“Teamwork, sir.” Zoe gestured back towards Mo and Rhodri, hoping Rhodri’s expression didn’t let her down.
“Ah, yes.” The ACC looked past her at Mo. “DS Mohammed Uddin. Our token musselman.”
Zoe felt a ripple run through the group. David Randle gave her a leave it look.
“But don’t be so modest,” the ACC continued. “Take the credit. That’s how you get on in this job.”
Every fibre in Zoe’s body strained to get back to the team. “Thank you, sir. Good to meet you. Enjoy your retirement.”
He forced a laugh. “I’m going to be bored out of my fucking mind.” He glanced at the beige woman, who gave him an uncertain smile.
The ACC sighed loudly. “Stick with the job, Inspector Finch. Don’t let your family hold you back. I’d have been Chief Constable now if it weren’t for…”
The Chief Constable, two seats away from Jackson, cleared his throat. The ACC laughed again. He had a shrill laugh, the kind of laugh you could hear from a hundred paces.
“Well, maybe not,” he said. “You look after yourself, girl. Keep taking down those criminals for us.” He gave her a wink. The tension eased around the table. She was being dismissed.
“Sir.” Zoe glanced at David Randle, who nodded at her. She went back to Mo and Rhodri, her pace relaxed. She didn’t want them thinking she was running away.
“That was bloody torture,” she said as she landed in her chair.
“Drink?” said Rhodri. “You look like you need one.”
“You know the answer to that, Rhodri.” Zoe downed her Coke Zero and slammed it on the table.
“Everything OK?” asked Mo.
She gave him a smile. “Fine. Thanks. I did my duty.”
Zoe watched the ACC lean towards the Chief Constable, sharing a joke. She considered telling Mo about the musselman comment but decided against it.
“Thank God I won’t have to cross paths with him again.”
Chapter Three
“Well, that was a shitstorm.”
Margaret Jackson tensed her shoulders and stared ahead, saying nothing. Rain pounded the windscreen as they stopped abruptly, tail lights flashing ahead.
“Bloody morons,” he continued. “Don’t they know it’s raining. Keep your distance!”
Bryn, her husband, leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “Bloody wipers are playing up again. Thirty grand worth of vehicle and they can’t even get the shitting mechanics right.”
At least his anger was aimed at the car now and not her. He alternately loved and hated his Jaguar. When talking to his friends he was full of praise for it. But in private, he treated it with the same contempt he’d lavished on his wife over the years.
“You could have at least made small talk,” he said. She realised he was talking to her.
“You know I hate those things.”
“So do I. But you have to make an effort. Compliment one of the wives on her dress. Talk about how nice the food is. Surely even you can think of something.”
He turned to her, his eyes wide. Watch the road, she thought. It was raining and he’d been drinking. She’d offered to drive home (she never drank at these things), but he’d insisted. His beloved car was too precious for her to drive. And he knew that if he was stopped, all he’d need to do was say who he was.
“Sorry,” she said, aware of the inadequacy.
“Sorry.” A fleck of his spittle landed on her cheek. She resisted the urge to wipe it off, instead planting her hands in her lap.
“Always bloody sorry, you are.” He sighed and turned back to the road. He turned a corner, clipping the pavement. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Retirement. Dull as pigshit.” He turned to her and narrowed his already small eyes. “We’ll kill each other within a month.”
The thought of him retired, at home with her all day, every day, filled her with dread. He restricted her movements enough as it was. CCTV on the front door monitored her excursions and GPS tracked her phone. But at least when she was alone in the house, she was free.
No more.
“It’ll be nice,” she said. “We can travel.”
“Travel?”
The lights turned green and he gunned the gas, leaving the cars around them behind. He stroked the steering wheel in appreciation.
“Where? You can’t eat half the things they serve abroad and I’m not about to join in on some grannies’ Saga holiday.”
“We could buy a caravan,” she muttered.
“God, that’s so pedestrian.”
She curled her toes in her uncomfortable shoes. He accelerated, sweeping along the quiet suburban street they called home.
Outside the house, he blinked off the headlights before turning into the drive, a habit from when the children were young and he would be late from work. The last thing he’d wanted to do was alert his children to his presence, to be expected to kiss them good night. She waited as he slid the car into place inches from the front of the house. Their driveway was huge and her car tiny. He didn’t need to park so close to the window. As if he was daring himself to get as close as he could without scratching the paintwork.