Deadly Reprisal
Detective Zoe Finch Book 5
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 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
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Read Zoe’s prequel story, Deadly Origins
Read the DI Zoe Finch Series
Chapter One
“Not that one.”
Kayla felt her chest tighten as her friend Lin raised a hand to knock on the door.
Lin turned to her, eyes flashing into the camera lens. “Yeah. Let’s leave that one. For now.” She smiled, injecting a note of breeziness into her voice and lifting her chin for the most flattering angle. “We’ll start at the far end of the corridor and work our way along.”
Kayla let out a short breath, glancing back at the door as they headed towards the other end of the corridor. It had just gone midnight and they were stalking the corridors of Boulton Hall of Residence. Lin was on the hunt, as usual, for material for her YouTube channel. Bass reverberated through the building from the party three floors below and Kayla could hear distant laughter.
Lin cleared her throat, raised a fist to the last door in the corridor and turned to the camera.
“Hey party people, welcome to Lin’s Lens. Tonight is the Valentine’s Ball at Boulton Hall and we’re expecting plenty of dirt.” She leaned in, her eyes wide. “And you can expect us to dish it out for you!”
Lin knocked on the door, her gaze still on the camera. She winked, and Kayla suppressed an eye roll. Lin was in her element recording for her channel; she spent far more time on this than she did on her studies.
“Aw, shucks!” Lin exclaimed. She liked to broaden her mild Texas accent for the videos. Her mum was from Hong Kong and her dad from Austin, but the fact that she’d grown up in Hemel Hempstead wasn’t something she shared with her audience. “No one home.” She turned to check the name plate on the door. “Susy must be partying downstairs with the rest of them.”
“Which is where we should be,” muttered Kayla. Knocking on doors like this, spying on people. It made her uneasy. Especially since they’d eventually have to knock on the door she’d persuaded Lin away from.
“Come on.” Lin waved an arm in a follow me gesture and hurried along the corridor, knocking on doors and pushing on each to check if any had been left unlocked. At the second, they were yelled at by two guys. Lin sliced at her throat, gesturing for Kayla to hit pause.
The fourth door was open, and she went inside without waiting for an invitation. Kayla’s toes curled in her shoes.
“Huh, no one home,” Lin shrugged. “Nice wall art though.” She swept a hand behind her and Kayla followed with the camera, taking in the occupant’s collection of soft porn. Ew, she thought.
“Ha!” Lin said. “We can talk to Dan about his collection in another episode. Let’s see if we can find anyone at home.”
Kayla knew what Lin was looking for. Couples she could interrupt, threesomes even better. Capturing drug-taking on camera. She didn’t upload everything she filmed; sometimes it suited her to have her subjects know she was keeping the footage for a future date. As a result, Lin never paid for her own drinks, and even text books materialised from nowhere. Kayla wasn’t sure how she felt about being a conspirator in what could only be described as extortion. But one thing she was sure about was that she didn’t want to be Lin’s next victim.
Eight doors and one snogging couple (‘dull’, Lin pronounced) later, they arrived back at the first door.
“Now to see what Boulton Hall’s biggest creep is up to,” Lin said. Kayla put a hand out to stop her but it was too late. Lin had knocked.
Laurence Thomms, the room’s occupant, would be in there. No one had seen him at the party. No one had seen him anywhere other than mandatory tutorials for a month now. And they all knew why.
“It’s open!” Lin’s eyes gleamed as she pushed on the wood. Kayla swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Let’s see what he’s up to, huh?”
Kayla squeezed her eyes shut, not looking at the image on the camera’s screen. Laurence’s face was all too familiar to her. It haunted her nightmares.
She heard Lin’s footsteps as her friend walked into the room and stumbled after her, the camera pointing ahead but her eyes not following. Lin made a low sound and stopped. Kayla crashed into her friend and opened her eyes. The room was dark.
“Where are you, creep?” Lin whispered. “Hope you haven’t dragged some poor girl up here and drugged her into submission.”
Kayla winced. She knew the possible consequences if Lin accused Laurence of a crime on video. But then…
“Shit.” Lin’s voice was breathy.
“What?”
“I felt something. Open the fucking door.”
“Wh
at?”
“It shut behind us. There’s something on my foot. Laurence, is that you?” Kayla felt Lin’s hand on her arm. “Open the door, Kay. I don’t like this.”
Part of Kayla registered that this would make a great video. She wondered if Lin’s fear was genuine.
“Didn’t you hear me? Open the fucking door!” Lin’s voice was sharp.
Kayla stumbled backwards, her body slamming into the door. She yanked on the handle, but her own weight was keeping it shut.
“Hurry,” came Lin’s voice. Kayla heard a groan: Lin, or someone else?
Kayla shifted to one side and hauled the door open, then turned back to look at her friend. Lin had crashed onto the unmade bed. Her face was pale and her breathing ragged.
At her feet, curled up like a sleeping child, was Laurence. Kayla recoiled at the sight of his thin frame and sharp cheekbones.
“Is he…?” she breathed.
Lin blinked. The young man at her feet wasn’t moving. Lin prodded him with her toe, rolling him to face upwards. His eyes were open.
Lin retched. Kayla stepped towards her. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. He’s taken something.”
Lin looked up at her. She shook her head, her skin now almost as pale as Laurence’s. “He’s stone cold.”
Kayla forced herself to look back at the man. His jaw had fallen open and drool ran down his chin. She shuddered.
“He’s dead, Kay. He’s fucking dead.”
Chapter Two
The safe house Ana-Maria Albescu was being held in wasn’t much better than the building she’d been forced to live in while being sold for sex.
DI Zoe Finch sat on the oily sofa, arranging her feet on the threadbare carpet and telling herself not to move. Opposite her, DS Mo Uddin perched on a high-backed chair that looked like it might collapse under his weight.
“It’s a disgrace,” Mo said, breaking the silence.
“What is?”
He raised his arms in a gesture to indicate the room. “You know what these women went through. They should be in a sanctuary now. Not… this.” He wiped a finger along the top of a chest of drawers and screwed up his nose.
“At least they’re safe,” Zoe pointed out. Mo grunted.
The women living in this house in Bearwood had been victims of an organised people-trafficking and prostitution operation. They’d been persuaded to come to the UK from less wealthy countries in search of new lives, then forced to earn money for the men who’d paid for their passage.
One of those women, Andreea Pichler, had died in Zoe’s arms. Another, whose name they still didn’t know, had died when she’d set off a nail bomb in New Street Station. And Ana-Maria, the woman they were here to see, was the only link they had to the bomber. After two weeks of silence, Zoe was hoping she might give them information that would help them discover who the bomber was and why she’d sacrificed herself.
The door opened with a squeak. A chubby woman with curly blonde hair walked in with an apologetic look on her face: Tina Galton, the administrator.
“I’m sorry.” She twisted her mouth in frustration – or perhaps apology. “She won’t leave her room.”
“Not again,” Mo breathed.
Zoe slumped in her chair, wishing she hadn’t bothered sitting down. It was the fourth time this had happened.
“She’s scared,” Tina said. “She thinks that if she tells the police anything, the men will hurt her. Or her son in Romania.”
Zoe nodded. The woman was probably right. Trevor Hamm’s organised crime operation had tentacles that reached into more places than they’d previously thought. If he could traffic women from Romania, he could most likely hurt people there too.
“It’s all anonymous,” she said. “Ana-Maria will never be named in court. Any records we keep, notes we take, we’ll use a false name.” She held out her notepad, indicating the Daniela she’d written at the top. “See.”
“I’ve told her that.” Tina shrugged.
“Yeah, course you have.”
“Why would she believe us?” Mo said. He stood up and wiped the dust off his fingers. “No one in this country has proven exactly trustworthy.”
“She’ll be going home tomorrow,” Tina said.
“We know,” Zoe told her. “All the more reason to persuade her to talk now.”
“Sorry. I know it’s important, but my responsibility is to the women.”
Zoe stood up. “Important doesn’t really cover it.”
Tina met her gaze. “I know you’ve got a terror investigation to pursue, Inspector, but that’s not my priority.”
“Hmm.” Zoe eyed Mo. “Come on then. Let’s get back to the office.”
She followed Mo from the room, peering up the stairs as they passed them and wondering if Ana-Maria was listening in. Once the woman was back in Romania, she’d vanish. And their only lead to the bomber would be gone.
Outside, she yanked open the door to her Mini, her mind racing. “We’ll need to track down Hamm’s lot directly.”
“You know what he’s like, boss. We’ll never pin anything on him.”
“Maybe if Ian talks.”
Mo let out a sigh. “DS Osman’s not going to tell us anything.”
DS Ian Osman had been Zoe’s sergeant until he’d got himself caught planting evidence at the scene of a second terror attack. Now they were hoping he’d lead them to the gang that had played a part in both attacks, and done so much damage to so many people – the women in this house included. But so far, he was keeping his thoughts to himself.
She shook herself out. “Come on, I’ve got a shedload of paperwork to get through. And the DCI wants me to revisit the files from those robberies in Chelmsley Wood.”
“Fun.”
“Yeah.” Zoe landed in the driver’s seat heavily and turned the ignition. Her phone rang as she was about to put the car in gear.
“Connie?”
“Boss. Where are you?”
“Hall Green, the safe house. Why?”
“The DCI wants you at a murder scene.”
Zoe raised her eyebrows at Mo and switched to speakerphone. “Where?”
“Birmingham University. Kid called Laurence Thomms. They thought he’d OD’d but now they think it’s suspicious.”
“Give me details.” Zoe started driving as Mo took down the address: Boulton Hall.
Zoe glanced at Mo as she turned right off the Hagley Road. “Let’s hope this one’s a bit more straightforward.”
Chapter Three
Boulton Hall was an angular, modern building surrounded by bare trees and flanked by two small car parks. Zoe drove around each of them in turn, cursing the lack of parking spaces.
“I’ll drop you at the front,” she told Mo. “One of us might as well go in.”
She pulled up to the front of the building and let Mo out. Reversing, she thought better of driving away, and instead parked her car halfway up the pavement outside the entrance. She was investigating a murder; they’d hardly begrudge her some inconsiderate parking.
Inside, Mo was talking to a large man in a black uniform.
“We’re from West Midlands Police. Investigating a suspicious death.”
“I don’t care, mate. You leave your car out there and it’s an obstruction. What if a fire engine needs to get past?”
“We’re police,” Zoe told him. “Emergency services, too.”
“I don’t see no blue lights.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me where to leave my car then. And it’d better be nearby.”
The security guard squared his shoulders, pleased with himself. He had a name badge sewn onto his sweater: Mark Jenks. Jobsworth, she thought.
“Well?” she asked, resisting an urge to grab the man by the lapels.
“There’s a staff spot round the back.” He made a circling motion. “You can put it there.”
“I’ll do it,” said Mo. He held out a hand and Zoe passed him her keys.
“Thanks,” she said
.
The last time a detective sergeant had driven her Mini it had been Ian Osman, and he’d been trying to cover up his crimes. Mo was different, thank God.
“Right,” she said to Jenks. “Show me the way.”
He grunted and led her to a bank of lifts.
As they rode upwards she realised what had been bothering her since she’d entered the building.
“Where is everyone?” she asked. It was half past ten on a Monday morning, even students would be awake by now. She thought of her son Nicholas, about to go off to uni himself, and not known for early rising.
“We’ve confined them to their corridors,” Jenks replied.
“Can you do that?”