Deadly Wishes by Rachel McLean, book 1 in the Zoe Finch series - Chapter 1

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.