Deadly Wishes
Meet Zoe Finch, West Midlands Police’s newest Detective Inspector. She’s outspoken, ambitious, and damaged. And she’s working a case that could make her career, or cost her everything…
Fresh from the success of the Canary investigation into depravity and corruption at the highest levels, Zoe has attracted attention. Not least from Assistant Chief Constable Bryn Jackson.
But when Jackson is brutally murdered on the night of his retirement party, Zoe is dragged into a case that’s deeply personal.
All the evidence points to the victim’s downtrodden wife, who has secrets of her own. But Zoe begins to suspect all isn’t as it seems. Could Jackson’s death be linked to the Canary case? And what is her new boss, DCI David Randle, hiding?
Seeking out the truth will force Zoe to confront her own past and put her career, and her team’s lives, on the line.
Deadly Wishes is a gritty crime thriller perfect for fans of Angela Marsons, Caroline Mitchell, and the BBC’s Line of Duty.
Purchase Links
UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B088HHCPZ7
US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B088HHCPZ7
Deadly Wishes by Rachel McLean
Extract for Rosie Writes
Thanks for signing up to my blog tour. I hope your readers enjoy this extract. It’s the third chapter of the book, where we meet Assistant Chief Constable Bryn Jackson, who will become the murder victim, and his downtrodden wife Margaret .
Cheers,
Rachel.
Deadly Wishes
Chapter 3
“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.
“Come on then, get out,” he snapped.
She hauled herself out of the car, cursing her shoes and this stiff dress. Oatmeal, they’d told her in the shop. The colour drained her face, she’d known it as soon as she’d put the thing on. She went to the front door and waited for Bryn. Bryn’s health wasn’t so good since he’d had a mini stroke two years earlier, and she often had to wait for him. He keyed in his code and the door swung open.
She took off her shoes and placed them at the bottom of the stairs, where she could grab them on her way up to bed. She padded into the kitchen and turned on the lights. The rain beat at the windows but it was warm in here, a large tabby cat sprawled out in front of the Aga. She bent over and gave it a tickle under the chin.
“Hey, Rose,” she muttered. The cat narrowed its eyes at her and started to purr.
“Where’s my drink?” Bryn prowled in behind her and threw himself into a chair at the pine table. She hurried to the drinks cupboard and grabbed a bottle of his favourite Scotch. She placed it on the table then pulled a heavy crystal glass down from the shelf. It gleamed under the LED spotlights. She kept everything clean in this house.
“Stop fussing, woman.”
She went to the kettle. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea, take it up to bed.”
He flicked the glass across the table at her. It teetered on the edge and she dived to grab it. She placed it in front of him again, not meeting his eye.
“Go,” he said. “Leave me.”
She heard a bang from outside. His gaze followed hers out of the window towards the garden.
“Goddamn back gate,” he said. “Again. Shut it on your way to bed, will you?”
Margaret nodded and went to the hallway. Her boots were under the stairs, side by side in a basket. As he walked past she pulled herself into the space under the stairs, careful not to get in his way.
“I’m going into my study. Don’t wait up.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Night.”
Bryn grunted and opened the door to his study, at the back of the house. It was the nicest room in the house, the one that got the best sun on a weekend morning and had a view of the magnolia in the back garden. It would have made a beautiful sitting room.
A gust of cold air blew from the study, making her shiver. The room had double doors set into the back wall, beautiful stained-glass pieces that were original to the house. He wouldn’t have left them open.
“What the fuck?” Bryn muttered. He strode into his study and slammed the door behind him.
She followed him to the door and stood at it, considering whether to knock. She was worried about the gust of air, the open doors. Or maybe he’d opened a window earlier in the evening and forgotten to close it when they went out.
If she disturbed him in there, he wouldn’t be happy. She withdrew and dragged the other boot onto her throbbing foot.
Outside, the back gate swung in the wind. Margaret drew her jacket around her and heaved it shut. She kicked it into place and pulled the bolt. It was temperamental, that gate. The wood swelled when the weather changed and it would burst its hinges if the bolt wasn’t properly slid across.
She turned back to the house, alarmed. Had she heard a voice?
The night was dark and the glow from the streetlamp beyond the house faint. The CCTV camera high on the wall would be deactivated. Its purpose was to watch her, not would-be intruders.
The light in Bryn’s study was on and one of the doors was open a crack. She frowned and approached it. Had it been left open while they were out, or had he just opened it?
The curtains were drawn so he couldn’t see her. She put a hand on the door handle. She listened. Inside, Bryn was muttering. On the phone, no doubt. He often made calls late at night. She assumed it was to police colleagues, but could never know for sure.
The curtain shifted and Bryn’s hand appeared. Margaret shrank back into the darkness, heart pounding. He pulled the door shut. She waited for the sound of the key turning but it didn’t come.
The curtains were thin, made of Portuguese linen, and she could see his shadow moving around the room. He would be in there every day from now on, whiling out his retirement on the other side of a locked door.
That was, if she was lucky. At home every day, he would have a thousand opportunities to find fault with her. She would never be able to go out, never have what little contact she did manage with the women she called friends. She only knew them because they were the wives of his friends.
She would be a prisoner.
She’d been taking anti-depressants for the nine months since his retirement had been made official. She should have come off them months ago, but had upped the dose instead. Bryn thought she’d been visiting the GP with her elderly mother.
Going to the GP would become impossible, too. Bryn only liked her to see her mother twice a year on Boxing Day and on her mother’s birthday. Not on Christmas Day – the old bat would ruin it, he said. The doctor’s appointments were tolerated, if only because they brought the prospect of his mother-in-law’s death closer.
Margaret heard the key turn in the lock. She headed for the back door that led to the passage alongside the kitchen, the way she had come. She had no idea how long he would be in there. How long he would leave her alone.
Author Bio –
My name’s Rachel McLean and I write thrillers that make you think.
What does that mean?
In short, I want my stories to make your pulse race and your brain tick.
Do you often get through a thriller at breakneck pace but are left with little sense of what the book was really about? Do you sometimes read literary fiction but just wish something would damn well happen?
My books aim to fill that gap.
If you’d like to know more about my books and receive extra bonus content, please join my book club at rachelmclean.com/bookclub. I’ll send you a weekly email with news about my writing research and progress, stories and bonus content for each book. And I’ll let you know when my books are on offer.
Social Media Links –
https://www.facebook.com/rachelmcleanwrites/
Everything Is Better With Dragons 