Dying Bad Read online

  ‘Keys?’

  ‘Coat pocket. There’s a spare BlackBerry on the kitchen dresser. I’ll need my laptop, too. But mostly it’s toiletries, decent nightie, make-up bag.’

  Sarah glanced at the ceiling. Saw a leopard with spots. ‘Thought they were only keeping you in one more night?’

  ‘Long enough, isn’t it?’ She gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Look I’m still a bit shaky but I know I’ve got to try and come up with more detail. I’ll do my best, honest.’

  Nodding, she took the paper and keys from Caroline. ‘Yeah, well when I get back I’ll have a list, too, and it won’t be short. So think on, eh?’ She rose, slipped the things into her bag.

  ‘Sarah?’ The DI turned her head at the door. ‘Straight up? If I want to look half decent, how much slap am I gonna need?’ Her laugh was brittle and too loud, the fear in her eyes telling, as she searched Sarah’s face for the truth. She’d not have looked in a mirror then.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Caroline. Probably more than you’ve got.’

  A full English would be pushing it but still just shy of half-seven, Sarah had time enough to grab toast, banana and coffee. Huntie had already been roped in to hold the early brief. Waiting in line, she glanced round the canteen, spotted Dave, Jed and Beth Lally in cahoots over by the window. She’d have to break up the party. Wanted Jed and Beth to take a gander round the park in Harborne; Dave, she’d almost forgotten, would have his hands full with Michelle and Lily first thing. Picturing the image, she smiled. Her nose wrinkled: a waft of Paco Rabanne had cut through the bacon odours. Talk about olfactory early warning.

  ‘Call this crack of sparrow’s fart?’ Baker’s tray appeared alongside hers.

  ‘Give it a rest, chief. I had to drop by the hospital on the way in.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’ Mouth tight, she cast a glance, caught him eyeing the suit.

  ‘Where’s the hearse, Quinn? You look like a funeral director touting for business.’

  Hearse sounded far too close to horse. She had a sudden and certainly unwitting vision of Baker belting out Rawhide. If she’d been on stage, she’d have corpsed, as it was she had to press a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  ‘Sodding hell, woman. It’s not that funny.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She could barely get the words out. ‘Horses for courses and all that, chief.’

  ‘Yeah, well, get it out your system while you can, Quinn.’ He was not amused. ‘I can’t see today being a barrel of laughs.’

  ‘Rohypnol?’ Sarah had left Baker to it, carried the tray to her office, opted for a working breakfast. She’d skimmed the overnight reports, responded to emails and was now on the phone picking the pathologist’s brain. Richard Patten was more at home talking stiffs, but made the odd exception for Sarah’s live specimens. He was up to speed on Caroline King’s symptoms, particularly the memory loss. ‘Rohypnol as in roofies?’ Sarah asked. ‘What people think of as the date rape drug?’ Not that any cases had been confirmed in the UK. ‘There’s no indication of sexual assault, Rich.’ Pensive, she popped in the last piece of toast.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a recreational thing these days, rave parties and the like. Kids use it for the buzz, the euphoria. It gets them intoxicated quicker, combined with other drugs – cannabis, coke, heroin – it intensifies the effect.’

  Wilde and Brody? They both smoked cannabis. Presumably their missing mates would too. She jotted a note, already considering a further possibility. Pimps, sexual predators, groomers had been known to subdue their victims with Rohypnol. Groomers like Jas Ram.

  ‘From what you say about the woman’s condition – the drowsiness, confusion, memory loss – Rohypnol is a definite possibility.’ Nothing like committing yourself. ‘Not that I’m saying she took it herself. She’s not a raver is she, Sarah?’ As if.

  ‘How would it have been administered though?’ She grimaced, reckoned the lingo was infectious.

  ‘It comes in tablet form, usually slipped in a drink. It dissolves easily and it’s colourless, odourless, tasteless and ten times more powerful than Valium. Even more potent when mixed with booze. It’ll act faster, effects’ll last longer. Victims can pass out within a few minutes, stay out for up to eight hours.’ She heard a bark and Patten’s slightly muffled voice saying, ‘Shush, Scottie, old boy.’ She smiled: the dog wasn’t stuffed after all. ‘Sorry where was I? Yeah. Rohypnol. In theory it’s only available here on private prescription. The manufacturers changed the formula a while back, added a blue dye to make it easier to detect, but there are street versions out there that don’t have the dye – as I’m sure you know.’

  Easy to get hold of, dirt cheap, too. ‘She says the last thing she remembers is walking across a park?’

  ‘Yeah but what happened immediately before? Has she no memory of that?’ As if she should.

  Good question. ‘Let’s just say she’s not sharing.’ Yet. Medical tests would detect if the drug was in her system, only King would know how it got there. If it was. Sarah blew out her cheeks on a sigh.

  ‘You sound as if you need a lift.’

  ‘In need of something, Rich.’ A fan and air freshener would do for a start. The prospect of spending x number of hours confined in stuffy interview rooms in the hygienically challenged company of Zach Wilde and Leroy Brody didn’t have a lot going for it.

  ‘Actually, I was gonna give you a bell later anyway.’ Touch hesitant? ‘Couple things. The pics you asked for? The writing on the body? I’ll email them soon as I get in.’

  ‘Great.’ Brushing crumbs off her lap.

  ‘Yeah and the other . . .’ Definitely hesitant. ‘Don’t know whether you’re up for it, but I’ve got tickets . . . let me just check the date.’ She ran a wish list: Coldplay, Radiohead, Stones, RSC, Comedy Store. ‘They’re for a convention.’

  Legal? Medical? Professional? Oh no. She gave a mental grimace, knew what he was about to say.

  ‘At the NEC early April. Patrick Stewart’s a cert. Shatner a maybe. ’Course Len doesn’t do appearances any more. Real shame that but—’

  ‘Rich?’ Rapping the desk with her knuckles. ‘Can I get back to you? I’ve got someone at the door.’ A real McCoy knock startled her. She glanced up, frowning; Dave entered as per without summons. Cutting Patten off in his prime, she drawled, ‘Do come in, detective.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  She twisted her mouth. Should’ve laid the sarcasm on with a trowel. ‘To what do I owe . . .?’

  ‘No pleasure, boss.’ His clenched jaw, curt tone underlined the point. ‘Hospital’s just been on. Sean-William-Foster-Walter-Fielding, whoever he was?’

  Was? She felt the colour drain from her face.

  ‘Had a heart attack this morning, boss. He didn’t make it.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘God. That’s awful. I’m really sorry to hear it. And you’ve no idea what happened?’

  ‘That’s right. I get the occasional hazy flashback. Like a dream you know is in your head, but can’t grasp?’ The reporter hadn’t phoned Ruby Wells to burden her with news of the attack. Apart from needing something – anything – to help fill the interminable hours, the call was primarily to thank the lawyer for pointing Amy Hemming in the right direction. Caroline’s chat with the girl last night had gone better than she could have expected. Doubtless, the carton of Silk Cut and Diet Cokes helped strike the deal. That and the promise of a few bob once the interviews were in the can, as it were.

  ‘How long are they keeping you in, Caroline? I could come visit if you like?’

  She wouldn’t. Even looking her best, Caroline struggled next to Ruby. By now she’d seen her face. She’d cajoled the nurse who wheeled in the phone to fetch a mirror. Caroline could still picture the damage. She bit her lip, winced at the pain. Not all of it physical. OK. Nothing was broken, bruises faded, swelling went down, but violence had always been something she reported on, not taken the brunt of. She’d have to live with the experience now, but what if the psych
ological legacy hit again and again? She brushed away the fear, now not the time . . .

  ‘That’s kind, Ruby but, hey, don’t put yourself out.’

  ‘It’s no hassle or I wouldn’t have offered.’

  Not for you maybe. Caroline rubbed a hand across her forehead. Her concerns went a lot further than the prospect of a visit by the stunning lawyer and the attack’s potential future impact.

  Just what the fuck had happened after she’d left Amy?

  To say the least, her recall of events was patchy. And, God, she’d tried. She’d caught the odd tantalising glimpse in her mind’s eye, shadowy shapes, muffled sound track, all just beyond reach, on a sort of mental tip of the tongue. Frustrating wasn’t in it. The not knowing was driving her doolally. La Quinn probably thought she was prevaricating but it was like trying to pin down fog jelly. God knows when Sarah would deign to get back, but when she did she’d want answers. Irony was if the reporter had them, she’d almost certainly give.

  ‘So what do you say, Caroline?’

  Her concentration was shot to shit as well. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About my dropping by.’ She heard a smile in the lawyer’s voice. ‘Do you like grapes?’

  ‘I do if they’re in a bottle.’

  Her laughter sounded good. ‘That settles it then. See you later.’

  Resigned, Caroline hung up, flopped back on the pillow. A bit of company might be just as well. Christ. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. If she didn’t get out of the place pdq, she’d die of TB anyway: terminal boredom.

  ‘The guy’s dead? When?’ Baker was standing gathering papers from his desk when Sarah popped her head round the door. He tapped his watch. ‘And where the bloody hell have you been?’

  ‘He died about an hour ago. Some of the fallout needed sorting.’ Christ she was only five minutes late. She lingered in the doorway, no point entering the den when they were supposed to be in IR1 by now. ‘The hospital put a call through just now, let us know the score.’

  ‘Know? That’s rich.’ He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, slung it over a shoulder. ‘He’s been there – how long? – a week – and we still know jackshit about him. Christ, according to you, even the name we’re going on could be wrong.’

  She reversed into the corridor as he careered out. ‘Yeah, that’s why it’s even more imperative to track down Patricia Malone.’ She had two DCs working on it plus the uniform presence outside the Winson Green house.

  ‘Nothing doing yet?’

  She shook her head, upped the pace to match his. ‘I had another word with the guy who took her call. DC Jones? He’s adamant there was no indication she’d be going AWOL.’

  ‘Like she’d tell him anyway?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t be so bloody daft.’

  He was right: as bright remarks go – it didn’t. Nonetheless: ‘So glad you’re in such a good mood, chief.’ She didn’t care if that overstepped the mark; Baker’s arsey brake needed pressing, the interrogations called for cool heads, subtle handling. Strategy they’d worked out was to start slow, open with the easy ones, move on to the big guns. Good cop: not-so-bad-cop.

  Pulling up sharp, he turned, glared, clenched the jaw. Psyched up for a full frontal attack, she was taken aback when his face relaxed into a sort of smile. ‘You’re right, Quinn. I’m wrong and I’m real sorry.’ She was right and he was sorry? That had to be a first. Was a new Baker finally struggling out?

  ‘Hey, no worries, chief.’

  ‘And if you believe that . . .’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘I’m not the liar here, mister.’ Wilde struggled to retain his laid-back sprawl in an unyielding upright chair, the bolshie front seemed less pronounced since the previous interview and in the last five minutes had backed off more. Sarah reckoned it was a show – a show that wouldn’t make the ratings.

  ‘You’re not the liar?’ Baker’s exaggerated gaze swept the room, he glanced over his shoulder, bopped his head down to check under the table. ‘Nope. Definitely not. No one’s sneaked in while I wasn’t looking. How about you, DI Quinn? Catch anyone lurking around?’

  Staring, impassive, at the youth, she shook her head.

  ‘Unless?’ The chief lifted a podgy finger, like it was all a big mistake and he’d got the wrong end of the stick. ‘You’re suggesting me and the inspector are spinning porky pies?’

  He sniffed. ‘You said it, mate.’

  ‘DI Quinn?’ Baker all faux shock. ‘You’re absolutely sure you’re not fibbing?’

  She nodded. Wished he’d get on with it, drop the act, his amateur dramatics were nearly as lame as Wilde’s. They all knew the youth was making oblique reference to his girlfriend in response to Sarah’s initial line of questioning. She’d suggested Wilde might like to think again about his movements on January the eleventh and thirteenth. No, he wouldn’t, check with the chick, he’d drawled, like it was a done deal. She’d watched his face fall as she assured him she already had, that his dates didn’t add up, that Michelle Keating and Lily Maitland had blown both his and Brody’s alibis so far out of the water, they were orbiting Venus. Baker said last time he looked it was Uranus. It was then the youth’s attitude shift really took off.

  Looking at him now, the body language screamed ‘get me out of here’, the panic had to be more than skin deep going by the rank odour coming off him.

  ‘So you’re saying your lady friend’s a lying tramp?’ Baker made to lean across the table, decided against. ‘Is that it? Just so’s we know.’

  He shook his head, gnawed hard on a thumbnail.

  ‘For the tape, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘En. Oh.’ He spat a sliver of nail, skin whatever on the floor. ‘Either you shoved words in her mouth or she’s got it arse over tit.’

  ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right.’ Baker sat back, legs crossed, fingers steepled. ‘Miss Keating’s not a liar, she’s a div. But a div as honest as the day’s long?’ She’d bloody better be, Sarah thought. Both girlfriends were in the nick now, hopefully by this stage casting an eye over exhibits. Frowning slightly, she felt a draught, realised Wilde’s leg was pumping like a piston.

  ‘Total bollocks. You think you’re so smart, don’t you, cop? But that’s exactly what I’m saying – you lot twist everything.’

  ‘If that’s what you think,’ Sarah intervened, ‘that’s exactly why you should have a lawyer.’ She reckoned Wilde eschewed a brief assuming he’d be in for an easy ride, that the girlfriends would gold-plate the alibis: end of. He knew he’d go down for the Agnew attack, had no idea how far, but now the ride was going a different route.

  ‘Ask her again.’ He cracked a bad boy knuckle. ‘I bet you scared her shitless. Knowing Mitch, she’d come out with the first word—’

  ‘Lots of words, Mr Wilde, all written down.’ Sarah showed him a pen, in case he’d forgotten what they look like. ‘A record of where you and Brody weren’t. All not there in black and white.’

  ‘Nah. Can’t be right.’ He cracked another knuckle. ‘Let me have a word with her.’

  Baker guffawed. ‘Funny boy.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know why she’s saying this stuff, but I ain’t lying, mister.’

  Baker put a hand to his ear. ‘Is there an echo in here, DI Quinn?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, stop dicking round.’

  ‘Dicking around?’ Baker snapped. Sharpened the act in a heartbeat. ‘I don’t think so, sonny. I’m dead serious. Foster snuffed it this morning.’ He let the breaking news sink in. Wilde’s leg stilled, his glance darted rapidly between the detectives. ‘Way I see it,’ Baker said, ‘you’re now looking at two murder charges. Is that serious enough for you?’

  ‘No way.’ He shrank back in the chair. ‘I don’t know the guy, never been near him in my life.’

  ‘Does the name Walter Fielding mean anything to you?’ Sarah’s constant watch on Wilde paid off, she was pretty sure she’d detected a fractional narrowing of his eyes.

  ‘Nothin’. Why?’

  ‘
You tell me.’

  ‘Frank Gibbs. Heard of him?’ Baker barked.

  ‘No I soddin’ haven’t. What is this?’

  Sarah and Baker took turns to reveal the findings at the squat, the baton passing between them aimed at keeping the youth on his toes. He came back every time with flat denials, increasingly desperate. So desperate, she was almost inclined to believe he didn’t have all the answers.

  ‘Take my advice, Mr Wilde. If you’re shielding anyone, protecting accomplices – now’s the time to say. As it stands, you and Brody are on your own. Are you really prepared to take the entire rap?’

  ‘No I’m sodding not. But I haven’t got the first idea what you’re banging on about. All I know is I’m innocent. I ain’t killed no one. Please . . . you’ve gotta believe me.’

  ‘Because of course . . .’ Baker leaned across the table this time, pointedly fingering the fading bruise round his eye. ‘You never tell lies, do you?’

  ‘I want a break.’ He dropped his head to his chest. ‘I need a piss.’

  ‘Makes a change from taking it, sonny.’

  Wilde couldn’t have timed the stoppage better if he’d tried. His problem? It was in the cops’ favour. Half-an-hour later when the interview resumed, Sarah and Baker were already installed. She’d grabbed a coffee, not had a chance to drink it yet. The lidded cup stood on the table, out of harm’s way from another recent addition – a plastic evidence bag. Wilde flicked it a glance as he shuffled to his seat.

  Baker did the honours with the tapes this time, ran through the spiel, dived straight in: ‘That your hoodie, Wilde?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take a closer look if I were you.

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘That’s right, son. And I’m not facing the rest of my mean miserable little life behind bars. Now take a look. Is that your hoodie?’

  ‘Can’t see it proper.’

  Baker signalled Sarah. Forensics had lifted multiple DNA and blood samples from the material, the latex gloves she snapped on were superfluous, wouldn’t hurt though if the touch of drama unnerved Wilde. Holding it by the shoulders, she glanced at Wilde then at the hoodie. ‘What do you reckon, chief? Good fit or what?’