Dying Bad Read online

  The sighs of relief were audible as Sarah walked away. She waited until reaching the door then turned. ‘Oh, and Miss Wells?’

  ‘DI Quinn?’ Reaching for the Black Magic.

  ‘We’ve got a sweepstake running at work.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Was he pissed that night? Jas Ram?’ The line was a less than subtle message: don’t underestimate me. She’d couched it as a joke to add shock factor. Maybe catch Wells on the hop, force an indiscretion? She also saw it as lobbing a brick into a stagnant pond, you never knew what slime might surface.

  It landed a brittle laugh and a pointed finger of mock censure: ‘Client confidentiality, DI Quinn.’ Smiling, she popped a chocolate in her mouth. Too canny to take the bait? Not on-the-ball enough to recognise it? Or simply playing along?

  She offered another cue. ‘A nod’s as good as a wink?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it, inspector? Surely you don’t expect help cheating?’

  She’d been unsure what to expect. But certainly nothing could camouflage the horror, however fleeting, Sarah had seen race across Caroline’s face. Her reaction on hearing Ram’s name had to be genuine because given a choice she’d not let anything slip, her defences were tighter than the Old Bailey during a terrorist trial.

  ‘Everything OK, Caroline?’ Sarah asked casually. ‘Something coming back to you?’

  ‘Let’s think.’ She flashed a fake smile, flopped back, arms folded. ‘My face looks like mouldy pizza, my house’s been burgled, my laptop’s been nicked, I’ve lost years of work, and I’m stuck here in hospital with you asking daft questions. Life really couldn’t get any peachier, could it?’

  Brilliant smokescreen. Total bullshit. Sarah knew what she’d seen. Hearing Ram’s name had sparked the reaction, something in the exchange had definitely registered with King. She’d give a lot to know what. The throwaway line had been a shot in the dark. Seemed to Sarah it had set a big cat among the proverbial pigeons.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I hate to say it but the DI was right.’ Ruby Wells poured water into a tumbler, handed it over with a smile. ‘You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.’

  Caroline gave a distracted nod. With her face a bloody mess, she no longer felt threatened by Ruby’s good looks. Besides, as she’d discovered, the lawyer was warm, witty, with a cracking sense of humour. What was the saying? Looks aren’t everything. As lessons in priorities went, it had hit home. But nowhere near as hard as Quinn’s almost parting shot.

  ‘Any better now?’ Ruby asked.

  She shook her head. She’d not puked in the bathroom, but her stomach still churned and her mouth felt like the Sahara in the dry season. Staring ahead, she took a few sips, rolled the lukewarm liquid round her tongue, picturing not a ghost, hearing a disembodied voice: Quinn’s. Was he pissed that night? Jas Ram?

  Ruby perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Was it another flashback?’

  ‘No. Not that.’ What Caroline visualised had more substance than four youths dressed in black, scarves round their faces. And they weren’t on her mind now. She closed her eyes. Was he pissed that night? Ruby had to have been acting for Ram, or Quinn wouldn’t have asked the question. Ruby’s comeback about client confidentiality had clinched it. The knowledge lit a visual blue touch paper sparking a series of images in Caroline’s head: Ram sitting opposite her in San Luigi’s, the seemingly harmless flirting, pathetic jokes about bus passes and the cost of travel cards because a little bird had revealed Ram’s spot of bother with the law. How had he put it? A little bird with a big mouth. It hadn’t occurred to Caroline for an instant that in Ram’s mind there could be only one contender for the canary title. She groaned as her mental romcom turned into a black and white still straight from Hitchcock: a dead crow, its mangled carcass splayed across a windscreen.

  ‘You’re blatantly knackered, Caroline. I’m gonna let you get some rest.’ The reporter felt a slight draught, caught a waft of Ruby’s Chanel No. 5 as she rose. She watched her reach for her bag, pointing at the box of Black Magic. ‘And lay off the chocolates, put some behind your ear for later.’ They’d joked earlier about Ruby almost scoffing the lot even though she’d brought them as a gift. Caroline reckoned that in a minute or two the lawyer wouldn’t give her the time of day.

  ‘Sit down, Ruby, please. I’m not tired. I have to tell you something. God, I feel sick.’ She had to spit it out though; that her glib blather had provoked Ram’s petty act of revenge and a potentially ongoing threat. How many dirty tricks were still hidden up his designer sleeve?

  Ruby smiled uncertainly as she again perched on the bed. ‘I told you to lay off the chocs.’

  The light hearted quip made it worse somehow. Caroline felt they’d really hit it off over the last hour or so. Chat had flowed freely, personal and professional: childhood, cars, careers. Ruby had waxed lyrical about helping kids who’d had a shit start in life. Charity began at home for Caroline but she respected Ruby’s stance. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I wish it was that simple.’

  ‘Hey, come on. I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. It’s not the laptop, is it?’

  ‘God. No. Everything’s backed up. Two memory sticks.’ One of which would be in the vanity case.

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘Jas Ram.’ Ruby listened in silence as Caroline related the story. She tried reading the lawyer’s face, reckoned it would be a hell of a long time before Ruby needed Botox. Caroline sighed as she wrapped it up. ‘So the crow shit was all down to me and my big mouth. I’m really gutted, Ruby.’

  ‘At least you’ve made a clean breast of it now. God. How crap was that?’ She winked, flashed a grin. ‘Look Caroline, it’s done. Over. Spilt milk and water bridge. Fact is I’m grateful.’ She’d harboured suspicions anyway, she said, had arranged a date to sound Ram out. ‘I probably won’t bother meeting the bastard now. All he needs know is I’ve marked his card.’

  ‘Not probably, Ruby. Steer clear. He’s poison.’ Christ, she’d started sounding like the Ice Queen.

  ‘You can talk, Mother. You’re still meeting him even after all this.’ She swept the room with a glance.

  Caroline nodded. She’d finally told Ruby that Ram was definitely among the key players she’d interview for the book. Seemed the decent thing after all the lawyer had done for her. As for Ram, Caroline was almost certain he had nothing to do with her attack. Either way, she had to talk to him and if it emerged he was less than lily white – he’d pay for it. ‘I know the score, Ruby. Dealing with scum like Ram’s what I do. The sort of people journalists chase, punters generally cross the road to avoid.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer, Caroline.’ She bristled a touch. ‘The courts are full of lowlifes and losers.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’ She smiled. ‘But Ram’s up for seeing me ’cause he thinks there’s something in it for him. Whereas, I’m the one stands to gain. And don’t forget, I’ve done nothing to piss him off.’

  ‘As it happens . . .’ She raised a wry eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Neither had Ruby. The fact she was erroneously in Ram’s sights was down to Caroline. ‘Look, when I talk to him I’ll set the record straight, make sure he knows you’re discretion on legs.’

  ‘No body parts, Caroline.’ She curled a lip. ‘For God’s sake don’t talk body parts to the slime ball.’ She reached a hand for her coat. ‘I’m off now. I said I’d meet a couple of mates for a drink. If you ask me, they just want some free legal advice.’

  ‘Are they in trouble?’

  ‘No, but their boyfriends are.’ She sneaked another chocolate. ‘Yummy. Need anything before I go?’

  ‘Apart from more chocs?’ Caroline smiled. ‘Actually, can you pass the case?’ It might perk her up if she put her face on. The fact that one of the doctors bore more than a passing resemblance to Ryan Gosling had absolutely nothing to do with her decision.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Are you questioning the call, Quinn?’ Baker leaned back in his chair,
legs crossed, ankle swinging. She’d made good time from the hospital. Hence the pre-brief confab with the chief. She’d been summoned to the sanctum even before making it to her office. And now wished traffic had been snarled. She knew full well what Baker really meant: was she questioning his call. He wanted to charge Zach Wilde and Leroy Brody with murder.

  She smoothed the still tight bun. ‘It might be a touch premature is all I’m saying.’

  Baker laced podgy fingers across his paunch, gave her a fulsome and totally fake smile. ‘And why, pray tell, does the mighty Quinn think we should hang fire? Would she perhaps prefer a signed confession – in blood?’

  She’d not say no to blood test results but it was more than that. ‘Now we know Foster’s sleazy history, a bit of extra digging wouldn’t do any harm, chief.’

  A tiny muscle clenched at the side of his jaw. ‘We’ve been told he’s a kiddie fiddler. We’ve not substantiated it yet and there’s nothing on record.’ Thanks to Patricia Malone keeping fucking mum all those years. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Motive. What if offing him was payback time? Wilde and Brody swear they’ve never set eyes on him.’

  ‘Cash back more like. To tossers like Wilde and Brody he was a walking dispenser. They were after his money. Bread. Dough. Drug habits need feeding, Quinn.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not disagreeing. But what about the Chambers Row victim? Where’s he fit in?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Looks as if we might have a name.’ Straightening, he shuffled a few papers on his desk. Why the hell hadn’t she been told? ‘It’s not long come in.’ They’d had it several days in fact: Frank Gibbs. Potential confirmation was what the chief meant. He told her uniform had checked out the address provided by the credit card company. Gibbs lived alone in a shabby maisonette in Small Heath. Neighbours hadn’t seen him for days, he was quiet, kept himself to himself. Blah blah, don’t they all? But not so much that he didn’t leave a key with an elderly woman two doors away. Officers entered, discovered no sign of life – or rotting body. They also found a pile of post on the doormat and an old address book by the phone. A couple of detectives would be working through the entries any time soon.

  She turned her mouth down. ‘Is it not worth seeing what they come up with?’

  He waved an airy hand. ‘Why prolong the agony?’

  Whose? She studied Baker’s still-bruised face as he gathered his bits for the brief, recalled the theory he’d mooted in the early days of the inquiry, saw him standing in front of the whiteboards gazing at photographs of the victims’ injuries. What was it he’d said? Three mugs left looking like raw mince. He’d thrown out a question to the squad. Why batter someone so viciously? And he’d provided an answer. ‘Point taken, chief, but not so long back you were the one reckoned the violence had to be personal.’

  ‘I can change my mind, can’t I? Or is that a woman’s prerogative? You coming or what?’ At least he held the door for her. Squeezing past, she again clocked the fading bruise near his eye inflicted by Wilde. As long as you have changed your mind chief; as long as personal doesn’t come into it.

  It wasn’t Baker’s management style to ask for a show of hands. He was too confident to seek anyone’s approval. But observing squad reactions to his thinking on why Wilde and Brody should be charged with murder, Sarah reckoned the result would be the same as asking turkeys to vote for a moratorium on Christmas. Bring it on. Looking round at the twenty or so detectives present, there was none of the backslapping and high-fiving that usually coincided with nearing the conclusion of a case. Low key was Sarah’s assessment. More as if the squad was relieved to see the back of Operation Steel. Cops were only human – some inquiries had more going for them than others. This one had been a tough hard slog: lots of shoe leather worn out mostly on plod work.

  Perched on a desk at the front, she watched Baker roll a shirtsleeve. She couldn’t deny the chief’s arguments had come across as sound: the youths admitted attacking Duncan Agnew, they had no alibis for the other attacks, stolen property had been squirrelled away at the squat, bloodstained clothing found, apparently prior to being burned. Cases had been built with less evidence. So why was she sitting on the fence?

  ‘OK, chaps, chapesses, you know the state of play.’ Baker rolled the other sleeve. ‘Let’s have a show of hands.’ She tightened her lips. Well, well. What did she know? ‘Who reckons we throw Brody and Wilde some reading matter?’ As in the book.

  ‘Sooner the better, guv.’ Propped against his wall space, Twig gave a thumb’s up.

  ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica,’ Hunt drawled. ‘From a great height.’

  Someone at the back hummed a few bars of Why are we waiting?

  Sarah cast the squad a glance, didn’t bother counting: only Dave’s hand was still down. He gave her an encouraging nod from his customary front row seat.

  ‘Well, Quinn.’ Baker smiled. ‘You appear to be in a minority of one.’ In the chief’s eyes, Harries obviously didn’t count.

  ‘Actually, sir,’ Dave piped up. ‘I think—’

  ‘I didn’t ask you, lad. So do you want to share the benefit of your superior wisdom, inspector?’

  ‘I’m not saying we don’t charge them, chief. I’m questioning the timing.’ Baker knew her thinking on it. Why belittle her? She brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap.

  Harries raised more than a hand this time, he stood. Sarah watched his colour rise, too. ‘As a member of the squad, I think I have a right to say what I think. Sir.’

  ‘Do you now, Davy?’ Baker smiled, slipped a hand in his pocket.

  ‘Way I see it, DI Quinn’s point’s valid.’ She winced mentally.

  ‘Do go on.’ The smile broadened. Her wince deepened. Baker was at his most dangerous when he played nice. Sarah pictured a cat and a baby mouse. The squad scented blood too; its posture sharpened in the newly charged – or not yet charged – air. As long as someone else was on the receiving end, Baker baiting a junior officer was a spectator sport.

  ‘Given what we unearthed this afternoon about Foster, surely we need to explore motive a bit more? I mean what if this guy Frank Gibbs turns out to be some sort of perv as well?’

  ‘You tell me, Davy.’ Baker stroked an apparently pensive chin.

  She knew the arguments, could barely bring herself to watch. Dave’s white knight act was big of him but she’d not asked for help and any intervention from her now would only make matters worse. It was almost a relief when she felt her phone vibrate in a pocket. The text was from Ben Cooper. He’d heard back from the labs, knew she was desperate for a heads-up. Get on with it . . . She scrolled down. Shee-ite.

  ‘Well, it raises all sorts of questions, sir. Maybe—’

  ‘Chief.’ Her gaze was still on the screen.

  ‘And you’re paid to fucking answer them.’ Baker jabbed a finger at Harries. ‘I’m not interested in your what-ifs and maybes. Bring me facts and definites, lad.’

  ‘Chief.’ She glanced up. Hello?

  ‘What do you think I’m doing? It takes time. Sir.’

  ‘And as of now, detective, yours is fucking borrowed.’

  ‘Listen up, both of you.’ It was like a frigging school playground. ‘The blood samples? There’s a match.’ She heard the sound of splintering wood as she fell off the fence. ‘Go ahead and charge them, chief.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Have they been charged yet?’ Ruby Wells reached for the wine. She’d hooked up with Michelle and Lily in their local. The Lamb wouldn’t win any Michelin stars any time soon. Unless they started dishing them out for tacky lino and cracked burnt orange banquettes. The young women had bagged a booth at the back. It looked to Ruby as if they’d been there a while, there were half a dozen dead WKD bottles on the table as well as the Soave.

  ‘Dunno.’ Michelle swirled her glass. ‘Cops didn’t say anything about that.’ She’d ditched the customary Day-Glo gear for dark trousers, brown buttoned-up top. Her mood seemed subdued, too. ‘Will you talk to them for us, Ruby?
’

  ‘I suppose.’ If she’d known earlier she could’ve grabbed a word with Quinn at the hospital. ‘It’s easy enough for you to pick up the phone, though, Mitch.’

  She shrugged. ‘More up your street, innit? ’Sides, less I have to do with the fuzz the more I like it. They’re not exactly my cuppa tea.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Lily snorted. Her long white dress could double as a nightie. ‘What about dishy DC Dave? You told me he could take your . . . particulars . . . down any time.’

  ‘Yeah, smart-arse, but it’s not me he’s gagging for, is it?’

  ‘I can’t help it, dahlink. Men just fall at my feet.’ A pouting Lily tossed her head, sent blonde locks flying. Ruby masked a smile. The jokey femme fatale display put her in mind of a Mae West mini-me. The gesture caught the appreciative eye of a couple of long-haired student types at the bar. One aped the hair flicking, probably hoping to catch Lily’s attention.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Not you, dumbo.’ Michelle chucked a beer mat at Lily. ‘Didn’t you clock him ogling his boss lady? Talk about fancying the pants.’

  ‘Yeah but who’d wear the trousers?’ They both got the wine giggles.

  ‘Zip it, you pair.’ Ruby wasn’t in the mood, the hospital visit had left her feeling sick, too much food – for thought. She checked her watch: half seven. If Charlie and Shannon didn’t show soon, she’d push off anyway.

  ‘Zip. Trousers. Nice one, Rube.’ Lily smirked.

  She batted a hand. ‘Come on, stop messing round. How did you leave it with the police? You went in yesterday, was it?’

  ‘Today. First thing. We had to look at a coupla hoodies.’ Michelle frowned. ‘You look hacked off, Ruby. You OK?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Come on, what’s the score?’ All she really knew was that two youths the girls hung out with were in custody in connection with street violence. Sipping wine, she listened as Michelle talked her through the visit from the cops, the fact they’d been unable to confirm alibis and that they’d recognised police exhibits as their now ex-boyfriends’ gear. Ruby interpreted the fact they’d not lied to the cops as a good sign. Last thing they’d want is to land themselves in trouble: kids who’d been through the care system were invariably wary of the law, weren’t good with authority full stop.