Dying Bad Page 22

  Michelle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Being honest, Ruby, dobbing in Zach and Leroy was a pisser. But we didn’t look to get dragged in to any of this. And we can live without it.’ So the downbeat mood was down to guilt? Resentment? Ruby reckoned they needed to move on, however bad it felt, distancing themselves from lawbreakers had to be good.

  ‘Plus, they said they did it.’ Lily ran a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘If they hadn’t, it might’ve been a different story. We’d have given them the benefit of the doubt and all that. But what they done’s wrong, Ruby.’

  She nodded. ‘What do you want me to have a word about?’ If the police had evidence, the youths would be charged. End of. The girls exchanged glances. Both took a sip of wine rather than answer. ‘What is it?’ Ruby asked. ‘Are you afraid of reprisals?’

  ‘Of what?’ Lily frowned.

  She managed to stem an eye roll. ‘Are you scared if they’re released they’ll come after you?’

  ‘Nah. Safety in numbers.’ Lily sniffed. ‘We can take care of ourselves.’ Ruby wondered if it was big talk. ‘Besides they’re not gonna get out, are they?’

  ‘Will we have to go to court, give evidence and that, Ruby?’

  ‘Yeah, and when’s it going to come to trial?’

  Ruby reckoned they were after reassurance rather than legal advice. ‘Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ll check state of play in the morning, get back to you.’

  ‘What is this – a wake?’ Charlie breezed in, bringing a blast of cold air. Shannon was just visible behind Charlie’s bulk. ‘Cheer up, you lot. I told Amy she’d be in for a fun night.’ Charlie stepped aside, ushered the newcomer forward.

  ‘Amy, hi.’ Ruby smiled, happy to see they’d taken the Hemming girl under their collective wing. ‘Want to get a round in, Charlie?’ She handed her a twenty, patted the space next to her. ‘Come and sit down, Amy. I hear you talked to Caroline King last night.’

  Head down, Amy stared at her hands. ‘Yeah.’ Was that it?

  Ruby tried again. ‘She reckons you’re going to cooperate with her on the book?’

  ‘I said I would. We’ll see how it goes.’ She gave a shy smile.

  ‘What book?’ Lily sat up straight, all ears. ‘What gives? Come on, babe, share.’

  As Amy explained, Ruby lounged back and listened to the excited banter. She clocked the hair flicking guy weave his way towards them, Charlie and Shannon just behind bearing more bottles and a can of coke. The guy leaned on the table, lowered his head towards Lily. ‘Hey babe, can I get you a drink?’ Bad move.

  ‘No you fucking can’t,’ Charlie hissed, elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Beat it.’

  Eyes blazing, the youth spun round. ‘Want to make something of it?’

  ‘Love to.’ She grabbed his jacket, hauled him close, faces almost touched. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Charlie.’ Ruby cautioned. The altercation was attracting unwanted attention from the regulars. The face-off lasted only seconds. Charlie’s expression must have made him think twice. He raised a palm. ‘No offence, mate.’

  ‘Wrong. Dickhead. You’re offending my friend. Piss off.’

  He staggered slightly when she released the lapels. Punters resumed card games, domino matches, conversations.

  ‘Can’t take you anywhere, can we, Lil?’ Smiling, Charlie ruffled Lily’s hair before sinking onto the bench. ‘Come on everyone. Lighten up.’

  Ruby tightened her lips. Charlie’s protectiveness was touching, but not everyone would regard it that way. If she didn’t watch it, one day someone would stand up to her. Even her mates seemed ill at ease. Lily eventually broke the silence. ‘This book then. What d’you think, Ruby? Is it worth Amy helping? What’s the King woman like?’

  ‘Far as I can tell, she’s straight, should do a good job.’ Ruby paused a few seconds, looked at Amy. ‘Did you hear what happened after you met?’ The girl shook her head, took a swig of coke. Ruby told them about the attack, that she’d visited Caroline in hospital.

  ‘That’s a pisser,’ Amy said. ‘What about the cops? They got any leads?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘She a journo, isn’t she?’ Michelle asked. ‘Isn’t she meant to notice things? What do they call them – trained observers?’

  ‘True. But you have to remember things first.’ She started explaining about the memory loss, the occasional hazy flashback but she sensed fading interest. Charlie and Shannon joked around, and Michelle read the label on the wine bottle.

  ‘Hey, Rube.’ Charlie perked up a bit. ‘You never said . . . did you find out about the crow? Who it was down to and that?’

  ‘Today, as it happens.’ She raised her glass. ‘Trust me. There won’t be any more trouble.’

  ‘Aw, come on, Ruby, you can’t just leave it like that,’ Charlie moaned.

  Should she tell them? She’d already decided to ignore Caroline’s warnings and take the bastard to task. Mind, it would be on her terms and her turf. Maybe a bit of covert back-up wouldn’t hurt? She might run it past them. ‘Let’s just say Amy knows the guy responsible.’ No one named Ram. No one needed to.

  ‘Why’d the bastard do it?’ Lily asked.

  ‘He cocked up. Got the wrong target.’

  ‘Mistaken identity then?’ Michelle.

  Ruby nodded. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  FORTY

  Putting it to someone that they may have had a pervy past was a tough job but someone had to do it. For someone, read Sarah. The DI was at the QE anyway and had volunteered to drop by and question Duncan Agnew. Prior checks on the sex offenders’ register and criminal records had revealed nothing and ditto emerged during a seriously painful interview. Agnew had been prickly to say the least, but if cops worried about pissing people off, they’d never get out of bed. Given Agnew’s criminal clean sheet, Sarah’s payback-as-motive theory was looking flimsy. Make that flimsier. They now knew the blood on Wilde and Brody’s hoodies correlated not just to Foster but also to Tattoo Man. The youths had been charged with murder and would be up before magistrates first thing.

  Leaning against a custard coloured wall in the hospital cafeteria, Sarah finished the worst coffee she’d drunk in years and slung the styrofoam cup in a bin. She’d felt in need of sustenance before confronting King again, and a five-minute break to try and get her thoughts together. She’d have preferred a slug of scotch to the shot of caffeine. Doubtless Baker and his band of merry men had sunk a few single malts by now – when she’d left the nick most of the squad had been making for the Queen’s Head. Celebrating.

  Would she have joined them if she could? Yes. No. Maybe. She’d little doubt Wilde and Brody were partially guilty, but felt there was more story to emerge. There was a saying about chickens and counting. Sarah saw too many unhatched eggs.

  ‘Give it back and we’ll say no more about it.’ Still propped up in bed, Caroline King held out a palm, lips pursed tighter than Scrooge’s wallet. Sarah found something faintly comical about the cartoon stance. On a more serious level, she was dead on her feet and could live without the ridiculous posturing. ‘That the royal we, is it?’

  ‘That’s so not funny.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, dear.’ Sarah stifled a yawn, flopped into a chair. Hospitals were always too hot, the room felt like a sauna. Mind that could be down to King’s hot air.

  ‘Just hand it over.’

  ‘Get over yourself, Caroline,’ she snapped. The arsy-ness no longer amused. ‘Just what’s your problem?’

  ‘The memory stick? In my vanity case?’ She glared. ‘Only it’s not.’

  Sarah narrowed her eyes, counted to five. Then ten. The fucking nerve. ‘What are you saying. Exactly?’ The voice was clipped, curt. ‘You don’t for one instant seriously—?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’ King put a hand to her mouth. ‘You wouldn’t. I know that. I’m just so bloody . . . Forget I said anything.’ She clearly knew a line had been long-jumped. Sarah had little doubt the r
emorse was genuine, or she’d have walked, tasked a junior officer with the interview.

  The apology was still too late. ‘When did you see it last and what’s on the frigging thing?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’ She always kept it with her make up, apparently. Sarah was tempted to crack a line about vanity publishing but decided on balance it wouldn’t go down well. ‘As to what’s on it . . . what isn’t?’ King ran both hands through her hair. ‘The opening of the book, research notes, interview transcripts.’ No prevarication. No hedge betting. That more than anything confirmed Sarah’s belief the reporter regretted the slur.

  ‘Interviews with . . .?’ Circling an ankle.

  ‘A couple of victims from London, Amy Hemming’s mother, social workers, child protection officers, a woman from CROP . . . the Campaign for the Removal of Pimping?’

  She gave a brisk nod, knew what CROP was for God’s sake.

  ‘The book’s structure’s on there, contents’ table, publicity ideas, promotional stuff.’

  My word. She had been a busy queen bee. It struck Sarah there was a big hole in the work load. ‘What about Jas Ram? Have you interviewed him?’

  ‘Not in depth. Not yet.’ Slight hesitation. ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can see why he might want to get his hands on the material.’ Ram was an arrogant shit with a sadistic streak and then some. He’d revel in knowing what people were saying about him. And if he didn’t like it – which he wouldn’t – Sarah could see him making sure they’d think twice about opening their mouth again.

  King frowned, thought it through. ‘But he’s agreed to talk. Why would he try and sabotage what I’m working on?’ Not that he had. King apparently had a second memory stick which she kept in a wall safe. Ram didn’t know that though; wouldn’t know either existed. Sarah turned her mouth down.

  King caught up. ‘You’re not talking sticks, are you? You think he broke into my place, nicked the laptop, the recorder?’ Sarah nodded. Ram or one of his sheep. ‘I still don’t see why – not when he’s agreed to an interview?’

  ‘Words are cheap. And we all know Ram’s a man of his word, don’t we? Were you paying him?’

  King sighed and closed her eyes. Said it all really. And Sarah reckoned it was a damn sight more than anything Ram would have disclosed. Knowing what she did of the gobshite, he’d either have spun tales of pure – make that sick – fantasy. Or stonewalled every question. Either way he’d have taken the money and run. She almost felt sorry for King. She must have been so desperate to secure the groomer’s input, she’d allowed her bullshit alert to go on the blink. She gave the reporter a short time to reflect then asked if she’d noticed anything suspicious in the days leading up to the burglary, strangers hanging round the property, unknown cars parked in the road, anything out of the ordinary. They were stock questions, and got stock replies: no, nada, niente. Big surprise. Criminals who know what they’re doing don’t generally sneak round wearing Dick Turpin masks and carrying swag bags. Shame, Sarah thought. Could save me a bunch of time.

  She checked her watch. Nearly eight. She’d already decided to draw a veil over Nat Hardy’s pathetic display. If he wanted to tell King about it – that was fine. She was here primarily to discuss the attack and it hadn’t even had a mention yet. ‘Caroline. Can we cut to the chase? What happened last night? Who were you meeting? What can you remember?’ Probably not a lot. Sarah had sought out a medico who’d confirmed King’s blood contained traces of Rohypnol.

  ‘Four questions and a cliché? She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll never make a journo, DI Quinn.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies. Come on, give.’ She’d hooked up with Amy Hemming, she said. It only took ten minutes or so to persuade the girl to agree to record an interview at a later date.

  Sarah frowned. That was a turn up for the grooming book. ‘You definitely had no arrangement to see Ram?’ King looked down at her hands. ‘Tell me straight, Caroline.’

  ‘He cried off. We’d been due to meet at nine. He called around six, said he couldn’t make it. No reason. No apology. Said he’d reschedule. To be honest, I thought he was just dicking me around, showing who was in control, you know?’

  Could be. Or he was just keeping tabs. ‘OK, back to Amy. What happened once you’d agreed terms?’

  ‘As far as I was concerned, it was a result. I left on a high – and in a hurry ’cause I was keen not to keep you waiting. I’m walking across the park then – bam. It’s a blank.’

  Sarah’s glance fell on the still unopened Chablis on the locker. She’d run out of wine, made a mental note to buy a bottle on the way home. Shame this wasn’t a social call.

  ‘Help yourself.’ King smiled, clearly didn’t miss much. ‘Whoops. Better not. You being on duty and all.’

  She twisted her mouth. ‘The shadowy figures you mentioned this morning?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure there were four youths.’

  ‘Male? Female? Both?’

  ‘Male, of course. Dark hoodies, jeans, scarves, then the shapes just dissolve. Next minute I think it’s my mind playing tricks.’

  She tapped a finger against her lips. King must’ve read the scepticism.

  ‘Honest to God, Sarah. I’d tell you if I could. I want whoever did this locked up.’ She was pointing at her face; the make-up wasn’t helping much.

  She nodded. ‘What about sounds? Or smells?’ Clearly not. No clue either as to what happened in the four hours between leaving Amy in Harborne and being dumped in Edgbaston. Where the hell had she been – and who with? ‘Have you any idea how the Rohypnol got in your system?’

  ‘What?’ Deep frown lines appeared. Maybe the results hadn’t long come through because it was clearly news to King. ‘Jesus wept. No wonder I can’t remember a frigging thing.’ She reached for a glass, took a few sips of water. ‘I don’t believe it. I just can’t get my head round it.’

  ‘Round what?’

  ‘What do you think? The Rohypnol. It’s a shock.’

  She could see that. ‘So, any ideas?’ King gave several slow shakes of the head. ‘What about before you met the girl? Did you go in a pub? A wine bar? Did someone buy you a drink? Did you leave a glass unattended?’ She narrowed her eyes: surely, it meant King had been targeted? Was that how the mugging gang operated? Select a victim, slip in a roofie? Shadow the prey? And is that a clutched straw I see before me? She sighed. Even if she was on the money, it was way too late to test Foster and Tattoo Man. King still hadn’t responded. Sarah could almost hear the cogs ticking. ‘Well?’

  More head shaking. ‘I’m trying to think, Sarah.’

  ‘I can’t help if you hold things back.’

  ‘I need more time.’ I bet you do. And she’d stake a King’s ransom on something having just registered. She held Sarah’s gaze. ‘If and when anything comes to me – you’ll be the second to know. I promise you that.’

  Sarah tightened her lips. It wasn’t worth arguing the toss, short of thumbscrews she’d get no further tonight. Besides, she was so knackered she almost felt like shoving King out of bed. ‘Are they still letting you out tomorrow?’ The reporter nodded. ‘Give me a bell. Let me know when.’ She reached for her bag, headed towards the door.

  Last thing she wanted was a wasted journey. Another wasted journey.

  ‘Sarah. I’m on the wagon. Painkillers and all that.’ Smiling, she took the bottle off the locker, proffered it to the DI. ‘Call it a peace offering?’

  ‘What?’ Sarah’s lip twitched. ‘A peace offering from Ruby Wells?’

  ‘Ruby won’t mind. She’s a mate.’ The smile faded. ‘I’ve done far worse to her, believe me.’

  Getting into the Audi a few minutes later, Sarah wondered if King had had it in mind to tell her about the windscreen incident all along. The reporter clearly felt responsible for drawing Wells into Jas Ram’s line of fire. Ruby apparently had no intention of reporting the threats to the police. Maybe mentioning it to Sarah was King’s subtle way of suggesting the co
ps keep an eye on the lawyer. Subtle as a dead crow.

  And peace offering as sweetener? She glanced at the Chablis on the passenger seat, gave a wry smile. She’d happily accepted it. Then handed over a twenty. Given the priceless expression on King’s face, it had been worth every penny.

  FORTY-ONE

  The early brief had been exactly that – done and dusted by 08.30. In her office now, Sarah was reading over-nights, writing reports, responding to emails et al. So flaked by the time she got home last night, she’d slung the Chablis into the fridge. Just as well, or she might have ended up looking as seriously hung-over as one or two of the squad. The party had decamped to a curry house, according to Dave; celebrations continued into the small hours though he’d bowed out after a swift pint. Baker hadn’t shown this morning, called in to say he was heading straight out to some police authority meeting. He’d probably lost interest, thought Operation Steel all over bar the shouting. She sighed, sipped coffee. Maybe he was right. In less than an hour, Brody and Wilde would be up before the magistrates. They’d doubtless plead not guilty, equally predictably they’d be remanded in custody.

  Even so, additional evidence had to be collected, efforts made to trace more witnesses, sharpen statements already taken. The case had to be as tight as they could make it. So why did she still see unhatched chickens? The thought that other gang members were at large continued to bug her. Eggs could land on faces, couldn’t they?

  The phone derailed her train of thought. ‘DI Quinn.’

  ‘Ma’am. DC Lally here.’

  ‘Beth.’ She put a warmish smile in her voice, compensation for the shit straw dished out earlier. She’d despatched Lally and Jed Holmes to Harborne park – again. ‘Any joy?’ She thought she caught a murmured ‘boundless’ from Beth, but let it go. Ferreting round bins when it was below freezing was never going to be a career highlight.