Dying Bad

by Maureen Carter

  ‘On a scale of one to ten?’ Harries took another drink. She cut him a stop-faffing-around glance which he clearly didn’t catch. ‘Twenty. Tell you this, boss, I’d have got more chat out of Tommy.’

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Deaf, dumb, blind kid. The Who? Y’know.’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have asked,’ she muttered. A quick glance at her watch coincided with the News at Ten bongs blaring from the box.

  ‘We’ll have to go back any road.’ Harries turned his mouth down. ‘Loads of people were out. Again.’

  Friday night. Course they were. On the splurge: wages, benefits, ill-gotten gains. Getting hammered on cheap booze. As opposed to just getting hammered – like the victim of Wednesday’s assault. She grimaced. ‘Having the guy’s ID would help, of course.’

  ‘Difficult that.’ Harries scratched his chin, probably thinking along similar lines. The body had been stripped of any clue and even the poor sod’s mother would struggle to recognise him. Maybe when the swelling went down and the stitches came out, they could issue a mug shot that wouldn’t give kids nightmares.

  ‘Still nothing on misper, boss?’

  She shook her head. Asked herself if it was significant that no one in the late-thirties/early-forties age group had been reported missing? Dossers and druggies often don’t have anyone looking out for them but the victim didn’t have the appearance of a vagrant or a user. He might just live on his own and his absence hadn’t yet been noticed. Mind, it had taken three days for the mother of the first victim to come forward. Thank God she had, he’d been beaten so badly he could barely remember his own name.

  Loud jeers went up from the crowd congregated around the TV and for a second Sarah assumed there’d been a foul or a missed penalty. No, couldn’t be that. The game had finished. Curious, she turned her head to look at the screen.

  Foul and missed penalty were both spot on.

  Surrounded by cameras, Jas Ram was centre-frame kicking off in front of Birmingham Crown Court. The words were inaudible under the reporter’s voice-over. The body language and face were vocal enough; both said relaxed, confident, confiding even. It struck Sarah again how physical attraction could mask the basest behaviour, that good looking men – and women – often came across as more plausible, that so-called lookers generally got an easier ride in life. Like high cheekbones meant high morals. Regular features denoted a regular guy. She sniffed. Bring on the fleet of Ferraris. Ram was one of the best looking men she’d ever seen. As a person – one of the ugliest.

  ‘. . . vilified, spat at, I’ve been to hell and back.’ There was instant silence in the bar – Ram now had a speaking role. ‘No one should get away with treating people like that.’

  ‘No one’ meant the police, of course. And for ‘people’ he meant himself. Unless, he was playing the race card. Glancing round, she guessed colleagues had the same idea. Heads shook, expressions were incredulous, there were a couple of low whistles. Harries was on the phone.

  ‘Naturally, I’ll be seeking compensation for wrongful arrest.’

  Naturally. Christ, even the guy’s voice was seductive: smooth, honeyed, accent free. Lowering his gaze an artful touch, he bit his bottom lip, paused as though weighing up whether to continue. Like there was ever any doubt. ‘But this isn’t all about me.’ Humble murmur. Decision apparently made, he raised his head, swept a blue-black fringe out of dark treacle eyes and talked into the nearest lens. ‘I’ll be seeking legal advice with a view to taking action against the police. Innocent citizens like me need protecting from suffering the same ordeal.’

  Paul Wood played an imaginary violin. Other cops were more vocal.

  ‘My heart bleeds.’

  ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘What about the victims, you twat.’

  ‘Shush.’ Baker’s raised palm quelled the squad’s running commentary. Saint Jas no longer held the stage. Cameras were trained on a middle-aged man striding into shot with his fist raised. Even distorted with rage, the face rang a bell with the DI. She cut Harries a querying glance but he still had the mobile clamped to his ear. Come on, Dave, you’re missing the best bits.

  The man barged his way through the media scrum. ‘You evil effing bastard. Prison’s too good for your kind of scum.’ A second or two more and he’d have landed the punch he was swinging, but a police sergeant had sprinted across and now held the man’s arm out of harm’s way.

  ‘Shame,’ Baker murmured.

  ‘Hear this, shit head,’ the man snarled. ‘I’ll see you rot in hell.’ He was a relative of one of the girls, but Sarah still couldn’t put a name to the face. Suddenly the guy threw his head back and spat. Ram ducked but not fast enough. He was wiping gob off his cheek when the picture cut to the reporter’s piece to camera.

  That, and the accompanying cheers from the squad, was probably why it took a few seconds for the DI to clock who the hack was. The fur hat was a distraction, too. When, by popular request Len switched channels, Sarah turned away, lips still curved. Christ on a bike. It must have been brass monkeys for Caroline King to go out looking like that. And why was a journo of her calibre covering a Birmingham court case? Surely there had to be richer pickings?

  ‘Earth to Major Quinn.’ Baker’s hand played windscreen-wiper perilously close to her face. ‘A few of us are buggering off to the Taj. Fancy a bite?’

  A naan finger if you don’t back off. Mind, there was very little food at home, as per – and none of it appealed. ‘Yeah, OK, why not?’

  ‘Maybe not, boss.’ Harries shoved the phone in his coat pocket. ‘Uniform are requesting back-up. A man’s body’s been found off Newton Road.’ Not a million miles from the law courts.

  ‘And.’ Reaching for her coat.

  ‘He’s Asian. And the death’s suspicious.’

  TWO

  Jas Ram – recent recipient of a bunch of death threats – taken out? A stone’s throw from the court where he’d been released? No way. Mouth turned down, Sarah tapped the wheel. There were coincidences and there was wishful thinking. Hers. And the notion put a novel slant on the term death wish.

  ‘Sure you’re OK, boss?’ Harries was scoffing a late supper grabbed on the way out of the pub: salt and vinegar crisps with Mars bar chaser. If he didn’t watch the crumbs, it’d be his last supper as well. They were in her new Audi. They’d toyed with walking it, the crime scene was barely half a mile from the Queen’s Head, but depending what panned out, they’d need wheels later, if only to deliver the death knock. Traffic was light in the heart of the city, biggest hazard was jaywalkers tanked up on jolly juice.

  ‘I’m fine, Dave.’ She definitely wasn’t over the limit. Not on half a G&T. Baker’s levels had been borderline and turning up half-cut at a crime scene was probably the best way to get your hands on a P45 and wave goodbye to a pension. Besides, suspicious deaths don’t ordinarily warrant the presence of a DCS. He’d waved off the DI instead, cracking some limp line about who shot JR?

  So not funny. Besides, as far as they knew, and detail was skimpy, the death wasn’t gun-related. But Sarah’s humour bypass was down to more than that. She was battling with the uncomfortable knowledge that if Jas Ram had been wasted, she wouldn’t give a rat’s ass.

  ‘D’you reckon it’s Ram, then?’ Harries was still stuffing his face.

  ‘I don’t do predictions, Dave.’ They’d find out soon enough. What she did reckon was that Ram was a worthless piece of shit who’d inflicted untold damage – physical, emotional, psychological – on naïve and vulnerable schoolgirls; innocent kids approached on the street and turned into lucrative sex slaves. Sarah had spent countless hours interviewing the victims, drawing out the detail, pulling together the picture. She rarely let cases get under her skin, never this badly.

  Idling at a red in Temple Way, she felt a shiver down her spine. Either someone had walked over her grave or the temperature had taken a dive. She leaned forward, peered up through the windscreen, pinpricks of starlight glittered in a clear indigo sky, b
ut the star turn was the moon, a perfect disc of white light. She blamed her goosebumps on the falling mercury, aware it wasn’t the only cause.

  Harries had been watching. ‘Penny for ’em boss?’ He was licking his fingers.

  ‘Cost you more than that.’ The light changed and she eased the car forward. Right now her thoughts weren’t for sale, or to share. Still the front runner was how the world would be a better place minus Ram. For Sarah, professionally and personally, the judgement was questionable. She was a cop, for Christ’s sake. Wanting some thug’s premature demise wasn’t exactly on the job description.

  ‘Actually, DC Harries.’ She jabbed a finger towards the foot-well. ‘I’m wondering how many more sodding crisps are going to end up on my carpet.’

  ‘Whoops.’ He swept a hand across his lap. Bad move.

  ‘Just because your motor doubles as a trash cart . . .’ The corollary was tacit. Harries drove a red two-seater MG that Highgate clowns called the babe magnet. Sniffing – mock offended – he turned ostensibly to window-gaze. Catching his yada-yada face in the wing mirror, she masked a smile. The affectionate irreverence was good, stopped her taking herself too seriously, as long as he didn’t cross the line.

  She got a whiff of vinegar fumes as he leaned across to stuff the empty packet in his pocket. ‘Should be coming up on the left, boss.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ she muttered. Biggest clue was the burly cop in a high vis vest stopping traffic. He recognised Sarah, turned his salute into a hand signal, waved the car through. Three police vehicles, blues still flashing, were in situ and a forensics team stood round the open doors of a white transit. Towards the end on the right, blue and white tape cordoned off the pavement and a wide section of road. Duckboards had been laid and led into a gap between two properties. The architecture on both sides of the street was a mishmash: mock-Gothic stood cheek by jowl with Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian – you name it. It looked as if a load of hyperactive kids had been let loose with the Lego.

  ‘Still, it’s good to know you’ve got your priorities right, DI Quinn.’ Harries’ delivery had an arch you could drive through.

  ‘Meaning?’ She was cruising, eyes peeled for a parking place out of forensics harm’s way. As well as registering a shed-load of black doors and brass knockers, the glint from discreet wall plaques caught her eye. They’d be advertising professional services, mostly law firms, given the proximity of the courts and the coroner’s office.

  ‘Well, there’s you stressing about the state of your interior while me, I’m sweating the hard stuff. The case? The victim?’ He released the belt as she cut the engine. ‘How we’re going to crack it.’

  ‘Great.’ Opening the door. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ She was reaching into the boot by the time he joined her. ‘Those great thoughts, then? Are you sharing, or what?’ Handing him a sealed plastic bag.

  ‘Sure am. Numero uno: if someone’s bumped off Ram it’d do us all a bloody favour.’

  Great minds. ‘And?’

  ‘Two: we’d be swimming in suspects.’

  She managed a nod. Even with one hand on the car for support, she was struggling to get into the bunny suit. She was pretty sure Harries was on the money though. Who had better motive to see Ram dead than the girls’ families? What if a father, say, had taken a pound of the proverbial? He’d get sent down for life and a family already suffering would be ripped further apart.

  Nothing like getting ahead of yourself, Sarah.

  As they headed in step to the action, her keen gaze raked the surroundings. ‘Any more in that crystal ball of yours, Dave?’ The query was casual, she was concentrating on possible exit and entry routes, clocking hidden cameras.

  ‘I see you and—’ he was hamming it up, fingers massaging temples – ‘a tall dark guy who’s dead fit and going places. Initials are DH.’

  She twitched a lip. Yeah right. That’s definitely what she called wishful thinking.

  THREE

  It was far too good to be true. A cursory glance, even from a distance, had told Sarah the victim wasn’t Jas Ram. The body was too short, too fat, and what little flesh was exposed, too white. Besides, knowing Ram, he wouldn’t be seen dead in cheap shoes and an ill-fitting shiny black suit.

  After liaising briefly with the crime scene manager and the first attending officers, the DI now hunkered down by the body; the pathologist Richard Patten squatted across from her. Space was limited and cross-contamination the last thing they needed. Harries was down the road picking the duty inspector’s brain.

  Sarah cast a curious glance over her shoulder. ‘How come you thought he was Asian, Phil?’

  The ruined face could’ve been any ethnicity, but a trouser leg had ridden up and the few inches of skin on show was definitely pale. The black shirt had a Nehru collar but sartorial preference hardly counted as a pointer to race.

  ‘My mistake, ma’am.’ Helmet under arm, PC Ryan stood the other side of the tape studying a pair of hastily borrowed Doc Martens. His own boots, bagged and tagged, were with forensics. Not many cops come across a body by chance. Phil Ryan had been on foot patrol and virtually tripped over the bloody thing. His partner, Linda Fellows had been tasked with keeping the attendance log and was currently working the street, recording anything with a pulse.

  Not something troubling Mr Shiny Suit.

  ‘I’m sorry, like.’ Beads of sweat glistened over Ryan’s top lip. Surely, he wasn’t hot? Every time anyone opened their mouth, Sarah thought a new pope had been elected. ‘It was a lot darker then, ma’am, couldn’t really see much of anything.’

  So, why speculate? She let it go. The guy might as well have ‘newbie’ tattooed on his forehead. At least he was upfront about the slip and probably still freaked out from the shock. Once he got over it, he’d likely dine out on the story. From what she’d gleaned so far, everything else had been done by the book. Which the experienced uniformed inspector who’d turned out could have written: an outer perimeter had been established, the inner forensic corridor laid and the crime scene secured. The actions were built into a cop’s DNA: if it was too late to save a life, top priority was preserving the evidence.

  That the victim was a goner was as plain as the nose . . . Sarah sniffed. It wasn’t the best analogy, given the state of his face. Death had been formally pronounced by the divisional surgeon before Sarah arrived. A doctor had to declare life extinct even when a body had no head, let alone heartbeat. At least the medico hadn’t hung around, the fewer live bodies trampling the scene the better.

  Uniformed officers posted at both ends of the street were keeping out any passing punters. Chambers Row was neither rat run, nor pedestrian cut through, but police activity was like a magnet. Sarah had encountered grandstanders at previous crime scenes totally convinced a cop show was being shot. Mind, these days, savvy types hefted their own cameras with an eye to flogging the footage. That’s if the media weren’t already out in force. Which, a quick scout round confirmed, they still weren’t.

  She had to shield her eyes for a few seconds when the auxiliary lighting kicked in. They’d been making do with torches and strategically-directed full beams from a cop car. Enough light had been cast to see the victim was Caucasian, middle-aged and, as far as Sarah could tell, had no distinguishing features. Swallowing, she tasted bile. Now it was more like no distinguishable features. And where had all the blood come from? The jacket and shirt were slick with the stuff.

  She glanced up at the pathologist. ‘OK if I leave you to it, Rich?’ He didn’t need an audience and she’d seen enough. Actually, not. The body had no ID.

  Patten raised his head, dark irises visible between mask and hood. ‘No worries. I’ll find you when I’m done.’

  She gave a fleeting smile. He was probably the best pathologist she worked with. His willingness to voice an opinion at the scene was worth its weight. Doctors generally kept their cards so close to their chest she was surprised it didn’t stop circulation.

  Standing now, she
snapped off the latex gloves while making eye contact with Ryan. ‘You’re sure you didn’t touch anything?’ Not likely but the young PC had already put his foot in it, literally.

  ‘No ma’am. I could see he was dead. I’d no reason to check. That’s exactly how I found him.’ Stuffing the gloves in a pocket, she followed his gaze. The body was slumped against a red-brick wall in the cobbled passageway between two buildings, a law firm and offices of the probation service. When Ryan came across it, it had been wedged between a brace of wheelie bins. ‘I shouted Linda to keep away, had a quick shufti, then kept a watching brief with her out here until Inspector Wilding and the others arrived. One of the forensic people said it’d be OK to move the bins to gain access but that’s it.’

  Gain access? She frowned. Couldn’t be doing with manual speak. Why not just say, get closer? Was Ryan one of those people who adopted formal language to distance ugly reality? She hoped not for his sake.

  Hearing rustling, Sarah turned to see two FSI photographers return for more shots. They’d already reeled off a load of stills and video but the more the better. The inquiry needed pictures of every inch, every angle and, as Baker invariably put it, every orifice. A full accurate record showing the location both with and without the body was vital. Not just for evidence but every squad member needed a feel for the scene even though most would never set foot in it. Unlike Ryan.

  The cameramen were clearly ready for their close-ups. Holding the tape for them, she nodded a greeting. Given the stink of blood and piss and whatever was rotting in the bins, thank God it wasn’t smelly-vision.

  Ducking under the tape herself, she signalled Ryan to follow. Right now he was both police officer and prime witness and, in her experience, neither was infallible. No one recalled facts immediately, fully or accurately. More intelligence invariably emerged during retelling or under questioning. Halting under a street light, she asked him to talk her through it again. Studying his face closely she was also on aural alert for any discrepancy, deviation. Ryan had no difficulty holding her gaze and his second account was virtually verbatim. He and PC Fellows had been nearing the end of their beat. She was on police radio so stayed out front while he went to check the rear of the premises, primarily because there’d been an attempted break-in at the chambers the week before. He didn’t make it that far because the victim’s legs were protruding and Ryan almost went arse over tit.