Dying Bad

by Maureen Carter

  Recalling the brush with the cat, she shuddered again. Get over it, girl. Ruby Wells didn’t do wimp.

  ‘What the . . .?’

  A couple of feet from the Mazda, she froze, brain struggling to process what her narrowed eyes saw. For a split second she thought it was down to the frigging cat. Ludicrous notion. No creature was capable of a sick show like that. A mangy black bird – crow, maybe – was splayed against the windscreen: blood, feathers, innards smeared against the glass. She stepped closer. Definitely a crow. Its curved black bill was agape and one dead eye seemed to stare accusingly at her. Had it crashed? Taken a nose dive? Get real.

  No matter how disoriented, a bird doesn’t fly backwards, and no way could it pin its own wings under the wipers.

  So who, why, when?

  It took a while to clear the carcass, wipe the gore, go home, wash her hands. It wasn’t until she was in the driving seat, Ruby noticed the note.

  TWELVE

  Places to see, people to go.

  Sorry about earlier.

  Catch you later.

  The Post-it hadn’t been there an hour ago which meant he’d sneaked in while Sarah was holding the brief. Unsmiling, she peeled the note from her screen, read it standing. No prizes for guessing the author. The scrawl was unmistakable. Though why Baker hadn’t deigned to sign it, God alone knew. Like the mix up in the opening line, was that deliberate or a cack-handed stab at humour? It so didn’t work. Shaking her head, she screwed the paper into a ball, tossed it in the bin. Surely he could have had the guts to see her, apologise in person? The old boy needed to get a grip. The line wasn’t that fine between lovable eccentric and erratic oddball. If not already crossed, he was damn close.

  Still on her feet, her glance lit on a new arrival in the in-tray: a colour print grabbed from one of reception’s security cameras. Laydown or one of the video techs must’ve nipped it in while she was out. She took it from the top of the pile, ran her gaze over the image of the girl, the desk sergeant’s so-called slip of a thing. Slip girl had certainly eluded the cops with her alleged phone number. Sarah had checked earlier, called what turned out to be a Birmingham undertaker’s – in Quinton of all places. After establishing the number was pukka, she’d found herself at the end of a sales pitch. Guess you had to admire the guy’s cheek. Not sure about the girl’s though, there wasn’t enough on show to judge. Sarah pursed her lips. Was the scarf and hoodie combo deliberate? If this was the best Laydown could come up with. And if she didn’t sit down soon . . . ouch.

  She sank into the chair, winced as she eased off a shoe, eyes closed in bliss she massaged a throbbing foot. Thinking on, it was probably for the best Baker hadn’t shown his face at the brief. None of the squad had been in the mood for taking prisoners. Wilde and Brody were still AWOL and it seemed like every line of inquiry officers had taken that day, led down a blind alley.

  She swapped feet, dished out the same treatment, swore the heels would never see the light of day again. Talk about seeing the light. What was the saying about counting chickens? She’d been convinced CCTV – especially given the battery of cameras in Chambers Row – would furnish a few decent leads. Four detectives had scrutinised footage for nine hours. Not a dickie bird so far. Nothing earth shattering from snouts either. As for moving on with ID-ing the vics, late editions had carried pics, but there’d not been enough punter feedback to justify extra officers on the phones. House-to-house and street interviews round the crime scenes were ongoing. She’d put in a couple of hours’ foot slog herself that afternoon, an SIO in the field was good for morale and – better yet – meant a break from the desk. She twisted her mouth. Next time, she’d remember to change shoes.

  Knock off or crack on? Quick glance at the desk was answer enough. The in-tray was on its way out the door, and the logs wouldn’t write themselves. Given tomorrow was a scheduled day off, best bite the paperwork bullet now. Not just paper. Harries had left the recording from the Crimestoppers’ hotline on her desk. Twice she listened to the tape and was still no wiser to the callers’ ages or even gender. Presumably the voices had been deliberately disguised. OK. Move on. Forty minutes later and she found the hunger pangs difficult to ignore, like the extraneous tick of the radiator, low hum from a strip light. Mind the rumbling stomach took the biscuit, as it were. Her mouth watered at the prospect of a bacon sandwich. Perish the thought. No way was she being seen in the canteen on a Saturday night. A quick rifle of the bottom drawer came up with four polos and a pack of smoky bacon crisps past its sell by. Tell me about it.

  As she tackled another report, niggling thoughts along the line of all work no play wormed their way into her head. Home truths she could live without. She glanced at the clock on the screen, another half-hour and she’d call it a day. After a final scroll through latest witness statements, she sat back, arms stretched high. Job done. The smile faded. Like hell. They’d yet to make an arrest, let alone secure a conviction. No point dwelling on negatives though.

  The Brody bunch, as Twig had christened the youths, could still come good. Or bad, depending on one’s standpoint. They were definitely the best hope for a potential break. Course the squad had to track them down first. She took a few sips of water. None of the addresses checked out, and family appeared thin on the ground. Detectives had been talking to friends, known associates, fair few to get through yet. Was the fact the two youths weren’t around significant? Could be an innocent explanation, or they’d got wind of police interest and made themselves scarce. Either way, they couldn’t lie low for ever and with every officer in the West Midlands on the lookout, it was just a matter of time till the teenagers were traced, questioned, charged or eliminated.

  Come on, Sarah. Time to knock off. Her eyelids drooped as she mentally totted up the edible contents of her fridge. The list wasn’t long, the office warm, the chair cosy. She gave a wide-mouthed yawn. When she could bear putting on the shoes again, she’d shake a leg. Plan of action first. Blitz Tesco? Fish and chips? Push the boat out and drop by Pizza Express? Yeah, yeah. In a min. Her head slumped onto her chest. Eeny meeny miny . . .

  ‘Did you know you talk in your sleep, boss?’ Harries in the doorway, arms out either side, hands flat against the frame.

  Eyebrow cocked, she straightened deliberately slowly, smoothed down her skirt. ‘I know you’re going to regret not knocking, constable.’

  ‘I did knock. You couldn’t’ve heard.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Not when you were—’

  ‘I was not asleep.’ Subtle shuffle of feet to locate the damn shoes.

  ‘Course not.’ Nodding at the floor. ‘Three inches to your right.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Christ he’d be down on one knee calling her Cinderella next. That’s if she could get the bloody thing on.

  ‘The other one’s back a bit to the left.’

  Easing her foot in gingerly, she bent her head to mask a smile. ‘Are you here for a reason?’

  ‘The snoring was keeping me awake.’ The grin was back, an arm raised to ward off imaginary blows. ‘Who’s this, then, boss?’ Diplomatic change of tack? He’d picked up and was studying reception girl’s picture. She told him what she knew – not a lot.

  ‘Nice eyes.’ Turquoise almost. He dropped the print back on the desk. ‘We bringing the press in on it?’

  Her thoughts and hand wavered. A police appeal asking the teenager to come forward had crossed Sarah’s mind. But if Blue Eyes had inside gen on the groomer, putting her image out there was tantamount to feeding her to the lions-slash-Ram. Sarah tended to agree with Laydown that the girl had legged it because she got ice-cold feet. On the up-side, she’d called at the nick on her own volition. Who could say it wouldn’t happen again? On balance, Sarah would rather hang fire. Seated now, legs sprawled, Harries’ downturned mouth said dubious.

  ‘You don’t see it that way, Dave?’

  ‘We don’t have to say why we need to speak to her. We could come up with a plausible excuse. Something bland. Nothing to do with Ram.’


  ‘OK.’ Rising, she walked to the window, perched on the sill. ‘Say, she’s one of his girls, or he’s just got his eye on her?’ She waited for a nod to say he was on board. ‘Right. He sees her on screen, in the papers. And there’s us asking her to come forward as a witness to a street robbery say, or an RTA, whatever. You really think Ram’s gonna buy that?’

  ‘And if she’s got dirt that’d take the bastard off the streets, put him behind bars . . .’

  ‘Risk’s not worth taking.’ She folded her arms. ‘Ram’s not just a bastard. He’s evil, depraved. You know what he’s capable of. You’ve seen the results.’ She frowned, wondered why he’d cocked his head. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Nah. Can’t argue with that.’ He straightened, smiling. ‘I’m just trying to think who you remind me of.’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear the serious debate’s hitting home.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And?’

  Lips pursed, he shook his head. ‘No. I’m not getting it. I’m sure it’ll come.’

  ‘Remind me, Dave.’ She wandered back to the desk. ‘Why did you drop by? Something I should know about?’

  ‘Nah, squad room’s like a morgue. Anyway, I’m off-duty now. A few of us are heading for a bite to eat, wonder if you’d like to join the party.’

  What, with George Clooney pining for her at home, peeled grapes and oiled pecs at the ready?

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ He helped her into the camel coat. ‘So where’s everyone going, Dave?’

  Jamie’s Italian in the Bullring as it turned out. Small party. After a couple of drinks, she realised it was just two-strong: her and Dave. After a couple more drinks, she didn’t care. No one was counting.

  THIRTEEN

  Ruby Wells was making the most of the only settee in the house. Lying on her side, wine glass in hand, she twitched an indulgent lip. ‘Have you lot quite finished?’ As soon as she’d arrived, she’d told the girls about the dead bird. A few drinks had diluted the initial shock and genuine simpatico. By now, tea and sympathy had gradually given way to a cheeky-vodka-fuelled scoff-fest. One-liners were coming thick and fast.

  ‘Must be what they call a special delivery, Rube.’ Charlotte. Who shortened every name in the book.

  ‘As the crow flies,’ Shannon added with sage nod.

  ‘Might be pigeon post next time.’ Lily.

  ‘Is that cheaper?’ Michelle. The only comic in the room who couldn’t keep a straight face or stem the giggle. ‘Geddit, Ruby?’

  ‘You’ll get something if you’re not careful. You muppets.’ Ruby shook her head. The slight wasn’t serious. She appreciated the girls’ gags were well intentioned. In their own way, they were trying to protect her; gee her up, make light of a sick stunt. If push came to shove, they’d do anything for her.

  Besides, she’d failed to mention the note.

  On the can’t-beat-join-basis, Ruby threw in her own line: ‘No more crowing – or the pizza’ll get cold.’

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor round two family-sized Sicilians, all four started flapping imaginary wings, the routine could’ve been synchronized. Ruby rolled her eyes. Happy sipping wine she watched them swoop on the food, listened to the easy banter; Adele providing backing vocals. The girls weren’t blood-related but the bond so strong most people would take them for sisters. Not in looks. Ruby gave a crooked smile, ran her gaze over the motley crew.

  Wraith-like Lily with long curtains of almost white hair; shaven-headed Charlie who struggled – not hard enough – with her weight; people-pleaser Shannon, mousy, plain, average-everything; Michelle a busty blue-eyed blonde who, Ruby was convinced, fostered the ditzy image. An airhead, she was not.

  ‘Top up, Ruby?’ Lily proffered the bottle, giving an unwitting Alice in Wonderland impersonation.

  ‘Yeah, go on then.’ She could sleep over need be, the girls would be happy enough. Stop thinking of them as girls, she told herself. They were young women, late teens, Michelle the eldest at nearly twenty.

  ‘Hey, babe, put something decent on for a change.’ Michelle was eyeing Shannon who’d got up to change the music.

  ‘You can talk,’ she sneered, flipped the bird.

  Michelle stuck her tongue out, yanked down her pink spandex boob tube another inch.

  ‘Children, children,’ drawled Ruby. God. Only twelve years older, she sounded like a bloody mother hen. Then again, she was the nearest thing they had. Not one parent was on the scene, a couple were dead, the rest good as damn it.

  ‘Choice, Shan.’ Michelle gave the thumb’s up to Birdy’s Shelter. Had Shannon chosen it deliberately? Maybe subconsciously, though Ruby doubted it; joined up thinking wasn’t Shan’s forte. Ruby toyed with mental connections though. Birdy was pretty obvious: despite the joshing, the crow incident was playing on Shannon’s mind. As for shelter: if it wasn’t for Ruby, likely the girls would be on the streets, sleeping rough, among other things.

  Ruby had come across the group last summer, literally bumped into Michelle in a pub one night, accidentally slopped cider down her Stones’ T-shirt. Superficially they had zilch in common. Then they got chatting . . . Michelle mainly. Episodes in her life gradually emerged, related without guile or self-pity. With a crack-addict single mother who could barely keep herself, Michelle had been taken into care. The system spat her out when she hit sixteen. By the time Ruby met her she lived in a squat with three mates who were in similarly homeless boats. They looked out for each other, just about got by, but life wasn’t exactly rosy. Gutsy Michelle had a mouth on her and had Ruby in stitches most of the night. For some inexplicable reason, despite the differences, they’d clicked. Intrigued, Ruby had asked to meet the others.

  A few months later, she’d helped find a place where they could stay without the threat of being turfed out. The scruffy end-terrace in Sparkbrook wasn’t much to write home about, furniture was mostly skip-chic, other people’s cast-offs. Make-do wallpaper came courtesy of Heat, OK, Closer: colour spreads of royals, soap stars, boy bands, C-list slebs. The day-glo display was enough to give Ruby a headache, but better than plaster and brickwork.

  She helped with the rent, pointed out jobs they could go for without Masters’ degrees. Lucky, given they didn’t boast a GCSE between them. For Ruby, the learning curve was steep, she’d never fended for herself, felt it was only right to put something back, helping the girls sort their lives for a start. Hauling herself up from the settee, Ruby joined the party on the floor.

  ‘Last slice going spare, Rube?’ Charlotte’s tiny eyes were almost lost in the doughy flesh of her face. She was patently hoping for a no. The morbid obesity saddened Ruby. Strip away the blubber and Charlie would be drop-dead gorgeous. She raised a palm to turn the offer down.

  ‘Hey, look! It’s got my name on it.’ Lily made a grab for the box. ‘’Sides, Charlie’s watching her weight.’

  ‘Someone’s got to,’ Michelle quipped.

  ‘Come on, give it a rest.’ Ruby reached for the bottle, wished niggling thoughts would take a break, too. The note was in her breast pocket, cheap lined paper rustled when she moved, now and then she felt it scratch against her skin. The words she knew by heart.

  should of been a canary

  next time, eh?

  Dead subtle. She’d bet bird man thought he was up there with Einstein, pity the grammar was shite. The message was clear though: he was accusing her of singing. Road kill crows were presumably easier to land than canaries. She’d assumed, too, the writer was a bloke. Had to be, didn’t it?’

  ‘Any idea who done it then?’ Gaze firmly fixed on Ruby, Charlotte casually popped in the last bite of pizza. Fat she might be, but not much got past her.

  Ruby had two ex-clients in mind and in the running. Maybe she’d put out feelers come Monday. ‘Tell you if I had, Charlie.’

  Pause, weighing it up. ‘Straight up?’

  ‘For sure.’ She smiled. ‘No worries.’ Except. The note per se wouldn’t lose Ruby any sleep. What bugged her now was the knowledge bird man had her addres
s and had made himself at home in her car. And, if his sign-off was meant to be taken literally, was confident of doing it again. She changed the subject, asked about boyfriends, night life, what they’d been getting up to. After ten minutes’ light chat, she drained her glass, got to her feet.

  Charlie glanced up. ‘Not off are you, Rube?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry chaps.’ The prospect should’ve hit her before: if the bastard had gained access to her motor . . . ‘I’d best get back.’

  Michelle rose. ‘I’ll see you out.’ In the narrow hall, she laid a hand on Ruby’s arm. ‘Sure you’re OK?’

  ‘You bet.’ She shucked into her coat, turned at the door. ‘I almost forgot. Amy’s keen to pop round again. Likes the company.’ Ruby winked. ‘God knows why.’ She’d introduced Amy Hemming to the group a few weeks back on the basis Michelle and the others could make decent role models. If they were turning their lives round, getting back on track, maybe Amy post-Jas Ram’s brutality would see a light at the end of the tunnel, too.

  ‘Sure, any time. She’s an OK kid. Been through a lot of shit.’

  ‘Not through it yet.’ She mentioned Amy’s tearful phone call, how she felt hounded by the press. ‘Bit of light relief with you lot’d do her the world.’ She hoisted her bag on her shoulder. ‘I’d best fly. Listen, if you guys need anything? Just let me know.’

  ‘I reckon it’s you who needs something, Ruby?’ She smiled. ‘A scarecrow, maybe?’

  FOURTEEN

  It doesn’t start with fear, you see. It starts with love. It starts with rides in flash cars, nice gifts, lots of compliments. The men are older, good-looking, charismatic, even. The girls are made to feel like princesses. They fall for it, of course. [MRS H’s FINGER TAPPING] They’re children really. They fall for the men – later they get hooked on the drink, the drugs. The really unlucky ones fall pregnant. [PIANO PLAYING IN BACKGROUND] It’s only later the fear kicks-in. [LONG PAUSE]