‘We?’
He shrugged. She assumed he was protecting a less experienced colleague. ‘Anyway I took another look. Being on the safe side and all that. Found the items in a Jiffy bag gaffer-taped to the far side. Either way it couldn’t have been there long. The adhesive was still tacky. Packaging not damp.’
‘Good thinking, great work.’ She smiled, nodded towards the door. Seen enough. Smelt enough. Cooper followed her out to the pavement, probably needed a breath of fresh air even more than her.
‘You about done here now?’ She started loosening the suit. Felt clammy despite the cold.
‘More or less. Rest of the team’s finishing up out back then we’ll call it a wrap.’ He pulled down the hood, finger-combed a shock of expensively tousled dirty blond hair. ‘Something bothering you?’
Was it so obvious? She shook her head. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘But . . .?’
‘Is there a chance the stuff actually wasn’t there yesterday?’
‘Hidden after we left, you mean?’ He arched an almost amused eyebrow.
‘I said it was nothing.’
‘I guess in theory it’s possible.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Just a vague notion.’ Difficult even for her to pin down. She frowned trying to think it through. ‘Thing is we suspect three gang members are still at large. If that’s a regular cache maybe they came back to use it.’
‘With police tape round the door? All the hoo-ha in the papers? You really think they’re that stupid?’
‘Yeah. You’re probably right.’ Except perps would have no way of knowing the search would resume today. Maybe imagined it was a dead clever move, going back to a place the police had already turned over.
‘Boss?’
Sarah turned, forgot Ben was a boss, too. She didn’t recognise the forensics officer, focused more on the evidence bag the young woman clutched in a blue gloved hand. The grey hoodie in it was torn and grubby. ‘I found it under a pile of logs out back. Whoever put it there probably planned on burning it.’ Smoothing the plastic, she pointed out a large liver-shaded patch that looked like a map of Africa. ‘I reckon this is blood.’ She cut Sarah a glance. ‘And there’s another one where this came from.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘How long before we get the results?’ No intro, no social niceties, oleaginous voice instantly recognizable.
‘We? Mr Ram?’ Ruby Wells glared at the mouthpiece, puckered her lips. If she’d talked the guy through drink-drive procedures once, she’d talked him through a thousand times. OK. Five. It seemed a lot more, seemed like he was always calling and, even at the end of a phone, she found Jas Ram’s manner insidious. Swivelling forward in her office chair, she reached for a bottle of water. ‘You should still have a note of the date you need to attend.’
He’d been bailed to appear at the station towards the end of February. He’d hear then if the urine sample was positive. If clear, the cops would cancel bail beforehand. End of. Ram knew all this. Knew, too, the police had no reason to contact her either way. So what was his game?
‘How’s about we make another date, Ruby?’ Ah, she thought, silly me. ‘Discuss tactics or . . . something?’
How’s about we don’t? ‘I really can’t see there’s anything to discuss, Mr Ram.’ Unscrewing the cap.
‘Really? I thought women like a good natter. Lot of birds I know have trouble keeping their trap shut.’
The bottle stilled halfway to her mouth. Was that an allusion to the unwanted gift on the windscreen? A subtle warning? A veiled threat? She kept her voice neutral. ‘Could be you deal with the wrong sort of birds, Mr Ram.’ Crows. Canaries. Under-age chicks. She heard traffic noise in the background. Wondered if he was driving, phone in hand. How great would that be? If the cops pulled him over? No doubt the law kept tabs on him. God, she was almost tempted to keep him on the line.
‘We could chat about that when we meet. You could put me right, Ruby.’
‘I very much doubt it.’ Personality transplant and total gene therapy would be the better bet. She took a swig of water, swilled her mouth, still had a nasty taste. A soft thud outside the window startled her. A pigeon had swooped onto the ledge. Should be used to birds landing there by now, but talk about ironic timing. She gave a wry smile, watched it waddle along, head bobbing. If it was pecking for crumbs, it’d go hungry.
‘OK. I admit it. I like you, Ruby. You’re my kinda girl.’ Face screwed, she mimed a finger down throat. ‘I’d like to get to know you better. Not a crime, is it?’
‘Tell you what . . . let’s meet for a drink.’ Get a few things straight. Ram didn’t scare her but if she didn’t nip the pestering in the bud it would only get worse. Last thing she needed was a stalker. Besides, she was curious. Wanted to find out – among other things – if and/or why he’d decorated her car with a dead crow. And what was the saying? Keep your friends close, enemies closer. But it would be on her terms. ‘Let me check my diary. I’ll get back.’
He was still whingeing when she hung up.
Friends? Ruby reached for a framed photograph on her desk: Michelle, Charlie, Lily, Shannon on a day trip to Blackpool. They’d commandeered some stranger on the beach to take the shot. It was all sunny smiles, Kiss Me Quick hats, ice cream and candy floss. Ruby found her lip curving too. Empowered and emancipated now, the four genuinely seemed to have put appalling pasts behind them.
Sighing, she replaced the pic. Images of four younger girls in the forefront of her mind: Ram’s victims. Dawn, Amy, Laura, Natasha had gone through a different kind of trauma, abuse. Weren’t out of the dark emotional woods yet. Could they be helped to move on, too? Would opening up to someone like Caroline King really be cathartic? They had the reporter’s number now, the ball was in their court. Amy was the only girl who hadn’t turned the offer down flat. Whatever course they chose, she’d back them. But in Ruby’s book, ultimate closure for all four would be seeing Ram sent down, knowing he’d be behind bars for years.
She flicked through her diary, settled on time and place, picked up the phone. Who knows? She might elicit more from Ram than he bargained for.
‘Let’s get this straight. You want a meet, and you’ll make it worth my while?’ Striding back to the Audi, phone clamped to her ear, Sarah seriously regretted taking the bloody call. She had bigger things to do than play word games with Caroline King. The reporter was trying not-so-clearly to cut some sort of deal. Seemed to Sarah like everyone – from Zach Wilde up – had a pack of cards these days. Not concentrating, she stepped in a stream of dog pee. ‘Yuk.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Make it snappy,’ she snarled, simultaneously working on a mental get-people-to-do list: chase press office, hassle pathologist, contact the credit card company, check Agnew.
‘Not now. Why don’t we do dinner, Sarah? Talk it through properly. On me, natch.’
On expenses, more like. As for the Sarah – King was clearly in full sycophant mode. Approaching the motor, she hand-signalled Harries to unlock the boot. ‘Give me a steer here, eh? Why’d I put myself out to talk to you?’ She struggled, extricating herself from the white suit was difficult enough with both hands free. No rush: King still hadn’t responded.
Eventually: ‘Jas Ram. I’m meeting him.’ Like it opened doors.
‘And?’ Sarah drawled. King didn’t call the shots, whatever she thought.
‘You make it look so easy, boss.’ A whisper from Harries who’d left the car to help Sarah slough off the suit. Soon as she was shot of it, she gave a cartoon simper, held a palm flat for the keys.
‘I can’t say too much . . . not . . . over the phone.’
What was this? A spy movie? Sarah shook her head. Who did King think she was playing – Modesty Blaise? ‘Look, I’m sorry – I don’t have time for this.’
‘Then make time, inspector.’ Snappy. No more Mrs Nice Spy. ‘You owe me a big favour.’
Sarah stiffened, the hand with the key
paused on the way to the ignition. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Like hell she did. Harries cut her a glance, clearly earwigging.
‘Your boss man. Baker. I’m told he stepped so far out of line, he hit the equator.’ King’s volume dipped when she delivered the ostensibly casual punchline. ‘Hit something anyway.’
Sarah tightened already taut lips. So her favourite friendly neighbourhood hack had spilled what he thought were truth beans to his best mate. King waited for a response. And waited. Seemingly undaunted, she took up the fairy story.
‘Yeah, I reckon Baker’s a lucky boy.’ The tone suggested a lot of nail admiring was going on at her end. ‘I can’t tell you how close he was – still is as a matter of fact – to finding himself splashed all over the front page. You could say I saved his bacon. Whoops.’ King gave a deliberately hollow laugh. ‘Pun not intended. So when I say favour . . .’
Sarah sat back, fingers tapping thigh, cut the reporter more verbal rope. She knew exactly where King was going with this. Shame the stupid woman had the wrong map.
‘Thing is, Sarah . . . I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him off? Goes way against the grain – a reporter sitting on an exclusive. Nat and I are close, but . . .’ Cards on the table then. Scratch my back and I’ll make sure the piece is spiked. King’s bargaining chip was more blackmail than bribery. Except of course . . .
‘Thing is, Caroline . . .’ She aped King’s tone and delivery. ‘As a matter of fact, Nat Hardy’s sitting on an exclusive pile of shite.’
‘Nice try. And looking out for the boss does you great cred—’
‘Don’t patronise me, Caroline. Your source is dodgy, the story past its sell-by. As a favour, I’ll tell you this: Baker’s in the clear, the evidence backs him, the suspect admits fabricating the allegation. But do urge Hardy to go ahead with his fiction.’ Her turn for a telling pause. ‘Make my day.’
Harries gave a thumbs up from the passenger seat. Sarah returned his smile. Royal flush or what?
‘OK you win.’ King’s capitulation came surprisingly quickly. ‘But what about Ram? I think I can get him to talk, Sarah.’
She read King’s verbal shorthand. Whatever Sarah thought of the woman personally, the reporter was a sharp operator, skilled interviewer. She couldn’t see King delivering Ram’s head on a plate, but she might elicit material the cops could take a look at. Against that, Ram was no easy target, it would be a bloody miracle if he dropped his guard. Take into account the fact he was a sleazy depraved thug, King could be on a hiding to nothing. A dangerous hiding to nothing.
‘He’s toxic, Caroline. Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?’
‘No. That’s why I’m asking for help. I need to pick your brain.’ Ram would be getting back, she told Sarah, but the meeting with him could be any time.
The DI chewed a pensive lip; King had been angling for this since the get-go. Doubtless the reporter had something else up her sleeve. Still, it could be worth playing along. Plus she’d need to eat later. ‘OK. I should be free around eight. I’ll meet you in the Queen’s Head.’ Cops’ local, Sarah’s work turf, the hack wouldn’t like it.
‘How about the—?’
‘That’s where I’ll be.’ She turned the ignition. ‘Take it or leave it.’
She’d take it.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Don’t push it, Dave.’ Sarah pulled up outside an unprepossessing terrace in Balsall Heath; Harries’ phone bashing outside the squat had come up with the not-a-million-miles-away-address. She cast the place a quick once-over, no obvious signs of life. But, then, the visit was on spec. There’d be zilch mileage in giving Wilde’s lady friend advance warning. Sarah had brought Harries up to speed on the squat scenario during the drive over. He’d fed the findings back to Paul Wood who’d make sure forensic irons were in the fire. Then Harries had started clearing professional air.
‘I’m not pushing, boss, just saying, is all.’
Despite the fact she’d grudgingly apologised for drenching him in the car park and reluctantly agreed assigning him squad room duty had been a gnat’s out of order, he’d just accused her of showing Jed Holmes preferential treatment that morning. She suspected Dave’s tongue was embedded in both cheeks. Either that or he was fishing for compliments.
‘It’s horses for courses, Dave. Nothing to do with favouritism.’
‘Oh, I see. So No Shit’s got a winning way with yobs, has he?’ His hand was on the door.
‘You’d be surprised.’ She recalled Jed’s lightning lunge across the desk. ‘What he can’t do is charm the birds from the trees.’ Masking a smile she made a sharp exit.
Harries was alongside fast. ‘Is that my area of expertise then, boss?’
She simply raised an eyebrow but his beam bordered on smug as he rapped the letterbox. Music was playing inside, maybe they hadn’t heard. ‘Once more with feeling, Dave.’
Music got louder, footsteps approached, door opened. Sarah almost asked the girl if her mother was in. But appearances can be deceptive, closer study suggested the small, slight blonde was late teens, certainly a few years older than a first glance suggested. Mind, she still looked to Sarah like a cross between Tinkerbell and Tenniel’s Alice. Her hair fell almost to her waist except for the stab at a mini beehive pinned more or less in place with knitting needles. The wardrobe was Helena Bonham Carter on benefits: scuffed pink pixie boots, humbug striped tights and a diaphanous lilac dress. Sarah cocked a cordial head, warrant card raised. ‘Michelle Keating?’
‘Who wants her?’ Staccato. Her eyes were the palest blue Sarah had ever seen. Almost like discs of ice. Her wary glance darted from Sarah to Dave, hadn’t even skimmed the ID.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn. My colleague here’s DC David Harries.’
‘Phew.’ Her heart-shaped face broke into a broad grin. ‘That’s all right then. For a minute there you had me worried.’
Relieved to find cops at the door? That was novel. Most householders ran a metaphorical marathon. Sarah slipped the card back in her pocket. ‘Worried?’
‘Yeah. Had you down as Mormons.’ Still smiling, she twisted a strand of hair through her fingers.
Sarah smiled back, waited for the invite.
Sudden narrowing of the eyes. ‘You’re not flogging anything are you?’
Dead horse by the sound of it. Was she dense or disingenuous? ‘I said we’re detectives. We’d like to come in.’
‘You can but I’m not Michelle.’
Go ahead. Waste my time. She stifled a sigh. ‘Is Michelle your sister?’
The seemingly artless grin again. ‘Don’t you think all women are sisters? Under the skin? What’s your name again, I didn’t catch it?’
You’re certainly getting under mine, love. ‘Quinn.’ And, no. I don’t. She’d come across women she wouldn’t want as long distance pen-pals let alone close relatives. But was the girl really into gender politics, the sisterhood and all that jazz? Or was she taking the Michael? Doing a clinging ivy on the door, she certainly didn’t look the part. Those pale eyes held the hint of a tease and the glance she cast over Harries wasn’t exactly withering.
‘Who’re you then, love?’ He tried his lopsided smile. It usually went down a treat.
‘Lily.’ She offered Dave a tiny hand. ‘Lily Maitland.’
Ding dong. Sarah’s eyes lit up. Harries clearly hadn’t dug far enough; his inquiries should’ve revealed Brody’s girl lived here, too. Still. One stone, two birds . . .
‘Stroke of luck, Lily.’ Dave nodded at the door. ‘Go in, shall we?’
Three of the room’s four walls were papered in magazine articles, glossy picture spreads. The bright budget chic tickled Sarah’s fancy, made her smile – until she registered the man mountain in front of the window. Stone me. Lost in thought or ignorant bugger? Staring out, presumably onto a back garden, his bulk blocked a good deal of daylight. The sludge-coloured trackie bottoms did Michelin Man no favours. The shapeless hoodie – in similar shade of shi
t – had Chicago Bulls emblazoned across the back. Sarah swallowed. Reckoned it was a safe bet lard arse didn’t play. He wasn’t big on people skills either.
She nudged Dave’s elbow, mouthed, ‘Here’s your big chance.’
Harries cleared his throat. Glanced at Sarah. ‘Hey, mate.’ Cleared it again. Bar the tapping of scruffy trainer on threadbare carpet the greeting had no effect. Sarah was part-way through counting the guy’s neck rolls when Lily breezed in fresh from euphemistically washing her hands. Had she gone to the loo or was it – as the DI suspected – hogwash?
Lily picked up the vibe soon as she entered. Standing close to Sarah, she placed loose fists on her boyish hips. ‘Hey, Charlie? Manners!’ Apart from the tapping toe, nothing. ‘Doh.’ Lily’s frown morphed into another grin, she sauntered to the window, tapped a shoulder you could ski down.
He executed a pretty nifty turn considering, simultaneously tugged on the white wires of telltale earphones. Even from the other side of the room, Sarah could hear the tinny leak from the iPod. His eyes lit up when he saw Lily. Sarah’s narrowed as she did a double take.
Even the ugly shaven head didn’t detract from the fact Charlie was female and not even the suet flesh could completely disguise her striking features.
‘Visitors, Charlie.’ Lily jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.
The glance was cursory and spot on. ‘The fuzz. What they doing here?’ Not hostile. Seemingly indifferent. She was certainly sharper than Miss Twinkle-toes. Maybe watched a lot of cop shows, or she’d had first-hand dealings with the law?
‘Is it so obvious?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yep. What do you want?’
‘Cuppa tea’d be good.’ Harries rubbed his hands, gave a boyish ice-breaking smile.
She sniffed. It certainly wasn’t his charm school offensive she bowed to. ‘Lil?’
‘Sure go ahead. They don’t want to speak to you anyway, hun. Just me and Mitch.’
Dying Bad Page 14