Dying Bad

by Maureen Carter

  Charlie stared at the girl for a few seconds, nodded. ‘Cool. Shout if you need me.’ She shuffled past plugging in the earphones. They’d need a megaphone then.

  ‘Have a seat.’ That grin again. ‘Or should I say the seat.’

  The settee had seen better days. Avoiding the lumps, Sarah and Harries sat side by side. Lily bagged a rug, made the lotus position look like a doddle. Sarah, who could never manoeuvre both legs into place, reckoned the girl must be double jointed. God knows what Harries thought, he clearly needed more time assessing. If it was Lily’s idea of a distraction tactic, it wouldn’t work.

  ‘Leroy Brody.’ Sarah nudged Dave’s elbow, mimed writing. ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by “known”?’ She selected another strand of hair to play with.

  Playing silly buggers, too. And for time. Sarah stifled a sigh. Answering a question with another was a classic delaying tactic. She could almost see the girl coming up with a good wheeze. She opened her mouth to clarify but . . .

  ‘Known as in met – couple a years.’ She let the hair fall, made – and kept – eye contact with Sarah. ‘Known as in go out with – six months. Seven, maybe. Why?’

  Pass a slice of humble pie. Talk about misread signals. She smiled. ‘We can get on to that. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ Harries made notes while Lily talked them through the relationship. She’d met Brody in a pub, the Fighting Cocks in Moseley if she remembered right, they were both with friends and though they’d swapped numbers, apart from bumping into him a couple of times in the street, they’d not taken it further until last July, maybe August. He rang inviting her to some party, they’d talked, had enough in common to get on, started seeing a bit more of each other. He wasn’t ‘the one’ or anything, they didn’t hang out that often and she certainly hadn’t slept with him, but she liked him, he made her laugh, he was sound. ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘What about his mates? Zach Wilde and the others. Do you see them, too?’

  ‘Zach now and again. Him and Mitch used to go round quite a bit.’

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘Not my baby.’ She raised a palm then quickly tugged a sleeve that had fallen down her stick-thin arm; the milky skin was a network of tiny silver scars. ‘Ask Mitch.’

  I will. ‘I’m useless with names.’ Sarah flashed a thin smile. ‘Remind me who the others are.’

  ‘Trying to think who you mean.’ She chewed her lip, shook her head. ‘Nah. Can’t really say I’ve noticed anyone.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Can’t you tell me what this is about?’ She appealed to Harries as if he might be a softer touch. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble? It’s not like I owe him and if he is . . . surely I need to know?’

  ‘Bear with us a minute, Lily,’ Sarah said. ‘You say you don’t hang out that often?’ She glanced at Harries who was already rifling his notebook. ‘There’s a few dates.’ She dropped her gaze to the page. Brody had supplied six nights he’d spent with the girl, not just those of the attacks. Sarah reeled them off including last Wednesday and Friday. ‘Leroy says you and he were together. Is that how you remember it?’

  ‘I don’t need to remember.’ She rose in one fluid movement, dashed out, calling, ‘Back in a min.’

  Sarah and Harries synchronised shrugs. Another comfort break? Couldn’t be, the door opened within seconds.

  ‘Where’s Lil?’ Charlie’s piggy eyes scanned the room as she shuffled in, clutching two thick white mugs. It was almost comical, like they’d sold Lily into slavery or something.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Harries said. ‘We’ve not . . . Ow!’ Sarah removed her foot from his.

  ‘She nipped to the loo, I think, Charlie.’ Standing, she relieved the girl of the drinks. ‘Is this your home, too?’ Warm smile.

  ‘Nah. I broke in. Course it is.’ Fuck’s it to do with you was written over her face.

  ‘Nice place.’ Bit of a dive, as it happened, but hey . . . ‘Lived here long?’ She sat back on the settee, handed Harries tea that looked like wood seal.

  ‘Look, lady. I don’t do small talk.’ She ran a hand over her scalp. ‘If you’ve got something worth ask—’

  ‘Leroy Brody. Do you know him?’

  She rolled saliva round her tongue, like she was ready to spit.

  ‘Told you I didn’t have to remember, didn’t I?’ Lily pranced back, brandishing a diary. The fluffy pink leopard print cover said a lot. She glanced up, clocked Charlie, glanced at Sarah. ‘Did I miss something?’

  ‘She was asking about Leroy Brody.’

  ‘And?’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know the dude, do I? I’m off. Later, Lil.’ The girl didn’t just know Brody, she loathed him. And if she’d misread that, Sarah reckoned she’d best look for another job. She let it go for now, Charlie was almost at the door anyway.

  ‘Don’t mind, her. She’s not keen on . . . strangers.’ Lily resumed the lotus position, diary on lap. ‘Right, those dates.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Liar, liar. Pants on fire then?’ Harries was driving like an octogenarian, on slow juice. Sarah had asked him to take the wheel of her Audi. The offer didn’t come along that often, he’d grabbed it with both hands. Boy racer wasn’t living up to his billing. Visualising the work piling up back at the nick, she almost wished he’d step on the gas. ‘You on the same page as me, boss?’

  Mouth twisted, she averted her glance from the speedo, reached in a coat pocket for a tissue. ‘More like Lily’s pages plural but I get the drift. And, yes, it sure looks that way.’ Lily’s cross-checking of the dates had resulted in four big yeses confirming she and Brody had been getting it together. But whatever Leroy Brody had been up to late on January 11 and 13 it hadn’t been with Lily Maitland. Adrian Mole had nothing on Lily. Lily Maitland aged eighteen and three-quarters seemed compelled to record every detail of her not so hectic highlife. She’d let Sarah read some of the entries and according to the gushing pronunciations, she’d spent both nights at home drinking plonk, scarfing pizza and watching chick-flick DVDs. With Michelle, Charlie and a fourth housemate.

  Which meant Zach Wilde’s putative alibi had gone down the deep-pan pizza pan. They’d need to confirm everything with Michelle of course and check the girls’ stories far as they could. But why would Lily make it up? Sarah could see why she might lie to get Brody out of the shit but not to dump him in it up to the ear lobes.

  Harries slowed to let a 2CV join the traffic. Not that the line was moving much. ‘She was dead helpful, I thought.’

  ‘You would.’ She sniffed, glanced through her window. The mutual ogling had got up her nose from the start.

  ‘Meaning?’ He knew damn well what she meant.

  She shook her head, hit Baker’s speed dial number – again. She’d already called for an update; Huntie didn’t know where the chief was hiding either. He’d set her mind at rest about the news release though. Details on the squat findings had already gone out and a couple of local reporters had put in interview requests.

  ‘And that’s another thing – why stamp on my foot?’

  ‘It was about to go in your mouth.’ Sarah suspected any smart arse remarks about Lily would have gone down like a concrete dinghy, effectively zipping Charlie’s lips. Not that she’d let anything slip, but when asked about Brody the body language had been big. Sarah grimaced at the mental pun then glared at the phone. Where the heck was he? She drummed fingers on thigh, had a bunch to do before the brief. Rush hour traffic was a pain, and rain had just started spitting. ‘Surely you picked up how protective she is, Dave? She followed Lily round with her eyes? Hung on her every word? Mother Bear wasn’t in it.’

  He turned his mouth down. ‘Dunno about bears. Lily was more Goldi—’

  ‘Enough already.’ She flapped a hand. Charlie’s hero worship could explain her aversion to Brody though. There was no love lost there.

  ‘Maybe she fancies Lily?’ Sarah’s withering look di
dn’t stop Harries warming to the theme. ‘Women get crushes, don’t they?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘In your wet dreams, detective.’

  ‘Yeah you’re right. If Momma Bear had a crush, it’d be curtains all round.’

  ‘Bee-itch.’ She bridled a touch on Charlie’s behalf. Dave didn’t normally go in for personal remarks and certainly not sexist. ‘What’s her size got to do with anything?’ Let alone the case. If he didn’t stop blathering, she’d never get her head round it.

  ‘Sorry, boss. But what a state to get in, carrying all that weight can’t be healthy.’

  ‘Lily’s scars weren’t either.’ They were old, long since healed, but the girl had obviously had problems.

  ‘Can’t say I noticed, boss.’

  ‘Wasn’t her arms you were looking at, Dave.’ As for Charlotte, God knows why, but Sarah felt a sliver of sympathy for the young woman. ‘There could be good reason why Charlie’s so big, Dave.’

  ‘Eating all the pies’d do it. And the cakes. And the . . .’

  ‘I get the picture.’ She closed her eyes, laced her fingers, leaned her head on the rest. Hoped Harries would get the message.

  CU DNBL8 Caroline grimaced as she deleted the text. What was so tough about typing: See you. Don’t be late. She slipped the phone on the bottom stair, slung her coat on the banister, marched to the kitchen, mouth like a desert. Maybe textese was a generational thing. Kid-speak. Lazysod-speak more like. The reporter couldn’t be doing with it, her every message a grammatically correct, properly punctuated, cleverly crafted missive-ette. Bottom line, top line, every line had to be about communication. And Amy’s first string of initials had been virtually indecipherable. Caroline had read it – tried anyway – in the car twenty minutes ago, put through a call instead. The girl wanted a meet to test the waters before deciding whether to commit to an in-depth interview.

  Caroline grabbed Evian from the fridge, raised it in silent toast. Thanks Ruby. I owe you. She’d maybe celebrate with a proper drink this evening. If Quinn was in expansive mood as well, she’d even make it a double. But that was counting chickens territory. Amy came first in the pecking order. And getting her to talk openly was by no means a done deal.

  God, she was thirsty. She drank half the contents, ran the back of her hand over her lips. She had a sneaking suspicion she’d end up paying the girl, too. Amy hadn’t come right out and asked for moolah, but the hints couldn’t have been heavier. How much is it worth? was pretty unambivalent. Caroline sniffed. Max Clifford had a lot to answer for. The world and its aunt was media savvy nowadays.

  Snatching the phone, she took the stairs two at a time. Tape recorder and transcript still lay on the desk where she’d abandoned them the other night. Sitting down, she ran through her notes, refreshed her memory, prepared to tackle the rest of the tape. She’d need to keep Amy on track this evening, couldn’t afford to keep ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ Quinn twiddling her thumbs. Shouldn’t be a problem. The girl’s proposed venue was a playground a stone’s throw from the Hemming pad in Harborne. With the best will in the world it’d be a damn sight too parky to hang around. With a bit of luck she’d make it to the Queen’s Head before Quinn. Give herself a head start, as it were. Mind, she needed to finish her homework first.

  Pen in mouth, she cued the tape, hit play . . .

  ‘Of course I didn’t judge her. I still don’t. How could I? Amy’s my baby, my little girl. She always will be. If I blamed anyone it was myself. Why hadn’t I protected her? Why hadn’t I questioned her more about where she was going, who she was seeing, what she was up to. I’d ask myself how could I possibly not have known what was happening? More realistically, how could I possibly have known? Not for one second did the truth occur to me. Why would it? Something so far removed from our lives? From normal existence? How could I even suspect that virtually every time she went out, my child was being repeatedly raped by men old enough to be her father, her grandfather?

  ‘It was worse for Ian, my . . . husband. Being the only girl, Amy was the apple of her daddy’s eye. Is the apple of his eye. I’m sorry, it’s so easy to slip into the past tense talking about what happened. In a way, you see, so much of our lives is . . . over.

  ‘To go back, when Ian found out what those . . . animals . . . had done to her, a part of him died. And another part of him wanted to kill. I saw it. You know how they say when someone hears bad news they crumple? I’d never seen it before but that’s what Ian did. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. I thought . . .

  ‘I swear he aged ten years in two minutes. In Ian’s eyes he’d failed, you see. It was his job to look after his precious princess.

  ‘I know what Ian thinks, but . . . I don’t blame him. And you know what? I don’t blame myself any more. I know exactly who’s to blame for violating my daughter, ruining her childhood, potentially wrecking the rest of her life. And I hate every cell of . . .’

  Shit. Caroline stopped the tape, answered the phone.

  ‘I can give you an hour tonight, Caroline.’

  Give? She very much doubted Jas Ram was into the free economy. ‘What time?’

  ‘Grab a pen. And listen up.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sarah wrote the word again, added a question mark, underscored it, stared at her efforts, willed enlightenment. ‘Bod? What’s it mean?’ Tapping her lip, she spoke quietly, almost to herself. Richard Patten leaned back in the chair opposite, desert boot resting on denim-clad knee.

  ‘Devil if I know, Sarah. Bodies are my territory.’ The pathologist’s appearance in her office was rare. Good though it was to see him, he’d brought more questions than answers. And the pack of chocolate Hobnobs they’d almost polished off between them. She suspected the personal touch was to compensate for what he saw as a professional, if not error, then oversight. He’d already apologised for not spotting it sooner. Bod had been written in blue ink on the upper arm of the Chambers Row murder victim.

  ‘The lettering’s small and if it registered earlier at all I just assumed it was part of the design.’ He took a sip or two of coffee, kept his gaze on her over the rim of his Styrofoam cup.

  Nodding, she laid down the pen, recalled the body on the slab, virtually covered in lurid tattoos. If it was Richard’s failing, it was hers too. ‘But you took a closer look this afternoon?’

  ‘I’ll not lie to you, it was more luck than judgement, Sarah. We needed to move the body.’ He flicked a dog hair off the hem of his jeans. For the first time she clocked he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. ‘I just happened to notice the slightly different colouring. Then I took a closer look. Even then, I read it first as dad. Probably ’cause there’s an ever so tasteful “Mum 4 ever” lower down the arm. “For” written as a number, can you believe?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway . . . dad seemed odd given the nature of the tattoo.’

  ‘A bird, you said?’ Frowning, she crossed her legs. Needed to keep an eye on the time. Brief o’clock was fast approaching.

  ‘Ye-es. A bird, Jim, but not as we know it.’ He waggled an eyebrow. ‘Apologies to Spock.’

  ‘Spock never said that line anyway.’ She smiled. ‘He’s always misquoted.’

  ‘Like, “Beam me up, Scotty.” No one said that either.’ He hunched forward, elbows on knees. ‘You’re not a closet Trekkie too, are you?’

  Patten was a Trekkie? She masked a cross between disappointment and amusement, not difficult. ‘This bird . . .’ Reached for a can of Red Bull.

  ‘Right, sorry, yes. It’s grotesque. Think Edvard Munch’s take on a Quentin Blake phoenix. You know, mythical creature, long tail . . .’

  Rises from the ashes. Yeah, yeah. She raised a palm. ‘Can you get me pics? I need to see the word blown up.’

  ‘Already in hand. I just popped by so you’d be the second to know what I’d found.’ The skin crinkled at the corner of his eyes. ‘I wish I’d come through with it sooner.’

  Whatever ‘it’ is. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Rich. It may not figure ei
ther way. ’Til we find out what it means, we won’t know.’ She wondered vaguely why he hadn’t just put in a call.

  ‘Until you find out, detective.’ He drained the cup, tossed it in the bin, sprang to his feet. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  She curved a lip. ‘It was coffee.’

  ‘God, my day’s just packed with insight, isn’t it?’ Rueful mouth turned down, he tapped a salute. ‘See you round.’

  She smiled. Patten was the only man she knew with a legible wardrobe. Tiny white writing on the back of today’s black T-shirt read: I see dead pixels.

  ‘Rich?’ Struck by a totally unrelated thought.

  He turned at the door, bowed his head, mock servile. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Could he have written it on himself?’

  His brown eyes narrowed fractionally as he gave it some thought. ‘In theory, I guess. It’s on his left arm. Most people are right handed. I need to have another look at the angle of the writing. I’ll get back to you. Is it important? I mean, Sarah, even if he could, why the hell would he want to?’

  Aye therein lies the rub. She couldn’t put it better herself.

  ‘Why the hell would who not want to do what? See you, general.’ Baker breezed in, helped himself to a couple of biscuits. Glancing over his shoulder, Sarah realised General Patten – nickname long bestowed by Baker – had beat a hasty retreat. ‘I’m putting a biccie behind me ear. Man has to keep up his strength, you know.’

  Stifling a sigh, she walked round the desk, closed the door after him. ‘Where’ve you been, chief?’

  ‘I had an appointment.’ The tone brooked no argument. When she looked round, he’d helped himself to her seat, too. ‘Go on then –’ licking chocolate from a finger – ‘what was the general pontificating about?’

  Arms folded, she walked to the window, perched on the sill, related what Patten had found. ‘He was answering a hypothetical question. I’d asked if the guy could have written it on himself. Rich came back with why the hell would he want to.’

  ‘Misses the point big time.’ Baker sniffed. ‘Question that needs asking’s – why would anyone want to?’