Dying Bad

by Maureen Carter

  ‘Perfect, DI Quinn. Cinder-sodding-rella.’

  ‘Never seen it before in me life.’ Why was he trembling then?

  ‘Another echo.’ Baker shook his head. ‘Need to get the acoustics sorted. Or you’re gonna have to change the record, Wilde.’

  ‘Read my lips, cop: it ain’t my gear.’

  ‘Read mine: Michelle Keating’s given a sworn statement identifying it as your property.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Even has a happy snap. You wearing it sitting outside some pub, having a fag. Might even have been that same fag that burned the sleeve? DI Quinn?’ Sarah helpfully pointed her pen at a small hole near the cuff. ‘Michelle recalls you being right racked off about that.’

  ‘OK. Lay off. It’s mine.’ He dropped his head in his hands. Result.

  Every interview has a pivotal moment: were they seconds away from a full confession?

  Sarah cut the chief a glance, saw the film of sweat across his top lip.

  ‘And the blood?’ Baker went for the metaphorical jugular. Wilde’s tapping foot overrode the sounds of the tapes. Five seconds. Ten. Scared of losing it, or playing for time? The chief gave a gentle nudge. ‘Well?’

  He looked up, ran both hands across his shaved head. ‘I dunno. Look, mister, it’s my hoodie but I ain’t set eyes on it in weeks. I left it somewhere, thought I lost it.’

  ‘Evidently not, Mr Wilde. I’ll tell you what you’ve lost.’ Baker’s cold civility sent a shiver down Sarah’s spine. ‘You’ve just waved goodbye to every shred of credibility.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Are we charging them then, chief?’ Sarah winced; a sip of coffee had scalded her tongue. Baker’s plate was barely visible under a mixed grill. She averted a hungry gaze. Have to grab a bite on the hoof. She needed to nip out, hoped the chief’s debrief wouldn’t take long. No reason it should. Leroy Brody’s interview had followed similar lines to Wilde’s. If anything Brody had capitulated quicker even though the hoodie Lily identified had no telltale burn, handy name tag, as if. He’d claimed ownership anyway, had no explanation for its recent whereabouts. But, like Wilde, flatly denied any knowledge of the murder.

  ‘We’ve got a few hours yet. I’m tempted to let them sweat. See what comes out.’

  Perspiration? She didn’t share. ‘Think they’ll cough? Ouch.’ She reached for more milk. Even with pretty solid forensics on the table, cops always favoured full taped confessions. A recorded mea culpa often eased cases past the crown prosecution people, could make a trial easier on victims and/or their families, sway juries and factor in the sentence meted out by the court. Confessions weren’t bulletproof, they were easy enough to withdraw. But PACE worked both ways. Defendants found it a damn sight harder to claim police threats, let alone fists, forced their hands. Wilde and Brody had yet to oblige with a full admission – so it was academic anyway – and as it stood, Sarah reckoned the evidence including forensic could be harder.

  ‘Don’t rightly care.’ He was having trouble squirting the ketchup. ‘Case against is solid enough.’ Bit more dirty linen packed in wouldn’t hurt. She kept shtum, stirred the coffee. ‘I can see you’ve got a poker up your ass, Quinn. Come on, spit it out.’

  She swallowed, so didn’t want that image in her head. ‘I’m not really sure, chief, it’s just—’

  ‘Feminine intuition? Don’t say it, Quinn. They’re going down. Bang to bloody rights.’ Like the ketchup, she watched as he dabbed a blob off his shirt.

  ‘I know that.’ Blowing on the coffee. ‘I guess I’d be happier if we could flush the others out, put a bit of flesh on the thing.’ It seemed more and more to her that Wilde and Brody were only part of the story. She could, just, get her head round the honour-among-thieves concept. But with murder in the equation? That surely upped the stakes? As cops, they obviously couldn’t offer the youths a deal, but hints dropped by Baker had been heavier than a lead coffin. ‘Wouldn’t you think they’d want to spread the blame, chief?’

  ‘Are you back on the naïve pills, Quinn?’ He took a slurp of tea. ‘Besides, we only have it on hearsay there’s anyone else involved. And if there are more bad boys skulking round out there, d’you really think Wilde and Brody are gonna drop mates in the shit? Get real, woman.’

  She shrugged. He was entitled to an opinion, didn’t mean he was right. Didn’t stop him trying to convince her otherwise either. At knifepoint, given the way he was jabbing his eating iron. ‘There’s an old saying, Quinn, about birds and bushes. Well, seems to me we’re holding two cocks by the short and curlies. So what’s your grouse?’

  God he was milking the avian line. She tried hard not to roll her eyes. What they could really do with were results from the labs, a blood match with the murder victim and/or Foster-Fielding would mean a case so tight David Blaine would have trouble wriggling out.

  ‘OK, OK, Quinn, I get it.’ She raised an eyebrow, hadn’t said a word. ‘Call the labs. Get ’em to fast-track the results. Break the sodding budgets.’

  She masked a smile. Telepathic, eyes in the back of his head, Rhinestone Cowboy, was there no end to the man’s talents? ‘Cheers, chief. You know it makes—’

  ‘Say sense, Quinn, and I change my mind.’

  She so hoped not. It was more than twenty-four hours since she’d put a rocket up the lab’s backside.

  ‘The stupid woman can’t just change her mind.’ Sarah held open the driver’s door as she stared up at Harries who was gazing down from the squad room window. He’d spotted her crossing the car park and caught her on the phone.

  ‘Well she has, and she won’t.’ Harries shrugged. Talk about good news, bad news, no news. Patricia Malone had finally surfaced but no longer wanted to talk to the police. She’d arrived at the fire-damaged house a short time ago, refused to cooperate with the uniformed officer posted outside. Ideally, he’d have driven her to the nick so she could help police inquiries. As for no news: Beth Lally and Jed Holmes had so far drawn a blank at Harborne. A few house-to-house inquiries needed mopping up, but that would have to wait until owners got back from work. ‘She just won’t budge, boss. And another thing – report just in says the fire wasn’t arson, a chip pan had been left on a low burner.’

  Another theory bites the dust? ‘Where is she now?’ Sarah tapped a foot. If she’s disappeared again . . .

  ‘Gone back to the friend she was visiting before the fire. It’s why she wasn’t around last night.’ DC Einstein. Sarah’s foot was doing a Wilde. ‘See, this friend took ill and—’

  ‘Not what I asked.’ Curt. Even from where she stood she saw him bristle.

  ‘Bartley Green. Reservoir Road.’

  ‘I take it the house has a number?’ The civil tone belied the snide intent. What was wrong with the bloody guy?

  ‘I don’t think it’ll do any good, boss.’

  ‘What’s the frigging number?’ He’d have heard that without the phone. The holler had sent a magpie flying off the wall, yacking nineteen to the dozen. One for sorrow? Would it count double if she crossed her eyes?

  ‘Sixty-seven.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry, Dave.’ She took a deep breath. Hardly his fault Malone was pissing them round. Sarah couldn’t explain even to herself why she’d invested so much in what one woman might have to say, it was a hell of a lot riding on someone who could turn out to be a flake. ‘Fancy meeting me there?’ She checked her watch: half-two. ‘Say around four?’

  ‘Sure thing boss.’ He gave a thumb’s up from the window. She was forgiven then. ‘Where you heading now?’

  ‘Visiting the sick.’ On a mercy make-up mission. ‘Seeing your ex.’

  ‘Below the belt and then some, boss.’ He raised a wry eyebrow. He ought to know it was a wind-up. If anything convinced her Dave no longer held a torch for the reporter, it was his muted reaction when she’d told him about the attack. Sure he’d shown interest, but not the impassioned concern of someone who wanted to get into King’s pants.

  ‘Later.’ She threw him a smile.
‘Actually, Dave, hold on a min. Did Patricia Malone say why she wouldn’t talk?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently it was about the only thing she did come out with. She said it was wrong to talk ill of the dead.’

  The hinges on King’s front door had the loudest creak Sarah had ever heard. Though the nervous tingle she felt entering the modest semi had nothing to do with the Hammer Horror sound track, more the weird sensation she shouldn’t really be there. Like she was a cat burglar or something. The concept was absurd given the list of items in her hand and King’s specific instructions in her head where to locate them. Maybe the temptation to carry out a little extra-curricular snooping had brought on the fanciful notion about breaking and entering. Even though they’d known each other getting on for twelve years, she’d never set foot in any of the reporter’s homes. No great surprise, she supposed. They’d socialised occasionally early on but were hardly bosom buddies. But there was a saying about gift horses – make that hacks – and mouths. Cops learned a lot about people, seeing the way they live, what books they read, music they like. Any insight she might pick up here would be trespassing into King’s personal space not private property. A thought crime then? Sarah curved a lip. No way, given that at King’s request, she’d be rifling her knicker drawer in a minute.

  Gasping for a drink, she headed for the kitchen first. The spare BlackBerry should be on top of the dresser and if there was a microwave, her pasty could be zapping while she rummaged round finding the rest of the bits and bobs. Bingo times two. Phone located and ping-cuisine. Timer on the microwave set, she ran the cold tap, eyed the mess as she slaked her thirst. A plate in the sink held a solitary bean, a sliced white loaf lay open on top of the bread bin, surfaces were cluttered, cupboards ajar. King was no closet Delia harbouring desires to clean up on the domestic front. Sarah could live with that, she’d eat out every night and rather take collars than iron them any day.

  The sitting room was off piste but she popped her head round the door. It was lava lamps meets Laura Ashley with an ailing orchid in the far corner. She seemed to recall Caroline had inherited the house when her mother died some months back. Either the reporter had gone for the retro look or Momma King had been stuck in a time warp. A couple of Dulux brochures splayed on a corduroy bean bag more or less answered the point. Would Sarah’s place resemble as much of a tip if she didn’t have a cleaner? Oh yes? One question she couldn’t answer: was Caroline intending to tart up the house prior to putting it on the market, or wanted it looking good because she planned on using it more. Surely she wasn’t thinking of moving back to Birmingham? As if. She shook her head, dismissed the thought.

  Standing in the bathroom, she gave a low whistle; she’d seen beauty counters with fewer products. Shelf after glass shelf was lined with bottles, canisters, tubes; porcelain containers held blusher brushes, cotton wool, tweezers, scissors, shavers, hair brushes, combs; refills and overspill crammed a three-drawer trolley. Looking like King must cost a small fortune. She could certainly check if she was worth it: Mirror, mirror on the wall? Every sodding wall. Sarah sniffed. The make-up wasn’t even in here. She shook her head, bagged toiletries and electric toothbrush, took off for the bedroom muttering, ‘Who’s the fairest . . .’

  She half expected animal prints and scarlet satin sheets so wasn’t surprised, a little disappointed at the predictability perhaps. The slap had its own vanity case, she grabbed it then padded across the room, vaguely musing whether Dave had savoured the delights of the king-size? Probably best not to go there. She opened the top drawer of the oak tallboy, found the ivory lace knickers, had a nose at the label: size eight. Damn. The silk nightie was under the pillow along with a Kindle. So far so . . . She raised an eyebrow, bet Caroline had forgotten she’d left the vibrator there. Moving on . . .

  The office down the landing looked as if a bomb had hit it, freezing, too. If the tidy-desk-tidy-mind maxim held true, King’s head must be a right shambles. Sarah picked her way across a carpet littered with newspapers and magazines to a desk covered in files and loose papers. She lifted some of the clutter, still couldn’t see the laptop. King had been spot-on up to now. Frowning, she shuffled more paperwork – nada, no voice recorder either. A bit of daylight might help. She turned, snapped the blind. Oh shit. The circular hole in the window was the neatest thing in the room, the glass expertly cut and removed. No wonder the room was like a fridge. Shivering she looked out, somehow doubting the burglar would have left footprints. Looked like a professional job to her. Was King’s attack part and parcel of the break-in, or mere coincidence? Startled, she jumped when the microwave pinged. Nowhere near as much as when she felt an arm lock round her throat.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Stay exactly where you are.’ Boozy breath on her cheek, menacing hiss in her ear. Voice faintly familiar? No time to pursue the suspicion. In the fight or flight stakes, fleeing was out. Adrenalin flooded her body, zinged in her veins, the rush more tsunami than tidal. Heart pounded ribs, blood whooshed in both ears. She so should have realised the potential danger. Almost instantly, her training kicked-in; she jerked a knee forward, kicked back, rammed her heel hard against the bastard’s shin.

  He screamed, buckled, lost the grip. ‘Fuck you do that for?’

  Spinning round, fist raised, breath coming fast and shallow, Sarah registered who it was even before seeing Hardy crouched over, gingerly fingering already reddening skin. ‘If you ever try a trick like that again—’

  ‘You’ll what?’ He cut her a pained glance, bloodshot eyes watering. ‘Smash my head in. Beat me senseless? Passed the police brutality course with flying colours, did you, DI Quinn?’ Verbal attack best form of defence? Or was he hacked off at being brought to his knees?

  ‘Police brute . . .’ Her mouth gaped. Un-sodding-believable. ‘You know me for fuck’s sake. What the hell did you think you were doing?’ He was lucky she’d not aimed higher.

  ‘As far as I was concerned, you were a burglar about to leg it through that.’ He tilted his head at the window, presumably so she wouldn’t catch the fleeting sly grin. She had. And the stubble, and sheen of sweat. Suit looked as if he’d slept in it.

  Eyes narrowed, she crossed her arms. ‘Total bollocks. You knew it was me. And you knew exactly what you were doing. I want to know why?’ Frigging joker. Did he see it as some sort of puerile payback for their past crossed swords? A role reversal where he came out on top for a change? Or had he fancied a sleazy game of cop and robber? Bloody weirdo.

  ‘Fair dos. I got it wrong.’ Standing, staggering slightly, he brushed the fringe out of his eyes, ran his gaze up and down her body. ‘I see now I caught you in the middle of a police raid.’

  ‘Police raid?’ She took a deep breath, cautioned herself not to get wound up. Patently, he was pissed as a fart factory. She told him why she was there. Caroline’s attack was apparently news to the reporter. Toeing the carpet, head down, he put her in mind of a sulky schoolboy. And she still didn’t know what game he’d been playing. He must have known it was her. She’d probably called it right a minute ago: it was a lame trick.

  ‘I hear what you say, inspector. But it wouldn’t be the first time your lot raided a journalist’s house, took away files and computers, would it? That’s when you get the right address, of course.’

  ‘Hardy.’ She took a step towards him, held finger and thumb tight inches from his face. ‘You are this close to me running you in for assault.’

  ‘Yeah and that’s another thing.’ Like she hadn’t spoken. ‘You say I knew it was you. But you had your back to me. And it all happened so fast. I get home, see a man in black by the window, assume he’s Burglar Bill – and boom. Mistaken identity, your honour. I rest my case.’ Hardy’s fairy stories were all over the place, he clearly liked his latest spin. But his lopsided smile fell flat when he saw her face.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’ He drew his brows together.

  ‘When exactly did you get home?’

  ‘Just now.�
�� Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the hall.

  ‘You’re a liar.’ Even if the front door didn’t sound like something out of Dracula’s castle, Sarah’s hearing was acuter than a colony of bats. ‘You were here all the time.’ More than that, she’d bet he’d deliberately crept into the office to scare the pants off her. He was torn, she could see that. Chewing his bottom lip, he couldn’t maintain eye contact. Either he’d come clean or keep up the façade. If he lied again, he was a gnat’s eyelash from being taken in for questioning.

  ‘You’re right.’ He raised both hands in surrender. ‘I saw you . . . I thought it’d be a bit of a lark. It was stupid and I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re nicked, Hardy.’ Not. She couldn’t be arsed but she’d never seen anyone sober up so fast in her life.

  Panic-stricken eyes searched her face, trembling hands reached out in appeal. ‘Honest to God, I was only playing the fool, I’d never have hurt you, wouldn’t hurt anyone. Please believe me. I could lose my job over this.’

  ‘I should care why?’ She slipped a hand in her pocket.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t owe me any favours.’

  ‘Got that right.’

  ‘I was supposed to be in London. I called in sick.’

  ‘Sick? Got that right, too.’

  ‘Please, inspector. I’d been on a bender. I was out of it. Sometimes, the pressure . . .’

  Superman? How wrong can you be? Lip curled, she raised a palm then pointed to the stairs.

  ‘Please, Sarah, I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Kitchen. Pronto. And it’s DI Quinn to you.’ Sodding pasty was probably cold by now. She ate it leaning against the sink listening to Hardy’s whines. It took five minutes to elicit that he’d crawled back to the house around eight a.m., stumbled into bed in a drunken stupor. He told her the place could have been raided by the SAS and he wouldn’t have heard a thing. Sarah’s arrival seven hours later had finally penetrated his alcoholic fog.