‘Lingham was out on licence.’ Shuffling forward, she lowered her voice. ‘His parole officer hadn’t seen him for three weeks. And I tell you this, Dave . . . Lingham’s been dead longer than a few days.’ She rattled off the names simultaneously lining up the salt shaker, vinegar bottle and ketchup. ‘Foster. Frank Gibbs. Barry Lingham. They’re child molesters, deviants and they’ve been targeted and taken out.’
He nodded, but the downturned mouth suggested two minds. ‘And Duncan Agnew?’
‘I know, I know.’ Agnew didn’t fit the pattern. She flopped back in the cheap vinyl chair, pushed the bowl to one side. The caff down the road from the church was convenient not haute cuisine. She’d not even tasted the vegetable soup. She was too wired, too edgy, sensed the case could be about to break wide open. Richard Patten was still at the crime scene, she’d left after wresting a promise he’d do the PM soon as. Given the body’s state, he wouldn’t speculate on the cause of death. Forget her pension, she’d bet Baker’s it wasn’t natural. The chief? She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. He was up to speed, just not on the same page. She’d put in a call but whether what she said actually got through was debatable. He couldn’t see how the development affected Wayne and Brody’s position. Way she saw it the robbery motive was shot to shit.
She glanced across the table. Dave was shovelling in double egg and chips. No appetite loss there. Neither had mentioned the earlier spat and he’d dropped the ma’am business. He was too good a cop to let personal stuff get in the way. They both were. Fact he wasn’t jumping up and down, sharing her conviction wasn’t a problem. A yes man was the last thing she needed. He was more than a sounding board, she valued his take.
‘Thing is, Dave, we know Brody and Wilde were in care but they swear blind no one ever laid a finger on them. Why would they be wasting paedos?’
He paused, fork halfway to mouth. ‘Maybe they were acting for kids they were in the system with? Y’know, younger kids. Victims who wouldn’t or couldn’t fight back?’
She cocked a scathing eyebrow. ‘What? Like caped crusaders. Balsall Heath’s answer to Batman and Robin?’
‘Yeah, OK.’ He curved a lip. ‘Now you come to mention it.’
Two cerebrally-challenged losers like Wilde and Brody couldn’t orchestrate something so complex. And as for altruism, they wouldn’t know how to spell it let alone show it. ‘No. My head tells me it’s personal. It has to be.’ She’d called the incident room already, half the squad was now working the angle, interviewing staff at the homes, chasing kids who’d spent time there, personnel who’d moved on. ‘They’re marking out the bad guys, Dave, branding them.’
‘Yeah, boss. But who’s “they”?’
FORTY-FOUR
Post late brief, they were no nearer an answer to Dave’s question. The task of tracing people with links to five children’s homes over a ten-year period made Hercules’ labours look like a Saturday job in a sweet shop. The squad had barely scratched the surface. Even when inquiries were completed, there was no guarantee they’d uncover the full picture.
The more Sarah thought about it the more convinced she was that Brody and Wilde were only part of it. That they couldn’t have acted alone. The youths’ mugshots lay on her desk. Holding one in each hand, she studied them closer. In her view they just didn’t have the mental capacity to plan serial attacks, execute them, maybe. They could certainly provide the brawn. But where was the brain?
And why was she still here? She’d only dropped by to collect her bag and coat, half an hour later she was still collecting thoughts. Straightening, she rolled her shoulders, her neck muscles were in knots. If Dave had taken up her offer of a swift half, they’d be relaxing in the pub by now, could’ve gone on somewhere to eat. Last she’d seen he was bashing phones in the squad room. She sighed. Maybe she’d pissed him off more than she realised. It wasn’t like the guy to play hard to get. She tightened her mouth. Caroline King on the other hand . . .
She’d lost count of the calls she’d put through to the reporter, not to mention texts and a couple of voice mails. Two bin liners full of empty cans and bottles were sitting round taking up valuable space in the exhibits room. How were the cops supposed to investigate an attack when the prime witness had gone to ground? King had better not be playing detective, it could be a dangerous game.
Caroline wasn’t playing anything – she’d worked it out. Or thought she had. She needed to talk to Ruby Wells, reckoned the lawyer could help provide a few answers. Keeping a low profile, Caroline was slumped in the driving seat of a rental car four doors down from the lawyer’s house. The property was in darkness, the paltry street lighting supplemented by a full moon that did nothing for the ball-freezing temperature. It was gone seven and Ruby hadn’t got in from work. Caroline hadn’t phoned ahead. Forewarned was tipped-off.
She was pretty sure Ruby wasn’t personally involved, but after hours spent piecing together snatches of memory she was ninety-nine per cent certain the four shadowy figures that night had been female. She’d dismissed the possibility out of hand when Sarah mooted it at the hospital, the way she saw it now Ruby, probably in all innocence, had pointed Amy in Caroline’s direction. But the lawyer also played mother hen to a group of girls she felt sorry for because of their crap start in life. Amy’s life hadn’t exactly been a breeze. What if they’d hooked up, swapped stories? Then ganged up. Not just to protect Amy from Caroline’s advances, but because they couldn’t countenance the reporter giving Ram a voice. Maybe they were so incensed at the prospect of Ram strutting his verbal stuff, that they viewed Caroline as fair game, that smacking her round the face was somehow acceptable. Because given the size of one of those shadows, a hell of a lot more damage could have been inflicted.
Lights dazzled as a car pulled up behind. Caroline checked the mirror, watched a woman get out, walk up the road. She relaxed. The glimpse of her own face confirmed her thinking that the attack was warning shot rather than full-on barrage, punches had definitely been pulled. Not that she wasn’t effing furious. But she could see a way of using it to her advantage. It was a bargaining chip, wasn’t it? Hi Ruby, tell Amy if she plays nice, I won’t bring in the cops. Like hell.
Course, she could have it all wrong. She’d just have to play it by ear.
Sarah was almost out of the office when the email alert pinged. She fumbled one-handed for the phone in her coat pocket. Hi Sarah, Best I can do, Ben. Retracing her steps, she dumped bag and briefcase, rebooted the computer. If the picture wasn’t much cop there was no point viewing it on a small screen. Eyes lit by the monitor, she pursed her lips as she studied the image. Not bad. He hadn’t worked miracles, only sharpened it a touch, lifted the light a little. It was definitely worth letting King take a look. Just seeing the group shot might spark a few synapses in King’s brain, get the thought juices flowing. She forwarded it, added a line: ‘call me asap’. Should she give Ben a call? No. Email would do. Thanks, Ben. Your best’s not bad. Not bad at all.
The quality was crap but Caroline’s hand trembled round the phone, the picture sent a shiver down her spine. The faces were all but obscured but without a shadow of doubt she knew it was her attackers. Ironic but the shadows actually gave it away. When she’d been set on, she’d spied the same four silhouettes out of the corner of her eye. Four shadows, one much bigger than the others. She heard footfalls, almost dropped the phone. Glanced in the mirror. Froze. Four girls, arms linked, strutted towards the car. The big one kicked a can, sent it skittering along the pavement. The big one. Even without the dark gear, the macho swagger, it had to be them, didn’t it? Back for another go at her? How did they know she was here? Lifting her collar, she slumped further into the seat. In the wing mirror she watched them hive off laughing, letting themselves into Ruby’s house. How cosy. All girls together. Caroline clenched a fist. That was a hell of a lot more than she’d bargained for. Maybe seeing the little shits again brought it all back. She looked at the picture on the screen, read Sarah’s message.
/> The call came just as Sarah unlocked the Audi. Clocking caller ID, she smiled. Maybe he’d changed his mind about that drink.
‘Where are you, boss?’ Maybe not. He sounded dead sober.
‘In the car park. Why?’
‘You might want to head back. I’m in the squad room.’
‘I’m listening.’ And heading back.
‘Lingham’s victim? The girl who tried to top herself?’
‘Tracey Maxwell?’ The name had come up at the late brief. She was one of the zillion people on the squad’s chase list.
‘I got on to Charlie Lewis asked if there was a pic on file.’
‘And?’
‘I’m looking at it now. She calls herself something different these days, boss.’
Caroline flung the phone on the passenger seat. Half a dozen times she’d got the engaged signal. Whoever Sarah Quinn was talking to, it couldn’t be more important than what King had to tell her. There was quite a party going on at Wells’ Towers. The girls were still in there and Ruby had turned up five minutes ago with Jas Ram in tow. With the red hair glinting under the streetlight and Ruby laughing and flirting away, bold as brass incarnate wasn’t in it. Caroline was no detective, she hadn’t a clue what was going on but as journo she was desperate to find out.
Sarah, chin resting in hand, stood in front of Dave’s computer screen. The blonde hair was shorter, the face fuller, but there was no mistake. ‘Lily Maitland. My God.’
‘There’s more, boss.’ Harries tapped a few keys, ran his finger down the list that appeared. ‘These were the kids resident at Grange Manor in 2007.’
‘Michelle Keating.’
Harries gazed up at Sarah. ‘They were in it with their boyfriends, boss.’
Maybe. Her thoughts raced. ‘What about the others?’ Charlie and Shannon.
‘Huntie’s checking now.’ John Hunt sat at a desk near the window, phone clamped to his ear. ‘It’s got to be that though, boss.’
She frowned, not convinced. ‘I don’t see it that way, Dave. What if they set the youths up, used them as fall guys? Their testimony’s why Wilde and Brody are facing murder charges.’
‘The girls planned it? They were the brains? Is that what you’re saying?’
The brains – and the brawn. ‘Remember Charlotte. The other housemate Shannon? I bet they were victims too and I bet the four of them set out to wreak revenge on men who’d abused them. They didn’t need Wilde and Brody’s muscle. They had enough of their own.’
‘That your phone, boss?’
She batted a hand. ‘Let’s think it through . . . Wilde and Brody definitely beat up Duncan Agnew. We know that, and so did the girls. Say they piggybacked the crime? Copied it when they attacked Foster, Gibbs, Lingham so Wilde and Brody got the blame.’
‘They went a hell of a lot further, boss.’ He tilted his head at the whiteboards, the barely recognisable faces, the virtually obliterated features.
‘Yes. ’Cause it was personal.’ Baker had been right all along about that. She’d better call him.
‘Bloody clever, too.’ Befriending a couple of youths who’d already been in and out of trouble with the law.
‘And callous.’ Positioning themselves so they had access to Wilde and Brody’s clothing; wearing the hoodies when they attacked Foster and Gibbs; planting stolen property at the squat and when push came to shove pointing the finger at their so-called boyfriends. The youths had been a perfect foil. ‘We need to bring them in for questioning, Dave. Like now.’
‘Do you want to get your phone, boss?’
Grimacing, she snatched the handset from her pocket. ‘I’m up against it, Caroline. Make it quick.’
‘The attackers are girls. And I know where they are. That quick enough?’
Sarah drove. Bat out of hell on speed mode. Dave was on the car phone liaising with back-up. The DI’s initial confusion had cleared within seconds. She’d assumed Caroline was talking about the BAD attacks. Almost immediately it clicked that King meant hers. And that the attacks were down to the same girls. She recalled the picture of the gang. Her thanks to Ben: Not bad. Not bad at all. How wrong could she have been?
And now Lily, Michelle, Charlotte and Shannon were ensconced in Ruby Wells’ house with Jas Ram. Who had to be the biggest bad man of them all.
‘They won’t do anything stupid will they, boss?’
Sarah checked the mirror. ‘Depends on your definition of stupid, Dave.’
FORTY-FIVE
Ruby, smiling, trailed her fingers along the back of the settee. ‘I’ll get the light. Take a seat.’
‘I know what I’d rather take.’ Jas Ram paused, casual hand in pocket, a smile playing across his lips.
Charlie landed the first blow. Her huge fist slammed into the back of his head. He staggered forward, stumbled over trip wire, crashed onto his knees. Michelle’s kick sent him reeling. He scrabbled frantic to get up, gain some sort of purchase. Shannon just behind now whacked a baseball bat into the side of his face. The crunch could’ve been bone or teeth.
‘Not too hard, babe,’ Lily admonished softly. ‘We need him talking.’ Soft light fell on the room as she flicked a switch, glinted off knives wielded by Michelle and Shannon.
Ram cowered, snot, tears, blood trailed down cheeks, chin. ‘Who are you? What—?’
‘Shut it, dickhead.’ Lily nodded. Charlie grabbed his hair, yanked his head back. Michelle grasped his hands, Shannon cuffed the wrists.
‘On your belly. Now.’
‘Look, let’s—’
Charlie kneed his spine, sent him sprawling. Kicking. Flailing. ‘Keep the fuck still.’ The serrated blade an inch from his face had more effect than Michelle’s words. ‘Get his kit off, Shan.’
‘Please. No.’ Struggling, panic in his voice.
‘Move one inch – I’ll take an eye out.’
Shannon knelt, dragged down Ram’s black linen pants, silk boxers.
‘Please . . . let’s just . . . talk.’
‘Get him in the chair.’
The upright near the fireplace had rope, leather straps readied. Charlie bound his upper body, ankles. Ram’s whimpering ragged breaths, Lily’s soft humming the only sounds in the room.
‘Cold in here,’ Michelle said. ‘Light it, Shannon.’
She struck a match, waved it close to Ram’s face, the flame glinted in his dark eyes. A film of sweat oozed over his top lip. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
As Shannon knelt to light the fire, Lily pranced across the room, sat cross-legged at Ram’s feet, placed a recorder in her lap. ‘We’re babes. Against dickheads.’ Head cocked, she smiled. ‘And we want a little fireside story, Mr Dickhead.’
‘You’re fucking doolally that’s what you are, love.’
Lily crooked her finger. Charlie shambled over, drew back her arm, hammered her fist into Ram’s face.
‘Girls.’ Ruby stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘A little gentle persuasion. That’s what we agreed.’
‘Best you go now, Rubes,’ Michelle said. ‘Slip out the back, eh?’
‘This story.’ Faux pensive, Lily tapped a finger against her mouth. ‘Once upon a time . . . Jas Ram raped, buggered, battered and abused.’ She switched on the tape. ‘From the top. Who. What. Why. Where. When. Full confession, Mr Dickhead. Then we’ll let you go. The end.’
‘Tell me this is a joke?’
‘Yeah. Dead funny, innit? How’s it going, Shan?’
‘Not far off, Lil.’ Twisting the poker, she rammed it further into the flames. ‘Five mins or so?’
‘Where’ve you been?’ King held the door as Sarah got out of the motor. ‘You took your time.’
Sarah batted a hand, her gaze trained on the house. ‘How long they been in there?’ She registered the police transit further down the street. No blues. No sirens.
‘The girls – an hour. Thirty, thirty-five minutes since Ruby and Ram arrived.’ King hugged herself, shifted her weight from foot to foot.
‘And
you’ve heard nothing?’ Stupid question; she’d have said.
‘I’ve not had my ear pressed to the door, I can tell you that.’ Not since hearing the girls were dangerous, had killed already and if panicked, had nothing left to lose.
‘Stay here, Caroline. Don’t move.’
Sarah and Harries approached the house in step. A low-key strategy had been hammered out on the phone with Baker. She’d try talking first. If that didn’t work . . . half a dozen officers in full protective gear were primed, ready to go in, the same number positioned round the back.
‘What the hell are they doing in there, boss?’
She shook her head. ‘You tell me.’
‘You said you’d let me go if I told you. End of.’ Sweat ran down Ram’s face, dripped from his chin.
‘Yes.’ Lily smiled that angelic smile. ‘You’ve been a very good boy.’ She pressed rewind, made sure his voice was on tape, the whole sordid story on record. ‘But.’ She stopped the playback, tapped the recorder with a finger. ‘You’ve also been a very bad boy, haven’t you? What do you think, girls?’
Lined up on the settee Michelle, Charlie and Shannon gave sage nods, chorused: ‘Very bad.’
‘Still, who are we to judge?’ Lily played a strand of hair between her fingers. ‘Come in, babe. What do you reckon?’
Amy Hemming, standing just outside the door, had heard every word. White-faced, cheeks moist with tears, she headed straight for Ram, spat in his face. He jerked back, almost toppled the chair. Sighing, Charlie got to her feet, positioned herself behind, provided ample ballast. Amy lashed out again and again, slapping, kicking.
‘Are we good to go, Shan?’ Lily cut a glance at the fire. The poker, unused, glowed in the flames.
Dying Bad Page 24