‘Please . . . you . . .’
‘What’s that noise?’ Michelle cupped an ear. ‘Someone left a tap on?’
‘Yuk!’ Lily shuffled backwards. ‘Don’t shit yourself as well, dickhead.’
Laughing with the others, Shannon knelt at the fire, ignored the poker, picked up tongs, parted the nearest coals to locate the three metal shapes placed underneath. A warm smile lit her plain features as she plucked out the first glowing red letter.
‘You can do the honours, Amy.’ Lily rose. A low desperate keening came from Ram as she smoothed back his long fringe. ‘B is for . . .’
The first ear-splitting scream sounded before Sarah knocked. Heart racing, she pounded the door. Scream after piercing scream filled the air. Harries whacked the wood with his fist. ‘Police. Open up.’
‘They’ll not hear us, Dave. Come on, out the way.’ She beckoned at the guys behind. A uniformed officer took a run at the door with a battering ram; wood splintered, didn’t give. Again, man, again. The screams were incessant, like an animal in pain. Sarah shuddered, realised now the meaning of blood-curdling. ‘Christ, Dave, if we don’t get in soon . . .’
Charlie’s hands clamped Ram’s head in place. Lily nodded encouragement. ‘Well done, Amy. Almost there.’
‘Cops are here,’ Michelle said. No panic. No surprise. Like they’d been expecting a visit. ‘Best get a move on.’
Amy picked up the third letter, advanced on Ram with the tongs. The screams reached a new pitch. Then stopped. He slumped in the chair; broken face battered and bleeding. The smell of faeces and burnt flesh hung in the air.
Sarah burst into the room. Froze, eyes wide. Harries and two uniforms stared over her shoulder.
‘You’re too late,’ Lily said.
Sarah rushed forward, pushed the girl roughly aside, felt for a pulse. ‘Ambulance. Now. He’s alive.’
‘Shame,’ Lily said. ‘Still, good work, Amy. He won’t fuck up anyone else in a hurry.’
The word ‘bad’ branded across Ram’s forehead formed a life sentence of sorts.
Two Days Later
Friday night and Sarah sat in the Queen’s Head, two glasses and a half empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the table. Another time and she might have regarded it as half-full. Eliciting the girls’ back stories over the last couple of days had taken its toll, would emotionally scar her for life. In her mind’s eye she saw the physical scars inflicted on Ram. She took another slug of wine, fully intended getting smashed – transport home already laid on.
Baker left Twig and Huntie at the bar, sauntered over, pint in hand. ‘Cruise cried off again, Quinn?’
‘Not funny first time round, chief.’
‘Join you?’ Why bother asking? ‘No point dwelling on it, Quinn.’ He crossed his legs, took a slurp of beer. What? Failure? Fuck up? Fact that five damaged young women, let down by the system, wanted justice so badly they wreaked it personally and now faced years behind bars. ‘They’re devious little bints, Quinn. Mad, bad, dangerous to know. Not your fault you didn’t pick up on it sooner.’
My fault? ‘Pur-lease, chief. Those “bints” ran rings round us, served up Wilde and Brody on a plate. Only thing missing was mint sauce.’ They still were running rings. They refused point blank to incriminate Ruby Wells and if the lawyer continued denying knowledge of what they had planned, she might just get away with it. Detectives had been excavating her back story like there was no tomorrow. They’d established that both parents had died fourteen years ago and that a younger daughter had ended up in care and hanged herself. Had she been abused? Was Ruby ridden with guilt and remorse for failing to save her sister? Was it this force that had driven her to form such strong bonds with the girls? She refuted every suggestion; said she’d been estranged from her family, knew nothing of the events. Sarah didn’t believe a word, found Wells’ innocence-slash-ignorance inconceivable. On the other hand, she was pretty convinced Amy Hemming had only acted against Ram. Only? Branding ‘bad’ across a man’s forehead . . . Sarah closed her eyes briefly. She’d asked herself a million times if they could have prevented it, acted sooner. She’d seen Ram in hospital. So not a pretty sight.
‘Could’ve been worse you know, Quinn.’ The chief pointed towards his crotch. ‘Imagine if they’d gone for his—’
‘Mr Baker.’ Beaming smile. The DI’s drinking partner back from nose-powdering. Must be costing King a fortune in concealer. ‘Super to see you again.’
‘Ditto.’ His smile was less certain. Probably thought she was taking the piss. Sarah sipped wine as King and Baker swapped small talk. The meet had been King’s call; she’d wanted a word prior to heading back to London. Before nipping to the loo, she’d come out with words like respect, admiration, how Sarah faced danger head-on while she only wrote about it later. Sarah had almost asked how strong her medication was. As for reporting, King had rarely been off screen all week.
‘You still working on this book, then, Kingie?’ Kingie? Christ, Caroline would be calling him Fred next.
‘I certainly am.’ Head cocked, she leaned towards the chief. ‘How about giving me the police perspective? Top cop tells all.’ Sarah twisted her mouth. If flirting was an Olympic sport, King would be wreathed in gold. Jas Ram had certainly given his exclusive. The DI shuddered as she recalled the guy’s faltering voice on tape. And the unearthly screams. Talk about forced confessions.
Not a word would be admissible. But, then, Ram’s disfigurement was worse than any sentence a court could hand down. Turned out the recorder was King’s property, it would be returned eventually. The girls knew who nicked it, no one was naming names. As for the memory stick, King reckoned Wells had lifted it during the hospital visit. There’d been a five-minute window apparently when Caroline left the room.
Sarah sat back, swirled the wine in her glass, shame it wasn’t tea and she could read the leaves. Not that she needed special powers to divine the girls’ guilt: it was as good as written on the wall. The murder weapons – hammer and knife – had been found hidden at the Sparkbrook house. Doubtless further evidence would emerge during the months of hard graft that lay ahead before the case got anywhere near a jury. Sarah drew her lips together. It seemed to her the young women were proud of taking the law into their own hands. She wondered if the wrongdoings would split public opinion in the way they’d polarised the squad’s thinking. All five had suffered appalling abuse for years at the hands of predatory men. Mitigating circumstances don’t come much stronger but was it ever right to act as judge and executioner?
‘What do you think?’ King’s catlike gaze was on Sarah.
‘Say again?’
‘Ruby Wells? I was just saying to the chief, she must’ve supplied the girls with some of the info: where the men lived, what they were up to – that kind of stuff?’
As a lawyer, she couldn’t be better placed. ‘You tell me, Caroline. We’re still working on it.’ Digging away with a fleet of JCBs, but if the gang kept shtum, the squad might never unearth the full picture. Like they’d never traced Blue Eyes, the girl who’d visited the nick to talk about Ram but left without a word. In more than one sense, Sarah saw Slip Girl as the one who got away. Ram certainly wouldn’t be troubling her again.
‘See, that’s another thing.’ King tapped a finger against her pout. ‘I can’t be doing with loose ends. Give me a beginning, middle and end any day.’ She’d certainly helped piece together her part of the story: vague memories of hearing piano music convinced Caroline she’d been held in Amy’s home before the girls had bundled her into a car. Forensics had lifted confirmatory hairs and fibres from Alice Hemming’s Volvo. Not that Amy’s mother was involved; alibi evidence proved she’d been out that night.
Sarah gave a tired smile. ‘I think you’ll find that only happens in fiction, Caroline.’
‘Davy.’ It was Harries’ turn to get the full beam treatment. ‘How you doing?’
Baker was half out of his seat. ‘My shout, lad.’
He nodded at Ki
ng, gave Sarah a warm smile. ‘No thanks, sir. I’m on taxi duty. I’ve only dropped by to pick up the boss.’
And the boss had a bottle of Chablis chilling in the fridge. Plus a case of champagne from a still mortified Nat Hardy. He’d dropped it off at the nick two days ago, note attached telling Sarah he’d joined the AA. She assumed he didn’t mean the breakdown service. Caroline cut a speculative glance between Sarah and Harries. ‘Where are you two lovebirds off to then?’ The hand pressed to her mouth didn’t quite hide the innocent smirk. ‘Whoops. Sorry. Just slipped out.’
‘No worries. Facts were never your strong point.’ The wink took the edge off her jibe. They’d never be besties, but recent events meant they’d reached a sort of understanding. Harries held Sarah’s coat. Returning his smile, she reached her arms into the sleeves. ‘I’ll look out for the book, Caroline. Has it got a name yet?’
‘I’ve got a good one, Kingie. How’s about . . . Ram to the Slaughter?’ Talk about tasteless. Blank faces greeted the unbelievably piss-poor offering. The chief raised both palms, even managed to look a little sheepish. ‘Sorry guys – bad gag.’
‘Close, Mr B.’ With an innocent twinkle in her eye, Caroline tilted her glass towards him. ‘I’m calling it Bad Men.’
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