Table of Contents
Recent Titles from Maureen Carter
Title Page
Copyright
Four Years Earlier
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Four Years Earlier
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Four Years Earlier
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Four Years Earlier
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Two Days Later
Recent Titles from Maureen Carter
The Bev Morriss Mysteries
WORKING GIRLS
DEAD OLD
BABY LOVE
HARD TIME
BAD PRESS
BLOOD MONEY
DEATH LINE
The Sarah Quinn Mysteries
A QUESTION OF DESPAIR *
MOTHER LOVE *
DYING BAD *
*available from Severn House
DYING BAD
A Sarah Quinn Mystery
Maureen Carter
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Maureen Carter.
This eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
The right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & patents Act 1988
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Carter, Maureen.
Dying bad.
1. Quinn, Sarah (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Women detectives–England–Birmingham–Fiction. 3. Women journalists–England–Birmingham–Fiction. 4. Assault and battery–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-362-4 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-1-7802-9036-2 (cased)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd.,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Four Years Earlier
The Moon’s soft glow, just perceptible behind the cotton blind, barely penetrated the stark space. The girl lay on her back, stick-thin arms clamped tight to the sides of her slight body. Though her eyes were open, she saw little in the near darkness, and too much when they were closed. Picturing her surroundings was no problem anyway: the cheap wardrobe, flimsy three-drawer chest, worn carpet, blank walls.
For nine months her bedroom at Heath House had passed for what some people called home. It was the longest she’d stayed under one roof since being taken into care. Care. What a laugh. Hysterical, that was. There’d been countless short-term placements. As for foster families – was it three? No, four. Heath House was no better, no worse than any other second-best substitute. The windows weren’t barred, the doors weren’t locked 24/7, most of the staff were indifferent and as for the other kids? Who cared? Precisely. The girl had one or two mates, but mostly everyone kept to themselves. Maybe she was sick of running, too cowed to escape. Difficult anyway, with clipped wings.
Wincing, she shifted slightly, turned her head to one side. She could just make out the familiar silhouette of a teddy bear sprawled on the floor under the window. Alfie was one of the few belongings she’d hung on to from her mum’s place. BC, she thought of it. Before she lost her childhood; before Christ had it in for her. She gave a resigned sigh. She adored Alfie, treasured his thinning fur; knew every inch of his squashy old body. Like the bloke now pinning her down, the cold hand pawing her boob, the mean fingers probing between her thighs. Her shudder was involuntary.
He’d been doing her more or less since she got here. The shit-for-brains probably thought she didn’t know who he was. Strangers in the night. Like hell. Sneaking in while she was in the bathroom, taking the bulb from the bedside lamp was as good as an early warning system. The girl knew what would happen when she got into bed. She’d lie waiting, listening out for the soft footfalls that stopped at her door, the creak as he turned the handle. She knew who it was even in the dark. The reek of BO laced with onions was pretty distinctive. At least he didn’t hurt her as bad as the others.
‘Hey, girlie, what’s up?’ A whisper; warm breath against her neck. ‘You know you like it, don’t you?’ Menacing now. ‘Tell me you like it.’ It wasn’t a request.
‘I like it.’ Listless. Experience had taught her it was easier and usually quicker to comply. She’d heard the threats before, knew them by heart. If she didn’t do what he said, he’d feed her piece by piece to his dogs.
‘Course you do, babe.’ He forced open her thighs. She clamped her mouth shut, just wanted it over. In her mind’s eye, she was drinking cocktails in a bar in New York. In her mind’s eye she was swimming with dolphins in clear warm water. In her mind’s eye, she was an A-lister swanning down the red carpet, pausing now and then to let the snappers get a decent pic. It was anytime, anyplace, anywhere in her mind’s eye. Frigging Martini girl, she was.
When he thrust into her, shuddering, rasping her name, she tensed, terrified her spine would snap, scared it would never end. Last time, she’d sworn she’d never cry again, only realised she’d broken the promise when cooling tears trickled into her ears. She counted thirty, forty seconds until he got his breath back. Then, as usual, he straddled her, forced her hands over her head and hissed the same old question.
‘Why’d you make me do it, babe?’
She knew her line. ‘’Cause I’m bad.’
Sweat dripped off his face, stung her eyes, tasted salty on her lips. She flinched as he stroked a finger along her jaw. ‘How bad?’
‘Dead bad.’
ONE
‘Cheer Up, love. It may never ’appen.’ The landlord of the Queen’s Head gave a cheesy wink as he pulled a pint, blissfully unaware how close he was to getting it in the neck. DI Sarah Quinn tapped a tetchy
index finger on the tacky bar, itching to lash out with the verbal equivalent of a good slapping. As far as she was concerned it had happened, and as for the love – not even her nearest and dearest got away with the endearment let alone some nerd who happened to run the squad’s local.
‘Play nicely now, Quinn.’ A bulky presence had sidled over and mouthed a gentle warning in her ear with all the subtlety of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Without looking she knew who it was. Though the chief was more accustomed to throwing his weight than his basso profundo. Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker was the only officer at Lloyd House nick – senior or not – with the brass neck to address her habitually as Quinn. The aftershave was a clue, too. The chief doused himself during the day with Paco Rabanne, even now it was coming off him in waves. Glimpsing that butter-wouldn’t-melt big face in the mottled mirror at the back of the bar was the clincher.
The DI’s finger stalled. ‘I never opened—’
‘You were about to bite, Quinn.’ Talking out of the corner of his mouth was not a good look. He could’ve walked a gurning contest.
‘With you in a tick, Mr B.’ Len shuffled off ferrying two pint glasses, grey slacks straining across his bum.
Baker toasted the landlord’s back with what was left of his bitter. ‘No sense taking it out on other bods, Quinn. Besides . . .’ He drained the dregs, then wiped a meaty hand across moist lips. ‘. . . pissing off Laughing Len is not a good move.’
He had a point: the pub was less than a five-minute walk from the nick and the saloon bar was second home to some cops. Len was a more than genial host. Lock-ins being a speciality. Shrugging, the DI muttered ‘my mouth’ desultorily under her breath. Just as well. Baker wasn’t listening, he was finger-combing his hair in the mirror. After six years working under him, so to speak, she was inured to his idiosyncrasies. His default mode was sexist git and ordinarily it was water off a duck’s back. Ordinarily.
Stifling a sigh, she caught sight of her reflection alongside his, surprised in a way that the afternoon’s debacle didn’t show in her face. Come on, woman. Don’t play the drama queen. Any impact, if or when it hit, would harden her attitude, not her appearance. And she had enough cynicism, thanks. Station clowns called her the Snow Queen, the Ice Maiden, the Arctic Cop, you get the drift. The names weren’t entirely down to her Nordic colouring, tight bun, piercing grey eyes. They were more indicative of an emotional detachment that bordered on aloof, the cool exterior designed to keep feelings – and people – at arm’s length. It was a persona she was happy to play on.
So how come she was so frigging worked up?
And what was taking Len so long? She was gasping for a drink though she’d only dropped by in the hope company would be a distraction. Like that was happening. The chief was currently fiddling with his phone, checking emails, messages, whatever. He’d been spitting razor blades along with everyone else earlier. But Baker didn’t seem to dwell long on anything, especially cock-ups. Clocking him in the mirror again, she had a bird’s-eye view of the top of his head. Apart from a white streak down one side – like a badger with an off-centre parting – the hair was too dark for a man pushing sixty. Not that he’d own up to it. Six-four and chunky, the chief must’ve shed around a stone since his wife took off. Mind there were still several boulders to shift. Sarah gave the ghost of a smile then pursed her lips. Had to admit, he wasn’t a bad looking guy.
Ramming the phone in his pocket, his glance met hers in the glass. ‘Admiring the view, Quinn?’
‘Oh, how they laughed.’ She overdid the simper. As for laugh, it was more than the squad had. ‘I just can’t believe—’
‘No sense harping on.’ Baker was signalling for a refill with an imaginary glass. ‘We’ll nail the bastard.’
The DI’s jaw slackened. For an insensitive sod, the chief could be amazingly intuitive. He read her mind so well she reckoned he’d mentored Derren Brown.
‘It may have escaped your attention . . . we’d already nailed the bastard. How the hell they could—’
‘Life’s too short. Let it go, Quinn.’ Jingling coins in his pocket, he was more interested in trying to catch Len’s eye.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ The expletive was rare. She felt a flush rise on her cheeks. ‘Just for once, will you let me finish a—?’
‘Sod this for a game of soldiers – I need to turn the bike round. Get the drinks in, will you, lass?’
Lass? Still open-mouthed, she watched him wander off to take a leak, wishing she could move on so easily. She’d been about to say the word ‘sentence’ – and of course that word resurrected it.
Earlier that afternoon, she and Baker had been in court to observe sentences being handed down on a pair of scumbags. The men, both in their late-thirties, were given fifteen months apiece for relieving four schoolgirls of what was left of their childhood, and leaving emotional scars that would stay with the teenagers and their loved ones for the rest of their lives.
She pictured the pinched features, pale faces, haunted eyes, sensed the girls’ hurt, the betrayal they must have felt, twice over. Amy, Dawn, Laura and Natasha – the eldest, just fifteen – were the latest victims of a criminal growth area: older men preying on young white girls from comfortable homes, good families. Sarah wasn’t the only cop shocked by the lack of official statistics; equally disturbing was the fact the media generally pointed the finger at Asians, more specifically Pakistani men. Racial stereotyping was a cop-out; the issue went deeper, was far more complex than colour.
‘Not on your own are you, ma’am?’ Paul Wood paused en passant carrying a tray full of drinks for some of the lads. He was the longest serving detective sergeant in the squad, usually kept a paternal eye out for her.
‘No. I’m good thanks, Woodie.’ Her fleeting smile belied her thoughts. Grooming, the media called it. Pimping with knobs on, Sarah called it. Not that the girls were on the game. Only in the sense the men regarded them as sex toys. And when the big boys had had their fill, they passed the goods on to their playmates. Emotive phrases like ‘easy meat’ and ‘white trash’ were bandied about in the press, spouted by people who should know better, or choose words more wisely.
The issue wasn’t just complex – it was explosive.
She cast her mind back to the afternoon’s bombshell, the vocal fireworks in the court when a third defendant was unexpectedly released. Insufficient evidence, dodgy statements, flaky performances in the box from shit-scared witnesses, the judge dismissed the case and Jas Ram walked. Running a gauntlet of death threats from the public gallery.
Sarah’s verdict? Whoever said two out of three ain’t bad was talking bollocks: Ram was the biggest scumbag of the lot, head groom in a stable of terrified and vulnerable young girls. And he was out there now probably adding to his livestock.
‘Ditch the scowl, Quinn. You’ll frighten the horses.’ Baker grinning ear-to-ear.
Her expression was glacial. ‘Why don’t you—?’
‘Here you go, Mr B. Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Len’s interruption was timely. She might have said something she wouldn’t regret. The landlord handed over a glass as if it contained holy water. What was it with blokes and beer?
Baker ran an admiring glance over the contents before taking a slurp. ‘Liquid gold, Len. Liquid gold, my son.’ He smacked his lips. Sarah would happily have done it for him.
‘What about you, love?’ Forget pints, the landlord’s grin revealed a couple of teeth that needed pulling. ‘The usual, is it? Or you livin’ dangerously tonight?’
‘Listen, sunshine . . .’ Narrowing her eyes, she beckoned him closer, vaguely aware Baker was having trouble swallowing.
‘What you drinking, boss?’ Good timing again, or what? DC Dave Harries, back from a bit of legwork, had materialised on her other side. Maybe there was a conspiracy to keep Len sweet. Either way, it was her young sidekick’s lucky day.
‘Large gin and tonic, ice, no lemon.’ She treated Baker to a tight smile. ‘And it’s the chief’s s
hout, Dave.’
‘Ta, very much, sir.’ Harries loosened his scarf, smoothed his hair. ‘Pint of Guinness, cheers.’
‘Don’t drink it all at once, lad.’ Was Baker’s parting shot. Hand in pocket, he wandered off to join the blokes watching soccer on the telly. The big screen didn’t exactly blend in with the low ceiling and dark panelling. Glancing further round, Sarah clocked Christmas lights flashing from smoke-blackened beams; copper bed pans still trailed garish green tinsel. It was more than a week since Twelfth Night. She frowned. Supposed to be bad luck, that. Could explain a lot.
‘Cheers, Dave.’ She raised her glass, took a sip. Harries sank an inch or two of his stout. ‘I heard what happened in court, boss. It’s a real downer.’
‘Got that right.’ Leaning back against the bar, she ran her gaze over a squad that should be celebrating not drowning sorrows. By now, tables were strewn with glasses, and cops with a bevy or two inside them were maybe slightly less pissed off than a few hours back. But the derisory prison terms and Ram’s shock release had been a kick in the teeth for every officer who’d built the case and helped get it to court. Making an effort, she moved on. ‘How about you, Dave? Any joy?’
He’d been out knocking doors, trying to trace witnesses to a street attack. He wasn’t the only detective landed with a short straw, half the squad was working on Operation Steel. The incident – two days ago – had been particularly vicious. It had similarities with a mugging a week earlier and the fear was it wouldn’t be the last.
‘Joy?’ He snorted. ‘I wish.’ As if working the streets of Stirchley wasn’t bad enough, he clearly hadn’t thawed out yet. She could almost smell the cold wafting off the black wool of his coat. Dave had taken to wearing dark gear all the time recently. He probably reckoned it bolstered his passing resemblance to a pre-raddled Keith Richards. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the likeness. He’d be getting ideas above his station next. She twitched a lip. The Boy Wonder, as Baker called him, had only made detective eighteen months back.
‘Nothing doing, then?’ she prompted.
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