Even so, had Baker got a point? Until now, the squad’s premise had been that the attacks were random mindless acts carried out by perps on the rob. Could there be more significant links? Was it possible the chief’s theory stacked up? Or was it a big fat red and damson herring? The savagery had undoubtedly escalated, but any cop could testify to the fact that once someone committed violence, he or she found it easier to inflict next time. And the next. Literally, near as damn it, a vicious circle. Villains got a taste for it: bloodlust it was called. Sarah could see nothing human in it, let alone personal.
‘OK.’ She pursed pensive lips. ‘With the chief’s point in mind, let’s take another look from the top.’ It couldn’t do any harm. Catching Hunt’s eye, she mimed writing, nodded her thanks as he dragged a flip chart closer. With one hand aloft, Baker trudged back to the desk. The gesture was open to interpretation, but right now it wasn’t top of her priorities. She flipped to a new page, headed it Operation Steel in thick black marker pen, then sectioned out three columns and gave each a date: Wednesday 4 January, Wednesday 11 January, Friday 13 January.
‘As you know,’ she said, ‘we’ve been able to identify only one victim.’ She wrote Duncan Agnew in the first column. Agnew was still in hospital, mainly down to an underlying medical problem exacerbated by his injuries. An epileptic, the twenty-six year old had suffered several fits since being admitted. Doctors were keen to keep an eye on what looked like a deteriorating condition. One of the squad’s sharpest interviewers had spoken to Agnew briefly on two occasions, but the man’s mother, as well as the medicos, were ultra protective. Given the new urgency, DC Shona Bruce had been despatched back to the Queen Elizabeth to push for a third session. On the off-chance the second victim had regained consciousness Shona would drop by the intensive care unit as well. Kill two birds . . . Best not go there. Sarah asked officers to call out observations as she quickly added times and locations to the chart: 23.00, Kings Road, Selly Oak; 22.30, York Road, Stirchley; 21.45 Chambers Row.
‘None of the victims had ID.’
‘Nor wallets.’
‘No valuables full stop.’ Harries was right. No watches, rings, mobiles, not so much as a gold filling had been recovered at any of the scenes.
‘Attacks are getting worse.’
‘And more frequent.’
Various members of the squad chipped in further, but none of it was new. Nodding, she hid her disappointment. Fact was, they couldn’t really be certain the attacks were down to the same offenders. They couldn’t even be sure it was offenders, plural. The line of inquiry was being followed only because an elderly couple who’d discovered Duncan Agnew lying injured in Kings Road told the first attending officers a gang of youths had been hanging round. In Selly Oak at that time of night, it’d be a first if dodgy juveniles hadn’t been in the vicinity. Even so, the couple would have to be re-interviewed and Sarah would send detectives to canvas the neighbourhood again.
She cut the chief a glance. Ominously quiet, he was staring at the whiteboard, pulling on his bottom lip.
‘We’re piss . . . whistling in the dark without IDs on the other two, ma’am.’ Wood sniffed.
‘Pisswhistling?’ Hunt gave a lopsided smile. ‘That’s a new one on me, Twig.’ The name alluded to the sergeant’s build: sumo wrestler meets brick shithouse. The big guy’s grip on small detail was formidable though, which made him a first-rate IRM: Incident Room Manager. Hunt’s piss-take had prompted a few sniggers but Twig was right. Without knowing who the men were, it was difficult to establish possible connections. And without those, they’d no way of knowing if – and more importantly, why – the victims might have been singled out.
‘OK Woodie, can you get on to Rose Atherton?’ Police artist. ‘Ask if she’s prepared to draw up a couple of likenesses we can actually use.’ With one subject dead, the other on life support, the woman would need a vivid imagination and strong stomach – and still have her work cut out. Worth a try though. The press was more likely to bite if Sarah had visuals as bait.
Wood tapped a temple.
Given the dearth of information on victims two and three, the Agnew incident was clearly the inquiry’s richest seam to mine. Sarah reckoned it was a shame she hadn’t recognised its full potential before. Details had been released to the media and the attack had been covered initially by both the Birmingham News and Radio WM, but more exposure might have prompted more intelligence. And hindsight was a wonderful thing. She sighed, made a mental note to have a word with the press bureau. Actually, stuff the mental bit.
‘Dave, will you liaise with Ted White? Ask him to set up—’
‘A news conference? Leave it with me, boss.’
She laid down the pen, checked her watch. With a bit of luck there’d be time to drop by Chambers Row on the way to the post-mortem. With a bit more, the forensic guys – who’d been digging since first light – might have unearthed some solid evidence, and with a shed-load more she’d scoop a few squillions on the lottery and stroll off into the sunset.
Yeah right. Masking a wry smile, she tasked teams of officers to revisit the crime scenes, knock more doors, stop and question pedestrians and drivers. Other detectives were already viewing Christ knows how many hours of CCTV footage. Still more would soon be making contact with CHIS: Covert Human Intelligence Sources – long for snouts. They needed to gather more gen on street gangs. Squad members were already liaising closely with opposite numbers in the Gangs Unit, but crews sprang up so fast these days even specialist officers couldn’t keep on top of them all.
‘Are you finished then, miss?’ Baker was back on his feet, a hand jangling keys in his trouser pocket. She’d almost forgotten he was there, still wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to put in an appearance and certainly didn’t appreciate the school ma’am crack.
She gave a brisk nod. ‘If you’ve something useful to add, chief—’
‘Don’t come the lip with me, Quinn.’
Come the lip? That was a new one on her. But what was Baker’s beef? Whatever was bugging him, she didn’t do whipping woman. Slipping papers into her briefcase, she muttered, ‘Class dismissed.’
‘I heard that, Quinn.’ Good. ‘And I’m not through here. Has it occurred to you if I’m right there’ll be more victims? That, to coin a phrase, we ain’t seen nothing yet?’
‘Why are we standing round gabbing then?’ Whoops. Bad move. She was knackered – the DCS was being arsy, but there were lines you shouldn’t cross. She almost stepped back when the Baker finger was jabbed again.
‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours to put names to those two faces, Quinn.’
‘Or what?’ Arms tightly crossed, she watched as he shrugged and walked away.
At the door, he turned his head. ‘You’re the clever dick. You tell me.’
Forty minutes later and Sarah still wanted to tell the fat bastard to go fuck himself. In a twelve-year career, she’d never felt more like slapping a face or sticking in a complaint. Not that she would, but that wasn’t the point. Her knuckles were tight and white round the steering wheel, the air in the Audi blue.
‘Shit, boss. That was a red.’ Harries swivelled his head to glance through the rear window, presumably checking for road kill. Staring implacably ahead, she sensed a glare in her direction as he turned back adding, ‘If I were you, I’d chill.’
‘You’re not,’ she snapped. Her female Stig impersonation on the way to the path lab wasn’t down to the fact they were cutting it fine, she was as fired up as the engine. Smarting didn’t even come close. ‘Anyway, we’re late.’
He muttered what sounded like ‘we soon will be’ but she could live without asking for a repeat; Baker’s words still echoed in her head. The chief’s dig had gone deep, the attempt to undermine her had gone too far. Ridiculing her in front of the squad was out of order and unprofessional. They’d had their run-ins over the years but had lately reached a reasonable working relationship. At least that’s what she’d thought.
Harri
es had his head down, checking his phone. She cut him a glance and sniffed. He could please himself. The wintry sun had beefed up its act a fraction; she pulled down the visor, nudged up the heating, ran through a mental to-do list. The in-car silence was shattered when she ran another red and a blaring horn competed with Harries’ sharp intake of breath. ‘We only have to attend the post-mortem, boss. The rate you’re going, we’ll end up on his and hers slabs.’
‘You can walk if you like.’
He shoved his phone in a pocket, stretched his legs and crossed his arms. ‘What I’d like is for you not to let the chief wind you up.’
Was it so obvious? She took a deep breath and loosened her grip on the wheel. She’d deliberately not bad-mouthed Baker, never denigrated colleagues in front of Dave. Either her DC had honed his already enviable empathy or her famous cool was on the slide. Mind, there was a first for everything. ‘That wasn’t a wind up, that was a sodding great put down. Me. In front of junior ranks.’
‘Come on, boss. You’re bigger than that. Besides you were—’
‘Enough, constable. In my book, slagging off colleagues in public is out of line.’
‘Better than shit bagging behind your back.’
‘Who’s frigging side are you on?’ She whacked the wheel with a palm.
‘Yours.’ Talk about rapid response. No arguing with that. She closed her mouth, verbal incontinence – like emotional – was no good to anyone. She counted ten then asked if he’d sorted the news conference. He told her it was set for mid-afternoon in the hope Rose Atherton would have time by then to come up with the goods. She made a mental note to assign extra officers to phone duties. The press coverage would almost certainly lead to a load of incoming calls, hopefully a handful would lead somewhere worth going.
‘You heard the latest on Ram, boss?’
‘Drink-drive, wasn’t it?’ Not that charges had been brought, he’d been released on bail pending results. ‘Let’s hope he pissed absinthe.’
Harries laughed. She thought he was about to say something but nothing emerged for several seconds, then: ‘Boss . . .’ He stretched the word to two syllables. ‘Back to Baker. Did anything strike you?’
Apart from a load of verbals? ‘Give us a clue.’
‘The loose tie? The crumpled suit?’
‘I was holding a brief. Not checking his gear.’
‘The whites of his eyes were like road maps.’
She turned her mouth down, tried to recall. That Baker-thy-name-is-vanity was well turned out was something you took for granted. And she had. No. Hold on. She’d spotted the day old stubble.
‘You didn’t notice, did you?’ Harries gloating was not a good look. ‘Call yourself a detective?’ His grin froze when he clocked her arctic glare. ‘Boss – it was a joke.’
‘Could’ve fooled me, Harries.’ For a few seconds she thought on what he’d said, then gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘So the guy was hung-over. It’s not my problem.’ Her bag was nailing the bad guys. Baker was a big boy now, if he’d overdone the booze, he’d only himself to blame. Besides, cop nursing sore head was hardly going to make the front page. Harries was staring ahead, ostentatiously shtum. Sarah sighed. ‘Don’t keep it to yourself, Dave.’ She sensed his gaze as he weighed up whether to wade in.
‘Grapevine has it it’s more than that, boss.’
‘Go on.’ And why hadn’t she heard any murmurings? ‘Car park next left, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, if you’re going via the back. As I say, a few of the guys think he’s drinking on the job. You know his missus legged it?’ She nodded. ‘Word is, he’s taking it hard. He’s been seen mooching round the nick on his days off, like he’s at a loose end or something.’ Was that why he was in today, she wondered? ‘Apparently he keeps a bottle or three in his drawer, tops up when—’
She raised a hand. ‘Thanks, Harries.’ Too much ill-informed information. She’d had her say, but gossiping about a senior detective wasn’t on. She’d keep tabs on it though. If the rumour held a grain of veritas and the alleged drinking got worse, it could be everyone’s problem. She opted for a diplomatic change of tack. ‘How’d you know I was hacked off, Dave?’ The question was casual as she reversed the motor into a tight space between Richard’s beat-up Land Rover and a gleaming black BMW.
‘Where shall I stop, boss?’
She matched his smile as she locked the motor, grimaced when she spotted Richard’s dog. She was beginning to suspect it was stuffed until it perked up and pressed its nose against the grimy window. Snotty saliva trails. Nice.
‘As I was saying . . .’ Harries – complete with hand signals – listed her giveaways as they walked to the back entrance. He majored on body language and repeated the expletives. ‘Plus you called me constable twice and Harries three times. No worries though, boss.’ He strode ahead to get the door. ‘It means we’re a good team.’
The Victorian redbrick, innocuous on the outside, never failed to give her the shivers. The sickly sweet odours permeated even here to the threshold, they’d stick in her nose, cling to her clothes and the image of last night’s victim would shortly be added to the macabre picture gallery in her brain. She recognised Harries’ banter as a diversion from what lay ahead, thought displacement in action. Each to their own. ‘How’d you work that one out, Dave?’
‘I reckon you’re getting more chilled, you feel you can open up to me.’
The raised eyebrow was sceptical. ‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘I’m learning from a great . . .’ Don’t say teacher. He was clearly struggling to avoid the T word. ‘. . . master . . . mistress . . . no . . . I mean . . .’
Mistress? You should be so lucky. She curved a lip. ‘Dave. Quit while you’re not ahead, eh?’
SEVEN
It was a potential opening, or at least the glimmer of a crack. Caroline was itching to home in on the topic she wanted under debate, but she held fire while the waiter delivered a solo dessert. The strawberry tart was pricey, like everything else Jas Ram had selected in one of Birmingham’s most expensive eateries. The reporter was happy to pick up the bill: it would be dirt cheap if the sweet-talking paid off. If her instinct was right, he was almost there, the interview not a million miles from the Mulberry.
Playing her fingers round the stem of a wine glass, she met Ram’s gaze across the table. Her red sheath dress and Ralph Lauren jacket said serious player, but subtle flirting was virtually second nature when she was working a source and/or found a guy tasty. Ram, though she was loath to admit it, fell into both categories. He reminded her of the lead in the Twilight movies. Robert Pattinson, wasn’t it? OK, the skin tone was way out, but the chiselled features, the piercing eyes, the mobile mouth . . .
Skin deep, Caroline, skin deep.
‘La Signorina is sure she wants nothing?’ The whip-thin waiter’s eyebrows disappeared under a glossy black fringe. With a white napkin draped over his forearm, the guy was straight out of central casting – complete with dodgy accent.
I want you to sod off, pronto. ‘No, grazie.’ Smiling sweetly, Caroline patted a stomach she strived to keep looking good. The gesture ensured she wasn’t the only one watching her figure. As well as Ram’s gaze, the restaurant was packed with diners giving her the eye – men in suits, ladies who lunch, yummy mummies with offspring in tow. San Luigi’s was one of those places to be seen. Décor was monochrome with checked floor tiles, striped walls, blowsy lilies in huge black vases, mirrors everywhere. Tasty and tasteful. And clientele classy enough not to gawp or ask for a signed picture.
‘You revel in it, don’t you?’ It was Ram’s first conversational gambit. After initial small talk she’d steered the bigger issues in his direction, ushered in the so-called victory in court, the shabby treatment dished out by both police and press, how she could help repair the damage. Any reporter will tell you people like talking about themselves – Ram loved it. She wasn’t a fan herself. ‘You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden, Miss King.’
Her celebrity, such as it was, wasn’t a topic she wanted to pursue. She ran an index finger over her phone to play for time, toyed briefly with feigning ignorance but as she was discovering, Ram was sharper than a sharpened tack, acting the ingénue would only delay resuming where they’d left off.
‘Being on the telly? Getting recognised? What’s not to like?’ She raised her glass, took a sip of by now tepid Prosecco. ‘It’s better than scrubbing floors for a living. But let’s—’
‘My wife’s a toilet attendant.’
Shit. That was a couple of turn ups for the yet to be written book: a) there’s a Mrs Ram and b) she shovels other people’s shit. Caroline swiftly calculated how she could work it into the story, it should make a few lines at least. Ram was staring, still waiting for a response.
‘No offence. I didn’t mean . . .’ Damn. She’d walked straight into that one. The crooked smile told her he was taking the piss. And boy, had she fallen big time. The designer-clad, Porsche-driving Ram – letting his wife scrub loos? Not good for his public persona that. But what was the public persona? The more she tried, the harder it was to get a handle on the guy. Greased eels had more traction. She reached for the bottle. ‘Top up?’
He shook his head, poked the tart with his fork. ‘Seems to me, Miss King, that for an investigative journalist – sorry, an award winning investigative journalist – you’re pretty easily taken in.’
She tipped the glass again. ‘First time for everything, Mr Ram.’ Clearly he was a better liar than she gave him credit for. And despite all her years in the people business, she found the guy harder to read than a Stephen Hawking book. She watched his strong white teeth sink into the soft flesh of a strawberry. ‘And you’re a very convincing man.’ Her lips parted in what might have been a smile. And how come he was au fait with her CV?
Dying Bad Page 5
