Dying Bad

by Maureen Carter

  ‘But he’s not the only one, Dave. And his welfare’s not down to us. We lock away bad guys, not lick their wounds.’ Glancing at her runny beans, she curled a lip, pushed the plate to one side. Blamed the appetite loss on thought association. And on the issue of blame, in her book, whether Brody was culpable of the muggings or not, he’d undoubtedly committed offences that day. Either way, he’d be held on the lesser charges while the squad bust a gut trying to gather incriminating evidence on the street attacks. If it existed. ‘I’d still like to know why he broke down like that.’ She slurped milkshake.

  He gave a lopsided smile, pointed his fork at the glass. ‘That come with a volume control?’

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ she snapped. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Probably the way you spoke to him.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He lowered a calm-down hand. ‘Not the shouty stuff – he’ll have had verbal kickings, and worse, all his life. God, I’m stuffed.’ He rubbed his stomach, pushed away the plate, only swirls of yolk, brown sauce, ketchup remained. Where did the guy put it? ‘I mean towards the end, the soft voice, calling him by his first name, offering help.’

  ‘Yeah right.’ Brody was hardly a child. ‘Remind me not to do my Mother Teresa next time.’ She sat back, laced her fingers.

  ‘Made a change from your Mike Tyson.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘Not sure what got into you back there, boss.’

  ‘Long day. Short fuse.’ Deep sigh. Christ, she was only human. Operation Steel was unwieldy, frustrating, a drain on resources and a drag on squad morale; she’d hoped for a break in the case not the interrogation.

  He studied her over the rim of his tea mug. ‘Not quite got the hang of the good cop bad cop routine have you, boss?’

  She tried reading the glint in his eye. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘It takes two to work it . . . y’know, more double act than—’ Both whipped their head round when the door whacked the wall.

  ‘Fucking comedian.’ Snarling, Baker stomped towards them suit jacket flapping like wings. Sarah turned away, watched his approach via the reflection in the picture window, the second hand view only delayed the inevitable. Baker pulled up at the table, hands thrust in trouser pockets, sounded like a heavy breather. ‘Well, chaps, I’ve heard it all now.’

  He wanted an audience, she turned reluctantly, met his gaze. Frowned. ‘What’s wrong with your eye, chief?’ Swollen, bruised, classic shiner in the making.

  ‘Wilde landed one on me.’ He helped himself to a piece of cold soggy toast.

  She cut Harries a glance, hoped she didn’t look as gobsmacked. ‘And you think that’s funny because . . .?’

  Still chewing. ‘Little gobshite’s only claiming self-defence.’

  Oh, shit. She stiffened. ‘So . . . he’s injured too?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘He fell off a chair.’

  ‘You are joking?’ She scanned his face for clues.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Quinn. He lashed out when I helped him up. What d’you take me for?’

  Hot head cop? She narrowed her eyes. But he wasn’t stupid. She’d no doubt Baker was a loud-mouthed bully, but he’d not have laid into a suspect. Not with John-play-it-by-the-book-Hunt sitting in and certainly not with tapes recording blow-by-blow action. ‘What’s Huntie saying, chief?’ Casual delivery.

  Baker shrugged. ‘Nipped out for a leak, hadn’t he?’

  Three, four second pause. ‘So you’d terminated the interview?’ And switched off the recordings. She swallowed.

  He must’ve registered the look on her face. ‘What is this, Quinn? The sodding Spanish Inquisition? I’m telling you Wilde attacked me.’

  ‘And Wilde? What’s his take?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  EIGHTEEN

  Sarah reckoned Baker would be lucky not to be up on an assault charge. Wilde was throwing accusations as well as punches, swearing the chief had used Hunt’s absence to launch an unprovoked attack. From what she’d heard, it was just conceivable the youth’s injuries were self-inflicted: the split lip, bruised cheek, scratches near the eye were superficial. The medical examiner hadn’t delivered a verdict yet. With no witnesses, nothing on tape, currently it was Wilde’s word against the chief’s. She pulled her camel coat closer. What a frigging mess.

  ‘Never rains, eh, Dave?’ She gave a thin smile as they dashed across the car park huddled under Harries’ golf-sized Guinness umbrella. Not that she was talking weather. They’d just left a nick buzzing with rumour, gossip, bets on Baker’s future, sweepstake on how long he had left.

  ‘Reckon the old boy’s on the level, boss? Shit!’ He’d stepped in a puddle deeper than it looked.

  For once, she let the ‘old boy’ go. ‘Of course he is.’

  Her instant unequivocal backing contrasted with the scepticism she’d clearly failed to hide earlier. She shuddered, recalling Baker’s exit line. White-face, balled fists, low voice oozing contempt: Thank you for your vote of confidence, DI Quinn. The use of her rank was bad enough. But he walked away minus the strut, seemed somehow diminished. She’d neither seen nor heard him like that, ever, and the impact was greater for being suppressed.

  ‘Without a shadow, Dave.’ But there was doubt and she wished to God she knew. Christ, she was the so-called Snow Queen and she’d almost lost it with Brody. The chief had a hell of a lot more Mike Tyson than Mother Teresa in him. And he’d been acting erratic, of late.

  ‘Bloody daft thing to do though, boss.’

  Couldn’t argue with that. If nothing else, the chief was guilty of gross stupidity. Staying alone with Wilde, laying himself open to wild allegations was dumb enough, on top of that the youth had retracted what amounted to a confession to the attack on Duncan Agnew, claimed now it had been given under duress. Maybe the fact Wilde had incriminated three so-called mates in Agnew’s mugging factored in the volte face. Though names hadn’t been named, if it emerged he’d opened his mouth to a cop, Wilde wouldn’t be Mr Popular with his peers. The toe rag would be seeking police protection, not banging on about brutality. Course, if he’d been telling the truth, three attackers were still at large and needed rounding up pronto.

  ‘Car’s there, Dave.’ She aimed the fob, heard rustling by a line of bins against the wall. The thunk must have startled a foraging cat or something. No, a mangy fox. Skulking away in the shadows, head down, wet ginger pelt matted to painfully thin body, brush lightly tracing the ground. When Baker’s image flashed in her head, she told herself not to be ridiculous.

  Alongside the Audi, they huddled closer under the umbrella. So close, for the first time she noticed darker flecks in Harries’ chocolate irises, saw the tiny piercing in an ear where he could still wear a stud. Despite the shelter, one shoulder of his leather jacket ran with rain. Not that he seemed in a hurry to get away.

  ‘I guess the brass’ll examine the tapes first thing?’

  ‘You bet.’ If not before. An assistant chief constable most likely. Not so much for Wilde’s contribution – that was still CID’s baby – but scrutinizing Baker’s every move, every word. She bit her lip. Whatever way it panned out, she had some massive bridge building to do with the chief. Think Forth. And double it.

  ‘We’ll need to view them, too.’ She ran a hand over her hair. ‘Preferably before the early brief.’ She wanted at least a transcript to go through, particularly the part where Wilde confessed to Agnew’s attack. Maybe read something between the lines. They needed to nail the youth down on Foster’s mugging as well as the murder; Baker had barely had time to touch on those. They’d definitely need to question Agnew again. And Brody. And . . . the to-do list was a hell of a lot longer than her arm.

  ‘Anyway, Dave,’ she said with a smile, ‘you know what they say . . .’ A siren blared, ambulance it sounded like.

  ‘Tomorrow is another day?’ Smiling, he opened the door.

  Turn up or what? She laughed out loud. ‘How’d you possibly know that?’

  ‘C
ause I read you so well?’ He held her gaze.

  She raised an eyebrow, fully aware what he was – or wasn’t – saying, knew it would take one word from her and they’d embark on a more than professional relationship. She could live without the frigging complication. Sod it. She could do with the company. How about a nightcap? No harm in that. Yes, right. ’Cause of course it would stop there. Thoughts still racing, she scanned his face. He looked so . . . serious . . . vulnerable . . . tasty? Stop dithering woman. One drink wouldn’t hurt. ‘Why don’t we—?’

  ‘Shit, boss. I forgot.’ She almost smiled at the cartoon hand to mouth. ‘I meant to pass on a message.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Caroline King. Don’t look like that, boss. She only rang me ’cause she couldn’t get through to you. I swear I’m not . . .’

  Seeing her? Screwing her? She tightened her mouth. Should’ve known. Caroline King made a bad penny look reclusive. Harries knew there was bad blood between them, more bad blood than in a septic wound. Hard to believe how close she’d come to inviting one of the fucking reporter’s cast-offs back for . . . coffee. ‘What’s she want?’

  ‘I’m only the messenger, boss.’

  ‘I said, what does she want?’

  ‘To speak to you. Something to do with Jas Ram. Says it’s urgent.’

  Always was with King. She nodded, got in the car, slung her briefcase on the passenger seat.

  Still holding door and juggling brolly, Harries leaned in to speak to her. ‘You said, “Why don’t we?” Why don’t we what?’

  ‘Call it a day, DC Harries.’ She slammed the door, would’ve burned rubber were it not so wet. Aquaplaning the puddle wasn’t mature. The umbrella no protection. She saw Harries’ drenched figure get smaller and smaller in the mirror as she put her foot down. Honey I shrunk the cop. Her lip curved. Childish? Yes. Did she give a damn?

  Frankly not.

  Four Years Earlier

  The girl steeled herself, pretty sure everything was ready and in place. Candles shed sufficient soft light, cast flickering shadows across the walls and ceiling of the small room. Perched on the edge of the single bed, she tenderly stroked her naked body, tiny breasts. Though she didn’t smile, it gave her pleasure. The flesh was firm; smooth and cool like ivory silk. Touching it felt good, how it was meant to be.

  Peeping through curtains of fine blonde hair, she observed her actions in a full-length mirror, made believe she was watching a stranger, pretended the reflection was someone else, a character in a movie maybe. Though only fourteen, she’d long ago learned to distance herself from reality, disassociate from others. She’d heard social workers call it survival strategy.

  It’s how she got through the nights when the man came; stole in reeking of beer and fags. He was supposed to care for the kids in the home. She bit her lip, winced. He certainly cared for her all right. She’d learned other things, too. Like it hurt more when she writhed and screamed; he’d only bind her wrists with flex, stuff cotton wool in her mouth. Once she thought she’d choke, die. Back then, she almost welcomed death. Now when he raped her she didn’t move or cry out. She lay motionless working out how to make it stop.

  Asking for help was useless. No one in the place believed her. No one even listened. Only other kids who’d been there. If her mum knew, she’d kill him. She screwed her eyes tight. No, don’t go there. Her mum was dead and the girl could barely recall her face. She’d remembered one of her favourite songs though. Maybe the song had given her the idea. That and the man starting to tell her it was her fault he had to fuck her. That she was a slut, teasing him with her tits, flaunting her body. Perfect, he called it. Perfect.

  Trembling slightly, she held out her left arm, ran a fingertip from the tiny wrist to her elbow; the pale blue vein was barely perceptible under the skin. Lightly, she traced its course with a delicate pink nail. The razor lay on the duvet cover. Gingerly, she prised away the blade, careful not to nick herself then laughed softly at what an adult would describe as irony. Candlelight gleamed on steel as she cut a fine line, just parting the skin. Mesmerised, she barely felt the incision as blood beaded and oozed like a chain of tiny red glistening pearls.

  The girl positioned the blade again. The lyric was wrong. The first cut wasn’t always the deepest.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Monday, Monday. So good to me.’ The tune had been playing on the radio as Caroline drove in to the city centre. It still spun in her head now as she sat in Starbucks sipping Kenyan. So good to me. Might as well take it as a promising sign. Her lazy smile bordered on smug. The booze-free early night showed in a glowing complexion, sparkling indigo eyes. She perched happily on a high stool, a window seat, the strategic positioning primarily so she could keep a lookout on New Street. Not that it excluded the occasional glance at her reflection in the glass. Dressed to kill crossed her mind. The scarlet jersey dress was supposed to soften the black trench coat and high leather boots. She pursed her lips. Thank God she’d ditched the beret. According to Nat, it made her look like a cross between Mata Hari and the Resistance woman from ’Allo ’Allo. She raised an eyebrow. Come to think of it, her lodger had been very . . . perky . . . earlier, too.

  She lifted her cuff, checked her Tissot: 10.05; tightened her perfect red lips, she loathed being kept waiting. Who did the blasted woman think she was? Craning forward, the reporter scanned the street. Considering the crap weather, shit economy, it looked business-as-nigh-on-usual. Women buying up the shops, a few pinstripes striding past looking stressed, kids who should clearly be at school dawdled along cramming fast food. She gave a thin smile when a grubby-looking dosser pitched on the opposite pavement waved at her. Even though the rain had dried up, the poor sod must be freezing. The ill-fitting crusty cast-offs and army blanket were no match for minus three. Mind, the beanie hat beggar bowl between his spindly legs would be better placed on top of the straw-coloured dreadlocks. Passers-by were giving the headgear a wide berth, and from what she could see donating very little else.

  Sighing, she checked her watch again. Where the frigging . . .?

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting. I got held up. Would you like a refill?’ Wallet at the ready, Ruby Wells tilted her head at the almost empty mug. She had a stunning smile. For a second or two it stopped the reporter in her mental tracks.

  ‘Cool. Thanks.’ Aware of a rare sensation, Caroline smoothed a hand through her hair. It wasn’t often she felt outshone by another woman’s appearance. Ruby’s unconventional features were striking. Pictures she’d seen of the lawyer didn’t do her justice, not by a long shot. She’d clocked a snapshot in the open wallet, too. Mind, to Caroline all babies looked like Winston Churchill. Was the sprog daughter, niece, god child?

  Caroline swivelled on the seat slightly to cast a glance at the queue. Ruby Wells stood out like a poppy in a weed patch. Porcelain skin, huge green eyes, wide mouth, body to die for. OK, the dark Armani suit helped, but she wore little, maybe no, make-up. When a dumpy middle-aged bloke alongside made some joke, she laughed aloud, head tossed back, lustrous red locks rippled like waves. Caroline sniffed, turned her back. If she wanted a shampoo ad, she’d have stayed at home watching telly.

  ‘So you’re a television reporter, Ms King?’ Chanel Number Five wafted as Ruby deposited the drinks on the ledge then effortlessly hiked her no doubt pert buttocks on the neighbouring high-rise stool. Caroline, who virtually needed a stepladder, curled a lip as she raised her mug in thanks.

  ‘That’s right. Mostly BBC. Not exclusively. And please . . . it’s Caroline.’ Her warm smile was forced. She felt uncharacteristically wary. The woman was like a stealth bomber. Caroline hadn’t heard her approach and even though she’d been keeping a casual watch through the window hadn’t registered her late arrival. Could explain Caroline’s slightly off-guard emotion, too. One of the reasons.

  ‘TV journalism must be –’ stirring sugar into coffee – ‘fascinating.’ It had been a struggle coming up with the word. Probably edited a few along the w
ay, if the genteel sneer wrinkling her patrician nose was anything to go by. ‘And you specialize in . . . crime?’ Licking the spoon, she made more than token eye contact for the first time.

  Caroline bristled mentally. Fighting the urge to fidget, under the lawyer’s barely disguised scrutiny-stroke-contempt, she forced another smile, cracked her usual come back. ‘Hey –’ hands high in mock surrender – ‘I only cover it. Not—’ Commit it.

  ‘Quite.’ The restrained moue suggested she’d heard the line a million times. ‘Why am I here, Ms King? What is it you want?’

  Friendly chat not. Wells had clearly run a few checks, must have an inkling what Caroline was after. Obviously, the reporter had done her homework, too; journalistic territory and all that. She knew Ruby’s date and place of birth, that her parents were dead, that despite leaving home at sixteen, had graduated at twenty-five with a First in Law from King’s College London. She also knew Ruby was a partner at Spedding & Rowe’s over the road where she specialised in criminal law, that she lived alone, drove a Mazda MX-5 and must be on a damn good whack and/or have independent means. The history had holes, but Caroline hadn’t been digging long. Besides, her research was force of habit more than the need for a full exposé.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Ruby.’ Patently the woman was nobody’s fool and she’d already checked her watch.

  ‘An honest journalist? Isn’t that an oxymoron?’ Seeing the reaction, she lost the smile, raised a palm. ‘Sorry. Don’t take it personally.’

  There was another way? ‘I could say the same about lawyers. Start again, shall we?’ They locked glares for several seconds. Seemed to Caroline, the woman was weighing up the odds: talk or walk. Caroline held a mental breath, vaguely aware of hissing coffee machines, rattling crockery, low-level conversation. She needed the lawyer on board a damn sight more than the lawyer needed her.