Dying Bad (12 page)

‘As in bitch?' Red sparks flew as she flicked the stub towards the gutter.

She bit back a comeback in kind. ‘No call for that, Amy.' No point talking down to her either, treating her like a child. She wasn't. Not any more. And she'd see through smarm or bollocks sooner than you could say jackshit. ‘As I say, if it's important . . . another?' She offered a pack of Marlboro.

Swatting it away. ‘Cut the crap. What d'you want?'

This is going well.
‘You shouldn't anyway.' Sparking up. ‘It's against the law.'

‘What?' The unintended irony must have appealed. ‘You mean – at
my
age?'

Under the amber street light, Amy looked a sickly fifteen going on fifty. Arms folded, legs spread, the girl was aiming for stroppy sod, not quite pulling it off. Caroline reckoned it must be hard work keeping a more or less permanent scowl in situ. Fact the girl hadn't flounced off was telling. A second later, she turned on her heel. Caroline performed the pavement equivalent of a foot in the door, stepped in front, both palms held out. ‘Amy. Listen. I can't begin to imagine—'

‘Got that right. Go on then.' Smirking, she snatched the pack from Caroline's hand. ‘You twisted my arm.'

Ring your neck in a minute.
She smiled. ‘Keep it. I've got—'

‘A bloody nerve.' The pack disappeared in a pocket of her jeans.

Caroline was beginning to understand why one of Amy's front teeth was chipped.
Cut the girl some slack for Christ's sake.
‘So can we talk?'

Amy jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘After Mrs Blabbermouth just spilled her guts out? What more do you want?' Her eyes creased as she lit a baccy.

‘I want to help.'

‘Bit late for that, innit?' Toeing the ground with a scuffed Converse trainer, patches of white scalp were just visible under the brutally short hair. Beneath the prickly veneer Amy was pitiably vulnerable. Caroline resisted an uncharacteristic urge to offer comfort; she doubted Amy wanted another stranger pawing at her. She paused while an old man ambled past with what sounded like an asthmatic bulldog.

‘Help girls
like
you then. Stop other kids going through the same shit.'

Amy played air violin, smoke wafted along with virtual bow. It could explain the glistening eyes – again, Caroline doubted it. ‘What are you?' Amy sneered. ‘Some kinda fairy godmother?'

‘I wish.' Grinding the half-smoked cigarette underfoot. She wished she could turn the clock back, wished she could get a better handle on the girl. As bonding sessions go, this hadn't.

‘Yeah, but you're not. And if you think there's a happy ever after, you're even stupider than you look.' She flapped a hand. ‘People like you haven't got a frigging clue.' Hard face. Big talk.

‘No. But you have, Amy.' She reached out, voice velvet-soft. ‘You could make a difference.' A single tear ran down Amy's cheek, difficult for Caroline to ignore.

‘Leave me be. I can't do this now.' Abrupt turn then she stomped off, digging in a pocket presumably for a tissue.

Now?
Just about on
the cards then? Caroline took a few steps, before calling out, ‘We can stop him, Amy. Walk away – and he wins.'

Her boot already covered the white card she'd seen fall when the girl pulled out the tissue. Scooping it from the pavement, she glanced at the lettering, slipped it in her bag. Amy was nowhere in sight or – naturally – Caroline would have returned it.

Next time.

Back in real time, Caroline tapped a finger against her lip. She peeled herself off the sink still curious why Amy had been carrying round a solicitor's card. And why it had a home address and phone number scrawled on the back. Finger combing her hair, she headed for the stairs. Far as she knew, Ruby Wells hadn't acted for the girl, so what was it all about? There'd been one way to find out, and she more or less passed the street on her way back. The little detour hadn't done any harm. Made sense to drop by, suss it out. But Ms Ruby Wells had neither been in – nor called back.

Which meant Ruby was near the top of the reporter's to-do list.

She tapped lightly on her lodger's bedroom door, sure she'd heard him come in earlier. ‘You awake, Nat?'

She pricked her ears, Nada. Probably just as well. Business, pleasure, all that.

L
ying flat on her back in bed, Sarah held two fingers in front of her face. She screwed her eyes, held a recount, just to make sure. When she'd tried the same trick an hour ago there'd been four there, at least. Groaning, she dragged the duvet over her head, made an oath to sign the pledge, soon as the pounding stopped. The church bell accompaniment didn't help either. She didn't normally get hangovers. Mind, she didn't normally neck that much booze. Maybe drink more in future? Develop a tolerance for the stuff?
Do me a frigging favour.

OK, Sarah. Two fingers good.
Gingerly she rolled on her side, slowly lifted the cover. Thank the Lord. No spinning, no churning, no gagging, no splitting head, no sleeping policeman. She smiled. Knew she hadn't been
that
hammered. Had she said the word, Dave Harries would have been in like a shot. Probably see it as a career move. No, that was below the belt. Had she been tempted? Is the pope celibate? Debatable then. Fact was, fit, good-looking guys who made her laugh didn't fall in her lap every day. Smiling, she cocked an eyebrow. If memory served, that was the point she'd poured him into a cab. Damn good job he was off duty today as well.

Swinging bare legs out of bed, she grabbed a fleecy dressing gown off a hook on the door. Bedroom felt like an ice box. A smile still in situ as she entered the bathroom, faded a touch when she examined her face in the mirror. Actually, not bad, considering . . . The panda eyes weren't down to a night on the lash. She reached for a couple of wet wipes. Christ, she was only thirty-two, a few late nights wouldn't do any harm. Maybe she should take a few more? Lighten up? Live a little?

Sighing, she loosened the bun then perched on the edge of the bath, added bubbles to the water. Would it really have been such a bad thing to wake and find Dave beside her? Shoot, woman, are you mad?

Even ignoring the age gap and different rank – which no one at the nick would – she'd been there, done that, got the bite marks. Years back, she'd been involved with a DI in the Met. More than involved – lived with him, wedding planned, the works. He was stabbed when a reporter panicked and inadvertently blew an undercover operation. Jack died in her arms on a London street. Turned out, he'd been screwing the journo, too. The fallout had damn near destroyed Sarah and her then fledgling career. Never again . . .

Letting the gown drop, she lowered herself into the water, lay back as far as five and a half feet of bath allowed. With the hair trailing she could've posed as a blonde Ophelia. Was she supposed to live like a nun as well? Given how much time she spent working and the gender ratio in the force, declaring cops off-limits had to be blinkered. Talk about restricting the market. If she wasn't careful she'd end up married to the bloody job. No way. Besides, she didn't want marriage, someone to share a bit of down time with would be good, regular sex with a decent bloke wasn't a lot to ask.

Jack had been dead ten years. She'd not mixed business with pleasure since. Maybe time she did. The journo involved back then hadn't let it stop her. But when had Caroline King ever let anything stop her?

Enough already. Let it go.

Maybe she'd nip into the nick later, just see if anything was kicking off?

‘So, Davy, how's it going?' Caroline King sounded like she was chatting to an old mate, then listened to four seconds' dead air before a groggy, ‘Sorry, who is this?'

Colombo was still on the ball then. The reporter twisted her mouth. Maybe the call had broken his beauty sleep. Stirring brown sugar into black coffee, she injected her voice with a lazy smile. ‘Come on, sweetie – it's not been that long.' Since she and DC Harries had been very good mates indeed. A quick fling is all, but Dave had been a damn good . . . ‘Don't say you haven't missed me?'

‘What do you want, Caroline?'

Sounded a lot perkier now. And prickly. She pictured him sitting up, hair tousled, chest bare, stay-in-bed eyes. Hadn't needed to draw on imagination. ‘Want?' Verbal pout. ‘Can't I phone a mate for a little chat these days? Since when's that been
against
the law?'

‘Oh, let's think.' Rustling noises. Black satin sheets getting the elbow? ‘Since you almost got me the boot?'

She arched an eyebrow, traced an index finger round the mug. Strictly speaking, that wasn't down to her. It was Sarah Quinn who'd pole-vaulted to the wrong conclusion, accused Harries of leaking intelligence during pillow talk. Body fluids may have been swapped, but not sensitive information. No point arguing the toss. Truth be told, she regretted alienating him now. ‘Come on, Dave – water, bridge.'

‘Under? Jump?'

‘Fun-nee.' She gave a lopsided smile. The laughing policeman he was not. She sauntered to the sink, swilled the mug. Nat's breakfast bowl sat there flecked with soggy cornflakes. She didn't clear anyone's mess, not even hers if she could get away with it. ‘I need a favour.'

‘Well I never.' Was that water running? Surely he wasn't having a pee?

‘Get the boss lady to contact me?' She'd left loads of messages for Sarah Quinn, but nada in return. Short of doorstepping the DI, the delectable detective was Caroline's best bet. Anyway, it was about time she and Dave kissed and made up. Life's too short. She wished Sarah would chill, too. The Snow Queen hadn't always been so high and bloody mighty. ‘It's urgent, Dave. I might have something for her. To do with Jas Ram.' And vice versa, naturally. Give it enough spin, and she could probably convince Quinn the upcoming interview with Ram would benefit the cops, too. In the back-scratching stakes, the reporter wanted Sarah's help with the police take on the issue. ‘Have a word, eh?'

‘I'll mention it . . . but don't call this number again. I'm not your—' Harries narrowed his eyes, heard static. Great. Always loved talking to himself. Mouth tight, he wandered back to the bedroom, slung his mobile on the side table, absently scratched his chest. A glance in the mirror registered just how hacked off he was. Apart from the cocky attitude, King was congenitally incapable of letting anyone else have the last word.

Make that two. He'd been about to add ‘errand boy'.

Errand boy, go-between. Shrugging, he sank onto the edge of the mattress. It boiled down to the same thing. Everyone knows what happens to the messenger. In his mind's eye he saw Sarah holding a gun, blowing down the barrel. Pissing her off was the last thing he wanted. Through a hangover the size of a planet, he seemed to recall making great strides last night, hoped to God he'd not put his foot in it, had an in vino adidas moment.

Too late now, Prosecco under the ponte and all that. He checked his watch: twenty to eleven. Half the day, down the pan as well. OK. Shave, shower, bite to eat then maybe make the call. Groaning he ran a hand down his face. The prospect of telling the DI he'd had his ear bent by her favourite hack . . .

The ring tone blared a snatch of ‘Teenage Kicks'
before his clammy hand reached the phone. The nerve of the bloody woman. ‘I told you not to phone again. How difficult is that?'

‘Frigging tricky, Harries. I'm not into telepathy.' A terse-sounding uncharacteristically uptight Paul Wood. The DS wouldn't be calling an off-duty officer to inquire about his health. ‘You at home?'

‘Yes, sir.' Sparkbrook bedsit. All he could afford.

‘We've got an ongoing incident, Jubilee Way. Stand-off involving a bunch of youths. How soon can you get there?'

Twig always did his homework, he'd know the street was a stone's throw. ‘Ten minutes, sarge.'

‘Make it five.'

His hand froze en route to the shower control. ‘The DI, is she . . .?'

‘Get your ass in gear, lad. An officer's down.'

N
o shower, no shave, hastily garbed in last night's crumpled gear, Harries pounded down a narrow pavement slick with rain, dotted with dog turds. Almost oblivious to his surroundings, he dodged stinking bin liners, hurdled a rusty bike frame. A mental mantra kept pace with his thudding footfalls: not her, not her, not her. God knows why but gut instinct, sixth sense, call it what you will told him Paul Wood had held back. Harries expected to see Sarah lying injured or, God forbid, worse.

Fists clenched, he upped the pace. Thirty or forty gawpers milled round at the Jubilee Way turn. Scowling, he assumed telly must be crap this morning, nothing like a bit of street entertainment. No audience participation, thank Christ. The cordon slung across the top of the road saw to that, plus the thin line of constables and community support officers posted just beyond. Elbowing his way to the front, it looked like a few idiots were auditioning for Strictly Come Cop Baiting – especially the girls. Talk about playing to the cameras. And the radio mics. Great. The media was out in force as well.

Ducking under a sodden Do Not Cross tape failing to dodge droplets, he ignored an ironic desultory round of applause, tried doing the same with the sharp stitch in his side. A hand he used to brush hair from stinging eyes came away wet with sweat and drizzle. He wiped the palm down damp black denims, fumbled in a leather jacket pocket for ID, headed for a police constable he vaguely knew.

Doug Fraser had already stepped out of line, now raised a gauntleted arm. ‘That's far enough, sunshine.' Stocky and swarthy, Fraser carried too much weight, had a reputation for throwing it. Late-forties, intellectually challenged, his career had long since stalled.

Harries flashed a warrant card. ‘Piss off, Dougie.' Still trying to catch his breath, he winced as the stitch kicked in again.