Dying Bad (14 page)

‘Not pretty is it? The man's still in hospital. What can you tell us about the attack?' Brody barely gave it a glance. ‘We have several witnesses placing you and your buddies at the scene, Mr Brody.'

Nothing.

‘Keeping shtum isn't going to save your sorry little neck.' She snapped, sensed Harries' gaze, the outburst rare. She took a deep breath, dropped her voice. ‘Who put the boot in this time?' Brody recoiled slightly when Foster's pic hit the desk. ‘Take a long hard look, Mr Brody. See the tread on his cheek? The impact broke the bone. He's lucky not to have lost an eye.' Again, the youth barely took his gaze off the floor. She walked round the desk, thrust the third victim's pic in Brody's line of vision. ‘We don't know who this is yet, but he bled out at the scene. Your blade was it, Brody?' Assuming his eyes were open, they'd be meeting the victim's lifeless stare. Still, no response. ‘Doesn't matter either way. Joint enterprise, Mr Brody: as the law stands, you'll go down for life.'

His so-what shrug did it. Throwing down the pic, she whacked the desk with a palm. ‘Look at me when I'm talking, you little . . .' Harries laid an arm on hers. She shook it off, walked away, counting under her breath. Ten didn't do it, she hit twenty, still couldn't stand the sight of the youth. With her back turned, she softened her voice, even injected a little warmth. ‘It could go easier if you tell us who else is in on it, Leroy.' The elderly witnesses from the first crime scene had mentioned four or five youths. ‘Think about it. Why do the time if you didn't do the crime? If I can, I'd like to help you, Leroy.'

‘Boss.' Harries tilted his head. Frowning, she followed his gaze. The youth's narrow shoulders shook, wet tear trails were leaving white tracks down his grimy arms. Even Brody's crying was silent.

‘Yes, but why the waterworks? Remorse . . . self-pity . . . his goldfish copped it?' Sarah provided her own answers, which was a damn sight more than Brody had.

Harries slid his metal tray on the table next to hers. ‘Come on, boss. Give him a break.' Tired and hacked off, she'd wandered up to the canteen. Sunday evening fare was notoriously thin on the gourmet ground, but beat a still-empty fridge. Dave had tagged along, maybe at a loose end, too.

‘Break?' She sniffed. Brody might as well be on bloody leave. In no fit state to continue not answering questions, the youth's non-interview was on hold until morning. Time. Waste. Of.

‘'Sides, you've changed your tune.' She tore the wrapper off a straw with her teeth, not convinced strawberry milkshake was the wisest choice to wash down beans on toast. ‘It's not that long since you were ready to throw away the key.' What was it he'd said when Brody and Wilde's names were left on the hotline? Cooking with gas.

‘He's no angel, I'm not saying that.' Harries had boned up on Brody's back story and social reports: family break-up, children's homes, YOIs. ‘Given the shit cards he was dealt, it would've been more of a shock if he'd not taken wrong turns, run with a bad crowd. A small part of me feels sorry for him, I guess.' Pensive, head down, he speared a chip, incipient lines round his eyes giving her a glimpse how his face would age. ‘Must've been bloody tough growing up like that.'

Her smile was bitter-sweet. ‘Yeah I know.' Knew emotional intelligence like that made Harries a decent bloke, that he'd develop into a good detective. The touchy-feely stuff wasn't just for show, learned in a lecture hall. He wasn't afraid to open up, admit emotions more macho cops wouldn't even acknowledge. She recalled her own flash of sympathy: fleeting, not heartfelt.

‘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?'

S
arah 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?'

‘Cause 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.

T
he 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.