Dying Bad (15 page)

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.

‘M
onday, 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 way, 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.

Slowly, Wells crossed her legs. ‘Go ahead, Ms King.'

Phew.
She told Ruby about the book, how she wanted to expose the grooming trade, stop vulnerable girls from being fooled by false promises, flash cars, fake affection. She said she'd covered the recent crown court trial and was desperate to secure an in-depth interview with at least one of the girls involved. Ruby listened, sipped coffee, nodded once or twice. Caroline threw in the few stats available, mentioned a couple of cases in other parts of the UK. ‘It's tip of the iceberg stuff, Ruby, Ms Wells.' Hot under the collar wasn't in it, Caroline knew her colour had risen. ‘It shouldn't be happening at all.'

Ruby held the reporter's gaze. ‘And this is to do with me because . . .?'

Caroline leaned forward, palms spread. ‘The book has to be authentic, has to have real impact, has to move readers to get off their arses and actually do something. Sorry. I get worked up about it. It's just . . . if the major players tell their story . . . it'll have real punch. People need to know what's going on out there, how easy it is for girls to fall in the groomers' trap.' It was a wonder she hadn't fallen off the bloody stool.

Ruby traced a finger round her mug. ‘That's all very laudable, Ms King. I wish you luck. I ask again: what's it—?'

‘You have access to the girls.' It was a punt, she'd no real proof. Amy carrying the lawyer's card didn't necessarily mean the others had contact with Ruby. Caroline's news sense told her they did. And Ruby hadn't denied it. Besides, Amy Hemming was the girl Caroline most wanted to talk to. Her case highlighted how a solid middle-class background was no safeguard; made no difference in a groomer's twisted mind. ‘I need to speak to them. They've been there, know what it's like, how it happens, how – dear God – to avoid it. They're the only ones who can tell the real story.'

The mug stopped halfway to her mouth. ‘And why on earth would they want to?'

Keep up.
‘As I say, to help others. And as a reporter, writer, whatever, I truly believe opening up makes it easier for people to move on. I've seen it. Lots of times. Once it's out there, victims put it behind them.'

‘That's highly debatable to say the least.' She turned her mouth down. ‘I still don't see why you need me. Why not approach them yourself?'

‘You were on the money earlier. The oxymoron gag? You know as well as I do a lot of people don't trust journalists. Don't have a good word these days. How can I interview them if I can't get near them?'

‘And you think I'll open doors? Give you credibility?'

‘Got it in one.'

Ruby ran her tongue along her top teeth, clearly weighing sides again. Caroline masked her impatience but reckoned the bloody woman must have a set of scales in her head.

‘What's in it for you, Ms King?'

She stifled a sigh, only surprised it took so long to ask. ‘A piece of work to be proud of? A book that might actually save kids from the likes of Jas Ram. Might even make it impossible for the Jas Rams of this world to commit grooming crimes, let alone get away with them.'

‘And the big fat advance? The royalties?'

Caroline shook her head. ‘I'm not doing this for money, Ruby.'

‘You'll be giving it to charity then?'

‘Could do.'

‘Tell me.' She sipped coffee, studied Caroline's face. ‘Have you spoken to any of the girls yet?'

‘Amy Hemming. Briefly. I think she'd be perfect.' Please don't let that have blown it.

Ruby nodded. Like Caroline had passed a test or something. ‘If you'd lied, I'd have told you to get lost.'

She narrowed her eyes, gave a tentative smile. ‘That mean you'll help?'
Monday Monday.

‘I'll think about it.' Uncrossing her legs, she slid off the stool. ‘I'll be in touch later. Maybe.' Several heads turned to watch her saunter to the door.

Caroline glanced at her phone. Whoop-dee-woo. Quinn had finally got back, left a voice mail.
So good to me . . .

‘Just a thought.' The stealth bomber. Ruby Wells had done it again. ‘When you pushed your card through my door Saturday night, you didn't see anything strange, anyone hanging round?'

Standing now, Caroline made a mental note to get the Louboutins out next time. ‘No. Why?' Frowning, she nodded towards the exit. ‘I'll walk out with you.'

In the street, Ruby told her about the dead bird on the windscreen. Made light of it. ‘Probably kids messing around. No worries. It was a long shot. Just thought I'd ask. You were in the neighbourhood around the time it must have happened.'

They were headed in the same direction, walked in step. ‘Have you reported it?'

‘The police have got enough on their plate.' As they walked past the beggar, she tossed a few coins in the hat.

He flashed a toothless grin. ‘Bless ya, Tuesday.'

She laughed when she saw Caroline's face. ‘As in Ruby?' she explained. ‘We got chatting one day. His name's Art. Always calls me Tuesday.'

‘Reckon he was in a Stones' tribute band?'

She laughed again. ‘This is me.' She pulled up outside the Victorian monstrosity that housed Spedding & Rowe. Pigeons cooed on high window ledges, pooped too going by the state of the pavement. Caroline glanced up ready to dodge droppings.

‘One more thing . . .' Ruby paused. ‘You say you want to talk to the major players? Does that include Jas Ram?'

‘I think it has to.' Bets hedged.

‘Have you approached him?'

Ruby was on the side of the angels. Caroline lied instinctively. ‘Not yet. Why?'

‘Be careful, that's all.' She tapped the side of her nose. ‘I wouldn't believe a word he says.'

Caroline narrowed her eyes. ‘You've had dealings with him?'

‘Trust me.' Smiling, she gave what could have been an ironic wink. ‘I'm a lawyer.'

‘I
ain't opening me mouth till you get me a lawyer, Pig Man
.
'
In the margin, someone had written the ‘oink oink' sound on tape.