Dying Bad (16 page)

‘Make your mind up, sonny. Five minutes ago you didn't want a brief in spitting distance.'

‘Yeah, that was before you started twisting my words.'

‘I won't tell you again . . . get your effing feet off the table.'

‘Gonna make me?'

‘Don't tempt me, sonny.'

Elbow on desk, Sarah dropped her head in a hand and shuddered. Jesus. It made depressing reading. The exchanges between Baker and Zach Wilde were more like a shit script from
Life on Mars
than an interview under police caution. She'd found the transcript propped on her keyboard first thing, a note from Harries attached: ‘You wanted to see this before the brief?' He'd been in even earlier than her. Currying favour? She'd been surprised the little toady hadn't left an apple as well.

She'd skimmed through the transcript then. Was rereading it now, post brief. What a bundle of laughs that had been. A squad split down the middle over Baker's quandary. Comments ranged from ‘best copper that ever walked' to ‘time the bastard got his comeuppance'. The inquiry could do without a distracting division. Sooner the issue was sorted the better. After soothing gripes, wiping metaphorical brows, Sarah had assigned tasks, and troops were now mostly out in the field. It felt like she'd already put in eight hours and it wasn't even ten o'clock.

She circled a temple with her finger. Three paracetamol hadn't touched the headache. The overheated stale air in the office wasn't helping. She'd opened a window briefly, but the incoming chill threatened hypothermia. Wrapping a hand round a mug of tepid tea, she returned to the passage earmarked earlier.

‘How should I know the guy's name? You're the one saying it's this Agnew geezer. Whoever it was hit me mate first.'

‘Which mate?'

[Wilde shrugs]

‘For the tape, Mr Wilde.'

‘Dunno his name.'

‘Close mate, then.'

‘Go fuck.'

‘Let's go back. You're claiming Duncan Agnew started a fight in the street in which you became involved?'

Another annotation: slow handclap on tape
.

‘Quick for a cop, ain't ya?'

‘Talk me through it.'

‘I dunno. He was pissed or something. Mouthing off. Started kicking out.'

Here, Sarah had jotted: epileptic fit? Drawn a circle round the words.

‘What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let me mate take a hammering?'

‘How noble. So what did you do?'

‘Told you: give him a smack. Him against me, wannit?'

‘You said you were with four mates. So it was him against five of you. Very Queensberry.'

‘Yer what?'

‘Odds don't sound fair to me.'

‘What you banging on about, old man? He started it. I slapped him back. Self-defence. End of. ‘Sides, when we left he was fine.'

‘Beaten within an inch? All his valuables nicked? Duncan Agnew is still in hospital, Mr Wilde. Lucky to be this side of the pearly gates.'

‘Nah. That wa'nt down to me. We ain't talking the same geezer. And if you think I'm saying anything else – you're as thick as pig shit. Make that thicker.'

The youth had talked more – only to refute allegations. He denied robbing and beating Agnew, hadn't a clue about the Foster mugging and was nowhere near Chambers Row last Friday night.

Sarah raced through the rest of the transcript, winced at increasingly hostile exchanges. She could well imagine it winding Baker up, almost hear his exaggerated sighs, drumming fingers, the heel of a fist pounding the table.

Was that all he pounded after John Hunt left the room? Surely, there'd be news from the bosses soon?

She pinched the bridge of her nose. What had Baker said?
Don't tempt me, sonny.
‘Oh, shit.'

Shot out a hand when the phone rang. ‘DI Quinn.'

‘Good morning, inspector.' Bright breezy. ‘Your favourite friendly neighbourhood hack here.'

‘I don't have a favourite hack, Mr Hardy. And I'm up against it. So get to the point.' She wondered vaguely why Caroline King hadn't got back. Couldn't be that bloody urgent.

‘Up against it?' he paused. She sensed something suspect. ‘Is that cause they've got you acting up already?'

‘Sorry?' Genuinely clueless.

‘The powers that be.' That telling silence again. ‘Now you're a man down.'

Man down.
She stiffened, senses on full alert. ‘Not with you, Mr Hardy.' She so was. Man down meant one thing. She blamed her throbbing head, or she'd have seen it coming sooner. The newsman had picked up a sniff on Baker and was on the scent. Blood probably.

‘Stands to reason. With a senior detective short – they need someone filling in.'

Sounded to her like Hardy did, too. He'd left the silences, hoping she'd inadvertently oblige. But how much did he actually know as oppose to guess? How long was the fishing rod? She saw a verbal minefield, needed to tread very softly. ‘Short? How's that?'

‘As in suspended.'

‘Nope. Definitely not.' Hardy was off-beam there, his source dodgy. No decision had been made. Last she'd heard Baker was skulking in his office waiting to hear his fate.

‘Punched some youth during questioning.'

Who was feeding him this stuff?
Her laugh sounded hollow even to her ears. ‘Is there a stand-up convention or something in town, Mr Hardy?'

‘You think it's funny? A senior detective clouting a defenceless kid? You think it's some kind of joke?'

A lecture from a sodding reporter? She took a calming breath, chipped each word out of ice. ‘I think . . . if you publish one word of unsubstantiated rumour . . . you're in serious danger of ending up in court.'

‘I agree, DI Quinn.' No he didn't, the lie was in his voice. ‘So why not confirm it? Is Detective Superintendent Fred Baker on gardening leave or not?'

‘Absolutely. Utterly. Categorically. Not.' She scored unwitting holes in the transcript with the nib of her pen. ‘Write one word different and you're fucked.' Detective
Chief
Superintendent Baker might be in the market for a new spade soon – that was a bridge she'd cross later. Assuming it wasn't broken. ‘Is that clear, Mr Hardy?'

‘Your position is, inspector. Perfectly.'

Harries had assumed he'd be in on the Brody bunch interviews, but the boss had tasked him with squad room duty: taking calls, making calls, checking backgrounds, cross-checking witness statements, rereading police reports. All the really exciting stuff. Yawn. He scowled, knew he'd been put in his place. Bottom of the pecking order. Talk about insult to injury, she'd actually taken Jed Holmes in with her to grill Zach Wilde. Known as No Shit, DC Holmes was a decent enough bloke but thinking on his feet – never mind analytically – wasn't his forte. Most of his peers reckoned he had the brain power of a comatose snail.

Harries gazed through the window, saw Shona Bruce step in to a police motor, presumably off to the QE again. Christ, she spent so much time there the hospital ought to name a bloody wing after her. Glancing round the open plan office, he told himself it might not be so bad if the place didn't make the Marie Celeste look like an overbooked cruise liner; virtually the whole inquiry team was out following leads. Actually, scrub that. It was bloody bad, he did feel miffed. Not being landed with plod work, it went with the territory. He resented what he saw as a kick in the balls for his reluctant go-between act, struck him as mean-minded unprofessionalism. Wouldn't be beyond Baker's management style maybe, but he'd thought better of Sarah Quinn.

‘What you do to piss her off then, Dave?' Paul Wood glanced up from his monitor, reached for a can of Diet Coke.

‘Who? DI Quinn?'
So
glad it wasn't obvious.

‘Nah, the Queen Mother.' The DS rolled his eyes. ‘Who else?'

Christ, if Twig had picked up on the froideur, it'd be all round the nick. ‘Nothing, mate. We're cool. She reckons No Shit needs the experience. Anyway, there's loads—'

‘No Shit needs a lobotomy.' He crushed the can in his fist. ‘And Quinn should get over herself.'

Harries picked up an apple from the desk, glad now he'd not left it on the DI's. ‘Not with you, sarge.' And didn't want to be. He took a large bite. It was one thing Harries bleating on about Sarah, an entirely different ball game when someone else took a pop. Hypocritical? Sure. Besides, before the Wilde debacle, Twig would never have bad-mouthed the boss.

‘Baker's a frickin' good cop. OK he's been going through it . . . but innocent till proved guilty, right?' Wood leaned back, tucked thumbs under belt. ‘It wouldn't hurt to show a bit of support, solidarity. Quinn could've put in a word at the brief.'

Harries shrugged, office politics he could live without. ‘She's got an inquiry to run, sarge. Pressure to get a result.' He bit off another chunk.

‘Yeah?' Derisive sniff. ‘Well she needs to man up.'

Momentarily, his chewing stopped. So when push comes to shove, the boys stick together? Women bosses are fine when they don't rock the proverbial? Blokes like Twig just pay lip service to equality? Were attitudes surfacing because Baker's crisis was polarising opinion? Harries chucked the rest of the apple in the bin, reached for the ringing phone.

Talk about fallout. Vesuvius wasn't in it.

Z
ach Wilde appeared every bit as obnoxious in the pasty flesh as on paper. And small screen come to that. Spread legs stretching tight black denims, he sprawled in a chair in IR1 cupping his crotch. Sarah, who'd seen it all before, kept her gaze on his face. For one she wanted to examine the injuries, for the other she'd not give him the satisfaction. Tugging up the sleeves of her white shirt, she decided the damage was superficial: minor scratches near the eye, barely perceptible bruise on left cheek. Someone had mentioned a split lip – couldn't see it herself. If Baker had been riled enough to lash out, would he really have had the restraint to pull the punch? She couldn't see that either.

‘Hey, bitch.' Wilde's leer was almost laughable. ‘What you staring at?'

‘What do you think knob end?' Jed Holmes, who was supposed to be sitting in, observing, lunged across the desk, thrust himself into Wilde's personal space. ‘And to scum, it's DI Quinn. Got that? Scum?' The voice was a Brummie Vincent Price on nasty pills. The youth straightened slowly, gaze darting as he hugged both arms round skinny torso, definitely rattled. Scared of lightning – make that cops – striking twice? Or like most bullies did Wilde have a yellow streak a mile wide when someone bit back. Sarah reckoned No Shit had hidden depths. Fact he looked like a middle-aged anorak – he'd have to.

‘All set, ma'am?' He resettled the horn-rims, smoothed a hand down the mustard coloured knitted tie.

She raised a ‘hold on' finger, confirmed with Wilde he definitely didn't want a lawyer. The youth had changed his mind yet again that morning, just wanted to get on with it, he said. It had suited her. She gave a brisk nod. ‘When you're ready, DC Holmes.'

No Shit might be slow, but he knew when the tapes were running. Starting them now, he reeled off time, date, people present.

‘Let's go back to the fourth of January, Mr Wilde.' Sarah played a pen between her fingers. ‘Kings Road, Selly Oak. Around eleven o'clock at night. Yesterday, you told Detective Chief Superintendent Baker you got into an altercation?'

His curled lip revealed the orthodontic black hole, his vocabulary had a gap, too. ‘Alter what?'

‘Fight?' She raised an eyebrow, he didn't take the cue. No Shit interpreted her subtle nod and slid a colour print across the desk. ‘With him.' She tilted her head at the pic. ‘A man we know to be Duncan Agnew.'

‘You might, sister. Never seen the geezer before. And now I've had chance to think – without a pig breathing down me neck – I ain't even sure I was there.' He folded his arms, stuck his bottom lip out. ‘Nah. Deffo. I remember now. I wa'nt there.' Like that was it.

‘Fine.' She flipped the lid off a paper cup. ‘So you'll be able to tell us where you were.'

‘Fuck's sake. How'm I supposed to know?' No Shit cleared his throat. Wilde flinched, almost slipped off the chair.

Was that what happened last night? Baker said he'd helped Wilde off the floor? What was the cliché: did he fall or was he pushed?
‘Let's get this right, Mr Wilde.' She took a sip of coffee. ‘You remember where you weren't but not where you were? Are you playing games with me?' She'd love to know what was going on behind those shifty bloodshot eyes, she could almost hear the cogs turn in what passed for a brain.

‘I made a mistake, got it arse about tit. Even you lot cock up.' For the first time, he stared directly at her, fingering the scratches under his eye. ‘What's happening to the fat cop by the way? 'Bout time me and him kissed an' made up. No harm done. Move on, eh?'

She narrowed her eyes. Was the little shit really saying what she thought? Did he imagine for one second he could fashion some sort of deal? Let me walk and he's off the hook? Was it conceivable Wilde had lied from the start? Fabricated the whole scenario about Baker beating him up to secure a bargaining chip? A Get Out Of Jail Free card? God, you almost had to admire the brass neck.

She gave an incredulous snort. ‘Play a lot of Monopoly, do you, Mr Wilde?'

‘Yer what?'

It wasn't until No Shit started softly whistling ‘Please Release Me' that she had to stifle a laugh. The next forty minutes held nothing remotely funny. Apart from Wilde's continuing chorus of ‘I know nothin' which put her in mind of Andrew Sachs's Manuel. They went through the same non-comedy routine with intense questioning on Foster's mugging and the Chambers Row murder victim. No matter which way she probed, the youth didn't move a gnat's. She was on the point of calling it a wrap. ‘Tell me, Mr Wilde—'