Dying Bad (27 page)

‘I'm sorry, Caroline. The recorder's gone, too.' Hands clasped in front, Sarah stood at the foot of the bed in the private room. Ruby Wells, resembling someone on a Vogue shoot, lounged back in an armchair with legs crossed. Half-a-dozen empty cups and an almost empty box of Black Magic suggested the tea party had been going on some time. When Sarah first walked in and spotted the two women's heads together, she'd assumed Caroline was after legal advice, hadn't realised the reporter and lawyer were friends. Christ, why hadn't not-so-Millie-no-mates recruited Ruby as errand girl? Mind, it looked as if the lawyer had been too busy bearing gifts: a beribboned bottle of Chablis and a stack of glossy mags stood on the bedside table. Apart from depositing Caroline's bags, Sarah had brought only bad news.

‘The forensic guys are still in there,' she said. ‘But don't hold your breath. Thanks to CSI, even the densest crim knows about DNA these days.' Sarah reckoned the job had a professional cast to it anyway, the average opportunist thief didn't carry glass cutters and an apparent shopping list in his back pocket. ‘On the bright side—'

‘What fucking bright side,' Caroline snapped, grabbed a tissue. ‘Sorry.'

She let it go, could see King was genuinely cut up. ‘As I say, on the bright side, the rest of the house was untouched.' Nat Hardy had phoned Sarah with the info, his voice a cross between grovel and ingratiating. ‘So either the burglar panicked for some reason before having a chance to move on—'

‘Or the office was targeted.' Caroline nodded, licked a dry cracked lip. Clearly nothing wrong with the speed of her reactions now and she was patently thinking it through. Sarah wondered if their conclusions would tally, assuming King shared. She asked the reporter if she'd been working on anything sensitive.
Like, doh.
King's book on girl grooming had sod all to do with hygiene products. And they both knew she'd been sniffing round Jas Ram.

She blew her nose. ‘Everything I work on's sensitive.'
Since when had King joined MI6?
The DI bit her tongue; King's self-pitying rant wasn't over yet. ‘It's a nightmare. My whole fucking life's on that laptop.'

‘Tell me about it.' Ruby handed King another tissue. ‘I'd be in the same boat if I didn't back everything up.'

Sarah played a mental violin. Fact was King had told no one anything. It was an old trick: hyperbole a great way to dodge questions. Sarah gave a disarmingly warm smile and threw another. ‘The most sensitive and recent assignment being?'

Jas Ram's finishing school for girls?
As in finishing off any chance of a bright future. Now Sarah came to think of it, the last time she'd seen Ruby Wells had been the night of Ram's drink-drive incident when they'd been exiting the nick together. She cut the lawyer a covert glance. Was there more to her visiting the sick than met the eye? Were the women cooking up something tasty to go with the wine? Something that said Ram on the tin?

‘Seriously, Caroline, maybe I ought to . . .' The lawyer placed both hands on the chair arms, made to stand, she'd already offered to leave when Sarah arrived. So maybe the DI's suspicions were wrong. Either way, the gesture had let King wriggle off the hook. Again.

‘Don't go, Ruby.' The reporter waved her down. ‘I'll need cheering up even more when she's gone.'

She? Thanks, pet.
‘No worries. I've got to get back.' Missing the brief wasn't an option. Heavy traffic had already added to the journey time here and she had to battle through more to make it to the nick before six. She fully intended questioning King further, certainly needed more than a few snatched minutes. Besides, even if the reporter was happy to have a third partner in on the session, Sarah wasn't. She'd try and fit in a visit on the way home, King had lots to digest mentally in the interim. No harm throwing in an extra morsel before she left.

Slipping car keys out of her coat pocket, she kept her gaze on Caroline. ‘Seems to me, whoever broke in to your place almost certainly knew it was empty. Maybe someone watched you leave, or knew where you were going?'
Because her absence had been rigged?
‘Think on, eh?'

The sighs of relief were audible as Sarah walked away. She waited until reaching the door then turned. ‘Oh, and Miss Wells?'

‘DI Quinn?' Reaching for the Black Magic.

‘We've got a sweepstake running at work.' She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Was he pissed that night? Jas Ram?' The line was a less than subtle message: don't underestimate me. She'd couched it as a joke to add shock factor. Maybe catch Wells on the hop, force an indiscretion? She also saw it as lobbing a brick into a stagnant pond, you never knew what slime might surface.

It landed a brittle laugh and a pointed finger of mock censure: ‘Client confidentiality, DI Quinn.' Smiling, she popped a chocolate in her mouth. Too canny to take the bait? Not on-the-ball enough to recognise it? Or simply playing along?

She offered another cue. ‘A nod's as good as a wink?'

‘That would be telling, wouldn't it, inspector? Surely you don't expect help cheating?'

She'd been unsure what to expect. But certainly nothing could camouflage the horror, however fleeting, Sarah had seen race across Caroline's face. Her reaction on hearing Ram's name had to be genuine because given a choice she'd not let anything slip, her defences were tighter than the Old Bailey during a terrorist trial.

‘Everything OK, Caroline?' Sarah asked casually. ‘Something coming back to you?'

‘Let's think.' She flashed a fake smile, flopped back, arms folded. ‘My face looks like mouldy pizza, my house's been burgled, my laptop's been nicked, I've lost years of work, and I'm stuck here in hospital with you asking daft questions. Life really couldn't get any peachier, could it?'

Brilliant smokescreen. Total bullshit. Sarah knew what she'd seen. Hearing Ram's name had sparked the reaction, something in the exchange had definitely registered with King. She'd give a lot to know what. The throwaway line had been a shot in the dark. Seemed to Sarah it had set a big cat among the proverbial pigeons.

‘I
hate to say it but the DI was right.' Ruby Wells poured water into a tumbler, handed it over with a smile. ‘You looked as if you'd seen a ghost.'

Caroline gave a distracted nod. With her face a bloody mess, she no longer felt threatened by Ruby's good looks. Besides, as she'd discovered, the lawyer was warm, witty, with a cracking sense of humour. What was the saying? Looks aren't everything. As lessons in priorities went, it had hit home. But nowhere near as hard as Quinn's almost parting shot.

‘Any better now?' Ruby asked.

She shook her head. She'd not puked in the bathroom, but her stomach still churned and her mouth felt like the Sahara in the dry season. Staring ahead, she took a few sips, rolled the lukewarm liquid round her tongue, picturing not a ghost, hearing a disembodied voice: Quinn's.
Was he pissed that night? Jas Ram?

Ruby perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Was it another flashback?'

‘No. Not that.' What Caroline visualised had more substance than four youths dressed in black, scarves round their faces. And they weren't on her mind now. She closed her eyes.
Was he pissed that night?
Ruby had to have been acting for Ram, or Quinn wouldn't have asked the question. Ruby's comeback about client confidentiality had clinched it. The knowledge lit a visual blue touch paper sparking a series of images in Caroline's head: Ram sitting opposite her in San Luigi's, the seemingly harmless flirting, pathetic jokes about bus passes and the cost of travel cards because
a little bird
had revealed Ram's spot of bother with the law. How had he put it?
A little bird with a big mouth.
It hadn't occurred to Caroline for an instant that in Ram's mind there could be only one contender for the canary title. She groaned as her mental romcom turned into a black and white still straight from Hitchcock: a dead crow, its mangled carcass splayed across a windscreen.

‘You're blatantly knackered, Caroline. I'm gonna let you get some rest.' The reporter felt a slight draught, caught a waft of Ruby's Chanel No. 5 as she rose. She watched her reach for her bag, pointing at the box of Black Magic. ‘And lay off the chocolates, put some behind your ear for later.' They'd joked earlier about Ruby almost scoffing the lot even though she'd brought them as a gift. Caroline reckoned that in a minute or two the lawyer wouldn't give her the time of day.

‘Sit down, Ruby, please. I'm not tired. I have to tell you something. God, I feel sick.' She had to spit it out though; that her glib blather had provoked Ram's petty act of revenge and a potentially ongoing threat. How many dirty tricks were still hidden up his designer sleeve?

Ruby smiled uncertainly as she again perched on the bed. ‘I told you to lay off the chocs.'

The light hearted quip made it worse somehow. Caroline felt they'd really hit it off over the last hour or so. Chat had flowed freely, personal and professional: childhood, cars, careers. Ruby had waxed lyrical about helping kids who'd had a shit start in life. Charity began at home for Caroline but she respected Ruby's stance. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I wish it was that simple.'

‘Hey, come on. I'm sure it's nothing that can't be fixed. It's not the laptop, is it?'

‘God. No. Everything's backed up. Two memory sticks.' One of which would be in the vanity case.

‘So what is it?'

‘Jas Ram.' Ruby listened in silence as Caroline related the story. She tried reading the lawyer's face, reckoned it would be a hell of a long time before Ruby needed Botox. Caroline sighed as she wrapped it up. ‘So the crow shit was all down to me and my big mouth. I'm really gutted, Ruby.'

‘At least you've made a clean breast of it now. God. How crap was that?' She winked, flashed a grin. ‘Look Caroline, it's done. Over. Spilt milk and water bridge. Fact is I'm grateful.' She'd harboured suspicions anyway, she said, had arranged a date to sound Ram out. ‘I probably won't bother meeting the bastard now. All he needs know is I've marked his card.'

‘Not
probably,
Ruby. Steer clear. He's poison.' Christ, she'd started sounding like the Ice Queen.

‘You can talk, Mother. You're still meeting him even after all this.' She swept the room with a glance.

Caroline nodded. She'd finally told Ruby that Ram was definitely among the key players she'd interview for the book. Seemed the decent thing after all the lawyer had done for her. As for Ram, Caroline was almost certain he had nothing to do with her attack. Either way, she had to talk to him and if it emerged he was less than lily white – he'd pay for it. ‘I know the score, Ruby. Dealing with scum like Ram's what I do. The sort of people journalists chase, punters generally cross the road to avoid.'

‘I'm a lawyer, Caroline.' She bristled a touch. ‘The courts are full of lowlifes and losers.'

‘I know, sorry.' She smiled. ‘But Ram's up for seeing me 'cause he thinks there's something in it for him. Whereas, I'm the one stands to gain. And don't forget, I've done nothing to piss him off.'

‘As it happens . . .' She raised a wry eyebrow.

‘I know, I know.' Neither had Ruby. The fact she was erroneously in Ram's sights was down to Caroline. ‘Look, when I talk to him I'll set the record straight, make sure he knows you're discretion on legs.'

‘No body parts, Caroline.' She curled a lip. ‘For God's sake don't talk body parts to the slime ball.' She reached a hand for her coat. ‘I'm off now. I said I'd meet a couple of mates for a drink. If you ask me, they just want some free legal advice.'

‘Are they in trouble?'

‘No, but their boyfriends are.' She sneaked another chocolate. ‘Yummy. Need anything before I go?'

‘Apart from more chocs?' Caroline smiled. ‘Actually, can you pass the case?' It might perk her up if she put her face on. The fact that one of the doctors bore more than a passing resemblance to Ryan Gosling had absolutely nothing to do with her decision.

‘A
re you questioning the call, Quinn?' Baker leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, ankle swinging. She'd made good time from the hospital. Hence the pre-brief confab with the chief. She'd been summoned to the sanctum even before making it to her office. And now wished traffic had been snarled. She knew full well what Baker really meant: was she questioning
his
call. He wanted to charge Zach Wilde and Leroy Brody with murder.

She smoothed the still tight bun. ‘It might be a touch premature is all I'm saying.'

Baker laced podgy fingers across his paunch, gave her a fulsome and totally fake smile. ‘And why, pray tell, does the mighty Quinn think we should hang fire? Would she perhaps prefer a signed confession – in blood?'

She'd not say no to blood test results but it was more than that. ‘Now we know Foster's sleazy history, a bit of extra digging wouldn't do any harm, chief.'

A tiny muscle clenched at the side of his jaw. ‘We've been
told
he's a kiddie fiddler. We've not substantiated it yet and there's nothing on record.' Thanks to Patricia Malone keeping fucking mum all those years. ‘What's your point?'

‘Motive. What if offing him was payback time? Wilde and Brody swear they've never set eyes on him.'

‘Cash back more like. To tossers like Wilde and Brody he was a walking dispenser. They were after his money. Bread. Dough. Drug habits need feeding, Quinn.'

She shrugged. ‘I'm not disagreeing. But what about the Chambers Row victim? Where's he fit in?'

‘Oh yeah. Looks as if we might have a name.' Straightening, he shuffled a few papers on his desk
. Why the hell hadn't she been told?
‘It's not long come in.' They'd had it several days in fact: Frank Gibbs. Potential confirmation was what the chief meant. He told her uniform had checked out the address provided by the credit card company. Gibbs lived alone in a shabby maisonette in Small Heath. Neighbours hadn't seen him for days, he was quiet, kept himself to himself.
Blah blah,
don't they all?
But not so much that he didn't leave a key with an elderly woman two doors away. Officers entered, discovered no sign of life – or rotting body. They also found a pile of post on the doormat and an old address book by the phone. A couple of detectives would be working through the entries any time soon.