Dying Bad (29 page)

Leaning against a custard coloured wall in the hospital cafeteria, Sarah finished the worst coffee she'd drunk in years and slung the styrofoam cup in a bin. She'd felt in need of sustenance before confronting King again, and a five-minute break to try and get her thoughts together. She'd have preferred a slug of scotch to the shot of caffeine. Doubtless Baker and his band of merry men had sunk a few single malts by now – when she'd left the nick most of the squad had been making for the Queen's Head. Celebrating.

Would she have joined them if she could? Yes. No. Maybe. She'd little doubt Wilde and Brody were partially guilty, but felt there was more story to emerge. There was a saying about chickens and counting. Sarah saw too many unhatched eggs.

‘Give it back and we'll say no more about it.' Still propped up in bed, Caroline King held out a palm, lips pursed tighter than Scrooge's wallet. Sarah found something faintly comical about the cartoon stance. On a more serious level, she was dead on her feet and could live without the ridiculous posturing. ‘That the royal we, is it?'

‘That's so not funny.'

‘I'm sure you're right, dear.' Sarah stifled a yawn, flopped into a chair. Hospitals were always too hot, the room felt like a sauna. Mind that could be down to King's hot air.

‘Just hand it over.'

‘Get over yourself, Caroline,' she snapped. The arsy-ness no longer amused. ‘Just what's your problem?'

‘The memory stick? In my vanity case?' She glared. ‘Only it's not.'

Sarah narrowed her eyes, counted to five. Then ten. The fucking nerve. ‘What are you saying. Exactly?' The voice was clipped, curt. ‘You don't for one instant seriously—?'

‘I'm sorry, Sarah.' King put a hand to her mouth. ‘You wouldn't. I know that. I'm just so bloody . . . Forget I said anything.' She clearly knew a line had been long-jumped. Sarah had little doubt the remorse was genuine, or she'd have walked, tasked a junior officer with the interview.

The apology was still too late. ‘When did you see it last and what's on the frigging thing?'

‘Yesterday afternoon.' She always kept it with her make up, apparently. Sarah was tempted to crack a line about vanity publishing but decided on balance it wouldn't go down well. ‘As to what's on it . . . what isn't?' King ran both hands through her hair. ‘The opening of the book, research notes, interview transcripts.' No prevarication. No hedge betting. That more than anything confirmed Sarah's belief the reporter regretted the slur.

‘Interviews with . . .?' Circling an ankle.

‘A couple of victims from London, Amy Hemming's mother, social workers, child protection officers, a woman from CROP . . . the Campaign for the Removal of Pimping?'

She gave a brisk nod, knew what CROP was for God's sake.

‘The book's structure's on there, contents' table, publicity ideas, promotional stuff.'

My word. She had been a busy queen bee.
It struck Sarah there was a big hole in the work load. ‘What about Jas Ram? Have you interviewed him?'

‘Not in depth. Not yet.' Slight hesitation. ‘Why?'

She shrugged. ‘I can see why he might want to get his hands on the material.' Ram was an arrogant shit with a sadistic streak and then some. He'd revel in knowing what people were saying about him. And if he didn't like it – which he wouldn't – Sarah could see him making sure they'd think twice about opening their mouth again.

King frowned, thought it through. ‘But he's agreed to talk. Why would he try and sabotage what I'm working on?' Not that he had. King apparently had a second memory stick which she kept in a wall safe. Ram didn't know that though; wouldn't know either existed. Sarah turned her mouth down.

King caught up. ‘You're not talking sticks, are you? You think he broke into my place, nicked the laptop, the recorder?' Sarah nodded.
Ram or one of his sheep.
‘I still don't see why – not when he's agreed to an interview?'

‘Words are cheap. And we all know Ram's a man of his word, don't we? Were you paying him?'

King sighed and closed her eyes. Said it all really. And Sarah reckoned it was a damn sight more than anything Ram would have disclosed. Knowing what she did of the gobshite, he'd either have spun tales of pure – make that sick – fantasy. Or stonewalled every question. Either way he'd have taken the money and run. She almost felt sorry for King. She must have been so desperate to secure the groomer's input, she'd allowed her bullshit alert to go on the blink. She gave the reporter a short time to reflect then asked if she'd noticed anything suspicious in the days leading up to the burglary, strangers hanging round the property, unknown cars parked in the road, anything out of the ordinary. They were stock questions, and got stock replies: no, nada, niente. Big surprise. Criminals who know what they're doing don't generally sneak round wearing Dick Turpin masks and carrying swag bags. Shame, Sarah thought.
Could save me a bunch of time.

She checked her watch. Nearly eight. She'd already decided to draw a veil over Nat Hardy's pathetic display. If he wanted to tell King about it – that was fine. She was here primarily to discuss the attack and it hadn't even had a mention yet. ‘Caroline. Can we cut to the chase? What happened last night? Who were you meeting? What can you remember?' Probably not a lot. Sarah had sought out a medico who'd confirmed King's blood contained traces of Rohypnol.

‘Four questions and a cliché? She raised an eyebrow. ‘You'll never make a journo, DI Quinn.'

‘Thank God for small mercies. Come on, give.' She'd hooked up with Amy Hemming, she said. It only took ten minutes or so to persuade the girl to agree to record an interview at a later date.

Sarah frowned. That was a turn up for the grooming book. ‘You definitely had no arrangement to see Ram?' King looked down at her hands. ‘Tell me straight, Caroline.'

‘He cried off. We'd been due to meet at nine. He called around six, said he couldn't make it. No reason. No apology. Said he'd reschedule. To be honest, I thought he was just dicking me around, showing who was in control, you know?'

Could be. Or he was just keeping tabs. ‘OK, back to Amy. What happened once you'd agreed terms?'

‘As far as I was concerned, it was a result. I left on a high – and in a hurry 'cause I was keen not to keep you waiting. I'm walking across the park then – bam. It's a blank.'

Sarah's glance fell on the still unopened Chablis on the locker. She'd run out of wine, made a mental note to buy a bottle on the way home. Shame this wasn't a social call.

‘Help yourself.' King smiled, clearly didn't miss much. ‘Whoops. Better not. You being on duty and all.'

She twisted her mouth. ‘The shadowy figures you mentioned this morning?'

‘I'm pretty sure there were four youths.'

‘Male? Female? Both?'

‘Male, of course. Dark hoodies, jeans, scarves, then the shapes just dissolve. Next minute I think it's my mind playing tricks.'

She tapped a finger against her lips. King must've read the scepticism.

‘Honest to God, Sarah. I'd tell you if I could. I want whoever did this locked up.' She was pointing at her face; the make-up wasn't helping much.

She nodded. ‘What about sounds? Or smells?' Clearly not. No clue either as to what happened in the four hours between leaving Amy in Harborne and being dumped in Edgbaston. Where the hell had she been – and who with? ‘Have you any idea how the Rohypnol got in your system?'

‘What?'
Deep frown lines appeared. Maybe the results hadn't long come through because it was clearly news to King. ‘Jesus wept. No wonder I can't remember a frigging thing.' She reached for a glass, took a few sips of water. ‘I don't believe it. I just can't get my head round it.'

‘Round what?'

‘What do you think? The Rohypnol. It's a shock.'

She could see that. ‘So, any ideas?' King gave several slow shakes of the head. ‘What about before you met the girl? Did you go in a pub? A wine bar? Did someone buy you a drink? Did you leave a glass unattended?' She narrowed her eyes: surely, it meant King had been targeted?
Was that how the mugging gang operated?
Select a victim, slip in a roofie? Shadow the prey?
And is that a clutched straw I see before me?
She sighed. Even if she was on the money, it was way too late to test Foster and Tattoo Man. King still hadn't responded. Sarah could almost hear the cogs ticking. ‘Well?'

More head shaking. ‘I'm trying to think, Sarah.'

‘I can't help if you hold things back.'

‘I need more time.'
I bet you do.
And she'd stake a King's ransom on something having just registered. She held Sarah's gaze. ‘If and when anything comes to me – you'll be the second to know. I promise you that.'

Sarah tightened her lips. It wasn't worth arguing the toss, short of thumbscrews she'd get no further tonight. Besides, she was so knackered she almost felt like shoving King out of bed. ‘Are they still letting you out tomorrow?' The reporter nodded. ‘Give me a bell. Let me know when.' She reached for her bag, headed towards the door.

Last thing she wanted was a wasted journey. Another wasted journey.

‘Sarah. I'm on the wagon. Painkillers and all that.' Smiling, she took the bottle off the locker, proffered it to the DI. ‘Call it a peace offering?'

‘What?' Sarah's lip twitched. ‘A peace offering from Ruby Wells?'

‘Ruby won't mind. She's a mate.' The smile faded. ‘I've done far worse to her, believe me.'

Getting into the Audi a few minutes later, Sarah wondered if King had had it in mind to tell her about the windscreen incident all along. The reporter clearly felt responsible for drawing Wells into Jas Ram's line of fire. Ruby apparently had no intention of reporting the threats to the police. Maybe mentioning it to Sarah was King's subtle way of suggesting the cops keep an eye on the lawyer.
Subtle as a dead crow.

And peace offering as sweetener? She glanced at the Chablis on the passenger seat, gave a wry smile. She'd happily accepted it. Then handed over a twenty. Given the priceless expression on King's face, it had been worth every penny.

T
he early brief had been exactly that – done and dusted by 08.30. In her office now, Sarah was reading over-nights, writing reports, responding to emails et al. So flaked by the time she got home last night, she'd slung the Chablis into the fridge. Just as well, or she might have ended up looking as seriously hung-over as one or two of the squad. The party had decamped to a curry house, according to Dave; celebrations continued into the small hours though he'd bowed out after a swift pint. Baker hadn't shown this morning, called in to say he was heading straight out to some police authority meeting. He'd probably lost interest, thought Operation Steel all over bar the shouting. She sighed, sipped coffee. Maybe he was right. In less than an hour, Brody and Wilde would be up before the magistrates. They'd doubtless plead not guilty, equally predictably they'd be remanded in custody.

Even so, additional evidence had to be collected, efforts made to trace more witnesses, sharpen statements already taken. The case had to be as tight as they could make it. So why did she still see unhatched chickens? The thought that other gang members were at large continued to bug her. Eggs could land on faces, couldn't they?

The phone derailed her train of thought. ‘DI Quinn.'

‘Ma'am. DC Lally here.'

‘Beth.' She put a warmish smile in her voice, compensation for the shit straw dished out earlier. She'd despatched Lally and Jed Holmes to Harborne park – again. ‘Any joy?' She thought she caught a murmured ‘boundless' from Beth, but let it go. Ferreting round bins when it was below freezing was never going to be a career highlight.

‘Two bags full, ma'am.' Even if the comeback hadn't been intentionally humorous, Sarah's lip twitched. ‘Both bin liners are in the boot. Empty cans, mostly, fair few bottles. Strongbow, Red Stripe, Coke, Fanta, Seven Up, Rio, Peps—'

‘I get the picture, Beth. Thanks.' Whether it would illustrate part of the puzzle, Sarah had only a vague hope. What was it No Shit's namesake had said? Something about eliminating the impossible and whatever was left – however improbable – had to be the truth. Sounded classy even if it proved total tosh. The notion had struck Sarah around three a.m.; insomnia had to have some benefits. Until then, she'd thought it inconceivable that Amy Hemming had spiked a drink, given it to the reporter. Seeing the girl having means and opportunity was no problem. But, motive? If King had been telling the truth, Amy had been happy to comply with an interview. So why would she try and put King out of action? And what then? How had King ended up in Edgbaston? If Amy had been involved in that, too, she couldn't have done it on her own.

‘Where'd you want them putting. Ma'am?' The pause was pushing it.

Don't tempt me.
‘Back here, thanks.' A safe berth would do for the time being. She knew it was the longest of shots, but not all the containers would have to go to the labs for testing. She'd ordered a wide sweep to be on the safe side, but there'd be judicious filtering after she'd grabbed a word with King. Surely the reporter had entertained similar thoughts, arrived at similar suspicions. Was that why she'd gone AWOL? So she wasn't on hand to answer further questions – because she was busy chasing the answers herself?

‘You still there, ma'am?'

‘Sure. Fire away, Beth.' She reached for her coffee.

‘As well as wading through all the crap . . .'
Yada yada. Get used to it.
‘. . .
we might've struck witness gold. A woman who lives across from the park? She reckons she saw four youths hanging round the swings just before it went dark.'