Dying Bad (11 page)

Lips pursed, he shook his head. ‘No. I'm not getting it. I'm sure it'll come.'

‘Remind me, Dave.' She wandered back to the desk. ‘Why did you drop by? Something I should know about?'

‘Nah, squad room's like a morgue. Anyway, I'm off-duty now. A few of us are heading for a bite to eat, wonder if you'd like to join the party.'

What, with George Clooney pining for her at home, peeled grapes and oiled pecs at the ready?

‘Yeah, why not?' He helped her into the camel coat. ‘So where's everyone going, Dave?'

Jamie's Italian in the Bullring as it turned out. Small party. After a couple of drinks, she realised it was just two-strong: her and Dave. After a couple more drinks, she didn't care. No one was counting.

R
uby Wells was making the most of the only settee in the house. Lying on her side, wine glass in hand, she twitched an indulgent lip. ‘Have you lot quite finished?' As soon as she'd arrived, she'd told the girls about the dead bird. A few drinks had diluted the initial shock and genuine simpatico. By now, tea and sympathy had gradually given way to a cheeky-vodka-fuelled scoff-fest. One-liners were coming thick and fast.

‘Must be what they call a special delivery, Rube.' Charlotte. Who shortened every name in the book.

‘As the crow flies,' Shannon added with sage nod.

‘Might be pigeon post next time.' Lily.

‘Is that cheaper?' Michelle. The only comic in the room who couldn't keep a straight face or stem the giggle. ‘Geddit, Ruby?'

‘You'll get something if you're not careful. You muppets.' Ruby shook her head. The slight wasn't serious. She appreciated the girls' gags were well intentioned. In their own way, they were trying to protect her; gee her up, make light of a sick stunt. If push came to shove, they'd do anything for her.

Besides, she'd failed to mention the note.

On the can't-beat-join-basis, Ruby threw in her own line: ‘No more crowing – or the pizza'll get cold.'

Sitting cross-legged on the floor round two family-sized Sicilians, all four started flapping imaginary wings, the routine could've been synchronized. Ruby rolled her eyes. Happy sipping wine she watched them swoop on the food, listened to the easy banter; Adele providing backing vocals. The girls weren't blood-related but the bond so strong most people would take them for sisters. Not in looks. Ruby gave a crooked smile, ran her gaze over the motley crew.

Wraith-like Lily with long curtains of almost white hair; shaven-headed Charlie who struggled – not hard enough – with her weight; people-pleaser Shannon, mousy, plain, average-everything; Michelle a busty blue-eyed blonde who, Ruby was convinced, fostered the ditzy image. An airhead, she was not.

‘Top up, Ruby?' Lily proffered the bottle, giving an unwitting Alice in Wonderland impersonation.

‘Yeah, go on then.' She could sleep over need be, the girls would be happy enough. Stop thinking of them as girls,
she told herself.
They were young women, late teens, Michelle the eldest at nearly twenty.

‘Hey, babe, put something decent on for a change.' Michelle was eyeing Shannon who'd got up to change the music.

‘You can talk,' she sneered, flipped the bird.

Michelle stuck her tongue out, yanked down her pink spandex boob tube another inch.

‘Children, children,' drawled Ruby. God. Only twelve years older, she sounded like a bloody mother hen. Then again, she was the nearest thing they had. Not one parent was on the scene, a couple were dead, the rest good as damn it.

‘Choice, Shan.' Michelle gave the thumb's up to Birdy's
Shelter.
Had Shannon chosen it deliberately? Maybe subconsciously, though Ruby doubted it; joined up thinking wasn't Shan's forte. Ruby toyed with mental connections though. Birdy was pretty obvious: despite the joshing, the crow incident was playing on Shannon's mind. As for shelter: if it wasn't for Ruby, likely the girls would be on the streets, sleeping rough, among other things.

Ruby had come across the group last summer, literally bumped into Michelle in a pub one night, accidentally slopped cider down her Stones' T-shirt. Superficially they had zilch in common. Then they got chatting . . . Michelle mainly. Episodes in her life gradually emerged, related without guile or self-pity. With a crack-addict single mother who could barely keep herself, Michelle had been taken into care. The system spat her out when she hit sixteen. By the time Ruby met her she lived in a squat with three mates who were in similarly homeless boats. They looked out for each other, just about got by, but life wasn't exactly rosy. Gutsy Michelle had a mouth on her and had Ruby in stitches most of the night. For some inexplicable reason, despite the differences, they'd clicked. Intrigued, Ruby had asked to meet the others.

A few months later, she'd helped find a place where they could stay without the threat of being turfed out. The scruffy end-terrace in Sparkbrook wasn't much to write home about, furniture was mostly skip-chic, other people's cast-offs. Make-do wallpaper came courtesy of
Heat, OK, Closer
: colour spreads of royals, soap stars, boy bands, C-list slebs. The day-glo display was enough to give Ruby a headache, but better than plaster and brickwork.

She helped with the rent, pointed out jobs they could go for without Masters' degrees. Lucky, given they didn't boast a GCSE between them. For Ruby, the learning curve was steep, she'd never fended for herself, felt it was only right to put something back, helping the girls sort their lives for a start. Hauling herself up from the settee, Ruby joined the party on the floor.

‘Last slice going spare, Rube?' Charlotte's tiny eyes were almost lost in the doughy flesh of her face. She was patently hoping for a no. The morbid obesity saddened Ruby. Strip away the blubber and Charlie would be drop-dead gorgeous. She raised a palm to turn the offer down.

‘Hey, look! It's got my name on it.' Lily made a grab for the box. ‘'Sides, Charlie's watching her weight.'

‘Someone's got to,' Michelle quipped.

‘Come on, give it a rest.' Ruby reached for the bottle, wished niggling thoughts would take a break, too. The note was in her breast pocket, cheap lined paper rustled when she moved, now and then she felt it scratch against her skin. The words she knew by heart.

should of been a canary

next time, eh?

Dead subtle. She'd bet bird man thought he was up there with Einstein, pity the grammar was shite. The message was clear though: he was accusing her of singing. Road kill crows were presumably easier to land than canaries. She'd assumed, too, the writer was a bloke. Had to be, didn't it?'

‘Any idea who done it then?' Gaze firmly fixed on Ruby, Charlotte casually popped in the last bite of pizza. Fat she might be, but not much got past her.

Ruby had two ex-clients in mind and in the running. Maybe she'd put out feelers come Monday. ‘Tell you if I had, Charlie.'

Pause, weighing it up. ‘Straight up?'

‘For sure.' She smiled. ‘No worries.'
Except.
The note per se wouldn't lose Ruby any sleep. What bugged her now was the knowledge bird man had her address and had made himself at home in her car. And, if his sign-off was meant to be taken literally, was confident of doing it again. She changed the subject, asked about boyfriends, night life, what they'd been getting up to. After ten minutes' light chat, she drained her glass, got to her feet.

Charlie glanced up. ‘Not off are you, Rube?'

‘Yeah, sorry chaps.' The prospect should've hit her before: if the bastard had gained access to her motor . . . ‘I'd best get back.'

Michelle rose. ‘I'll see you out.' In the narrow hall, she laid a hand on Ruby's arm. ‘Sure you're OK?'

‘You bet.' She shucked into her coat, turned at the door. ‘I almost forgot. Amy's keen to pop round again. Likes the company.' Ruby winked. ‘God knows why.' She'd introduced Amy Hemming to the group a few weeks back on the basis Michelle and the others could make decent role models. If they were turning their lives round, getting back on track, maybe Amy post-Jas Ram's brutality would see a light at the end of the tunnel, too.

‘Sure, any time. She's an OK kid. Been through a lot of shit.'

‘Not through it yet.' She mentioned Amy's tearful phone call, how she felt hounded by the press. ‘Bit of light relief with you lot'd do her the world.' She hoisted her bag on her shoulder. ‘I'd best fly. Listen, if you guys need anything? Just let me know.'

‘I reckon it's you who needs something, Ruby?' She smiled. ‘A scarecrow, maybe?'

Caroline saw. Even through smarting eyes. Saw too much. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she pressed the pause button, shoved keyboard, pens and pad to one side. She slumped back in the chair, her hands pushing back her fringe and resting, fingers entwined on her head. She sighed. She'd had enough, though the transcription was nowhere near complete. Way past midnight, she was at her desk in the makeshift home office. She'd fancied an early night but sleep proved elusive and she'd finally padded downstairs in her dressing gown. Maybe subconsciously the tape had been burning a hole in her mental pocket. The Gordon's had gone some way to quenching it. Not far enough.

Caroline drained the remains, wandered into the kitchen for a refill. Glass in hand she leaned on the sink, gazed sightlessly through the window. Still saw it all: Amy alone, frightened, abused. Alice Hemming recounting every word in that robotic drone, the tic in her eyelid, the ragged skin round her nails. And she saw wicked bastards getting away with murder. OK. Not murder. No bodies. Journalistic licence. But when a child's psyche was destroyed? A personality shattered? In the reporter's book, it amounted to the same thing.

Sure as hell, the Amy she'd exchanged a few snatched words with bore little relation to the girl described by her mother. And absolutely nothing with the grinning child in the school photograph. What was it Alice had said?
She's grown a lot since then.

She sure has
.
Eyes narrowed, Caroline sucked gin through her teeth, recalled the not so touching scene when she'd left the Hemming house . . .

Sitting in the BMW, smoking, making notes, marshalling thoughts. Always better to mentally digest interviews soon as. Impressions, observations, interpretations fade, go astray if not jotted down. Caroline's unwritten agenda was the notion that Alice Hemming didn't like anyone smoking in the house. Including her daughter.

Mind, with the evening gloom growing, temperature falling, Caroline had been on the point of driving off when a door banged, footsteps crunched gravel. She counted seven before the girl emerged into view and – thank you, God – turned right out of the drive. Five seconds later Caroline, minus the glasses and back with the bob, leaned against the motor, legs casually crossed at the ankle. Amy trudged on unaware, head down, one hand buried in the pocket of a bulky donkey jacket. The red dot at hip height put Caroline in mind of a telescopic sight, except she knew it was a ciggie.

‘Got a light, Amy?' Friendly smile, warm voice. Last thing she wanted was to startle the girl.

Drawing alongside, staring at Caroline, she took a deep drag. ‘What part of bog off don't you get?
Mrs Hunter.
' Make her jump? She'd clearly marked Caroline's card a while back.

‘Let's think . . . bog . . . and . . .' – mouth down, one finger up – ‘. . . off.' Two fingers in the air now. Caroline caught a twitch of Amy's lip. The reaction was likely involuntary but, hey, strike while the iron might be hotting up. ‘Thing is, when it's important, I don't let go. Dogged, that's me.'