Dying Bad (17 page)

‘Read my lips, sister.' Maybe he hadn't heard the knock on the door. Either way he didn't bat an eyelid. ‘I wa'nt there. I know nothin' and I've never set eyes on the dudes in my life.'

Standing in the doorway, Harries cocked an eyebrow. Sarah nodded, told him to go ahead.

‘Maybe in another life, Mr Wilde? Because one of those dudes knows you. Swears you and your merry men beat seven shades of the proverbial out of him.'

‘The wot?'

Duncan Agnew had positively identified Zach Wilde's ugly mush from a police mugshot. Not exactly a handsome pay-off for DC Shona Bruce's patient bedside manner, but a big evidential return. The sooth-talking DC had also flashed Leroy Brody's pic at Agnew. Scored another hit. Kerching. Shona would happily have treated Foster to the same visual delights but the second victim was unconscious most of the time.

‘What a turnaround, guys.' Sarah perched on a desk in the squad room, circling an ankle. She'd stood a round of tea and doughnuts. Only half a dozen detectives were dotted round, so either way the celebration wasn't massive. It was a start. When confronted with Agnew's statement, Wilde and Brody had fallen like a pack of cards, stacked on jelly, on a spin cycle. No Shit said he'd never seen anyone put up his hand so fast. Both youths admitted the attack. Came clean on the robbery. Violently denied involvement in the other crimes.

‘Shame they didn't go the full house,' John Hunt said. ‘Bang-to-rights-bingo.' The detective sergeant leaned against his favourite wall, brawny arms folded. He'd conducted Brody's second interview alongside Beth Lally, a DC back that day from maternity leave whose butt was currently parked on a corner of Harries' desk.

‘Talking of houses, Twig.' Sarah shielded her eyes from a welcome if not warm ray of sunlight. ‘Anything back from the squat?' A forensics team was still out at the Sparkbrook crime scene. Brody and Wilde had eventually admitted living there off and on for five months.

He tapped the side of his head. ‘Soon as I hear, ma'am.'

‘Big diff, isn't there, Huntie?' Harries, who had a dab of jam in the corner of his mouth, had clearly been musing on John Hunt's earlier comment. ‘Owning up to a relatively minor street robbery's one thing. But, near as damn it,
two
murders?'

‘Hanged for a lamb? Stuff the sheep bit?' Twig's take.

‘Nearly two murders, Dave? How's that work?' Beth tucked a lock of blonde hair behind a petite ear.

He shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.'

Everyone in the office knew. Foster's condition didn't look good. If he pegged it, Brody and Wilde could face two life sentences. Assuming they were guilty. Surprise surprise, the youths had suddenly produced alibis for the times of both Foster's attack and the murder. Hanging with chicks, as Wilde put it. In English: staying with girlfriends. The girls were being traced, would be questioned, soon as.

‘But why cough at all?' Twig again. ‘Surely they'd be best off keeping their mouths shut?'

‘Unless they know they're on a loser,' Hunt said. ‘Know there's evidence out there. Just a question of us finding it.'

‘To Agnew's attack? Or all three?'

Hunt held out empty palms.

‘I sure as hell think they know more than they're letting on.' Sarah drained her cup, slung it in the nearest bin. ‘The numbers game, for instance.' Wilde and Brody had clammed up on the aspect completely. Agnew had told Shona he believed the gang was five-strong, even provided sketchy descriptions of the other assailants. Brody and Wilde wouldn't be drawn, point blank refused.

‘Keeping it up their sleeve for later?' Holmes breathed on a lens of his specs. ‘Maybe see it as leverage?' Polished it with his tie.

More bloody bargaining chips?
‘Maybe, Jed.' Strolling to the window, she tapped the side of her mouth as she passed Harries. He blushed, cottoned on instantly. ‘Either way –' Sarah perched on the sill – ‘if Agnew's feeling up to it, we'll get someone over there this afternoon, pull together an e-fit.' She'd already asked Ted White to knock out a news release, issue it to the press pronto. She frowned. That reminded her. She needed to check the local rag's lunch edition, see if Nat Hardy had gone into print with the Baker line.

‘Reckon Brody and Wilde are in the frame for the lot, DI Quinn?' Beth was probably just trying to make her presence felt after six months' leave. As a psychology graduate, she'd know it was a stupid question to ask. Her charcoal skirt suit and crisp white blouse suggested she'd dressed to impress, too. Maybe a touch too hard?

‘Honest answer?' Sarah laced her fingers. ‘Damned if I know.' Early on in the inquiry, she'd certainly favoured the attacks being down to the same perps, similarities spoke for themselves. But now? Wilde had gone into meltdown denying numbers two and three, virtually begged her to believe him. But then he would, wouldn't he? He'd even said he might have been mistaken about Baker, might be willing to withdraw the allegations.

‘What I do know is we need hard evidence.' Her phone beeped a message alert. She glanced at the sender's name, curled a lip. King could 'king wait.

‘Brody pissed himself, you know,' Hunt said.

‘What, laughing?' Holmes asked.

He shook his head slowly. ‘Scared shitless, wasn't he?' Whether it was Hunt's hangdog expression, deadpan delivery, or doughnut sugar rush, after the briefest pause, someone's snigger set everyone off. Probably why no one heard the late arrival.

‘Fuck is this?' Hands jammed in pockets, Baker raked a glare over every officer. His left eye looked like a bruised damson. ‘Happy hour on the friggin' funny farm?'

‘Chief . . .' Sarah started.

He flapped a hand. ‘Party's over, Quinn. Everyone. Get back to work. I want to see Wilde's balls nailed to the wall. Lying little bastard.' He cupped an ear. ‘You lot gone deaf all of a sudden? Come on, chaps. Chop chop.'

‘Y
ou following me, Quinn?'

Baker did have eyes in the back of his bloody head. Sarah had exited the squad room in his wake, now followed the Paco Rabanne trail down the corridor at what she'd judged a discreet distance. First she wanted to ask the DCS's state of play, make that work. Second she didn't want an audience for the inevitable exchange between them, behind closed doors would do nicely. ‘Yeah. I wouldn't mind a word, chief.'

‘Nor me,' he called, still walking, still showing his back. Pulling up outside his office, he turned to face her.
God, that eye looks sore.
‘Sorry'll do for a start.'

‘Sorry?' Frowning. ‘Not with you, chief.' As if. But she wouldn't just roll over, not for anyone.

‘Got that right, Quinn.' He opened the door, flicked his head. ‘Inside. Sit.'

Yes sir. No sir. Woof-dee-woof. She glanced at the executive desk covered in files, printouts, reports, half a dozen cups with coffee dregs scattered round, accompanying plastic spoons reminded her of the ‘measured out my life' line from Prufrock. Best not mention it. She couldn't see Baker as a member of the T.S. Eliot appreciation society.

‘This word then, Quinn?' Leaning back in his matching executive chair, he stared at her across the cluttered surface, stubby index fingers steepled.

She glanced down, brushed a few grains of sugar from her skirt. ‘Welcome back?' Her smile was tentative. His position not exactly clear.

‘That's two.' He scowled, illustrated the point digitally. ‘Shit at maths as well?'

She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I'm not looking for an argument, chief.'

‘Nor me. I were you I'd take loyalty lessons, though.'

She cocked her head. ‘As in teach them?' He was not amused. She knew she'd have to bend some time soon. His watch sounded like Big Ben in the uneasy silence. He could wait a while. ‘I take it Wilde's dropped the allegations?'

‘No. But he will.' Dead cert. Still staring at her, he outlined why. The forensic and medical evidence overwhelmingly backed the chief. None of his DNA had been lifted from Wilde's skin which indicated he'd not laid a finger – never mind fist – where it mattered. Blood under Wilde's nails turned out to be the youth's which meant he'd scratched his own face. And the clincher? A faint circle in the bruise on the chief's cheek was an exact match for the tiny raised skull on Wilde's cheap signet ring. An expensive mistake.

Baker leaned back, rested crossed hands on budding paunch. ‘So whatever the lying little git comes up with next I'm Mr Clean. Absolved. Acquitted. Exonerated. Exculpated. Vindicated. Get the picture?' She nodded. More than. ‘See, Quinn, like I told you . . . I never touched the scrote.'

He'd been sorely tempted though. Said it himself. It looked increasingly as if Wilde had engineered the whole incident. She'd not have given the oik that much credit. ‘I'm glad to hear it, chief. It's great to have you back in the saddle.' Doh. Shouldn't have mentioned saddles. He probably thought she was taking the piss. The Wild West was Baker's big thing. He took regular riding holidays in Montana, wore all the gear, boasted encyclopaedic knowledge of American Indian culture. Baker on horseback was a concept she'd never been able to get her head round. His mind was one-track at the moment.

‘You owe me an apology, Quinn. You thought I'd whacked him one.' He jabbed a thumb at the door. ‘Out there, you said you weren't with me.'

She gazed at the ceiling. ‘I meant—'

‘I know what you meant, woman. I'm not thick. But we work as a team. If you're not with me – where exactly are you, inspector?'

‘If you're saying, against – you're wrong.'

‘
I'm
wrong?'

He was right: they had to work together. She had kind of jumped the guilt gun and, metaphorically, she was bigger than him, always known there'd be bridge building to do. ‘OK, chief. I was out of order. I shouldn't have doubted you. I'm sorry.'

‘Good girl.' He rubbed his hands together, leaned forward. ‘Right, where we at?'

She shook her head.
Incorrigible old bugger.
As she brought him up to speed, it became clear he'd mostly kept pace anyway. She filled him in on who was doing what, the results they were waiting on, told him she was keen to check the youths' alibis, tackle the girlfriends soon as they were traced. Cut the risk of them being coached or nobbled. Winding it up, she mentioned Nat Hardy's fishing expedition, primarily to make Baker aware the nick had a leak rather than fears the story would appear. ‘I told him one word in print and he'd be fucked.'

‘Royally fucked now I'm in the clear.' Baker turned his mouth down. ‘So you fought my corner with this Hardy bloke, then?'

‘Course I did.' Smiling, she reached down for her bag. ‘So what's the little word, chief?'

‘Words, Quinn.' He held up four sausage fingers and gave a stage wink. ‘Never apologise, never explain. Now shift your ass, lass.'

She rolled her eyes; PC was a lost concept on Baker. Her campaign to drag his thinking into the 1970s had a long way to go. ‘I'll keep you posted, chief.' She was almost out the office when he called her name. She turned in the doorway, keen to get on.

‘I meant what I said about nailing Wilde. Vicious little shit nearly cost me my pension.'
Nothing personal then.
‘Spit the lemon out, Quinn. There's nothing personal going on here. I'm not into vendettas. Way I see it, he's guilty as sin. They both are. The evidence is out there. All we need do is find—'

‘Great. Two birds with one . . .' Paul Wood stood just behind her. ‘Gov.' He nodded at Baker. ‘Ma'am.' She manoeuvred out of his way. Twig was evidently eager to take pole position. ‘Forensics. Said I'd let you know?' He gave a lopsided smile, flashed a piece of paper with a few scrawled lines. ‘You're gonna like it.'

She
so
did. Twig's list detailed a cache of stolen property unearthed by the squat team. Sarah had motored straight to Jubilee Way for a bird's-eye viewing, parked the Audi just beyond two white transits. Togged now in a white all-in-one, she strode to the semi-derelict dive, down a narrow litter-strewn pavement. A brace of Vicki Pollards surgically attached to fags and mobiles parted in either deference or dumbstruck bemusement. No voyeuristic audience this time round, the drab back street was deader than a dodos' reunion. Mind, without Harries sitting shotgun, she'd have thought twice about leaving the car unattended. The DC was back in her good books, leaving him out in the metaphorical cold would've been pointless, petty, beneath her. No point them both trampling the scene though, he was better placed phoning round a few people trying to track down Wilde's alleged squeeze.

Not that Sarah had to be there, the site visit wasn't compulsory, the compulsion all hers. She always had the need to get the feel of a place, a mental hands-on. The visualizing, imagining, sensing had to be done in person, in situ. A DVD, even with Spielberg directing, was no substitute. Besides, the forensics team had done a bloody good job, made a face-to-face thanks only fair. She told herself it had nothing to do with a certain Ben Cooper being here. Almost believed it.

The cheap replacement front door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open, called her name, a voice from above directed her to a downstairs back room. It was the first time she'd set foot in the place, wouldn't lose sleep were it the last. Stenches stuck in her nose, caught in her throat: cat piss, stale smoke, cheesy vomit. Talk about olfactory overload. Maybe stinky crime scenes were behind Baker's heavy aftershave habit, a vat of Paco would have its work cut out here.

The room was small, gloomy, sparse, décor minimalist with bare floorboards and – apart from lurid semi-literate graffiti – naked walls. Presumably the furniture had been flogged or burned. Empty cans and booze bottles were piled high in the hearth, used candles lined the mantelpiece, fast food cartons screwed into balls lay in corners.