Dying Bad (19 page)

‘D
on't push it, Dave.' Sarah pulled up outside an unprepossessing terrace in Balsall Heath; Harries' phone bashing outside the squat had come up with the not-a-million-miles-away-address. She cast the place a quick once-over, no obvious signs of life. But, then, the visit was on spec. There'd be zilch mileage in giving Wilde's lady friend advance warning. Sarah had brought Harries up to speed on the squat scenario during the drive over. He'd fed the findings back to Paul Wood who'd make sure forensic irons were in the fire. Then Harries had started clearing professional air.

‘I'm not pushing, boss, just saying, is all.'

Despite the fact she'd grudgingly apologised for drenching him in the car park and reluctantly agreed assigning him squad room duty had been a gnat's out of order, he'd just accused her of showing Jed Holmes preferential treatment that morning. She suspected Dave's tongue was embedded in both cheeks. Either that or he was fishing for compliments.

‘It's horses for courses, Dave. Nothing to do with favouritism.'

‘Oh, I see. So No Shit's got a winning way with yobs, has he?' His hand was on the door.

‘You'd be surprised.' She recalled Jed's lightning lunge across the desk. ‘What he can't do is charm the birds from the trees.' Masking a smile she made a sharp exit.

Harries was alongside fast. ‘Is that my area of expertise then, boss?'

She simply raised an eyebrow but his beam bordered on smug as he rapped the letterbox. Music was playing inside, maybe they hadn't heard. ‘Once more with feeling, Dave.'

Music got louder, footsteps approached, door opened. Sarah almost asked the girl if her mother was in. But appearances can be deceptive, closer study suggested the small, slight blonde was late teens, certainly a few years older than a first glance suggested. Mind, she still looked to Sarah like a cross between Tinkerbell and Tenniel's Alice. Her hair fell almost to her waist except for the stab at a mini beehive pinned more or less in place with knitting needles. The wardrobe was Helena Bonham Carter on benefits: scuffed pink pixie boots, humbug striped tights and a diaphanous lilac dress. Sarah cocked a cordial head, warrant card raised. ‘Michelle Keating?'

‘Who wants her?' Staccato. Her eyes were the palest blue Sarah had ever seen. Almost like discs of ice. Her wary glance darted from Sarah to Dave, hadn't even skimmed the ID.

‘I'm Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn. My colleague here's DC David Harries.'

‘Phew.' Her heart-shaped face broke into a broad grin. ‘That's all right then. For a minute there you had me worried.'

Relieved to find cops at the door? That was novel. Most householders ran a metaphorical marathon. Sarah slipped the card back in her pocket. ‘Worried?'

‘Yeah. Had you down as Mormons.' Still smiling, she twisted a strand of hair through her fingers.

Sarah smiled back, waited for the invite.

Sudden narrowing of the eyes. ‘You're not flogging anything are you?'

Dead horse by the sound of it. Was she dense or disingenuous? ‘I said we're detectives. We'd like to come in.'

‘You can but I'm not Michelle.'

Go ahead. Waste my time.
She stifled a sigh. ‘Is Michelle your sister?'

The seemingly artless grin again. ‘Don't you think
all
women are sisters? Under the skin? What's your name again, I didn't catch it?'

You're certainly getting under mine, love.
‘Quinn.'
And, no. I don't.
She'd come across women she wouldn't want as long distance pen-pals let alone close relatives. But was the girl really into gender politics, the sisterhood and all that jazz? Or was she taking the Michael? Doing a clinging ivy on the door, she certainly didn't look the part. Those pale eyes held the hint of a tease and the glance she cast over Harries wasn't exactly withering.

‘Who're
you
then, love?' He tried his lopsided smile. It usually went down a treat.

‘Lily.' She offered Dave a tiny hand. ‘Lily Maitland.'

Ding dong.
Sarah's eyes lit up. Harries clearly hadn't dug far enough; his inquiries should've revealed Brody's girl lived here, too. Still. One stone, two birds . . .

‘Stroke of luck, Lily.' Dave nodded at the door. ‘Go in, shall we?'

Three of the room's four walls were papered in magazine articles, glossy picture spreads. The bright budget chic tickled Sarah's fancy, made her smile – until she registered the man mountain in front of the window.
Stone me.
Lost in thought or ignorant bugger? Staring out, presumably onto a back garden, his bulk blocked a good deal of daylight. The sludge-coloured trackie bottoms did Michelin Man no favours. The shapeless hoodie – in similar shade of shit – had Chicago Bulls emblazoned across the back. Sarah swallowed. Reckoned it was a safe bet lard arse didn't play. He wasn't big on people skills either.

She nudged Dave's elbow, mouthed, ‘Here's your big chance.'

Harries cleared his throat. Glanced at Sarah. ‘Hey, mate.' Cleared it again. Bar the tapping of scruffy trainer on threadbare carpet the greeting had no effect. Sarah was part-way through counting the guy's neck rolls when Lily breezed in fresh from euphemistically washing her hands. Had she gone to the loo or was it – as the DI suspected – hogwash?

Lily picked up the vibe soon as she entered. Standing close to Sarah, she placed loose fists on her boyish hips. ‘Hey, Charlie? Manners!' Apart from the tapping toe, nothing. ‘Doh.' Lily's frown morphed into another grin, she sauntered to the window, tapped a shoulder you could ski down.

He executed a pretty nifty turn considering, simultaneously tugged on the white wires of telltale earphones. Even from the other side of the room, Sarah could hear the tinny leak from the iPod. His eyes lit up when he saw Lily. Sarah's narrowed as she did a double take.

Even the ugly shaven head didn't detract from the fact Charlie was female and not even the suet flesh could completely disguise her striking features.

‘Visitors, Charlie.' Lily jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

The glance was cursory and spot on. ‘The fuzz. What they doing here?' Not hostile. Seemingly indifferent. She was certainly sharper than Miss Twinkle-toes. Maybe watched a lot of cop shows, or she'd had first-hand dealings with the law?

‘Is it so obvious?' Sarah asked.

‘Yep. What do you want?'

‘Cuppa tea'd be good.' Harries rubbed his hands, gave a boyish ice-breaking smile.

She sniffed. It certainly wasn't
his
charm school offensive she bowed to. ‘Lil?'

‘Sure go ahead. They don't want to speak to you anyway, hun. Just me and Mitch.'

Charlie stared at the girl for a few seconds, nodded. ‘Cool. Shout if you need me.' She shuffled past plugging in the earphones. They'd need a megaphone then.

‘Have a seat.' That grin again. ‘Or should I say
the
seat.'

The settee had seen better days. Avoiding the lumps, Sarah and Harries sat side by side. Lily bagged a rug, made the lotus position look like a doddle. Sarah, who could never manoeuvre both legs into place, reckoned the girl must be double jointed. God knows what Harries thought, he clearly needed more time assessing. If it was Lily's idea of a distraction tactic, it wouldn't work.

‘Leroy Brody.' Sarah nudged Dave's elbow, mimed writing. ‘How long have you known him?'

‘Depends what you mean by “known”?' She selected another strand of hair to play with.

Playing silly buggers, too. And for time. Sarah stifled a sigh. Answering a question with another was a classic delaying tactic. She could almost see the girl coming up with a good wheeze. She opened her mouth to clarify but . . .

‘Known as in met – couple a years.' She let the hair fall, made – and kept – eye contact with Sarah. ‘Known as in go out with – six months. Seven, maybe. Why?'

Pass a slice of humble pie.
Talk about misread signals. She smiled. ‘We can get on to that. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?' Harries made notes while Lily talked them through the relationship. She'd met Brody in a pub, the Fighting Cocks in Moseley if she remembered right, they were both with friends and though they'd swapped numbers, apart from bumping into him a couple of times in the street, they'd not taken it further until last July, maybe August. He rang inviting her to some party, they'd talked, had enough in common to get on, started seeing a bit more of each other. He wasn't ‘the one' or anything, they didn't hang out that often and she certainly hadn't slept with him, but she liked him, he made her laugh, he was sound. ‘Why do you need to know?'

‘What about his mates? Zach Wilde and the others. Do you see them, too?'

‘Zach now and again. Him and Mitch used to go round quite a bit.'

‘Used to?'

‘Not my baby.' She raised a palm then quickly tugged a sleeve that had fallen down her stick-thin arm; the milky skin was a network of tiny silver scars. ‘Ask Mitch.'

I will.
‘I'm useless with names.' Sarah flashed a thin smile. ‘Remind me who the others are.'

‘Trying to think who you mean.' She chewed her lip, shook her head. ‘Nah. Can't really say I've noticed anyone.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Can't you tell me what this is about?' She appealed to Harries as if he might be a softer touch. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble? It's not like I owe him and if he is . . . surely I need to know?'

‘Bear with us a minute, Lily,' Sarah said. ‘You say you don't hang out that often?' She glanced at Harries who was already rifling his notebook. ‘There's a few dates.' She dropped her gaze to the page. Brody had supplied six nights he'd spent with the girl, not just those of the attacks. Sarah reeled them off including last Wednesday and Friday. ‘Leroy says you and he were together. Is that how you remember it?'

‘I don't need to remember.' She rose in one fluid movement, dashed out, calling, ‘Back in a min.'

Sarah and Harries synchronised shrugs. Another comfort break? Couldn't be, the door opened within seconds.

‘Where's Lil?' Charlie's piggy eyes scanned the room as she shuffled in, clutching two thick white mugs. It was almost comical, like they'd sold Lily into slavery or something.

‘It's OK,' Harries said. ‘We've not . . . Ow!' Sarah removed her foot from his.

‘She nipped to the loo, I think, Charlie.' Standing, she relieved the girl of the drinks. ‘Is this your home, too?' Warm smile.

‘Nah. I broke in. Course it is.' Fuck's it to do with you was written over her face.

‘Nice place.' Bit of a dive, as it happened, but hey . . . ‘Lived here long?' She sat back on the settee, handed Harries tea that looked like wood seal.

‘Look, lady. I don't do small talk.' She ran a hand over her scalp. ‘If you've got something worth ask—'

‘Leroy Brody. Do you know him?'

She rolled saliva round her tongue, like she was ready to spit.

‘Told you I didn't have to remember, didn't I?' Lily pranced back, brandishing a diary. The fluffy pink leopard print cover said a lot. She glanced up, clocked Charlie, glanced at Sarah. ‘Did I miss something?'

‘She was asking about Leroy Brody.'

‘And?'

She shrugged. ‘Don't know the dude, do I? I'm off. Later, Lil.' The girl didn't just know Brody, she loathed him. And if she'd misread that, Sarah reckoned she'd best look for another job. She let it go for now, Charlie was almost at the door anyway.

‘Don't mind, her. She's not keen on . . . strangers.' Lily resumed the lotus position, diary on lap. ‘Right, those dates.'

‘L
iar, liar. Pants on fire then?' Harries was driving like an octogenarian, on slow juice. Sarah had asked him to take the wheel of her Audi. The offer didn't come along that often, he'd grabbed it with both hands. Boy racer wasn't living up to his billing. Visualising the work piling up back at the nick, she almost wished he'd step on the gas. ‘You on the same page as me, boss?'

Mouth twisted, she averted her glance from the speedo, reached in a coat pocket for a tissue. ‘More like Lily's pages plural but I get the drift. And, yes, it sure looks that way.' Lily's cross-checking of the dates had resulted in four big yeses confirming she and Brody had been getting it together. But whatever Leroy Brody had been up to late on January 11 and 13 it hadn't been with Lily Maitland. Adrian Mole had nothing on Lily. Lily Maitland aged eighteen and three-quarters seemed compelled to record every detail of her not so hectic highlife. She'd let Sarah read some of the entries and according to the gushing pronunciations, she'd spent both nights at home drinking plonk, scarfing pizza and watching chick-flick DVDs. With Michelle, Charlie and a fourth housemate.

Which meant Zach Wilde's putative alibi had gone down the deep-pan pizza pan. They'd need to confirm everything with Michelle of course and check the girls' stories far as they could. But why would Lily make it up? Sarah could see why she might lie to get Brody out of the shit but not to dump him in it up to the ear lobes.

Harries slowed to let a 2CV join the traffic. Not that the line was moving much. ‘She was dead helpful, I thought.'

‘You would.' She sniffed, glanced through her window. The mutual ogling had got up her nose from the start.

‘Meaning?' He knew damn well what she meant.

She shook her head, hit Baker's speed dial number – again. She'd already called for an update; Huntie didn't know where the chief was hiding either. He'd set her mind at rest about the news release though. Details on the squat findings had already gone out and a couple of local reporters had put in interview requests.

‘And that's another thing – why stamp on my foot?'