Dying Bad (21 page)

‘Right then –' rubbing gleeful hands – ‘let's see what we've got, chaps. And chapettes, natch.' He cast Sarah a knowing beam. Christ he'd be talking chapattis next. ‘I'll run through what's cooking.' He addressed the squad. ‘Feel free to throw in the odd two penn'orth.'

How big of you, chief.
Sarah folded her arms, listened and observed. Had to admit as ingredients went they were pretty tasty.

Late afternoon, Duncan Agnew had positively identified the Saint Christopher. Apparently he recognised a nick in the silver where an old girlfriend had bitten into it. Let's not go there, Sarah thought. Agnew had also been asked about helping draw up an e-fit of the three supposedly extant – and absent – gang members. Beth Lally, who'd given Shona a break from out-of-hours hospital visiting, said he'd been iffy, wanted a while longer to think about what he'd seen. Sarah reckoned it was about time she had another word with Agnew. Made another mental note: see DA.

Media coverage had led to a trickle of calls on the stolen items: the engraved signet ring, watches, credit card. Baker predicted an increased flow if the regional TV programmes went with the story this evening. Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall. Any time now then given it was gone half six.

The bank was dragging its heels on supplying Frank Gibbs' credit card details. The data protection form had gone in and Jed said he'd followed through with a couple of fruitless phone calls. Baker told No Shit to give him the number. God help the lucky sod who picked up when the chief rang.

Michelle Keating and Lily Maitland had agreed to drop by the station early tomorrow, to make statements. Harries had arranged it on the phone with Michelle – mobile number courtesy of Twinkle-toes. Sarah wanted the girls to take a look at the hoodies forensics had uncovered at the squat. She entered that in the mental log too. Wilde and Brody could deny ownership until the cows came home and swanned off out again, but if the girlfriends – probably exes by now – had seen them wearing the gear, they wouldn't have a leg to stand on. Lab results on blood-stroke-DNA samples might not be back for days but knowing a possible match was imminent should – if not scare them witless – at least focus the youths' minds. Sarah's drifted slightly when the chief embarked on some anecdote from his glory days. She gave her shirt a surreptitious sniff, wondered if there'd be time to nip home, freshen up before meeting King. Wouldn't normally consider it except the reporter always looked so frigging immaculate. Mind, the way Baker was droning on, they'd be lucky to get out of the place this side of Easter.

The squad appeared to be soaking it up though: rapt attention, lots of eye contact with the old boy. Truth told, she envied his easy rapport; the light touch didn't come naturally to her. Dave had it, too. When he noticed her gaze on him, he winked. Maybe she ought to let him teach her a few tricks.

Baker wound up the state of play in typical bonhomie and back-slap style, then straddled a chair.
Gee thanks, chief.
Sarah looked away sharpish, caught Dave's lip twitching.

‘Way I see it, chaps,' Baker rolled his sleeves. ‘Tomorrow we go in flat out, full throttle, guns blazing. Take no prisoner shit from anyone. Everyone agree? Quinn?' Like that would be a miracle.

She humoured him with a brief hesitation, then: ‘I'm on board, chief.'

‘Hallelujah. First time for—'

‘More or less.'

He cut her a glance. ‘And the caveat would be?'

She pursed pensive lips. How to explain? Brody's tears in an interview room? The look in Wilde's eyes when she talked murder charges? The willingness – eagerness almost – in admitting the attack on Agnew. But the stonewall denial of more serious offences? And what if Agnew and the anonymous calls to the hotline were on the money? It meant the involvement of three more youths who might even have initiated the attacks. Brody and Wilde were no angels, but they could be led astray fall guys. Jesus wept. The blend of sentimental mush and hunch sounded lame. Baker would tear it to shreds. And her. But then she had no personal axe to grind. Of course she wanted to nail the perps' balls to the wall as Baker so eloquently put it. But they had to be the right perps' balls.

No. Sod it. She'd hold fire. ‘Forget it, chief.' She raised a placatory palm. ‘I'm with you.' She'd just feel happier if they had extra bullets for those blazing guns of his. The squad knew next to nothing about Foster and Tattoo Man. With more ammo, questioning could be better directed, they'd know where to go with it for a start.

‘Got that right, Quinn. I want you sitting in. Both interviews. Crack of sparrow's fart.'

Charmed, I'm sure.
‘No worries. Before we split, I just want to throw Rich Patten's find into the pot, chief.' If two heads were better than one, establishing why ‘Bod' had been written on a body should be a breezy walk in the park. Except for the wall of blank faces that ensued the telling. ‘Anything?' She ran her gaze over the troops. ‘Help me out here, please.'

‘It can't really be that important, can it, inspector?' This from Beth Lally who'd bagged the same front seat and now sucked a biro.

Sarah hid the bristle beneath a neutral smile. ‘You tell me.'

‘From what you say, Patten only came across it by chance?'

She gave a get-on-with-it nod.

‘Well, surely if it was meant to be some big wheelie dealie message it would have been a lot more in-your-face. I mean if Patten hadn't stumbled across it, as it were, nobody would be any the wiser.'

‘Good thinking, Lilly.' Baker all but patted the blonde's pretty little head.

‘It's Lally, sir. Thanks.'

‘I know that, detective. Problem, Quinn?'

She shook her head. Not one she could pin down. ‘You're right though, Beth. The guy could have gone to the grave without anyone knowing.' Sarah narrowed her eyes.
And you're wrong, too. The person who wrote the word knew it was there.
What if he or she never intended it to be found? Or it didn't matter whether anyone else saw it or not? That it being there on the man's body was enough? If Sarah was on the right lines, Beth was wrong again in assuming its unimportance. It had to be devilishly important to whoever wrote it.

‘. . . on the phone, yeah, just now, gov.'

Young voice, Welsh accent. Sarah hadn't even heard the guy come in. She glanced up, frowning, knew his face from the incident room, wondered why he was clutching a scrap of paper. ‘Sorry, detective, say again.'

‘Keep up, Quinn. Go on, lad.'

‘This woman rang the hotline. Says she knows the guy who was attacked in Stirchley. Saw his photo in the local rag.'

‘Foster.' Sarah nodded encouragement.

‘No, ma'am.' His colour rose. ‘Not according to the caller.'

‘Go on.'

He glanced at the paper. ‘She says it's Walter Fielding. Wally Fielding.' Tiny hairs rose on the back of Sarah's neck. ‘Reckons she'd know him anywhere.'

‘How come?' She kept her voice level.

‘Wouldn't say, ma'am.'

She crossed both sets of fingers, very near crossed her legs. ‘Did you get her number?' And please let it be pukka.

‘Number, name, address, the lot. Thought it might be important, like.'

‘I think you might be right, detective.' Smiling, she took the paper from him.

The name Walter Fielding meant absolutely nothing to the DI. But the initials did.

‘I
t could be a coincidence, boss.' Harries tapped a Winson Green postcode into the satnav.

‘That's right, Dave. And the Pope might not be a Catholic.' Sarah glanced in the mirror, cursed the glare from some idiot's full beam headlights. She was slightly more miffed that Harries didn't appear to share her sense of urgency. Heading down the Hagley Road, they were en route to the address taken by, would you believe, DC Tom Jones. God knows how she'd forgotten that name. Not exactly unusual.
Ouch.

‘Besides, you've no way of knowing Sean Foster uses his second name. And even then, there must be loads of blokes with the initials W.F.' Harries concentrated on opening a KitKat.

Zillions, at least.
Even Sarah was hard pushed to explain her conviction. ‘Humour me, just this once, eh?' It wasn't often she acted on instinct but if Sean William Foster and Walter Fielding weren't one and the same, she'd eat Baker's Stetson. And chaps. Shee-oot. She'd best be spot on.

‘You could've left a message, boss.' Harries shrugged. ‘She's probably not even in.' Sarah heard the KitKat snap, glanced across to check the size of the bar.

‘I could but, hey I didn't. Get over it.' No one had picked up when she phoned but even while keying the number, Sarah knew a home visit made more sense, see the woman in the flesh, gauge the body language, clock what the face was doing. She'd asked Jones if he'd read anything into the caller's voice. Middle-aged, quite posh, didn't strike him as a time-waster, he'd said.

Harries broke off another piece. Smell of chocolate made her mouth water. ‘Could be a wasted journey, is all.'

‘Look, Dave, if you'd rather not be here, just say.' He was off shift by rights. She'd asked him along for the ride, it wasn't compulsory. Baker thought she could've tasked it, but she wanted the job for herself. If Patricia Malone could supply a few bullets ahead of tomorrow's interrogation: bring it on.

Harries sniffed. ‘It's not that, boss. I just can't see why I can't join you for a bite in the pub.' She gave a thin smile. Suspected what he really wanted was for
her
to see something, see sod all going on between him and King. She'd already told Harries it was a private party. King would only play to an audience; Sarah could live without the distraction. She cut a glance at the dashboard clock: 18.55. As it was, she'd be pressed to get back on time to meet the journo.

That KitKat was fast disappearing. ‘Don't I get a bit?'

‘Wouldn't have thought you'd want any. Seeing as how you'll be eating later. Enjoying a drink or two. Girls' night out and all that.'

‘Grow up, sweetie.'

‘One finger or two, boss?'

Not bad. She masked a smile. Hadn't she more or less fed him the line?

The Edwardian villa stood a few streets from the Victorian prison where Fred West topped himself. Not that Sarah read anything into it. In Winson Green, a lot of property did.

‘Don't say it, Dave.' Sighing, Sarah unlocked the motor after her fruitless mission at the front door.

‘What's that, boss?' Rocking on his heels, hands behind his back – all Mr Innocence.

I told you so.
‘I still think dropping by was better.'

‘Shoving a note through the door beats leaving a message any time, boss.'

Sarky git. At least she'd seen where Patricia Malone lived. The house was neat, tidy, windows clean, door intact, more than a cut above its boarded-up neighbours. Casting the place a final glance, she got back in the car. She'd left a stack of numbers asking the woman to call. All she could do was cross fingers and wait.

‘Not been stood up
again
have you, Quinn?' Baker took a slurp of beer, yanked out a chair, flopped down uninvited. Sarah, drumming the table with three fingers, didn't miss a beat. Mind, she could've banged out Ringo Starr's entire playlist by now. Nearly an hour she'd hung round waiting for King to show, checked the phone every five minutes. The dark mood she was in, Baker was going the right way to get another bloody black eye.

‘How'd you guess, chief? Tom Cruise cried off at the last moment.'

‘Got a better offer, did he?' He winked at her over his glass. ‘Short-arse like that'd be no good to you anyway, Quinn.'

Sipping on her third bitter lemon, she raised a wry eyebrow. ‘Like I'd know?'

‘How'd it go at Winson Green?' He turned his mouth down as she told him it hadn't. ‘Likely she'll get back, lass.' If it was important being the subtext. ‘I reckon the case is coming together, either way. I feel it in my water.' He tilted his glass before sinking another mouthful. ‘Any road, no shop, not tonight, if that's OK. You eaten?'

She frowned.
Something not right there.
‘A finger of KitKat. Does that count?' She casually scanned his face for clues.

‘Only to one.' His smile was almost tentative. She took another sip, watched as he leaned across the next table, grabbed a couple of menus. ‘Here y'go. The world's your oyster baguette. My shout.' He struggled to hold her gaze.

If that's OK.
She stiffened mentally.
That's
what had jarred a few seconds ago. Since when had the chief given a flying fuck about consensual anything? It was his way or the super highway; made no bones about it. She thought she'd detected a hint of uncertainty lurking in his eyes, too. Not about shelling out for a meal – certainly couldn't accuse him of being a tightwad – more a case of nervy how the offer would go down.

‘Well, lass?'

She weighed it up a couple seconds more
.
‘Why not?' Intrigued as much as anything, she gave him a warm smile. ‘Best offer I've had all week, chief.'

‘Better than Cruise?'

‘Close.' Skimming the menu, she reckoned she'd plump for the salad again. ‘Must've had a run on oysters, chief. I'll go for the caesar—'

‘Look, Quinn, there's
nothing
your bum'd look big in. Why not get some proper grub down your neck?'

Had he just paid a compliment? ‘Go on then, twist my arm. Steak and ale pie.'

‘Chips?'

‘You spoil me, chief. Talk about showing a girl a good time.'

He stood, gave her shoulder a paternal pat. ‘Mebbe you should get out more, dear.'

A smile still played on her lips as she watched him amble to the bar, hand delving in trouser pocket for wallet. Maybe she'd imagined the old boy's more engaging, even slightly apprehensive manner. Having said that, his banter with Laughing Len came across as a little subdued, forced even?