Dying Bad (24 page)

Not for you maybe.
Caroline rubbed a hand across her forehead. Her concerns went a lot further than the prospect of a visit by the stunning lawyer and the attack's potential future impact.

Just what the fuck had happened after she'd left Amy?

To say the least, her recall of events was patchy. And, God, she'd tried. She'd caught the odd tantalising glimpse in her mind's eye, shadowy shapes, muffled sound track, all just beyond reach, on a sort of mental tip of the tongue. Frustrating wasn't in it. The not knowing was driving her doolally. La Quinn probably thought she was prevaricating but it was like trying to pin down fog jelly. God knows when Sarah would deign to get back, but when she did she'd want answers. Irony was if the reporter had them, she'd almost certainly give.

‘So what do you say, Caroline?'

Her concentration was shot to shit as well. ‘Sorry?'

‘About my dropping by.' She heard a smile in the lawyer's voice. ‘Do you like grapes?'

‘I do if they're in a bottle.'

Her laughter sounded good. ‘That settles it then. See you later.'

Resigned, Caroline hung up, flopped back on the pillow. A bit of company might be just as well. Christ. It wasn't even ten o'clock yet. If she didn't get out of the place pdq, she'd die of TB anyway: terminal boredom.

‘The guy's dead? When?' Baker was standing gathering papers from his desk when Sarah popped her head round the door. He tapped his watch. ‘And where the bloody hell have you been?'

‘He died about an hour ago. Some of the fallout needed sorting.' Christ she was only five minutes late. She lingered in the doorway, no point entering the den when they were supposed to be in IR1 by now. ‘The hospital put a call through just now, let us know the score.'

‘Know? That's rich.' He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, slung it over a shoulder. ‘He's been there – how long? – a week – and we still know jackshit about him. Christ, according to you, even the name we're going on could be wrong.'

She reversed into the corridor as he careered out. ‘Yeah, that's why it's even more imperative to track down Patricia Malone.' She had two DCs working on it plus the uniform presence outside the Winson Green house.

‘Nothing doing yet?'

She shook her head, upped the pace to match his. ‘I had another word with the guy who took her call. DC Jones? He's adamant there was no indication she'd be going AWOL.'

‘Like she'd tell him anyway?' he snapped. ‘Don't be so bloody daft.'

He was right: as bright remarks go – it didn't. Nonetheless: ‘
So
glad you're in such a good mood, chief.' She didn't care if that overstepped the mark; Baker's arsey brake needed pressing, the interrogations called for cool heads, subtle handling. Strategy they'd worked out was to start slow, open with the easy ones, move on to the big guns. Good cop: not-so-bad-cop.

Pulling up sharp, he turned, glared, clenched the jaw. Psyched up for a full frontal attack, she was taken aback when his face relaxed into a sort of smile. ‘You're right, Quinn. I'm wrong and I'm real sorry.' She
was right and
he
was sorry?
That had to be a first. Was a new Baker finally struggling out?

‘Hey, no worries, chief.'

‘And if you believe that . . .'

‘I
'm not the liar here, mister.' Wilde struggled to retain his laid-back sprawl in an unyielding upright chair, the bolshie front seemed less pronounced since the previous interview and in the last five minutes had backed off more. Sarah reckoned it was a show – a show that wouldn't make the ratings.

‘
You're
not the liar?' Baker's exaggerated gaze swept the room, he glanced over his shoulder, bopped his head down to check under the table. ‘Nope. Definitely not. No one's sneaked in while I wasn't looking. How about you, DI Quinn? Catch anyone lurking around?'

Staring, impassive, at the youth, she shook her head.

‘Unless?' The chief lifted a podgy finger, like it was all a big mistake and he'd got the wrong end of the stick. ‘You're suggesting me and the inspector are spinning porky pies?'

He sniffed. ‘You said it, mate.'

‘DI Quinn?' Baker all faux shock. ‘You're absolutely sure you're not fibbing?'

She nodded. Wished he'd get on with it, drop the act, his amateur dramatics were nearly as lame as Wilde's. They all knew the youth was making oblique reference to his girlfriend in response to Sarah's initial line of questioning. She'd suggested Wilde might like to think again about his movements on January the eleventh and thirteenth. No, he wouldn't, check with the chick, he'd drawled, like it was a done deal. She'd watched his face fall as she assured him she already had, that his dates didn't add up, that Michelle Keating and Lily Maitland had blown both his and Brody's alibis so far out of the water, they were orbiting Venus. Baker said last time he looked it was Uranus. It was then the youth's attitude shift really took off.

Looking at him now, the body language screamed ‘get me out of here', the panic had to be more than skin deep going by the rank odour coming off him.

‘So you're saying your lady friend's a lying tramp?' Baker made to lean across the table, decided against. ‘Is that it? Just so's we know.'

He shook his head, gnawed hard on a thumbnail.

‘For the tape, Mr Wilde.'

‘En. Oh.' He spat a sliver of nail, skin whatever on the floor. ‘Either you shoved words in her mouth or she's got it arse over tit.'

‘Let's see if I've got this right.' Baker sat back, legs crossed, fingers steepled. ‘Miss Keating's not a liar, she's a div. But a div as honest as the day's long?' She'd bloody better be, Sarah thought. Both girlfriends were in the nick now, hopefully by this stage casting an eye over exhibits. Frowning slightly, she felt a draught, realised Wilde's leg was pumping like a piston.

‘Total bollocks. You think you're so smart, don't you, cop? But that's exactly what I'm saying – you lot twist everything.'

‘If that's what you think,' Sarah intervened, ‘that's
exactly
why you should have a lawyer.' She reckoned Wilde eschewed a brief assuming he'd be in for an easy ride, that the girlfriends would gold-plate the alibis: end of. He knew he'd go down for the Agnew attack, had no idea how far, but now the ride was going a different route.

‘Ask her again.' He cracked a bad boy knuckle. ‘I bet you scared her shitless. Knowing Mitch, she'd come out with the first word—'

‘Lots of words, Mr Wilde, all written down.' Sarah showed him a pen, in case he'd forgotten what they look like. ‘A record of where you and Brody
weren't.
All
not
there in
black and white.'

‘Nah. Can't be right.' He cracked another knuckle. ‘Let me have a word with her.'

Baker guffawed. ‘Funny boy.'

‘Look, I don't know why she's saying this stuff, but I ain't lying, mister.'

Baker put a hand to his ear. ‘Is there an echo in here, DI Quinn?'

‘Fuck's sake, stop dicking round.'

‘Dicking around?' Baker snapped. Sharpened the act in a heartbeat. ‘I don't think so, sonny. I'm
dead
serious. Foster snuffed it this morning.' He let the breaking news sink in. Wilde's leg stilled, his glance darted rapidly between the detectives. ‘Way I see it,' Baker said, ‘you're now looking at two murder charges. Is that serious enough for you?'

‘No way.' He shrank back in the chair. ‘I don't know the guy, never been near him in my life.'

‘Does the name Walter Fielding mean anything to you?' Sarah's constant watch on Wilde paid off, she was pretty sure she'd detected a fractional narrowing of his eyes.

‘Nothin'. Why?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Frank Gibbs. Heard of him?' Baker barked.

‘No I soddin' haven't. What is this?'

Sarah and Baker took turns to reveal the findings at the squat, the baton passing between them aimed at keeping the youth on his toes. He came back every time with flat denials, increasingly desperate. So desperate, she was almost inclined to believe he didn't have all the answers.

‘Take my advice, Mr Wilde. If you're shielding anyone, protecting accomplices – now's the time to say. As it stands, you and Brody are on your own. Are you really prepared to take the entire rap?'

‘No I'm sodding not. But I haven't got the first idea what you're banging on about. All I know is I'm innocent. I ain't killed no one. Please . . . you've gotta believe me.'

‘Because of course . . .' Baker leaned across the table this time, pointedly fingering the fading bruise round his eye. ‘You never tell lies, do you?'

‘I want a break.' He dropped his head to his chest. ‘I need a piss.'

‘Makes a change from taking it, sonny.'

Wilde couldn't have timed the stoppage better if he'd tried. His problem? It was in the cops' favour. Half-an-hour later when the interview resumed, Sarah and Baker were already installed. She'd grabbed a coffee, not had a chance to drink it yet. The lidded cup stood on the table, out of harm's way from another recent addition – a plastic evidence bag. Wilde flicked it a glance as he shuffled to his seat.

Baker did the honours with the tapes this time, ran through the spiel, dived straight in: ‘That your hoodie, Wilde?'

‘No.'

‘Take a closer look if I were you.

‘You're not.'

‘That's right, son. And I'm not facing the rest of my mean miserable little life behind bars. Now take a look. Is that your hoodie?'

‘Can't see it proper.'

Baker signalled Sarah. Forensics had lifted multiple DNA and blood samples from the material, the latex gloves she snapped on were superfluous, wouldn't hurt though if the touch of drama unnerved Wilde. Holding it by the shoulders, she glanced at Wilde then at the hoodie. ‘What do you reckon, chief? Good fit or what?'

‘Perfect, DI Quinn. Cinder-sodding-rella.'

‘Never seen it before in me life.' Why was he trembling then?

‘Another echo.' Baker shook his head. ‘Need to get the acoustics sorted. Or you're gonna have to change the record, Wilde.'

‘Read my lips, cop: it ain't my gear.'

‘Read mine: Michelle Keating's given a sworn statement identifying it as your property.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘Even has a happy snap. You wearing it sitting outside some pub, having a fag. Might even have been that same fag that burned the sleeve? DI Quinn?' Sarah helpfully pointed her pen at a small hole near the cuff. ‘Michelle recalls you being right racked off about that.'

‘OK. Lay off. It's mine.' He dropped his head in his hands.
Result.

Every interview has a pivotal moment: were they seconds away from a full confession?

Sarah cut the chief a glance, saw the film of sweat across his top lip.

‘And the blood?' Baker went for the metaphorical jugular. Wilde's tapping foot overrode the sounds of the tapes. Five seconds. Ten. Scared of losing it, or playing for time? The chief gave a gentle nudge. ‘Well?'

He looked up, ran both hands across his shaved head. ‘I dunno. Look, mister, it's my hoodie but I ain't set eyes on it in weeks. I left it somewhere, thought I lost it.'

‘
Evidently
not, Mr Wilde. I'll tell you what you've lost.' Baker's cold civility sent a shiver down Sarah's spine. ‘You've just waved goodbye to every shred of credibility.'

‘A
re we charging them then, chief?' Sarah winced; a sip of coffee had scalded her tongue. Baker's plate was barely visible under a mixed grill. She averted a hungry gaze. Have to grab a bite on the hoof. She needed to nip out, hoped the chief's debrief wouldn't take long. No reason it should. Leroy Brody's interview had followed similar lines to Wilde's. If anything Brody had capitulated quicker even though the hoodie Lily identified had no telltale burn, handy name tag, as if. He'd claimed ownership anyway, had no explanation for its recent whereabouts. But, like Wilde, flatly denied any knowledge of the murder.

‘We've got a few hours yet. I'm tempted to let them sweat. See what comes out.'

Perspiration?
She didn't share. ‘Think they'll cough? Ouch.' She reached for more milk. Even with pretty solid forensics on the table, cops always favoured full taped confessions. A recorded mea culpa often eased cases past the crown prosecution people, could make a trial easier on victims and/or their families, sway juries and factor in the sentence meted out by the court. Confessions weren't bulletproof, they were easy enough to withdraw. But PACE worked both ways. Defendants found it a damn sight harder to claim police threats, let alone fists, forced their hands. Wilde and Brody had yet to oblige with a full admission – so it was academic anyway – and as it stood, Sarah reckoned the evidence including forensic could be harder.

‘Don't rightly care.' He was having trouble squirting the ketchup. ‘Case against is solid enough.'
Bit more dirty linen packed in wouldn't hurt.
She kept shtum, stirred the coffee. ‘I can see you've got a poker up your ass, Quinn. Come on, spit it out.'

She swallowed, so didn't want that image in her head. ‘I'm not really sure, chief, it's just—'

‘Feminine intuition? Don't say it, Quinn. They're going down. Bang to bloody rights.' Like the ketchup, she watched as he dabbed a blob off his shirt.

‘I know that.' Blowing on the coffee. ‘I guess I'd be happier if we could flush the others out, put a bit of flesh on the thing.' It seemed more and more to her that Wilde and Brody were only part of the story. She could, just, get her head round the honour-among-thieves concept. But with murder in the equation? That surely upped the stakes? As cops, they obviously couldn't offer the youths a deal, but hints dropped by Baker had been heavier than a lead coffin. ‘Wouldn't you think they'd want to spread the blame, chief?'