Dying Bad (26 page)

As lies go it was piss poor; ironically she was inclined to believe it. She'd no doubt a reporter was capable of making up better porkies. Hardy's sob story wasn't one he'd share unless he had to.

She turned her back, brushed crumbs into the sink, told him he'd be let off with a warning this time. ‘Clean up your act, Hardy.'

‘Thanks. I owe you.'

Big time.
And it could be useful having a tame reporter on side. She nipped back upstairs, made a quick call, picked up the bag and case of goodies. When she popped her head in the kitchen, Hardy still sat on a stool staring at his hands. ‘Forensics are on the way. They'll need pointing in the right direction. Make yourself useful: scout round, see if anything obvious is missing, or something's here that shouldn't be. Don't touch anything. When you're in a fit state, go see Caroline. She needs a friend. I'll catch you later.'

Might well do at that. For the moment, he'd get the benefit of the doubt. Boozed up or not, Hardy had sneaked in, grabbed her by the throat, proceeded to spin a string of increasingly risible lies. Pathetic piss-head or man prepared to use force? At the very least, he needed keeping an eye on.

H
arries sat in an unmarked police motor a few doors down from the Bartley Green council house. Keeping an eye on the mirrors, he saw the Audi's lights flash and was stamping cold feet on the pavement as Sarah drew up behind. The showdown with Hardy plus the school-run traffic had both had a knock-on effect. Gone four already, the DI had yet to drop by the hospital, King's belongings lay on the back seat. Grabbing her bag, Sarah opened the door, scanned the road in both directions. Amber street lighting washed the near identical red-brick semis a sickly shade of orange, some downstairs rooms had curtains drawn against the dark and thin off-white lines where the material didn't quite meet.

‘Thought you'd got lost, boss.' Harries jangled keys in his pocket. His dig was tongue-in-cheek, she knew her way round the city better than his satnav.

‘I did, Dave. In a saddo's fantasies.' Walking in step to the house, she gave him edited lowlights of the not so brief encounter at King's place.

‘Sounds hairy. Are you OK?' She heard concern in his voice, saw it in his face when she cut him a glance.

‘The idiot took me by surprise, that's all.' Even sober, Hardy wouldn't measure up in the self defence stakes. After the initial shock, one of her biggest fears was that if she'd not clicked who it was so fast, she'd have inflicted real damage. The other was that both she and Hardy had inadvertently trampled a crime scene and potentially compromised evidence.

‘He's lucky I wasn't there.' Manly sniff. ‘I'd have punched his lights out.'

Testosterone central. ‘Fancy directing traffic again, do you, Dave?' she drawled.

‘Come on, you could've been hurt.'

‘I can take care of myself, thanks.' Looking ahead, she narrowed her eyes. ‘Tell me it's not the house with the gnomes.'

‘It's not the house with the gnomes. He lied.'

‘Shit.'

‘Not scared, are you?' he joshed. ‘Not the woman who can take care of herself?'

Gnomes gave her the creeps. In her head, they were on a puke-par with ventriloquist dummies and porcelain dolls. She could probably trace the revulsion back to childhood, but it wasn't something she'd go out of her way to pin down. Mostly, they didn't impinge. Right now the little freaks were unavoidable. The small lawn outside number sixty-seven was Gnome Village: garish figures with inane beams dangled fishing rods, others held pipes to their mouths, a few clung on to wheelbarrows. There were wishing wells, bridges spanning plastic ponds, miniature bird baths, spotted toadstools strung with fairy lights.

‘Not a big fan then, boss?'

‘How can I put it? No.' She shuddered as they walked past the colony on the way to the door. ‘I'm surprised they don't get nicked.'

‘They do. Are you after me?' Turning in sync, Sarah and Harries saw a small dumpy woman wearing a cloche hat and clutching a Co-op shopping bag to her chest. Her dark deep-set eyes shrank further. ‘Are you cops?'

Their nod was synchronized, too. ‘Yes, I'm—'

‘Took your time didn't you? I phoned Friday.' The woman barged past, key in hand. ‘You'd best come in. First on the right. I won't be a tick.'

Trailing in they watched her disappear through a door at the end of the narrow hall. The bloody things had invaded the sitting room, too. Open-mouthed, Sarah looked round, realised gnomes were the least of her worries, just the tip of the little people iceberg. There were dozens – make that scores – of dwarves, leprechauns, pixies, fairies, trolls. Just about every available space had been taken over; even the walls were cluttered with calendars, clocks, paintings, posters. Sarah sighed. ‘Now I know how Gulliver felt.'

‘Who?' Harries asked.

Finger to lips, she shook her head. The little woman bustled in carrying a stack of photo albums in her arms. ‘Right then. Sit yourselves down.' She scurried across the room, flopped on a wing chair by the fire, slipped off her shoes. Her stockinged feet didn't quite reach the red carpet. ‘I'm Mrs French. Dora. But you'll know that any road up.'

‘Actually, Mrs French—'

‘Take the weight off your feet, love.' She waved a tiny liver-spotted hand towards a gold velveteen settee. Sarah clocked lilac streaks in Mrs French's tight white perm and reckoned a brickie had laid her foundation. ‘I don't mind you taking a few photos away. Long as I get 'em back. Think they'll put 'em on
Crimewatch
with that nice Kirsty Wark?'

‘Young,' Harries muttered.

‘Whatever.' She was leafing through an album with a beatific smile on her face. ‘Yeah, here you go. This lot was nicked Thursday night. John, Paul, Mattie, Mark, Dai, Freddo—'

‘Mrs French,' Sarah said. ‘I'm sorry for your loss. But we're not . . .'

An incredulous Harries nudged Sarah, mouthing her words back at her, ‘Sorry for your loss?'

‘Thieving bastards. Think they're having a laugh.' Her head shot up. ‘What did you say?'

‘We're not here about the gnomes. We need a word with Patricia Malone.'

She rubbed the heel of her hand against a damp cheek. ‘That's all well and good but what about my—'

‘I'll get a patrol out, but right now can you tell your friend we're here?'

‘She knows.' A tall, thin woman leaned in the doorway. ‘Knew the minute I saw you get out the cars.' She pointed up. ‘I was in the window.'

Watching? Why?
‘Mrs Malone.' Sarah stood, bridged the gap, hand outstretched. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn.'

‘You can be Sarah Palin for all I care.' Brushing away the hand. ‘I thought I'd made it abundantly clear. I've got nothing to say to the police.' Almost Sarah's height, Malone still managed to give the impression she was looking down her nose. Her large washed-out grey eyes were rimmed red and virtually lash free. She dragged a hand down her beige face, leaving faint trail marks in the dry skin.

Sarah held the woman's gaze. ‘But you did care, Mrs Malone. Enough to make the first move.'

‘A mistake's what I made.'

Liar.
Sarah bit her tongue. It struck her Malone was scared. ‘Please, Mrs Malone, just tell me why you rang.' Apart from ascribing Foster a different name.

‘There's no point.'

‘Please, Mrs Malone.' Gentle voice, no pressure. ‘Let me be the judge of that.'

‘God's sake, Patsy, tell her. I'm making a brew.' Dora French jumped out of the chair, patted her friend's arm on the way out. ‘Go and sit down, love. Remember, you don't owe the bastard waste-of-space nothing.'

Sarah watched Mrs Malone trudge across the room and sink into an armchair. The woman stared into the middle distance, wringing her hands. The DI waited thirty seconds or so then walked across and knelt beside her. ‘Remember what, Mrs Malone?'

‘He's dead now so it doesn't matter, does it?'

‘What doesn't matter, Mrs Malone?'

‘He can't hurt no more kids, can he?'

Once Malone started, the story seeped like sewage. Page after page of Harries' notebook was full: names, dates, dirt, sleaze. Twenty years ago, she'd been in a relationship with Wally Fielding a.k.a. Sean William Foster. Loved him, she'd said. Worshipped the ground he walked on. They'd not married, hadn't lived together. Maybe if they had it wouldn't have happened, social services' checks would've been more stringent. Malone might've picked up on signs. Fact was they'd been lovers, partners, call it what you will, on and off for a decade and she'd not suspected a thing.

That over a period of six years, he'd systematically abused every foster child in her care. Boys. Girls. Seven in all. Mostly teenagers.

Malone related how she used to take in troubled youngsters, kids no one else wanted, kids with no self-esteem, kids who already felt like rubbish. And who after falling into Fielding's paws ultimately felt like shit. Not at first. He was like a father-figure, invested his time, doled out pocket money, played games, helped with homework, built their trust, made them feel good – then demanded favours in return. For favours, read sex.

‘How could she not have known, boss?' Harries sat alongside Sarah in the Audi, playing a bottle of water between his hands. She'd just put in a call to the squad, tasked a team of DCs with verifying Malone's statement, liaising with social workers, tracing victims. She and Harries needed a little time out now, mull over the sordid story before going their separate ways. What they really needed was a long hot shower.

‘They say love's blind, Dave.' She pictured Malone sitting there, wringing her hands, tears streaming down her crepe face. ‘Unless she knew all along, and cast a blind eye. Her reasons for not turning the bastard in sound dodgy to me.'

The last victim had finally plucked up courage to tell Malone what was going on. She claimed the minute she knew, she'd taken a knife to Fielding, threatened him with the police. He'd begged, pleaded, promised he'd never touch another child. He told her he'd leave the country, change his name, never show his face again. She eventually relented after he swore literally on the Bible he'd seek treatment. Malone maintained it was only after contacting the other kids that she realised the scale of the abuse. By then, she'd no idea where he was and decided, as she put it, to let sleeping dogs lie.

‘Ask me she let a lying dog sleep with under-age kids,' Harries said. ‘And why do the decent thing now?' Seeing the so-called Foster's picture on the TV news was the catalyst. Malone said the thought he was back in circulation possibly harming more young people was one she couldn't live with. ‘Did you buy that line, boss?'

‘More I think about it, more I think she's a self-serving bitch.' Sarah tapped the wheel with her fingers. ‘My feeling's she failed to come forward before because she was intent on saving her own sorry ass. I've no idea whether she was complicit in what went on but I reckon she was shit scared no one would believe her and she'd be implicated.'

‘That's a bit harsh, isn't it?' He frowned.

She turned to face him. ‘What's harsh is Fielding/Foster, whatever his fucking name is, getting away with molesting vulnerable youngsters for way too long. So pardon me if my heart's not bleeding for Patricia-mealy-mouthed-Malone.'

He turned a cold shoulder. ‘I suppose you think she left the chip pan on deliberately so she could fiddle the insurance.'

‘Don't be a twat, Dave. That line's even beneath Baker.' The bloody woman had seemed genuinely gutted about the fire and losing the house, more so than about kids losing their innocence under its roof. She sniffed. Mind, she'd be distraught, too, if it meant staying in Gnome Towers.

He faced her again. ‘Yeah well, pardon me if I don't hang on your every word, DI Quinn. Your not liking Malone doesn't make her guilty of anything let alone helping someone molest kids.'

‘That's the whole bloody point.' She clenched a fist. ‘No one's guilty. She's dumped it all on him. He's in no position to answer back. Who takes the blame now? Crime and punishment, Dave. Crime and pun . . .' She narrowed her eyes.

Harries saw it too. ‘It was payback time, wasn't it, boss? The mugging.'

Almost certain, she nodded. Perhaps if they'd not been wading through a sewer, they'd have spotted the connection sooner. Big question now, were the other attacks linked to sex offenders, paedophiles, perverts? The names Zach Wilde and Leroy Brody had meant nothing to Malone. So where, if anywhere, did the youths fit in? The potential development opened a new network of inquiry lines. They tossed round a few ideas: did either of the other mugging victims have a murky past? Duncan Agnew was a captive audience, so to speak. As for the Chambers Row murder victim, surely they'd get an ID any time soon. Baker had elicited Frank Gibbs' data from the credit card company; Beth Lally and Jed were working on firming up any possible link with Tattoo Man. A news release bigging up the body work had also gone out.

‘Grab anyone you like to help with the digging, Dave. And keep Baker sweet, tell him what's going on. Come on, shift your butt.' She smiled, turned the engine. ‘I'll see you back at the ranch.'

‘Betcha.' She watched him clamber out, waited for the door to close but he popped his head back, pitiful look on his face. ‘I'm sorry for your loss.' The head slowly shook. ‘I can't believe you said that, boss.'

She patted her chest. ‘Under this hard exterior beats a heart of reinforced granite, Dave.' Revved the engine. ‘And watch the lip. One more pop, and you're on gnome patrol.'

‘T
ell me you're joking.' Propped up on pillows, Caroline King pressed a distraught hand to her face, winced, then carelessly let the hand drop. Hearing about the break-in had caused enough emotional damage for her momentarily to forget the physical. Eyes glistening, she said, ‘Tell me the laptop's still there.'