Dying Bad (30 page)

‘It was a while later when King was there, Beth.' She took a sip, grimaced. Cold and stewed.

‘Yeah. But this woman's big in Neighbourhood Watch. She didn't like the look of them, so she took some pics.'

‘And?'

‘She spotted them again just before seven. Three of them actually.' Under streetlights presumably. ‘Walking down the road heading back to the park.'

‘The pics?'

‘Jed's about to email them.'

‘Great. Well done . . .' Dialling tone. She pulled a face. Had Beth hung up? It rang so quickly, for a second she thought it was Beth again.

‘Boss?' One word and it told her Dave was dying to share. She curved a lip. Apt phrase given where she'd sent him.

‘How's it going?' Tapping a key, glancing at her in-box.

‘I'm still at the mortuary. The murder victim's definitely Frank Gibbs, boss. His brother's here with me now.' Stewart Gibbs had come up on the train first thing from Coventry. All she knew was that he taught maths at secondary school. Harries had traced him via Gibbs' address book. ‘And?'

‘He'd like a word, boss.'

‘Mr Gibbs? DI—'

‘I'm sorry he's dead and all that but I don't want my name coming out.'

Hello to you, too.
Frowning, she tapped her pen on the desk. He wanted a word – why wait for a prompt. ‘And why would it, Mr Gibbs?'

‘Always a risk, isn't it?' Voice sounded middle-aged, posh, petulant. ‘And people knowing I'm his brother wouldn't do
my
reputation
any good. Indeed quite the reverse.'
Bad then?

Sarah's pen stilled. An adverse impact on his reputation? And Stewart Gibbs worked with kids. Was that what the pompous twat was circling round? ‘And why's that, Mr Gibbs?' She heard an impatient sigh, as if she was a particularly dense pupil.

‘Granted it never got to court—'

‘What didn't?' She kept her voice even, felt tiny hairs rise on the back of her neck.

‘But if it's all resurrected again . . . I have my good name to—'

‘What didn't?' Keeping her voice level was an effort.

‘We're going back six or seven years, I suppose.' And he'd tell it in his own good time. She suppressed a sigh, not easy with bated breath. ‘He worked in the kitchen at a children's home. Some youngsters made accusations of . . . inappropriate behaviour.'
Yes.
She punched the air. Despite the weasel words, it was a link. Abuse was the correct term and both Gibbs and Foster had committed it.

‘As I say, it wouldn't do any good if it got out.'
Quite the reverse.
She closed her eyes.
Damn damn buggery damn. Why hadn't she seen it before?
The inked letters on Gibbs' arm hadn't read BOD, for Christ's sake. He'd been marked – branded if you like – by someone who knew him. She hit a key, brought up on screen the picture from the pathologist, Richard Patten. Saw it immediately this time. BAD.
The same word Wilde had tattooed across his knuckles.

‘Tell me more, Mr Gibbs.' She wrote
BAD
on a notepad, underscored it so viciously, the pen tore the paper. There'd been a police inquiry, he said, but no action taken. Insufficient evidence apparently. Even so, Stewart Gibbs had severed all connections with his brother. ‘No smoke without fire. And mud sticks, doesn't it? We were never close anyway, you understand? Every family has its black sheep, I suppose.' She rolled her eyes.
Thank God, Mr Cliché didn't teach English.
‘Anyway, I'm not my brother's keeper.'

‘Indeed not, Mr Gibbs. Thanks for your help. Can you put DC Harries on now, please?' Anything to get the sanctimonious git off the line. ‘We'll need detail, Dave. You know the drill.' Shit. The cliché thing must be catching.

‘What do you reckon, boss? It's a link, isn't it?'

‘Oh yes.' And not the only one. First, Foster and Gibbs had both abused kids. Second, they'd both got away with it. Until now. It looked to Sarah as if their past had caught up.

‘Dave. While you're there . . .'

There was one more thing she wanted him to do.

Caroline soaked in a hot deep claw bath at the Radisson hotel in town. She sniffed her hair again, convinced she could still smell hospital. She'd discharged herself first thing, been in no rush to get home. Felt in need of time out, personal space and a bolt-hole – preferably one that hadn't been broken into.

The ivory and gold fittings were barely visible through the steam cloud. She used her toes to turn the hot tap again. Despite the heat, she shivered: fear, anger, outrage at having been so royally set-up. Stitched like a tapestry kipper. Scalding tears ran down her still swollen painful cheeks. The double-dealing had been breathtaking. What had she said to Sarah Quinn? The Rohypnol had come as a shock. She screwed her mouth.
Understatement of the frigging year.
Even then, the greater bombshell was realising where it must have come from. Make that, who. Had Amy Hemming been carrying the drug on the off-chance opportunity arose? What would she have done if Caroline hadn't innocently obliged by providing the means? Would Amy have suggested they go for a drink, tried giving it another way?
Give?

‘Don't make me fucking laugh,' she cried out loud. She wasn't laughing, not even close, her voice had cracked. People Caroline knew gave presents, not slipped banned substances into drink cans. Had Amy been so brutalised by Jas Ram and his cronies that she felt spiking a drink to get a journalist off her back was fair game? For the life of her, she could see no other motive. But what if Caroline hadn't happily downed the coke? Would Amy have just walked away, resigned to her cheap vindictive little trick bombing?

She drew a shuddering breath. It all depended whether Amy was a lone wolf, or acting as part of the pack. Because a gang had been involved. Caroline had no doubt now, she'd been set on by four youths as she crossed the park. Odd snatches kept coming back like blurry clips from silent movies. Eyes screwed tight, she willed herself to recall more. She'd said last night if anything occurred to her, Sarah would be the second to know. Caroline needed more answers first. Question exercising her the most? Had Amy been in on it? Colluded by administering the drug as precursor to a planned assault. Or was the attack random? The youths happened to be hanging round and had struck lucky? Struck lucky? She gave a brittle laugh.

The odds the incidents weren't related were infinitesimal. She so wanted to believe in Amy's innocence, knew it was almost certainly wishful thinking. She feared the girl had lost her innocence along with everything else the day she stepped into Jas Ram's grooming parlour.

T
he image on Sarah's monitor wouldn't win any awards but she needed as clean a version as possible. It was the best of three JPEGs Jed Holmes had emailed from Harborne. ‘Can you tart it up a bit, Ben?'

Standing behind, one hand pressed on the desk, Ben Cooper studied the shot over her shoulder. The FSI manager's presence was fortuitous. For an hour or so she'd been toying with forwarding the image to one of his juniors; the quality so poor, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Ben had popped his head round the door to drop off a report. His timing was perfect. Unlike the pic.

The woman who'd snapped it might be the Mrs Big of Neighbourhood Watch but she was short on camera skills. Scratch that, Sarah thought, it was hardly fair. At least she'd had a go, shown a bit of community gumption. Most people sensing trouble these days looked the other way, not focused a lens on its potential source. The term focus had been used loosely. The shot had been taken in poor light from some distance, it was soft, grainy and underexposed. But apart from that . . .

It showed four youths in street gear: black hoodies, black combats, dark trainers. Two slouched on swings, the others lolled against the metal frame. Whether by accident, design, or fashion statement their faces were partially covered by scarves.

Sarah took a sip of water as Ben continued casting a professional eye. Like all forensic investigators, he was trained in photography, stills and video. From what she'd heard, he was pretty damn good too, wags in the unit called him Rankin. ‘I have to say, there's not a lot to go on, Sarah. I'm not sure I can do much with it.'

‘Every little helps.' Smiling, she turned her head. His face was close. A touch too close perhaps.

‘I'll give it a whirl, get back, how's that?' His teeth were perfect. She could smell peppermint on his breath.

‘That's good. That's very—'

‘Boss.' Harries stormed in, short of breath, glance cutting between Sarah and Ben.

‘How many fucking times do I have to tell you to knock, Harries.'

‘Sorry. I didn't realise you were so . . . busy. A man's body's been found. Saint Chad's Church. Small Heath. I'll see you out there, shall I?'

‘It's not what it looked, Dave.' Sarah had to lengthen her stride to catch Harries as he strode across the car park.

‘Nothing to do with me, ma'am.' He aimed the fob at an unmarked Astra. ‘You making your own way?'

The cold air hit, she fumbled with the buttons on her coat. ‘No. We need to talk.'

‘That we do.' The car was in second gear before she'd fastened her seat belt. ‘You were on the money about Foster, ma'am.' She'd asked Dave to get a technician at the morgue to let him view Foster's body, thinking – though not expecting – it just might carry the same bad mark.

She smiled.
Top notch.
‘Really?' Cut a glance at his stony profile.

‘No I made it up. Of course really.' He papped the horn at a death wish cyclist, muttered. ‘Sodding lycra lout.'

‘Go on.'

‘I'm about to.' Mr Snappy. Boy, was he pissed off. ‘It was on his chest. BAD. Blue ink. Just like Gibbs.'

Foster had been in hospital, how long? Christ he'd been in cold store for two days. ‘Why the hell did no one think to mention it?' They might have put two and two together a bit sooner.

‘You have to really look for it. Tiny letters. Lots of chest hair.' He'd not even glanced at her.

Deliberately concealed again?
‘Well done, Dave.' God that sounded patronizing.

‘It's what I'm paid for, ma'am.'

She tightened her lips. No call to be childish, churlish, whatever. So why did she feel in the wrong? Because, she realised, she valued his good opinion and normally unswerving support. She cast a covert glance. He stared ahead, face in neutral now, unlike the speeding motor which any passing traffic cop would pull over.

‘The body's not going anywhere, Dave.'
Suit yourself.
She turned, gazed through the window. Car slowed anyway as they hit the main drag through Small Heath. This section of the Coventry Road was a mishmash of small shops, rundown businesses, greengrocers, greasy caffs, electrical repairs, beauty parlour, launderette, off-licence. The area was poor, big families, low budgets, mostly via benefits. How traders kept going was a mystery to Sarah. She sighed. The in-car silence getting to her.

‘Look. I don't know what you thought you saw back there . . . but there's nothing going on between me and Ben Cooper.' Talk about adding two and two? The hurt look on Dave's face when he burst into the office told her his maths was way out. And though he was being an idiot, she actually minded. They'd had odd crossed words before but nothing like this.

‘Know something? It's not always about you, DI Quinn. You and Henry can elope for all I care.'

He so did. Didn't he? ‘Come on Dave, you've got the wrong end—'

‘And d'you know something else? We're at work. Let's concentrate on the job shall we, ma'am?'

S
et back just off the main road, Saint Chad's had long since seen its Gothic heyday. God knew – well he would – what the stonework's original shade had been, by now it was blackened slime-green down to centuries and strata of moss, lichen, industrial pollution. Smashed windows and rusted barbed wire didn't help its grimy appearance. Sarah, suited and booted, gazed up at the façade from the street. She'd asked Harries to have a nose round the locale, knock doors, talk to traders. As she entered the grounds, she smelled dog shit, decaying vegetation, caught sight of a church notice board lying rotting in the unkempt yellow grass. She could just make out the faded lettering: Jesus Saves.
Tell that to the victim.

The uniform posted outside the porch greeted her by name. She frowned slightly. Not only couldn't she recall his, but it was a sobering thought when even to a cop, police officers were beginning to look young. ‘Hi, sorry, I . . .'

‘PC Floyd, ma'am. Wayne.' He tapped his helmet. ‘The gaffer's inside if you want a word. Inspector Lewis.'

Bet he took a bit of stick from Morse fans. ‘Thanks. Forensics here?'

‘Half an hour.' He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Spooky innit? It's been decommissioned years, mind.'

‘Deconsecrated actually.'

He shrugged. ‘Whatevs.'

She masked a wry smile. Wasn't her then, he didn't just look young.

The body was white, middle-aged, male, clothed in cheap grubby charity shop garb. It lay in the foetal position on the filthy remains of the pitted stone altar. In the gloom and from a distance, the man could almost be sleeping it off. Cans of strong cider scattered around added to the illusion, as did greasy chip wrappings, KFC cartons, balled newspapers, fag ends. The illusion shattered as Sarah padded down the hastily laid forensic corridor. She couldn't tell how badly he'd been beaten, wasn't best qualified to distinguish between lividity and bruising. But even a child would be able to see the torn skin and the teeth marks in the lardy mottled flesh.

‘Rats, most like.' A man's voice from behind made her jump, she spun round, exacerbating her gut's queasy churning.