Dying Bad (31 page)

‘Inspector Lewis?' With the curling grey hair, piercing eyes, he looked more like his namesake's boss. She swallowed, tasted bile.

‘Charlie.' He gave a curt nod. ‘Dog found it. Owner's walking through the graveyard, lets it off the lead. Dumb mutt scarpers round the back. Door's off its hinges. Dog shoots through. Won't budge. Barking to high heaven. Owner clambers in, shits herself. Not literally, you understand? Calls us. And here we are. Aren't we the lucky ones?' He rocked on his feet, his smarmy smirk revealed a gold filling and halitosis.

His attitude stank too. ‘Where's she now?'

‘I let her go.' He interpreted her look. ‘Calm down. The old dear's late eighties, arthritic, asthmatic, weighs less than a sparrow on a diet.' He tilted his head towards the body. ‘That's not down to her, DI . . .?'

‘Quinn. Sarah.' Shivering, she pulled her coat closer, wished the pathologist would get a move on.

‘Yeah, it's like a morgue in here.' Lewis sniffed. ‘Ice box. Fridge freezer. Cold store, call it what you will. And it's kinda lucky. Any warmer and there'd be even less body left. Doc reckons it's been here a fortnight or more. Mind, if it had started rotting the smell would've tipped us off sooner.'

‘Christ's sake,' she snapped. ‘Show some respect, man.'

‘Don't rightly have much, Detective Inspector Quinn. And if you knew who it was – I doubt you would either. Are you listening?'

Pointing, she creased her eyes. ‘Have you seen that?' A forensic guy was indicating what looked like a tattoo on the victim's hand. She'd bet her pension it had been inked post mortem.

Lewis gave a heavy sigh, followed her gaze. ‘Bad? Yeah well that says it all.'

‘So you think this guy, Barry . . .?'

‘Barry Lingham. He's the first victim, Dave. He has to be. Lewis helped send him down. Said it was a travesty he only got eighteen months.' Hunched over the table, keen gaze searching his face, she willed Dave to see it, too. Stuff the Ice Queen persona, no way could she hide the passion on this. Charlie Lewis had told her he suspected Lingham of getting away with abusing kids for years. He'd apparently worked in three or four care homes round the Midlands but the crime only came to light when one of his victims attempted suicide. The girl was persuaded to give evidence and Lingham finally sentenced. Looked to Sarah like Lewis wasn't the only person who didn't rate the just desserts.

‘Lingham was out on licence.' Shuffling forward, she lowered her voice. ‘His parole officer hadn't seen him for three weeks. And I tell you this, Dave . . . Lingham's been dead longer than a few days.' She rattled off the names simultaneously lining up the salt shaker, vinegar bottle and ketchup. ‘Foster. Frank Gibbs. Barry Lingham. They're child molesters, deviants and they've been targeted and taken out.'

He nodded, but the downturned mouth suggested two minds. ‘And Duncan Agnew?'

‘I know, I know.' Agnew didn't fit the pattern. She flopped back in the cheap vinyl chair, pushed the bowl to one side. The caff down the road from the church was convenient not haute cuisine. She'd not even tasted the vegetable soup. She was too wired, too edgy, sensed the case could be about to break wide open. Richard Patten was still at the crime scene, she'd left after wresting a promise he'd do the PM soon as. Given the body's state, he wouldn't speculate on the cause of death. Forget
her
pension, she'd bet Baker's it wasn't natural. The chief? She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. He was up to speed, just not on the same page. She'd put in a call but whether what she said actually got through was debatable. He couldn't see how the development affected Wayne and Brody's position. Way she saw it the robbery motive was shot to shit.

She glanced across the table. Dave was shovelling in double egg and chips. No appetite loss there. Neither had mentioned the earlier spat and he'd dropped the ma'am business. He was too good a cop to let personal stuff get in the way. They both were. Fact he wasn't jumping up and down, sharing her conviction wasn't a problem. A yes man was the last thing she needed. He was more than a sounding board, she valued his take.

‘Thing is, Dave, we know Brody and Wilde were in care but they swear blind no one ever laid a finger on them. Why would they be wasting paedos?'

He paused, fork halfway to mouth. ‘Maybe they were acting for kids they were in the system with? Y'know, younger kids. Victims who wouldn't or couldn't fight back?'

She cocked a scathing eyebrow. ‘What? Like caped crusaders. Balsall Heath's answer to Batman and Robin?'

‘Yeah, OK.' He curved a lip. ‘Now you come to mention it.'

Two cerebrally-challenged losers like Wilde and Brody couldn't orchestrate something so complex. And as for altruism, they wouldn't know how to spell it let alone show it. ‘No. My head tells me it's personal. It has to be.' She'd called the incident room already, half the squad was now working the angle, interviewing staff at the homes, chasing kids who'd spent time there, personnel who'd moved on. ‘They're marking out the bad guys, Dave, branding them.'

‘Yeah, boss. But who's “they”?'

P
ost late brief, they were no nearer an answer to Dave's question. The task of tracing people with links to five children's homes over a ten-year period made Hercules' labours look like a Saturday job in a sweet shop. The squad had barely scratched the surface. Even when inquiries were completed, there was no guarantee they'd uncover the full picture.

The more Sarah thought about it the more convinced she was that Brody and Wilde were only part of it. That they couldn't have acted alone. The youths' mugshots lay on her desk. Holding one in each hand, she studied them closer. In her view they just didn't have the mental capacity to plan serial attacks, execute them, maybe. They could certainly provide the brawn. But where was the brain?

And why was she still here? She'd only dropped by to collect her bag and coat, half an hour later she was still collecting thoughts. Straightening, she rolled her shoulders, her neck muscles were in knots. If Dave had taken up her offer of a swift half, they'd be relaxing in the pub by now, could've gone on somewhere to eat. Last she'd seen he was bashing phones in the squad room. She sighed. Maybe she'd pissed him off more than she realised. It wasn't like the guy to play hard to get. She tightened her mouth. Caroline King on the other hand . . .

She'd lost count of the calls she'd put through to the reporter, not to mention texts and a couple of voice mails. Two bin liners full of empty cans and bottles were sitting round taking up valuable space in the exhibits room. How were the cops supposed to investigate an attack when the prime witness had gone to ground? King had better not be playing detective, it could be a dangerous game.

Caroline wasn't playing anything – she'd worked it out. Or thought she had. She needed to talk to Ruby Wells, reckoned the lawyer could help provide a few answers. Keeping a low profile, Caroline was slumped in the driving seat of a rental car four doors down from the lawyer's house. The property was in darkness, the paltry street lighting supplemented by a full moon that did nothing for the ball-freezing temperature. It was gone seven and Ruby hadn't got in from work. Caroline hadn't phoned ahead. Forewarned was tipped-off.

She was pretty sure Ruby wasn't personally involved, but after hours spent piecing together snatches of memory she was ninety-nine per cent certain the four shadowy figures that night had been female. She'd dismissed the possibility out of hand when Sarah mooted it at the hospital, the way she saw it now Ruby, probably in all innocence, had pointed Amy in Caroline's direction. But the lawyer also played mother hen to a group of girls she felt sorry for because of their crap start in life. Amy's life hadn't exactly been a breeze. What if they'd hooked up, swapped stories? Then ganged up. Not just to protect Amy from Caroline's advances, but because they couldn't countenance the reporter giving Ram a voice. Maybe they were so incensed at the prospect of Ram strutting his verbal stuff, that they viewed Caroline as fair game, that smacking her round the face was somehow acceptable. Because given the size of one of those shadows, a hell of a lot more damage could have been inflicted.

Lights dazzled as a car pulled up behind. Caroline checked the mirror, watched a woman get out, walk up the road. She relaxed. The glimpse of her own face confirmed her thinking that the attack was warning shot rather than full-on barrage, punches had definitely been pulled. Not that she wasn't effing furious. But she could see a way of using it to her advantage. It was a bargaining chip, wasn't it?
Hi Ruby, tell Amy if she plays nice, I won't bring in the cops.
Like hell.

Course, she could have it all wrong. She'd just have to play it by ear.

Sarah was almost out of the office when the email alert pinged. She fumbled one-handed for the phone in her coat pocket.
Hi Sarah, Best I can do, Ben.
Retracing her steps, she dumped bag and briefcase, rebooted the computer. If the picture wasn't much cop there was no point viewing it on a small screen. Eyes lit by the monitor, she pursed her lips as she studied the image.
Not bad.
He hadn't worked miracles, only sharpened it a touch, lifted the light a little. It was definitely worth letting King take a look. Just seeing the group shot might spark a few synapses in King's brain, get the thought juices flowing. She forwarded it, added a line: ‘call me asap'. Should she give Ben a call? No. Email would do.
Thanks, Ben. Your best's not bad. Not bad at all.

The quality was crap but Caroline's hand trembled round the phone, the picture sent a shiver down her spine. The faces were all but obscured but without a shadow of doubt she knew it was her attackers. Ironic but the shadows actually gave it away. When she'd been set on, she'd spied the same four silhouettes out of the corner of her eye. Four shadows, one much bigger than the others. She heard footfalls, almost dropped the phone. Glanced in the mirror. Froze. Four girls, arms linked, strutted towards the car. The big one kicked a can, sent it skittering along the pavement. The big one. Even without the dark gear, the macho swagger, it had to be them, didn't it? Back for another go at her? How did they know she was here? Lifting her collar, she slumped further into the seat. In the wing mirror she watched them hive off laughing, letting themselves into Ruby's house. How cosy. All girls together. Caroline clenched a fist. That was a hell of a lot more than she'd bargained for. Maybe seeing the little shits again brought it all back. She looked at the picture on the screen, read Sarah's message.

The call came just as Sarah unlocked the Audi. Clocking caller ID, she smiled. Maybe he'd changed his mind about that drink.

‘Where are you, boss?' Maybe not. He sounded dead sober.

‘In the car park. Why?'

‘You might want to head back. I'm in the squad room.'

‘I'm listening.' And heading back.

‘Lingham's victim? The girl who tried to top herself?'

‘Tracey Maxwell?' The name had come up at the late brief. She was one of the zillion people on the squad's chase list.

‘I got on to Charlie Lewis asked if there was a pic on file.'

‘And?'

‘I'm looking at it now. She calls herself something different these days, boss.'

Caroline flung the phone on the passenger seat. Half a dozen times she'd got the engaged signal. Whoever Sarah Quinn was talking to, it couldn't be more important than what King had to tell her. There was quite a party going on at Wells' Towers. The girls were still in there and Ruby had turned up five minutes ago with Jas Ram in tow. With the red hair glinting under the streetlight and Ruby laughing and flirting away, bold as brass incarnate wasn't in it. Caroline was no detective, she hadn't a clue what was going on but as journo she was desperate to find out.

Sarah, chin resting in hand, stood in front of Dave's computer screen. The blonde hair was shorter, the face fuller, but there was no mistake. ‘Lily Maitland. My God.'

‘There's more, boss.' Harries tapped a few keys, ran his finger down the list that appeared. ‘These were the kids resident at Grange Manor in 2007.'

‘Michelle Keating.'

Harries gazed up at Sarah. ‘They were in it with their boyfriends, boss.'

Maybe. Her thoughts raced. ‘What about the others?' Charlie and Shannon.

‘Huntie's checking now.' John Hunt sat at a desk near the window, phone clamped to his ear. ‘It's got to be that though, boss.'

She frowned, not convinced. ‘I don't see it that way, Dave. What if they set the youths up, used them as fall guys? Their testimony's why Wilde and Brody are facing murder charges.'

‘The girls planned it? They were the brains? Is that what you're saying?'

The brains – and the brawn.
‘Remember Charlotte. The other housemate Shannon? I bet they were victims too and I bet the four of them set out to wreak revenge on men who'd abused them. They didn't need Wilde and Brody's muscle. They had enough of their own.'

‘That your phone, boss?'

She batted a hand. ‘Let's think it through . . . Wilde and Brody definitely beat up Duncan Agnew. We know that, and so did the girls. Say they piggybacked the crime? Copied it when they attacked Foster, Gibbs, Lingham so Wilde and Brody got the blame.'

‘They went a hell of a lot further, boss.' He tilted his head at the whiteboards, the barely recognisable faces, the virtually obliterated features.

‘Yes. 'Cause it was personal.' Baker had been right all along about that. She'd better call him.

‘Bloody clever, too.' Befriending a couple of youths who'd already been in and out of trouble with the law.

‘And callous.' Positioning themselves so they had access to Wilde and Brody's clothing; wearing the hoodies when they attacked Foster and Gibbs; planting stolen property at the squat and when push came to shove pointing the finger at their so-called boyfriends. The youths had been a perfect foil. ‘We need to bring them in for questioning, Dave. Like now.'