Free Dying Bad by Maureen Carter

came back to her. The piece with the most clout was the Queen. And that reminded her, she needed a word with Sarah Quinn.

EIGHT
    â€˜D I Quinn, here.’ Sarah had the phone nestled under her chin, hands occupied with an egg mayo roll and the initial forensic report from last night’s crime scene. At gone three p.m. the working lunch was late, nothing new there. Nothing earth-shattering from Chambers Row either, though fibres and samples were en route to the labs. Sarah hadn’t fancied eating earlier anyway. She’d been on the PMD: otherwise known as the post-mortem diet. As an appetite suppressant, blood and guts won hands down, though a body covered in grotesque tattoos like John Doe’s came a close second. She shuddered. Either way, the multiple injuries meant cause of death had been too close to call.
    â€˜Someone in reception I think you should see, ma’am.’
    Swift flick through her mental Rolodex came up with Dennis Law on the front desk as the owner of the voice. The veteran sergeant rarely gave his name, the West Country accent spoke for him. Plus he’d been a fixture for so long, everyone in the nick knew him as Laydown. Old time cop he might be, but he’d also been around long enough not to waste anyone’s. Even so. She cast a glance at twin piles of leaning paperwork on her desk. Snowed under wasn’t in it. Pass the ice axe.
    â€˜Who is it, Laydown? I’m really pushed.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t say, ma’am.’
    Lips pursed, she dragged closer one of the artist’s portraits Twig had left on her desk: victim number two, airbrushed within an inch. Rose Atherton hadn’t done a bad job. ‘Can you get—?’
Tom, Dick or Harries to do the needful?
    â€˜I could.’ Laydown’s pauses were usually telling. ‘She asked for you by name.’
    The sigh blew out her cheeks. By the time they’d finished arguing the toss, she could have dealt with whoever/whatever was down there. ‘On the way.’ Laying the egg roll back in its wrapper, she cast it a longing look before heading for the door.
Sod it.
A swift about turn and she crammed in another couple of inches, dashed into the corridor, clocked Baker sauntering the other way, hands deep in pockets.
    â€˜Good way to get IBS that.’
Yeah, well you’d know, chief.
‘I want to see you later in my office, Quinn.’ She watched agape as he strolled past finger pressed to his lip. ‘No talking with your mouth full. Bad manners that.’
    She narrowed her eyes. The man must have eyes in the back of his bloody head.
    Sarah was biting her tongue now. Laydown had informed her the proverbial bird hadn’t flown so much as legged it. ‘So what did she look like?’
    â€˜Just a slip of a thing, ma’am.’ Simian brow furrowed, the barrel-chested sergeant scratched an armpit. Christ. He’d be swinging through the trees next. ‘One minute she was here, the next—’
    â€˜You’re a trained observer, sergeant.’ Her foot tapped the lino. Loud and clear.
    â€˜Right. I’d say five-foot-nothing, seven stone or thereabout. In old money that is.’ His smile was short-lived. ‘Sorry, ma’am. Dark hair down to here.’ His hand went to a breast pocket. ‘Blue eyes, pasty-faced.’
    It wasn’t ringing any bells. ‘Age?’
    â€˜Not my strength, ma’am, but I’d say in her teens.’ She was beginning to wonder if he had a strength. He knew she’d not been sitting round twiddling her thumbs. Why summon her down to deal with a kid who wouldn’t even give her name?
    â€˜She must’ve got cold feet, ma’am.’ He picked up a pen, started writing, as if he’d decided it was a wrap.
    Sarah had other ideas. ‘And why would she do that, Sigmund?’
    Still scribbling, he said, ‘She told me she was here about Jas Ram.’ Handing her the note.