Free Dying Bad by Maureen Carter Page A

‘That’s the number I got out of her.’ His shrug said for what it’s worth.
    Could be genuine. You never know. She gave it a quick glance before slipping it in a jacket pocket. ‘Thanks Laydown, can you—?’
    â€˜Get on to the you’ve been framed boys? No worries.’
    Police HQ had more cameras than Rupert Murdoch. The anonymous girl who’d given them the slip would have been captured in at least a couple of shots.
    â€˜Hey, boss! We could be cooking on gas.’ Tie over shoulder, a slightly flushed Harries burst into Sarah’s office, Boy Wonder energy barely contained.
    Cooking on gas? God, he had a way with words.
She looked up, fingers poised over a hot keyboard. ‘Go on then.’
    â€˜Two names on the hotline.’ Tie straightened, he smoothed his hair.
    Unsubs? Mispers? Flashers? Could be all three given the revelations so far.
    â€˜From the top, eh, Dave? And do me a favour. Either sit down or keep still.’ The fidgeting was getting on her nerves. It wasn’t as if there was a shedload on, of course the Policy Book could wait. Like hell. Operation Steel’s PB needed updating, like yesterday. A detailed written log had to be available to every squad member at all times, and as senior investigating officer the task fell to her. If anything slipped the net or went tits up, her neck would be on the block. As for the Action Book?
Don’t get me started
.
    Perched on the seat edge, Harries looked ready to spring into action any second.
He’d learn.
Leaning back in her swivel chair, she sipped from a can of Red Bull, as he told her that in the last half hour two separate callers had left messages on the Crimestoppers’ line naming two individuals allegedly involved in the Stirchley attack – the second the squad was investigating.
    â€˜These names,’ she asked, ‘are they known to us?’
    â€˜Since they were kids.’ In their late teens now, Zach Wilde and Leroy Brody had been in and out of cop shops as often as they’d been in and out of care. Checks had revealed cautions – and later, convictions – for a string of offences including criminal damage, nicking cars, burglary, antisocial behaviour.
No violence though.
    â€˜Current addresses?’
    â€˜Soon – with a bit of luck.’ Two squad members were tracking down whereabouts now. Luck shouldn’t come into it – it was hardly Smith and Jones territory.
    â€˜Anyone checked Facebook?’
    â€˜They’re both on it.’
    Straightening, she tapped a few keys, ran her gaze over the screen. Zach Wilde held two thumbs up to the camera. He had tattoos across both sets of knuckles – ‘bad’ and ‘boy’. Looked as if he’d done them himself. She pointed it out. ‘Not quite got the hang of it, has he?’
    Harries grinned. ‘I know a wom . . . mate who reckons his girlfriend’s got sweet and sour tats on her t—’
    â€˜Thank you, constable.’ Frowning, her gaze was still on the screen. Wilde’s ink work, shaven head, missing front tooth were visual clichés for stock yob.
But they didn’t equal sadistic bully.
Maybe her reservations showed.
    â€˜Problem, boss?’
    â€˜Curious about timing.’ She slung the can at the bin. ‘Like – why now?’
    â€˜Bull’s eye. Why not?’ His frown said, why ask?
    Leroy Brody’s tight curls were dusted with blue dye, a crucifix dangled from an ear lobe.
    â€˜We’ve got someone working on this, I take it?’
    â€˜Course.’ Harries scratched his chin. ‘I thought you’d be chuffed. Gift horse, mouth and all that.’
    Gift, yes. Booby prize not. Intelligence without evidence wouldn’t get them far. Dave might be on the right lines though. She’d skimmed today’s local rag. Last night’s attack had made page five with a sidebar summing-up previous incidents. The coverage