Dying Bad by Maureen Carter Page B

there to know what can happen if . . .’ Biting her lip, she dropped her gaze.
    â€˜Mrs Hem—’
    â€˜Please. No.’ Shaking her head. ‘Just write your story or whatever it is you’re working on. Tell the world the truth, Miss King. That’s what you can do. And now . . .’ Pointing to the door. ‘I’d like you to go.’
    â€˜What about talking to Amy?’ She was pushing her luck. ‘Is there any chance—?’
    â€˜You heard her.’ A slender youth slouched in the doorway. He had close-cropped hair and a skinny roll-up clenched between white teeth. Eyes creased, he struck a match, released twin smoke trails through pierced nostrils. ‘Now bog off.’
    â€˜Ask her yourself, Miss King. But I think that’s a no.’

TEN
    â€˜N o comment. Sorry.’ Sarah took a sip of water, aware of rustling sounds as she crossed legs under the conference desk. The noise might have emanated from her, could easily have come from the audience shuffling in front. Eight or nine hacks had deigned to show, none appeared overwhelmed, one had barely glanced up from her phone, another was already stowing notebook in jacket pocket. She’d even glimpsed Ted White, the press officer next to her, stifling a yawn. You didn’t have to own a Pulitzer to know a bog standard witness appeal wasn’t sexy in news terms. But the DI wasn’t yet prepared to go the whole hog and confirm press speculation. Why is it, she wondered, reporters want to insert
‘serial’
in front of every crime?
    Stupid question.
    â€˜So you’re saying there’s no link, DI Quinn?’ Nathan Hardy,
Birmingham News.
She’d come across him before on stories. Sharp operator, dark good looks, bit of a charmer for someone who could be full of himself.
    Suppressing the latest in a series of sighs, she said evenly, ‘I’m saying we’re keeping an open mind. I’m also saying we need help identifying the man on the right.’ She turned her head briefly at the screen behind. Three faces stared back, enlarged images of Duncan Agnew, Sean William Foster, John Doe. ‘And it’s important we speak to anyone who was in the relevant places at the specified times. We want people to come forward. You have numbers they can call.’ Details were in a news release handed to everyone at the start. At least that information was kosher.
    Hardy propped casual ankle on knee inadvertently showing a Superman sock. Least she assumed the revelation was unwitting. The dark suit, tie and glasses had more than a touch of the Clark Kent about them. ‘And you don’t reckon the attacks are down to one gang?’
    Dog. Bone.
‘I think I’d have mentioned it, don’t you, Mr Hardy?’
    He turned his mouth down. Good as saying no. Hardy was a big fish in this particular hack pool, the free-sheeters and stringers seemed happy to sit back. ‘So you’re not issuing a warning then?’ Must be a flying fish – with a kite. ‘There isn’t a gang on the loose, mugging people on the streets?’
    Had the guy been to rhetorical question school? Tapping a pen on the desk, she said, ‘At this stage we’ve no—’
    â€˜How many attacks qualify then, inspector?’
    â€˜Qualify?’
And for God’s sake stop saying ‘then’.
    â€˜Till you admit they’re serial.’
    How many times . . .?
‘I’ve already made it clear, we need proof—’
    â€˜How many men have to end up like that before you tell the public the truth. Four? Five?’ A stroppy journo was hardly new but Hardy was running out of toys.
    Holding his gaze, she heard her watch tick in the silence. Counted ten. ‘The truth, Mr Hardy? What is it you’re getting at exactly?’
    Mouth tight, he shrugged off the question, smoothed his hair. His peers seemed a mix of amused and bemused. Sarah gazed at faces as she finished