A Question of Despair Read online

  Sighing, she wound down the window. It wasn’t often she went through self-doubt. Lack of confidence was no good to a cop. On the other hand, maybe she had a blind spot when it came to King? No matter. It wasn’t fair expecting Harries to get involved.

  ‘If you want my opinion, boss?’ Concentrating on a tricky right turn, he paused a while, eyes squinting in the sun. ‘I think you might have a blind spot when it comes to Caroline King.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  Well, she had asked.

  NINETEEN

  ‘I tried asking. I gave you every opportunity, DI Quinn.’ Caroline King legs crossed, sat decorously in Sarah’s office. The reporter had been told to hang round after the news conference. What a bundle of no comment laughs that had been. Sarah hadn’t kept King waiting long, half an hour or so, sweating it out as it was known in the trade. She’d whiled the time in the incident room, catching up on incoming reports and tracking down Michael Slater’s whereabouts. He’d not been at home when she and Harries called, but a neighbour told them where he worked. She’d arranged a meet for tomorrow, no point questioning him over the phone. As for sweating, King looked both cool and composed. Even her perfume had cucumber undertones. ‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Sarah smiled pleasantly, held the reporter’s gaze. She’d no intention of going into the call issue, it was a lose-lose situation. Playing a pen through her fingers, she studied King’s face. The silence wasn’t quite complete, she was banking on it becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

  The reporter recrossed her legs, brushed imaginary fluff from her skirt. ‘So what’s this all about?’ The casual delivery was at odds with the fidgeting.

  ‘Tell me, Ms King.’ Sarah lounged back in the swivel chair. ‘What’s the going rate?’

  ‘Going rate?’

  ‘Fifty quid? A hundred? How much does it cost to keep a cop in your back pocket?’

  ‘He wouldn’t fit, inspector.’ She raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘Unless, of course, he was bent.’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘So the informant’s male?’

  ‘I use the term loosely.’

  ‘All your terms are used loosely. I’d say they were seriously slack.’

  King’s smile was tight though. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, inspector. As you know, I never reveal my sources, police mole or not.’ She reached for her bag, started rising to her feet. ‘If that’s all . . .’

  ‘Stay where you are. Please.’ Sarah paused briefly before walking round and perching on the edge of her desk. ‘Did you consider – even for a minute or two – how much potential damage you could do releasing information about the kidnapper’s note?’

  ‘I did indeed, inspector.’ Bright, breezy tone. ‘It’s why I made every effort to consult you.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. You and I both know that. You’re also well aware I’d have told you not to use it.’

  ‘Well you didn’t, did you?’ Her eyes darkened. ‘And what makes you think you have God’s given right to say what I can or can’t report?’ Slight pause. ‘Or has your judgement become infallible all of a sudden?’ Dangerous ground.

  Sarah wasn’t tempted to tread it. ‘Even you must know certain information has to be withheld. Christ, Caroline, this could jeopardize the inquiry.’ That was a rare slip – she’d not used the reporter’s first name for years.

  ‘There’s a baby snatcher on the loose.’ She flung an arm towards the window. ‘People out there are scared. They have a right to know what’s happening.’

  Could she really not see it? Of course she could, she was being disingenuous. ‘A right to know? And what about responsibility? The kidnapper’s note might be a dramatic new line to you, but I deal in reality, people’s lives. And you’re endangering them.’

  ‘Bullshit. Don’t try guilt-tripping me ’cos it won’t work. I’m doing my job here. And in case you’ve forgotten, the kidnapper left the note on my car. My acting on it means he or she may make contact again. Has that crossed your mind at all?’

  Hadn’t it just? Sarah rose, emulated Baker’s pacing. ‘Have you the slightest idea how many messages we’ll probably get now? They’ll arrive in every post, and it’s unlikely any will be genuine.’ Copycats, loonies, hoaxers – they invariably got in on the act.

  ‘You can’t know that.’ King tried stifling a yawn.

  ‘And what about Karen Lowe? Have you thought what effect the exposure’s having on her? Knowing everyone’s seen the note. Knowing how most people put two and two together and come up with anything but four. The girl’s a complete mess.’ Not strictly true. She’d been allowed home from hospital. Jess and a police minder were with her.

  King swirled round to make eye contact. ‘Let me talk to her then.’

  ‘What?’ She almost laughed. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

  ‘I mean it. Let me talk to her.’ She reached an arm towards Sarah, maybe thought better of it. ‘Let me interview her like I asked. In depth.’

  ‘You?’ Sarah sneered. ‘Your lurid exclusive as good as questions whether she had a hand in her baby’s kidnap.’

  ‘Let me put the record straight then. Give Karen the chance to tell her side of the story.’

  God. The woman was a one-track terrier. ‘What part of the word no don’t you get?’

  She shrugged, studied her nails. ‘And would your answer change if I told you how I found out about the photograph?’

  ‘You mean who leaked it?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘So what happened to the honest hack a minute ago who’d never reveal her sources?’

  ‘Forget that.’ She flapped a hand. ‘Will you let me talk to her?’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Sarah folded her arms, tapped a foot. ‘You’re offering me the name of a police officer who’s giving you privileged information if I give you access to Karen Lowe?’

  ‘Exclusive access.’

  ‘Silly me.’ She tutted. ‘Of course.’

  Eyes wide, she beamed. ‘You will?’

  Sarah shook her head in disbelief, disgust. ‘You’d really be prepared to see someone lose their job so you can further your career?’

  She sniffed. ‘Might.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself out for me, Ms King. I’ll find out where the leak’s coming from. I don’t need your help.’ Her fists were tight balls. ‘I think you’d better leave now.’ Not that the reporter could provoke her any further. She watched King gather her belongings and saunter to the door.

  Turning, the reporter tilted her head. ‘You didn’t really think I’d tell you, did you? I just wanted to see if you’d go for it.’

  ‘Get out.’ Before I go for you.

  ‘Is that another no?’

  Sarah turned her back, heard the door open.

  ‘Let’s hope it won’t be another cause for regret, inspector. Ciao.’

  TWENTY

  Saturday night. And definitely not at the movies. Sarah needed shut-eye more than a social life. Though the evening was young, the sky an almost royal blue, the long days, disrupted sleep, increasing stress were catching up. Glancing in the driving mirror, she registered tired lines and dark circles round dull eyes. Thankfully, a comparatively early bed beckoned: action would be confined to a hot bath and cold wine. Switching off – if she could – would hopefully recharge batteries running on near empty. She’d already banished the King question to the back burner, more than enough mental energy had been wasted on that woman. Besides, Baker was taking up much of her current thinking.

  Sighing, Sarah turned the ignition and pulled the Audi out of the station car park. The boss had been a pain in the butt at the late brief. One of his more polite nicknames was Bruiser, and boy, had he lived up to it: bolshie, bloody-minded, argumentative, and that was the upside. Sarah grimaced. Doubtless the chief’s stroppy attitude was down to an inquiry that despite new leads lacked results. Three days in, and the bottom line was they still had a mis
sing baby not on their hands. The posters Sarah was driving past were both an unnecessary reminder and silent reproof.

  Broad Street’s bright lights, naked flesh and crowded bars were a reminder too, that there was life outside the job. Lately hers seemed to consist of wine in the fridge and Friends on the box. Adam was on some stag do in Newcastle. Not that she always felt close to him when they were in the same room. They barely exchanged words these days let alone body fluids. She tapped the wheel. Maybe it was time to move on . . .

  And where had Todd Mellor moved on? He was out there somewhere. A search team would enter his Aston flat first thing. But was Mellor the real McCoy or the messenger boy? The squad jury was still out. Sarah reckoned the guy would have to be a retard to show up at the station like that.

  So why did she sense a break could be imminent? Not all the pieces were there, but were there enough for a picture to emerge? The kidnapper making contact had to be the best lead. Forensic fingers crossed, tests on the note, the photographs and the lock of hair were ongoing. Karen Lowe might provide input on the meaning of the message though DC Shona Bruce’s questioning hadn’t elicited anything so far. Then there was the interview with Michael Slater, plus the calls coming into the incident room. As she always said: It only takes one. The only downside was Dora Marple who hadn’t survived her injuries. There was still no evidence linking the old woman to the inquiry. Either way, any secrets would go with her to the grave.

  Even so, quite a few pieces were there, just not in the right place. Feeling more positive than she had in a while, Sarah parked the motor, grabbed her briefcase from the passenger seat. Yeah. Bugger Baker.

  Strolling to the apartment, she caught a few bars of Summertime blaring out from a passing convertible. Humming along, she was still smiling when she let herself in, flipped the light switch and froze. ‘What the . . . ?’

  Another piece – definitely in the wrong place.

  Moving only her eyes, Sarah struggled to take in the macabre tableau. The doll was propped against the hall wall. Life-size and uncannily lifelike, its chubby arms were spread out, ankles not quite crossed. One blue glass eye stared back; the other was partially closed as if caught mid-wink. Shuddering, Sarah ran her gaze down the shiny flesh-toned torso. The doll was naked except for a nappy. No. It was just some sort of white cloth loosely wrapped round the hips. She frowned. Was the set up supposed to be some sort of sick representation? A child on a cross?

  Of course not. The realization made her gasp. She’d seen this before. The pose was identical to baby Evie’s in the photograph that morning. Stiffening, she held her breath, sluggish thoughts now racing. Had the kidnapper been here? Was he here still? Eyes creased, she pricked her ears, straining to detect the slightest movement, the faintest sound, other than her wildly beating heart. Slipping off her shoes, she felt the adrenalin fizz as she inched her way along the parquet floor, then in to every room, scanning and searching.

  Five minutes later, back in the hall, she breathed a heavy sigh. Not of relief. Regret. What she wouldn’t give to take the bastard down.

  But no such luck.

  Whoever it was had long gone. But how the hell did they get in? She retraced her steps to the entrance, examined the frame, the metal plate. No splintering, no scratches. And the door had been locked. Only she and Adam had keys plus a set she kept at work and another set with the woman in the apartment below.

  Her glance fell on the doll again. She approached, crouched at its side. The pose couldn’t be a coincidence. Apart from Karen Lowe, the photographs had only been seen by police officers. This had to be the kidnapper’s handiwork, surely? And then she spotted the note propped against a vase on the console table. Words cut from a newspaper and pasted onto a small piece of paper. Four this time, not three:

  Ask the mother, Sarah

  Sarah. So what else was he saying. I know who you are? I know where you live?

  Big deal. She tightened her mouth. Come get me, baby.

  Forensics might shed some light. Rising, she headed for the phone, it rang before she reached it.

  ‘DI Quinn? Paul Wood, incident room. The baby. We’ve had a call . . .’

  It was all he needed to say. His voice told her.

  Heart sinking, she closed her eyes. ‘Where is she?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The narrow towpath rutted with cycle tracks ran parallel to Blake Street and Small Heath park. Sarah ducked under the police tape, heading for two uniformed officers guarding the bridge fifty metres or so in the distance. The near stagnant water on her right was dark, dank, foul smelling; occasional oil patches glinted lilac and pink. No brightly lit bistros and classy restaurants lined the canal here. Straggly nettle verges were littered with rusting cans, empty chip wrappers, used condoms.

  A tear glistening on the younger constable’s cheek warned what lay ahead, but nothing could have prepared Sarah. Could have prepared anyone. Touching his shoulder gently, she sidled past slowly, delaying the moment. Praying there’d been a mistake. Knowing there hadn’t.

  It was darker under the bridge. Auxiliary lighting not quite set up. She ran her torch over the grimy brickwork, the swags of cobweb curtains; here and there dusty grey weeds sprouted among faded graffito, in the far corner a desiccated dog turd. The moment couldn’t be put off. Biting her lip, she lowered the beam, gasped as light flickered across the baby’s body. She gave an involuntary cry of anguish. Shock. Pity. Pain. And searing fury.

  Evie lay on her back on the hard cold earth. Her arms were at her side, the beautiful blue eyes Sarah would never see alive, were closed as if in sleep. Evie wore only a nappy. Dirty. Disposable. Sarah clenched her fists. It was a travesty. A life ended before it had barely begun. How could anyone do this? Moving closer, she knelt on the ground, grit and stones piercing her skin. She ached to lift the baby, cover her near nakedness. It was way too late to offer comfort. A small pink teddy bear lay just out of reach, a bare patch on one of the ears where tiny fingers had stroked away the fur. The bear was on its back too, a grotesque parody of the baby’s death pose. Sarah longed to press the toy into Evie’s hands, longed to breathe life into this innocent, sinned against little girl. And for an instant, she wanted to kill whoever had snuffed it out.

  ‘The doc’s just coming, ma’am.’ Soft-spoken, hesitant, subdued.

  Back still turned, she nodded. She couldn’t trust her voice not to break, didn’t want the young constable to see her grief. She’d never cried at a crime scene before. Like she’d never fainted at a post-mortem or thrown up at the stench of rotting flesh. It was one of the reasons she was known as the Ice Queen. But this was different. She fumbled in a pocket for a tissue. Didn’t have one. Dashed away the tears with the heels of her hands.

  ‘Sarah? OK if I take a look?’ A man’s voice echoed eerily in the archway. She recognized pathologist Richard Patten’s Geordie accent.

  ‘Of course.’ Curt, composed. Rising, she brushed grit from her knees, emerged into the towpath’s relatively fresh air. Space under the bridge was confined, claustrophobic, stank of vomit and cat piss. Over Patten’s shoulder, she spotted Baker in the far distance, his coat flapping as he scurried towards them. Most of the key players, she noted, were already in situ. The FSI guys were kitted up, the lighting rig good to go. She was mildly surprised; she’d heard no one arrive and there was none of the usual banter now.

  Patten handed her a linen hankie warm from his pocket. ‘Your lip’s bleeding, Sarah.’

  She licked her mouth, tasted blood. ‘Thanks.’ She was grateful too, that Patten had got the call-out. Pathologists weren’t all known for their people skills. Patten must’ve been first in the queue. He was tall, lean, late thirties, a dark fringe flopped over even darker – and intelligent – eyes. He was dressed down as usual: faded denims, white tee, creased leather jacket. She didn’t care how casual his wardrobe was; he was one of the sharpest operators around. And they were going to need him.

  ‘Nothing struck me, Richard.’ She’d seen
none of the usual signs of violence. There’d been no bruising, no obviously broken bones, bite marks, burns. She swallowed, sure now she’d be fine if she kept it brief, businesslike. ‘She looks . . .’ There was a catch in her voice, she dropped her head. She looks like a little doll. Like the doll in the apartment. She felt his hand on her shoulder, recalled touching the young constable in the same way. Healing hands. She wished.

  ‘It’s OK, Sarah.’ Gentle, simpatico. ‘I’ll see for myself. You stay here.’

  She couldn’t. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat, her scalp tingled, her gut churned with wave after wave of nausea. She had to run, had to put some distance from the squalid stinking horror of it all. The last thing they needed was a contaminated crime scene.

  ‘Nice one, Quinn.’

  Bent double, breathing deep, Sarah was aware of Baker standing over her, shaking his head. Puking into a canal was not cool. But if he said one word, took one more pop . . .

  ‘Here you go.’ A plastic bottle appeared in her periphery vision. It was only half-full and the water tepid. Who cared? She rinsed her mouth, ran the back of her hand over her lips. It came away with damp red streaks. Baker sniffed. ‘We’ve all been there, y’know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She offered the bottle back.

  ‘Hang on to it. It’s going to be a long night.’ The old boy had done her more than one favour. His bulk, she now realized, had shielded her from the prying eyes of a search team making its single-filed way along the towpath. ‘Do we know who found her, Quinn?’

  ‘A jogger.’ Paul Wood had kept her briefed as she drove to the scene. ‘She almost tripped over the body apparently. Harries is talking to her now.’ She waved a hand towards a line of parked police vehicles.

  He sighed. ‘Makes a change from a man walking his dog.’ Don’t boss, don’t. No cracks, not now. ‘Anyone else around?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as far as we know.’ The site wasn’t exactly a local beauty spot, and there were no nearby houses or shops. They were checking on canal traffic with the water people. ‘Kids were likely hanging round in the park earlier.’ Swings and roundabouts weren’t the draw. Youths congregated to shoot-up and swig copious amounts of gut rot. ‘We’ll get on to it.’