A Question of Despair Page 11

  Baker nodded, glanced towards the action. ‘Has Patten come up with anything yet?’

  She followed his gaze. The bridge was fully lit now. Dark silhouettes cast stark shadows under the bricked archway. It put her in mind of a dumb show, prayed fervently that dumb was the last thing it would be. Crime scenes held secrets, crucial evidence, it was the experts’ job to get them to speak.

  ‘He’ll be a while, I should think.’ The pathologist was hunched over the body, light reflected off his steel case; a police photographer was shooting stills. They’d video it too, every surface, every corner, every crevice. She shuddered. No image would be as sharp or indelible as the one imprinted on her mind’s eye.

  ‘Jeez, chief. How could anyone . . . ?’

  He lifted a palm. ‘Not just how, Quinn. You know that.’

  Who? Why? When? He was right. She didn’t need the lecture. Belatedly, she told him about discovering the doll in her apartment, how it replicated Evie’s pose in the photograph. How it was similar to the way the baby’s body had been laid out. No point sharing her feeling a break was on its way. Instinct? Complete tosh.

  ‘What’s your thinking on the doll, Quinn?’

  I know who you are. I know where you live. She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a personal message, a warning to me.’ But the murdering bastard had already carried out the threat. On a target as soft as it gets.

  ‘Still could be,’ Baker said. ‘He’s been inside your home, invaded your space. Forensics been round?’

  ‘Probably still there.’ They’d been told to pick up the key from her neighbour.

  ‘You’ll get the locks changed?’

  ‘Course. What do you take me for?’ She wouldn’t. She was tempted to leave the bloody door open, make it easier for the guy. The old boy wasn’t taken in by her quick-fire response.

  ‘I mean it, Quinn.’ He pointed a stubby finger. ‘Don’t try anything stupid.’

  Why not? He was surely taking the cops for a bunch of fools. ‘Come on, boss. You know me.’

  ‘Do I?’ He held her gaze, his was steadier. Truth be told, she was beginning to doubt she knew herself any more. ‘We’re not just hunting a kidnapper, Quinn.’ The pause was unnecessary. She knew what he was getting at. Scowling, he shook his head. ‘Christ, I’d have given anything for it not to come this.’

  You and me both.

  ‘Anyway, I can’t put it off any more.’ He’d echoed her earlier sentiment, she nodded her fellow feeling. Maybe he did have a beating heart inside that hulking chest. ‘No need to hold my hand, inspector.’ Thank God for small mercies. She’d seen more than her fair share. ‘You can hang on here for the boy wonder.’ Harries? Why? ‘Now the baby’s dead –’ Baker turned to leave – ‘someone’ll have to tell the mother.’

  Briefly she closed her eyes. Guess who?

  ‘Where? When?’ Caroline King swung her legs out of warm crumpled sheets, cursing her spinning head. The line was bad, the voice hushed, breathless, but the message was clear. The Lowe baby was dead. The cops were at the scene. Grabbing a pen from the bedside table, she jotted a few words on her wrist.

  ‘Does the mother know?’ Frowning, she strained to hear. ‘Say again.’ Loads of static. ‘Sod it.’ Damn line was dead, too now.

  Wincing at the pain in her temples, she glanced at the time. Midnight. Too late for a house call? Not necessarily, but she was in no state to drive. Last thing she needed was to lose her licence. And a story this big needed a brain in gear.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I’m not sure she even took it in.’ Arms folded, Sarah leaned against the Audi parked outside Karen Lowe’s block of flats. Harries’ motor was up the road. They’d driven separately so each could go their own way after breaking the news. Neither seemed in a hurry to leave, to be alone with uneasy thoughts. It took a while to get over delivering a death knock. As for the recipient, it could take a lifetime.

  The street was deserted but for a couple of lurching drunks murdering ‘Danny Boy’ and a brindled dog picking over the remains of an abandoned curry. Sarah could smell both animal and vegetable from here, thank God she no longer felt queasy. Harries had yet to respond.

  ‘So what’s your take on Karen’s reaction, David?’

  ‘Sorry, boss. I was just . . .’ Wrestling with some of those thoughts. She repeated her observation.

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘The medication she’s on won’t have helped,’ adding quickly, ‘to take in the baby’s death, I mean.’

  Sarah flapped a hand. Explanation unnecessary. Tranquilizers and sleeping tablets would certainly blunt the edges. No chemical cosh in the world could take away the pain completely, or for long. ‘Hopefully she’ll get a few hours’ sleep. We’ll need to question her tomorrow.’

  They both glanced up at the flat window. Curtains were drawn, amber lighting subdued, a figure crossed in silhouette. Jess Parry’s. Sarah found it difficult to imagine the scene playing out in there.

  ‘Did you get anything from the woman who found the body?’

  He sniffed. ‘She won’t be jogging there any time soon.’

  ‘Does she use the route a lot?’ And notice anyone/anything they needed to know.

  ‘A fair bit. I ran through the usual but –’ empty palms – ‘nothing useful. She’d help if she could, I’m sure. She seemed real public-spirited. Not like some.’ Who look the other way, don’t want to get involved.

  Sarah watched the dog mooch past, cock its leg against a lamp post.

  ‘Do you think Karen’s holding back, inspector?’ Inspector. Ma’am. Boss. She wished he’d stick with one or the other. The question was presumably because he’d picked up rumblings from some members of the squad – including Baker – that Karen knew more than she was saying. The wording on the kidnapper’s note had a lot to answer for, and Karen’s lack of comment didn’t help.

  ‘I think she’s barely holding on at the moment, David.’ Sarah massaged her neck, trying to smooth a knot of tension. ‘Fact is, I just don’t know. She looked grief-stricken, shell-shocked, completely out of it, everything you’d expect.’ Slumped on the settee, she’d stared aimlessly into space, pain etched on her features. She’d barely reacted when Sarah took her cold hands into her own. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you . . . Hollywood isn’t the only place to find actors, people lie all the time. And not just to the police.’

  He nodded. ‘I didn’t expect her not to cry though. And she didn’t say a word, did she? Didn’t even ask how Evie died.’ Asphyxiation was the pathologist’s initial finding. Baker had phoned the information in just as Sarah was leaving the crime scene. Patten had spotted faint red pin pricks on the baby’s eyelids: petechial haemorrhaging. Early signs were that Evie had been smothered.

  Head down, Harries toed the pavement. ‘I’m sure you’re right though, boss. She’s probably not taken it in yet.’

  Unless she’d known all along and the news hadn’t come as a shock.

  Sarah fished car keys from a pocket. ‘Only one good thing about tonight . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The story’s not broken yet, the press hasn’t been sniffing round.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sarah stared at her reflection. She was in the bathroom supposedly getting ready for bed and sleep she suspected wouldn’t come. Examining her face closely, she was surprised it showed no sign of stress, no inner turmoil. Surely no one witnessing that pitiful scene could remain untouched? The scarring, she knew, was mental not physical. Lifting her arms, she released the long blonde hair from its tight bun. The tension was still in her neck, she circled her head slowly two or three times.

  Again, she studied her reflection: the eyes appeared less tired than before, the skin smooth, unblemished. Like Evie’s. The flashback was involuntary. Sarah clutched the sink. The support wasn’t enough.

  What’s wrong with me? She was accustomed to being alone, an only child, both parents dead, few friends outside the firm. But
this urge for some sort of human contact was overwhelming. She needed to talk, needed someone to hold her, needed someone to make it better. Chiding herself for the weakness she recognized too, how real the need was. Apart from the unprecedented vomiting earlier, she’d maintained her usual cool professional composure throughout, even when telling Karen her baby was dead. She’d offered the girl a little comfort, now she ached for it herself.

  Adam picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Hi there, lady. Can’t you sleep either?’ There was a smile in his voice.

  ‘We’ve found her, Adam.’ Barely a pause. He knew. Lying on the couch now she gazed through the window, a stiff scotch in the other hand.

  ‘I can be with you in a few hours.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that.’ It was enough he’d offered. ‘I’ll be fine. I just wanted to hear your—’

  ‘I know, lady. I know.’ Knew too, she needed to do the talking.

  ‘We’re waiting on the post-mortem, but the early signs point to asphyxiation.’ She mentioned the petechial haemorrhaging then: ‘I saw her, Adam.’ She closed her eyes, still saw her, lying in that rank almost final resting place. ‘There wasn’t a mark on her body.’ She heard rustling. Was he loosening a tie? Shifting position in bed?

  ‘How’s . . . Karen . . . is it?’

  ‘She’s at home. I was there earlier. Family liaison’s with her now. A uniform posted outside.’ She took a sip, rolled the spirit round her mouth. ‘You know, it’s strange, Adam . . .’ The thought was taking shape even as she voiced it. ‘Karen’s been convinced from the start Evie was dead. Telling her tonight, it was as if she knew, like we were merely confirming it.’

  ‘And did she? Know? Do you think?’

  ‘She couldn’t have, could she?’ Because if she had . . . The notion needed thinking through but not now. Changing the subject she told him about her uninvited guest, his unwanted gift. Deliberately made light of it.

  ‘Shoot, Sarah. Get the damn lock changed.’

  ‘Sure.’ Agreement was easier than arguing. He’d only fuss. As it happened, the forensic team had left details of an approved locksmith. Their note also said the apartment was clean. They meant forensically, given her aversion to all things domestic.

  ‘You say there was barely a mark on the baby’s body?’ He’d obviously been mulling it over. Something in his tone made her sit up mentally.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m no expert . . .’ No, but as a lawyer he specialized in child cases. ‘But I do know asphyxiation can be difficult to detect and more important from your point of view to prove.’

  Ridiculous. ‘But the haemorrhaging . . .’

  ‘I’m talking homicidal smothering.’ She took a few more sips, listening. He told her suffocating someone usually left corroborative medical evidence: bruising, bleeding, lacerations, even finger or nail marks. ‘But if a pillow or cushion’s applied skilfully enough it won’t necessarily leave any signs of violence.’

  ‘Sure, but what about . . . ?’

  ‘The petechiae on its own doesn’t prove she was murdered. It can be present in other causes. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome for instance. She could have died naturally, even accidentally.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Adam!’ She was on her feet now. ‘The baby was kidnapped.’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, lady. I’m just saying . . .’ She heard a sigh. ‘A good defence lawyer could argue death wasn’t deliberate.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunlight streamed through the flimsy curtains. Sarah rolled over onto her back, stared at the ceiling. How do you get rid of cobwebs that high? Must be a colony of spiders up there. She sighed, glanced at the clock. Nearly 7 a.m. She’d had five hours sleep. Not much but at least it was deep and relatively dream-free. Did she regret the rash decision to call Adam? No. Yes. Maybe. It had certainly provided food for thought. Even if she’d nearly choked on it. The idea of a kidnapper getting away with murder was enough to make her chuck in the metaphorical badge. It’d be interesting to hear Richard Patten’s thinking on it though.

  She flung off the sheet, padded through to the kitchen. It wasn’t her natural habitat, she left cooking to people who could and had the knack. She’d not expect a chef to walk a crime scene. Anyone could run to tea and toast though. While the kettle boiled, she showered and dressed, choosing a favourite taupe linen skirt suit. Look good, feel good was her old PE teacher’s mantra. Not that it was infallible.

  The phone rang just as she took the first bite. 7.15. It had to be work.

  ‘Not eating in bed, are we?’ Caroline King. Seething, Sarah scowled. If the reporter was aiming for amiable levity, she’d missed by a mile.

  ‘Don’t call me at home.’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t get through to the press office.’

  As if. ‘Someone’ll be in – try again.’

  ‘No time to faff around. You’ve found the baby, haven’t you?’ Sarah stiffened, asked where she’d got the information. ‘Yes or no, inspector? It isn’t hard.’

  Breakfast had lost its appeal. ‘I’m making no comment at this stage.’ Nothing was being released until a news conference later in the day. ‘I’ll say again: where did you get that information?’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t comment on that.’ The bloody woman was taking the piss. ‘Is it true?’

  Sarah sauntered to the bin, ditched the toast. ‘You must be running out by now.’

  The reporter’s voice faltered for the first time. ‘Running out?’

  ‘That chequebook of yours. Can’t have many left.’

  ‘What makes you think I pay? Mind that implies the tip’s sound. Take it as a yes, shall I?’

  Take it and shove it. ‘As per, you’ll take it any way you want. I’m making no comment. Good morning . . .’

  ‘Don’t hang up. Tell me: are you taking Karen Lowe in for questioning?’

  ‘Ms King.’ She broke the connection. Right. Lips tight, she hit a fast-dial number. ‘Frank?’ Police press officer. ‘DI Quinn. I’ve got a short statement for immediate release . . .’ King’s story wouldn’t stay exclusive for long.

  ‘I think we need to bring Karen Lowe in.’ Quite a greeting, even for Baker.

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. And good morning to you, too, sir. They’d turned up at HQ in tandem, weren’t even in the building yet. And despite sunny skies and rising mercury, the morning was turning out anything but good. The heat was clearly getting to the chief. Not the meteorological kind. Sarah had anticipated he’d want pressure put on Karen Lowe but not this early. Walking in step – physically – they crossed the tarmac car park. ‘Before you go fetch her, can you take the brief, Quinn? I’ve got a meeting. ACC Long.’ Assistant Chief Constable, Operations.

  ‘Sure, chief. But Karen Lowe? I’m not convinced she knows anything.’

  Baker had shed the customary dark suit for a light linen number. It was doing nothing for his outlook. Staring grimly ahead, he said. ‘No? Well someone is. What did the note say? “Ask the mother.” Let’s do it.’

  She mentioned Adam’s theory, suggested they wait for the post-mortem. He flapped a hand: was he even listening? ‘OK, chief, but surely we should question Todd Mellor before speaking to Karen?’ Once they’d tracked him down. The guy was still AWOL.

  ‘Good point. You can start by asking if she knows where he is.’

  What? She glanced at his profile. ‘She’s not even heard of him.’

  ‘Hasn’t she? And the blessed Karen never lies? You know that, do you, Quinn?’

  Baker had one on him: a bee-ridden bonnet. And the buzz was getting louder. She lowered her voice hoping the subdued volume would rub off on the boss. ‘I don’t know that. Sir. No.’

  Breaking stride, he turned, face flushed. ‘It’s not the only thing you don’t know, Quinn.’ Not flinching was a challenge. ‘Get her in. Show her Mellor’s mugshot.’

  Standing her ground literally, she said, ‘Karen Lowe was sick with grief when I last saw her. I doubt she’s even up for questioning yet. I think we
should leave it a while.’

  ‘For the baby, time’s already run out.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Christ. You were there last night, weren’t you?’

  Below the belt. Was the baby’s image behind Baker’s belligerence? Or was it his meeting with Tony Long? ‘Yes, but Karen—’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first mother to have a hand in killing her kid. So quit pussyfooting round.’

  ‘Kill?’ Her eyes widened. She harboured suspicions about Karen but they didn’t go that far.

  ‘Accessories, Quinn? They’re not just bits of bling, y’know.’

  Patronizing bastard. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s a well known fact women can go a bit funny after having a baby.’

  ‘What! I don’t believe I heard that.’ Sexist, ignorant prat.

  ‘A monkey’s I do not give.’ God, he was finger-jabbing again. ‘I want her in. Inspector.’

  ‘Are you asking or telling?’

  ‘Neither. I’m ordering.’ Brushing past her, he swept into the building.

  Sarah glanced up, for the first time noticed faces at the open windows. It had been quite a floor show.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The squad was unnaturally quiet, postures affectedly casual. Sounds of church bells drifted in vying with the local mosque’s call to prayer. Faithful followers? Sarah took a deep breath, girded metaphorical loins. Officers who hadn’t witnessed the stand-off had clearly been enlightened by those who had. John Hunt looked particularly as if butter wouldn’t melt jammed in an armpit. She wouldn’t be surprised if he or another of her fans had started a book on how long Baker would keep her on as deputy SIO. The boss could run a farm with the scapegoats he’d amassed over the years.

  Striding to the front she greeted everyone with a brisk, ‘Morning all.’ Thirty or so pairs of eyes watched closely as she faced the team. They were probably looking for bruise marks. Tough. She’d already decided to act as if Baker had just presented her with a floral tribute. Even if she did feel like telling him where to stick the stems.