A Question of Despair Read online

  He raised both hands. ‘Just arrived ma’am.’ She saw in his eyes it was a lie to save her face. He probably wanted to comfort her but that would mean revealing he’d witnessed her tears. Rising, she brushed dust from her trousers.

  ‘Everything OK, ma’am?’ Tentative. The concern well-meant but badly-timed.

  ‘No, everything’s not OK. Everything’s a bloody mess. We need the full team again.’ Forensics, photographers, POLSA. ‘I want Patten out too.’ He questioned her with a look. ‘There are marks on her, David.’ Tiny red pin pricks around the eyes. ‘I’m sure they’re the same. I knew what to look for.’

  This time.

  It was just after 6 a.m. when Sarah arrived at HQ. Baker had called her back. She went to the Ladies first, washed her hands, splashed cold water on her face. On the way in, she’d driven past some of the thirty or so officers he’d deployed to the crime scene. The bridge and surrounding streets would now be chocker with police vehicles and activity. It was lucky she wasn’t banking on thanks from the DCS, she’d have been out of pocket. Though the inquiry’s early steer was down to her intuitive thinking, he’d sneered about not wanting any more Mystic bloody Megging then bollocked her about the folly of going alone into potentially dangerous situations. The real reason he’d called her in soon became clear. He’d changed his mind about the media; he wanted her to hold the morning news conference. Before that, he wanted her to break the news to the baby’s parents. She’d agreed without protest. No mileage anyway. As senior officer it was his prerogative.

  Thanks for the buck, boss.

  How do you tell someone their child’s dead? Sarah dreaded it, always had, always would. Whatever’s said, however it’s expressed, nothing will ever be the same again.

  A few short words amounted to a life sentence.

  Stuck in heavy traffic on Hurst Street, for once she didn’t curse. It only served to put off the inevitable but the delay, however brief, was welcome. Given her experiences as a cop, she firmly believed a child’s death was the one tragedy it was impossible to recover from completely. Was it worse, she wondered, to be told your child had died at the hands of a murderer? Was the pain less if a child’s death was down to accident or illness? She doubted it. The end result was the same. A life cruelly cut short. And the legacy for those left behind? An eternal cycle of if onlys, what ifs and whys.

  Waiting on a green light, she tapped the wheel, glanced at the street life: people walking to work, kids dawdling to school, others hitting the shops. Everyone took it for granted until it was snatched away. As the line of traffic moved again, she sighed. The black thoughts weren’t going anywhere. Even the sun beating down from an unbroken blue sky wasn’t enough to lift her spirits. Delivering a death message never got easier. It was different every time and reactions always impossible to predict. She cast her mind back to Karen Lowe. The girl had appeared relieved, almost seemed to expect it. There’d been grief too of course, but had life already hardened her? She’d acquired independence early from a family life she seemed to despise. She’d grown away but not grown up. And Sarah knew that all this mental meandering wasn’t helping one iota.

  The harsh reality was that she was about to arrive at the home of complete strangers and her knock on the door would wreck the rest of their lives.

  Harry and Charlotte Kemp were in their early forties, Harriet their only child. Mr Kemp was a senior lecturer at the Food College, his wife had given up teaching when Harriet was born. She’d had problems conceiving, was happy to be a full-time mum. Both now waited in the sitting room with Charlotte’s parents. Mr Kemp, who’d only recently been told the child was missing, had arrived home a couple of hours ago. An FSI team was upstairs still examining the baby’s bedroom. The rest of the property had been checked.

  All this Sarah learned from a uniformed officer on the doorstep of a neat thirties villa in Handsworth Wood. PC Linda Ash, a fresh-faced brunette, had been one of the first attending officers. She’d not heard the baby was dead, she’d stayed at the house out of concern for the mother.

  Keeping her voice down, she said, ‘Mrs Kemp’s not well, ma’am. High blood pressure or something. Her mother’s called the doctor. I thought it might be him now.’

  Sarah considered for a few seconds then said she’d hold back from seeing the couple until the GP arrived. Linda’s face lost its colour, she’d picked up the implication. ‘Come through to the kitchen, ma’am. I’ll make coffee.’

  The room was bright and cheerful with lots of warm pine and red gingham: curtain, cloths, even crocks on a dresser. The dark red shade could’ve been overpowering but was counterbalanced by light streaming through a huge picture window. Sarah’s glance took in a high chair in the corner, a huge yellow teddy bear in the seat, arm raised in a wave. Baby bottles gleamed from one of the work surfaces, a unit held Peter Rabbit pottery, a line of bibs dried on a radiator. Brightly coloured magnets spelt the baby’s name on the fridge. Sarah’s heart sank as she pictured the family laughing happily round the table. Yesterday. Arms folded, she leaned against a wall, watched Ash spoon coffee into a mug.

  ‘She’s blaming herself I think, ma’am.’

  ‘Most mothers do.’

  ‘Yeah, but with it being so hot she’s been keeping a few windows open. The forensic guys are pretty sure entry was through one of the French windows at the back.’ Stirring boiling water in, she said, ‘Mrs Kemp can’t recall closing it, let alone locking it.’

  Poor bloody woman. Head down, Sarah toed the tiles.

  The young officer asked softly, ‘Where did you find the baby, ma’am?’

  She told her briefly, then: ‘It’s likely the same kidnapper who snatched Evie Lowe.’

  ‘God knows what it’ll do to them.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘They waited years before having a baby and now this.’

  Tell me about it. Sarah nodded, face impassive.

  ‘To lose her like that. How’ll they ever—’

  ‘Enough already.’ She raised a hand.

  ‘Sorry. You still have to break it to them, don’t you?’ She handed Sarah her drink. ‘I’d better get back to the family. Shall I bring the doctor straight through to you?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Linda.’

  ‘Y’know ma’am, I can’t see why the media calls this every mother’s nightmare.’ She paused, hand on door. ‘People wake from nightmares, don’t they?’

  Charlotte Kemp collapsed on hearing the news. The GP who’d been treating her for hypertension called an ambulance. An irregular heartbeat was causing concern. A paramedic stabilized the condition en route to hospital. Mrs Kemp was now undergoing tests. Before leaving, the GP told Sarah an ECG would establish the type of arrhythmia and treatment given accordingly. He didn’t think it was life threatening. Sarah felt a part of Charlotte Kemp had died already.

  THIRTY-TWO

  If the story had been big before, it was massive now and the news conference was bringing out the sharpest operators. During the short delay while a press officer rustled up a bigger room, Sarah watched from her office window as some of the pack arrived, witnessed the backslapping bonhomie, the banter and easy smiles of what she dismissed as the old hack network. Grimacing she turned her back, knew the camaraderie was fiction, like most of the reporting.

  Opening a file, she started tackling the backlog of paperwork currently bowing her desk. For once, the endless admin was an almost appealing alternative. She’d barely picked up a pen when the press office rang. ‘Ready ma’am?’

  ‘Bring it on.’ It can’t be that bad.

  The room was crammed with cameras, mics, cables, the atmosphere charged from the word go. Sarah suspected the pack had sniffed blood and she was the sacrificial lamb. The second she finished issuing the facts, the accusations started flying around.

  ‘Why didn’t the police issue a public warning?’

  ‘Wasn’t it a mistake . . . ?’

  ‘Are you considering your position . . . ?’

  And the hits kept coming.
Loaded questions from reporters who probably had the answers written already. The press officer to her right kept his head down, shuffling papers. Outwardly composed, Sarah sat motionless, running an insouciant gaze over the ranks. Under the table her knees trembled slightly and she knew her pulse was racing. It was partly the pressure but the early start and lack of food weren’t helping. Hopefully she didn’t look as knackered as she felt.

  She felt marginally worse spotting Caroline King’s small neat figure on the back row. The reporter was her usual well-groomed self: tailored red suit, pointed red talons. Her unusually low profile was more unsettling than the questions still being raised.

  ‘Will the killer strike again?’

  ‘How did you feel when . . . ?’

  ‘What steps are you . . . ?’

  Sarah’s dogged silence finally got through. When the questions petered out, she spoke. ‘I’ve told you what I can.’ Admittedly not much: the discovery of a second baby’s body, an appeal for witnesses at relevant times and locations. ‘I’m not getting into feverish speculation. Any help you can give will be much appreciated. I’m happy to do one-to-one interviews after this. But I’d ask everyone to keep it brief. No one needs reminding how urgent it is that the killer or killers are brought to justice.’ The official line to the media was that the police had an open mind on numbers. In reality squad opinion was split. Sarah had heard via Baker of rumblings at the early brief about whether a copycat was responsible for Harriet Kemp’s death.

  ‘But you’re not, are you?’ The drawled question came from a reporter on one of the nationals. Tall, thin, sallow complexion. John? Jake? Sarah couldn’t recall offhand, but knew they’d crossed words in the past. ‘It’s not even half a story.’ He stroked a sparse brown moustache. ‘We need the baby’s name, address, a pic or two.’

  ‘I’ve already explained why that’s not going to happen.’ The Kemps were adamant about details not being released. Sarah wished it was otherwise. She’d tried persuading Harry Kemp to supply a photograph, even take part in a media appeal. Coverage could force a reluctant witness into the open or even a response from the killer. But Charlotte Kemp’s condition, though no longer a cause for concern, had been brought on by stress. Doctors had warned against additional pressure.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a two-way thing, y’know, love.’ Is it, petal? Sarah pursed her lips. ‘You want us to warn folk there’s a maniac out there, but you’re not giving us the wherewithal.’

  Wherewithal? Folk? She hoped the guy’s prose was pithier. ‘As I said, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah.’ He flapped a hand. ‘You’ve told us what you can. What about the notes the kidnapper sent? Can we have a butcher’s?’ Cocky grin. ‘As a little quid pro quo?’

  Latin. He probably wasn’t from the Sun, then. ‘No. You can’t.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The alacrity meant he knew he was pushing his luck. ‘How about confirming a report that before you found the second baby, Karen Lowe was in for questioning?’ She remembered his nickname now. First time she heard it as Talk. Then realised it was Torque, as in Torquemada.

  ‘Not everything you see on the news is gospel.’ She cut a glance at Caroline. Is it, Ms King?

  ‘Look, love.’ He scratched the side of his face. ‘If you want effective coverage we have to have a still of the baby. A shot of the parents at least.’

  ‘What part of “you can’t” don’t you get? The mother’s in . . . ill for one thing.’ Shit. She’d almost given it away. Had her recovery been quick enough?

  ‘What about the father?’ Persistent git. At least he’d not picked it up. ‘Surely he wants to help?’

  ‘He’s made it quite clear. At this stage the family don’t want publicity. I have to respect that.’

  ‘What about respect for yourself, love?’ he sneered. ‘Two dead babies. No one in the frame.’ He got up, started walking out. ‘Not a record to be proud of, is it?’

  It was a hell of a parting shot. Whatever she came out with, she was damned. As far as Torque and his cronies were concerned the police had cocked-up. With a bottom line that ran: two babies abducted, two lives lost. Maybe they were right.

  Standing, she gathered her files. ‘We’ll do the interviews outside.’ She needed the air. Heading out, she noticed an empty seat at the back. Wondered why Caroline King had slipped away early. She narrowed her eyes. Dismissed the thought. No. Even King wouldn’t stoop that low.

  Caroline King’s subdued back row silence was uncharacteristic. It was nothing to do with deferring to colleagues and certainly not Sarah Quinn, she was still smarting from a verbal battering at breakfast time. Angie Baxter, the editor who’d led last night’s bulletin with the Karen Lowe story, had launched the onslaught on the phone. Even now, Caroline couldn’t let the injustice of it go. Already well briefed, she only needed to keep half an ear on the news conference, so while Quinn droned on at the front, she reran the exchange in her head.

  The police press office has been on threatening all kinds of action.

  What you talking about, Angie?

  No, darling, what were you talking about?

  I don’t know what you mean.

  Neither do the cops, Caroline. They say Karen Lowe was never in custody. They want to know where you got the information.

  They can piss off.

  Maybe so. But you do answer to me. They reckon the piece was a pile of crap. Complete tosh. That’s she’s not been near the station.

  They would, wouldn’t they? They don’t like being made to look stupid.

  Me neither, Caroline. If the story doesn’t stand up . . .

  Caroline knew the story was sound. She’d not only seen Karen leave the station, she’d managed to slip the girl a card and whisper a few words before the minders poked their oars in. Karen hadn’t got back, but hope lies eternal and all that. And sod Baxter. If her own editor was going to side with the plod . . . She’d hung up at that point, let the bloody woman think they’d been cut off.

  Glancing up now, she glared at another bloody woman. Caroline had no doubt Quinn had dropped her in the mire. For a start, the police press office was full of failed cops or useless ex-hacks. She couldn’t see any of them having either the nous or the clout to call the editor direct. For another, Quinn had made it clear more than once she had scores to settle with the reporter. Caroline would lay heavy odds that the complaint came straight from the horse’s mouth: Sarah-no-comment-Quinn.

  The reporter smoothed her hair, crossed her legs, reckoned Quinn must’ve had a rough night. Either that or she’d run out of blusher. She curved a lip. No. The cop’s skin had lost its gloss, she looked tired and drawn. But then she’d have had an early shout. The reporter’s heads-up call had been much later and incomplete. That was the only reason she was here. Not that Quinn was giving anything anyway.

  What part of ‘you can’t’, don’t you get? Supercilious bitch. Even Torque was getting the bum’s rush. The mother’s in . . . ill for one thing.

  Nice one. Quinn was definitely knackered, losing it. Caroline grabbed her bag from the floor, snuck out on tiptoe. The reporter had already paid upfront for the family’s details but until Quinn’s slip she’d not been aware Charlotte Kemp was in hospital. Establishing which would be a piece of piss. At most, half a dozen calls. She eased her phone from a pocket. Even before reaching the Merc, she hit pay dirt.

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘How sure are we Harry Kemp’s clean?’

  Baker, haunch perched precariously on a desk, stroked his chins. The rasp was audible even from where Sarah leaned against the back wall. The early shout must’ve meant he’d missed out on a shave. Midday now and he’d called available detectives to an ad hoc brief. It was a smallish gathering: the bulk of the squad either working Small Heath or Handsworth Wood. Sarah’s slightly late arrival was down to the string of interviews she’d just given on the front steps of the building.

  DC Dean Lavery gave a jaunty thumb’s up. ‘Hundred and ten, guv. Kemp’s clean as a
whistle.’ Lavery wasn’t long back from the general hospital where he’d been despatched to talk to the dead baby’s father. Crap job but someone had to do it. Sad fact is more children are harmed by so-called loved ones than strangers. Harry Kemp fitted the doting dad profile to a tee, but it could be a façade. A cop had to go beyond that, uncover any hairline cracks that might exist.

  Mind, Lavery was the last officer Sarah would send on a task that needed kid gloves. Apart from mediocre interview skills, he had the sensitivity of a dead slug, but with two major ongoing inquiries, Operation Bluebird was stretched and then some. They weren’t quite on a wing and a prayer, but Baker had requested reinforcements.

  ‘You’ve checked his movements, lad?’ Baker waved a copy of Lavery’s report. Whatever other failings, the DC always kept on top of the paperwork; big brownie points in pen pushing. Sarah skimmed a copy now. Kemp said he’d arrived at Coventry Uni at eight the previous evening. He’d been due to start a four-day management refresher course this morning. He’d opted to stay on campus even though he could easily have commuted. Bad choice. My God, he’d regret that now. The police had phoned his mobile at 05.30. He’d been woken by the call and left for home immediately.

  ‘Mostly, guv,’ Lavery said. ‘They seem to pan out OK.’ Sarah’s raised eyebrow was primed for one of Baker’s blasts. For the first time she noticed Harries in the far corner; his expression suggested he knew what was coming too.

  ‘Mostly? OK? That’s sloppy and slack in my book. You talk to everyone. We need his movements confirmed and the time-line. And don’t forget to check his phone records.’

  ‘You got it, guv.’ Amiable. But Sarah clocked a tic in the jaw that suggested he resented the reprimand.