A Question of Despair Page 16

  Baker must be desperate though. She pictured him in a field clutching at straws in a dense fog. What was he thinking? That Harry Kemp had some sort of love nest on the side and had lied about being tucked up in bed? It sounded damn thin to her. Mind, she’d seen Kemp when he heard the news. The guy looked as if he’d been shot.

  The entire squad had been stunned by the abduction of a second baby. It shook what was a frail theory anyway, that Evie Lowe had been specifically targeted. Charlotte’s death upped the odds no end towards a random attacker. Sarah narrowed her eyes. Or had Evie’s killer flipped? Murdered again, this time without reason, let alone motive? Did he or she know the Kemps or was it possible Harriet had been abducted simply because she was accessible, available, in the right place at the wrong time?

  An open window. A sleeping baby. A deadly combination.

  God forbid. If either scenario was true, who could say it would end there?

  ‘Who’s been checking links?’ Baker nodded as a couple of hands went up. It was among the first tasks in any inquiry where there was more than one victim. Have the people come into contact in any way before the crime? However slim, are there existing connections? It could be anything from having the same doctor to shopping at the same Sainsbury.

  ‘Nothing yet, guv.’ DS Derek Holt spoke for the three detectives working the seam. So far the only thing the Kemps and Karen Lowe had in common was the abduction and death of their babies. The Kemps were in their forties, professionals, homeowners living in a des res suburb; Karen a teenage single mother living on benefits in an inner-city council flat.

  ‘Keep on digging,’ Baker said. ‘There’s got to be something.’

  ‘Not if it’s a copy cat, guv.’ Paul Wood was one of the officers who’d mooted the suggestion at the early brief. The notion in that school of thought went along the lines of an individual exploiting the Evie Lowe killing to execute a grudge against the Kemps. Sarah wasn’t convinced: it would have to be a bloody big grudge.

  Baker nodded, bottom lip jutting out. ‘You’ve met the parents, Quinn – any thoughts?’

  What a question. ‘They seemed decent enough, but I was only with them a few minutes.’ As far as she knew there could be an extended family of skeletons lurking in the wardrobe.

  ‘Point taken. Either way, we run full background checks. Derek, I want you and your team talking to everyone who knows the Kemps: family, friends, colleagues, neighbours. Check with criminal records, social services, banks, building societies, the lot. If you need more bodies, let me know. What about informants? Anything come up? Anything worth pursuing?’

  Most police officers have tame snouts on the fringes of the criminal world. Sarah listened to feedback from the floor, the story was similar from several detectives: contacts would help if they could but had nothing concrete on offer.

  ‘Someone out there knows something.’ Baker dragged his fingers down both cheeks. ‘We’ll have to go back, set up roadside checks, knock doors again, ask more questions. Surely someone’s got to remember something?’

  No one demurred. Everyone was aware that despite what the telly would have viewers believe, most police work was plodding painstaking routine.

  DC Lavery raised a forefinger. ‘What about a reconstruction, guv? Get Karen Lowe or a lookalike to take part? Maybe prompt a memory or two.’ He said it as if it was a groundbreaking idea, sat there waiting for a pat on the back.

  ‘It’s in hand thanks, lad.’ It was more pat on the head. Baker and Sarah had already considered it, decided to stage one on Thursday, a week to the day since Evie’s abduction.

  ‘Is it worth approaching Crimewatch?’ Harries asked.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. Baker registered the gesture. ‘Problem, Quinn?’

  ‘We’re cops. Why can’t we just get on with it rather than relying on a breakthrough on some TV show?’

  Baker cocked his head at Harries inviting a response.

  ‘An approach doesn’t stop us “getting on with it”, ma’am. And who said anything about “rely”?’

  She felt herself blush. Despite the polite tone, the admonishment was one step from insolent. ‘Well, that’s lucky, constable. Because there’ve been two killings in five days. The next edition’s not for three weeks so we really can’t afford to wait for Kirsty Young’s cavalry.’

  She was aware her voice had risen, felt the heat as her face probably reddened. The room was pin-drop silent.

  Harries held her gaze steady then his even voice asked, ‘Perhaps you have a better idea, ma’am?’

  ‘Grow up the pair of you,’ Baker snapped. ‘We’ll do it if needs be. Just pray it doesn’t come to it.’

  Sarah unclenched her fists, wiped damp palms on her dress. Her reaction had been well over-the-top. She knew the real target of her anger was the media en masse and Caroline King in particular. Harries had been her whipping boy, but the DC had a right hook of his own.

  ‘There has to be something we’re missing.’ Baker, hands in pockets, wandered across to the whiteboards, stood with his back to the squad. ‘What the hell is it?’ He ran his gaze over black and white stills of the terrain, street maps dotted with coloured markers and photographs of two tiny victims. Glancing round, Sarah noticed every officer scrutinizing the boss; everyone seeking leadership, inspiration, results. The pressure, intense before, was mounting almost by the minute. She felt it too, and the greatest burden was self-imposed. For the first time in her career she was scared. Scared of failure. Scared of not being able to prevent the unspeakable happening again.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me?’ A youngish voice, female, soft, slightly breathless. Caroline King frowned, didn’t recognize it, could barely hear it and as she was in her motor on the Aston Expressway shouldn’t be taking the call anyway. ‘Who is this?’ A tad testy.

  ‘You mentioned compensation. What’s that all about then?’

  Gotcha. Caroline gave a radiant smile. Karen Lowe had taken the bait. In this sue-you society, the word compensation was an open sesame, and one the reporter had whispered earlier to the girl along with police bullying and intimidation. Telling Karen she was a journo wouldn’t have gained Caroline an entrée, but hinting at a damages pay out worked magic when it came to opening doors.

  ‘Karen!’ She was in full gush mode, tone injected with warm bonhomie. ‘Thank you so much for getting back to me.’

  ‘I haven’t got long so get a move on.’

  Cheeky sod. ‘Where are you?’ Caroline glanced in the mirror, the last thing she needed was to be pulled over by the cops.

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is someone in the room with you?’ Earwigging?

  ‘Look, what’s this about? Are you saying I’ve got grounds for a complaint or what?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Total poppycock. But if it enabled the reporter to engineer a meet, well: ends, means and all that. ‘But think about it, Karen. If the police are there now, it’s not something we can discuss in detail on the phone.’ And once she had a foot in the door, there were other aces up her sleeve to sweet talk Karen into opening up. Christ, Caro, cut the clichés.

  ‘’K. You can come round.’

  ‘No can do. Your minder won’t let me in. Cops don’t like solicitors.’ She hadn’t actually said she was a lawyer so it was less white lie more grey area.

  ‘No, but I can. You coming or what?’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘What?’ Open-mouthed. ‘Are you sure?’ On the phone to forensics, Sarah grappled simultaneously with the wrapping around a prawn mayo sandwich. She’d been chasing the lab for days and the earlier spat with Harries had acted as even more of a spur to get concrete results. Apart from the pit stop in the canteen, she’d put the call in as soon as she sat at her desk. The way she saw it, forensic evidence had a damn sight more credibility than the dubious benefits of TV coverage. Even so, it was difficult to get her head round what she’d just heard. Wasn’t fish supposed to be brain food? Goo
d call. She popped a prawn in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t give you a cast iron guarantee, Sarah. Believe it or not the notes weren’t signed.’ Phil Sewell. Everybody’s favourite funny man. Not. The lab boss bore a passing resemblance to Hugh Grant, fancied himself rotten and took condescension to a new low.

  ‘I appreciate that, Phil.’ She forced a smile into her voice. ‘I’m really surprised, that’s all.’ And picked out another prawn.

  Who wouldn’t be? Sewell’s theory was that the notes, believed to be from the kidnapper, probably emanated from two writers. Well, cut and paste merchants. He felt whoever had tucked the note under Caroline King’s windscreen wiper wasn’t responsible for the one placed in Sarah’s apartment.

  ‘All I’m saying, Sarah, is that the only common factor is the newspaper they came from.’ God. He even sounded like a drama queen.

  ‘And they were cut from the Sun, right?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve sourced the issues, can tell you which headlines and articles. But I’d have expected the paper they were stuck on and the glue that was used would be the same. The fact they’re not doesn’t prove they were composed by different people but it does point that way.’

  ‘Points but no proof,’ she murmured. And definitely no prizes. She was almost talking to herself.

  ‘I’ve already said that.’ Yeah yeah. She curled a lip. He was probably stroking a superior eyebrow. ‘All I know is that when I’ve come across this sort of thing in the past, the stuff used is invariably identical. Think about it.’ Like she wasn’t? ‘How many people have several different writing pads and glues in the house? Or bother going out to get them?’

  Her fingers tapped the desk. On balance he was probably right. What he’d said was true enough but not good enough. Not good-in-a-court-of-law-enough anyway. Sitting back, she gazed through the window where jet trails formed a perfect cross against a pale blue sky. ‘What about the lock of hair, Phil? Anything on that, yet?’

  ‘I think I might have mentioned it, don’t you?’ She pulled a face at the phone. ‘I take it you’re aware by now how long these things take?’ She knew his next line, mimed it in synch. ‘It’s not CSI here, dear.’ Mr Sarky Git was right again. Even fast-tracked they were looking at a fortnight before the finishing post.

  ‘A girl can wish, Phil.’ She’d not let Sewell wind her up; pain in the butt or not, he was at the top of his game. ‘So, summing up on the notes . . . there’s either one smart cookie in the frame.’ Sharp enough to use different materials to misdirect the cops. ‘Or we’ve got two letter writers on our hands.’

  ‘I’d go for the latter. Given how well the inquiry’s going – shame they’re not in your hands.’

  ‘Why don’t you piss off?’ This time she was talking to herself. Much as she’d like to tell him where to go, he’d already hung up.

  ‘Why doesn’t who piss off?’ Harries hovered in the doorway, lips twitching.

  ‘Knock next time, eh?’

  ‘It was open, ma’am.’ His smile broadened as he stepped inside. ‘Those phone skills, boss. Where’d you pick them up?’

  She softened her mouth. ‘It was Sewell over at the labs. I think he must go to the same charisma classes as Baker.’ Shit. ‘You didn’t hear me say that, OK?’

  He made a play of cupping his ear. ‘Pardon?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Do you want to wait while I finish this?’ They’d be heading out to Small Heath shortly, following up a couple of calls that had come in to the incident room. ‘You might want to read it too.’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked over her shoulder as she typed an email to Baker précising Sewell’s thinking. When she hit send, he gave a low whistle, strolled back to take a seat. ‘If it is two writers, yours would have to be from a copycat. Someone who’d heard the original on the news.’

  She took a bite of sandwich. ‘Yes, but . . . ?’ She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’d know the wording that way, but how would they know it was cut from the Sun?’

  ‘Coincidence. Lucky guess.’

  She shook her head. ‘Did Caroline King’s report carry the name of the paper, a close-up of the note?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Actually I’m not sure.’

  ‘It needs checking.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it, boss.’ He nodded at the desk. ‘Are you finishing lunch before we go?

  She smiled. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘So, did Sewell upset you as well?

  ‘As well?’ She paused, sandwich halfway to mouth. ‘Why’d you say that?’

  ‘I know you didn’t tell me to piss off, but you didn’t exactly go a bundle on my Crimewatch idea.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ On reflection her crack about the cavalry had been a touch below the belt. ‘I’m sure you were trying to be constructive.’

  He waited until she swallowed, then: ‘I hear a but in there.’

  ‘I’m not a fan of programmes like that. Actors playing villains. Cops playing to the gallery. The only real people are the victims. The distinctions get a bit blurred somehow.’

  He turned his mouth down. ‘It’s had quite a few successes, boss.’

  ‘They’re not going to trumpet the failures, are they? And how many people has it scared stiff? All that “don’t have nightmares” bollocks makes me sick.’

  ‘You’ve really got a down on the media. What’ve they done to you, boss?’ It was a gentle tease that went with the glint in his eye.

  She knew he was joking but there was an old saying about true words and jests.

  ‘Nothing. I’m sure they’re OK in the right place, at the right time.’ But when they’re not? In her mind’s eye she saw a street in London, an officer covered in blood. Heard the shot again, a single scream. Stop it, don’t go there.

  ‘You OK, boss?’

  Grimacing, she ditched the rest of lunch in the bin, grabbed some water, then walked to the window and perched on the sill. His concerned gaze was still on her face. He was emotionally intelligent, almost certainly sussed her hostility to the press had a personal edge. Pre-empting any probing on that score, she steered the conversation back to the professional conflict. ‘Don’t get me wrong, David. I know they can be useful but their priorities are different to ours. We catch criminals. They catch the next bulletin. We chase detection figures, they chase viewing figures.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘I swear some of them make it up as they go along.’

  ‘That’s a bit sweeping, isn’t it?’ He ran a hand through his hair.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not saying they’re all sharks. I’ve come across some sharp operators out there. On the other hand, I’ve read stories after press conferences and couldn’t believe the reporters had been in the same room as me.’ She slipped off the sill, wandered back to the desk, started gathering papers. ‘They probably get their heads together afterwards and work out what angle to take. If enough of them say the same thing, well, there’s safety in numbers.’

  ‘That’s pretty harsh, boss. They can do a lot of good exposing scandals and cover-ups, highlighting injustice, corruption, even just passing on info.’

  Lip curved, she glanced up. ‘You sound like a public service announcement, David.’

  ‘Yeah, but fair’s fair. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Then it’s a shame the stupid and unscrupulous give the rest a bad name.’

  He held her gaze. ‘You could say the same about the police.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the press already do. Anyway, are you coming, or what? It’s time to hit the road.’ She was rummaging in her briefcase. Where the hell were the car keys?

  He was on his feet, heading for the door. ‘If you’re looking for your keys, boss, I saw them on your desk.’

  ‘Clever dick.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘She’s not the sharpest knife in the police canteen.’ It wasn’t the wittiest line she’d ever come up with but Caroline King was mentally rubbing her elegant little hands in glee. After a fals
e start, she was surprised how well it was going. Not so much a case of feet under the table as tucked up on Karen Lowe’s lurid pink settee. The Barbie décor alone meant the women would never be best friends, but for the moment they shared a mutual foe.

  ‘Quinn’s a hard-nosed cow.’ Karen ran a hand over her mouth.

  Caroline tilted a bottle towards the girl. ‘Top up?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  She smiled. The plonk had been worth every penny. Though the session had been hard-going initially. Even on the doorstep, Caroline had realized her glossy appearance, in marked contrast to Karen’s, could work against her. So she’d majored on aspects easier to alter. The long vowels got short shrift immediately as she calculated how best to play the girl. Mirroring body language was good and subtly adopting speech patterns and accent helped, but connecting emotionally was the real skill. Fake that and you were in. Caroline had lost a child too, she’d confided to Karen. The doctors had done everything they could, of course, but . . . It was the trump card in a pack of lies that had led to this cosy little head to heart.

  ‘Y’know, Karen, Quinn wouldn’t let me anywhere near you. I begged her to let me have a chat with you, offer my help. She made out there was no way you wanted to talk to me.’

  ‘She didn’t even ask.’ The girl flicked a lank strand of hair from her face. ‘Never even mentioned it.’

  Running a scarlet nail round the rim of her glass, Caroline cast the odd covert glance at her quarry who was huddled into a corner of the settee, hugging a pink fur cushion. When not sucking furiously on a cigarette, Karen’s lips were set in a scowl, she was clearly mulling over what she’d heard and patently not appreciating Quinn’s stance.

  ‘Yes.’ Caroline sighed, circled a slim ankle. ‘I thought you’d turned me down. That you didn’t want anything to do with me ’cos I’m a reporter.’

  ‘I’d no idea you were after me.’ She was picking loose strands of the fake fur, laying them on the arm of the chair.

  ‘It’s why I mentioned compensation when we crossed paths the other day. I reckoned it just might persuade you to let me in. I’m really sorry about that. I hated not being straight with you.’ She hung her head in what might be shame. ‘Goes against the grain.’