A Question of Despair Read online

  ‘’S’ OK.’ A waved hand brushed off the apology. ‘No sweat.’ Plenty of smoke though.

  Caroline had explained early on that a claim against the police was a no-no. And that she had a better proposition. She took a sip of wine. ‘I’m surprised the minder didn’t mention it.’ Jess something. Perry? Parry? She couldn’t remember the name, only that the woman could be a problem. ‘When are you expecting her back?’

  ‘I’m not. I needed my own space, know what I mean?’ Karen had apparently told the family liaison officer to leave. That she felt like a prisoner in her own home.

  ‘I can well believe it.’ Sage nod. ‘Eyes and ears of the police, aren’t they?’

  The girl’s face dropped. ‘I liked her. She was—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she was good to you, Karen. They’re well trained and all that, but when push comes to shove, we all know what side they’re on. I came here once before and she wouldn’t let me in. But that would’ve been Quinn’s say-so.’

  ‘Quinn’s a cow,’ Karen snarled. ‘She should’ve at least told me you wanted an interview.’ She stubbed out the butt in a packed ashtray.

  The reporter remained silent for a while. Pacing was important, the next stage in the strategy vital. Karen was no intellectual, but neither was she anyone’s fool. Caroline leaned forward, put the glass on a low table.

  ‘What really bothers me . . .’ She paused, lips pursed, then shook her head. ‘Never mind. Forget I said anything.’ The mystique had the desired affect.

  ‘No, go on. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ She narrowed her eyes as if considering whether to divulge what was on her mind. Didn’t want to overdo the dissembling though, she wanted the girl thinking she’d dragged it out of her. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Please.’ Karen touched the reporter’s sleeve. ‘Go on.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘OK. I told Sarah Quinn I wanted to do an in-depth interview with you. That it would be seen by millions of viewers. And that it could help lead them to the kidnapper.’

  ‘Like a proper film? On the telly?’

  She gave a rueful nod, watched as Karen mentally digested the missed opportunity of fleeting fame. The coup de grâce was imminent. She hesitated. Was it fair? Surprisingly, she felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for the girl. It didn’t last long.

  ‘See, Karen, with the proper publicity and exposure I think it might have helped us find Evie.’ She paused to give the words full import. ‘Before it was too late.’

  Her gaze searched the reporter’s face for not-so-hidden meaning. ‘You’re saying it might’ve saved her life?’

  ‘I can’t say that, Karen. Of course I can’t.’ She placed a gentle hand on the girl’s arm. ‘The sad thing is, we’ll never know now, will we?’

  ‘I can’t forgive her for that, Caroline.’ Eyes brimming. ‘Y’know they actually had me in for questioning? And now another baby’s dead. And the killer’s still out there. I’d do anything to see the bastard behind bars. Show that bloody woman how wrong you can be.’

  ‘Would you, Karen?’

  ‘In a heartbeat.’

  ‘In that case, I think I know what we could do. Tell me, how many pictures of Evie do you have?’

  Karen had lots, seventy odd. Caroline had taken them back to the Marriott and spread them over the bed like a patchwork quilt. She’d needed a hot shower, told herself it was to get rid of the cigarette smoke clinging to her hair and skin. Now, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, she cast an expert eye over the colourful montage, making mental notes on the shots with most potential.

  Having spent several hours cooped up in Karen’s flat, Caroline was revelling in her own company and what could be one of the biggest exclusives of her career. She sipped a gin and tonic. The time spent with the girl had been a good investment. Karen had signed a contract agreeing the story could be filmed. Caroline had taken the paperwork along just in case. It was in her bag now next to a chequebook.

  A fat cheque nestled in Karen’s purse. The girl had – in effect – handed back a blank one. She’d given Caroline carte blanche or, as stipulated in the contract, unlimited access and total editorial control over the story. Tomorrow Karen would open up her door and her heart to the cameras. Caroline had convinced the girl that extended coverage could lead to the killer’s capture, that the moving story could prompt someone harbouring the criminal to come forward and that Karen’s on-screen courage would help and inspire others. The fact that the film would be a lasting tribute to Evie had almost certainly clinched the deal.

  Caroline padded to the mini bar for a refill. With full glass in hand, she sank into an armchair, picked up the phone. For her the bargaining hadn’t even begun. As a freelancer, she’d yet to decide where to offer the material, let alone negotiate her fee. Tapping her lip with a finger, she ran a mental eeny-meeny-miny . . .

  ‘Bob? Caro here.’ Silken tones. ‘How you doing?’ Lifting a leg, she admired its contours as she talked through what was on offer with ITN editor Bob Grant. ‘So what d’you think? Is it good or is it shit hot?’ TVs played in the background, she heard the odd raised voice but it was Grant’s she waited for, and as pauses go, it was long.

  ‘I don’t know, Caro. It sounds more like a strand in a doco to me. Not sure there’s enough to sustain a special.’ She pictured Grant pushing trendy specs into his hairline, thumb hooked in belt buckle as he stood in front of the newsroom’s bank of monitors.

  ‘You’re joking. It’ll be brilliant, Bob. As for visuals, there’s Evie smiling, sleeping, sitting up. You name it, we’ve got it.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  Caroline was fuming. The more infuriated and frustrated she felt, the more persuasive and placatory she sounded. ‘It’ll be great telly. Trust me, Bob.’ She injected more warmth into her voice. ‘You can trust me, you know that.’ The appeal was to baser instincts. They’d been lovers off and on for years, Grant’s recent marriage had made no appreciable difference to their affair. Her words weren’t a veiled threat. Unless he read them that way.

  ‘It’s still a bit look-at-life-ish, honey.’

  Tame? Twee? Cutesy? Bloody cheek. ‘You’re kidding, mate. It’s look at death, look at what it does, look at police pressure, look at the hunt for a double killer. Christ, Bob, it’s got everything. Exclusive coverage of a grieving mother while the cops run round like dickheads.’

  ‘That’s the point, Caro. You’re offering a follow-up feature. Viewers want the latest developments. Two babies are dead now.’

  The Kemps were the proverbial ace up her sleeve. Though not yet in the bag, she knew where they were. Crossing her fingers, she mouthed a silent prayer, then: ‘That’s why I’m offering you both. Exclusive coverage of the Kemps and unlimited access to Karen Lowe. Hard news and human life story. What more could you want, darling?’

  ‘When’s the earliest you can deliver?’

  There was no time for finer feelings or conscience wrestling. Caroline had to meet a deadline. She’d committed herself to coming up with the goods. It wouldn’t quite be professional suicide if she failed to deliver but her reputation would take a hammering. It was more than that though. Caroline wanted the Kemps’ story for herself as much as supplying it to Bob. The sensations were physical. Her palms were moist, heartbeat quickened. It was the thrill of the chase, without the chase. She knew where to locate the couple. Her informant wasn’t cheap, but the contract was exclusive. The Kemps wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. Her concern was that if she didn’t get a move on another journalist might suss it too. As far as the competition was concerned, she didn’t anticipate a stitch-up, it was more a tapestry she had in mind.

  THIRTY-SIX

  At about the time Caroline King was threading her needles, Sarah Quinn was tying loose ends on the day’s paperwork. Not that the admin ever really stopped: officer reports, witness statements, summary of incoming calls to catch up on, and as Baker’s deputy it fell to her to maintain Operation Bluebird’s daily log
detailing decisions taken, actions tasked, progress made, budget spent. The record would be referred to whenever the case was reviewed. And as in any major ongoing inquiry, it would be, probably several times. The backtracking could establish if and when wrong steps were taken and which paths should be retraced. In effect, it was a record of accountability. So the brass knew where to lay the blame.

  Rolling back the swivel chair Sarah yawned, stretched her arms in the air, then crossed her hands on her head. Coming up to eight o’clock and she’d had enough. Her stomach had been grumbling for at least an hour. Grimacing she recalled there’d be no Adam tonight fixing supper. They’d snatched a few words earlier on the phone: there was a big case on in Aylesbury; he probably wouldn’t get back until the weekend. She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. An empty apartment held little appeal, there was too much on her mind, she needed taking out of herself. If Harries hadn’t tapped on the door, she’d never have asked. That’s what she told herself anyway.

  ‘I’m heading off now, boss. Anything I need to know for tomorrow?’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ Impulse. The invite was out before she really thought about it.

  ‘Who? Me?’

  ‘No, Hannibal Lecter.’ Must have food on the brain. ‘I’m starving. I could murder a balti.’

  ‘Er . . . yeah . . . no . . . sure . . . can I just make a phone call?’

  She flapped a hand. ‘No worries if you’re tied up.’

  ‘No. It’s not that. It’s just . . .’

  No eye contact and the hint of a blush. Either he had something/someone on or he was fazed by the boss asking him out. Mind, it was a touch out of the blue. She masked a smile. ‘It’s only a bite to eat, David.’ She wasn’t looking to exchange body fluids.

  Half an hour later they were making inroads on Peshwari naans in the Cinnamon Tree. The restaurant in the balti triangle was a favourite of Sarah’s. The food was top notch, its décor an acquired taste. Garish murals of snow-capped mountains and lime green carpets weren’t easy on the eye. Focussing on the massive fish tank recessed into one of the walls wasn’t quite so taxing, or looking at Harries who was glancing at his plate, smiling.

  ‘Something on your mind, David?’

  ‘I was thinking about the last time we grabbed a bite.’ The candlelight glinted in his eyes. ‘That late lunch in the Queen’s Head? Baker beating a path to the table?’

  She snorted. ‘I shouldn’t worry. He’s not into curry. The old boy only likes spice in his aftershave.’ Cut it out, Sarah.

  ‘He was in an ace mood at tonight’s brief, wasn’t he?’

  The delivery was so dry for a second she thought he was serious. But nobody could be that wrong. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Except nothing was. He didn’t have a good word for anyone.’

  ‘Miss Quinn. You’re looking ever more lovely, if I may so.’ The owner Rajeev Choudry had appeared at her elbow. It was no hardship. Tall, dark, model looks; he was one of the most beautiful men she knew. He always wore tailored black trousers and white Nehru shirts, but wasn’t a guy you’d mistake for a waiter.

  ‘Thank you, Raj. Flattery will get you everywhere.’ She flashed a smile, ran through the introductions.

  He nodded at Harries, barely took his gaze off Sarah. ‘We haven’t seen you for a while. The bad men are keeping you busy, I suppose?’

  ‘You suppose right, Raj.’

  ‘This baby business, it’s a terrible thing.’ He swept his fringe from heavily-lashed eyes. ‘The young mother . . . Karen, is it? She’s eaten here a few times.’

  Sarah’s hand stilled as she reached for water. ‘You know her?’

  ‘I didn’t know who she was until I saw her face in the papers.’

  ‘When was she here last, Mr Choudry?’ Harries chipped in.

  ‘It was a while back. She was pregnant.’ He held his arms in a wide circle in front of his waist. ‘She made a joke about not having the dishes too hot in case the baby came early.’ His smile faded.

  ‘Any idea who she was with, Raj?’

  ‘She came a few times, but never with the same man.’

  ‘Recall any names?’ She took his empty palms as a no. ‘Would you recognize any of the men again?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘If you see . . . ?’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know. And I’ll ask around the staff. Enjoy.’ Head bowed, he made way for their approaching waiter. Dishes served, appetites kicked in and they ate in silence for a while. She made a mental note to get a DC over to the restaurant first thing. He or she could flash pics of Michael Slater and Todd Mellor on the off chance.

  ‘Getting back to Baker.’ Harries was using the naan as a scoop. ‘Reckon he was having a bad day or what?’

  ‘Baker?’ She’d lost the trail.

  ‘Yeah, at the brief. It was bollocking central in there. Talk about foul mood.’

  A mouthful of lamb gave her time to consider. Baker’s performance that night had been poor, but taking a pop would be unprofessional. ‘It comes down to management style, David. He varies it all the time. It’s meant to keep the squad on their toes.’

  ‘Can’t see there’s much mileage in it.’ He took a swig of lager. ‘Pisses people off when they’re working their balls . . . sorry . . . fingers to the bone to get a result.’

  She agreed. All stick and no carrot was counter productive, but Baker wasn’t here to defend himself and she was well aware that the closer to the top, the tougher and lonelier the job got. And she saw an element of duff eggs in the wrong basket.

  ‘Baker had it in his head Todd Mellor was in the frame. He wasn’t happy letting the guy walk.’ Mellor had been released that afternoon shouting his mouth off about a police state and threatening to flog his story to the papers. ‘Karen Lowe looks to be in the clear too. Baker’s feeling the pressure, big time, David.’

  ‘And we’re not? So what are you saying? We bang a few suckers up in the cells just to keep the chief in a good mood?’ Head down, he was engrossed in both eating and the heat of his righteous indignation.

  She curved a lip, rather liked the fact he seemed to have forgotten she was his DI.

  ‘No, I’m saying it’s important not to get fixated. Do that and you risk closing your mind to other options.’

  ‘He’s got enough years under the belt to know that surely?’

  ‘So who’s perfect? Cut him some slack.’

  The conversation moved on to other topics: films, books, bands. She found him good company, relaxed, easy going. The place was filling up, it was time to go. Harries glanced round while they waited for the bill, nodded at Raj as he passed the table. ‘D’you come here often then, boss?’

  She laughed out loud. Knew he’d asked because she was on first name terms with the owner. ‘That’s a rubbish chat-up line, David.’

  Smiling, he held her gaze. ‘And if I came out with a better one . . . ?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Caroline King had rehearsed the all-important opening line many times.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Kemp, I know what you’re going through and I’m so very, very sorry.’

  The tears had played a crucial role, though Caroline’s convincing performance had sealed the deal. She’d lied of course. Not to gain entrance to the hospital. Doctors don’t wear white coats these days, but her short-sleeved white jacket had helped open doors. She’d teamed it with a winning smile and authoritative air. She’d also dispensed with most of the slap and tied back the distinctive bob. The medical case she carried had been acquired years ago and kept in the boot for just such emergencies. Once inside, she thanked God for BUPA and private rooms and headed for the Kemps. It was then that the truth became the hospital’s latest casualty. The couple had obligingly mistaken her for a medic. A misapprehension she was happy to allow but careful not to confirm. The confusion had enabled her to enter the small side room, close the door and deliver the well practised line.

  Clearly confused, their gazes had searched her face. Charlotte Kem
p lay propped up on pillows. Her husband sat in a chair at the side of the bed. She’d hoped one of them would pick up the dialogue but neither spoke. She prompted with: ‘I know how tragic it is when a baby dies.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’ Harry Kemp placed a hand over his wife’s. ‘You must see it a great deal in your job.’

  ‘No, what I’m saying is . . . I’ve lost a baby too . . . her life barely begun.’ Caroline’s voice broke and she staggered slightly as tears fell. She was so convincing she almost believed it herself even though her only brush with motherhood was an early abortion five years back.

  Nonplussed, Harry Kemp rose. ‘Have a seat, doctor. Can I get you some water?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ She allowed him to steer her towards the chair, then moist-eyed she looked gravely at each in turn. ‘Please forgive me for intruding on your personal grief. I didn’t want to come here at all.’ The couple exchanged bewildered glances. Harry Kemp opened his mouth, but Caroline raised a hand. ‘Please. Let me speak. If I don’t set the record straight now, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘Look, doctor . . .’ He ran his fingers through thinning mousy hair. Poor guy was too confused to continue and too polite to get stroppy. She almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’m not a doctor. I’m a reporter.’ She dropped her head. ‘My editor sent me. He said if I didn’t talk to you I’d be out of a job.’

  Kemp tightened his lips. ‘That’s tough. But there’s no way my wife and I want to be in the papers. So if you don’t mind . . .’ He pointed to the door.

  ‘Of course. I understand. I told him exactly that. It’s just . . . he said if I didn’t get down here, get an interview, I’d never work again. And, well, there’s only me and Sally at home now.’

  ‘Sally?’ he asked.

  ‘My other daughter. There’s just the two of us since Bob . . .’ Thank God they didn’t ask for more, just the allusion to an additional personal tragedy was enough already.