A Question of Despair Read online

  It wouldn’t do any harm if the real killer believed charges were imminent. The quickest way of achieving that was to release it to the media. They’d not issued the information, but she’d take bets it would appear tomorrow. It was the one time she didn’t want to stop a leak – it could reveal who was pulling the plug.

  As it happened, she didn’t have to wait that long. Her mobile rang as she was parking. Caroline King. Could Sarah confirm a whisper she’d heard?

  FORTY-SIX

  Man held on baby deaths

  It wasn’t the lead, but it was on the front page. No surprise there, then. Sarah slung the newspaper in her office bin. Driving in, she’d heard the same line on the radio, assumed it made breakfast TV too. She drummed speculative fingers on the desk. Caroline King was freelance; doubtless she’d flogged the story everywhere. The extra cash must come in handy. It wouldn’t come cheap keeping such a prolific informant sweet. But if Sarah was on the money, the contract would shortly be cancelled. The need-to-know strategy agreed with the chief meant only a handful of officers were aware Tom Lowe was in custody. Thinking it through Sarah had boiled it down to one man. Knowing who’d been feeding the reporter didn’t make it easier. In fact it left a bitter taste.

  She reached for the overnights, leafed through reports, answered a few emails, made a couple of calls, told herself it wasn’t displacement activity.

  The squad room was pretty hectic, twenty or more detectives, bashing phones, tapping keyboards. Media coverage of yesterday’s reconstruction had prompted another influx of calls. Sarah walked in, glanced round, spotted John Hunt, headed over. Harries sat at the next desk.

  She waited until the DS came off the line.

  ‘Huntie, how’re you fixed? Free to come with me on a house call?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’ He’d already grabbed his jacket. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Small Heath. Karen Lowe’s place.’

  ‘Did I get the wrong end of the stick, boss?’ Harries frowned. ‘I thought we were going out there. You mentioned it last night.’

  ‘I’m not discussing it now, Harries. I’ll see you in my office when I get back.’

  ‘So what . . . ?’

  ‘There’s a stack of witness statements that need reviewing, cross-referencing. You can make a start on that.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Tight-lipped.

  He looked like a schoolboy who’d been given lines, resentment was there, sure, and she thought she’d seen a touch of fear.

  When the door opened, Sarah flashed a bright smile. ‘Karen! Ever get that feeling of déjà vu?’

  The girl didn’t bother stifling a yawn. Her hair was mussed, cheeks pillow-creased. ‘What time do you call this?’

  ‘Wake-up time. Are you letting us in or what?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘That’ll be the kitchen then.’ Sarah still breezy. ‘I could do with a coffee.’

  ‘Sodding make it an’ all.’ She traipsed into the kitchen, bare feet sticking on tacky lino. She had on a baggy none-too-clean T-shirt and yesterday’s slap. Maybe she was thirsty: she’d relented and was filling the kettle. ‘So what you want this time? Come to arrest me, have you?’ The tone was light, joshing. Sarah reckoned Karen was damn sure they weren’t here to take her in, and why.

  ‘You haven’t seen the news then?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I only just got up.’

  Sarah waited until Karen turned round. She wanted to see the girl’s reactions, they’d be interesting, could be crucial.

  ‘Your father’s at police headquarters. He came in yesterday and confessed to the killings.’

  ‘No!’ She staggered to a chair; her face losing the little colour it had. ‘It’s not true. He couldn’t have.’ She sat on her hands to stop them shaking. Her shock was genuine – so was Sarah’s.

  She exchanged glances with Hunt. The DS turned his mouth down, held out empty palms. ‘He says he did, Karen.’ She watched as the girl rocked back and forth with tears streaming down her cheeks. It was the last thing Sarah was expecting to see. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? My father’s been charged with murder and you’re sorry?’

  ‘He’s not been charged.’

  ‘Is he going to be?’

  ‘If the confession stands. Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘No way. I don’t believe it. It can’t be true.’

  And until she had answers, Sarah wasn’t sure what to believe any more either.

  ‘What did you think, John?’

  Sarah and Hunt were driving back to HQ, the DS at the wheel. She wanted his assessment of Karen’s reactions. He’d been on the edge of the action recently, he’d look at it with a fresh pair of eyes, hopefully give a more neutral interpretation.

  ‘Well, not having—’

  ‘Come on, John. I don’t want chapter and verse. Just your initial impressions.’

  ‘She was devastated. Virtually incoherent.’

  ‘Yes. She was . . . wasn’t she?’ She spoke slowly, lost in thought.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Nothing really.’ She shook her head. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Go on, tell me. I’m interested.’

  ‘I guess I had some preconceived ideas. But they seem to be turning out premature.’ She just hoped they weren’t going to die on her. ‘I was convinced Karen knew about her father. I laid a false trail or two for her hoping to get at the truth.’ Turning her head, she gazed through the window, spoke almost to herself. ‘Maybe I gave the wrong directions.’

  ‘You’ve certainly lost me.’

  She smiled. He wasn’t being obtuse. She was. ‘OK, here’s the deal: I’m pretty sure Tom Lowe’s no killer. I’m equally convinced Karen Lowe knows who is. Yesterday, I told her we had a witness placing her at the scene.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

  She filled him in on Walter Clarke’s statement, then: ‘It’s unreliable evidence, John. I don’t think he’s lying. I think he’s mistaken. I told Karen he was prepared to swear to it in court. I think she convinced herself we’d make up the rest and she’d end up inside. Total bollocks, but I didn’t try convincing her otherwise.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She knows something, John. I’ve felt it off and on all along. I think she knows just about everything. I wanted her to talk. And I think she has, but not to the right people. And certainly not me.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘Can I have a word, ma’am?’ Harries popped his head round the door of Sarah’s office. ‘Deborah Lowe’s downstairs demanding to see her old man.’

  Well, that didn’t take long. Unlike her daughter, Deborah Lowe obviously kept an eye on the news. Sarah glanced up from a report she was trying to write. ‘She can’t.’ Not yet anyway.

  ‘She’s kicking off, refusing to budge until she speaks to him.’

  She saved the file. ‘I’ll go down.’

  Deborah Lowe, still ranting at the front desk sergeant, failed to register Sarah’s approach. Sarah observed the woman in action for fifteen seconds or so, then: ‘Mrs Lowe. Good morning. How may I help?’

  She turned, eyes flashing. ‘I want to see my husband, that’s how you can help. Have you seen this? It’s all lies.’ She was tugging a newspaper from her shopping bag. Sarah’s copy was in the bin.

  ‘I have. And we need to talk, Mrs Lowe. The sergeant here will take you through to an interview room. I won’t keep you long.’

  There was someone she had to see first.

  Sarah made her way to the squad room. Harries was hunched over a keyboard, tapping with two fingers.

  ‘My office, now.’

  She turned on her heel, heard footsteps follow. The growing anger was directed at herself almost as much as Harries. She’d trusted him, taken him into her confidence, even let him into her home. No, scrub that. He’d tricked his way in with some cook and bullshit story. Her suspicion had started then, was confirmed last night. His betrayal felt personal as well as professiona
l.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll come straight to the point. How close are you to Caroline King?’

  He reddened slightly. ‘Not with you, boss.’

  She leaned back in her chair, fingers laced. ‘I don’t think you’ve been with me at all.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I thought I could trust you.’

  ‘Of course you can trust me.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’ Confused. Uncertain. He was a better actor than she’d given him credit for.

  ‘Then I’ll ask again. How close are you to Caroline King?’

  He swallowed, reddened further. ‘We’ve been out a couple of times.’ Breaking eye contact, he added, ‘It’s not relevant to the inquiry, ma’am.’

  Screwing King? She snorted. ‘Not relevant to the inquiry?’ The bastard’s been screwing us both – one way or another. ‘Since day one, an insider’s systematically leaked vital material to that woman. Information I deliberately withheld.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘I’ve not finished, Harries.’ She took a sip of water. ‘Someone on my team—’

  ‘When you say “someone” . . . ?’ There was quiet fury in his delivery.

  ‘You were in on Tom Lowe’s interview yesterday. You’re the only detective who knew what went on in that room. Within a couple of hours, I had your sleeping partner on the phone asking for confirmation he was facing charges.’

  ‘Now, hold on a minute.’

  ‘No. You hold on.’ Shouting now. It was rare for her even to raise her voice. ‘The information wasn’t just privileged, it’s not true.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tom Lowe no more killed those children than I did.’

  ‘But he confessed.’

  ‘Get real, Harries. We’d have to have beaten him up to stop him confessing.’

  ‘Why?’

  She thought of the photographs, the video, the killer’s notes. She pictured Karen Lowe in her untidy council flat, Deborah Lowe in her pristine house. She imagined Walter Clarke dreaming of his bricks and mortar. She saw Tom Lowe sitting alone in a police cell. And she prayed she’d got it right.

  ‘It’s what I’m about to ask. And I want you in on the interview.’ Rising, she gathered a few files and her mobile. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Harries. I’ll still be putting in an official complaint. And believe me, if it’s upheld by an internal inquiry, you’ll be out.’

  ‘Go ahead, ma’am. I’ve not broken your trust and I’ve never given away a confidence.’

  ‘That’s right. You got a good price for them, didn’t you?’

  Sarah watched Tom Lowe closely as he was brought into IR1. Strictly speaking, it was the first interview. Yesterday’s session had consisted of Lowe talking while Sarah and Harries listened. The pattern wouldn’t be repeated. She regarded this meeting as crucial: convinced Lowe was lying, now, however long it took she wanted the truth. He’d had a night to consider the consequences of his confession, more than twelve solitary hours to contemplate its impact on the rest of his life. She hoped it was enough.

  ‘Are you charging me now?’ He spoke before he sat down.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Lowe. We need to go over a few points.’ Her approach was perfunctory and belied the importance she placed on the exchanges to come. She nodded at Harries who went through the rigmarole with tapes. She ran through the spiel herself, then: ‘Tell us again what happened the day Evie was abducted.’

  ‘Please, inspector. It’s so painful for me.’ Fresh out of sympathy, she gave him silence which he eventually broke. ‘I saw the pushchair outside the shop.’

  ‘Which shop?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . some newsagent’s.’

  ‘Describe the pushchair.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot, Mr Lowe.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  She let it go for the moment. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘It was a spur of the moment thing. An aberration. I never meant to take her, certainly not to harm her. It’s all so hazy now.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t or can’t?’

  ‘Don’t.’ He shouted.

  ‘I don’t believe you, Mr Lowe.’

  He misunderstood, maybe deliberately. ‘OK. I think it was one of those Babygro things. And a hat.’

  ‘Colours?’

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What the hell does it matter? She’d dead . . . I killed her. I killed them both. What more do you need?’

  ‘The truth.’

  He punched the table with the side of a fist. Harries jumped. She didn’t react, continued staring into Tom Lowe’s eyes, willing him to drop the lies.

  ‘Why did you send the photographs?’ The sudden change of tack didn’t faze the guy.

  ‘To hurt . . . to cause pain . . . I . . . don’t . . . know . . . now.’

  No, I bet you don’t. ‘And the notes?’

  ‘To point you in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Why implicate the mother?’

  ‘It’s usually the mother in cases like this, isn’t it?’ His laugh was brittle. The irony unwitting?

  ‘It can be.’ She paused, ostensibly to jot words on a pad. Ultra casual, she added, ‘And the items you left in my apartment?’

  What appeared genuine confusion flickered across his face. ‘I don’t . . . I’m not sure now . . .’

  She frowned. It was clearly news to him. Was it possible someone else was responsible for the touching little scene in her hallway? She cocked an eyebrow? ‘You were saying?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Keeping quiet was probably safer if he hadn’t a clue where she was coming from. And on balance, she didn’t think he had. So who was the intruder? She put it on the back burner for the moment.

  ‘Why did you leave a note and a lock of hair on a reporter’s windscreen?’

  ‘No comment.’ Either it was down to the killer or Lowe had been blackmailed into planting the material.

  ‘OK, Mr Lowe. I’m charging you with wasting police time. Time I’d rather spend catching the babies’ killer.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  Harries tried intervening but Lowe was faster. In the split second, Sarah realized what he intended, she turned her head. Lowe’s fist hit the side of her face. A bruised cheek was preferable and less painful than a broken nose.

  ‘Are you OK, boss?’

  Harries belatedly had Lowe in a headlock.

  ‘Absolutely fine.’

  ‘I’ll take him down, shall I?’

  ‘No, we haven’t finished. We’ve not really started, have we, Mr Lowe?’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Sarah took up the questioning as if there’d been no interruption. Her face felt flushed, the cheek throbbed. She clenched her hands together to conceal the tremor.

  ‘Why did you abduct Evie, Mr Lowe?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, inspector. I shouldn’t have hit you.’ His voice was full of remorse. It was no answer.

  ‘Why did you abduct Evie?’

  He sighed, slumped back in the chair. ‘I don’t really know . . . It seems so senseless now . . . I think I just wanted to hurt Karen . . . I’d loved her so much, but she wouldn’t let me anywhere near her . . . I guess I thought it would . . .’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘You didn’t take Evie. You didn’t kill Charlotte. You’re not a violent man.’

  ‘I hit you, didn’t I?’

  ‘If punching me was meant to prove you have a violent nature, I could have told you it wouldn’t and saved us both a lot of pain. You hit out because I was about to reveal the killer’s identity, and you didn’t want to hear it.’

  She paused, gave him an opening to refute the suggestion. Harries’ gaze was on her. Tom Lowe stared at the floor, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘You wouldn’t harm a child. You certainly wouldn’t hurt Evie.’ So
mething in her voice made Lowe look up to meet her gaze. ‘Not when she was your own child.’

  The truth hurt. He covered his ears with his hands. ‘Enough. Stop this.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to stop now, Mr Lowe. You confessed to two murders you didn’t commit. Just so you could protect Karen and your own precious reputation.’

  ‘You’re wrong . . . so wrong, inspector.’

  ‘Karen panicked and called you, didn’t she? Did she tell you we were going to arrest her? You had to help her, didn’t you? You had to look after Karen. She’s your first child.’ Another pause. ‘And the mother of your second.’

  Harries masked what could have been a gasp. Even to Sarah’s ears her words sounded melodramatic. The moment on stage when the curtain falls on a hushed audience. But Tom Lowe had a different script, a role in another production.

  ‘You’re right, inspector. I lied to protect Karen. She is the mother of my child.’ He paused. ‘But Karen’s not my daughter. And she didn’t kill Evie.’

  Lowe’s admission was like a second slap in a face still smarting from the first. Sarah had been convinced her interpretation was correct. The Lowe’s wedding picture in the newspaper archives had been the catalyst. She’d registered immediately the likeness between the young Tom Lowe and the murdered baby. She’d failed to see there was no similarity between Lowe and Karen. With hindsight no resemblance at all.

  ‘Your wedding picture shows Deborah was pregnant, already carrying Karen.’

  ‘It might show she was pregnant. It doesn’t show who the father was.’ Lowe sounded tired, sick and tired. ‘Deborah told me I was the father and we had to get married. I wasn’t just going to walk away. Christ, I was proud of fathering a child. Can you imagine?’ The laugh was bitter this time.