A Question of Despair Page 9

  ‘What?’ Sarah prompted.

  ‘She attacked me. Threatened me with a knife.’ She crushed the cigarette in an onyx ashtray. ‘I told her if she couldn’t respect the house rules, she had to leave.’

  Sarah had heard similar stories, dysfunctional families weren’t confined to sink estates. ‘Where was her father in all this?’

  ‘Thomas left when Karen was fourteen.’ Head down, she started shredding the tissue. ‘It was around then she—’ A door opened, interrupting what was hardly a flow.

  Cath stepped in, shucking on a coat. ‘I’ve done the bedrooms, Mrs Lowe. Finished the ironing. If there’s nothing else?’

  ‘No that’s fine, Cath. Your money’s on the side in the kitchen. Thanks.’

  Tight-lipped, Sarah hid a growing impatience. ‘You were saying it was around then Karen started . . . what?’

  ‘Going off the rails, isn’t that the expression, inspector?’ Another brittle laugh.

  ‘When did she move out?’

  She turned her mouth down. ‘A year ago? No, two.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I imagine she went to live with friends.’

  Imagine? ‘Does Karen still see her father?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Thomas lives up north somewhere.’ She slipped her feet into gold satin ballet pumps. ‘I’ll have that coffee after all. Would you like something?’

  I’d like you to answer the sodding questions. Was the woman being deliberately evasive? Keen to put some distance, some thinking space between them?

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ Sarah said. ‘We’ll give you a hand.’

  Her mouth tightened but she gave a brisk nod of assent. Standing, she was almost as tall as Sarah but stick thin. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess.’

  The kitchen was spotless, stainless steel sinks exactly that. Shining appliances looked brand new, pristine fittings as if they’d just been installed. Sarah sniffed. Mess was a relative thing then. She watched as the woman ground beans, poured water and came out with a stream of banal small talk. She let the woman twitter on, fascinated not by the facile tosh but by the fact that every fifteen seconds or so, Mrs Lowe’s head jerked, one bony shoulder shrugged. The movements were minuscule but appeared compulsive. She seemed oblivious, inured to what had maybe started as a nervous tic? Now it was as if her body provided punctuation to the conversation. The best place to buy coffee – jerk shrug. The price of beans – jerk shrug. Harries had clocked it too. He glanced at Sarah, quickly looked away. They both found it hard to take their gaze off the woman.

  She’d removed obviously clean mugs from the dishwasher, rinsed them under the hot tap and placed them on a draining rack. Now moving to a drawer, she took out a neatly folded tea towel and dried the crockery. Harries looked to be making notes, God knows what about. Using the same cloth to wipe the rack and draining board, Mrs Lowe then held it out in front of her, smiling. She might have forgotten the police were there, she was certainly oblivious to the dubious fascination fixed on their faces. Sarah doubted the woman was admiring the cutesy cat and kittens depicted on the tea cloth. All around the border in bright scarlet lettering were the words, I Love Mum. She gave another jerk shrug then bundled the cloth into the washing machine.

  Sarah pulled out a stool and sat down. OK, they’d cut her enough slack. ‘Karen’s father, Mrs Lowe? Where exactly up north is he?’

  The question clearly irritated her. ‘Manchester, I believe.’ More questioning while she poured and handed them coffee elicited that Thomas Lowe was a business consultant. Though separated they weren’t divorced and he still paid her a substantial amount of money each month. Sarah made a mental note to put out feelers with Manchester cops. ‘Obviously I want to help, inspector, but does this have anything to do with Evie?’

  It was the first time she’d mentioned the baby by name. ‘Maybe nothing. But the more background we discover, the more ideas it may give us.’

  ‘What progress have you made?’ Jerk shrug.

  ‘We’re working on a number of lines of inquiry.’

  ‘So none then?’

  ‘What was your reaction when Karen told you she was pregnant?’

  She perched on another stool. ‘I’d so hoped it would bring us together. I said she could move back in, but she wasn’t interested. I haven’t even seen the baby. It’s so sad.’ Not set eyes on Evie? Poor bloody woman.

  Sarah held fire a minute or so while the woman composed herself. ‘Is Karen your only child, Mrs Lowe?’

  Jerk shrug. ‘Yes. We wanted more. I lost several. We were told not to try again.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was genuine sympathy in Sarah’s voice.

  ‘Yes. Well . . . we had Karen.’

  Sarah wondered if her judgement had been premature as well as harsh. Deborah Lowe appeared to have erected a shiny façade round a lonely existence. Superficially it was as stainless as her sinks. But it was fragile, as intangible as the air freshener.

  ‘Just a few points before we go, Mrs Lowe. Do you know who Evie’s father is?’ It had to be put but she knew what the answer would be.

  ‘You have to be joking. As if she’d tell me.’

  ‘So you’re not aware of any boyfriends?’

  ‘Inspector. We barely talk.’

  ‘Are you aware of anyone who’d want to harm Karen?’

  ‘Harm Karen? Why ever would anyone want to do that? I thought you were hunting some sort of paedophile, some monster who snatched Evie off the street?’

  She seemed shocked, definitely taken aback. Sarah trotted out the same old keeping an open mind spiel then handed Mrs Lowe her card. ‘If you think of anything that might help, anything at all, give me a call. Any time night or day.’

  It was as she was showing them out that Mrs Lowe mentioned a name. She was bending down to pick up a loose thread from the tiles. ‘Karen would have been better off sticking to Michael.’

  Sarah and Harries exchanged the latest in a series of bemused glances. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Who the hell’s Michael?

  ‘He’s a nice boy. They met at school, went out for ages. He was a year or two older. Didn’t Karen mention him?’

  ‘No, Mrs Lowe.’ Gritted teeth. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t suppose it’s important then.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Was she for real?’ Harries checked the driving mirror as they pulled away from the kerb. The forlorn figure of Deborah Lowe stood in the doorway waggling half-hearted fingers.

  ‘She’s certainly sad.’ Sarah tapped a postcode into the Sat Nav – Michael Slater’s: the boyfriend erstwhile or otherwise that Karen had failed to mention. Mrs Lowe had eventually recalled his street address in Edgbaston.

  ‘Mad more like,’ he muttered.

  ‘Probably just inadequate.’ They’d drop by on the way back to HQ. There was an off-chance Slater would be at home.

  ‘Is that another word for nutter?’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’ She cut a glance at his profile. ‘She’s lost her husband, good as lost her daughter.’

  ‘Drove them clean away more like. Did you see what she did with those mugs?’

  She ignored the ridicule, began to enjoy the banter. Exchanging ideas after an interview was essential and Harries certainly wasn’t holding back. ‘I don’t suppose it was always like that,’ Sarah said. ‘She probably started married life as a happy housewife with a loving husband, expecting a house full of kids, a couple of Labradors and they’d all live happily after.’ Sensing his glance on her, she wondered if he’d take the bait.

  Slight pause, then: ‘If I wasn’t a lowly DC and a bloke, I’d say that was well sexist.’

  She masked a smile. ‘Yeah, but we’re all different. If I was stuck at home with a Henry and a pack of J-cloths, I’d go up the wall.’ She was scrolling through phone messages, checking nothing urgent had come in.

  ‘Cleaning it, no doubt.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s still enough f
or some women: looking after a house, bringing up a family, making a marriage work.’

  ‘And you reckon that’s what Deborah Lowe wanted?’

  ‘Most likely.’ She sniffed. ‘And look what she ended up with.’

  ‘She got the house.’

  ‘You’re all heart, aren’t you, Harries?’ They were on the Hagley Road, she was keeping an eye out for a shop that sold sandwiches, water, anything to staunch hunger pangs.

  ‘Not much heart in evidence back there.’

  ‘Mmm.’ But she knew what he meant. The place had been more clinical than clean, sterile as much as stainless.

  ‘The cushions looked like they’d bite if anyone sat on them. And where were the books? The pictures, the photographs? There wasn’t a single snap in there. Not even of her only grandchild.’ He was certainly warming to the theme. ‘And I don’t know about you, I couldn’t take her seriously. All that twitching round? She was like a penguin on speed. And I thought coffee was bad for migraines.’

  Post office, off-licence, betting shop, anything but. ‘Oh, come on. I doubt she realizes she’s doing it half the time.’

  ‘Want to know how often?’

  Quick glance back. ‘You weren’t . . . ?

  ‘On average, every . . .’

  ‘You were.’ She shook her head. So that explained the mystery note taking.

  ‘The only warmth and colour in the house was on that tea towel. I Love You, Mum. How does that work? She said Karen barely talked to her.’

  ‘Karen wouldn’t have given it to her.’ Launderette, fish and chip shop, kebab house.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Bet you a pound to a penny she bought it for herself. That way she could always pretend. But you know what they say? Money can’t buy you love.’

  ‘Good name for a song that.’ His smile faded. ‘Actually, that is what you call sad. Poor bloody woman.’

  ‘Stop!’ The barked order had nothing to with spotting a sandwich bar. ‘Back up. Now.’

  ‘What is it, ma’am?’ Then Harries saw it, too.

  A newspaper billboard. Big and bold in black and white.

  BABY SNATCHER LEAVES NOTE

  Her palms were moist, heart rate up. It had to be a mistake. There’d been no note in with the photographs. Her mobile rang as she reached for the door handle.

  ‘Quinn. What the fuck’s going on? I want you in my office. Now.’

  Back in the car two minutes later, the Birmingham News quivered in Sarah’s hands as she rifled pages searching for the story. Harries peered over her shoulder. ‘So why aren’t they leading with it, boss?’

  ‘Came in too late, perhaps,’ Sarah murmured, still scanning the paper.

  ‘Try stop press.’

  I’d love to, she thought. He was spot on about its positioning. It was just a paragraph. Reading, she pursed her lips, reckoned it would get the full works in the next edition.

  The kidnapper in the Birmingham baby case has made contact with TV journalist, Caroline King. Ms King has confirmed that a note left on her car windscreen early today is from the kidnapper who snatched Evie Lowe in broad daylight from a street in Small Heath three days ago. Ms King refused to divulge the note’s contents. It’s believed she’s now handed the communiqué to West Midlands police.

  ‘I fucking don’t,’ Sarah snapped. There were only eight lines, but she’d read between them. The paper hadn’t led on the story because it hadn’t gleaned enough yet from King. They’d probably picked up the gist from one of her reports, but it was her exclusive, and she hadn’t shared it. With anyone.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Believe she’s handed it over. It’s why she was so keen to speak to me. Not.’ Sarah rubbed her temples. There’d been a mistake all right. But not by the billboard writer. The cock-up was all hers. ‘So keen she didn’t even try my mobile.’

  Harries started the engine. ‘If Baker wants to know what’s going on, we’d best hit the road.’

  She nodded. ‘Tell you what I want to know?’

  ‘No need boss. I do, too.’

  What the hell did the kidnapper say in the note?

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Ask the mother.’ Frowning, Sarah threw Detective Chief Superintendent Baker’s words back at him. On the desk between them lay a copy of the kidnapper’s message. The original and the lock of baby hair were with forensics. Establishing if the hair was Evie’s was a priority. There was an outside chance they were dealing with a hoaxer. Christ, Sarah thought, she wouldn’t put it past King to have planted the bloody thing herself. Either way, she’d been wrong about the reporter handing over the goodies. She’d shown up at the station bearing gifts for the boss. Sarah curled a lip: King probably had Greek blood in her veins.

  ‘Ask the mother what?’ She sounded even more incredulous this time. ‘What’s the kidnapper getting at?’

  ‘You tell me, Quinn. Like you should’ve told me King was sniffing round. If you’d taken her call, this wouldn’t have happened.’ He flapped a hand at the photocopy. ‘It’s privileged information, we’d never have let it get out.’ Its content – all three words – were now known to anyone with a TV or PC, and they’d be splashed all over the print media any time soon. Rubbing hands down his jowls, he muttered, ‘Talk about damage limitation.’ Baker had talked little else since she’d entered his office. That, and slamming stable doors after bolting horses.

  It was one of the reasons Shona Bruce and John Hunt were on standby at the hospital ready to speak to Karen Lowe as soon as they got the green light from a medico. The other was to provide protection for the girl. ‘Ask the mother’ was open to all manner of interpretation. It took only one nutter, some deranged vigilante to see it as a slur, an accusation. Sarah narrowed her eyes, asked herself again if it was possible Karen was culpable in any way? She certainly had some explaining to do. And so did the police: the entire media circus was clamouring for interviews now. The note’s existence wasn’t the only angle they’d picked up from King. Her reports also carried a description of the baby’s photograph received by Sarah that morning. God knew how King had got on to that. God, and whoever on the squad had leaked it. Sarah sighed. There was no place on the team for an informant, there’d have to be an inquiry.

  Baker shoved back the chair, started circling the desk. It was habitual, like a big cat marking its territory. ‘Why didn’t you speak to her? She claims she made repeated attempts to contact you, Quinn. You could’ve nipped this thing in the bud. She came over as pretty amenable to me.’

  Sarah pictured a little finger and Baker wrapped round it. She’d already been over the sequence of events with him, he just wasn’t listening. King had known exactly what she was doing, or not doing. She could’ve phoned Sarah’s mobile, she could have come to the station earlier. The reporter knew that as soon as the police were aware of the development, no way would she be allowed to run the item.

  ‘Well, say something, woman. This is a bloody fiasco.’

  ‘I’m not the only cop on the case,’ she snapped back. ‘She could just as easily—’

  ‘No. But you’re the only one supposed to liaise with the media. Not avoid them like a leper with AIDS.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Even if I’d taken the call, she would’ve found a way round it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He stood in front of her, hands in pockets, so close she caught coffee breath and Eau Savage. ‘But you made it easier for her. And I suspect she knew you would. You don’t exactly hide the antagonism. What is it with you two, Quinn?’

  Folding her hands in her lap, she said, ‘I’ve told you before, nothing.’ Certainly nothing she was prepared to share with Mr Sensitivity Baker.

  ‘And I’ve told you before.’ He pointed a stubby finger. ‘If bad blood between you and that woman jeopardize this case . . .’ He let it hang fire.

  Fire being the operative word, Sarah reckoned.

  ‘We’ll have to speak to her now, Quinn.’ Her and every other hack in town.

  She a
rched an eyebrow. ‘When you say, “we”?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Like I haven’t already tried?’ Several calls had gone straight to King’s voice mail; the news desk at the Mailbox didn’t have a location for her. Yeah right.

  ‘Y’know what they say, Quinn? If at first . . .’

  ‘Baker was probably in a foul mood ’cos of Todd Mellor much as anything you said, boss.’ Even Harries didn’t sound convinced. Gripping the wheel with one hand, he rolled back a shirtsleeve, then repeated the process with the other. His forearms were smooth, lightly-tanned and well-toned. Sarah glanced away, wondered idly if he shaved them. She’d just delivered a not quite blow-by-blow account of her spat with Baker, but her DC was certainly up to speed on its highlights. They were en route to Michael Slater’s place in Edgbaston, the earlier visit to Karen Lowe’s only known boyfriend having been aborted. The press could wait a while, Sarah had scheduled a news conference for later in the day. Can’t wait.

  The roads were chocker with Saturday shopper traffic, the air heavy with fumes and boy was it baking. Or maybe she was still steamed up. The conversation with Harries wasn’t taking a junior officer into her confidence. No way was that a habit to get into. She wanted another opinion on how she’d handled King. Not that she’d admit it but she felt faint stirrings of unease as to whether she’d taken the right tack.

  ‘Don’t you think, boss? It’d be Mellor bugging Baker?’

  She thought Harries was avoiding the question. Pressing an ice cold bottle of water to her forehead, she said, ‘I’m sure Mellor going AWOL didn’t help.’ Harries had dropped by the incident room to pick up the latest while waiting for her to emerge from Baker’s den. Apparently, the flat in Aston had been deserted, neighbours hadn’t seen the guy for days though that was nothing new. Soon as a warrant was issued, a search team would take the place apart. Every cop in the UK was now on the lookout for Mellor and his pic had also been circulated to ports and airports.

  ‘Isn’t Baker’s bark meant to be worse than his bite?’

  His bark had been pretty toxic, Sarah recalled. And she was sure now that Harries was maintaining a diplomatic silence on the King question. That was the third time he’d skirted the issue.