A Question of Despair (26 page)

She held out empty palms. ‘Still working on that, chief.' The Lowe-Slater connection was evident if not complete. But where did Harriet's abduction figure? She'd asked a couple of detectives to establish what, if anything, linked the Slaters and the Kemps.

Baker nodded. ‘And Karen Lowe? She got anything to say for herself?'

Sweet FA at the moment.
‘She's not at home either, chief.'

‘Where've you been? I've been chasing you all day.' Sarah's voice was clipped. Just for a second, she'd been tempted not to answer the phone. Gone eight, she'd been halfway to her office door when it rang. Getting home had been more on her agenda.

‘I'm here now, and all yours.' Caroline King had put in the call. It was known in the trade as back-covering. Bob Grant had viewed the package featuring Karen Lowe and insisted, as the reporter knew he would, that Sarah Quinn be given the right to respond. ‘What can I do you for, inspector?' Her voice oozed jocular mateyness.

‘It's more a case of what I can do
you
for.'

Caroline laughed. ‘That's a joke, right?' Wished she could see the DI's face. Keeping her sweet was crucial.

‘The Kemps. Illegal entry. Impersonating a doctor.' Caroline heard tapping: presumably Quinn's digital accompaniment. ‘Concealed camera. Secret filming.'

‘Hey, back up. They were happy to go on record.'

‘And if they'd told you to get lost? I've no doubt you'd have sneaked a few shots anyway.'

Natch.
‘You can't say that.'

‘I just did.'

‘OK.' She tried keeping the exchange light. ‘So what now? Are the boys in blue coming round with batons and handcuffs?'
Kinky.
Actually that might not be a bad idea. Except the cops hadn't got a case: the legal grounds were too shaky. They both knew that. Caroline reckoned Quinn was kite flying.

‘I'm issuing a warning, Ms King. Be under no illusion. Play another trick like that, and there'll be a formal complaint.'

Ooh, I'm quivering in my Manolos.
‘You got it, inspector.'

‘Where did
you
get it, Ms King?'

‘Uh?' She knew exactly where the cop was coming from.

‘You knew where to find them.'

‘Come on, you gave it away at the news conference. I saw it in your face.'

‘Yeah, sure. Room number. Blood group. Inside leg. Where do you get your information?'

‘I say again, I can't reveal my sources.'

‘Has the piece gone out yet?

‘They're using it tonight, I think.' Caroline glanced at her watch. In one hour forty-five minutes exactly.

‘I'll watch with interest.'

‘While I've got you on, inspector . . .' Wheedling.

Deep sigh. ‘Make it snappy, OK?'

‘Sure. Karen Lowe.' Nice, non-committal. Caroline could almost hear Quinn's eye-roll.

‘Don't tell me you're still banging on about that?'

‘Yeah. As I say it's important.' Particularly when in less than two hours a report containing emotive and damaging criticism of Quinn would be seen by God knew how many millions of viewers. Bob Grant was uneasy; he'd never yet been landed with a law suit. But the editor had only ordered Caroline to contact Sarah, not what words to use.

‘Look, I've told you a million times. I've said all I'm going to say on the subject.'

‘Is that a no comment?'

‘It's a no further comment. Unless . . .'

Thank you and good night.
Caroline cut the connection and punched the air. Soon she'd be in a bar downing a large gin. She'd just had the tonic.

Pensive Sarah replaced the receiver, perched on the edge of her desk, picturing Caroline King. Superficially, the reporter had changed little since their first meeting. On the few recent occasions they'd been face to face, Sarah had clocked the odd white hair nestling in the signature black bob, faint lines edging King's eyes. She ceded, though, the reporter was in good shape and didn't appear to have lost her edge.

For years now the two women had kept their distance, drawn together intermittently by their jobs, the same jobs that had brought them together. Both based in London back then, it was inevitable they'd work some of the same cases. At first they kept the relationship professional: crime fighter and crime writer; came across each other at crime scenes, news conferences, court rooms. They were young and ambitious in jobs where women were often regarded as decorative, dumb or dangerous. Now and then, they'd hook up socially over a drink. The risk was that chat about bloke-ism at work could spill over into details about the job itself.

For some time, Sarah blamed herself as much as Caroline for what happened. She rarely looked back and when she did could only visualize the scene as a series of jerking black and white silhouettes like a silent movie, except for Caroline's scream. The only slow motion sequence was Jack, dying. Jack Keene. Sarah's partner and lover.

‘Shoot, Caro, I'm surprised there's not more bad blood between you.' Chris Cooke lounged in a leather armchair long legs sprawled under the table. The shade of Rioja in his glass matched the colour of the décor.

‘It wasn't all down to me.' Caroline had kept her promise of a post-edit drink or three in the Press Club. It had taken Chris less than a couple of minutes to drop a particularly meaningless ‘no comment' in the sound track. The package had received final approval and first plaudits. The reporter had just given Cooke edited highlights of her history with Sarah Quinn.

‘But it may not have happened if you'd not been there.'

‘It wouldn't have happened if the police had gone straight in instead of pissing around.'

‘Has it never occurred to you they might've been hanging back to get what they needed for a conviction?'

‘Oh, come on. They were hardly going to catch him in the act, were they?'

That, more or less, was exactly what the police had been hoping.

Once stirred, Sarah couldn't let the memories rest. Still perched on the edge of her desk she let the images flood back. Maybe facing it again would lay a ghost or two. The undercover operation had been meticulously planned. Its aim to apprehend a man who'd attacked and mutilated six women in London over a period of six months. The rapist targeted young blondes alone on the streets, the attacks confined to the Brixton area during the early hours. Predictably the press had dubbed him The Butcher of Brixton, the more sensational reports spelt out why. Unsurprisingly, women were terrified to go out. More than a decade ago now, few people would recall details; some police officers would never forget.

The police strategy was to use a decoy, a young detective constable. Sarah. She was to be wired, kept under constant surveillance and like the rest of the squad, armed.

Even now, she was adamant she'd not told Caroline King
when
the plan would be executed. It was enough that she'd mentioned it at all. She wouldn't have said a word except throughout the investigation the reporter had helped the police. It was vital that women were warned of the danger and aware of the risks. Caroline had kept the story alive, not just in the newspapers but on the front pages. She'd told Sarah she saw it as part of her job to help make sure the rapist was captured before adding more victims to a list already too long. It was this commitment on Caroline's part that led to Sarah's indiscretion.

With hindsight Sarah had told herself she should have realized the major part of the reporter's job was to secure a good story. But neither had she known then that Caroline was sleeping with a detective on the team, a detective who filled in the blanks.

No one knew for certain what or who had alerted the rapist. The very scale of Operation Stranger carried an inherent risk. On the night events happened so quickly, Sarah was barely aware a shot had been fired, let alone who it killed. She'd played her part perfectly, drawn the rapist out of the shadows, felt his hot breath on her neck. Then a sudden noise, a scream. She learned later that Caroline King had watched him pull a gun, was convinced Sarah would be shot. The fact he carried firearms was unknown. Prior attacks had borne only the ugly marks of knives and glass.

Jack had been closest, broke cover, drew fire. He'd lost his life, the rapist was serving his in maximum security, Sarah's had been damaged irrevocably. Her career could have been over. The big question at the inquiry was who'd leaked details to the press. Caroline King consistently refused to reveal her source, but swore it wasn't DC Quinn.

Sarah's immediate response had been to resign anyway. She'd revealed the existence of an undercover operation to a reporter. In getting the details, Caroline King had only been doing her job, however despicable. It was only when she was going through Jack's papers that it sank in how despicable. Caroline had been sleeping with Jack. Sarah had lost her lover – months before his death – to Caroline King. Sarah had ripped up her resignation letter, she'd damn well not lose her livelihood as well.

‘You all right, Quinn? Look as if you've seen a ghost.'

She hadn't heard Baker come in. Glancing up, she gave a tired smile. ‘I'm fine, chief. Just thinking.'

‘Glad to hear it.' He tapped his brow. ‘I'm off home. See you in the morning.'

‘Hold on a tick.' She grabbed her briefcase and keys. ‘I'll come down with you.'

‘You sure about this, Quinn?' He held the door, winked as she walked past. ‘People might talk?'

‘Am I bothered?'

FORTY-ONE

T
he boss would go ballistic. Apeshit. Seated at a desk in the incident room, Harries held his head in his hands. He'd just put the phone down on a pissed and seriously pissed off Caroline King. Would she even have mentioned the Karen Lowe report if she hadn't had a drink? He doubted it. The booze had loosened a spiteful tongue. She knew the story was dynamite. And now he knew it too. He saw a green genie lolling against a gin bottle giving him the bird.

Rising, he wandered to the window, checked the car park. Looked as if DI Quinn had already left. Should he call her? Nah. It had to be face-to-face. He ran fingers through already mussed hair. Damn shame he'd rung Caroline, told her he didn't want to see her again. Maybe his calling the shots had provoked her even more. The speculation was academic. In little more than an hour, a bulletin would go out savaging Sarah, damaging her reputation. Talk about hatchet job. He couldn't see a way of stopping the story's transmission, but he had to warn her. At the very least she needed to watch it, hear what was said so she could work out a reply. How to alert her without jeopardizing his job? How to disclose something of which in theory he should know nothing?

He was working on that. Grabbing his jacket he dashed out, weaving a path through imaginary rocks and hard places.

‘You said if anything came up boss?' Harries stood outside Sarah's apartment holding aloft a carrier bag with a tell-tale clink.

‘Two bottles?' She pursed her lips. ‘Are you celebrating?'

‘I wasn't sure which you prefer. Red or white?'

‘What if I said rose?'

‘You could go half and half?' He cocked an eyebrow.

She was smiling but he was still on the doorstep. He knew she was waiting to hear where he was going with this. Much as he'd like it to be otherwise, theirs was a professional relationship that didn't include home visits, especially unannounced arrivals. With the stakes so high, he'd calculated the risk of an icy rebuff worth taking. He hoped any chill would be confined to the Chardonnay.

Her smile seemed warm enough. ‘I know this is a cheek and I shouldn't be here. I just thought . . . you know . . . maybe we could . . . talk over the case? Tell me to get lost . . . if you like.'

‘Get lost.' Her deadpan delivery was drier than the wine.

He looked down, about to apologize, mentally counting the cost of his miscalculation. When he glanced up she was trying not to laugh.

‘You did say, “if I like”.' She opened the door wider. ‘Doesn't mean you have to go, though. Mind, it was worth it for the look on your face.'

‘Did you like the look?' Whoops. Had he crossed another line?

She held his gaze then pointed to the bag. ‘Come through. Let's have a drink.'

His bemused glance took in a kitchen that was messy bordering on chaotic. He masked a smile. The disarray figured, he guessed. The boss was so disciplined at work, she had to let her hair down somewhere. She had her back to him, pouring the wine. Shame her hair was still up. Though he'd never felt the need to imagine the state of the Quinn kitchen, he'd fantasized frequently how its owner might look were she a touch dishevelled.

‘There you go.' She handed him a glass then leaned against the sink.

‘Cheers. This is really good of you, boss.'

‘I'd offer you a bite but my cuisine's more hoot than haute.'

He'd clocked a tin of alphabet spaghetti on one of the work surfaces. ‘What were you going to do with that, eat it or read it?'

‘Open it.'

‘You can't be that hungry?' The wall clock showed 21.50. He couldn't leave it much longer. Then he spotted the TV. He'd thought initially it was a microwave: there was a bread basket on top filled with packs of pasta. ‘I could throw a few things together for you.'

‘Puh-lease. Don't tell me all you need is a stick of celery and a bit of mouldy Stilton and you can knock up lobster thermidor?'

‘Nah.' He turned his mouth down. ‘Can't stand sea food.'

She laughed.