A Question of Despair (5 page)

‘Who is this?' She knew, of course. Was playing for time already lost.

‘I haven't woken you, have I?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' She tried not to snap. The effort failed.

‘I have, haven't I?' Caroline King didn't even attempt to hide the amusement in her snide tone.

Sarah took a deep breath, aimed at calming her rising fury. How the hell did the reporter get her number? More important, what was she talking about?

‘You haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, have you?' The voice had a harsh edge now, contempt there, too. ‘I thought you were
supposed
to be one of the senior officers on the abduction inquiry?'

Sarah shook her head hoping it would clear any lingering fog. There'd obviously been a development in the case and as deputy SIO she should have been informed. She'd be damned if she'd admit her ignorance to King.

‘I'm making no comment now. Obviously, I'll issue a press statement later.'

‘Better hope it won't be too late, eh
inspector
?' King hung up, leaving Sarah no opportunity to offer an explanation that even if she had, she wouldn't have given.

‘What the hell's going on?'

The door slammed against the wall as Sarah, hair still damp from the quickest shower she'd ever taken, strode into a near empty incident room. It was fourteen minutes since the unwanted alarm call from King.

‘Morning, inspector.' DC Dean Lavery glanced up from a monitor. ‘I wondered when you'd get in. It doesn't look too good, does it?'

Lavery had unwittingly echoed Caroline King's opening line and – just for a second – Sarah thought he was being insolent.

‘What did you say?' Her voice was quiet, each word chipped from ice.

Lavery raised both hands. ‘Not you, I mean the pushchair, you know?'

Sarah dumped her briefcase on a desk. ‘No. I don't know.' She picked up a sheaf of overnight reports, ran her gaze down the first page. ‘But if you're saying what I think you're saying . . .'

Lavery clearly believed that when on thin ice you stand still. He didn't bat an eyelid. Not even when the door opened aided by the generous backside of DS Paul Wood. ‘Morning, ma'am. Can I get you a coffee?' Wood's podgy fingers were clasped round two steaming mugs, perched precariously on top of one was a bacon sandwich.

‘No. You can't. You can tell me why I wasn't informed about this.' She waved a sheet of A4.

Wood glanced at Lavery whose face gave nothing away.

‘I thought . . .'

‘I don't care what you thought, sergeant. I want you to tell me what you know. I want you to tell me where it was found, when it was found and who found it. And then I want you to tell me why the first I hear of it is when a bloody reporter rings me at home.'

A patchy pink flush was rising up Wood's bull neck. ‘I asked someone to call you while I organized forensics and a lift for the kids.'

‘Kids?' She raised an eyebrow.

‘The kids who found it.' He ran his fingers through a thatch of dirty blond hair. ‘Shit, ma'am, I'm real sorry.'

Her hand brushed his apologies aside. ‘These kids, sergeant?'

‘Right.' He offloaded the mugs and plate on a desk. ‘A couple of paper boys. They live on the Paradise estate, do their rounds there. Irony is they saw it first yesterday afternoon. Didn't think anything of it. Well, they wouldn't, would they? Y'know what that waste land off Blake Street's like.'

‘No, I don't. But I'll tell you what I think's ironic, and it's not a couple of kids failing to recognize the significance of an abandoned pushchair, a pushchair found in an area we were supposed to have searched. No, the irony's that I find out about it from a journalist.'

‘I can't see how the press knows. We were waiting for you to get back from the mother's place, before releasing it. Didn't want her to hear it on the news first, like.'

Like? No, she didn't. She couldn't believe what he'd said. ‘How does that work when I didn't even know myself?'

Wood glanced at the younger man. ‘Dean?' And passed the buck-shaped baton.

Lavery frowned. ‘I thought you rang her, ages ago.' Meaning Sarah.

‘Fuck's sake, lad. I told you to.'

‘No, sarge . . .'

‘Shut up both of you.' Miscommunication? Right hand unaware of the left? Yes, both and it boiled down to a cock-up. ‘Outside, Dean.' She spoke calmly to the young detective, her gaze fixed on Wood. She liked the big man. They'd worked together a lot. She knew Woodie was one of the blokes who thought she did a decent job. She expected the same from him. Ordinarily he delivered. This time he hadn't.

‘You were the senior officer here. It was up to you to phone me. If that wasn't possible – and I see no reason why – you should have checked it had been done. And then checked again. This is slack, sergeant. And it had better not happen again. Do I make myself clear?'

‘But, ma'am . . .'

‘Do I make myself clear?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘We're now in a situation where a reporter knows the pushchair's been found and the mother's still in the dark.'

‘Want me to . . . ?

She shook her head. ‘I'll go. I take it Jess Parry's there?' Family liaison officer.

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Tell Baker where I'll be, OK?' Sarah picked up the briefcase and was at the door when she paused, frowning. ‘How come everyone was so sure it was Evie's pushchair?'

‘Her sun hat was in it. And the cardi with the pink stripes.'

She nodded, tight-lipped. As she turned her glance took in the sergeant's forgotten breakfast. The coffee would be stone cold. And the bacon fat was congealed like candle wax round the edge of the plate.

SEVEN

S
arah could see at once what Paul Wood meant. The waste ground off Blake Street was used as a communal dump. The scrubby land was littered with detritus: two rusting bikes, a couple of supermarket trolleys, TV with a smashed screen, crushed drink cans lay everywhere. A row of black bin liners – mostly split – threw out a rank stench along with their foul contents. The rain had eased off now, but puddles of dirty water rippled across a surface scarred by potholes.

Two white-suited forensics officers were on the far side crouched around the pushchair, police tape cordoned off the activity. One of the guys raised a gloved hand in greeting. She nodded, but stayed where she was at the edge of the site. It was less than half a mile from Evie's home and not much further from where she was snatched.

One of the uniforms had told Sarah that a row of Victorian two-up-two-downs had stood here until a few months back. It stirred not particularly welcome memories. She'd been born in one not dissimilar in Hackney. The terrace would have housed scores of families over the years. Babies would have been born here, men and women lived here, loved and fought and laughed here. A few would have died here – peaceful deaths in their own bed. Now only ghosts remained.

And her presence wasn't needed. Detectives had already been tasked with house-to-house inquiries, other officers were on standby to conduct a fingertip search of the sodden ground as soon as it was given the forensics all clear. A search of the surrounding area was already under way. It was a large-scale operation, as well as more housing, there were small business premises, lock-up garages, a café, hairdressers. All were within sight of the park – and the canal. Divers had been called in an hour or so back.

Still Sarah lingered, needing to spend time here, to see for herself where the abductor had been. Here among the rubble and rotting rubbish, a man or woman had held Evie. Here, where scraps of wallpaper with faded pink roses still clung to a few jagged bricks, a man or woman had dumped the pushchair and walked away with Karen Lowe's baby. In her mind's eye, she saw a shadowy figure lifting out the child, perhaps hugging the tiny body close, whispering a few soothing words, then . . . what? Where did they go, what did they do?

She tightened the belt on her black trench coat, sank hands deep into the pockets. She wasn't fanciful enough to think the site would give away its secrets. She just wanted to be there, to stand in the same place, to get a feeling of something she couldn't even put into words.

She felt a profound pity. For Evie Lowe, surely. And, perhaps, for the unknown lives of the unseen families whose homes were now reduced to scattered bits of rubble and dust. Is this what it all comes to? Sarah, come on. She shrugged off the maudlin thoughts. Wondered what was the matter with her?

‘Have they found her then, love?' An old woman in a purple mac and plastic rain hat stood at Sarah's shoulder, her narrowed gaze focused on the forensic team, obviously unaware she was talking to a cop.

‘No, not yet.' Sarah wasn't going to enlighten her.

She sniffed loudly. ‘I've told my daughter not to let her kids out a' sight till they catch the bugger. Not that she would. Well, you don't, do you? Asking for trouble, wasn't she, the mother?'

Interest piqued, Sarah turned. ‘Do you know the mother?' The woman's skin was like deeply lined newspaper left in the sun. The jaw movement suggested dentures that didn't fit.

‘Nah. Stands to reason though. What sort of mum . . . ?'

‘I have to go, excuse me.' Even if one of the FSI guys wasn't heading over, she couldn't be doing with ignorant tittle-tattle. Walking to meet him though, she reckoned if the old woman's thoughts were typical, that the viewing public had already made up its mind about Karen Lowe's parenting skills. So much for the news coverage Baker was keen to encourage. And Caroline King happy to slant.

Closer now she recognized the lean good looks of FSI lead manager, Ben Cooper. ‘How's it going, Ben?'

‘Done as much as we can here.' He swept a heavy straw-coloured fringe out of chestnut eyes. ‘Seems clean, but we'll take a closer look back at the lab. Mind the rain won't have helped.' She hid her disappointment but wasn't entirely surprised. ‘I'll give you a bell if anything turns up, inspector.'

‘Appreciate it, thanks.' Head down she made her way back to the car. The heavy downpour overnight would likely have washed away any liftable trace evidence. Assuming any had been left. She had her doubts. Given it was now eighteen hours since the baby had been seen last, the abductor was either in luck or knew enough to leave nothing to chance. Either way, they were still desperate for a lead.

Family liaison officer Jess Parry opened the door at Karen's first-floor flat. Pretty and trim, with sleek chin-length auburn hair, she looked a fair bit younger than mid-forties. Her smile was the first Sarah could recall seeing since the inquiry began.

‘How goes it, inspector. Any . . . ?'

‘Where's Karen?'

‘In the sitting room. Why?' Smile faded, Jess placed a hand on the side of her face; her anxious gaze searched Sarah's.

Voice lowered, she told her they'd found the pushchair and some of Evie's clothes but there was still no sign of the baby. Jess shook her head, folded her arms. ‘God knows what that'll do to Karen.'

‘How is she?'

‘Quiet. She talked about Evie for hours last night. She's saying very little about anything right now. Mind, she must be shattered. I couldn't get her to go to bed, so we sat up most of the night, chatting, drinking tea.'

Typical Jess, Sarah thought. She'd served with the police fifteen years, FLO for eight. She was in a career where cynicism ruled and cutting remarks often mistaken for sharp intellect. Jess had never bought into the culture, but was more than capable of holding her own in the riposte stakes. Sarah envied what she knew of the woman's life away from the job where she must have to work just as hard to keep her marriage happy and three kids content. Unlike a lot of cops, Jess acknowledged people had feelings and fears and was smart enough to tap into them.

‘Do you want me to tell her, inspector?'

‘Thanks, but I'll do it.' She followed Jess into the small hall.

‘Who is it, Jess?' Karen's voice carried through from the sitting room.

Sarah paused, hand on the door. ‘Five minutes. OK, Jess?'

‘You?' Karen glanced up as Sarah entered. ‘That's all I need.'

Sarah bit back a response. From what she could see, the girl needed a shower and a change of clothes, she needed to quit smoking, sharpen her act and drop the slack attitude. Apart from that . . .

‘How're you feeling this morning, Karen?'

‘How'd you think?' Sarah was beginning to think the girl's sulky scowl was a permanent fixture. She let the silence hang for a while expecting Karen to ask if she'd brought any news. It was usually the first thing people wanted to know. A cursory glance took in the rest of the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since her last visit apart from a couple of photo albums lying on the carpet. The stack of baby toys still stood, untouched, against a wall. After an impasse of ten, fifteen seconds the girl's indifference was needling Sarah. Slumped in the chair, Karen studied her hands, chewed an already badly bitten nail. Occasionally her glance darted to a corner where garish pictures flashed across the TV screen. At least the sound had been muted.

‘Karen.' She cleared her throat. ‘I need to tell you something.'

‘No,' she screamed. ‘I don't want to hear.'

She took a step closer. ‘Karen . . .'

The girl recoiled, clearly terrified. ‘You've found her, haven't you? She's dead, isn't she?'

Not indifference then? Defence mechanism? Denial? ‘No, Karen.' Sarah shook her head, spoke gently. ‘We haven't found Evie, yet. We have found the pushchair though.' Karen stared, wide eyed. ‘Some of her clothes were in it. But we're still searching for Evie.' She paused, again waiting for Karen to ask questions: where'd it been found? What clothes were in it? Could she have them back? The lack of interest seemed strange, but was it suspect?