A Question of Despair (7 page)

‘I . . . I . . .'

‘What? You, what?' Sarah had to stop herself shouting. ‘Talk to me, Dora?'

‘I . . .' She rolled her head to the side.

Don't stop now for God's sake. ‘Dora. Dora. Can you tell me what happened here?'

‘Back off. Can't you see she's in a bad way?' Trent, the neighbour, had appeared in the hall.

She brushed him away with an impatient hand. ‘Dora, listen, I'm a police—'

‘Leave her alone for pity's sake.'

Sarah glared. ‘Look, Mr Trent. She may have been attacked, she might have vital information . . .'

‘Carry on like that, lass, and if she was attacked you'll finish off what the bugger started.'

She opened her mouth to remonstrate, but held back. Maybe he was right. However Dora Marple had ended up this way, she looked as if she was at death's door. Sarah had no wish to open it.

It was academic anyway: a couple of paramedics in green scrubs had appeared behind Trent. Sarah made a couple more phone calls as they worked. A crime scene team arrived as Dora was being stretchered to the ambulance.

‘So, did she fall or was she pushed?' was Baker's line after Sarah brought him up to speed. It was neither original nor amusing. Perched on the window sill in his office, she rolled her eyes while ceding it was a key point. The bigger question was this: if pushed was it because she'd witnessed Evie's abduction and could supply a description of the abductor?

‘Strikes me as a coincidence too far,' Sarah said.

He turned his mouth down, gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘How would they know where she lives?'

‘Kidnapper could be local as well?' The upward inflection conveyed doubt. Not surprising given the injuries could still be accidental. And they were most likely grasping for straws in the dark. Baker tipped his chair against the wall. The balance looked pretty precarious to Sarah. ‘So,' Baker said, ‘he – or she – knows the old dear saw—'

‘Dora.' Not old dear. ‘Dora Marple.'

‘Yeah, yeah. So they know she saw what was going on and decide to shut her up permanently?'

Sarah swung an impatient leg. ‘Only they didn't.' Which was why she'd ordered a police guard at the hospital.

‘And she could still hold the key?'

‘Assuming she survives.' Sarah had had a word with one of the doctors. Dora was clinging on to life by the frailest thread. She'd lost a lot of blood, suffered two cracked ribs as well as the broken arm. At her age, the shock alone could kill her.

‘I won't hold my breath,' Baker murmured. Christ was he trying to be funny? ‘Anything back from forensics?' The team was still trawling and tooth-combing the house.

She shook her head. ‘Not yet.'

Tipping the chair forward, he sprang to his feet, grabbed his jacket. ‘Bloody good job we've got a prime witness then.' He turned at the door. ‘Come on, Quinn. What you waiting for?'

One day she'd swing for him. Right now she closed her mouth and followed.

A thin man with centre-parted short black hair sat straight-backed, hands clutching bony knees, in an upright chair in Interview Room One. The shiny black suit and thin tie added to the Uriah Heep-stroke-undertaker look. Only the face didn't fit the funereal image, it resembled a strikingly unsuccessful boxer's. Observing through the spy hole, Sarah reckoned the guy's nose had been broken at least twice over the years, it had taken squatter's rights on sunken cheeks and made slanted eyes appear even smaller. Shifty glances at his surroundings were the only discernible movements he made. Not that there was a lot to take in: metal table screwed to tiled floor, shelving unit housing digital recording equipment and a police constable built like the proverbial leaning against the wall, beefy arms folded. The uniform's bulk and heavy brow would probably make an archangel nervous.

‘Who is he and what's he seen?' Sarah asked.

Baker raised an eyebrow. ‘Don't you recognize him?'

Peering through the spy hole again, she took a closer look. Her heart sank. The scarlet dreds had been ditched, he'd lost a bunch of weight but underneath the more conventional exterior, Eddie Flint was just about recognizable. He was better known round the nick as Edward. As in the Confessor, a professional time waster and thorn bush in the police side.

She very nearly stamped a foot. ‘What the hell's he doing here?' Like they hadn't got better things to do than pander to some serial fantasist.

Baker jabbed a thumb towards the door. ‘He's helping with inquiries.'

‘You are joking.' It wasn't a question. Flint wasn't the only target in her firing line. Talk about raised hopes . . .

‘Lighten up, woman.' He shoved a hand in his pocket.

‘Don't talk—'

‘He saw someone with the baby.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Or says he did.' How could they believe a word the guy came out with when he held his hands up to just about every crime that hit the front page? It was pathetic, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

‘He's the closest we've got to a witness, Quinn. Don't knock it yet.'

She took a step nearer. ‘How close?'

‘He's given a description of two people, male, female, both white, early thirties. She takes Evie, he's waiting in a motor round the corner. They drive off towards the Coventry Road.'

‘And that's it?' She paused for more. It didn't arrive.

He peeled himself off the wall. ‘Best find out, hadn't we?'

‘Come on, boss. He gets off on this kind of thing. He'll be making it up. We don't even know he was there when it happened.'

Baker lifted a finger. ‘That we do know.' The hand he took from his pocket now held a small piece of paper. A receipt for a six-pack of Four X, a bottle of Johnnie Walker and five Hamlet cigars. ‘Right place.' The off-licence was across the road from the newsagent's. ‘Right time.'

‘And if he's lying?'

‘He'll need a hell of a lot more than a small cigar to feel happy again.'

‘Is there anything you'd like to add to what you've told us?' Sarah sat across the table from Flint, playing a pen between her fingers. Baker seated at her right, had left most of the questioning to her. After an hour-long session they now had detailed descriptions of the couple he claimed to have seen taking Evie Lowe. As for the car, he'd said he wouldn't know a Daimler from a Daewoo, only that it was dark blue with a National Trust sticker in the back window.

Creasing his eyes, Flint appeared to give the point some thought before shaking his head. ‘No, inspector.' He clasped his hands in his lap. ‘I've given you everything I can.'

Including a splitting headache. Sarah stroked her right temple. Try as she might, she couldn't get a handle on the man. In sombre tones, he'd claimed to have seen the light, turned his life round and was eager to make amends for his shady past. Born again Christian? Or another string to his fantasy bow?

‘So why not give it a little sooner, Mr Flint?' The smile was not warm.

‘If only I'd realized the significance at the time, inspector. It wasn't until I bought the newspaper this morning.' He ran finger and thumb along what could be the start of a moustache. ‘Believe me, it's a stick I'll beat myself with for the rest of my life should anything untoward . . .' The bottom lip quivered, pale green eyes were cast down.

Sarah tapped the pen on the table. How come when someone said ‘believe me', it was the last thing she wanted to do? She classed it in the same school of weasel words as ‘with respect'. Either way, given the information Flint had supplied, she and Baker would have to take a decision pretty soon on whether it was worth getting a police artist in to work on a visual that could be released to the media. The drawback being, if Flint was making this stuff up as he went along, any duff information could hamper the inquiry if not steer it in completely the wrong direction. Sarah stifled a sigh. With so little else in the evidence basket, could they afford not to take the risk?

She jumped when Baker's chair rasped against the tiles. ‘OK Mr Flint, you sit tight. DI Quinn will get someone to rustle up some refreshment for you then we'll see about getting an e-fit together.'

So much for consultation. Sarah pursed her lips. As for rustling up refreshment, boy was he in risk-taking mode.

TEN

‘
W
here are you?' Sarah with mobile in a neck-lock was talking to DC David Harries. The manoeuvre enabled her to juggle printouts, a roast pepper and feta wrap, bottled water and simultaneously close the office door with her backside. Multitasking they called it.

‘Small Heath park. Talking to parents.' It figured given the noises off, primarily what sounded like the tinny tuneless blare from an ice cream van. She offloaded the late lunch on her desk, sank back in the chair and slipped off her shoes. ‘A few of us are here,' he said. ‘Chasing up the suss per?' Police speak for suspicious person. God knew why when the full version was easier to say.

‘Can you get away any time soon?' She ran a nail under the cellophane to open the wrap.

‘Sure. Why?'

‘I need someone to drive by Karen Lowe's place, bring her in for a news conference. Half three kick-off. How are you fixed?' Not just anyone. Harries with his boyish charm and empathy might succeed where Sarah had so far signally failed: persuading Karen Lowe to open up, drop her guard. She'd also seen potential in him as a detective and thought it time it was tapped. Truth to tell, John Hunt was turning into a plodder. She sensed the older man's disapproval at times and in this case she wanted to work closely with someone who'd be fully on side.

‘No problem, boss. Want me to try and get her to talk?'

‘No, I want you to take her to salsa classes.' She injected a smile in her voice. Humour wasn't her strong point. He probably thought she was having a go. ‘Course I do, David. Good thinking.'
What else would I want you to do?

‘What a relief. Two left feet me, boss.'

‘Later.' Smile broadening, she placed the phone on the desk. Yes. She'd definitely made the right call.

By three-twenty, doubts began stirring in Sarah's mind. Her misgivings weren't centred on David Harries. The young DC freely admitted the initial contact with Karen Lowe hadn't elicited anything earth-shattering, but their conversation had at least been two-way. He felt it worth pursuing. That was fine by Sarah. No aggrandizing bullshit, just a fair take on the encounter. No. Her uncertainty was on the wisdom of serving up Karen Lowe even to a fettered press pack.

Gazing down from her office on to the station car park she was, to coin a paraphrase, counting them all in. Not war planes but a convoy of media vehicles: TV vans, radio cars, hacks' motors. Her calculations didn't include those journalists who'd arrived early to bag a decent seat and whose banter was loud enough even now to carry from the conference room along the corridor.

Sarah, accustomed to dealing with the media, was aware her palms were moist and heart rate slightly raised. What chance the naïve and gauche Karen Lowe? The girl wouldn't have a clue what was about to hit her. Sarah grimaced.
And Caroline King hasn't even arrived yet.
Turning away from the window, she aimed for a smile and affected a confident tone. ‘OK, Karen? Are you good to go?'

A sheet of A4 paper shook in the girl's hands as she glanced up from her lines, a carefully scripted appeal produced by Sarah over her working lunch. ‘I guess.' She looked calm, almost too calm. Sarah wondered if the girl was on medication. She'd certainly made an effort, washed the hair, applied make-up, swapped the skimpy sun dress for a pink shift. Deliberately going for demure? The girl was cannier than she looked. Tucking a couple of files under her elbow, she steered Karen towards the door, and hoped hostilities weren't about to commence.

One friendly face was guaranteed – Jess Parry was already in situ. Sarah acknowledged the family liaison officer's fleeting smile with a brisk nod as she led Karen to the business end of the room where sunlight streamed through open windows. A press officer whose name she could never remember was there shuffling papers, and a uniformed officer with a jug edged along the table pouring water into a line-up of glasses. Sarah frowned. So where was Harries? She'd told him to be here to hold Karen's other metaphorical hand, press whatever advantage he'd forged earlier.

The buzz faded and slack posture sharpened when hacks spotted the main players entering. It wasn't far off pin-drop silence by the time they reached their seats. Jess patted one next to her for Karen. Sarah sipped water as she cast a glance over the pack. Its focus was exclusively on the young mother. Unsurprising given this was the first time they had her in their sights. Not that they could see much, Karen's head was bowed, the long mousy hair virtually covered her face.

Still sipping water, Sarah took a rough headcount while they reeled off a few shots unleashing a chorus of clicking shutters. She reckoned there were sixty odd here: the major TV channels, half a dozen radio stations, thirty-plus print journalists. She couldn't recall a bigger turnout for a crime story in the city. Make the most of it, she thought. In a few days they'll move on, set up camp in some other sucker's soul.

Harries came in through a side door, mouthed a sorry, sidled in next to the press officer. Sarah tapped the glass on the table and cleared her throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.' She knew if Baker were holding the conference, he'd add: ‘I use the term loosely' then flash what he thought was a winning smile, the DCS never failed but pandering to the press wasn't her style. She ran through introductions, then: ‘The sooner we start the quicker we can get on with why we're here.' No reminder was needed: the missing baby's photograph provided a telling backdrop. Karen's head and shoulders partially obscured the image, but not the sparkle in Evie's eyes.