Mother Love (11 page)

Outwardly calm, she ran through the script in her head; the statement written by DI Quinn. Her edginess wasn't down to nerves or stage fright: Elizabeth was furious – make that incandescent. She couldn't get rid of the terrible mental image of Olivia, the thin wire round her neck, the fear in her eyes. How dare another human being do this to her daughter? She hated whoever it was. And until a few hours ago had no idea she was capable of feeling so much hatred.

‘Mrs Kent, are you all right?' DI Quinn leaned across, voice low. ‘Can I get you some water?'

Elizabeth smiled. ‘No. I'm fine. Thank you.' Grateful, too, that she'd been given the choice of seeing the photograph. The DI's warning that she would find it deeply distressing hadn't prepared her for the shock, the sickening gut-churning emotional maelstrom. But knowing the worst was infinitely preferable to being kept in the dark. Olivia didn't have that option. Lowering her head, she bit down hard on her lip. She'd do anything in the world to help her daughter, bring an end to the suffering. That desire was Elizabeth's driving force, fuelling her thoughts and moves. Love had brought her here.

Love and hatred.

Bracing herself, eager to get on, she ran her gaze over the reporters. Most made eye contact, she noticed, offered tentative smiles of encouragement, nods of concern.
Only connect
. She'd heard Caroline say it a million times. A journalist needed empathy as much as the ability to string sentences together. Elizabeth's response had been that E.M. Forster would turn in his grave, but she knew what Caroline meant. The more rapport a journalist displayed, the more an interviewee was likely to reveal.

Pre-warned, Elizabeth intended to keep her distance, not just from the press. She'd already told Caroline she wouldn't go ahead with her suggestion. Maybe that was why she hadn't deigned to put in an appearance. Caroline invariably sulked when things didn't go her way. Elizabeth had always known how to read her. As for Sarah Quinn, her features were a closed book. Strikingly attractive, apparently confident, utterly inscrutable. On one thing Elizabeth was clear: no one had her daughter's interests at heart more than she did.

Including her father. She'd tried calling Philip earlier that day, finally resorted to leaving a guarded message on the answerphone. She assumed he was away on business, as usual. Even so, she'd had to curb her resentment. For the first time since he'd left, Elizabeth would have appreciated his presence beside her now. Instead, DC Harries was holding her hand, figuratively speaking. DI Quinn shuffled papers, cleared her throat. Elizabeth felt her heartbeat increase. She knew the approach the police intended to take, but would the media buy it?

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming.' Unsmiling, Sarah was now on her feet. Desultory chat from the floor petered out, pens were poised, posture sharpened. ‘You've been invited here today because we need your help.' Sipping water from a glass, she let the words sink in, observed reactions. She interpreted glances exchanged among more experienced hacks as ‘nothing new there then'. Ditto from her perspective: their response was knee-jerk.

‘More than that –' she put the glass down – ‘we need your discretion and total cooperation.' No one actually voiced, ‘What's in it for me?'. Both parties understood the relationship was two-way. Raised expectations were about to be dashed. ‘I can't say what's in it for you. Truth is, I can't reveal much at all at this stage.' The pause was longer this time, piquing interest, signposting import. ‘We're dealing with an ongoing major investigation, the abduction of a thirty-two-year-old woman from Birmingham.'

Shoulders slumped, a couple of groans were barely disguised; glances this time were along the waste-of-bloody-time line. Again, predictable reactions: reporters know abduction generally means an embargo. It was the big story no one was allowed to write. They all knew the score, old hands had probably covered the Stephanie Slater kidnap, the Leslie Whittle inquiry. They'd expect days, weeks possibly, of enforced silence during a news blackout. While the case was active they'd get summoned to irregular off-the-record briefings where officers would issue salient facts, float theories. Reporters would record interviews with the main players, assemble background material, shoot location footage. They'd have the story ready to roll, apart from the top line. And until the end of the inquiry and the outcome was known, not one word of it could be used, not one frame aired. Most accepted it with good grace.

‘Well. My cup runneth over.' Bored drawl from the second row. Sarah homed in on the source. Should've seen it coming, really. Sky News crime correspondent, Will Leigh. Known – imaginatively – in police circles as Cocky. Normal height, average weight, unremarkable features framed by light brown hair, Leigh was a lot less fit than his swagger suggested. He muttered an aside to a younger journalist, ‘Call me Mr Lucky.'

‘Perhaps Mr Lucky would like to meet the missing woman's mother?' Sarah held Leigh's gaze. Her hearing was almost as acute as Baker's. Leigh gave a one-shoulder shrug, but broke eye contact first. Addressing everyone, she gestured to her right. ‘I'd like to introduce Mrs Elizabeth Kent. Her daughter, Olivia, disappeared five days ago. We believe she's been abducted and is being held against her will.'

‘What evidence have you got?'

‘Where was she seen last?'

‘Is she in danger?'

‘Has the kidnapper made contact?'

‘Is there a ransom demand?'

Voices were getting louder as questions became more ludicrous. Sighing, Sarah folded her arms. They knew this was going nowhere. Unlike Elizabeth Kent. Sarah heard the woman's chair scrape back and, turning, saw her rise. Damn. She was bailing out. But, no. Elizabeth raised a hand. The plea wasn't necessary. The room fell silent the second she was on her feet. Police sirens wailed outside. She waited until the noise died down.

‘Please. You're talking about my daughter.' Brief pause, deep breath. Everyone focused on her. ‘I know a little about what's happening, but the officers involved know a lot more than they're telling me. They believe that's vital at this stage – and I do, too. I agreed to come here today because DI Quinn assured me that you'll respect reporting restrictions while Olivia's in captivity.' Absolute silence, total stillness. The performance was a show-stopper – except for one heckler.

‘So till the cops give the say-so –' Leigh stowed his pen in a breast pocket – ‘it's a no-no.'

‘Not quite.' Sarah laid a hand on Elizabeth's arm. ‘There are certain facts I want you to use.'

‘But not now. Right?'

‘Wrong. Look, I can't tell you everything, you wouldn't expect me to. But there's information that needs to be in the public domain now.'

Flagging hacks took note and prepared to make a few of their own. Sarah sensed attitudes sharpening. ‘Thing is, it's important I tell you exactly what to say and when to say it.'

‘Thunderbirds are go.' Leigh played to the crowd, dangling lifeless arms.

‘What did you say?' Sarah's voice was chipped ice. The subdued laughter died instantly. Leigh's smirk faded when he saw her face.

‘You're pulling strings.' He shrugged.

Observing coolly, she played a pen through her fingers. Bums shifted on seats, the silence became uneasy, the atmosphere charged. Sarah's knuckles were white. ‘What I'm doing, Mr Leigh, is trying to save Olivia Kent's life.' The cheap plastic cracked under pressure; she dropped the pen on the table. Deadly serious.

‘OK. It was a joke. I'm sorry.' Leigh underlined the apology with a placatory palm.

‘Jokes are funny, Mr Leigh.' Taking her time, she reached for a file, leafed through several sheets of paper, some blank. The delaying tactic paid off rapidly.

‘DI Quinn?' The voice was cultured, attractive. After three or four seconds, she glanced up. Its owner looked pretty suave, too. Well-cut suit, thick dark hair, strong features, white teeth. ‘I'm Tim Summers,
The Independent
.'

‘Mr Summers.' She didn't return the smile.

‘It's clear from what you say this is a highly unusual case. If a life's at risk, sticking to reporting restrictions is a no-brainer.' He glanced at Leigh over his shoulder. ‘I'm more than happy to go along with police requirements.'

‘Thanks.' Still not a smile, but her features softened slightly. ‘In my experience the situation's unique. And for that reason, everything I tell you in the next few minutes has to be off the record, strictly for background. Is that clear to everyone?' Short of taking out an injunction, the police had no legal right to impose a news blackout. There'd be no statements, signed in triplicate, written in blood. The DI had to take their compliance on trust.

‘Olivia Kent is being held against her will. I believe her life is in danger. We know very little about the man who's taken her. What information we do have suggests a highly manipulative, sadistic individual. We think he wants publicity, is keen to see the story in the media. The advice we're getting is that we do nothing – absolutely nothing – to antagonize him.' More input from Baker's tame profiler.

‘I'm asking you to report a few lines – short, straightforward, simple. It's important he knows we're investigating Olivia's disappearance, but it's vital we don't overstep the mark by saying too much, too soon.' And, she thought, pray it wasn't too little, too late.

‘You say you “think” he wants publicity. What if you don't get the balance right?'

She held out empty palms. ‘I don't have the answer to that, Mr Summers.'

‘It's a hell of a risk, isn't it, DI Quinn?'

‘Yes.' No police-speak. The honest answer seemed to shock most of the reporters. Sarah took a sip of now tepid water. ‘But not as big as the one she's facing. I'm hoping to increase the odds in her favour. And I'm asking for your help.' There was no blinding light, no sudden conversion, but Sarah sensed an understanding.

‘What do you want us to do?' Will Leigh voiced what was probably everyone's thinking.

‘We keep to a basic missing person appeal.' Harries' ring-tone went off.
Great timing
. She nodded towards a uniformed officer primed and ready to go at the back: an image of a smiling Olivia replaced the logo on the screen. It was the media's first sight of the victim. After a brief pause, Sarah dictated key facts: West Midlands police were asking the public to help trace a missing thirty-two-year-old teacher from Harborne in Birmingham. Olivia Kent was last seen in Windsor Place, Edgbaston on Saturday. A hotline number had been set up for anyone with information and all calls would be treated in strictest confidence. ‘Please, guys, we need it out there soon as.' Even without the less-than-thrilled expressions, she knew the story wouldn't set the world on fire. They perked up a touch when she told them Mrs Kent would shortly say a few words.

‘As for the pic –' turning to look at the screen – ‘copies are available here or we can email it. I'd ask if you obtain any other images by whatever means—'

‘Boss.' Harries.

She was about to say not now, but saw his face. ‘What?'

He hesitated, before pushing back the chair and passing behind Mrs Kent. It wasn't for broadcast whatever it was.

‘Report's just come in. A house fire in Ladywood.'

‘So?' Get uniform on to it for Christ sake. ‘I'm in the mid—'

‘A woman, boss. Badly burned. Signs are she was tied up and the blaze started deliberately.'

SEVENTEEN

I
t was more years than Caroline King cared to remember since she'd chased stories by tracking fire engines' water trails. Back in the day, finding news rather than having some press officer dish it out on a plate was smart, got her noticed, put her ahead of the pack. Any half-decent junior reporter would do the same. Mind, nowadays, she was more cougar than cub.

Locking the Merc, she allowed herself a small smile, hoisted her bag and headed back to the scene. Despite clocking the water spills and the smell of smoke, she wouldn't have bothered taking a closer look had she not been passing anyway and registered a shedload of police activity for what appeared a minor incident. An air ambulance crew doesn't turn out for a chip-pan fire.

Rounding the corner, carefully recording more detail as she approached, the numbers added up even less. Four fire engines, three police cars, white transit. It was emergency central out there with fire fighters and uniformed officers milling around, a forensic team getting into suits. Yet the three-storey detached property looked to have been boarded up long back: planks were warped, mottled with black moss, upstairs windows smashed or missing, crumbling brickwork daubed with graffiti, street tags. It looked Victorian with a touch of Gothic to Caroline: terracotta tiles, pointed arches, a couple of turrets, dusty weeds sprouting from pitted grouting.

A once-brass name plaque was now dull green. She had to peer to make out the letters: Cameron Towers.
Fawlty more like
. It was probably an old family pile that like others in the area had turned multi-occupancy. Yes. A smashed panel to one side of the door had once held a bunch of bell pushes. The whole street had seen better days, but Cameron Towers had seen the worst. She doubted anyone had lived there for a while. Unless squatters had taken up residence? Rough sleepers looking for a berth? Illegal immigrants hiding from the authorities? The Bill wouldn't be out in force if there wasn't a body. Depending how many, this little detour could pan out to be a winner after all. She needed a steer.

Casting a professional gaze over the men, she licked already glossy red lips. As a TV reporter, it was second nature: lips, camera, action. Off-duty the lens was an optional extra. But hey, she might have to move up a gear. Normally she'd have picked up a basic fact or two then busked it with the main players as she went along, but right now she hadn't a clue what was going on.