Mother Love (12 page)

A lone male was often the best bet but she was out of luck. She headed for a couple of men in suits, off the peg: plain-clothes cops.

‘Excuse me, miss, you can't go through there.' Officer Dibble junior.

‘Surveyor's department.' She flashed a thin smile along with mock ID. The card was from a well-thumbed pack, with the accent on mock. Tonight, Matthew, I am . . . health and safety inspector, insurance assessor, social worker, solicitor, whichever was likeliest to do the trick. Brisk, professional, act as if you mean it and being told to back off isn't an option. It didn't always work, but nothing ventured . . . Sashaying towards the suits, she capitalized on the overtly admiring looks. The broad smile was warm and genuine, eye contact prolonged. ‘Hello.' She smoothed unruffled hair. ‘I so hope you can help.' Sounding a touch girly went against the grain, as did the disingenuous frown.

‘Y'know what they say, miss.' The tall, lanky one: Bill. ‘If you want to know the time, ask a policeman.'

‘You're police officers?' As if she saw them as merchant bankers. ‘You don't look it.'

Bill winked at Ben. ‘It's since we stopped wearing the flashing blue lights.'

Wankers not bankers
. She laughed. Bad move: Bill clearly thought he was wit on a stick. ‘Yeah, well we don't all ponce round in flash motors, listening to Bowie and knocking seven shades of you know what out of the bad guys.'

Strained laughter. ‘I'm sure you don't, Officer. Is that what people think?' Like she could care less.

‘They see it on the telly, don't they? Read it in the press. All that mind-how-you-go bollocks.' The curled lip revealed a chipped incisor and his attitude to the media.

‘Tell me about it.' She was paid to think on her feet. ‘Honest to God, I dread telling anyone I'm a reporter.' The flowerpot men looked as if Little Weed had been pulled up by the roots. Caroline ploughed on regardless. ‘Sometimes I feel I'm the only decent apple left in the barrel.' It was a tactic she'd used before. It wasn't risk free. But at least they hadn't told her to naff off. Trouble was they hadn't told her anything. She saw it as a challenge, a little test of her persuasive powers. How much more bullshit would she have to come out with before she got what she wanted? And if they didn't play ball, so what?

Small fire in Birmingham. Not many dead.

EIGHTEEN

‘
B
ear with me. I'll bring you up to speed on the way.' Camel coat flapping, Sarah strode across police HQ's car park. Scanning vehicles, she spotted Harries at the wheel of the Vauxhall, engine already running.

Elizabeth Kent struggled to keep pace. ‘On the way where?'

‘The QE.' Queen Elizabeth: the city's new acute hospital and specialist burns unit. ‘A woman's been admitted.'

‘And you think it's Olivia?'

It was the only reason Sarah had opted to take Mrs Kent along. It certainly wasn't a joyride. The DI watched in the mirror as the woman in the back fumbled to click home the belt. They were in second gear before she had success.

‘There's no confirmation yet, Mrs Kent, but we think so.' There was no question. The DI had grabbed a few words on the phone with the fire chief out there. Birmingham wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with naked women left tethered and beaten up in basements.

‘Is she . . . is she . . . badly hurt?' The tone was firm but delivery tentative.

Sarah regretted the earlier offer to talk. She didn't know a lot, and what information she did have, had no urge to share. Turning to make eye contact, she said, ‘We'll know more when we get there, Mrs Kent. But she was found injured at the scene of a house fire.'

Her frown deepened but she said nothing, started shredding a tissue in her lap. Maybe she didn't want to hear more. No news is good news?

Harries clipped a kerb cornering. ‘Sorry, boss.' For once she didn't snipe at his Stig impression. He knew as well as her that journey time was vital. Latest reports suggested the victim's injuries were life-threatening. According to the fire chief – Bob Hancock – if not for the anonymous phone call, she'd almost certainly have died at the location. Details were sketchy and squad members were chasing, but Sarah's priority was getting to the hospital.

She tapped twitchy fingers on thigh. Light drizzle was falling, stop-start traffic was heavy, the school run in reverse well underway. ‘Put the blue on, David.'

Precious minutes had already been spent wrapping the news conference without letting hacks get wind of what was happening. She'd curtailed it briskly with a request they hold off for twenty-four hours before reporting the abduction appeal. By then, it might not need reporting at all. By then, it might be a completely different story.

Flashing headlights, beeping horns as vehicles parted or pulled over to let the Vauxhall through. Sarah grimaced at the glimpse of a fox's mangled body in the gutter. Roadkill. Baker would have told it to use the pelican. The chief had been briefed and taken an early out from the partnership meeting; Sparkbrook wasn't a million miles from the crime scene.

Sarah checked her BlackBerry. Nothing. In-car was silent, too. Not even the customary soundtrack of staccato barks or static on police radio. Paul Wood was under orders to phone direct if anything moved. Should the worst happen, Elizabeth Kent wouldn't learn via the airwaves.

The DI glanced in the wing mirror, clocked Olivia's mother gazing blankly through her window. Whatever she was seeing, Sarah would bet good money it wasn't out there. And who needed Christmas decorations this early? Lamp posts festooned with coloured lights, blow-up Santas clinging to drainpipes, shunting up shop fronts. God rest ye . . . Sarah grimaced. If Brad Pitt didn't make her an offer she couldn't refuse, she'd be spending it with a turkey dinner from Iceland. Perish the thought and focus for Christ's sake. Sliding back a sleeve, she glanced at her watch: 16.15.

‘There in five, boss.'

She nodded, knew that. Shame she wasn't privy to a lot more. The arson attack had raised a stack load of questions, but the biggest was this: would the woman who knew the answers stick around long enough to reveal them?

Caroline King was a happy bunny. Ish. Sauntering back to the Merc, she lit a cigarette, working out which news desks to call. Bill and Ben had filled in several gaps. Initially they'd only revealed – off-the-record-more-than-our job's-worth, natch – that a
female person
had suffered
significant
burns, that circumstances were
suspicious
; that the fire's origin was
dubious
.

Blah-yada-blah. She couldn't be doing with police-speak. You didn't have to wear a deerstalker and smoke a Meerschaum to detect the incident wasn't routine. The poor bloody woman hadn't been toasting teacakes in there.

She'd needed more than that. Fortuitously, Caroline had a Masters in crap-cutting; the hapless duo hadn't had a clue what hit them. She blew smoke through a smile. She doubted they had a clue full stop.

To get them talking, she'd majored on body language: open face-to-face posture, fascinated gaze, intense focus, a casual stroke of the hair here, pensive pout there. Arse-licking it was known in the trade. One of them had looked particularly taken. They'd certainly added a little flesh to the bone: meatier phrases like bound and gagged, badly beaten, arson not ruled out. She could see the
Star's
headline now:
Tethered
,
tortured
,
torched
.

She took a final drag, flicked the butt in the gutter – after this morning the motor's interior already stank of fags. Fun over, she reckoned the story was small beer for her, nothing in it but a few tip-off fees. With a name, she might've been able to hike the price but there was no ID as yet. She took her phone out before slinging the bag on the passenger seat. Her lip curved as she tapped a key. Dougie at
The Sun
was on fast dial, and always up for a bit of bondage.

The rap on the glass startled her. Scowling, she swivelled her head, ready to snap. It was the tall, gangly, gormless one. Bill – aka Kevin – was hunkered down, slip of paper clutched in fingers. Going by the look on his pimply face, his numbers had come up, all six.

Bored with the game now, she lowered the window, forced a smile. ‘Hi again.'

‘I've got it.'

Small pox? Brain damage? Clearly, he wanted prompting. ‘Oh?'

‘The name. It's just come through. They found her handbag in there. Still want it?'

Easy either way, she wouldn't be filing copy. Still, show willing and all that. ‘That's great. Thank you so much.'

He snatched it out of reach. ‘What's it worth?'

She almost laughed in his face. Was Birmingham's answer to
Deep Throat
on the make? She affected mock horror, fake offence. ‘I never pay for information. I told you, I don't operate that way.' Rich coming from a reporter who whipped out a cheque book as often as her notebook. The young cop dithered while she rapidly ran an appraisal. Her last police informant at Lloyd House had got the boot. As in, Quinn's royal order of . . . Was Kev a potential replacement?

‘I . . . er . . . don't want cash. I wondered if . . . you'd like to . . .'

‘What?' As if she didn't know.

‘A drink? Dinner maybe?'

Kev hadn't got the first line of a prayer. She'd rather eat sick. ‘That's awfully sweet of you, but I think not.'

‘Go on.' He flashed a lewd grin. ‘You could take down my particulars.' The guy was clearly deranged.

‘What exactly are you suggesting, Officer?' Stone-face, stiletto-tongue.

He fazed easily. ‘I just thought we might . . .?'

‘Do I look like some sort of casual pick-up?'

‘No. Of course not.' He probably had visions of a sexual harassment case. Very non-PC.

‘I'm a widow with a young child to support and I work bloody hard trying to do a good job.' Convincing? She almost believed it herself.

He ran a hand through hair that put her in mind of marmalade: thin cut. ‘I'm sorry, Miss King. I didn't mean anything.'

‘They all say that. If you had any idea how difficult . . .' She lowered her head, there was a catch in the voice.

‘Look, here you go. Hope it helps.'

Shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, she watched him lope off. Talk about candy from a baby. As for trainee mole – the jury was out. She was still smiling when she looked down at the paper he'd forced into her hand. The smile froze in an instant.

NINETEEN

F
ace composed, thoughts troubled, Sarah stared at the woman in the bed. The first time she'd seen Olivia Kent in the flesh; circumstances could be a lot happier. Unconscious and heavily sedated, Olivia wasn't in pain. The burns confined to the arms, lower limbs, weren't as first thought life-threatening. Even so, there was no guarantee she'd pull through. Smoke inhalation was the medico's major concern. SI, Sarah knew, was the big killer in fires, claiming up to eighty per cent of fatalities. Symptoms don't necessarily show upfront; the next twenty-four/thirty-six hours were crucial.

‘I'd like to know what's going on in there, Sarah.' The registrar tilted his head at the patient. Five foot ten with a Boris Johnson thatch, Pete Lovell was pushing late-forties but had one of those boyish faces that appeal to a lot of women – brought out the maternal instinct, or something.

‘You and me both.' Was Olivia replaying scenes from her captivity? A jerky silent movie with the baddie centre stage? God, Sarah wished she was a fly on the mental wall.

Lovell walked to the end of the bed, flicked through Olivia's notes. A line up of pens in his breast pocket had developed a leak, the blue cotton blobbed with ink – had to be red, didn't it? Sarah was already acquainted with the guy: cops and docs, it went with the territory, especially Accident and Emergency after chucking-out time on a Friday or Saturday night. Normally circumspect if not taciturn, Lovell had waxed medical walking her from A&E to the high dependency unit to see Olivia. She'd only half listened while he rabbited on about CO levels, HBO therapy, high frequency percussive ventilation; alluded to tissue hypoxia, pulmonary oedema, cyanosis, metabolic acidosis. Maybe she'd Google it all later.

More pressing now, observing Olivia, was would she make it? How much carbon monoxide and other crap had she taken in and would respiratory failure kill her – or cardiac arrest get there first?

‘What are her chances, Pete?'

Mouth down, he waggled a hand. ‘Mind, she has youth on her side. And the paramedics got there quick.' And administered oxygen during the airlift.

That was another unanswered question: who put in the triple-nine? Without the tip-off, Sarah wouldn't be here discussing survival odds. Nor would a police guard be outside the door, the only way into the windowless side ward. The small space was cheerless, too, to Sarah's way of thinking. Walls, floor, fittings either white or pale greys, like an overexposed print.
Get real
,
woman
. Like décor matters at death's door.

She glanced at the tube keeping Olivia's airwaves open, oxygenating her blood; the bilateral IV lines counteracting fluid loss; the bank of machines monitoring toxic levels, vital signs. At least she was in safe hands now. As Lovell had said, all they could do was watch and wait. Pray if you're that way inclined.

Sarah sighed; gently stroked a tendril of hair from Olivia's forehead. Her pale face showed none of the trauma she'd endured. Strip away the tubes and wires and she could be auditioning for
Sleeping Beauty
, from the chin up. From what Sarah had heard, the thin sheet concealed hideous injuries, a multitude of sins, most not inflicted by fire.

‘How can people do this, Sarah?' Shaking his head slowly, Lovell crossed his arms. Something in his voice made her glance up. She'd seen him tired, but rarely emotional. Like her he dealt a lot with victims of violence, was accustomed, though clearly not inured, to the sight of broken, bleeding bodies. Maybe the severity of the abuse was getting to him. It wasn't Sarah's only spur.