Mother Love (20 page)

‘Heat of the kitchen and all that?' King narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you do it?'

Head cocked. ‘You mean a nice girl like me?'

‘Nice?' She twitched her lips. ‘I wouldn't go that far.' Old habits. But the barb was clearly meant as a joke.

‘Honest answer?' Raised eyebrows. ‘I love the work. Love putting the bad guys away. Sure, there are rough days, shit tasks. But mostly, what cops do makes a difference.'

‘Protect and serve, eh?'

‘Are you taking the piss?'

‘Woh there.' She raised a palm. ‘Chill. I actually think a lot of the time you guys get a bad press.'

Thank God she didn't have a mouth full of wine. ‘That is so rich – did you borrow it from Croesus?'

‘Please yourself.' She shrugged. ‘I'm a journalist but I don't take gratuitous pops at the police or anyone else, come to that. When I have a go, there's always a bloody good reason.'

‘A fair cop?' she sneered.
Yeah
,
right
. ‘Beg to differ, shall we?'

She should've known the thaw in relations was never going to last. But for a couple of minutes back then they'd been chatting almost like old mates, as they had been before the Jack fiasco. She cut King a covert glance; saw a leopard and spots.

The distant stares and hostile hush continued as a pony-tailed multi-tattooed waiter hove into view bearing a laden tray. ‘Here we go, ladies.' He slid plates on to table. ‘Enjoy.'

Both must have mutely decided that talking with a mouth full was rude. Sarah cast envious glances as King tucked into ale and beef pie with thick cut chips. The DI's ravioli looked pale and uninteresting; tasted pretty bland, too. She was still picking at it with a desultory fork when King went to the bar, came back with more drinks and wordlessly placed them on the table. Sarah regarded it as power play, a puerile bid to force her to talk first. Someone had to stop acting like a kid. She opened her mouth to speak.

‘I was out of order.' King raised her glass. ‘Sorry.'

Had she just been wrong-footed again? ‘Ditto.' Sarah forced a smile, pushed the plates to one side. ‘So. How Olivia's doing?'

‘Good, she . . .'
What? Why the pause?
‘. . . seems to be doing well. The doctors are pleased.'

‘I'm glad to hear that.' Sarah smiled. ‘You've known her for ages. Tell me about her.' The DI sat back sipped the wine. The vague open question had the desired effect. Caroline's dark almost black eyes sparkled as she painted a word picture of Olivia Kent, related a few anecdotes. The reporter's affection shone through and the close relationship appeared beyond question. Livvie could do no wrong in Caroline's eyes. Sarah let a lot of what the reporter said wash over her: the aim was to get her to talk freely, drop her guard.

‘What about boyfriends? Has she been seeing anyone recently?' None of Olivia's circle of friends had given them a steer.

Grimacing, she sucked a slice of lemon, then: ‘Livvie has dates, of course, but since Jack there's been no one special.' The name was dropped as though already in the police hat.

Memories stirred again; it was a common enough name. ‘Jack?' she asked casually.

‘Jack Howe.' Slight frown. ‘Surely Elizabeth mentioned him?'

‘Blonde moment, sorry.' She gave a fleeting smile. ‘What's your take on the guy?'

‘Charm school graduate. Successful career in advertising. A real looker. Template TDH.' Tall, dark and handsome. ‘Sculpted features, toothpaste ad teeth. A real Mr Smoothie – if you like that kind of thing.' The grimace returned – minus the lemon.

‘You don't?'

‘She worshipped him. He broke her heart. Go figure.' She hadn't finished. Nor was she warming to the theme. ‘Talk about falling for a guy? Howe swanned in, swept her off her feet, dragged her back to New York, then traded her in for a younger model. Literally. Some catwalk chick he met on a photo shoot. Liv was in a right state.'

Was there a touch of the green eye going on here? ‘Remind me, when was this?'

‘She's been back a couple of years now. And she was with him for, what, eighteen months? It took ages for her even to start getting over it.'

‘He's still there, isn't he?'

‘Far as I know.'

‘And there's been no contact since?'

She snorted. ‘I seriously doubt she'd tell me either way.'

‘Oh?'

‘After what he did to Olivia? I wanted to string him up by the balls.'

Sarah added more lines to her mental notebook, then: ‘The dates you mentioned. Can you let me have some names?'

The reporter had come prepared, took a slip of paper from her bag. ‘Here you go. As I say there've been no more Mr Rights, or Wrongs, as it turned out. If you ask me, she's still not keen on letting anyone get close.'

Someone had
. Sarah scanned the list; it wasn't long and to her way of thinking a name was missing. Holding the reporter's gaze, Sarah asked if she knew a Noel Barfoot.

‘Noel who?' She turned her mouth down. A touch too quickly?

‘Barfoot. An architect. Offices in town. Has a daughter at Green Hill College.'

Caroline raised an eyebrow as the significance sank in. ‘The guy must be a widower then.' She told Sarah Olivia wouldn't go near a married man for love nor money.

‘OK.' It was time to move on before the reporter started asking questions. ‘Did Olivia talk about work? Was she happy at the school?'

‘Yeah, she loves kids. Teaching comes easy to her. And she gets on with most of her colleagues.'

‘Most?'

‘The head was a trainee slime ball, apparently. Rust, I think his name is?' Sarah nodded. ‘She told me he tried hitting on her once. Not that it was anything she couldn't handle. In fact we used to have a laugh about it.'

Boy
,
that would go down well with Rust
. ‘Was there any chance he went too far and she decided to seek legal advice?'

‘Less than a snowball in hell. Livvie fights her own battles. If anything I think she feels sorry for Rust, sees him as a bit of a loser.'

Face impassive, Sarah nodded. None of it married with what Jill Paige had said. Truth was the interpretations couldn't be more diverse. Was it possible Caroline was less close to Olivia than she thought, that the relationship was more one-way than she'd like or care to admit? Or had Paige got the proverbial axe to grind?

‘I'm almost done. You've been a great help. I have to ask though, can you think of anyone . . .?'

‘Who'd want to harm her?' Shaking her head. ‘And believe me it's not through want of trying. There's no one in the frame then?'

She'd slipped that in smartish. ‘Sorry, I can't really—'

‘Comment?' The reporter sniffed. ‘OK, what's the state of play on the inquiry?' Clearly she thought it was payback time.

Sarah licked her lips, fresh out of small change. ‘We're pursuing several leads.'

‘'Course you are. So give.' Palm out.

‘Come on, you know it doesn't work like that.'

‘What was behind the bomb scare?'

Fighting to keep a straight face: ‘How do you know . . .?'

‘How do you think? A wink's as good as a . . .' Tapping the side of her nose. ‘More to the point, is Olivia still in danger?'

‘I can't answer that.'

‘Can't or won't? Why double the police guard at the hospital if you don't think there's a risk?'

‘We take precautions. Better safe.'

‘You bet. Or your lot will be sorry.' She ran a hand through her hair, took a deep breath. ‘Look, I didn't use the bomb scare story. Or the fact it looks as if she started the fire accidentally.'

Mouth tight. That was privileged information. ‘That's not for release.' No one outside the squad had an inkling.

‘And none of it's going any further.' She leaned forward, almost placed her Armani elbows on the table but thought better of it. ‘When will you understand – I'm not interested in making a fast buck by flogging a few bits of copy?'

‘No? So what is your interest?'

‘The same as you: protecting Olivia, catching the bad guy, slinging him behind bars and chucking away the key.'

Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘I think you'll find that's my job.'

‘Well, don't let me stop you.' King rose, reached for her bag. ‘Ciao.'

Caroline couldn't sleep. She started counting sheep, turned to totting up the night's score sheet instead. Way more fun. By her reckoning it was King, 3; Quinn, 1. The DI – for what it was worth – had learned about Jack Howe's existence. Surprising, really, that Elizabeth hadn't mentioned him to the cops. Quinn's so-called blonde moment had been risible; Caroline doubted the snow queen had ever had a blonde second. And all those follow-up questions? Couched like she knew the answers? Oldest trick in a journo's book that. But she had let slip police interest in Noel Barfoot and James Rust. That was Caroline's reading anyway. Quinn had been far too casual, obviously playing the cards close. From what little Caroline knew of the men, neither struck her as prime suspect material, even so it might be worth speaking to them, sussing it out a little further.

Sighing, she reached for a glass of water on the table, slaked a thirst brought on by the chips. Actually make that 4–1: her pie had beaten Quinn's pasty pasta hands down. She gave a thin smile, lay back, arms over her head and watched shadows play on the ceiling: branches swaying in the wind, lights as the occasional car drove past. The evening had left her with mixed feelings. Being with Quinn semi-socially after all these years had revived a bunch of memories, not all bitter. There was a time when they were both starting out in London that they'd made a half-decent team: crime writer, crime fighter. They'd swap notes and sink pints many a night, especially during a major incident or big court case. When Quinn let her hair down, she could be good company, sharp wit, mischievous sense of humour. Seeing her in the mirror earlier with the hair down literally, reminded Caroline how stunningly attractive the woman was. She recalled back in the day envying the glacial beauty of the tall, slender Quinn. Why she'd started wearing the hair in that schoolmarm, tight-ass bun, God alone knew. Or maybe not. Closing her eyes, Caroline swallowed hard. It wasn't the only thing Quinn had started doing since Jack's murder.

There are maybe only a handful of days in a life when an irrevocable event happens. Caroline had lost count of the times she'd prayed Jack Garner hadn't died that night, wished fervently for a rewind button, the chance to edit out the sequence, the final shots.

Flinging back the duvet, she swung her legs out of bed, strode to the window, telling herself Elizabeth kept the house like a bloody sauna. Breathing in the cold night air, scalding tears pricked her eyes; for once she let them fall, or maybe wouldn't be able to stop them if she tried.

Caroline had adored Garner. The affair hadn't been a casual fling – not to her anyway. She hadn't screwed him exclusively for information. He passed on the odd snippet, sure – but never his love. She bit her lip, stifled a sob. No. That was reserved for Sarah; Garner had dumped Caroline two days before he died. And presumably Quinn still had no idea. Caroline had never told her. There was a time she'd have cut her own throat rather than breathe a word to the cop. Back then, she wasn't given the chance anyway. Quinn refused to take phone calls, didn't reply to letters – in effect broke off all communication. But what Caroline had said tonight, she meant: it was a long time ago; they needed to draw a line and move on. Maybe if she told her the real score? Christ, if they worked together instead of pulling apart . . .

‘What the fuck?'

Hairs rising on the back of her neck, Caroline peered into the shadows. A dark figure leaning against a tree in the street stared up at the house. Looked as if he had a hat on and some kind of cloak.
Christ
,
Caro
,
get a grip
,
it's not Lord of the bloody Rings
. Her focus wasn't helped by the tears. She dabbed at her eyes, squinted again. It was dark down there; she could almost believe she was seeing things, that her mind was playing tricks. But not her nose as well – the smell was unmistakeable: Gandalf, or whoever, was smoking dope.

Not the nervy type, soon as the shock faded, the reporter was more curious than spooked. It was one thirty in the morning; Windsor Place was no back street dealing post, it was an exclusive estate not a rat run. People who lived here didn't stagger back from the pub in the early hours, or wander outside anytime for a crafty spliff. Caroline pursed her lips. Humphrey Bogart's line – well, close – sprang to mind. Why of all the gin joints in all the world is he skulking outside mine? But it wasn't hers. It was the Kents'. And she doubted Elizabeth had a secret admirer. Call it gut instinct, sixth sense, reporter's intuition; she'd lay odds on the guy being Olivia's abductor. The cerebral activity would have to come later.

Caroline moved away from the window, crept to the bedside table, fumbled in the dark for her phone. Calling the cops was second on the to-do list. First was sneaking downstairs then dashing outside, tripping the security lights and asking Gandalf to say cheese. The camera on her mobile was ace. Presenting the guy's metaphorical head on a plate to the cops would score another point. And given she'd left Quinn to pick up the bill – it would take her tally to six.

Seemed a wizard plan at the time.

TWENTY-NINE

‘“
A
re you OK?”' Sarah repeated into the phone, still half asleep. King was the last person she'd expect to call her before six enquiring about the state of her health. Propping herself up on an elbow, she said, ‘Of course I'm OK. Why?'

‘Not are you OK.' Sarah heard a loud tut on the line, imagined the reporter stamping her tiny Gucci-shod foot. ‘Think text speak: R U OK? CU. It's the message carved into the trunk.'