Mother Love (22 page)

‘The name Noel Barfoot mean anything to you?'

The change of tack barely threw Rust. ‘Of course. He's a governor at the school.'

‘Mate of yours as well, is he?'

‘We play golf occasionally. Why?'

‘Not got the hang of this, have you? I ask the questions. Was anything going on between Barfoot and Olivia Kent?'

‘Don't be ridiculous. Who on earth told you that?'

‘A little birdie.'

Hunt bit his lip, turned a page in his notebook.

‘Well, I suggest you go back and have another word. I certainly can't help with that question.'

‘OK, try this one. If you're not married, don't have a partner and Olivia made it
abundantly clear
she wasn't open to offers – where are you getting it?'

He shot out of the chair. ‘Right, you've had your fun. Now you and your comedy partner can get out of my house.' Arms crossed tightly, his breathing audible.

‘I've finished anyway, Mr Rust. Bear in mind, it was your invite.' He smiled as he walked past. ‘Next time, we'll do it at the nick.'

Rust held the door open. ‘I'll be talking to my lawyer. Good day.'

‘Always best, Mr Rust.' Mock salute. ‘If you need one.'

‘Oh, I need one, Baker. For the formal complaint I'll be submitting.'

‘Reckon he will, guv?' Hunt checked the mirror, pulled the motor away from the kerb. Rust was still watching from the porch, face like a slab of granite.

‘Go running to his brief? Nah. Leg to stand on – he has not got.' Baker was ferreting in the glove compartment. ‘Anything to eat in here, Huntie?'

The DS reached a hand in his pocket. ‘Cereal bar do you?'

‘I said eat.' He took it anyway, sniffed a couple of times, bit off a chunk. ‘Cat litter tastes better than this stuff.'

‘Wouldn't know, guv. Never tried it.'

‘Huntie, get it right, eh?' Waving the bar. ‘You're the straight man. You feed me the lines.'

‘Comedy partners.' Hunt snorted, brushed crumbs off his thigh. ‘What a bloody cheek. Who does he think we are?'

Still chewing, Baker scrunched the wrapping then force-fed it into the ash tray. ‘As long as it's not the Chuckle Brothers, I don't give a toss what Rust thinks.'

Hunt gave a half-smile. ‘Didn't take to him, did you, guv?'

‘Did you?' He cut Hunt a glance. He knew the DS would never have spoken to a witness like that in a million years. But Baker didn't do pulled punches.

Hunt slowed to let a couple of old dears cross the road. Baker gave a regal wave.

‘You didn't answer, mate.'

‘I think the bloke was up his own arse.'

He'd heard a ‘but'. ‘Come on, out with it, Huntie.'

‘Doesn't make him our man.' He pulled down the visor; the sun was doing a High Noon, Harborne High Street jammed with shoppers wearing shades and toting folded umbrellas just in case.

‘Smoke. Fire, Huntie. If Olivia Kent was going to blow the school whistle, I can see Rust being desperate to shut her up. And he's got the brains to pull off a stunt like that.'

‘I listened real close to his voice, guv. I don't think it's him on the tape. I know we've said it could be a two-man job, but . . .'

Baker nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah.' He pulled his phone out of a breast pocket, checked for messages. Nothing that couldn't wait. ‘It's a bloody shame the Kent woman's still out of it, Huntie. She could finger him just like that.' Clicked finger and thumb.

He shrugged. ‘Or not. We haven't got a lot to go on, guv. The goading got under his skin and he's the sort of guy who knows his rights.'

‘Christ, Huntie, it was only a few questions.'

‘He's a nasty piece of work.'

‘Yeah, well, it's his word against ours.' Baker sniffed. ‘Don't worry about me, Huntie. I'm a big boy now.'

He grinned. ‘You can say that again, guv.'

‘Told you once, I do the punch lines. Ern.'

THIRTY-ONE

‘
Y
ou must be joking, Caro. I'm not David Blaine.'

Hot buttered toast in one hand, Caroline was on the phone to Toby White, a mate who worked at the Mailbox, the BBC's Midlands' base. He was taking a look at a photo she'd just emailed. The reporter, hunched over Elizabeth Kent's kitchen table, was gazing at the same image on her phone. She'd not actually lied to Quinn. Well, OK, she had. She'd certainly not given the cop the full picture. But, then, until she knew whether Toby could do anything with it, she hadn't actually got a full picture. The one shot she'd snatched before Gandalf did a runner was dark, grainy and most of the face in shadow.

‘I know it's not brill, Tobe, but can you tweak it a bit?' Toby White was crème de la current crop of the Beeb's picture editors. She'd worked on stories with him loads of times. And the reporter didn't want David Blaine magic tricks, she wanted hard evidence from a David Bailey in the digital equivalent of a dark room. Of course, anything worth having, she'd give to the cops, on a plate. Eventually.

‘With the wonders of Photoshop, I could probably turn him into Jack Sparrow if it would please you, babe, but I can't see there's enough of the original here to work with.'

‘Shit.' She nibbled the toast.

‘Yeah, it is pretty much.'

Peering closer, she willed the face to take shape, come into focus, feared it wasn't going to happen. If there was barely anything to start with, not even Toby could perform miracles. ‘Damn, damn, damn.'

‘Who is it, Caro? Why's it so important?'

Quick pros and cons calculation: Toby was trustworthy, he wasn't a journo; he'd done her a million favours; he'd not ruled out enhancement categorically and – as she was well aware – he was a guy who could rise to the occasion and not just in the edit suite. On the con side, she very much hoped to, and what had she got to lose?

‘Here's the gist. Don't breathe a word, eh?' She gave him a quick and censored resumé. The soundtrack from Toby's end suggested he was still into designer stubble, and the low whistle that his interest was piqued. Outside, a dog barked. She got up to close the window.
Come on
,
boy
,
come on
.

‘No promises, Caro. But how about I go into the Mailbox later? Play around on the big boys' toys?'

She punched the air with a fist, mouthed a Yes! Then dead casual: ‘How much later?'

‘Christ, Kingie, what do you want, blood?'

‘That'll do for starters.' For mains she wanted flesh and bone. And a filled-out face, of course, a name to go with it would be the cherry on the sweet course.

‘You're all heart, babe. Leave it with me. I'll give you a bell.'

‘Darling, you're an absolute star.' She blew him a kiss. ‘Ciao.'

‘Who's a star?' Elizabeth Kent drifted in and clicked on the kettle. With her hair down the likeness to Olivia was even more striking.

Caroline flashed a smile. ‘Good morning.' It was certainly better than it had been. She might even say it was looking up. ‘Did you sleep well? Can I get you anything?'

‘Too well. I must stop taking those pills. And, no, I'll sort myself out, thank you, dear.' She leaned against the sink, folded her arms. ‘So tell me about last night? Did you get anything useful?'

The conversation with Toby still uppermost in her thinking, Caroline's hand stilled on its way to her coffee. Must be the guilty conscience kicking in: for a split second, she thought Elizabeth meant useable images on her phone. Couldn't be that though. Elizabeth was unaware there'd been anything to snap. She'd slept through the night's excitement; Caroline had yet to break the news.

‘DI Quinn?' Elizabeth prompted. ‘You were meeting for a bite.'

‘Oh, that.' Hand flapping. ‘Waste of time.'

A half-smile played on her lips. ‘What did you think I meant?'

‘I didn't wake you, Elizabeth, but . . .' Caroline watched the older woman closely as she related the abridged version of what had happened. She expected a little more reaction, but the older woman appeared unfazed.

Frowning, she nodded, then: ‘And you've obviously no idea who it was?'

‘God, Elizabeth, I wish.' Wished she had a better idea. Running fingers through her hair, she wished she could pin the niggle down. Watching the figure flee, something about it had struck her as vaguely familiar, had struck – if not a chord – at least a note.

Elizabeth dragged out a chair, sat at the table. ‘I suppose the initials he left were meant for Olivia? Some sort of warning?'

‘That's my reading.'

She placed a hand on her cheek. ‘We really ought to phone the police.'

‘They know. I called Quinn first thing. She's sending a forensics guy on the off-chance.' Caroline walked to the bin, scraped in crumbs. ‘Try not to worry, Elizabeth. Quinn says she'll get her opposite number in uniform to lay on regular patrols. They'll drive round the estate every hour or so, keep an eye on the house.'

‘So you did get something useful?'

‘I suppose you could say that.' Smiling, she picked up her phone and headed for the door.

It was the snow queen who didn't have a clue.

Elizabeth remained at the table a while longer, circling her index finger in a little spilt milk. Mouth tight, she shook her head. Caroline never cleaned up after herself; expected minions to pander to her every whim. And why hadn't she answered the question? Who was the latest
absolute star
in the Caroline galaxy? Elizabeth would give a lot to know what her house guest was up to. Did she really think Elizabeth had slept through the racket, all that drama? She'd been wide awake before it broke out and for many hours afterwards, hence the long – and uncharacteristic – lie-in.

Leaning back, she let her gaze wander to the dresser, smiled at the photographs, the Olivia Kent
This Is Your Life
collection. Now someone wanted her daughter dead. The smile faded and she closed her eyes. Elizabeth certainly hadn't taken a sleeping pill last night. She'd been watching, low profile from her window, waiting to see if the man would come back. He'd stood in the same spot staring up at the house for two nights' running now. He was there for a reason, and she was desperate to know why, determined to find out. It was something she'd kept from Caroline, and certainly DI Quinn. Wrong, she knew, and she didn't question herself too closely. It was instinct maybe.

If his intention was to scare her, he'd be sorely disappointed. Elizabeth's only fear was that police patrols would almost certainly deter him from returning. And Elizabeth didn't want that. She wanted him out in the open, wanted him to make his next move. She wanted to talk to him, ask him why he'd done those terrible things to her daughter. She wanted . . . many things. She sighed. There may not be another opportunity. Certainly not with Caroline galumphing around. The reporter would have to go. Rising, Elizabeth fetched a dishcloth, wiped the table. She'd break the news on the way to the hospital.

THIRTY-TWO

‘
P
lease come in, Officers.' A smiling Philip Kent welcomed Sarah and Harries into his home, gestured to a room on the right. ‘We were just about to have coffee. May I get you some?'

‘Black, no sugar for me, thanks.' Sarah unbuttoned her coat.

‘Make that two, please, sir.' Harries.

‘Take a seat. I'll just be a few seconds.'

Sarah had a quick mooch before perching. A photograph on the wall caught her eye: Kent and Olivia, arms round each other's waists, grinning at the camera, holiday backdrop of azure sky, white beach. A glass-fronted bookcase was full of classics and dead poets: Dickens, Donne, Dostoevsky.
Alphabetical
,
too
. Somewhere in the house, a radio was playing pop music – the band sounded like Elbow to Sarah.

‘Budge up, David.'

‘Reckon he'll break out the biscuits, too, boss?'

‘Yeah, and the jelly and ice cream.' Rolling her eyes, she sat, crossed her legs. The settee's olive-green velvet was worn in patches, in fact most of the furnishings looked pricey but past the first flush. To her, the semi as a whole was modest compared with The Gables; mind, its owner appeared a good less imperious than his ex-wife had first time round. Not that initial impressions always stood the test of time.

Kent was as good as his word, back in half a minute, minus the goodies. She watched his tall, lean frame lope across the room. He must be pushing sixty but was still a fine-looking man, maybe a touch frayed round the edges. The mole-grey chinos and T-shirt were OK but would have suited a younger guy better. The thick hair curled over his collar and was a shade darker than the gear. His skin had a healthy glow, the kind she associated with arm-waving TV presenters.

After plumping a cushion, he sank into an armchair near the fireplace, folded hands in lap. ‘Right, Inspector. I'm all yours. How may I help?'

A willing witness. It was very nearly an oxymoron. Cops were so often treated like something rank on the bottom of a shoe. It was almost easier to deal with aggression than amiability; she'd certainly had more practice with arsey sods. On the other hand, Kent already knew why they were here and what they were after.

‘Has anything struck you since our phone call, Mr Kent?' He'd been asked to think about Olivia's circle of friends, whether anyone he knew might harm her, if Olivia had mentioned any fears, concerns.

‘I've wracked my brains, Inspector. I just can't understand why anyone would want to hurt Liv. I know I'm biased but she's such a good person, so loving. She'll go out of her way to help anyone. To me, what's happening just doesn't make sense.'

You and me both
. ‘When did you see her last, Mr Kent?'

‘A month ago? Six weeks?' Odd? Sarah wondered. Living just a few minutes' away. ‘We met in town for a catch-up over coffee.' As if on cue, a woman carrying a tray barged open the door with her backside. When she turned, Sarah very nearly gasped. Long dark hair, olive skin, chestnut eyes: it was like looking at a young version of Elizabeth. Or Olivia as she is now. Or was. ‘Thanks, Kate.' Kent jumped up, took the tray, fussed round like a mother hen. Minus the tray, the reason for the faffing was obvious. Judging by the bump, Kate must be eight months gone. And was about to leave.