Mother Love (24 page)

Elizabeth brushed tendrils of hair from Olivia's face. The bruising was fading thankfully, but who knew what damage lurked within? ‘If there's anything you want, Olivia? Anything at all, darling?'

‘I'm fine, Mummy.' The smile nowhere near reached her eyes. ‘If you really want to help try keeping the police off my back. I can't stand the thought of strangers firing questions at me. I don't think I could bear going over it all again.'
Again?
Elizabeth frowned. Olivia broke eye contact. ‘Even if I could remember.'

Had the pause been telling? Was the memory loss convenient? She wouldn't push it now; protecting Olivia was paramount. ‘I'm not sure I can keep them away indefinitely, darling. DI Quinn's very insistent.'

‘I feel sick thinking about it, Mummy.' Eyes brimming. ‘I can't cope with any more. I just can't cope.' She broke down, seemed close to hysteria. The intensity frightened Elizabeth.

She stroked her daughter's hair, whispered soothing words, waited until the sobbing subsided, then: ‘Don't worry, darling. I'll have a word with the inspector. The important thing's for you to get your strength back. Then you'll be in a better position to help, won't you?'

‘How's about helping out an old mate, Sammy?' Caroline was calling in – and carrying out – a favour. The reporter had decided to go ahead with Olivia's ridiculous request, still wasn't sure, why. Curiosity, natch, and the vision of an exclusive story dangled like a succulent carrot. The customary stick only featured in her fantasy as one with which to beat the high and mighty Quinn.
The nerve of the fucking woman?
Telling Caroline where to get off? When the reporter had already been given her marching orders by Elizabeth. Being as good as chucked out of the Kent home was partly why Caroline had been so stroppy when she ran into Quinn at the hospital. The reporter reckoned the snow queen didn't need a reason – with Quinn it was innate. Whatever. Caroline was back in her old family home, rattling round mostly empty rooms, time on her hands. Actually make that a phone in one hand, a G&T in the other and a plan afoot.

‘You've got a nerve, King.'

Must be an echo on the line. Her voice had an earthy smile. ‘I've got trillions, sweetie, as you well know.' Sam Francis was an old contact in every sense of the world. He was an ex-actor, now theatre critic and had a lot going for him. From Caroline's viewpoint the best thing was that he worked on the
Post
, the
New York Post
. She hadn't been in touch with him for a couple of years.

‘You woke me, babe. What's it all about?'

‘I need a man.' She'd fed the line, the innuendo deliberate.

‘You don't usually have trouble in that department, CK. Losing your touch?'

Loud laughter. ‘What do you think, Sammy?'

‘I'd say, not.'

‘You'd say right.'

‘OK. Let's hear it.'

She wandered to the window. The For Sale sign had gone up in the last day or so. She'd be so glad to get shot of the place. ‘Jack Howe. Advertising exec. Photo director. Used to do a bit for
Time
and the
The New Yorker
as well as the comics.'

‘Lives?'

‘Lived. He had a place on East 57th. He's not there now.' That was as far as her own snooping had gone.

‘Great.'

‘Oh, come on, Sammy. You can do it.'

‘And if I find him?'

‘Let me know.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's it. I just need to know where he is.'

‘At least tell me why.'

‘Because if he's there, I'll know for sure he's not over here trying to kill his ex-lover.'

‘What?'

‘Don't shout, babe. It'll be fine.'

‘You want me to go find a killer and everything's hunky?'

‘You're not listening, are you?'

Throaty chuckle. ‘I love it when you get cross.'

‘I want you to trace where he lives and find out if he's there – not knock on the door and ask if he's tried wasting anyone recently.'

‘OK.'

‘You'll do it? Sam, you are one big sweetie.'

‘On one condition. You come over and see me sometime soon. I'll remind you how sweet I can be.'

‘Tell me more.' She ended the call smiling. Sam was a very good contact indeed. The smile didn't last long. Glancing round at the dust sheets and the bare floorboards didn't help. Saturday evening and the big shot reporter was at the proverbial loose end.

What was the saying about the devil and idle hands?

DS John Hunt was just knocking off after spending most of the day knocking on doors in Westminster Street and surrounds. Teamed up with Madison, he'd been interviewing residents, carrying out street interviews, had another word with the working girls, Suzie and Sadie, opposite Cameron Towers. There'd not been a bunch to show for it: worn shoe leather, frayed patience, falling hope.

‘Pull in over here, Mickey.'

‘The chippie?'

‘I'm starving, mate.' And they just might get a nibble. Fat Stan's attracted a fair bit of passing trade. Hunt knew the guy of old. Stanley Nicholas Graves was a former, if not entirely reformed, petty criminal. In and out of the local nick more often than the cleaner, he'd won a hundred grand on the lottery a couple of years back and taken over the Frying Fish. The only legacy of his former life was being known by more dubious cops around town as Friar Crook.

Hunt put in his order and a request. Had Stan seen anything suspicious? Madison watched as Stan's podgy fingers pushed to one side the few strands of greying hair that still clung to the shiny pink scalp.

‘D'you lot think I stand round all day doing sod all? This place doesn't run itself, you know.'

‘Bloke like you, Stan? Lots of mates, loads of punters. You must get to hear all sorts.' Hunt.

‘Yeah and it's strictly confidential.' He tapped the side of a broken nose. ‘Between me and my clients.'

‘Clients? Do me a favour, mate,' Madison drawled.

Hunt fumbled in his trouser pocket. ‘Mickey, got any change?'

‘Only a tenner.'

‘That'll do. So, Stan, what's the word on the street?'

‘There's a thieving bunch of yobs turning gaffs over as often as mattresses on an incontinence ward. That do you?'

Hunt stepped back from a shower of vinegar and saliva. ‘It's a big boy we're after. You know that, Stan. Not some snotty-nosed kids nicking the salt off your counter.'

‘They'd nick the salt off your chips, mate. Very nearly put my old mate Benny out of business.' Waste of time. Sooner he'd had his say, the quicker they could push off. Benny ran a hardware store in Victoria Terrace, carried out small repairs on electrical goods, sold cheapo stuff bought in bulk on the side. The place had been done over half a dozen times in a year. ‘I told him to get a burglar alarm like mine: four legs and a mouth full of teeth.'

‘And did he?' Hunt took his cod and chips from Stan's sweaty mitt.

‘Nah, he said he didn't want hairs and dog pee all over the place. Had a coupla cameras fixed up instead. Mind, it didn't stop the buggers. Little sods lifted a box of candles week before last. Fucking candles, I ask you?'

THIRTY-SIX

T
hey were doing it again. Talking shop. Any hopes Sarah may have harboured for a candlelit dinner, soft music and sweet nothings wouldn't pan out tonight. She'd met Ben Cooper as arranged in the Queen's Head but they'd not be going on anywhere. His elderly mother had been allowed home from hospital earlier in the day; broken leg or something, he said. His brother was with her but could only stay a couple of hours. For someone relative-free like Sarah, family commitments were an alien concept. It was touching in a way, she supposed – good to know he cared. Mind, she'd taken care, too; a hint of make-up, dash of perfume. Ben had complimented the new dress, told her she looked lovely. Stunned was the better word when he recounted his latest theory.

Summing up now, he leaned back in the chair. ‘So the way I see it, there's no way she could've survived—'

‘If the perp hadn't doused the flames before he fled.' Nodding, Sarah sipped the wine. Did what he was saying make sense? Eyes creased, she tried visualizing it: Olivia lying injured in the far corner; the basement floor strewn with rubbish; the fire confined to one small area – yet singed smoke-logged sacking found by the stairs to the main part of the house.

‘Initially it seemed just part and parcel of all the rubbish down there. But when I gave it more thought –' Ben shrugged – ‘it struck me he probably ditched it on his way out. And he wouldn't be hanging around, he'd have no time to think.'

She mulled it over a while. As lead forensics manager, Ben had submitted his report to the squad a couple of hours ago, but she'd been out of the loop, off-duty, supposedly. The implications didn't take long to consider. She took another sip of wine, then: ‘So it looks as if not only did he not start the fire' – that was almost certainly down to Olivia knocking over one of the candles – ‘but he also raised the alarm and tried his hand at damage limitation, as well?'

‘If the flames had really taken hold, she'd have fried to a crisp, Sarah.'

Pensive, she twirled the glass, wishing it was a crystal ball. ‘Could he have injuries, too, do you think?'

He turned his mouth down. ‘Possible. I doubt he'd have worn gloves. It's not as if he'd have gone prepared, is it?'

Loud guffaws from the bar. Glancing over she recognized a few faces from uniform. In her head, the image of a shadowy figure looming over Olivia Kent, the equivalent of a fire blanket in his hands snuffing out flames.

‘I know it's crazy, Sarah, but if I'm right: he abducts her, holds her prisoner, tortures her . . .'

‘Then saves her life. Why?'
And why can't I see it?
Her fingers tightened, the stem was in danger of snapping. God, what she wouldn't give to talk to the bloody woman.

‘And probably risks his into the bargain. Certainly his liberty. If you guys had got there any quicker –' head tilted, he raised his glass – ‘we'd have something to toast. ‘As to, why? I'm no expert but surely you must hate someone to abuse them like that. Still, they say it's a fine line. Maybe he never intended killing her?' He smiled, drained his ale, then: ‘And now much as it grieves me, I have to love you and leave you.'

Maybe he never intended killing her?
She gave a distracted nod. He'd certainly given her food for thought. And while she was here she might as well grab a sandwich or something. She'd done a quick blitz on Tesco but had zilch desire to cook. Watching as Ben shucked into a soft brown leather jacket, she tried hard not to stare at the bodywork.

Hand on the back of her chair, he leaned over then pulled back. ‘By the way, Sarah, remember me to Dave, will you?'

‘Harries?'

‘Yeah. I bumped into him last night at the hospital. His mum had a heart attack. They took her into intensive care. Did he not mention it?'

She barely noticed the peck on the cheek. And then he was gone.

Five minutes later and Ben could have delivered the message personally. Sarah was standing at the bar waiting for a refill when Harries appeared at her side, rubbing cold hands. ‘Hey, boss, what you doing here? Thought you had a hot—?'

‘Date?' Turning her head, she smiled. ‘I could ask you the same.'

‘Yeah, well, Keira Knightley cried off at the last minute. Y'know how it is.' Rolling his eyes, tutting.

‘Drink?' She waved the twenty-pound note in her hand. ‘And no I don't know how it is. Your mother?' A raised eyebrow elicited no response. ‘You might've said something.'

‘Half a Guinness ta, and what would be the point?'

‘You could have had time off and I wouldn't have given you a bollocking for being late – there's two for starters.'

‘I don't want time off, thanks.' Brusque. No argument. Then the boyish smile again. ‘I quite liked the bollocking.' Trying to make light of it.

She left him to carry the drinks, headed for a table by the door. He was obviously keen to keep his personal and professional life in different boxes. She could hardly complain; he'd probably taken his cue from her.

‘There y'go, boss.'

‘David. We're in the pub – it's Saturday night – we're off duty . . . call me Sarah, OK?' She raised the glass. ‘Cheers.' She really ought to eat; two glasses on an empty stomach wasn't clever.

‘Cheers. Mind if I say something, boss?' He raised a palm. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.'

‘You were saying?'

‘Only my mum calls me David. I don't even like the name.' He grinned. ‘Can you make it Dave?'

Shaking her head, ‘Why on earth didn't you say so before?' Christ, they'd worked together for months, and she'd no idea. Obviously she didn't know him as well as she thought.
But then
,
you only really know what people tell you
. Assuming they tell the truth. Assuming they talk at all. Mouth tight, she realized Olivia Kent's blunt refusal to see the police let alone be interviewed still bugged her big time.

‘That wasn't meant to piss you off, boss. Sorry.'

What? He must've misinterpreted her Mrs Angry expression. She flapped a hand. ‘
You
didn't.'

‘Let me guess.' Would he read her right this time? ‘Olivia Kent?'

‘Got it in one.'

‘I guess if she can't remember . . .? He hunched a shoulder, pulled a pack of crisps from his pocket.

‘That's all it is though – a guess.'

‘Meaning?' He offered the pack.

Beef and onion. She wrinkled her nose. ‘She won't let us in so we can't make an assessment, but what if she can remember? What if she knows the abductor's identity? What if he has some sort of hold over her? What if they formed some sort of attachment?'