Mother Love (29 page)

‘Then why am I here, Jack? When I could be with the police telling them everything I know?'

He was amazed at King's audacity, appalled at her apparent nonchalance. It was either naïve ignorance or naked ambition. He suspected the latter. He recalled her as the sort of self-serving shit who thought altruism was a skin disease.

Howe crossed his legs, listened as she outlined theories: that he'd abducted Olivia; maybe he hadn't intended killing her but it had almost gone dreadfully wrong and he now thought he could get away it.

‘And you can.' She smiled. ‘Give me your story. I'll guarantee anonymity. You could be on the next flight home.'

‘Helping a criminal to evade justice?' He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you reported crime, not committed it.'

‘Don't flatter yourself, Jack. It's Olivia I'm trying to help. I don't want you going anywhere near her ever again. You've got what you wanted, you've had your sick fun.'

‘Have I?'

‘Come on, Jack. You blame her for Grace's death. You wanted to punish her.'

‘You're insane. I'm here on business.'

‘You deny it then?'

‘There's nothing to deny.'

‘Oh, I think there is, Jack.'

‘You know nothing.'

‘Then tell me.'

There was silence after the rapid interchange. Caroline searched Howe's face for signs of his feelings; the guy could give Quinn a run for her money in the cool stakes. Her own heart was beating hard enough for her to hear the pulse in her ears. It wasn't fear; the risk coming here she considered minimal. Whatever Howe thought, she was after the truth – the whole truth.

‘Let's try again, Jack. I'm not here to judge. I just want your side of the story. No one knows I'm here. I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.'

‘How very trusting, Caroline. If I'm the villain of the piece what makes you think you're safe? I could leave you for dead like you say I left Olivia.'

‘But you didn't, did you? I think you just wanted to frighten her. You wanted payback for what she did to Grace.'

‘Don't use that name again.' His voice was hard, cold. The child was his Achilles heel. For the first time Caroline felt uneasy.

‘Jack, I can't help you if you don't help me.'

‘Help me? Don't make me laugh. How could you possibly help me?'

‘You need to talk about her, Jack. Grace is—'

‘Once more – and I call security. Get you thrown out.'

Still she gently persisted. ‘But she's the key to it all, isn't she, Jack? You believe Olivia's neglect led to your child's death. In your eyes you weren't committing a crime, you were administering justice.'

‘You seem to have made up your mind already, Caroline.'

‘It's your mind I'm interested in, Jack. I want to make sense of this whole thing.' And she wanted every detail, every fact, every emotion. It wasn't just a story any more, she could see a book in it.

‘No, Caroline. Believe me. You don't.'

Her palms were moist, she sensed success was close. She raced on barely registering the warning note in his voice. ‘Wrong, Jack. I want it all. It's an amazing tale. The sort of story that gets everyone talking. It's big, Jack. And I can write it.'

‘Caroline.' Gazing down, Howe laced his fingers. ‘You wouldn't begin to understand.'

‘Try me.'

FORTY-SIX

‘
B
est-laid plans, and all that, eh, Inspector?'

‘That's OK, Mr Howe. I quite understand.' Jack Howe's meetings had fallen through; he'd turned up on spec at HQ. Front desk had called Sarah down. She'd found one of the best-looking guys she'd seen in a long time sitting in reception reading the
Guardian
. Now standing, he towered over her.

‘Come through, please.' She led him to IR1. ‘Can I get you coffee or anything?' The change of plan was fine by her. Good to get an interview in the bag. Early brief over, she had a free half-hour or so before her meeting with the chief. Baker wanted to press ahead with charges against Rust. The head was adamant the car had been planted, that he was being framed. He could have a point. She'd feel happier if they had corroboration. Maybe the tape from Benny, the hardware shop owner's closed-circuit cameras would provide it.

‘No. Thank you.' Howe waited until she'd taken a seat before sitting himself. ‘I'd rather get on with it, if that's OK with you?' Polite tone, perfect smile; he was certainly living up to his charm school image. The dark well-cut suit looked classy, expensive; he could've been going to a funeral. ‘I was so relieved to see Livvie, I can tell you, Inspector.'

‘You visited last night?'

He nodded. ‘I needed to make sure she was OK. You know how it is.'

She knew it sounded pretty damn quick, and hardly the action of someone with something to hide. Even so, there were t's to cross, i's to dot. ‘It must be some time since you saw her before that.'

‘A while.' He gazed down at his hands. ‘It's been too long.'

Face impassive, she kept a conversational tone. ‘Everyone seems to have forgotten you exist, Mr Howe. We only discovered you were her husband by accident.'

‘The dark secret's out, huh, Inspector?' He laughed, making light of it. ‘Actually I still am. We're not divorced. I guess I've always thought we might . . .' Flexing his fingers. ‘Look, I was hoping you could give me an idea what happened. As I say I saw a few lines in a newspaper. Presumably the case has moved on since then.'

‘Which paper was that, Mr Howe?' She tapped a pen on the desk.

‘The
Mail?
Maybe the
Post
.' He shrugged. ‘I'll try and remember if it's important.'

She smiled. ‘Only if the facts were wrong.' Observing closely, she gave Howe the barest outline: Olivia's abduction, five days of captivity ending in the fire. His mobile features reacted accordingly.

‘Thank God she's alive.' He ran a hand through dark glossy hair that fell perfectly back in place. ‘The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.'

Sarah nodded. ‘She remembers nothing. We're still piecing together her last moments. We've been questioning friends, family, building a picture, trying to discover who'd want to harm her.'

‘You must have some idea by now?'

‘Do you, Mr Howe?'

Gazing down at his hands again. ‘I only wish I could help.'

‘Have you had any recent contact?'

‘Not really. I was hoping this week . . .'

‘We'll need to check a few things.' She asked for flight details, a record of where he'd been staying over the last seven days, numbers they could reach him on. Standing, she held out a hand and thanked him for coming in. ‘How long are you in the UK, Mr Howe?'

‘Another six days, Inspector. I have a little business, then a couple of loose ends that need tidying.'

‘Any thoughts, Dave?'

‘Howe's smooth, I'll give him that.' Harries had been in the viewing room observing the interview. She'd found the DC, arms folded, propping up the wall outside her office.

‘Any useful thoughts?' She gave a lopsided smile.

‘He seemed OK. I mean, he visits her in hospital, walks in here large as life.' Opening the door for her. ‘He's got to be on the level, hasn't he, boss?'

‘I'm sure you're right, Dave. Even so . . .'

‘I'll run some checks.' He waved a notebook, already on it. ‘Later, boss.' Seconds as it happened. He popped his head back. ‘Talking of running?'

‘Out of here. Now.' Still smiling, she reached for the ringing phone.

‘Quinn. In here. Now. It's show time.'

Benny's camera hadn't been wielded by Spielberg. The three-strong audience stood round a small screen in Baker's office watching what looked like an early silent movie.

‘Christ, Huntie.' Baker sank hands in pockets. ‘When you said you'd got something I didn't think you meant a snow storm down a coal mine.'

Hunt mopped his brow with a crumpled hankie. ‘The equipment's second-hand, guv. It's not exactly state of the art.'

‘Got that right. It's out of the sodding ark.'

Ignoring the interchange, Sarah moved closer and knelt by the monitor. She'd long suspected the chief needed glasses but was too vain to admit to any sort of defect. The picture wasn't brilliant but there was a figure there. Tapping the screen with her finger, she said, ‘The techie boys should be able to do something with this.'

‘Oh, yeah?' Baker hunkered down beside her, stared for a few seconds, then: ‘With what?'

She traced an outline with her pen. Baker's blank look morphed into incredulity. ‘Come on, Quinn. It looks like the bloke off the port advert.' Struggling to his feet.

‘It's why I think we're on to something, guv,' Hunt said.

Sarah made the connection. The hat and long coat. It was how the working girls had described the guy going into Cameron Towers. And the stalker Caroline had spotted outside the Kent's house.

‘Yeah, right.' Baker saw it, too, ran a thumb along his chin. ‘Can we get them in, Huntie? What is it, Quinn?'

She was still kneeling, gaze still on the screen. ‘It's more a case of who it's not.'

‘In English, huh?'

‘Look where this guy comes to on the door, Chief.' She glanced up. ‘Even without the hat, he's got to be over six feet tall.'

Baker nodded. ‘And Rust's a bloody midget.'

FORTY-SEVEN

E
lizabeth let herself into Olivia's house, went directly to her daughter's bedroom, found the gift exactly where she said it would be. Elizabeth pondered for a moment or two: the incongruity of the bright Christmas wrapping and the dark object it concealed. Everyone has guns in New York, Mummy, she'd said. There's nothing to worry about; it will scare him off, that's all. Elizabeth asked herself why Olivia had never mentioned it before? When had she hidden it? And why? Elizabeth didn't explore the answers in any great depth. Felt sure that by the next hospital visit, Olivia would have come to her senses. It was more a case of humouring her, ending her anguish. The gun wasn't loaded. It wasn't as though anyone could get hurt.

Caroline King lay on the bed curled into a tight ball. Tears streamed down her face. Jack Howe was right. She couldn't even begin to understand. His story had started well. He related how he'd abducted Olivia, where he'd held her, how he'd treated her. He even had a whipping boy in place to take the rap temporarily. James Rust was unwittingly buying time – until Howe left the country on a false passport with Jill Paige in tow. It was all on tape. Caroline had been sitting there working out how best to use the material, making mental notes of the sexist sound bites, toying with telling phrases. Already she'd felt the pats on the back after publication. Even before then she'd have the satisfaction of watching Quinn's face when she handed over the confession.

So engrossed was she in her fantasies, she was convinced she'd misheard Howe. Asked him, ‘Say again.' She could hear it now. Every corrosive word. See his slow, sad head shake. ‘I said you really wouldn't want to know, Caroline.'

She remembered shooting out of her seat, eyes glaring. ‘You're insane. I don't believe it.'

‘I knew you wouldn't. I didn't either. Not until I started getting the letters.'

‘What letters?'

‘Letters begging for forgiveness.'

‘You're lying.'

‘Am I?'

‘Let me see them.'

She mistook his hesitation. Thought it was evidence he was talking bollocks. After reading several, she realized that in a perverse way maybe he'd been trying to protect her.

Howe had delivered the goods. But the goods were faulty.

She had a story all right – but if it was true it was a story she could never write.

And right now she didn't have a clue what she was going to do with it.

‘I think the guy's lying, boss.' Harries stood in front of Sarah's desk, raking fingers through his hair.

Sarah glanced up. ‘Come in, do.'

‘Jack Howe's name isn't on any of the flights he gave us.' Harries had checked other airlines on the off-chance. ‘I've contacted all the companies he named. They've either not heard of him, or say he failed to show at meetings scheduled this month.'

‘Tried his numbers?'

‘Both. He's not picking up.'

‘And the newspapers?'

‘They virtually all carry the story. Just a few lines like he says.'

‘I hear a “but”.'

‘Olivia Kent's not named in any of them. It's just the bog standard “A Birmingham woman's been injured” blah, blah.'

Then: ‘Where are we going, boss?'

She was already halfway to the door, half in, half out of her jacket. ‘He's at the Hyatt, isn't he?'

Jack Howe's suitcases lay in a neat line by the door of his hotel room. He'd told Caroline King things he never imagined speaking about with anyone. His initial intent had been to prevaricate, say nothing, but her presence and persistence had worn down his resolve, shattered his silence. After a while it was easy, as though he'd been longing to talk, needed to share. The abduction had taken months to plan, animal cunning required to pull it off. The unforeseen premature end was unfortunate. She hadn't suffered enough.

He was leaving now not because of the disclosures, but because he realized physical threats and abuse weren't the way to damage Olivia permanently. Lasting harm would only be achieved by making sure the people who loved her knew the truth. He'd seen that last night in Caroline's eyes.

Telling the reporter was the worst thing he could do. Almost.

FORTY-EIGHT

‘
H
ello, Jack.' Elizabeth Kent, a red scarf round her neck, was silhouetted in the doorway of her home, praying her face didn't show her emotions.