Mother Love (6 page)

‘Yeah, right.' Hunkered down near the fireplace, Caroline now rose effortlessly, smoothed her trousers and met Sarah's steady gaze. ‘But you can't state categorically it's not.'

Face impassive, the DI wondered idly how long it had taken King to perfect the snarl. Hours in front of the mirror, most like. ‘That's why we're looking into it.' Why two more detectives had been assigned door-to-door inquiries and why Quinn and King were currently hood to bootees in white Tyvek. As a precaution.

‘Sod looking! What are you doing?'
Violet Elizabeth Bott in a bunny suit
. Talk about reverting to type. Sarah gave a resigned shake of the head. Caroline raised a palm. ‘Sorry.'

A King apology? That was a first.

Even so, letting her into the house was one thing, keeping her in the loop another. Sarah tilted her head towards the door. ‘We should continue this in the car.' She was acutely aware the forensic guys were kitting up out back – they'd need an empty house, no audience. She'd told Collins, who was briefing the team, to keep it out of King's eyeline and earshot.

The suburban back street was midday quiet: not much traffic, residents mostly at work, kids at school. Apart from some limp comment by the reporter about cop couture, small talk wasn't big as they walked to the motor. It was unmarked – like a couple of other police vehicles parked in the road. There was no mileage in alerting any media savvy passer-by. The cops didn't know what they were dealing with yet. If it became necessary to bring the press on board, Sarah wanted control over what was released. King being here was bad enough.

The DI wasn't convinced the women were bosom buddies, but couldn't ignore the photographic evidence. At least it was proof they'd met; assuming King wasn't over-egging the old pals' act, it was feasible she could shed some light on the missing woman's character, lifestyle, relationships.

Leaning against the Vauxhall's bodywork, the reporter was still struggling out of the suit. Masking a smile, Sarah stretched a hand out ready, before slinging both sets of gear in the boot. ‘So, when did you last see Miss Kent?'

‘I've not been around for a while.'

Dead close then. ‘A while?'

‘A couple of months. I saw Livvie towards the end of September.' Every hair fell back into place when she ruffled the bob. ‘We went to a movie and the new Italian in the Mailbox.'

Fat lot of good that was. ‘Have you spoken recently?' Sarah nodded towards the car but the reporter was clearly reluctant to get in. They talked on the pavement. More neutral territory for King perhaps.

‘Not for about ten days. I told her on the phone I'd be coming up this week.'

‘Did you make arrangements to meet?'

Toeing the ground, she said, ‘Not exactly.'

No eye contact. Hesitation. Or hedging. ‘Meaning?'

‘We just would. It's a given. You must have mates like that? You don't get together for ages but pick up like it was yesterday?'
Nope
. King aped Sarah's non-committal shrug. ‘OK. Maybe you don't. But I'm worried.' Frowning, she started delving in her bag. Over the reporter's shoulder, Sarah spotted Harries emerge from a house a few doors down. The instant he clocked King, the DC did a swift about-turn.

‘Do you smoke?' She was still scrabbling. ‘Could've sworn I had a pack in here.'

‘God's way of telling you to give up.'

‘Thanks.' Thin smile. ‘Anyway, trust me, something's wrong. Ignoring texts is so not Livvie.'

‘It doesn't mean we've got a crime on our hands.'

King's hands went to her hips. ‘A woman missing for a week? Bloodstains in her home? What more do you want? A signed confession? A body?'

It was more or less how Sarah had goaded the chief – only a damn sight louder. Enough to attract a sidelong glance from a man delivering the local free sheet.

‘It's not enough.' Sarah kept her voice calm and low. ‘You know that.'

‘I know this: Olivia wouldn't just take off without a word. It's totally out of character. She might not confide everything to me, but she'd never leave her mother in the dark. Never.' Utter sincerity. Absolute conviction. Calming breath. ‘Have you even spoken to Elizabeth?'

‘Mrs Kent. Yes. She's given us a list of her daughter's friends, associates; perhaps you could flesh it out?'

‘Of course.' Tetchy hand flap. Like it went without saying. ‘What about the bloodstains? Has she been told?'

Fleeting frown as she worked out who King meant. ‘Come on, Caroline. We've only just—'

‘I'll go and see her – she needs to know.' Keys already jangled from her hand.

‘No way.'

‘Yes way.' There was a defiant glint in the dark eye. ‘And get this. It's not down to you.'

Bristling, the DI braced her shoulders. ‘As investigating officer—'

‘Pah!' The uncut ice clearly went both ways. ‘Don't try pulling rank on me. And anyway, according to you there's nothing to investigate.'

‘That's not what I'm saying. Still, it's never stopped you before.' Mental cringe: feet in mouth.

‘Yeah?' Matter-of-fact. Casual. Throwing and catching the keys without breaking eye contact. ‘So what are you saying?'

King was one of the few people who could wind Sarah up, threaten her customary cool. She told herself to back off. Told herself she was a senior detective. Told herself this wasn't the school playground. Then she told the reporter a few things. ‘Your concept of the truth's pretty tenuous: way I see it, the facts don't often get in the way of your stories.' Even as the words emerged, she knew it was going too far – if not crossing a line.

‘I don't have to listen to this crap.' She wasn't – she'd already flounced off.

‘Where are you going?' As if she didn't know.

‘Guess.'

Striding to catch up, Sarah tapped the reporter's shoulder. ‘I'm sorry. Listen.'

She stopped, turned, snapped, ‘What?'

‘It's important I speak to Mrs Kent first.' Vital, too, the woman didn't reveal to the reporter the existence of the letter or the phone call to the school. King would be over it like a rash. ‘If there is an inquiry, Olivia's mother could hold key information. I need to build a rapport with her.'

‘Tough. I don't.' She aimed the fob at a black Mercedes. ‘I've known Elizabeth Kent since I was five years old. She's like a second mother to me. You're not stopping me seeing her.'

‘That's not my intention. Really.' She tried a smile. ‘I'd like a word first, that's all. Just give me an hour or so.'

Five-second stare, then: ‘Are you holding back on me?'

‘Yes, course I am. Come on, Caroline, what do you take me for?' Had the heavy sarcasm and exaggerated sigh done the trick?

King opened the driver's door and cut Sarah a casual glance. ‘One hour – that's it.'

Elizabeth Kent lived a ten-minute drive away. Caroline King pulled up outside the house in eight – including a pit-stop for twenty Marlborough and the local rag. The speed camera that had flashed the Merc in Coniston Road had probably filmed her sparking up, too. She sniffed, flicked the butt through the window. Depending how it all panned out, the fine might be off-loadable on expenses. Genuine though her concern for Livvie was, King's journalistic antennae were in overdrive.

Young professional women don't just disappear.

Eyes narrowed, she tapped the wheel, marshalled her thoughts. Quinn's bluff was risible: it was blindingly obvious the ice queen's chest was covered in held back cards. A full FSI team in situ? Several detectives on the knock – including David Harries. Thank you, wing mirror. Caroline's lip twitched: she might give him a bell later. The fling was unfinished business as far as she was concerned. As for the DI – zero love was lost there. Her poxy gratuitous pop had been well out of line. If it was a sign of heat under pressure it was the only one. As per usual, she'd looked cool, aloof and so sodding superior. Tight bun, tight ass. A poor man's Uma Thurman without the charm. She snorted. Yeah, right.

But she had to admit – even though it galled – Quinn wasn't short on calibre. An officer of her standing wouldn't be faffing round chasing untamed geese. It wasn't as though the cops didn't have better – make that worse – things to do. A cursory glance at the
Birmingham News
on the passenger seat showed they were up to their epaulettes. The DI's casual denial only confirmed to the reporter that something was going on. And whatever it was, Quinn was trying to cover it up. Like that would work. Caroline didn't do hush.

Grabbing her bag, she disguised the baccy fumes with a spray of Poison, moistened lips with a flick of her tongue and sucked hard on a Polo. Waiting for the front door to open, a quick glance at her watch prompted a fleeting smirk: forty minutes before the inspector calls.

TEN

‘
F
or Christ's sake, how long was it lying around down there?' A Sarah Quinn strop was rare and a full-blown rant unprecedented. Her clipped tones and chilled delivery packed more impact. She'd been summoned back to HQ by DS John Hunt.

The house call to Elizabeth Kent was on hold.

A plain white envelope had been left anonymously on a desk in Reception. Its ugly contents now spread on a table in the squad room where half a dozen other detectives were gathered.

‘They're short this week, ma'am,' Hunt said. Until five months ago, the detective sergeant had worked as Sarah's partner. Six foot two and well padded, Hunt bore a passing resemblance to David Tennant. If the erstwhile doctor had eaten all the pies. ‘A couple of the guys are off sick.'

Rolling up a sleeve of her crisp white blouse, Sarah tilted her head at the desk. ‘Not as sick as whoever left that. What the hell were they playing at downstairs, John?'

‘They had a rush on and Stan was on his own.' He scratched the side of his face, leaving pale trails. She hoped to God whoever had posted it had left video images; a DC was viewing CCTV footage in an office down the corridor.

She raised an ‘excuses, excuses' palm. ‘Not good enough, John. It's slack and it means a sleaze ball's dumped on us from a great height.' Because the development scared the shit out of Sarah. The ten-by-eight print was grainy, mostly shades of grey – not exclusively. ‘Does the chief know about this?' Her focus was on the photograph.

‘He's in court, ma'am. Giving evidence in the Blake brothers case.' Armed robbers who'd targeted six banks and building societies across the city over a nine-month period.

She snapped on latex gloves, gently took the picture between her fingertips. The light was low, the shadows dark, the victim recognizable – just. Olivia Kent's naked paleness was pitiful; her body blotched with bruises, streaked with blood. Her head was held high, hopefully in suspended animation. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. Round her slender neck was a noose of what looked like cheese wire. Death – if it hadn't already arrived – could come from asphyxiation and/or blood loss. Olivia's haunted eyes stared into the lens. Sarah bit her lip, shifted focus to the single sheet of white paper that still lay on the desk. The handwriting was the same as on the first communication.

Sarah tapped a finger against her mouth. ‘But I won't.' She could've been talking to herself.

‘Say again, ma'am.' Hunt.

‘But I won't. He's left out the last line. Why's he done that?'

‘'Cause he's mad as a box of frogs?' The remark wasn't as flip as it sounded. Hunt and the others were unaware of the previous letter, let alone the call to the school and the bloodstains. Given what was known now, it wouldn't be long before an edited version hit the front pages.

‘I wish.' Sarah sighed. A nutter was more likely to cock up somewhere along the line. ‘No, this isn't someone playing round. And whoever it is, he's no idiot.' Seemed to her they were dealing with a meticulous planner, a cold-blooded calculator. And he held all the cards. As she shared what little she knew, she spotted Harries enter clutching a steaming mug of something. He'd called in to say there was nothing doing on the neighbour front and was on the way back. Must've driven like the proverbial hell bat.

‘We can't hang fire till the chief's free, John.'

‘I'll get word out.' Running a finger under his collar. ‘Brief in, what, thirty minutes?'

‘Ten.' Time wasn't a luxury given how much had been unwittingly wasted. And another factor in the earlier outburst: the anger had been directed at herself as much as the clowns downstairs. She replaced the picture then watched Hunt head for a computer; other officers had already drifted back to whatever they'd been doing. Playing catch-up, Harries was now studying the perp's latest offerings. If his expression was anything to go by, he shared Sarah's fears. She didn't do vibes, instinct, whatever. Her head was telling her this case could blow up in their faces. The perp had abducted a woman, held her for almost a week with no one any the wiser. And the cops still wouldn't have a clue what was happening if he wasn't drip-feeding intelligence. It struck Sarah as breathtakingly arrogant.

‘Arrogant bastard, isn't he, boss?' It wasn't the first time Harries had voiced her thoughts. ‘Wanting us to know what he's up to, how clever he is.'

‘You're right.' And he probably imagined the cops were too dumb to catch him. ‘Still, pride, fall and all that,' she added.

‘Best hope he trips pretty damn quick.' He nodded at the photograph. ‘Look at her eyes. The poor bloody woman.'

Sarah didn't need to; the image now hung in her mental picture gallery. Feeling pity wasn't the priority, wouldn't get them anywhere. ‘We need copies – picture and letter. Can you make sure the originals get to the lab soon as, David? The brief'll kick off in eight minutes.'