Mother Love (8 page)

‘Of course.' Caroline jumped up, effortlessly went through the motions.

Elizabeth was picturing the tall blonde detective who'd visited her. ‘I'm a little surprised the woman in charge – Quinn, I think her name is – hasn't told me personally. She was adamant about keeping me informed.'

‘Sarah Quinn.' The reporter sniffed. ‘Clouseau meets Officer Dibble.'

‘Really not funny, Caroline. Do you know her?'

‘We go way back. Talk about cold fish. Even colleagues call her the ice queen. I first came across her when she was a wooden top. Do you mind if I smoke?'

‘Yes. You know I do.' Reaching in a pocket, she took out Sarah's business card, laid it on the table. ‘So, you don't like her? Or you think she's incompetent?' Critical difference.

Caroline shrugged a casual shoulder. ‘Not my call, is it?'

‘Mincing words, dear? That's not like you.' If the reporter's grouse was personal, Elizabeth didn't care. Given her high-profile media career, Caroline had probably made more enemies than friends over the years. All that mattered to Elizabeth was that the detective looking into Olivia's disappearance knew what she was doing.

‘OK. Telling it like it is: I don't think Sarah Quinn's up to the job.' No eye contact. Caroline was pouring tea, as well as scorn.

Elizabeth regarded her carefully. She'd known her as a little girl with scabby knees, knew her endless capacity for manipulating people, knew from countless anecdotes how she used the dubious talent in her profession – was she employing it now? And if so, why?

‘That's quite an indictment, Caroline. How do you know her?'

‘Like I say, I've come across her before. It looks good to have a woman in a senior post but it's lip service. I've seen her in action. She can't handle the pressure of a big case.' Cup clattered in saucer as Caroline passed the tea to Elizabeth.

The older woman paused, eyebrow arched. ‘And you can, dear?' The rebuke was gentle but hit home. Clearly Caroline was jittery, on edge, and for some reason questioning Sarah Quinn's professionalism. However much time Elizabeth had for Caroline as a family friend, she was acutely aware the reporter rarely acted without an unwritten agenda.

‘Nerves of steel, me.' A brittle laugh. ‘Tell you what does concern me?' She dragged her chair closer to Elizabeth, opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it.

‘Go on, spit it out.'

Apparently reluctant, she sighed, then: ‘Quinn's a ditherer. Indecisive, overcautious. Sometimes you can't just sit back and wait for developments. You have to make things happen.'

She had an idea where Caroline was coming from now, feigned ignorance and hid growing impatience. ‘And this is one of them?'

‘I think so. And if it is, surely we have to do anything and everything to find Olivia?'

‘And how do
we
do that?' As if she didn't know. She wanted to hear how Caroline would phrase it. The body language was expressive, too. Leaning forward she took Elizabeth's hands, fixed her with a compelling gaze. ‘The case needs exposure. We have to go public, get lots of media coverage.'

‘The case?' Glaring, Elizabeth broke Caroline's grasp. ‘We're talking about my daughter here.'

‘I'm so sorry.' She raised both palms. ‘I didn't mean it like that. This isn't easy for me either. All I care about is getting Livvie back. I really didn't mean to upset you. I got carried away.' Was the contrition genuine? Elizabeth imagined she'd had lots of practise.

‘I don't see the problem, or your point. The police will surely want to release details given—'

‘A boring statement. A talking head cop. I can hear it now.' She adopted a police-speak voice: ‘We are anxious to trace the last known whereabouts of blah blah blah.' She flapped a hand. ‘That's not going to do it.'

She was beginning to understand why Caroline was so successful. Most people would be taken in by the passion, the persuasive powers. Most people.

‘So what is?'

‘An interview with you, footage of Livvie, an appeal for witnesses to come forward. If she's being held against her will, coverage could flush the abductor into the open, force him into making a mistake.'

‘And if the error's fatal? That's far too high a price for giving you a free hand.'

‘But, Elizabeth.'

‘No. I'm sorry. I'll be guided by the police on this. If they think it's the way forward, so be it. But I'd have thought with the bogus call to the school and the letter from the abductor . . .'

‘Sorry, what did you say?'

‘Letter from the abductor.' Frowning, Elizabeth reached out a hand. ‘Are you all right, dear?'

THIRTEEN

‘
A
ll right, boss?' DC Harries was in the driving seat, index finger tapping a beat on the wheel. It had just gone noon, but the sun seemed to have clocked off for the day. The sky was slate grey. Traffic was mostly white van. ‘You seem a bit quiet.'

It was one way of putting it. Madison had been on the phone. The news conference was set for two p.m. DC Smug Bugger. Sarah gazed through the passenger window, not really taking it in, her focus elsewhere. ‘It's called thinking. Try it some time.' It was a cheap, unwarranted pop; she almost apologized.

Few bars of tuneless humming then: ‘I don't mind, boss. No worries.'

Interest piqued, she turned her head. ‘Mind what?'

‘Taking it out on me.' He gave a lopsided smile. ‘I quite like being your whipping boy.'

Despite the dark mood, her lip curved. ‘It's better than being a lackey.'

He glanced in the mirror, indicated left. ‘Madison's just this month's flavour, boss.'

She wasn't the only one who'd picked up on it then. ‘Yeah, and leaves a nasty taste.'

‘Talking of which, any chance of picking up a bite? I'm starving.'

In your dreams
. ‘We're cutting it fine as it is.' The hour's grace Caroline King had kindly bestowed before paying a state visit to Elizabeth Kent was almost up. And given the news they were bearing, the sooner they broke it to Olivia's mother – exclusively – the better.

‘Have you decided yet, boss? Whether to show her the photo?'

Harries had made it clear he thought Mrs Kent had a right to see it. But for Sarah – no pun intended – it wasn't a black and white issue. Baker had told her to play it by ear; it was her call. Either way, she'd slipped a copy in her briefcase: be prepared and all that.

‘I'm not sure she's ready for it, David.'

Not sure she ever would be.

‘You're late.' A stony-faced Caroline King was shrugging into her coat when she let the detectives into the hall. Her dark chocolate eyes melted when she saw Sarah's sidekick. ‘David.' The voice deepened and softened, positively drooled. ‘Long time no . . .?'
What? See
–
or shag?

Harries looked to be reddening, but managed a cursory salute before Sarah cut in.

‘You're early, Ms King. You said an hour. I seem to remember you giving me what you call your word.'

‘Ditto, DI Quinn.' Fulsome smile: full of bullshit. ‘“Not holding back”, wasn't it? Yeah.' Her lip was doing a Presley. ‘As in: vegan at a hog roast.'

‘Nice line, Lois.' She'd borrowed the gag from Baker. ‘How long did you work on it?'

‘Guess.'

‘I don't do guesswork. Where's Mrs Kent?'

Still glaring at Sarah, she waved vaguely towards the stairs. ‘Tell me: was I supposed to guess, DI Quinn? About the phone call and the letter?'

Beans spilled over bag-free cat. Sarah's heart sank. But only for an instant: the biggest can was still under wraps. Mrs Kent was unaware of the latest communication so couldn't have divulged the inquiry's more crucial intelligence.

‘We're not releasing details on the letter or the call.' Not true. In less than two hours it'd be fed to the press at Lloyd House.

‘No?' She cocked an eyebrow, hoisted an expensive-looking shoulder bag. ‘Look, I s'pose I can't blame you for
trying
to do your job. But Olivia's my closest friend. For me, this is personal.' Like it was an alien concept to Sarah. ‘The potential risk's too big to piss around.'

‘So in case it endangers her I take it you won't use the material?' As if.

‘Try stopping me.' She waggled two fingers at Harries. ‘Catch you later, Davy.'

Sarah watched her leave, made no attempt to put her straight either. As far as she was concerned, King could pig out on what she fondly imagined was forbidden fruit. As long as it distracted her from the main course.

‘Try stopping her what?' Mrs Kent was halfway down the stairs. It looked as if she'd restyled the chignon, freshened the lipstick.

Sarah wondered how much of the exchange she'd heard. Arguing the toss with King like that was hardly professional. Sent the wrong signals. And certainly not the reason she was here. ‘I'd like to talk. May we sit somewhere, Mrs Kent?'

Three- to four-seconds of eye contact, then: ‘Sounds ominous, Inspector.' Sarah had kept her voice neutral and face unreadable; Mrs Kent was no fool. ‘You'd better come through.'

Empty mugs and biscuit crumbs on the kitchen table suggested there'd been time for a cosy chat during the reporter's visit. Mrs Kent flicked a desultory dishcloth, but gave up, slung it in the sink almost immediately and took the carver opposite Sarah. ‘I take it you have some news?'

Sarah nodded, gaze steady. ‘There's no doubt now that Olivia's being held against her will, Mrs Kent. Whoever's holding her has made contact again.'

‘Another letter?'

Slight pause. ‘Yes.'

‘The same as before?' There was almost relief in the voice, Sarah thought. As if she'd been expecting the worst.

‘Not quite.' It was identical to the first, she said, apart from the omission of the last line. Kitchen sounds were audible in the short ensuing silence: humming fridge, dripping tap. Sarah and Harries exchanged bland glances.

‘“But I won't.”' Mrs Kent had committed it to memory. ‘I could put her out of her misery. But I won't.' Frowning, she scratched the side of her face; the ring on her finger looked a little loose. Maybe she'd lost weight recently. ‘So what does it mean, Inspector? What's he trying to say? And why the hell's he doing this?' Unmistakeable flash of anger.

You tell me
. ‘We don't know yet, Mrs Kent.'

‘And that's it? Nothing else from the ba . . .?' Closing her eyes, she tightened her lips, curtailing the expletive.

Harries cleared his throat. Sarah ignored the prompt. But did she have the right
not
to inform Mrs Kent of the menacing development?

‘We may be able to elicit more.' Fudge fudge. It was no answer.

‘Go on.' The woman sat back, folded her arms.

‘The fact he's communicating with us, could mean he's waiting for a response.'
And we sure don't have a return address
. ‘The only way we can get in touch . . .'

‘Is via the media.' It was no question, and the withering look suggested she'd heard it all before.

‘Yes.' Sarah leaned forward, laced her fingers. ‘But my advice is we go easy. Experience tells me the abductor wants to be in control, wants to call the shots. I'd say it's vital not to push him over the edge.' Not just her experience. Baker had passed on what he'd gleaned over the phone from Colin Stone. Control freak with sadistic leanings summed it up.

‘So we sit back and wait – is that also what you're saying?' There was an edge to the voice Sarah found difficult to read; the arms now more tightly clamped gave a clue.

‘No, Mrs Kent. I'm saying we start with a carefully-worded police statement and witness appeal. See how it goes from there.'

‘Caroline was right then. She said that's how you'd want to handle it.' The woman wasn't crowing, it was more an observation.

Not bristling took effort. ‘I'm not overly concerned about Ms King's opinion, Mrs Kent.'
Fact is I don't give a flying fuck
.

‘She wants to work on a detailed report, film and photographs of Olivia, an interview with me. She's convinced full coverage is the best way to go. That it'll flush out the abductor, persuade witnesses to come forward. Help the inquiry.'

Dead altruistic
. ‘And have you agreed to help?'

Deep sigh. ‘I said I needed time to think.'

Small mercies. Thanks, God. ‘I can't force you not to co-operate with her, Mrs Kent. But trust me we have established procedures, highly-trained experts, officers experienced at dealing with crimes of this nature. We do know what we're doing.' Bit of vocal support from Harries wouldn't go amiss. She cut him a glance but the hint went unnoticed or wasn't taken.

‘How'm I supposed to know what's best?' Her chair tilted as she jumped up, headed for the sink. ‘I'm not just torn in two, I'm in bits.' Shoot. She was about to throw up. No. She ran water into a glass, pressed it to a temple, then: ‘I can't even think straight. All I want, DI Quinn, is to have my daughter home, unharmed.'

‘That's what I want too, Mrs Kent. It's why I'm sure—'

‘Sure? How can you be sure?' She banged the glass on the drainer. ‘My daughter's life could depend on your decisions.'

‘I have no doubt your daughter's life depends on police decisions, Mrs Kent.' Girding mental loins, she reached for her briefcase. ‘That's why you need to take our guidance.' Not some self-serving reporter's quest for airtime.

This was real life not manufactured headlines.

She placed the envelope on the table. ‘Please, Mrs Kent. Sit down.'

It was show-and-tell time.

‘Thanks for your valuable contribution.' Sarah slammed the driver's door, slung her briefcase on the back seat.