A Question of Despair

by Maureen Carter

  For some time, Sarah blamed herself as much as Caroline for what happened. She rarely looked back and when she did could only visualize the scene as a series of jerking black and white silhouettes like a silent movie, except for Caroline’s scream. The only slow motion sequence was Jack, dying. Jack Keene. Sarah’s partner and lover.

  ‘Shoot, Caro, I’m surprised there’s not more bad blood between you.’ Chris Cooke lounged in a leather armchair long legs sprawled under the table. The shade of Rioja in his glass matched the colour of the décor.

  ‘It wasn’t all down to me.’ Caroline had kept her promise of a post-edit drink or three in the Press Club. It had taken Chris less than a couple of minutes to drop a particularly meaningless ‘no comment’ in the sound track. The package had received final approval and first plaudits. The reporter had just given Cooke edited highlights of her history with Sarah Quinn.

  ‘But it may not have happened if you’d not been there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened if the police had gone straight in instead of pissing around.’

  ‘Has it never occurred to you they might’ve been hanging back to get what they needed for a conviction?’

  ‘Oh, come on. They were hardly going to catch him in the act, were they?’

  That, more or less, was exactly what the police had been hoping.

  Once stirred, Sarah couldn’t let the memories rest. Still perched on the edge of her desk she let the images flood back. Maybe facing it again would lay a ghost or two. The undercover operation had been meticulously planned. Its aim to apprehend a man who’d attacked and mutilated six women in London over a period of six months. The rapist targeted young blondes alone on the streets, the attacks confined to the Brixton area during the early hours. Predictably the press had dubbed him The Butcher of Brixton, the more sensational reports spelt out why. Unsurprisingly, women were terrified to go out. More than a decade ago now, few people would recall details; some police officers would never forget.

  The police strategy was to use a decoy, a young detective constable. Sarah. She was to be wired, kept under constant surveillance and like the rest of the squad, armed.

  Even now, she was adamant she’d not told Caroline King when the plan would be executed. It was enough that she’d mentioned it at all. She wouldn’t have said a word except throughout the investigation the reporter had helped the police. It was vital that women were warned of the danger and aware of the risks. Caroline had kept the story alive, not just in the newspapers but on the front pages. She’d told Sarah she saw it as part of her job to help make sure the rapist was captured before adding more victims to a list already too long. It was this commitment on Caroline’s part that led to Sarah’s indiscretion.

  With hindsight Sarah had told herself she should have realized the major part of the reporter’s job was to secure a good story. But neither had she known then that Caroline was sleeping with a detective on the team, a detective who filled in the blanks.

  No one knew for certain what or who had alerted the rapist. The very scale of Operation Stranger carried an inherent risk. On the night events happened so quickly, Sarah was barely aware a shot had been fired, let alone who it killed. She’d played her part perfectly, drawn the rapist out of the shadows, felt his hot breath on her neck. Then a sudden noise, a scream. She learned later that Caroline King had watched him pull a gun, was convinced Sarah would be shot. The fact he carried firearms was unknown. Prior attacks had borne only the ugly marks of knives and glass.

  Jack had been closest, broke cover, drew fire. He’d lost his life, the rapist was serving his in maximum security, Sarah’s had been damaged irrevocably. Her career could have been over. The big question at the inquiry was who’d leaked details to the press. Caroline King consistently refused to reveal her source, but swore it wasn’t DC Quinn.

  Sarah’s immediate response had been to resign anyway. She’d revealed the existence of an undercover operation to a reporter. In getting the details, Caroline King had only been doing her job, however despicable. It was only when she was going through Jack’s papers that it sank in how despicable. Caroline had been sleeping with Jack. Sarah had lost her lover – months before his death – to Caroline King. Sarah had ripped up her resignation letter, she’d damn well not lose her livelihood as well.

  ‘You all right, Quinn? Look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  She hadn’t heard Baker come in. Glancing up, she gave a tired smile. ‘I’m fine, chief. Just thinking.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He tapped his brow. ‘I’m off home. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Hold on a tick.’ She grabbed her briefcase and keys. ‘I’ll come down with you.’

  ‘You sure about this, Quinn?’ He held the door, winked as she walked past. ‘People might talk?’

  ‘Am I bothered?’

  FORTY-ONE

  The boss would go ballistic. Apeshit. Seated at a desk in the incident room, Harries held his head in his hands. He’d just put the phone down on a pissed and seriously pissed off Caroline King. Would she even have mentioned the Karen Lowe report if she hadn’t had a drink? He doubted it. The booze had loosened a spiteful tongue. She knew the story was dynamite. And now he knew it too. He saw a green genie lolling against a gin bottle giving him the bird.

  Rising, he wandered to the window, checked the car park. Looked as if DI Quinn had already left. Should he call her? Nah. It had to be face-to-face. He ran fingers through already mussed hair. Damn shame he’d rung Caroline, told her he didn’t want to see her again. Maybe his calling the shots had provoked her even more. The speculation was academic. In little more than an hour, a bulletin would go out savaging Sarah, damaging her reputation. Talk about hatchet job. He couldn’t see a way of stopping the story’s transmission, but he had to warn her. At the very least she needed to watch it, hear what was said so she could work out a reply. How to alert her without jeopardizing his job? How to disclose something of which in theory he should know nothing?

  He was working on that. Grabbing his jacket he dashed out, weaving a path through imaginary rocks and hard places.

  ‘You said if anything came up boss?’ Harries stood outside Sarah’s apartment holding aloft a carrier bag with a tell-tale clink.

  ‘Two bottles?’ She pursed her lips. ‘Are you celebrating?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure which you prefer. Red or white?’

  ‘What if I said rose?’

  ‘You could go half and half?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

  She was smiling but he was still on the doorstep. He knew she was waiting to hear where he was going with this. Much as he’d like it to be otherwise, theirs was a professional relationship that didn’t include home visits, especially unannounced arrivals. With the stakes so high, he’d calculated the risk of an icy rebuff worth taking. He hoped any chill would be confined to the Chardonnay.

  Her smile seemed warm enough. ‘I know this is a cheek and I shouldn’t be here. I just thought . . . you know . . . maybe we could . . . talk over the case? Tell me to get lost . . . if you like.’

  ‘Get lost.’ Her deadpan delivery was drier than the wine.

  He looked down, about to apologize, mentally counting the cost of his miscalculation. When he glanced up she was trying not to laugh.

  ‘You did say, “if I like”.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Doesn’t mean you have to go, though. Mind, it was worth it for the look on your face.’

  ‘Did you like the look?’ Whoops. Had he crossed another line?

  She held his gaze then pointed to the bag. ‘Come through. Let’s have a drink.’

  His bemused glance took in a kitchen that was messy bordering on chaotic. He masked a smile. The disarray figured, he guessed. The boss was so disciplined at work, she had to let her hair down somewhere. She had her back to him, pouring the wine. Shame her hair was still up. Though he’d never felt the need to imagine the state of the Quinn kitchen, he’d fantasized frequently how its owner might look were she a touch dishevelled.
/>   ‘There you go.’ She handed him a glass then leaned against the sink.

  ‘Cheers. This is really good of you, boss.’

  ‘I’d offer you a bite but my cuisine’s more hoot than haute.’

  He’d clocked a tin of alphabet spaghetti on one of the work surfaces. ‘What were you going to do with that, eat it or read it?’

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘You can’t be that hungry?’ The wall clock showed 21.50. He couldn’t leave it much longer. Then he spotted the TV. He’d thought initially it was a microwave: there was a bread basket on top filled with packs of pasta. ‘I could throw a few things together for you.’

  ‘Puh-lease. Don’t tell me all you need is a stick of celery and a bit of mouldy Stilton and you can knock up lobster thermidor?’

  ‘Nah.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘Can’t stand sea food.’

  She laughed.

  ‘What have you got in the fridge?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  It was a huge Smeg, almost food-free. ‘The contents of a fridge say a lot about a person you know, boss.’

  ‘Is that right? And what are they telling you about me?’

  Two bottles of champagne. Five Italian wines. A six-pack of Becks. ‘That you entertain a lot?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘That you should entertain a lot.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Hold on.’ He turned round clutching an onion and a pack of tomatoes. ‘Right. This is what I’ve deduced. That you are a woman who is about to sit down . . .’ He waited until she took a stool, then added, ‘But not before she’s poured more wine.’ She rolled her eyes, but entered into the spirit. ‘While I toil away producing perfect pasta à la Quinn and we talk about the case.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Twenty minutes at most, Harries reckoned. Caroline had said the piece was going out in the Close-up on Britain slot that invariably led the second half of the bulletin. He prepped a few veg then sauntered to the TV, reached for some penne. It would be too crass to switch the set on by accident. But could he make something of his earlier mistake?

  ‘Do I detect a deliberate deception going on here, madam?’ Would she go along with the light-hearted tease?

  ‘What’s that, Sherlock?’

  ‘The TV appears to be masquerading as a microwave.’

  ‘Yeah, course it is. Why would I do that?’

  ‘You don’t want anyone to know you’re a telly addict? Hooked on the soaps?’

  ‘I’m so hooked, I don’t even know if the set works.’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  It worked. It worked like a dream. He’d anticipated switching it on and casually leaving it playing in the background. There was no need. The story was being trailed: a newsreader’s disembodied voice over a picture of Karen Lowe holding Evie.

  Mother of murdered baby blames police . . .

  Sarah stared in disbelief at the screen.

  ‘Here, boss, drink this.’ Harries who’d had an idea what to expect had been shocked by the headline, dreaded to think what would be in the full report.

  Sarah drank the wine without tasting it, barely aware she’d taken the glass. ‘Blames the police for what, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What the hell’s she going to come out with, David?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sarah walked to the door. ‘Bring the bottle. We’ll watch in the other room. I want to record it. In case I can’t believe it the first time.’

  It was worse than she’d feared.

  The Kemps’ contribution was benign compared with what followed. They came over as a desperately sad couple grieving for their baby and appealing for help to catch the killer. Karen Lowe came over as a desperately sad mother grieving for her baby and baying for blood: Sarah Quinn’s.

  She sat in shocked silence. Harries drained the bottle into her glass, handed it to her without speaking. Immersed in their separate thoughts, both jumped when the phone rang.

  ‘Did you see it, Quinn?’ The chief certainly had. ‘You’ve been framed?’ For a second she thought he’d flipped, then: ‘Only instead of Harry Hill doing the honours we get Karen bloody Lowe dishing the dirt.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You did see it then. The crap that’s just gone out?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘And?’

  She stroked her temple with a finger. ‘It was one-sided to say the least.’

  ‘One-sided?’ The headache just got worse. ‘One-sided! It was a pile of shite. I want you in my office first thing, Quinn. We need to work on a rebuttal. I’m demanding a right to reply and I’ll push for equal air time.’

  Right to reply. Caroline King’s call earlier. Sarah briefly closed her eyes.

  ‘They’ll have no bloody choice,’ Baker blustered. ‘I can’t understand why you weren’t approached for a comment at least.’

  No wonder the bitch had rung off in such a rush.

  ‘I was. In a way.’

  Slight pause. ‘By?’

  ‘Caroline King.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Earlier today. I said no comment, but—’

  ‘What!’

  ‘If you’ll just let me finish—’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if King hasn’t finished you off, Quinn.’

  ‘I thought I was commenting on something else. I’d no idea she’d interviewed Karen Lowe.’

  ‘She wasn’t calling to inquire about the state of your health. Why the hell didn’t you ask what she wanted?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She hung up.’

  ‘And left you out to dry.’ She opened her mouth to remonstrate, but Baker had moved on. ‘Another thing, Quinn: how come she knew where the Kemps were?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Best find out sharpish. And while you’re at it, work on a way of how you get out of this shit.’

  With even less courtesy than he’d started, he rang off.

  ‘Baker, huh?’

  The voice reminded her Harries was still there. He’d kept a low profile while she was on the phone. He’d only have heard one side of the conversation but you didn’t need to be a genius to fill in the blanks.

  ‘Who else?’ Sinking back into the settee, she sounded casual, unconcerned. There was a niggle at the back of her mind she was trying to pin down.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’ Harries’ question pushed it further back.

  ‘What?’

  He raised the unopened bottle in reply.

  ‘No. No thanks. Look I’ve got a few things to do and an early start in the morning, David.’

  ‘Sure. Of course. Is there anything I can do before I go?’

  She held his gaze, tried reading his expression. ‘No, nothing.’

  In one way or another, she thought, he’d already done enough.

  Sarah lay awake into the night. She’d viewed the recording of King’s report so many times she could play it word imperfect in her head. Perhaps she’d looked at it too much and was no longer seeing it properly. But something in the piece had planted that half seed of an idea in her head. She was pretty sure it must be something Karen Lowe had said. The rest of the item was predictable wallpaper pictures for King to voice over, numerous stills of the baby and footage of Karen. There were shots of her in a park, shots of her walking around the estate, shots of her at home leafing through large photo albums of Evie’s too short life.

  Concentrate. She was sure there was something there, something significant, something she had to pick up on. Useless. Around three a.m. she threw off the duvet, wandered into the kitchen, put water on to boil, dropped a chamomile tea bag into a mug. Leaning against the sink, she glanced round. The place was messier than normal with Harries’ peelings and stalks littering the work surface. She smiled. The guy was good company, however unexpect
ed. She had a feeling he fancied her and talking about the case had been an excuse to call round. Was she flattered? Sure. A little flirtation wouldn’t hurt. It certainly wouldn’t be going anywhere. Even if Adam wasn’t on the scene, she wasn’t on the market for a relationship at work. Once bitten . . .

  She spotted a pan on the cooker, congealed onions and tomatoes swimming in a pool of oil in a pan. She curled a lip. It was just as well they hadn’t eaten, her stomach was churning anyway now.

  Then she froze, ears pricked. What was the noise? Low voices? She cocked her head, tried to pinpoint where they were coming from. Breath bated, she tiptoed to the door. Bloody fool. The Pink Panther was on the box. She’d left the sodding set on. Striding into the sitting room, she reached for the switch. Her hand stilled: the act reminded her of Harries again and sparked a different sequence of thoughts.

  If he hadn’t dropped by . . . If he hadn’t started cooking . . . If he hadn’t switched on the TV. Timing? Coincidence?

  In bed later, with sleep still eluding her, she stopped thinking ‘if’ and started asking ‘why?’

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what exactly? Sir.’

  ‘After she hung up – why didn’t you call her back immediately. Find out why she was so keen to get a comment?’

  Because I missed out on your dish of hindsight. Sir. Sarah had been in with Baker for forty-two minutes. She’d not expected it to drag on this long, knew it would last three minutes more at most. Something vital was about to come up. Not that she could see the future any better than the past, but because she’d arranged it with Harries. He’d ring at 9.45 on a pressing matter and she’d get to leave. Her suspicions about Harries were on hold, she’d keep a watching brief while allowing him the benefit of the doubt. Which was more than Baker was giving her. At the moment she wasn’t so much on the carpet as admiring its underlay.