‘Divine retribution? It’s a cardiac arrest. She’s not been struck down by God. And if she dies she won’t get sent down either. Justice? Try telling the Kemps that.’
‘That’s a point. Where do the Kemps fit into this? Why kill their baby?’
Sarah rose, walked to the window, perched on the sill. Holding the reporter’s gaze, she said, ‘Deborah Lowe was provoked by something she’d seen.’
‘What? The Kemps playing Happy Families?’
‘She’d never set eyes on the Kemps before snatching Harriet.’
‘What set her off? Must’ve been pretty extreme.’
Sarah nodded. ‘It was on TV. She didn’t like it at all.’
‘Go on then. Was it a late night film or something?’
‘No. But it might as well have been.’ She folded her arms. ‘It was on the late news. One of your stories.’
Caroline’s foundation had been carefully applied, but Sarah detected a sudden shift in colour. She aimed for an even paler shade. ‘The fatuous piece about Karen being taken in for questioning. We didn’t release anything. It was one of your “exclusives”.’
‘Bollocks. You can’t possibly say my piece drove that woman to kill.’
‘I’m not.’ She paused. ‘Deborah Lowe is.’
‘Yeah, well she’s mad as a box of frogs.’
‘She was on a knife edge. And your report tipped her over.’
‘But why?’
‘That’s the sort of question you should have asked yourself all the way along. How far should you go? When’s the time to hold back? When you chase a story, you shouldn’t be asking its price, you should consider its cost.’
‘Here endeth the second lesson.’ She curled a lip, the delivery was glib. But Sarah sensed the words had hit home. The reporter looked to be still weighing them up.
There’d been more time for Sarah to reflect. She knew the killing of Harriet Kemp wasn’t clear cut. The cause and effect she’d outlined was too simplistic. Deborah Lowe had been living a life of quiet despair for years, her mind severely warped before seeing the report. But fearing Karen would implicate her, she said, had provoked a second death – to misdirect the police. In the next breath she’d claimed neither death was deliberate, that the smothering had been accidental. Clinically insane – or cold and calculating? The jury was out. At least Sarah hoped it would be.
She shared none of this with the reporter. It would do Caroline no harm to contemplate consequences which for the moment she believed she’d caused. She hadn’t. She’d contributed casually to an outcome no one could have predicted or prevented. No doubt she’d arrive at a conclusion she could live with. For the moment, Sarah was happy to let her sweat. It didn’t last long.
‘OK. So why the hell didn’t Karen tip you off about her bloody mother?’
‘What with? She had no proof. The girl could hardly bring herself to believe it, let alone persuade anyone else. It was probably easier in a way for Karen when Harriet was murdered. Must’ve been tempting to believe both deaths were down to a random killer.’ She paused, wanted to test the water. ‘I wonder whether Karen will blame herself?’
‘Why on earth should she do that?’
‘Well, there was Deborah desperate to have another baby. Then there’s Karen, barely out of school, and she’s a mother.’
‘Oh come on. Teenage pregnancies, single mothers. It’s the norm these days.’
‘Not when the baby’s father is also the mother’s.’
It took her a few seconds to work it out. ‘What? Tom Lowe . . . ?’
Sarah arched an eyebrow. At least that was news to the reporter. ‘No one told you he’s Evie’s father?’
She shook her head.
‘Then I don’t suppose you know he’s not Karen’s father?’
‘How did you find out?’
Sarah was enjoying this. ‘Partly good old-fashioned police work: the archives of the local newspaper, plus that piece you did with Karen. All those stills you used? I got one of them tweaked, and guess who was in the background? Even Karen didn’t realize Tom Lowe was there until later.’ Michael Slater her old boyfriend had taken the pics. He was currently on some religious retreat with his parents, according to Karen.
‘OK. Smart bit of detecting. But Walter Clarke provided the big breakthrough. And he only came forward because of my report.’
Sarah gave a lopsided smile. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Caroline. If you believe your pieces have that much impact then you have to accept Deborah Lowe was moved to kill.’
‘Will you be releasing it at the news conference?’
She’d already decided against. Not to save Caroline from professional discomfort but to protect the Kemps from further trauma. They were the real victims in the case as far as Sarah was concerned. ‘What’s it worth, if I don’t?’
‘I can’t stop you, DI Quinn. And I’ve got nothing that would be of any use to you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘No. But you’ve been with one of my officers.’
‘DC Harries?’ She laughed. ‘Dear David, you mean?’
‘He didn’t come cheap then?’ No amusement now. The voice was clipped, bitter.
Caroline frowned, seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘You’ve lost me again.’
‘Your cheque book? Must have taken a hammering.’
‘Selling stories? Yep. He’s a very close contact, the source of a few leaks.’ Her lip curved in a smile. ‘And I can state quite categorically: not one was connected to the inquiry. We shared sex, not secrets.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘And I assure you, I never have to pay for that.’
Tight-lipped, Sarah watched as Caroline – trying not to laugh – reached down for her handbag. Knocking it over and scrambling for a few contents dented a gloating exit, but at the door she turned, threw in a last line. ‘So, wrong again, inspector. David Harries is definitely all male, you’ve yet to find your mole.’
Late evening still in her office, Sarah freshened her make-up, peered at the bruise that would take days to fade and applied more concealer. As for the metaphorical egg on her face? She’d already apologized to Harries for her mistake. She took it as a good sign that he’d called her ‘boss’ throughout.
Messages from the hospital were mixed. John Hunt had called in to say Deborah Lowe’s condition was critical but stable. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial. He’d been in the ambulance, caught garbled words as she slipped in and out of consciousness.
Sarah glanced at her watch: had a meeting with the chief in ten minutes. It would be a debriefing but she felt none of the usual elation that came with the end of a case. The conclusion of Operation Bluebird could hardly be described as successful.
If Deborah Lowe survived, lawyers would almost certainly argue she was unfit to stand trial. She’d probably be sectioned, spend the rest of her miserable existence in secure accommodation. Tom and Karen Lowe would be free to pursue their affair. Sarah doubted it. Even without snatched moments and dark secrets, wherever they went, whatever they did, long shadows would follow. As for the Kemps, their grief for Harriet would continue unabated.
And Evie? Her picture was still blue-tacked to the wall. Sarah rose, wandered over, kissed her fingers, pressed them gently to the baby’s lips. Briefly she closed her eyes. Suffer the little children.
Best not keep the chief waiting. Walking back, she spotted a piece of paper under the desk. Was it from Caroline King’s bag? She bent to pick it up, found the wording more interesting than the reporter’s stories. The receipt was from a pre-printed pad, but the handwritten additions made fascinating reading. Top line was that Caroline Quinn had shelled out £500 to PC Dean Lavery.
Written proof was a gift from heaven. But had it fallen or had the reporter left it deliberately? Sarah would never ask and she reckoned for once it would be ‘no comment’ from Caroline.
She gave a bitter-sweet smile. There was only thing to do with a gift.
‘Sir?’ She halted mid-stride.
He waved her to a seat. ‘All these sodding confessions.’
‘Oh that.’ She smiled weakly. Not that she’d screwed one out of Lavery yet. The detective’s informer role was a given, but she had a strong suspicion he’d been the intruder at her apartment too. She reckoned a guy who’d consistently betrayed his colleagues’ trust was capable of pulling off an act like that, gaining some sort of vicarious pleasure from it. She’d run it past the chief in a while, either way Lavery would be hauled in and questioned first thing.
‘Yeah, confessions “r” us, chief.’ She flopped in a chair.
‘Let’s hope it’s not the last rites next.’
‘Deborah Lowe might pull through. The hospital says she’s stable.’
‘Her heart might be.’ He tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘Her head ain’t. She’s doo-fucking-lally.’ He talked about the chances of the case getting to court, but Sarah had been there done that. Her heart wasn’t in it; her mind elsewhere.
‘Come on, Quinn. You did everything you could.’
He’d done it again. Mr Empathy. Maybe inside that sexist macho exterior a New Man was struggling to get out. She gave a thin smile. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘The case started coming together soon as you made the Tom Lowe connection. Don’t sell yourself short and don’t beat yourself up. Mind, you should’ve listened to me from the start.’ There was a glint in his post-lunch red-eye.
‘Go on.’
‘Told you having babies makes women go funny, didn’t I?’ He winked. ‘Didn’t realize it goes on so bloody long though.’ Yep, that New Man had a job on his hands. She shook her head, realized that in Baker’s clumsy crass way, he was trying to lighten her dark mood. And he hadn’t finished. ‘I trust you’re not buggering off to have babies any time soon, Quinn.’
‘I won’t if you won’t.’ She returned the wink.
‘Sod off, smart arse.’
‘Just before I go, I’ve got something for you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Our little local difficulty? The leaking policeman?’
‘Not funny, Quinn.’
‘I was wrong. It wasn’t Harries.’ She gave him edited highlights of the conversation with Caroline King. Then: ‘So dear David was more performer than informer.’
Baker turned his mouth down. ‘Wouldn’t mind getting in on King’s act myself.’
‘That’d be a bit part, would it?’ Dead pan. ‘Anyway you were wrong too.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember what you said about receipts and not getting the informant gift-wrapped?’
‘I did?’
She reached into her pocket, took out a small parcel. The gift paper was red; the scarlet ribbon was tied in a neat bow. ‘You did.’
Baker unwrapped it and smiled. ‘I was wrong again, Sarah. Calling you Father Quinn? Make that Father Christmas.’
Sarah? First names? In that case: ‘Fancy a drink, Rudolf?’
A Question of Despair Page 25