‘I don’t comment on speculation. It’s why I’m seeking help from the public, Mr Fielding.’
‘Again … why not seek it earlier?’
‘And I’m certainly not discussing operational policy with you.’ Despite clammy palms, she threw in an icy stare.
‘No, I quite see that, inspector.’ He responded with a warm smile. ‘That would be a waste of time. Wouldn’t it?’ The dig prompted sniggers from a couple of his peers.
‘Anna Thorpe, Sunday Mercury.’ A young blonde sitting behind Fielding had a finger in the air. Even without the long glossy black hair and short pencil skirt, she’d turn a few heads, was turning a few heads. Sarah thanked God for the diversion, reached for a carafe, nodded acknowledgement at Thorpe to continue.
‘With all due respect, inspector …’ Yeah right. Ms Mealy Mouth. She’d not even tried to sound as if she meant it. Sarah felt sweat trickle down her spine, took a sip of tepid water. ‘Though I’m sure you’re doing your best –’ the smile was as genuine as hen’s dentures – ‘I still think you should let us talk to Caitlin’s mother. Real people have so much more impact with our readers, you see.’
Real people? As opposed to what? Plastic police people? For someone who looked like she could be on work experience, Thorpe’s patronizing pop rate was pretty good. Her last point was on the money too. Problem was Nicola Reynolds had been under police questioning for much of the day and if the pack got so much as a sniff of that fact, it wouldn’t just put them off the trail, it might point them in completely the wrong direction. Either way, it risked putting an unfair slant on the coverage. Last thing Sarah wanted right now was Nicola Reynolds facing trial by tabloid.
‘You’re absolutely right, Miss Thorpe. Of course you can talk to Mrs Reynolds.’ She smiled, took another sip of water. ‘As soon as she feels ready. Naturally, she’s distraught at the moment.’
‘But—’
‘You wouldn’t want to cause further distress, would you … dear?’ OK. Childish. The DI’s customary cool had taken a couple of slides. Christ, she was only human. Besides, assuming Nicola Reynolds held nothing else close to her chest, Sarah saw her as a trump card. The best time to parade the mother in front of the press was when its interest showed signs of flagging. Not long then. ‘She’ll probably be up for it tomorrow,’ Sarah said. ‘All being well.’ Nothing like hedging your bets.
She took three more questions from the floor, repeated the time-frame and Caitlin’s route, stressed how vital it was that witnesses came forward. Apart from doing a turn for the local telly station immediately after the news conference, Sarah reckoned it was more or less a wrap. But Fielding clearly had other ideas. ‘Are you ruling out the professional kidnapper scenario then, inspector?’
‘Neither in nor out, Mr Fielding.’ Glancing down, she started gathering files. ‘As in every inquiry, the police have to keep an open mind.’
He muttered something as she walked out that elicited more sniggers. Sarah only caught the last word: vacant. Reckoned she could probably guess the rest.
Naomi-nice-but-dim hung around while Sarah did the TV interview then tailed her out of the conference room. ‘That reporter who was up his own backside? He was just guessing, right?’
‘Fielding.’ Sarah masked a smile. Naomi seemed to have found her voice. ‘I reckon. Why?’
‘A professional makes no sense to me. I mean Caitlin’s not famous or nothing. Besides, the family’s not rolling in it. So whoever it is can’t be after cash. And last time I looked, Moseley wasn’t exactly the centre of the white slave trade.’
‘Go on.’ Intriguing.
Naomi with voluble hand signals now matched the DI’s stride. The brown mid-calf skirt and fussy orange blouse did the press officer no favours, nor the split ends in the long auburn hair, but Sarah’s gaze also took in the serious expression in clear hazel eyes. Dark horse? New light? Memo to self: don’t write off people too soon.
‘OK, so the streets round the school and the Reynolds’ house are still swamped with police, right? You’ve got uniform knocking doors, stopping drivers, detectives interviewing anyone with a pulse. But still no one’s come forward, have they?’
‘Go in.’ Sarah opened her office door. ‘Take a seat.’
Naomi perched on the edge, bit a thumbnail as she waited for Sarah to off-load files, crack open a window then lean against the sill. ‘Go on.’ She folded her arms.
‘As far as we know, inspector, no one saw anything, heard anything, or even suspected anything.’
‘And you read into that – what?’ And would it match Sarah’s thinking?
‘Maybe there was nothing to see?’ She held out empty palms. ‘No scuffle, no scream, no snatch, no burning rubber.’
‘You think Caitlin went willingly?’
‘If someone took her, I think she knew who it was.’ If someone took her? Naomi’s suspicions went further than the DI’s, who’d only toyed with the idea that Caitlin may have co-operated under duress; even the threat of violence from her captor could have cowed her into silent acquiescence.
‘And?’
‘That’s why I don’t buy into the abduction, kidnap, vanishing act – whatever you want to call it – being a professional hit. I see it as personal. What if she’s besotted with some bloke? Had rows with her mum over him, say? Wanted to put the wind up her?’ Considering how long it had taken her to speak out, the press officer certainly wasn’t holding back now. Warming to her theme or what?
‘You’ve seen the emails, Naomi, the photographs sent to Nicola Reynolds’ phone?’
She nodded. ‘Sure, but if Caitlin wanted to punish her mum, teach her a lesson, sending that stuff would be a piece of piss.’ She coloured. ‘Sorry, but for computer literate kids it’d be child’s play, inspector.’
‘It’s one hell of a harsh lesson, Naomi.’ Unless, Sarah mused, the whole thing had gone too far, got out of hand and Caitlin was too scared to call a halt. She’d certainly looked scared witless in the pics. What was it Jude Fox had told Harries? Caitlin liked to be the centre of attention, she played the drama queen. But even if she had taken part in an elaborate hoax … ‘She sure as hell couldn’t be acting alone, could she?’
Naomi made eye contact, paused a heartbeat. ‘Exactly.’
SIXTEEN
Standing in front of a whiteboard, Sarah ran her gaze over what she sensed was a less than delirious squad. She doubted the subdued mood had much to do with the dark night, the hail stones hammering the incident room’s windows. For one thing the stunned silence had only just settled. She’d hung fire until the end of the late brief before mooting Naomi York’s theory. She’d run it past the chief earlier, who’d not so much poured cold water on it as stood it under Victoria Falls in a cloudburst during the rainy season. His cavalier dismissal before knocking off for the weekend hadn’t given Sarah pause; she’d waited to hear each detective’s latest input, hoping for concrete developments. Their mental image of Caitlin now had a little more light and shade, but they still had no sightings, no positive leads. Clutched straw or not, Sarah had just shared the press officer’s take on the girl’s absence. It had gone down so well. Not.
Paul Wood eventually broke the silence. ‘I can’t see it myself, inspector.’ The DS had swapped his customary patch of wall for a radiator sill, bare ham-like arms rested on his paunch. ‘I mean why would a girl do something so spiteful to her own mother?’ Tell that to Lizzie Borden, Sarah thought. Not that a harrowing pic or two was on the forty whacks’ scale and without solid evidence any involvement on Caitlin’s part in whatever was going on was pure speculation.
‘Twig, I’m not taking it as read.’ Sarah pushed back a sleeve of her jacket. ‘I’ve never met the girl. None of us has any idea what the relationship’s like.’ Of course, if Nicola Reynolds’ word was anything to go by the pair were closer than full-term twins in the womb of a size-eight model. ‘I’m just saying it’s possible. Got to be worth looking at, surely?’
‘If she is playing
silly buggers,’ Wood’s pause implied continuing scepticism, ‘she’d need help. Where’s the boyfriend?’ He nodded at a photo of Holden on the whiteboard. ‘Reckon he’s done a runner with her?’
Luke Holden could have been abducted by aliens for all Sarah knew, but: ‘You’re right, Twig. We need to talk to him as a matter of urgency now.’ If only for elimination purposes.
They’d already tried contacting Holden. As Caitlin’s erstwhile or otherwise boyfriend he was always going to be a person of interest to the inquiry. Nearest and dearest and all that. He’d not answered the numbers supplied by Nicola Reynolds and when Huntie and No-Shit had knocked on Holden’s Selly Oak bed-sit the only response had been from a guy upstairs who told them Luke hadn’t been around all week. Was the absence significant? Was Holden a dab hand with a camera? Had he and Caitlin hatched a hare-brained plot to get back at Nicola Reynolds?
‘Has anyone put it to the mum?’ Hunt asked. Sarah shook her head. Nicola Reynolds had left the station before the question rose.
DC Bruce raised a hand. ‘I’m happy to pay her a house call, inspector. Me and Beth could have another word.’ Lally cut her partner a ‘says you’ glance: the prospect of a bit of Friday night overtime clearly didn’t do much for the new mum. Shona would be keen to pry again; her legendary interview technique had elicited nothing further from Nicola that afternoon.
‘Cheers. Give the search team a nudge as well, yeah?’ They’d heard nothing back and officers had been on site a couple of hours. Probably nothing to find, or Nicola would have kicked up more of a stink about letting them in. Sarah glanced at her watch. She didn’t like rushing the squad but if she was late, her not-so-hot date wouldn’t hang around. Caroline King had only agreed to a quick drink under martyr-like sufferance. Think Joan of Arc meets Saint Cecilia. Not even close.
Twig opened his mouth to speak again, but had second thoughts.
‘Huntie?’ Sarah said.
John Hunt lowered his finger. ‘If it’s been just the two of them since the dad died, I wonder how well Caitlin gets on with her mum’s boyfriend.’ Sarah followed his gaze to the whiteboard where Lomas’ likeness appeared next to Holden.
‘You’re thinking too well?’ As in intimately; intimately enough for Neil Lomas to play cameraman? ‘Are you thinking there’s something going on there?’ Sarah asked.
‘Could be.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Lomas would, and the list of questions for him was growing. The lecturer had been driving to Derby when a DC got through on his mobile. His father had apparently been taken ill and Lomas intended staying there a few days to play nurse. If need be, Sarah would send officers up to do the interview; it was too big a deal to do down a line. As Twig et al had said, if Caitlin had lead role there had to be a co-star.
‘Caitlin can certainly act, boss. Her drama teacher told us that.’ Slumped behind a desk, Harries had been uncharacteristically quiet. It could be he hadn’t wanted to voice dissent; Dave generally gave Sarah total support in front of the troops. He probably didn’t rate the theory. Either that or he was miffed she’d turned down his offer of a quick jar after work tonight.
‘Hey Dave.’ Jed Holmes waved from across the room. ‘Call-me Jude would’ve told you anything, wouldn’t she?’ Holmes followed the sly dig by puckering rubbery lips into a pantomime kiss. Through narrowed eyes, Sarah watched Dave colour and his mouth come the closest she could recall to a snarl.
‘Shut it, No-Shit.’ The skin stretched white across his knuckles.
‘Come on, man. You know she fancies the pants—’
‘Go fuck.’
‘After you, son.’ Holmes’ lascivious wink was superfluous. Sarah didn’t need it to interpret the innuendo. Nor Harries apparently, who was already on his feet.
‘Back in the chair, detective.’ She raised a palm. ‘What do you think this is? A bloody playgroup?’
‘No.’ Harries sank back in the seat. ‘I think you’re wrong about Caitlin. The way I see it, she could be Helen Mirren’s lovechild, I still can’t believe she’d pull off such a shitty trick. So I reckon you need to go back to the drawing board. Ma’am.’
‘And you need to show respect, Harries.’
‘I do. Or I’d have pissed on this Caitlin-crap-parade a lot sooner.’
Parade? The inquiry had a parade? She should be so lucky. Right now she couldn’t even see a milk float.
SEVENTEEN
‘You’re bloody lucky I’m still here.’ Caroline tapped a showy watch, shoved an empty glass across the table. Lucky to get a seat, too. Gone seven on a Friday, The Bacchus in Broad Street was already heaving. Mind, all the fake grapes draped round faux-Doric columns took up a bunch of floor space.
‘Sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘Traffic was the pits.’ Rain always slowed the flow. Five minutes wouldn’t kill King though. She forced a smile, reached for the glass. ‘Same again, I take it?’ The lemon peel bore nibble marks and the two-thirds empty Schweppes’ bottle on the table pointed to a G&T, plus Sarah had never known the reporter drink anything else in the decade and more since they’d met.
‘Yeah. Plenty of ice.’ Caroline had a glint in the eye. As an afterthought, she called out: ‘Grab some nuts while you’re at it, eh?’ She curved a lip. Sarah’s muttered ‘my pleasure’ hadn’t been as sotto voce as she thought. The reporter lounged back on the mock-leather bench, watched a group of middle-aged suits part like waves as the detective walked to the bar. Maybe they’d heard the nuts remark and feared for their sphericals. No, that was bollocks. Caroline suspected it had more to do with the cool blonde’s tight-ass strut. Whatever. Five blokes’ heads swivelled in sync to admire the stately process.
Still observing, Caroline swigged the dregs of the tonic. She loathed admitting it but the bloody woman had always had enviable presence. At nearly six foot in stockinged feet, who wouldn’t? Not that Caroline blended into the background like a shrinking violet. In her job public recognition was par for the course. As for Sarah? Who knew? The sudden show of male interest could have something to do with the fact that her face, like new author Caroline’s, had just been plastered all over the regional telly programme on the pub’s widescreen.
Caroline reached for her tote, checked inside. No more fan mail; the original still nestled there though. She shook her head. It didn’t take a genius to work out why Quinn had issued the drinks invite. Tucking the bag on the floor at her kitten heels, she glanced up just as the waves parted again. Talk about DI Moses. ‘By the way, pal,’ she said, ‘I really appreciate it. Thanks.’
Sarah hadn’t sat down, let alone handed over the glass. ‘For?’
‘Spreading the word?’ Caroline, all innocence, fished out the slice of lemon, sank perfect teeth into its flesh.
Sarah took the opposite seat. ‘Sorry. I’m not with you.’
‘The news conference? The missing girl? Good of you to let me know.’
‘Right. Look, I’m sorr—’
‘Don’t.’ Caroline lifted a finger. ‘There’s only so many apologies a girl can take in one night.’
Sarah dug the Planters out of her coat pocket, slung the pack across the table. ‘Peace offering?’
‘Cheers.’ She clinked her glass against Sarah’s, reckoned the end of hostilities would cost more than a palm full of nuts. Given the detective was after Caroline’s help, for her not to have mentioned the news conference was piss poor. Waiting until Sarah took a sip of wine, she said, ‘Anyway, the thanks were real. From what I heard it was a non-event, so you saved me a wasted journey. You didn’t look exactly ecstatic yourself.’ Face like a slapped ass was the phrase that crossed Caroline’s mind as she’d watched the DI’s turn on the box. Considering it was a witness appeal, the cool cop would hardly have warmed herself to viewers. Maybe Caroline should offer her some media training, mates’ rates. The thought prompted a lazy grin that stretched wider when she recalled her own expert act. And the audience in the background. She doubted the tipster would be stupid enough to get in shot but
she’d cast her eye over the rushes later, courtesy of Eddie the editor.
‘I didn’t catch the report actually.’ Sarah draped her coat across the back of the chair. ‘Still, since you’re so happy, I’m sure you’ll have no problem returning the favour?’
She’d walked into that. ‘Go on.’ Elbows on table, Caroline leaned forward, listened carefully as Sarah outlined how vital it was they find out more about the tip-off. If it had come from a bona-fide contact, she said, no one was asking Caroline to break the confidence. But given how few people had known about Caitlin’s disappearance, how thin on the ground genuine sources could have been? ‘You know where I’m coming from,’ Sarah said. ‘There’s a chance it stems from the guy holding her.’
The reporter nodded. Like she hadn’t thought of that. Whoever it came from had at least a smidgeon of inside knowledge. Caroline played for time, weighing her options along with a sip of her drink. She’d not deliberately held back; she’d kept her cards close because apart from the note, she had nothing to share. But also, if she played them correctly, the mysterious correspondent, having singled her out once, might deal a few more. Would deal a few more. The note had made that clear: the tip off’s free – this time. What journalist would risk jeopardizing another steer? Certainly not Caroline.
She placed the glass on the table. ‘Scout’s honour, Sarah, I’d help if I could. Fact is, I haven’t a clue where or who it came from.’ She’d found the note in her bag, she said, after a signing at Waterstones. Someone had obviously slipped it in while she was otherwise occupied.
‘Can I see it?’
‘Sure.’ She reached for the nuts. ‘I haven’t got it on me though.’ Strictly speaking that was true. She caught Sarah’s eyebrow arching.
‘What did it say?’
‘Let’s think.’ She ran a pensive hand through her bob, like the words weren’t branded verbatim in her brain. ‘A schoolgirl’s been snatched off the street … Why no police hunt? … Why isn’t it all over the news? Oh yeah …’ A smile played on her lips. ‘And why aren’t you giving the cops a hard time?’
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