Recent Titles from Maureen Carter
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A QUESTION OF DESPAIR *
MOTHER LOVE *
* available from Severn House
MOTHER LOVE
Maureen Carter
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First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and the USA by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Maureen Carter.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Carter, Maureen.
Mother love.
1. Women detectives – England – Birmingham – Fiction.
2. Women journalists – England – Birmingham – Fiction.
3. Women teachers – Crimes against – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9′2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-158-3 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-008-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-515-2 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Sophie and Dan
My thanks for editorial expertise and insight go to Kate Lyall Grant, Anna Telfer, Sara Porter and the rest of the exceptional team at Crème de la Crime and Severn House. I thank my wide range of contacts for their expert knowledge and priceless input and – as always – I thank readers everywhere for showing interest and care.
She was resigned to dying. It was only a question of when, and she almost welcomed the instant of oblivion when she’d no longer have to suffer the taunts, the menacing whispers, the veiled threats: ‘Why should I kill you? Death is so . . . final. We have all the time in the world . . .’
But Olivia would die. She knew that.
She could deal with the pain for herself, just. But her death would destroy her mother’s life. The excruciating thought provoked renewed and even more desperate struggles against the thin cords cutting into her wrists and ankles. The raw flesh chafed again, blood trickled warmly down her palm, through her fingers. She bit her lip to staunch a scream she knew no one would hear.
Did anyone even know she was missing?
What was it? Three days? Four? With nothing to gauge the passage of time, Olivia had lost track. Her watch had been removed on the first night. Though, why? She had no idea. She could see nothing. Not through a thick blindfold, tightly knotted. A scraped match, a brief smell of sulphur, more than any gradual lightening of the dark indicated when the candle or candles had been lit. The illumination was for his benefit. She’d seen neither her captor’s face nor her surroundings – were they saving graces?
No. She knew there was no get-out clause. She might not die here, but the end would come soon enough. What would it do to Elizabeth, her mother? Would the woman who’d given Olivia life be able to bear the greater pain of her death? Angry, anguished tears soaked into the already damp scratchy fabric over her eyes.
An idea struck: she’d talk to him again, plead with him; if she could make him see her in a different light . . .? She shook her head, dismissed the notion before it took hold and gave false hope: what was the point when everything had already been said?
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Maybe you had to be drowning to see your life flash before your eyes? Olivia could see nothing. It was a small mercy. And for that she was grateful.
ONE
Elizabeth Kent, duster tucked in trouser waistband, leaned over one of the chesterfields and plumped a cushion. Domestic Doolittle rather than goddess, housework did nothing for her, but if left untackled the untidiness irked even more. On a good day it was done and sometimes dusted in under ten minutes. She glanced at her watch. Today, she decided, would be a very good day; there were so many better ways to spend her time.
Sweeping the floor with a cursory glance, she dismissed the notion of employing anything more strenuous. She retrieved a couple of errant threads of cotton from the carpet, slipped them in a pocket then, hands on hips, surveyed her empire.
‘To dust or not to dust . . . that is the question.’ Running an assessing gaze over dark wood surfaces, Elizabeth mused en passant whether any of her friends talked to themselves. Not that she cared. As habits go, there were worse. ‘I must ask Olivia though. I bet she does.’
The mere thought prompted a curve of her lip and when her glance fell on Olivia’s photograph Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. She walked to the baby grand, took the silver frame in both hands: her daughter’s graduation a decade back, mortar board slightly askew, wide-mouthed grin, perfect teeth. It was like looking in the mirror – twenty-odd years ago. ‘Where does the time go, darling?’ Her smile faltered only slightly. Despite the aging, even now, their resemblance was striking; people still commented on the likeness.
Elizabeth’s hair was often tied back and the chestnut shade owed more to L’Oreal than Olivia’s, but their eyes – almond-shaped, caramel-coloured – were identical. As she replaced the photograph, Elizabeth sighed. Was it just her imagination that Olivia’s gaze of late sometimes seemed less open, more guarded?
Much as it had when she returned from America . . .
Elizabeth perched on the edge of her favourite armchair and stared into the distance. Why did Olivia never speak about the time away? The question often crossed Elizabeth’s mind, but for the most part she was only too happy to have Olivia back. She’d thought her heart would break when Olivia left to make a new life in the States. To Elizabeth’s way of thinking it had all happened so quickly. It seemed to her that Olivia barely knew the man she went to live with. Jack Howe was rich, good-looking, clever, kind. It wasn’t that Elizabeth begrudged Olivia’s happiness, but it was at the cost of her own. Not that she’d ever have admitted it. Besides, Olivia had been thirty then, an intelligent woman with a mind of her own.
Elizabeth’s life hadn’t deteriorated dramatically when her only child left. Nothing changed overnight – at least not overtly. She’d continued her voluntary work, started an Open University degree, even considered ending her marriage. Her love for Philip – like other things – had faded over the years. They tolerated each other, didn’t fight or frighten the horses. The marriage was convenient and she’d seen no real reason to leave, but was vaguely troubled by the fact there was no pressing motive to stay.
Eventually Philip had made the decision. He now lived in a neighbouring Birmingham suburb with a new partner, a younger woman. His going had barely touched Elizabeth. It was a minor part of a general malaise that had started creeping into her soul the day Olivia went. She’d felt a constant sense of something missing, a yearning for som
ething to happen and a dreadful dawning realization that it probably never would.
She still saw friends, though less often. She made them laugh, though less loudly. She continued to dress the well-groomed part. But she missed Olivia from the depth of her being. Her full diary belied the aching void in her heart.
Two years later, out of the blue, Olivia was back. Jack had said he wanted his own space. It had broken Olivia’s heart. Even now she refused to share details; the subject was a non-starter and Elizabeth no longer brought it up. Just thanked God there’d been no children. Elizabeth would have welcomed her daughter back to the family home with open arms, but she’d wanted a place of her own. At least they only lived a few miles apart. Life – as Elizabeth knew well – could be so much worse.
A ringing phone broke Elizabeth’s reverie. Frowning, she glanced round, in no particular hurry to answer. In the last few days there’d been three or four odd calls. Not abusive or obscene. No heavy breathing. Just silence. But Elizabeth had been sure someone was on the line. It had been annoying as well as a little unnerving. Standing by the console table now, she counted four, five more rings before snatching the receiver and holding it tightly to her ear.
‘Mrs Kent? Is that you? Are you there?’
Elizabeth released the breath she’d deliberately held and injected a warm smile into her voice. ‘Caroline, how lovely to hear from you – even though you always leave it too long between calls.’
It was a mild admonition. Caroline King was her daughter’s oldest friend. The two girls had been seated together on their first day at school. The arrangement had suited them and – it seemed to Elizabeth – they’d shared a little of their lives ever since. ‘How are you, dear?’
‘I’m good, Mrs Kent. You?’
‘No complaints. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m trying to get hold of Olivia. Any idea where she is?’
Smiling, Elizabeth shook her head. Archetypal Caroline: as a high-profile freelance journalist she worked anywhere, anytime, was very much her own boss. Regular hours and routine were alien concepts: she carried a passport the way most women carried a bus pass. ‘Caroline, it’s half past eleven, she’ll be teaching. Ring the school – but wait until lunch break.’ Olivia was head of English and Drama at Green Hill, a local sixth form college.
‘Sure thing. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Where are you calling from?’ Caroline kept a flat in Fulham but Elizabeth knew it was little more than a stopover between assignments. The reporter’s visits to Birmingham were also increasingly rare and had become more so since her mother’s death six months ago.
‘I’m at Mum’s place. Things need sorting. I’m putting it on the market.’
‘If there’s anything I can do?’ It saddened Elizabeth that Caroline had never been close to her mother; even during Felicity King’s final illness there’d not been much of a rapprochement. Caroline had inherited everything but – it seemed to Elizabeth – lost a lot.
‘Appreciate it, Mrs Kent.’
‘Isn’t it about time you started calling me Elizabeth?’ It wasn’t the first time she’d made the suggestion. After all these years, she considered Caroline an honorary member of the family. Indeed, when the girls hit their teens, it seemed Caroline stayed at the Kents’ house more than her own. The media career had – in some ways – taken her out of their league. Elizabeth sometimes wondered why Caroline maintained the contact.
‘Old habits die hard, Mrs K.’
‘Please –’ she gave a mock groan – ‘anything but that.’ She knew Caroline was winding her up; she could tease for England. Smiling, she pictured the reporter’s exquisite face framed by her signature sleek black bob. ‘Anyway, would you like to leave a message? Just in case you don’t get through? I’m seeing Olivia this evening.’
Slight weighing-up pause, then: ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll catch her later. Ciao, Mrs Kent.’
Ciao? Replacing the receiver, Elizabeth raised an amused eyebrow and glanced again at her watch. The ten minutes were up. ‘That settles it. The dust can go hang.’
A movement outside caught her eye and this time her groan was genuine. The couple walking up the drive looked respectable enough but – pound to a penny – they were selling something. Should she ignore them, pretend no one was home? She who hesitates is lost. Any idea of subterfuge went through the window as she made brief eye contact with the woman: tall, unsmiling, Nordic colouring, white blonde hair tied back. Elizabeth headed reluctantly to the door, muttering, ‘Damn and damn again.’
The last thing she needed was a couple of cold callers.
Caroline King slipped her phone back in its pouch, tapped tapering fingers on the arm of a wing chair. OK. So what was Livvie up to? Three days now she’d been incommunicado. Caroline had tried home, mobile and work numbers. The school secretary had inadvertently let slip this morning that Ms Kent wasn’t expected in until next week. Follow-up questions had elicited nothing further.
Caroline slumped against a lumpy Bisto-coloured chair-back, brushed a cobweb from her once-black combats. She curled a lip at the shapeless grey sweatshirt that completed her unaccustomed ensemble: house-clearance chic, or what?
‘Or what,’ she drawled. Then: ‘So why are you playing away, my friend?’
Clearly, Livvie hadn’t mentioned to Elizabeth she was taking time off work. Caroline certainly wasn’t going to let the cat out of the school bag, as it were. Livvie wasn’t tied to her mother’s apron strings. She was allowed a little extra-curricular activity. Caroline smirked. Wondered what his name was.
Oh well, lucky for some. Duty beckoned. Peeling herself from the chair, she took the stairs two at a time, feeling more chipper. If Livvie was seeing Elizabeth that night she’d surface soon enough. Shame she’d gone to ground though. Time was limited; Caroline had no intention of staying in this place a minute longer than necessary. God. It had taken eighteen years to escape. She frowned. So why was it difficult sometimes to recall why she’d fled?
Distance. Heart. Fonder? She sniffed. It was a little late for that.
Running fingers through her hair, she entered the bedroom again. Twelve black bin liners – full already – leaned at odd angles against the faux William Morris wallpaper. Clothes, shoes, bags, knick-knacks – all now parcelled up ready to be passed on. Lucky Oxfam. Her mother’s room had been the last thing Caroline wanted to face, which was why she’d cleared it first. Even now the familiar scent was just discernible, the merest trace of vanilla lingering here and there.
The only item she intended hanging on to – at least for a while – was a battered leather suitcase she’d placed on the stripped mattress. It was crammed with a lifetime of keepsakes: letters, certificates, greetings cards, postcards, school reports. She wandered over, tugged at the protruding edge of a photograph and beamed. Her and Liv in Brownie uniform, pigtails, yellow ankle socks. ‘Talk about the bee’s knees.’ Caroline slipped the photo in a pocket; they’d have a laugh over it later.
It would be so good to catch up. Caroline’s career meant she saw very little of her best mate these days. The distance between them sometimes seemed more than physical and it was a source of regret. Caroline operated in a world where real friends were as rare as caviar at KFC. The times with Livvie were like touching base, only on this home run her friend had taken off without a word. She’d known Caroline was back in town but hadn’t even replied to a text. You just wait, my friend. There’d be hell to pay when she eventually deigned to pick up the phone.
TWO
There were days DI Sarah Quinn disliked her job. Gazing through the passenger window, shrewd grey eyes screwed up against the sun’s glare, she barely registered the sweeping lawns, detached mock Tudor houses; she could almost have been talking to herself. ‘It’s probably a hoax. A loser playing a sick game.’
She glanced at the driver, who appeared to be feigning intense concentration on the wide tree-lined road in one of Edgbaston’s more upmarket enclaves. The young detective
had probably intuited her mood and thought silence a better option. He really should know better by now. ‘Sorry, David, I didn’t quite catch what you said.’
‘I agree, boss.’ Sage nod. ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Sycophant.’ Sarah gave a lopsided smile.
‘Psycho what?’
‘Big ho, funny man.’ She flapped a hand, knew David Harries’ vocabulary was more than up to a three-syllable put-down. For Sarah, the DC’s appeal as a partner didn’t lie in his good looks. A sharp brain and ability to connect were more use in the long run than chiselled cheek bones and a disarming smile. Though truth be told, it was no hardship working alongside a guy who bore a passing resemblance to Keith Richards before his sell-by.
‘You know me, boss. I aim to please.’
‘’Course you do.’ She knew him better now than when she’d accused him of being a police informant. Way it turned out, Harries hadn’t betrayed his colleagues – he’d been screwing a reporter. The media cock-up had involved one of Sarah’s least favourite people on the planet. Five months down the line, Sarah’s way of thinking was to let sleeping dogs lie. It was Caroline King she envisaged curled up snoring in a kennel: Harries was too good a cop to kick out.
‘You’re right though, boss. I mean, what’ve we got? A letter is all. There’s no saying it’s genuine.’
She nodded. He’d echoed her thoughts. Plus no one had reported a woman missing. ‘Should be next left, David. Windsor Place.’ The house they were after was called The Gables.
He checked the mirror, flicked the indicator. ‘How do you think we should play it, boss?’
‘By ear. See what the woman’s like first. One thing though –’ she made eye contact – ‘I don’t want her looking at the letter. Not yet.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ He turned his mouth down.
‘And David – I’ll do the talking.’
He started saying something but she was already out of the motor, tightening the belt on a calf-length camel coat. The cloudless, almost Mediterranean sky was deceptive: a mid-November temperature had taken a dive to deep midwinter; a strong wind swirled autumn leaves like golden confetti. She made a mental note to dig out gloves, sank hands in pockets and scanned the surroundings.
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