Windsor Place was a small private estate with substantial double-fronted properties round a central green. It was the sort of set-up where it was still possible – just – to imagine that life was good and people were decent and crime was something that happened to someone else. In reality, the warm red bricks were dotted with burglar alarms and closed-circuit cameras winked from clinging ivies and climbing roses.
Harries glanced round casually as he locked the car. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a little place round here myself.’
‘Your dream or mine?’ She masked a smile, well aware of a DC’s monthly monetary challenge. Mind, it was nothing compared to the battle going on further down the green. Harries followed her bemused gaze to a groundsman who was grappling inexpertly with a leaf blower. Given the thick russet carpet, green was a misnomer and the horticultural equivalent of a Henry barely scratched the surface; it was like taking a felt tip to touch up the Forth Bridge. The gusting wind was no help either. Leaves were swirling like tipsy moths at a disco.
Dead casual, Harries said, ‘Reckon the guy’s a sucker for punishment, boss?’
She sniffed. ‘I reckon you missed your vocation, petal.’
‘Stage? Stand-up?’
‘Coach. One-way ticket.’
‘Cruel.’
‘But fair.’ It wasn’t the sharpest riposte, but banter had never been Sarah’s forte. Until fairly recently she wouldn’t have indulged at all. She knew her nickname at police HQ, and had no problem with it. But Harries’ more laid-back approach seemed to be catching. Maybe the ice queen was starting to chill out?
As they approached The Gables, she knew immediately what he’d say, even down to the low whistle that preceded it: ‘Très des res.’
‘Anyone ever told you you’re predictable?’ It was easy to see where he was coming from though: the half-timbered structure was topped by barley sugar chimneys, paintwork gleamed, lead-paned windows glinted. It made Sarah think of dark wood panelling and polished floors, potpourri and huge log fires. She half expected Penelope Keith to emerge with a pair of chocolate Labradors. Scrub that. Looking through the window, she saw a woman who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actress. They made eye contact simultaneously. Looking less than delirious, the woman averted her glance first.
‘At least we know she’s in, boss,’ Harries murmured, reaching for the knocker.
The door opened before his hand made contact. The woman wasn’t rolling out a welcome mat. ‘I was just on the way out. What is it?’ Only her head was visible through the narrow gap.
‘Mrs Elizabeth Kent?’ Sarah held her ID card at eye level. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn. This is Detective Constable David Harries. We’re from West Midlands police.’
‘What do you want?’ Most people panic at a visit from the police. Elizabeth Kent seemed unperturbed, sounded imperious. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Your daughter, Mrs Kent. When did you last see Olivia?’
She was ravenous, starving. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Olivia heard her mother’s voice. ‘You’re not starving, my dear. Think of the little children in Africa. They are starving. Eat up now, there’s a good girl.’
In her head, Olivia was a child again. Sunday lunch, Sunday best, elbows in, desperate not to gag on a mouthful of chocolate blancmange. Ugh! She’d never touched it since, hated the taste, the very sight of it. Now she’d savour it – and lick the bowl.
‘I am bloody starving!’ Her words came unbidden and out loud. The outburst startled her awake. If her limbs hadn’t been restrained, she’d have shot up in alarm, terrified she was losing her mind. As well.
Deep breath. Hold for five. Let it go. Deep breath. Hold for five. Let it go.
Was that a footfall? Head cocked, she listened for the slightest sound. Was he there? Watching? Leering?
She didn’t know how long he’d been gone. Had no idea if it was day or night. Her four-walled world was in perpetual darkness except, ironically, when he was present. Lately he’d taken to removing her blindfold, his face concealed behind a Darth Vader mask.
She knew now there were three candles which he lit in the same sequence every time: left, right, centre. They were supposed to help her pray; she was meant to ask for forgiveness.
Sometimes he’d bring food which she had to watch him eat. He’d throw occasional scraps in her direction: fish batter, cold chips, a chunk of sausage roll. Like a dog she’d have to eat them off the floor. The first couple of times she waited, eyeing the food until he left before consuming it. Not now. She was increasingly weak with hunger, scared that even if he left her untied she wouldn’t have the strength to escape. Now she ate every measly offering immediately. As for water, he forced her to drink, pressed the bottle to her mouth. She had to pee in a bucket in the corner. He got a kick out of that. The first night he left her, she’d soiled herself. Furious, he’d slapped her face hard. Next time he came he slung a pack of baby wipes in her face ordered her to clean up. She still stank. She could smell herself. Everything was dirty: her skin, her teeth, her hair, her dress. He’d returned her clothes, thank God. Though he’d stripped her of everything, at least she was no longer naked.
This time her tears of exhaustion and humiliation were laced with something else.
Anger.
THREE
‘Olivia was here last weekend. Why? What’s this about?’ Elizabeth Kent’s folded arms and tapping court shoe reinforced a verbal hostility that Sarah found both interesting and mildly surprising. Maybe it was a case of attack being the best form of defence, or her default setting was stroppy hauteur. Either way, it was a pre-emptive strike that only served to delay the inevitable.
‘Shall we go inside?’ Sarah’s measured tone and steady gaze seemed to deflate the bolshie attitude; a fleeting smile revealed a trace of prettiness lurking beneath Mrs Kent’s stern features.
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, do . . .’ Stepping back, she let a trailing hand complete the invitation, simultaneously extending it to the rush mat. Sarah did a quick recce as she wiped her feet. Low beams and sepia walls could have made the squat square hall feel cramped, claustrophobic even; subtle lighting and a pair of gilt mirrors leavened the gloom. For a second, Sarah wondered why the flagstones were splashed with red paint before realizing it was sunlight reflecting through a stained-glass window on the landing.
‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Mrs Kent said, leading the way into a sitting room that looked pristine to the domestically-challenged detective. Rather like its owner, Sarah thought, there wasn’t a hair out of place. Ivory curtains and mocha carpet offset deep reds and dark woods. Despite its warm and welcoming feel, they stood a little awkwardly in front of a vast stone fireplace, like guests at a cocktail party that hadn’t quite got off the ground.
‘Would you like a drink? I can make coffee. Tea if you’d prefer. As I say, I was on my way out but there’s no hurry . . .’
‘Mrs Kent.’ Sarah’s level voice and raised palm stemmed a verbal flow that was probably another way of deflecting whatever the police were here for. ‘Look, I don’t want to—’
‘Has there been an accident? Please tell me?’ Palm resting on cheek, her concerned gaze scrutinized Sarah’s face.
‘. . . alarm you.’
‘You are alarming me.’
Will you let me finish? ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Then why are you here? Two detectives.’ She glanced at Harries as if registering his presence for the first time.
‘We need to check a few things.’
‘What things?’ The peremptory bark was back. ‘For God’s sake, tell me.’
This is going well. ‘Shall we sit down?’ Sarah heard a clock tick five, six seconds before Mrs Kent reluctantly lowered herself on to one of the settees. Sarah sat alongside, deliberately mirroring the woman’s posture. Mrs Kent’s straight spine, crossed ankles, folded hands said, Get on with it. Sarah obliged. ‘We’ve received a letter.’
‘A letter?’ Faci
al lines deepened. ‘From Olivia?’
‘Not from her. It purports to be about her. It suggests she’s being held against her will.’
There was a tremor in the hand Mrs Kent extended; her voice was steady. ‘Let me see it.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have every right.’
‘Is this Olivia, Mrs Kent?’ Standing by the piano, Harries reached for the photograph Elizabeth had been admiring minutes earlier.
‘Yes. And I’d rather you leave my property alone.’ Returning her gaze to Sarah, she said, ‘I insist on seeing this letter. It has to be some sort of joke.’
‘No problem.’ It wasn’t a concession either. ‘As soon as we get it back from Forensics.’
Her glare was arctic. ‘And when’s that?’
‘Seven to ten days. By then I’m sure things will be clearer.’
The pat answer didn’t pacify the woman, but at least it gave her something to think about. Eyes narrowed, she bit her lip, then murmured, ‘It must be a hoax. Who on earth would want to harm Olivia?’
Sarah’s initial question was easier – and still unanswered. She posed it again. ‘Tell me, Mrs Kent, when was the last time you saw Olivia?’
‘Saturday.’ Speedy response. Despite the apparent lack of concern over her daughter’s whereabouts, she’d clearly been thinking it through. ‘She popped by to pick up my library books.’
‘Popped by on foot?’
‘Car. We normally go together. But I had to wait in – someone was coming to look at the roof . . . a few missing tiles.’ Her flapping hand dismissed the irrelevance. ‘We chatted over coffee, then Olivia went off with the books. She knows what I like so was happy to exchange them.’
‘And did she?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve spoken to her since?’
‘She rang, asked if it was OK if she brought them over this evening.’ The fleeting smile again. ‘Thursday’s our regular girls’ night: we catch a film or a concert, maybe have a bite to eat.’
‘So you’ve spoken to her today?’
Impatient, like Sarah should know better. ‘Tuesday. The last thing she said was, “See you Thursday”.’
False alarm then? Sarah cut Harries a glance. He took the cue: ‘How did she sound, Mrs Kent?’
Addressing Harries, she said, ‘Fine. She sounded . . . fine.’ Sarah concentrated temporarily on the woman’s body language; it often said more. The furrowed brow and slight air of distraction suggested there was a hidden ‘but’.
‘Go on,’ Harries prompted, adding one of his smiles.
‘Now I come to think of it . . . the line was bad. In fact after a few seconds we got . . . cut off.’
‘Did she ring back?’
‘No.’ She stared at her still-laced fingers. ‘Actually I did . . . but . . . her phone was switched off.
Sarah sensed the woman’s first faint stirring of unease. She allowed her twenty seconds or so before taking up the questioning. ‘And this was Tuesday? The day before yesterday? You’re sure of that, Mrs Kent?’ Wrong tone: red rag.
She snapped, ‘What do you take me for? I’m not a child. And this is stupid.’ She shot up and was halfway across the room before sharing her thoughts. ‘I’m phoning her now. She’ll be at work – she’s a teacher, you know.’
Sarah was aware how Olivia made a living. The school was the second place Harries had checked. The first was Olivia’s home. Neither colleagues nor neighbours had seen her since Saturday.
Standing with her back to the room, Mrs Kent muttered to herself, waiting for the school to pick up. The odd word was audible: ridiculous, waste, time. Sarah hoped the woman’s maternal instinct was sound.
On the plus side: Olivia Kent wasn’t a lost child or vulnerable adult, wasn’t – officially – a missing person. She may have decided to take off for a few days. There was no indication at the house that she’d been taken against her will; no sign of a struggle, nothing to suggest a crime had been committed. But there was a letter, the letter in Sarah’s pocket. She heard the paper rustle when she moved, felt it scratch her skin. She didn’t have to see what was written, she remembered every word.
FOUR
Olivia Kent is lying
Olivia Kent is crying
Olivia Kent is dying
I could make it quicker
Put her out of her misery
But I won’t
It was written in black ink, scrawling script bold against unlined white paper. It had arrived late yesterday, addressed to Sarah’s boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker. He’d called her in to discuss. ‘It’ll be some nutter, but we’d best check it out, Quinn.’
‘We, sir?’ Sarah tilted her head, mock ingenuous. She was accustomed to Baker’s regal largesse. The ‘we’ word littered the old boy’s briefings like royals at a variety performance. His manner could be pretty majestic at times, too. With his chunky six-foot-four frame sprawling in a black leather executive chair, he pointed a ruler across the king-size desk. ‘OK, you then.’
She’d seen more convincing smiles on a depressed crocodile. ‘Will do.’
‘Unless you’re thinking of letting the boy wonder loose on it.’
Sarah’s lip twitched involuntarily. Baker had coined the epithet the day David Harries joined the squad. Still common currency six months on, it was one of Baker’s better efforts, but sucking up to the boss by telling him so was the last thing the chief needed – and the last thing she’d do. She put in a good word for the young DC instead. ‘He’s shaping up fine, Chief. I think he’s got great—’
‘What?’ He leaned across the desk, wide-eyed. ‘Do share.’ It was Baker’s turn to play the innocent. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken the piss about what he insisted on calling her toy boy, but he knew her well enough to realize she’d never sleep with anyone on the job. Didn’t he? The icy look she was casting was one of a large repertoire.
‘Joke, Quinn. Humour alert.’ He lifted a finger, reached for a ringing phone perched on a stack of files.
She bit back a barb. If she rose to every bait, she’d never get down from the ceiling. What was it her mum used to say? Choose your battles. She watched while he took the call, had to admit he wasn’t a bad-looking guy: smooth skin, regular features, hair a touch too long and suspiciously dark given he was pushing sixty. But – if he dyed it – why leave the white streaks? Unless he fancied they made him look distinguished. She sniffed. Badger-with-attitude, more like. The sniff was a mistake: Baker’s aftershave was a standing joke. Talk about too much of a good thing.
Not that she disliked the man. He was a complex blend; an acquired taste she’d more or less acquired. An old-school cop, he was too set in his ways to change now. Not that she didn’t try to educate him occasionally. It was tricky as he didn’t have a lot of time for female cops. Occasionally he made an exception, occasionally Sarah took it. More often than not, they rubbed along just fine.
He winked as he cut the connection after a two-minute conversation. ‘Wrong number.’
It was one of his favourite quips. She’d heard it a million times, gave a mental eye-roll, pointed at the letter on the desk in front of him. ‘Have we run checks yet?’
‘We, Quinn?’
Her tapping fingers said the joke was wearing thin. ‘Not you personally.’
‘Sir.’
Pulling rank? Or yanking her chain? The continuing silence suggested the former. ‘Sir.’
He gave the letter a final scan before sliding it across the desk. ‘I suggest you try the phone book first.’
‘Gee, thanks. I’d never have thought of that,’ she muttered.
‘What did you say, Quinn?’
‘Thanks for that.’ She reached for the paper. The original was with Forensics, of course. No one was holding their breath for a result.
‘Handwriting’s pretty distinctive, wouldn’t you say?’
She nodded. ‘Shame there’s no signature.’
<
br /> He picked up a pen, pointedly poised it over a pile of admin. ‘You might have time to sit round cracking jokes . . .’
She rose, tucking the letter in a breast pocket. ‘Still, he could’ve saved us a bunch of trouble.’
‘Or she, Inspector. Or she.’ Looking absurdly pleased with himself, he tapped the side of his nose. Maybe her subtle campaign to persuade him to see women in more than domestic, decorative or décolléte roles wasn’t as doomed as she thought.
‘I’ll get on to it now.’
She was at the door when he spoke again, dead casual. ‘Shouldn’t take too long, Quinn.’
‘Oh?’
He consulted a few scribbles in a spiral notepad. ‘Far as I can tell, there are four O. Kents in Birmingham: two Olivers and an octogenarian Olive who’s got a parrot with a potty mouth. There’s an Olivia in Harborne. Platt Lane, number thirteen. Only no one’s answering the phone.’
‘I see.’ She also saw a glint in his eye. However up himself, she knew the boss liked keeping a hand in. Rapid swallow. The irreverent thought had prompted a very unwanted mental picture. ‘Nice one, Chief.’
‘’Course, I could’ve been looking in the wrong book.’
FIVE
It had been the right book.
Any doubts Sarah harboured had been dispelled witnessing Elizabeth Kent make call after call trying to trace her daughter. The woman’s confidence had taken a perceptible knock; after finally getting through to the school her voice had cracked. Call now ended, she leaned against the wall, clasped the receiver to her chest.
‘Mrs Kent?’ Sarah, solicitous, softly spoken, stood close by, hand outstretched but making no contact, physically or emotionally. The woman could have been on another planet. Sarah’s cool gaze sought Harries. Subtly motioning him nearer, she mouthed three words, hoped he’d pick up the cue. She needed him to drop the watching brief – he was better at touchy-feely than her.
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