‘I don’t understand.’ Mrs Kent’s comment was unprompted by either detective. Staring into the distance, mixed emotions ran across her strained features.
Sarah tried reading them, failed. ‘What don’t you understand, Mrs Kent?’
‘She was shocked I called.’ Clearly trying to make sense of the conversation, she was yet to share its content.
‘Who was?’ Sarah had to hide her impatience, provoked by a growing sense of unease.
‘The school secretary. Jenny. Jenny Bold.’ She was clawing her neck, oblivious to the weal marks left by her nails. Sarah winced, still wanting to shake her, but gently removed her hand instead.
‘Mrs Kent, this is doing no—’
Brisk nod, sudden gear change. ‘She said a woman rang the school on Monday morning and told them Olivia wouldn’t be in, that she wasn’t well. That she’d be off for at least a week, maybe longer.’
Sarah and Harries exchanged glances. False alarm then. So why the near meltdown? Elizabeth Kent’s complexion had taken on an unhealthy pallor; sweat beaded over her top lip.
Sarah offered her a tissue from a pack in her pocket. ‘Did the caller say what was wrong with Olivia, Mrs Kent?’
She flapped a hand at what she obviously regarded as a distraction. ‘The school assumed it was flu. The woman had a heavy cold.’
It didn’t make sense. Frowning, Sarah said, ‘But Olivia wasn’t making the call.’
‘No, but apparently the head teacher put two and two together.’
She was still no wiser. ‘Let’s take it from the top, shall we?’
Mrs Kent explained that Jenny Bold hadn’t actually spoken to the woman, that the head – James Rust – had taken the call and relayed the gist. Sarah glanced at Harries who was already adding the name to his notes.
Am I being dense here, or what? ‘I’m still not with you. Why would he assume Olivia had a cold?’
Ahead of what was clearly not a game, Mrs Kent peeled herself off the wall and visibly pulled herself together. In the short time she’d taken to work out the ramifications, to acknowledge that her daughter could be at risk, she’d seemingly morphed from suburban housewife to warrior queen. Patently seething, she slammed down the receiver and faced Sarah head-on.
‘Because the woman gave my name. She told him she was Olivia’s mother.’ Fists clenched at her side, cheeks now flushed, her cut-glass vowels were laced with barely contained fury. ‘So what exactly are you doing about it?’
SIX
‘If I’ve got this right, you’re telling me my daughter hasn’t been seen for five days. That she’s not at home, hasn’t been in work. And it now emerges an imposter’s phoned the school with a pack of lies.’ Elizabeth Kent rammed the plunger on a cafetière then whacked the oak work surface with the flat of her hand. Sarah was faintly surprised the glass hadn’t shattered. Harries, who was in the hall touching base with Control, probably wondered what the sound effects signified.
‘It looks that way.’ Sarah erred on the side of caution. The cops still had no proof of an ongoing abduction, but the accumulating unknowns certainly upped the ante. Important though to keep whatever they were dealing with in perspective, especially when Olivia’s mother was all over the place emotionally. Coffee had actually been Mrs Kent’s call; caffeine perked her up, helped her think, she said.
‘So what happens now, DI Quinn?’
Sarah’s mental list was good to go: tracing Olivia’s last known movements and establishing a timeline was basic first procedure. Once they’d dug out information via interviews with colleagues, neighbours, friends, family members, CCTV could be checked along probable and/or habitual routes. Later, if need be, they’d extend checks to social networking sites and places where she spent real time with real people: the gym? Evening class? Whatever. At some stage they’d bring the media on board, but until the situation became clearer, all that was jumping the proverbial gun. ‘Bear in mind, Mrs Kent, there could be a simple explanation.’
The woman glanced up from placing white porcelain cups on saucers. ‘Father Christmas could trade in Rudolph for a white rhino. But it’s not likely. And trust me – I know my daughter.’
‘For sure, but it’s only been a few days, Mrs Kent.’ Police budgets didn’t run to what could be a costly and time consuming wild goose chase.
‘Enough.’ She tightened already thin lips. ‘We’ll get nowhere if you insist on patronizing me.’
That’s rich. She might have remonstrated but the woman had turned her back and was fussily arranging biscuits on a doily. Standard Kent etiquette? Or displacement activity? The woman was hard to read. Sarah had reassessed her initial impression several times. Snap judgements were rarely accurate and never complete. Still unsure, Sarah filled the gap with a quick scan of the room.
Large and low-ceilinged, it was furnished with free-standing items. Each piece looked to have been individually selected, rather than picked lock, stock and draining board from a glossy brochure. Dead centre was the rectangular beech table at which Sarah sat. It was certainly no breakfast bar – more like a butcher’s block, its pitted surface stained and scored.
The focal point drawing her shrewd gaze was a massive oak dresser, or to be more precise the scores of photographs pinned and propped all over it. Olivia was in every shot, from adorable baby to attractive woman. Images frozen in time and caught on camera by a doting parent. The Olivia Kent gallery seemed totally over-the-top to Sarah. Mind, her own mother had never been particularly demonstrative, and with both parents dead, it was way too late for a show of maternal affection now.
‘Mrs Kent. How did you know?’ A smiling Harries entered, slipping mobile into breast pocket.
‘Know what?’
‘Bourbons. You can’t beat them.’
Maybe it was his boyish charm. Rolling her eyes, she pushed the plate his way before taking up position against the sink, arms folded. Harries cut a glance at Sarah that said: nothing doing.
‘We’ve got to do something.’
Blimey. Had Mrs Kent interpreted it too? No. The announcement came from the heart. It wasn’t a plea. And it wasn’t negotiable.
Sarah stirred her coffee. ‘We’ll make further inquiries, Mrs Kent.’ They’d circulate details of the car, too. Olivia’s Golf appeared to be missing – but had she taken it? ‘As it stands there’s no actual evidence.’
‘It’s your job to find some, isn’t it?’
The DI bit her lip. Staying polite was hard work, especially when Elizabeth Kent was no longer making the effort. ‘As I say, there could be a number—’
‘You’re quite wrong.’ A jabbing finger underlined the point. ‘Olivia would never go away without telling me.’
‘Something may have cropped up.’
‘It may indeed.’ A thin smile. ‘And if that was the case, she’d have phoned.’
‘Maybe she’s staying with friends,’ Harries offered.
‘She never stays with friends.’ Talk about dogmatic. ‘Anyway, she’d at least have mentioned it.’
Would she? Did any girl really tell her mother everything? There was no mileage in antagonizing the woman further, but asking awkward questions went with the territory. No harm treading carefully though. ‘Is it possible she’s with someone you don’t know? Someone she only met recently for instance?’
‘Stop pussyfooting around. You think she’s with a man, don’t you? Why not just say so?’
Christ. The woman was a walking thorn bush. ‘OK. Could she be?’
Mrs Kent sighed theatrically, then: ‘She isn’t in a relationship. And even if there was a new man in her life, she wouldn’t take off without so much as a by your leave. Not just because she knows it would worry me, but because she’d never dream of letting her colleagues down at the school. It’s totally out of character.’
People did crazy things all the time; as a cop Sarah had seen most of them. Her shrug was non-committal.
‘You must trust my instinct here, Inspector. Olivia and I are ver
y, very close. And I’m not some middle-aged neurotic who’s going to fall apart at the drop of a hat. I’m fifty-six years in age – not IQ. And my head’s telling me something’s very wrong.’
‘We don’t—’
‘Five days have already passed. If the letter you mentioned is genuine I don’t think we should waste any more time. Do you?’
Good point, well made. Mrs Angry had morphed again. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Then you’d better let me see it, hadn’t you.’
She’d reached the same conclusion and regretted the earlier deception. She caught Harries’ eye, gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Actually, boss. I’ve just remembered.’ He reached a hand inside his jacket.
‘Don’t tell me.’ Withering look from Mrs Kent. ‘You just happen to have a copy in your pocket?’
‘Exactly.’ Harries with a disarming smile.
Blanking him, she fired a verbal salvo at Sarah. ‘Let’s get this clear, DI Quinn. I’m not the one who needs your protection. My daughter’s the person in danger. Please don’t hide anything else from me.’
Sarah nodded at Harries, who placed the letter in Mrs Kent’s outstretched palm. She watched the colour drain again from the woman’s face. ‘My God. I don’t believe it.’ Mrs Kent clapped her hand to quivering lips.
‘It may be a hoax—’
‘No. You don’t understand.’ The paper shook as she held it to show Sarah. ‘I’d know it anywhere. This is Olivia’s handwriting.’
‘What’s your take on it then, Quinn?’ Baker leaned back, legs stretched under desk, meaty hands dangling over both arms of his chair. The pungency of his Paco Rabanne was muted by the lingering odour of elevenses: sausage rolls, if Sarah’s twitching nostrils were anything to go by. All right for some. She and Harries had barely set foot in the building before the boss issued his summons. She’d given him the gist of the Elizabeth Kent interview, now he was after an opinion. In the circumstances it was all she could give. There was still nothing concrete to go on – merely a growing unease that Olivia had been abducted.
Crossing her legs, she said, ‘I’m inclined to side with the mother, Chief.’
‘Because?’
She knew he’d say that, but her feelings were difficult to put into words. Besides, she didn’t need telling that instinct alone wasn’t enough to invest time and resources into a crime over which there was a question mark – make that several question marks.
‘Mrs Kent’s convinced Olivia’s being held against her will. They’re close. More like sisters, if you know what I mean?’ Mental groan. That was so the way to get Baker’s back up – not backing. He couldn’t be doing with woolly thinking. And she suspected he’d already made up his mind.
Head down, he made great play of opening both jacket flaps. ‘’Xcuse me while I look for my feminine side.’
Sarah simpered at his crown. ‘What I’m saying is: they speak on the phone most days. Go out together every week. There’s a strong bond there and she’s adamant Olivia wouldn’t go anywhere without telling her.’ It sounded pretty lame. Baker certainly wasn’t bowled over.
‘She’s a grown woman, for God’s sake.’
‘Thirty-two, but as I say it’s out of character for her to disappear.’
‘How’d you know? You’ve never laid eyes on her.’
Who’d rattled Bruiser’s cage? That particular pop was well out of order. Cops rarely had prior knowledge of people they encountered. It was their job to dig it out. By the end of an investigation detectives often knew more about a victim than their nearest and dearest. It wasn’t even day one – officially.
Sarah smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m going on what I’ve heard so far, Chief. Mrs Kent says her daughter would never pull this kind of stunt. As it stands, I’ve no choice but to take her word for it.’
‘What if she’s overreacting?’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s only been what? Four days.’
‘Five. And she’s not.’ Baker’s raised eyebrow said she was close to crossing a line. He probably wouldn’t like her next step either. ‘Neither is she hysterical or hormonal. She genuinely believes Olivia’s at risk but she sees our difficulties.’ Slightly stretching the point: she saw the difficulties but utterly disregarded them.
‘Like no crime, no evidence, no suspect, no victim.’ Baker had run out of fingers to tick. ‘Nothing insurmountable, eh?’
Sarah sighed. He was bloody impossible in this mood. ‘Look, I hear what you’re saying: we need something definite. But we could make a few inquiries near her home, talk to neighbours again, speak to colleagues.’ Harries already was; she’d left him in the squad room bashing phones, recently acquired numbers in his notebook. Mrs Kent had helped compile a list of known associates. ‘We can’t just hang around on the off-chance another letter turns up.’
‘And that’s another thing.’ Baker straightened. ‘It’s all very well Elizabeth Kent claiming someone must’ve forced her daughter’s hand. For all we know the woman could’ve faked her own disappearance. Her car’s not turned up, has it?’
She shook her head. ‘No word yet.’ The Golf’s registration had been circulated – cops in other forces were keeping eyes peeled, too.
‘Christ, Quinn. The woman could’ve fucked off to shack up with an African prince. She could be high on drugs. She could be sunning herself in sodding Sardinia.’
‘That’s it then? We just leave it?’ Baker’s intransigence was acting as a spur. Undecided before, she was now definitely batting for the Kents.
‘Sod all to leave. Why don’t we wait—’
‘For how long? Until there’s a body?’ Her icy tone complemented her glacial glare.
He met, if not quite matched it. ‘Until there’s something to go on, DI Quinn.’
The uneasy silence was broken by a ring tone. Saved by the bell. Baker snatched his phone, snapped a ‘What?’. Grabbed a pen. When Sarah rose to leave, he lifted a restraining finger. Still standing, she peered at the notes he was making, but even the right way up his scrawl was illegible.
‘Get your butt in gear, Quinn.’ He dropped the phone in its cradle, made eye contact. ‘I’d say we now have something to go on.’
She refrained from saying, I told you so.
Nobody likes a smart arse.
SEVEN
‘I’m pretty sure it’s blood, DI Quinn.’ Forensic science officer Richard Collins stood with his back to a sash window holding out empty latex-gloved palms. ‘What I can’t say at this stage is whether it’s human or how long it’s been there.’
Sarah nodded. Only lab tests could provide the answers. The stains had been found in the sitting room of Olivia Kent’s end-of-terrace off Harborne High Street. Crouching near a tiled fireplace, Sarah peered at faint sepia splotches on the polished wooden floor. ‘And you don’t think anyone’s tried getting rid of it, Richard?’
He turned his mouth down. ‘It doesn’t look that way to me. But as you can see there’d normally be a rug there.’ She’d already spotted the faint rectangular outline where the wood was slightly lighter. Was it possible blood had seeped through the material and not been noticed when – and if – the rug was removed by a perp in a hurry? Sarah sighed. They were still pissing in the wind – for all they knew Olivia might have a cat with piles.
‘I had a look round the house,’ Collins said. ‘But I can’t see the rug anywhere.’
She knew he wanted her to push for details. Like she knew he’d tell her anyway. Collins relished being centre of attention, especially hers. It was a standing joke at Lloyd House that he had the hots for DI Quinn: maybe the ice queen image turned him on. She’d exploited both his personal and professional vanities by suggesting he take a look over the property. The request had been unofficial and ahead of the confab with Baker. Just in case there’d been something to find – and just in case the chief had vetoed the investigation. What she didn’t know then was that Baker had put in a casual call to Collins with the same off-the-record request
.
Not that he’d admit it, but the DCS shared her gut instinct. All that blustering in his office was bollocks, aimed at making her focus on what he had the brass neck to call her sloppy thinking, unformed ideas. In the ‘keeping-the-troops-on-their-toes’ school of thought – Baker was a past master.
‘OK.’ Sarah rose, hoisted her bag. ‘The rug. Tell me more.’
Collins posed with pensive steepled fingers tapping pursed, fleshy lips. Backlit, the window frame was an ideal showcase and doubtless he knew it. He had a look about him of Hugh Grant in his Four Weddings and a Funeral days. The dark fringe was just as floppy, though she trusted Collins’ act was sharper. She tolerated the guy’s posturing because the expertise beneath was generally the real deal.
‘OK. Here’s how I see it. Down to my highly developed skills of detection and specialized forensic knowledge. Not to mention natural good looks.’ He waggled an eyebrow. ‘I can state categorically the rug was woven by the poverty-stricken peasants of a remote Peruvian village. It has broad brown stripes and cream tassel borders.’
Bullshit. ‘Stop faffing round, Rich.’
‘Straight up. There’s a photo in the next room that shows two women standing where you are now. The rug was in situ when the snap was taken. I’ve got one at home. Oxfam. Thirty quid.’
‘I want to know where it is now.’ She unclenched her teeth. Not where the sodding thing came from. Not that they could do a lot until a full FSI team showed. Dependent on what else was uncovered – assuming anything was – the property would be designated a crime scene and a missing person inquiry launched.
‘I can show you the pic.’ Collins headed for the door. ‘Must say one of the chicks is particularly tasty.’
‘I’m so glad,’ she muttered.
Standing in the threshold she ran a visual inventory before entering. It was a habit, getting a feel for a place, a sense of its owner. She’d be hard pushed to say what the room revealed about Olivia, but it would drive Sarah to distraction. Her canal-side apartment in Brindley Place was all white décor, pale woods, cream furniture. This was clutter bordering on chaos. There was no overall colour scheme – more all colours, all over. Vibrant jade throws, bejewelled cushions, strings of fairy lights slung round the cornice. An old-fashioned hat stand stood in one corner bedecked with trailing scarves and an eclectic collection of headgear. A colony of teddy bears had taken squatters’ rights on top of two bulging bookcases. Two chunky armchairs were stationed either side of another Victorian fireplace. Sarah noted the slight indentation in one of the cushions, the book left open – unfinished – on the arm.
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