Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  Not bristling took effort. ‘I’m not overly concerned about Ms King’s opinion, Mrs Kent.’ Fact is I don’t give a flying fuck.

  ‘She wants to work on a detailed report, film and photographs of Olivia, an interview with me. She’s convinced full coverage is the best way to go. That it’ll flush out the abductor, persuade witnesses to come forward. Help the inquiry.’

  Dead altruistic. ‘And have you agreed to help?’

  Deep sigh. ‘I said I needed time to think.’

  Small mercies. Thanks, God. ‘I can’t force you not to co-operate with her, Mrs Kent. But trust me we have established procedures, highly-trained experts, officers experienced at dealing with crimes of this nature. We do know what we’re doing.’ Bit of vocal support from Harries wouldn’t go amiss. She cut him a glance but the hint went unnoticed or wasn’t taken.

  ‘How’m I supposed to know what’s best?’ Her chair tilted as she jumped up, headed for the sink. ‘I’m not just torn in two, I’m in bits.’ Shoot. She was about to throw up. No. She ran water into a glass, pressed it to a temple, then: ‘I can’t even think straight. All I want, DI Quinn, is to have my daughter home, unharmed.’

  ‘That’s what I want too, Mrs Kent. It’s why I’m sure—’

  ‘Sure? How can you be sure?’ She banged the glass on the drainer. ‘My daughter’s life could depend on your decisions.’

  ‘I have no doubt your daughter’s life depends on police decisions, Mrs Kent.’ Girding mental loins, she reached for her briefcase. ‘That’s why you need to take our guidance.’ Not some self-serving reporter’s quest for airtime.

  This was real life not manufactured headlines.

  She placed the envelope on the table. ‘Please, Mrs Kent. Sit down.’

  It was show-and-tell time.

  ‘Thanks for your valuable contribution.’ Sarah slammed the driver’s door, slung her briefcase on the back seat.

  Harries’ hand stilled on its way to fasten the belt, his jaw tightened a fraction. ‘What was I supposed to say, ma’am? Sorry Olivia’s hanging out with a psycho. Still, no worries. I’m sure it’ll all turn out hunky?’

  ‘Don’t try and be funny.’ She over-revved the engine, almost stalled it in take off. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’ He’d barely opened his mouth during the forty-minute interview. And Sarah had struggled as in blood and stone.

  ‘I know when you’re pissed off you take it out on me.’ Tight-mouthed, he’d clearly had enough of being whipping boy. They drove in silence for a while, but she couldn’t let go. ‘You were the one pushing me to show her the sodding thing.’

  ‘’Course, and people always push you around, don’t they? Regular doormat is DI Quinn.’

  Ludicrous. She snorted.

  ‘Anyway, ma’am, she didn’t exactly go to pieces, did she?’

  Neither had she opened up. Sarah felt she’d failed to connect with Elizabeth Kent. Feared she was extracting the bare minimum. Suspected that answering questions was a distraction because all Mrs Kent could see was Olivia’s image. It was shock and it would pass, but the touchy-feely Harries with his legendary people skills could’ve picked up on it, interjected.

  And Sarah knew she was being an unreasonable cow: having a go at Harries when it was her own damn failing. The guy was a detective not a mind reader.

  ‘You’re too hard on yourself, ma’am.’ Still ma’am. Still miffed. As for mind reading? Give the boy a gold star. ‘It’s down to you she’ll show her face at the news conference. You didn’t need my input. I thought you were doing just fine.’

  Well, thank you, kind sir. Her taut knuckles were turning white. She opened her mouth to object, thought better of it. She’d taken Harries on because she needed a partner who wasn’t intimidated by the ice queen image, who wasn’t scared to tell it like it is. Shouting him down when he did was puerile. Besides, she needed to chill out more. On the job she walked a fine line between brisk and brusque; cool and cold; detached and distant. Sarah was the first to admit crossing it on occasion, getting it wrong. She eased her grip on the wheel, glanced at Harries. ‘Patronizing git.’ Her wink signalled a joke, reinforced by a simper. ‘Bet you think I’m worrying my pretty little head.’

  ‘Pretty?’ He pursed pensive lips. ‘Nah. Striking, I’d say.’

  ‘Any more lip – and I will.’ Strike. She caught his lopsided smile in the wing mirror; it matched her own. Right place – a bit of banter was fine, needed sometimes to lighten the load. The session with Elizabeth Kent had been intense, the woman’s agreement to attend the press briefing reluctant and last minute. Even then she’d asked for a while longer to compose herself. Proceedings were being put back an hour. Madison was delighted to be doing the news desks’ ring-round. She’d heard unbridled joy in the DC’s voice when she’d called the incident room. But the new arrangement suited Sarah fine. It meant they still had time to swing by Olivia’s school on the way back to HQ.

  ‘Talking of lip, I thought you’d land one on King back there, boss.’

  ‘She always asks for it.’ Flapping a hand. ‘Water off a duck’s back, David.’

  ‘You don’t think she might have a point? Splash coverage could maybe do the trick?’

  The trick? ‘We’re not playing cards, Harries, or pulling a rabbit out of a hat.’

  ‘No, but.’ He turned his mouth down. Was he deliberately winding her up? Perhaps more than any of the squad, he was aware of her antipathy towards King, towards the media in general.

  ‘Until we find out more about the man who’s holding her – and why – we’re all whistling in the dark.’

  ‘So she could be right then?’

  ‘What is this? Are you King’s mouthpiece now or something?’

  He raised both palms. ‘Open mind is all I’m saying.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of that.’

  She braked at a pelican crossing, watched a crocodile of little kids mosey over the road, four harassed-looking adults keeping them in check. Towels poked out of rucksacks, and the kids’ hair looked damp. There was the odd cheeky grin. She returned the shy waves. She’d loved swimming lessons, got you out of class.

  Back in the flow, Harries cupped an ear. ‘Hear that, boss?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That loud rumbling. Richter scale or what?’

  Frowning, she pricked her ears, soon realized she’d been had. His stomach rubbing wasn’t that subtle. ‘OK, take your pick: Greggs, Subway or McDonalds?’ All were en route and he could scarf whatever in the car. Supposed to be fast food, wasn’t it?

  ‘Burger’ll do me, boss.’

  ‘Lucky that.’ There was a glint in her eye. ‘There’s been a big run on the hog roast.’

  FOURTEEN

  The head at Green Hill College had difficulty meeting Sarah Quinn’s eyeline. At five foot ten, she was five inches taller but suspected height difference wasn’t James A. Rust’s only problem. Reluctantly agreeing to fit in a non-scheduled visit, he led the way to his office, waved a vague arm in the direction of a couple of hardback chairs. Rust took the executive leather option behind an executive desk complete with a Newton’s cradle and a set of stress balls. His gaze shifted either shy of her shoulder or up to the ceiling. Occasionally it lit on Harries who was alongside making notes, observing body language.

  Rust was the only teacher Sarah had come across in years who wore a black gown; tobacco fumes wafted from its folds, a scattering of dandruff dusted the sloping shoulders. His hands were noticeably small, nails bitten to the quick and currently raking a sparse grey-flecked goatee; dark slicked-back hair receded a la Vincent Price as Dracula. Or don, as in Mafia.

  Two walls were floor-to-ceiling books, a third covered in awards, certificates, school photos. Picture windows made up most of the fourth and looked out on to the tarmac playground, occasional squeals and catcalls were audible through the glass, teenagers buzzing with turkey twizzlers and testosterone. Or sparking up behind the bike sheds.

  Sarah watched Rust closely as she
ran through information she was prepared to share. It was minimal: need to know. They were making inquiries into the disappearance of Olivia Kent. The call to the school was bogus. What could he tell her about it? He’d listened impassively, but twitchy ink-stained fingers suggested suppressed testiness.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to your colleague here.’ He flapped a batwing at Harries. They’d had a brief conversation on the phone.

  ‘I appreciate that, Mr Rust. And now you’re speaking to me.’ Polite. But don’t piss me around.

  ‘It’s Doctor, actually, if you don’t mind.’ Dr Rust rested his head against the chair back, laced his fingers, looked up at the light for inspiration. The pose could have been subtler. ‘The phone rang just before eight. No one else was around so I answered it.’ Straightening, he smoothed his hair, unnecessarily. Like that’s it? Sarah’s lips parted, but a prompt wasn’t needed. ‘Ordinarily I’d have let it go to voicemail but I was expecting a call. To tell the truth, as soon as the woman said Olivia was ill, I more or less switched off. It was the last thing I needed. We’re stretched as it is. Three staff members on long-term sick leave, one on maternity. My first thought was how I’d fill yet another absence. Supply teachers cost a fortune. I have to—’

  Yadda yadda. ‘And your thinking now?’

  His moue was telling: not many people interrupted Rust’s flow. ‘Look, Sergeant, I take your word she was an impostor, but there was no reason for me to suspect anything amiss at the time.’

  The demotion put-down was so old. ‘The voice. You’re sure it was female?’

  ‘Yes.’ Was there a slight hesitation?

  ‘Absolutely no doubt?’ His lack of eye contact didn’t help.

  ‘It was deep, a little husky, but I attributed that to the cold she said she had.’

  ‘Accent?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And you assumed it was Ms Kent’s mother?’ Her stress was deliberate.

  So was his four-second pause. ‘As I said, my mind was on other things.’ As was the wandering gaze. ‘It was hardly a social call. It was over in less than a minute.’

  When she asked what exactly was said, he reacted as if being requested a verbatim rendition of War and Peace. The drama king performance would have been mildly comical, if Olivia was at home, tucked up in bed. She wondered if Rust was always like this. Or if she was failing to hide her dislike. When his answer eventually came it added nothing they hadn’t already heard: that Olivia was ill and wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week.

  ‘And the call’s not on tape, sir?’ Harries asked.

  ‘No. Sorry.’ He lifted the cuff of his tweed jacket, over-egged the time check. ‘Look, I don’t want to rush you—’

  ‘Olivia Kent.’ Sarah sat back, crossed her legs. ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘That’s a big question. What do you want to know?’

  She’d kept it deliberately vague. ‘Whatever you think might help.’ Thin smile. ‘I need to build a picture.’ Other than the mental image she couldn’t shake.

  His sigh lifted a loose Post-it note on the desk. ‘Olivia’s competent, punctual, reliable.’ She rarely took time off, he said, was happy to help with extra-curricular activities, liked by colleagues, popular with pupils, lively and outgoing. He pulled a fleshy ear lobe. ‘Maybe a touch too familiar.’

  Interest piqued. ‘Familiar?’ Casual delivery.

  ‘Wrong word. I mean friendly.’ Too friendly? ‘One has to keep a professional distance.’ Stroking the beard now.

  ‘Are you saying she didn’t?’

  ‘I may have mentioned it to her.’

  May? ‘Either you did or you didn’t, Dr Rust.’

  ‘OK, I did. I found her a little pally with some of the young people; there’s always a danger of becoming close emotionally. There are certain boundaries one shouldn’t cross.’

  Pussyfooting weasel words? ‘Are we talking professional misconduct here?’ Or professional jealousy. She couldn’t see Rust making many kids’ top ten.

  ‘No, no. Over-exuberance, occasional poor judgement. Nothing serious. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  So why had he? ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘I can’t see the relevance, but yes, of course I did.’

  Changing tack, she probed more personal lines: was Olivia in a relationship? Did she seem depressed? Had her moods changed recently? Had she expressed any concerns or fears about being watched or followed, maybe? After five fruitless minutes, she’d had enough of the guy’s self-aggrandizing posturing; time was pressing, business unfinished.

  ‘Right, thanks. That’s it.’ She stood quickly, stowed briefcase under elbow. ‘Obviously we need to interview other staff members. And talk to pupils who you think Olivia was particularly . . . close to.’

  ‘That’ll be a big disruption to college life, Officer.’ For once, he was looking at her face. He raised a hand. ‘But if you think it strictly necessary, then of course.’

  ‘Two of my officers will be here first thing in the morning. That gives you time to organize a room, work out a rota.’ She turned at the door. ‘I wouldn’t want to upset your routines.’

  ‘I think you’re in there, boss.’ Harries and Sarah walked in step across the tarmac, headed for the staff car park. ‘Talk about house on fire.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not in it for the popularity awards.’ Straight answers to reasonable questions would do for a start. Not smart-arse sketchy remarks. A concern, if she had one, was that not hitting it off with Rust could impact on the inquiry.

  Harries jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That wasn’t down to you, boss.’

  The personality clash. With a wry smile she picked up the tacit corollary in his inflexion and voiced it. ‘Not this time, anyway.’

  A football headed straight for them via a group of kids having a noisy kick-around. Barely missing a stride, she flicked it back, acknowledged their over-enthusiastic, and almost certainly ironic, applause with a raised hand.

  ‘Hidden talents, boss. Nice one. As for Rust, don’t sell yourself short; he was hostile from the start.’

  ‘Yes, but what was his problem?’ And was the prickliness significant, suggestive even? Rust had displayed neither concern nor curiosity about Olivia’s disappearance. Was he really so self-centred? Certainly the man was stressed; he’d been playing with his balls when they left.

  ‘All that arm waving and heavy sighing.’ Harries sniffed. ‘Proper old diva, if you ask me.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, divo.’ She twitched a lip. ‘And hardly ancient.’ He’d given his age as forty-four.

  ‘Let’s compromise: call him a div.’

  ‘Dr Div, if you don’t mind, David.’ She shook her head, smiling. The car park was full of Fiestas, Kas, Volvos. Olivia’s Golf wasn’t here, they’d checked on arrival. ‘Big question’s this.’ Sarah pressed the remote to her car, paused at the door. ‘Was all the melodrama a distraction, a deliberate smokescreen, and if it is . . .’

  ‘What’s crusty Rusty hiding?’

  ‘Answer that, and you get seven out of ten.’ She frowned. ‘What is it?’

  Harries was now squatting, gaze focused on the bodywork. ‘Come and take a look, boss.’

  She gave a low whistle. ‘I’ll maybe make that nine.’ Nobody’s perfect.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘So what’s it mean, why do it and who’s the joker?’ Baker didn’t want much. Sarah stifled a sigh as the chief slid a sheet of notepaper across his desk: the artwork she’d copied from the door panel. It wouldn’t be hanging in the Tate any time soon.

  JR OK

  The initials and heart – finger smudged in a fine layer of dust – were telling. But, telling what? Tales out of school?

  ‘If I knew that, Chief, I wouldn’t be here.’ Probably wasting time. She’d nipped in for speedy input, not the third degree. Doubtless that would emerge at the news conference, next up on the agenda; hacks were pawing the ground downstairs. Harries was grabbing coffees prior to the off.
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  Baker turned his mouth down, pointed a stubby finger at the note. ‘I take it that’s the lot on the billet-doux front?’

  Billet-doux? Baker? She raised an eyebrow. Probably meant French letters. ‘We looked the other cars over. They were clean.’ As in no incriminating love hearts, not mud free. ‘Makes me think word had gone round the school.’ That cops were on the premises.

  Leather creaked as he sprawled back in the chair, rested hands on chunky thighs. ‘So either someone’s muckraking, or telling us Mr Chips is gagging for Olivia Kent?’ Harries had mooted the second theory, though not so graphically. She’d not been convinced then, still hadn’t changed her mind.

  ‘I can see you don’t buy it, Quinn. Shame Cupid didn’t spell it out.’ The chief rubbed a tired-looking eye. The pun wasn’t laboured; she didn’t think he was even aware of it. Seemed a touch distracted somehow. ‘So what’s JR got to say for himself?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I thought we’d go back powder dry.’ She wanted to see if they could first flesh out what was at best a flaky claim and at worst spiteful rumour. It meant garnering information, gauging opinion from other people in the school. Questioning would have to be subtle. Apart from not wanting to alert Rust, if his reputation was rubbished he’d be first to go screaming to a brief. ‘That OK with you, Chief?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ Sarky sniff. ‘Is this bloke fit, then, Quinn? Floats birds’ boats, d’you reckon?’ The arctic stare was at Baker’s winning way with words as much as the prospect of giving Rust anything but the widest berth. Baker flashed an uncertain grin. ‘I take it that’s a no?’

  She further tightened her mouth, detected just a tinge of sheepishness round the dark eyes. Maybe her quest to find the old boy’s inner new man wasn’t a lost cause. He was just about the only guy she allowed – mostly – to get away with sexist crap. Face it, there were only so many hours in a day. She didn’t fancy all of them spent down his throat. And at least he was upfront with the off-colour comments – they weren’t lobbed in from offside. She even found the occasional line funny, though she’d baulk at admitting it.