Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste, Chief.’ Smoothing her skirt. ‘But if you’re asking if I think he stood a chance with Olivia Kent, I’d be gobsmacked.’

  ‘Gobsmacked, Detective Inspector? Tut tut.’

  OK, she’d asked for that. Been asking herself something as well. ‘Thing is, Chief –’ rising to her feet, she nodded at the notepaper – ‘if someone’s pointing the finger at Rust – it could be because they don’t want us looking at them.’

  ‘Not so much a steer, more a nudge in the wrong direction?’ Pulling on his bottom lip. ‘Best find out who then, Quinn? Least you know where to start.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’d never have thought of that. ‘’Course, it could just be kids having a laugh, Chief.’ She sighed. They’d fingerprint the whole bloody school if need be – that would wipe the smile off their faces.

  ‘Before you go, Quinn.’ DCS Serious-all-of-a-sudden pointed to the chair. ‘I understand you showed Elizabeth Kent the picture?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave the word two syllables. ‘Play it by ear, you said.’ The seat was still warm.

  ‘Wrong ear, Quinn.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He started circling the desk like a big cat, hands behind his back. ‘She’s downstairs.’

  ‘So? I told you on the phone she was coming in.’ For the press briefing. Sarah had asked someone to organize transport, assigned Shona Bruce to babysit until she could take over.

  ‘The woman’s in bits.’ His audition for The Lion King was making Sarah light-headed. But his description of Elizabeth didn’t fit her recollection.

  ‘I don’t see why, Chief?’

  ‘Get an eye test then. Showing her Olivia in that state was a bad call.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ He’d delegated the decision and was now querying her judgement. Talk about having it both ways.

  ‘No, Quinn. You hold on.’ He leaned forward, hands on desk. ‘You took a gamble and it didn’t pay off. Last thing we need is Elizabeth Kent collapsing, especially in front of those jackals.’

  She narrowed her eyes. The woman couldn’t have been here that long. So when did Dr Baker have time to make a diagnosis? ‘Have you spoken to her?’ Nothing. ‘Have you even seen her?’

  He shrugged. ‘I heard it on the grapevine.’

  ‘Whose?’ Shona? Harries? The police driver?

  ‘Beside the point.’ He shuffled off the desk, walked towards the window.

  Bollocks was it. Checking her watch. ‘I’ll have a quick word now.’ Her assessment of the woman couldn’t be that wrong. So was someone trying to drop her in it with Baker? That one went on the back burner.

  ‘I think it’s best we drive her home. Wait ’til—’

  ‘Come on, Chief. She’s a strong, intelligent woman and she agreed to go along with the appeal. All she need do is read a statement. End of. No follow-up questions, no interviews.’ Was he wavering? ‘It’s important, Chief. This way we get control. We might even get a result. Christ, you were the one pushing for an early news conference.’

  He stopped window gazing, spun round and snapped, ‘You were the one who wanted to hang fire.’

  She’d feared going public would push the perp over the edge. Greater fear now was not acting quickly enough. She sensed time was running out. Standing, she held his gaze. ‘Yeah. Well, I don’t pretend to know all the answers. Maybe I got that wrong, as well.’

  ‘Bullshit. The Mighty Quinn? Cocking up?’ What was the matter with the guy? His cage had been seriously rattled. ‘Tell me this, Inspector: don’t you ever have self-doubt?’

  Only all the time. ‘What the hell’s . . .?’

  ‘Go easy on her, Quinn.’ He raised a hand. ‘Three strikes and all that.’

  She imagined the bat.

  Still perched on the sill, Baker ran both hands through his hair then clasped them at the back of his neck. Maybe he’d been too hard on Quinn. Caroline King certainly hadn’t pulled any velvet-gloved punches. The reporter’s call had come out of the blue and though wise to the reporter’s wiles, Baker couldn’t ignore some of her points. Scratching an armpit, he wandered back to the desk, then riffled files and loose papers until he found the notes he’d jotted during the conversation. A word off the record, she’d said, but knowing Lois she’d recorded every one. Recalling edited highlights, he could hear those honeyed tones now.

  Elizabeth Kent would rather die than tell anyone about her breakdown, Mr Baker, but I know her better than my own mother and she’s on a knife edge. Any additional stress and . . . well, who knows where it could lead.

  He’d countered with: That’s not what I hear from my investigating officer, Ms King.

  A resigned sigh, then: I’ve tried telling DI Quinn. She never listens to anyone. Must be great when you know all the answers. But subjecting Elizabeth to the full glare of a media scrum . . . is madness. Sorry I can’t hide my feelings, Detective Chief Superintendent. I’m emotionally involved. DI Quinn’s detachment must be . . . useful . . . but it doesn’t give her a monopoly on being right.

  The women had history, he knew that. Not chapter and verse, but enough not to take King’s word as gospel. Thinking on though, the reporter didn’t know about the latest picture. It was Mickey Madison who’d told him the woman was looking wired. Either way, Elizabeth Kent’s mental health wasn’t something to play around with. He’d told the reporter he’d pass on the gist.

  No. I’d rather you didn’t. Let’s keep it off the record. Besides, the information about Elizabeth is confidential. Strictly entre nous, Detective Chief Superintendent. I just want to make you aware.

  Beware, more like. He’d almost seen her eyelashes flutter, but the alacrity with which she’d shouted ‘no’ had set Baker’s antennae twitching: was Mrs Kent’s malady mostly in King’s mind? And if so, why? Her drift wasn’t easy to pin down either. Was ace reporter King actually mooting a news blackout? Kidnap cases were generally off limits to the media during the duration – most journos hated being muzzled.

  Don’t misunderstand me, Mr Baker. I think the story should be out there, raising public awareness, helping to get Olivia back. And believe me I know how to cover it for maximum impact.

  I?

  I’m not pretending I don’t see the news value but DI Quinn seems to think it’s just another job for me.

  Ah.

  I assure you it’s not. There’s no one better qualified to tell the story and I certainly know how to handle Elizabeth’s condition. It goes without saying I’d be doing it because Olivia’s my dearest friend and . . . you . . . you . . . you can’t put a price on that.

  He’d been playing his mental Strad at that point. Seemed Lois Lane was angling to jettison the pack so she could land another scoop. Dishing the dirt on Quinn was little more than a sideline, collateral damage. Mind, the ice queen could be just as sodding devious.

  Sighing now, Baker balled the note, lobbed it then headed it at the bin. Close but no Hamlet. Shame the sodding Scissor Sisters couldn’t get their bloody act together as well.

  Whistling ‘A Policeman’s Lot’, he grabbed his jacket off the door, stuffed the pockets with mobile, wallet and emergency Mars bar. Partnership meetings with community leaders, especially in Sparkbrook, could drag on a bit. Quinn was more than capable of holding the Kent fort. King was on the money about her know-it-all cold front though. He’d take bets on it being exactly that: a façade. Every cop he knew had one, and most needed keeping in check now and again.

  Nah. If push came to shove, he’d back Quinn most days against media cuties and newbie DCs. But no one was omniscient and a kick up the backside kept everyone’s eye on the baseball.

  Eyes squinting in the strong light, she chased a beach ball across the golden sand, the sun – a perfect yellow disc – high in the flawless Mediterranean sky. Toddlers were building castles or splashing about in rock pools and horses galloped along the shoreline, manes and tails flying in the breeze. Laughing and breathless, Olivia took in the sights and inhaled a heady mix of sm
ells: sun screen, warm skin, candy floss, ocean. Her long limbs were toned and tanned, her hair wet from swimming; she ran her tongue over her lips, tasted salt – and blood.

  Both were real.

  Everything else make-believe, fantasy. Anywhere where anything was more palatable than her current half life, her pitiful existence. Imagining other places, other people, helped her – momentarily – to forget the past, bear the present, not to dread the future.

  Daydreams helped ward off the hallucinations too, the involuntary delusions when her mind played tricks. She’d see objects, animals, people she knew couldn’t be there: dead people. She’d catch movement in the shadows; ghosts hovering overhead. These visions scared her more than the physical pain. It meant her mind was becoming frailer as well.

  Often, she’d retreat into childhood, draw comfort from memories of home. Love and laughter, warm smiles, strong arms. Back then when she woke screaming in the dark, her mother would rush in, wipe away the tears, hold her tight and shush her gently back to sleep. Traces of Joy – still her favourite perfume – would linger in the air when she left.

  Dear God, where was Elizabeth now?

  Stifling a sob, Olivia stiffened. Hairs rose on the back of her neck, adrenaline pumped. She’d heard nothing, but he had to be here. The dark beyond her eyelids had lifted slightly. Slowly opening wary eyes, she braced her body for another blow. Where was he? Was he toying with her again? Hardly daring to breathe, she scanned the room, moving only her eyes. It must be a test. He’d be hiding, waiting to pounce. Willing her to make a wrong move. Any move. She strained her ears for the slightest sound, counted sixty seconds, ninety, then tentatively lifted her head. She took a sharp intake of breath. She was alone, but a candle was lit.

  She blinked rapidly several times, half expecting it to be a hallucination. It was still there, flanked by the other two. Why were they unlit? It was a ritual. He lit them when he came in, extinguished them on leaving.

  Tears pricked her eyes.

  How dare he? How dare he change the pattern, alter the routine? What right did he have to deviate from the norm, upset her like this? Fists clenched, she wanted to stamp her feet, scream and shout. Then realized how ludicrous her reaction was.

  Recognized, as well, that with so little to cling to during the enforced confinement – the minutiae of what passed for life had taken on mammoth proportions. She was loath to let it go. Lighting a few sodding candles. She gave a brittle laugh.

  Hysterical or what? Throwing back her head, she laughed again. Oh Olivia, that’s priceless. She couldn’t wait to tell her mates. Then the flame flickered in the draught.

  And she saw it in a different light.

  Not a deviation any more. If she could just get to it, maybe it could be her salvation.

  SIXTEEN

  The conference room at police HQ resembled a film set, or a TV studio. Having always avoided the spotlight, Elizabeth Kent was aware of the irony. Dressed in a dark trouser suit, she sat at a polished mahogany table, flanked by police officers, facing a battery of lights, microphones, lenses; behind was a vast screen currently showing the force logo. Conscious her hands were clammy, she took them off the desk, clamped them between her thighs. Damp smudges remained on the wood. If she was the star turn, the audience comprised thirty or more complete strangers seated in rows waiting, she suspected, to pounce on her every word.

  Outwardly calm, she ran through the script in her head; the statement written by DI Quinn. Her edginess wasn’t down to nerves or stage fright: Elizabeth was furious – make that incandescent. She couldn’t get rid of the terrible mental image of Olivia, the thin wire round her neck, the fear in her eyes. How dare another human being do this to her daughter? She hated whoever it was. And until a few hours ago had no idea she was capable of feeling so much hatred.

  ‘Mrs Kent, are you all right?’ DI Quinn leaned across, voice low. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘No. I’m fine. Thank you.’ Grateful, too, that she’d been given the choice of seeing the photograph. The DI’s warning that she would find it deeply distressing hadn’t prepared her for the shock, the sickening gut-churning emotional maelstrom. But knowing the worst was infinitely preferable to being kept in the dark. Olivia didn’t have that option. Lowering her head, she bit down hard on her lip. She’d do anything in the world to help her daughter, bring an end to the suffering. That desire was Elizabeth’s driving force, fuelling her thoughts and moves. Love had brought her here.

  Love and hatred.

  Bracing herself, eager to get on, she ran her gaze over the reporters. Most made eye contact, she noticed, offered tentative smiles of encouragement, nods of concern. Only connect. She’d heard Caroline say it a million times. A journalist needed empathy as much as the ability to string sentences together. Elizabeth’s response had been that E.M. Forster would turn in his grave, but she knew what Caroline meant. The more rapport a journalist displayed, the more an interviewee was likely to reveal.

  Pre-warned, Elizabeth intended to keep her distance, not just from the press. She’d already told Caroline she wouldn’t go ahead with her suggestion. Maybe that was why she hadn’t deigned to put in an appearance. Caroline invariably sulked when things didn’t go her way. Elizabeth had always known how to read her. As for Sarah Quinn, her features were a closed book. Strikingly attractive, apparently confident, utterly inscrutable. On one thing Elizabeth was clear: no one had her daughter’s interests at heart more than she did.

  Including her father. She’d tried calling Philip earlier that day, finally resorted to leaving a guarded message on the answerphone. She assumed he was away on business, as usual. Even so, she’d had to curb her resentment. For the first time since he’d left, Elizabeth would have appreciated his presence beside her now. Instead, DC Harries was holding her hand, figuratively speaking. DI Quinn shuffled papers, cleared her throat. Elizabeth felt her heartbeat increase. She knew the approach the police intended to take, but would the media buy it?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming.’ Unsmiling, Sarah was now on her feet. Desultory chat from the floor petered out, pens were poised, posture sharpened. ‘You’ve been invited here today because we need your help.’ Sipping water from a glass, she let the words sink in, observed reactions. She interpreted glances exchanged among more experienced hacks as ‘nothing new there then’. Ditto from her perspective: their response was knee-jerk.

  ‘More than that –’ she put the glass down – ‘we need your discretion and total cooperation.’ No one actually voiced, ‘What’s in it for me?’. Both parties understood the relationship was two-way. Raised expectations were about to be dashed. ‘I can’t say what’s in it for you. Truth is, I can’t reveal much at all at this stage.’ The pause was longer this time, piquing interest, signposting import. ‘We’re dealing with an ongoing major investigation, the abduction of a thirty-two-year-old woman from Birmingham.’

  Shoulders slumped, a couple of groans were barely disguised; glances this time were along the waste-of-bloody-time line. Again, predictable reactions: reporters know abduction generally means an embargo. It was the big story no one was allowed to write. They all knew the score, old hands had probably covered the Stephanie Slater kidnap, the Leslie Whittle inquiry. They’d expect days, weeks possibly, of enforced silence during a news blackout. While the case was active they’d get summoned to irregular off-the-record briefings where officers would issue salient facts, float theories. Reporters would record interviews with the main players, assemble background material, shoot location footage. They’d have the story ready to roll, apart from the top line. And until the end of the inquiry and the outcome was known, not one word of it could be used, not one frame aired. Most accepted it with good grace.

  ‘Well. My cup runneth over.’ Bored drawl from the second row. Sarah homed in on the source. Should’ve seen it coming, really. Sky News crime correspondent, Will Leigh. Known – imaginatively – in police circles as Cocky. Normal height, ave
rage weight, unremarkable features framed by light brown hair, Leigh was a lot less fit than his swagger suggested. He muttered an aside to a younger journalist, ‘Call me Mr Lucky.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Lucky would like to meet the missing woman’s mother?’ Sarah held Leigh’s gaze. Her hearing was almost as acute as Baker’s. Leigh gave a one-shoulder shrug, but broke eye contact first. Addressing everyone, she gestured to her right. ‘I’d like to introduce Mrs Elizabeth Kent. Her daughter, Olivia, disappeared five days ago. We believe she’s been abducted and is being held against her will.’

  ‘What evidence have you got?’

  ‘Where was she seen last?’

  ‘Is she in danger?’

  ‘Has the kidnapper made contact?’

  ‘Is there a ransom demand?’

  Voices were getting louder as questions became more ludicrous. Sighing, Sarah folded her arms. They knew this was going nowhere. Unlike Elizabeth Kent. Sarah heard the woman’s chair scrape back and, turning, saw her rise. Damn. She was bailing out. But, no. Elizabeth raised a hand. The plea wasn’t necessary. The room fell silent the second she was on her feet. Police sirens wailed outside. She waited until the noise died down.

  ‘Please. You’re talking about my daughter.’ Brief pause, deep breath. Everyone focused on her. ‘I know a little about what’s happening, but the officers involved know a lot more than they’re telling me. They believe that’s vital at this stage – and I do, too. I agreed to come here today because DI Quinn assured me that you’ll respect reporting restrictions while Olivia’s in captivity.’ Absolute silence, total stillness. The performance was a show-stopper – except for one heckler.

  ‘So till the cops give the say-so –’ Leigh stowed his pen in a breast pocket – ‘it’s a no-no.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Sarah laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. ‘There are certain facts I want you to use.’

  ‘But not now. Right?’