‘Wrong. Look, I can’t tell you everything, you wouldn’t expect me to. But there’s information that needs to be in the public domain now.’
Flagging hacks took note and prepared to make a few of their own. Sarah sensed attitudes sharpening. ‘Thing is, it’s important I tell you exactly what to say and when to say it.’
‘Thunderbirds are go.’ Leigh played to the crowd, dangling lifeless arms.
‘What did you say?’ Sarah’s voice was chipped ice. The subdued laughter died instantly. Leigh’s smirk faded when he saw her face.
‘You’re pulling strings.’ He shrugged.
Observing coolly, she played a pen through her fingers. Bums shifted on seats, the silence became uneasy, the atmosphere charged. Sarah’s knuckles were white. ‘What I’m doing, Mr Leigh, is trying to save Olivia Kent’s life.’ The cheap plastic cracked under pressure; she dropped the pen on the table. Deadly serious.
‘OK. It was a joke. I’m sorry.’ Leigh underlined the apology with a placatory palm.
‘Jokes are funny, Mr Leigh.’ Taking her time, she reached for a file, leafed through several sheets of paper, some blank. The delaying tactic paid off rapidly.
‘DI Quinn?’ The voice was cultured, attractive. After three or four seconds, she glanced up. Its owner looked pretty suave, too. Well-cut suit, thick dark hair, strong features, white teeth. ‘I’m Tim Summers, The Independent.’
‘Mr Summers.’ She didn’t return the smile.
‘It’s clear from what you say this is a highly unusual case. If a life’s at risk, sticking to reporting restrictions is a no-brainer.’ He glanced at Leigh over his shoulder. ‘I’m more than happy to go along with police requirements.’
‘Thanks.’ Still not a smile, but her features softened slightly. ‘In my experience the situation’s unique. And for that reason, everything I tell you in the next few minutes has to be off the record, strictly for background. Is that clear to everyone?’ Short of taking out an injunction, the police had no legal right to impose a news blackout. There’d be no statements, signed in triplicate, written in blood. The DI had to take their compliance on trust.
‘Olivia Kent is being held against her will. I believe her life is in danger. We know very little about the man who’s taken her. What information we do have suggests a highly manipulative, sadistic individual. We think he wants publicity, is keen to see the story in the media. The advice we’re getting is that we do nothing – absolutely nothing – to antagonize him.’ More input from Baker’s tame profiler.
‘I’m asking you to report a few lines – short, straightforward, simple. It’s important he knows we’re investigating Olivia’s disappearance, but it’s vital we don’t overstep the mark by saying too much, too soon.’ And, she thought, pray it wasn’t too little, too late.
‘You say you “think” he wants publicity. What if you don’t get the balance right?’
She held out empty palms. ‘I don’t have the answer to that, Mr Summers.’
‘It’s a hell of a risk, isn’t it, DI Quinn?’
‘Yes.’ No police-speak. The honest answer seemed to shock most of the reporters. Sarah took a sip of now tepid water. ‘But not as big as the one she’s facing. I’m hoping to increase the odds in her favour. And I’m asking for your help.’ There was no blinding light, no sudden conversion, but Sarah sensed an understanding.
‘What do you want us to do?’ Will Leigh voiced what was probably everyone’s thinking.
‘We keep to a basic missing person appeal.’ Harries’ ring-tone went off. Great timing. She nodded towards a uniformed officer primed and ready to go at the back: an image of a smiling Olivia replaced the logo on the screen. It was the media’s first sight of the victim. After a brief pause, Sarah dictated key facts: West Midlands police were asking the public to help trace a missing thirty-two-year-old teacher from Harborne in Birmingham. Olivia Kent was last seen in Windsor Place, Edgbaston on Saturday. A hotline number had been set up for anyone with information and all calls would be treated in strictest confidence. ‘Please, guys, we need it out there soon as.’ Even without the less-than-thrilled expressions, she knew the story wouldn’t set the world on fire. They perked up a touch when she told them Mrs Kent would shortly say a few words.
‘As for the pic –’ turning to look at the screen – ‘copies are available here or we can email it. I’d ask if you obtain any other images by whatever means—’
‘Boss.’ Harries.
She was about to say not now, but saw his face. ‘What?’
He hesitated, before pushing back the chair and passing behind Mrs Kent. It wasn’t for broadcast whatever it was.
‘Report’s just come in. A house fire in Ladywood.’
‘So?’ Get uniform on to it for Christ sake. ‘I’m in the mid—’
‘A woman, boss. Badly burned. Signs are she was tied up and the blaze started deliberately.’
SEVENTEEN
It was more years than Caroline King cared to remember since she’d chased stories by tracking fire engines’ water trails. Back in the day, finding news rather than having some press officer dish it out on a plate was smart, got her noticed, put her ahead of the pack. Any half-decent junior reporter would do the same. Mind, nowadays, she was more cougar than cub.
Locking the Merc, she allowed herself a small smile, hoisted her bag and headed back to the scene. Despite clocking the water spills and the smell of smoke, she wouldn’t have bothered taking a closer look had she not been passing anyway and registered a shedload of police activity for what appeared a minor incident. An air ambulance crew doesn’t turn out for a chip-pan fire.
Rounding the corner, carefully recording more detail as she approached, the numbers added up even less. Four fire engines, three police cars, white transit. It was emergency central out there with fire fighters and uniformed officers milling around, a forensic team getting into suits. Yet the three-storey detached property looked to have been boarded up long back: planks were warped, mottled with black moss, upstairs windows smashed or missing, crumbling brickwork daubed with graffiti, street tags. It looked Victorian with a touch of Gothic to Caroline: terracotta tiles, pointed arches, a couple of turrets, dusty weeds sprouting from pitted grouting.
A once-brass name plaque was now dull green. She had to peer to make out the letters: Cameron Towers. Fawlty more like. It was probably an old family pile that like others in the area had turned multi-occupancy. Yes. A smashed panel to one side of the door had once held a bunch of bell pushes. The whole street had seen better days, but Cameron Towers had seen the worst. She doubted anyone had lived there for a while. Unless squatters had taken up residence? Rough sleepers looking for a berth? Illegal immigrants hiding from the authorities? The Bill wouldn’t be out in force if there wasn’t a body. Depending how many, this little detour could pan out to be a winner after all. She needed a steer.
Casting a professional gaze over the men, she licked already glossy red lips. As a TV reporter, it was second nature: lips, camera, action. Off-duty the lens was an optional extra. But hey, she might have to move up a gear. Normally she’d have picked up a basic fact or two then busked it with the main players as she went along, but right now she hadn’t a clue what was going on.
A lone male was often the best bet but she was out of luck. She headed for a couple of men in suits, off the peg: plain-clothes cops.
‘Excuse me, miss, you can’t go through there.’ Officer Dibble junior.
‘Surveyor’s department.’ She flashed a thin smile along with mock ID. The card was from a well-thumbed pack, with the accent on mock. Tonight, Matthew, I am . . . health and safety inspector, insurance assessor, social worker, solicitor, whichever was likeliest to do the trick. Brisk, professional, act as if you mean it and being told to back off isn’t an option. It didn’t always work, but nothing ventured . . . Sashaying towards the suits, she capitalized on the overtly admiring looks. The broad smile was warm and genuine, eye contact prolonged. ‘Hello.’ She smooth
ed unruffled hair. ‘I so hope you can help.’ Sounding a touch girly went against the grain, as did the disingenuous frown.
‘Y’know what they say, miss.’ The tall, lanky one: Bill. ‘If you want to know the time, ask a policeman.’
‘You’re police officers?’ As if she saw them as merchant bankers. ‘You don’t look it.’
Bill winked at Ben. ‘It’s since we stopped wearing the flashing blue lights.’
Wankers not bankers. She laughed. Bad move: Bill clearly thought he was wit on a stick. ‘Yeah, well we don’t all ponce round in flash motors, listening to Bowie and knocking seven shades of you know what out of the bad guys.’
Strained laughter. ‘I’m sure you don’t, Officer. Is that what people think?’ Like she could care less.
‘They see it on the telly, don’t they? Read it in the press. All that mind-how-you-go bollocks.’ The curled lip revealed a chipped incisor and his attitude to the media.
‘Tell me about it.’ She was paid to think on her feet. ‘Honest to God, I dread telling anyone I’m a reporter.’ The flowerpot men looked as if Little Weed had been pulled up by the roots. Caroline ploughed on regardless. ‘Sometimes I feel I’m the only decent apple left in the barrel.’ It was a tactic she’d used before. It wasn’t risk free. But at least they hadn’t told her to naff off. Trouble was they hadn’t told her anything. She saw it as a challenge, a little test of her persuasive powers. How much more bullshit would she have to come out with before she got what she wanted? And if they didn’t play ball, so what?
Small fire in Birmingham. Not many dead.
EIGHTEEN
‘Bear with me. I’ll bring you up to speed on the way.’ Camel coat flapping, Sarah strode across police HQ’s car park. Scanning vehicles, she spotted Harries at the wheel of the Vauxhall, engine already running.
Elizabeth Kent struggled to keep pace. ‘On the way where?’
‘The QE.’ Queen Elizabeth: the city’s new acute hospital and specialist burns unit. ‘A woman’s been admitted.’
‘And you think it’s Olivia?’
It was the only reason Sarah had opted to take Mrs Kent along. It certainly wasn’t a joyride. The DI watched in the mirror as the woman in the back fumbled to click home the belt. They were in second gear before she had success.
‘There’s no confirmation yet, Mrs Kent, but we think so.’ There was no question. The DI had grabbed a few words on the phone with the fire chief out there. Birmingham wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams with naked women left tethered and beaten up in basements.
‘Is she . . . is she . . . badly hurt?’ The tone was firm but delivery tentative.
Sarah regretted the earlier offer to talk. She didn’t know a lot, and what information she did have, had no urge to share. Turning to make eye contact, she said, ‘We’ll know more when we get there, Mrs Kent. But she was found injured at the scene of a house fire.’
Her frown deepened but she said nothing, started shredding a tissue in her lap. Maybe she didn’t want to hear more. No news is good news?
Harries clipped a kerb cornering. ‘Sorry, boss.’ For once she didn’t snipe at his Stig impression. He knew as well as her that journey time was vital. Latest reports suggested the victim’s injuries were life-threatening. According to the fire chief – Bob Hancock – if not for the anonymous phone call, she’d almost certainly have died at the location. Details were sketchy and squad members were chasing, but Sarah’s priority was getting to the hospital.
She tapped twitchy fingers on thigh. Light drizzle was falling, stop-start traffic was heavy, the school run in reverse well underway. ‘Put the blue on, David.’
Precious minutes had already been spent wrapping the news conference without letting hacks get wind of what was happening. She’d curtailed it briskly with a request they hold off for twenty-four hours before reporting the abduction appeal. By then, it might not need reporting at all. By then, it might be a completely different story.
Flashing headlights, beeping horns as vehicles parted or pulled over to let the Vauxhall through. Sarah grimaced at the glimpse of a fox’s mangled body in the gutter. Roadkill. Baker would have told it to use the pelican. The chief had been briefed and taken an early out from the partnership meeting; Sparkbrook wasn’t a million miles from the crime scene.
Sarah checked her BlackBerry. Nothing. In-car was silent, too. Not even the customary soundtrack of staccato barks or static on police radio. Paul Wood was under orders to phone direct if anything moved. Should the worst happen, Elizabeth Kent wouldn’t learn via the airwaves.
The DI glanced in the wing mirror, clocked Olivia’s mother gazing blankly through her window. Whatever she was seeing, Sarah would bet good money it wasn’t out there. And who needed Christmas decorations this early? Lamp posts festooned with coloured lights, blow-up Santas clinging to drainpipes, shunting up shop fronts. God rest ye . . . Sarah grimaced. If Brad Pitt didn’t make her an offer she couldn’t refuse, she’d be spending it with a turkey dinner from Iceland. Perish the thought and focus for Christ’s sake. Sliding back a sleeve, she glanced at her watch: 16.15.
‘There in five, boss.’
She nodded, knew that. Shame she wasn’t privy to a lot more. The arson attack had raised a stack load of questions, but the biggest was this: would the woman who knew the answers stick around long enough to reveal them?
Caroline King was a happy bunny. Ish. Sauntering back to the Merc, she lit a cigarette, working out which news desks to call. Bill and Ben had filled in several gaps. Initially they’d only revealed – off-the-record-more-than-our job’s-worth, natch – that a female person had suffered significant burns, that circumstances were suspicious; that the fire’s origin was dubious.
Blah-yada-blah. She couldn’t be doing with police-speak. You didn’t have to wear a deerstalker and smoke a Meerschaum to detect the incident wasn’t routine. The poor bloody woman hadn’t been toasting teacakes in there.
She’d needed more than that. Fortuitously, Caroline had a Masters in crap-cutting; the hapless duo hadn’t had a clue what hit them. She blew smoke through a smile. She doubted they had a clue full stop.
To get them talking, she’d majored on body language: open face-to-face posture, fascinated gaze, intense focus, a casual stroke of the hair here, pensive pout there. Arse-licking it was known in the trade. One of them had looked particularly taken. They’d certainly added a little flesh to the bone: meatier phrases like bound and gagged, badly beaten, arson not ruled out. She could see the Star’s headline now: Tethered, tortured, torched.
She took a final drag, flicked the butt in the gutter – after this morning the motor’s interior already stank of fags. Fun over, she reckoned the story was small beer for her, nothing in it but a few tip-off fees. With a name, she might’ve been able to hike the price but there was no ID as yet. She took her phone out before slinging the bag on the passenger seat. Her lip curved as she tapped a key. Dougie at The Sun was on fast dial, and always up for a bit of bondage.
The rap on the glass startled her. Scowling, she swivelled her head, ready to snap. It was the tall, gangly, gormless one. Bill – aka Kevin – was hunkered down, slip of paper clutched in fingers. Going by the look on his pimply face, his numbers had come up, all six.
Bored with the game now, she lowered the window, forced a smile. ‘Hi again.’
‘I’ve got it.’
Small pox? Brain damage? Clearly, he wanted prompting. ‘Oh?’
‘The name. It’s just come through. They found her handbag in there. Still want it?’
Easy either way, she wouldn’t be filing copy. Still, show willing and all that. ‘That’s great. Thank you so much.’
He snatched it out of reach. ‘What’s it worth?’
She almost laughed in his face. Was Birmingham’s answer to Deep Throat on the make? She affected mock horror, fake offence. ‘I never pay for information. I told you, I don’t operate that way.’ Rich coming from a reporter who whipped out a cheque book as often
as her notebook. The young cop dithered while she rapidly ran an appraisal. Her last police informant at Lloyd House had got the boot. As in, Quinn’s royal order of . . . Was Kev a potential replacement?
‘I . . . er . . . don’t want cash. I wondered if . . . you’d like to . . .’
‘What?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘A drink? Dinner maybe?’
Kev hadn’t got the first line of a prayer. She’d rather eat sick. ‘That’s awfully sweet of you, but I think not.’
‘Go on.’ He flashed a lewd grin. ‘You could take down my particulars.’ The guy was clearly deranged.
‘What exactly are you suggesting, Officer?’ Stone-face, stiletto-tongue.
He fazed easily. ‘I just thought we might . . .?’
‘Do I look like some sort of casual pick-up?’
‘No. Of course not.’ He probably had visions of a sexual harassment case. Very non-PC.
‘I’m a widow with a young child to support and I work bloody hard trying to do a good job.’ Convincing? She almost believed it herself.
He ran a hand through hair that put her in mind of marmalade: thin cut. ‘I’m sorry, Miss King. I didn’t mean anything.’
‘They all say that. If you had any idea how difficult . . .’ She lowered her head, there was a catch in the voice.
‘Look, here you go. Hope it helps.’
Shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, she watched him lope off. Talk about candy from a baby. As for trainee mole – the jury was out. She was still smiling when she looked down at the paper he’d forced into her hand. The smile froze in an instant.
NINETEEN
Face composed, thoughts troubled, Sarah stared at the woman in the bed. The first time she’d seen Olivia Kent in the flesh; circumstances could be a lot happier. Unconscious and heavily sedated, Olivia wasn’t in pain. The burns confined to the arms, lower limbs, weren’t as first thought life-threatening. Even so, there was no guarantee she’d pull through. Smoke inhalation was the medico’s major concern. SI, Sarah knew, was the big killer in fires, claiming up to eighty per cent of fatalities. Symptoms don’t necessarily show upfront; the next twenty-four/thirty-six hours were crucial.
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