Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  Baker ran a finger round his collar; had a bit of shaving rash going there, she spotted. Not that it seemed to have affected his heavy hand with the Paco Rabanne.

  ‘Forensics are still working both scenes. Best hope they find something to write home about. I hear they’ve lifted a load of goodies from Cameron Towers.’

  Goodies? Sarah had seen some of the bags lined up last night. The FSI guys couldn’t afford to ignore potential evidence, but the basement had been a forensic nightmare: chocker with paper rubbish, rags, sacking, cardboard boxes, packing cases, tea chests. Thankfully fire damage had been confined to a small area, but God knows how much water had been pumped in. Forensic guys and the fire investigation team had been wading through black gunge initially.

  ‘Are we anywhere on who owns it yet, Mickey?’ Baker asked.

  Madison gave a thumb’s up. ‘Nearly there, guv.’

  Sarah took that as a no. He was a lazy sod. Establishing ownership wasn’t difficult: local authority, land registry, then it was what she called GOYFA, as in Get Off Your Fat Arse. ‘Tried the neighbours, have you, Madison?’

  ‘Thanks . . . ma’am.’ The scowl said anything but.

  ‘Enough already. ’Fore we hit the trail –’ she winced as Baker dismounted – ‘what are we calling this guy?’ It was the chief’s thing, attaching a handle to an unidentified perp. It was certainly easier if the squad had a name to bandy about, especially at briefs. Bastard got tired very quickly. The chief usually came up with a cracker. ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Sicknote?’ Harries offered.

  ‘The Poet.’ Twig’s contribution.

  Sarah frowned, couldn’t make the connection, interpreted Baker’s half-curled lip as: not bad, could do better.

  ‘FB.’ Madison assumed blank expressions meant it was too deep. ‘Y’know, short for fuck . . .’ Short for something.

  ‘Nah.’ Baker flapped a hand. ‘We’ll call him ET.’ The squad watched him amble towards the exit. It took a second or two to work out, but the DI had a half-smile when he turned with the punch line. ‘Let’s face it . . . the bloke’s always on the bloody phone.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Who’s the old boy sent to the school then, boss?’ DC Harries was driving; Sarah making a few notes. The interview with one of Olivia Kent’s exes had been set up for midday in town; the DI wanted to drop by Cameron Towers en route. Should be worth a look in daylight.

  ‘Old boy, DC Harries?’ She smoothed her skirt. David had only been on the squad five minutes. So it was hardly familiarity breeding contempt, it needed knocking on the head. ‘Are you referring to Detective Chief Superintendent Baker?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. No offence.’

  She cut him a glance, saw the apology was genuine. Good. She so didn’t need another Mickey Madison. ‘Shona and Jed Holmes are out there.’

  Shona Bruce and Jed Holmes. Jed was a DC with seven years’ squad membership under his belt. If he shared his namesake’s powers of deductive reasoning, they were hidden under his hat. Sarah regarded him as a nice enough bloke, a team player, not one of life’s thinkers. Baker called him ‘No shit’.

  ‘Best of luck to them then.’ Harries sniffed. ‘Rust won’t be rolling out the red carpet.’

  ‘That won’t bother Shona.’ DC Bruce was more than capable of holding her own. She’d walk the sergeant’s exams if only Sarah could persuade her to go for promotion.

  ‘Think they’ll get anywhere, boss?’

  ‘Apart from up Dr Rust’s proboscis?’ She slipped the notepad back in her briefcase. ‘Have to wait and see.’ They only had it on the head’s authority that a call had been made to the school. Given ET’s predilection for the phone, it was even more regrettable the putative conversation hadn’t been recorded. As for the JR loves OK artwork, it was still suspect, needed further probing. ‘I guess it depends if there’s anywhere to go, David.’ And how good Rust’s word was.

  The roads were slick, though it had stopped raining. She gazed through the window, her thoughts on the upcoming interview. Harries must’ve read something more into her silence.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by the “old boy”, boss.’

  ‘Term of affection, was it?’ She masked a smile. Harries’ heart was in the right place.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he’s not a bad gaffer.’

  ‘You’ll be gutted to hear he’s taking a back seat on Venus then?’ Baker had called her in for a word after the brief, said he’d be around in a consultancy capacity, but day-to-day running of the inquiry would – as he put it – be her baby.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ He glanced at the DI’s profile. ‘Means he has faith in you.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She was under no illusion. The case didn’t have major incident status, wouldn’t normally warrant a DCS as senior investigator. It was procedure giving it to a DI. At the same time, Baker was partial to a bit of glory. She reckoned if a sniff of it was going, he’d step in from the wings soon enough. Still, boss’s prerogative and all that.

  ‘It must be hard for him sometimes, boss.’ Harries tapped the wheel.

  ‘How’d you make that one out?’

  ‘Stepping back when you’re a hands-on sort of guy. I mean, you’d never call the chief a desk jockey, would you?’

  Desk jockey? It was the thought association that did it. She bit her lip to stifle laughter.

  ‘You OK, boss?’

  She nodded, couldn’t speak. It was ages since she’d had a fit of the giggles.

  Caroline King was close to tears; the immaculate mascara at serious risk. Crying at will was useful in the news game, a finely pitched blend of emotion could persuade even the most reluctant interviewee to play ball. Apart from anything else it complemented the hard core every decent reporter possessed. Caroline had acquired the tiny tears routine early in her career, after perfecting the clinical detachment. She couldn’t recall the last time there’d been genuine waterworks. This was different. These were for real. And they were too close for comfort.

  ‘Who did this to you, my friend?’ One of her small fists was clenched so tightly it hurt; the other she stretched out tentatively to Olivia. Even conscious, Olivia would have struggled to hear the words. Both desperately upset and incandescent, Caroline could barely speak as she took in the damage. A livid damson collar encircled Olivia’s neck, darker bruising shaded hollows in her skin, the eyes were swollen, lips cracked. One arm, now elevated, was swathed in sterile white dressings, and a thin cotton sheet lay loosely over her body. The image – bizarrely – put Caroline in mind of an Egyptian mummy, halfway through the procedure, waiting for an attendant to finish the job.

  ‘Olivia’s getting better, Caroline.’ Elizabeth Kent’s brisk tone brooked no argument as she stroked a gentle finger down her daughter’s cheek. ‘The doctors are more than happy with how well she’s responding.’ Olivia was off the tube and breathing unaided but she was heavily sedated. God knows what psychological state she’d be in when she came round, woke to the full horror of what she’d been through, whatever that was.

  Caroline’s smile was for Elizabeth’s benefit. ‘Good, that’s great.’ She wouldn’t rain on the older woman’s parade. She watched Elizabeth slip off her coat, smooth her hair, drag an easy chair closer to the bed. Mrs Kent wore a bright red dress and had made an effort with make-up. Caroline thought the woman still looked shattered. The reporter hadn’t slept well either; she’d been up late doing a little research and detective work. A damn sight more than Quinn was doing, she reckoned. She’d flicked through address books, photo albums, family videos, Olivia’s letters home. Sure, she was assessing the material for potential use in news reports. But was it possible she’d uncover clues to the abduction?

  Glancing at Olivia’s still form, Caroline, not for the first time, wished she was clairvoyant. Because assuming it wasn’t a random attack by some sort of psycho, then surely Olivia must know the bastard’s identity?

  She’d come across old diaries in the be
droom Livvie had used as a child. The jottings were amusing but not illuminating. More recent journals, if she still kept them, would presumably be at the house in Harborne. A spare key currently nestled in Caroline’s pocket. She was borrowing it; Elizabeth wouldn’t mind.

  ‘Give me a hand with this, would you, dear?’ She’d brought in a goodie bag – grape-free, but containing everything Olivia liked, might respond to: family photographs, stuffed toys, crime novels, silk flowers, scarves, paper, pencils, biscuits, jelly babies. Caroline had driven into town to buy other items: a cheap mobile to keep her going, CDs, DVDs, outrageously expensive smellies and a range of glossy trash mags.

  ‘Damn it, Elizabeth. We forgot the kitchen sink.’ The reporter smiled as she propped up frames and fanned out front covers, dubious how airbrushed shots of anorexic stick insects would benefit anyone let alone Olivia.

  Mrs Kent’s laughter was forced, brittle. ‘Did you hear that, darling? Caroline is a scream, isn’t she?’ Staff had suggested bright chat, favourite music, even reading aloud if they ran out of things to say. Coma patients can probably still hear; certainly hearing’s the first sense to return. Either way Elizabeth was going for the jolly hockey sticks big time.

  It was later than the reporter would have liked. Elizabeth had been loath to pull out of her morning stint at Oxfam. Still, it meant she’d had a chance to grab her laptop from the house in Selly Oak, and enough gear to see her through the next few days. Elizabeth couldn’t be left on her own, could she? And what better place could there be for Caroline to keep an eye on . . . things.

  She’d certainly clocked the security here: not one but two police guards hovering within striking distance. As for the bomb scare, she couldn’t blame the hospital for keeping mum. Not good PR, was it? And on the surface, not much news value: no massive disruption, no suspect package. By the time she and Elizabeth arrived, no indication of police activity. Keeping Elizabeth ignorant was fine, but Caroline would have been in the dark too, were it not for her trainee mole. Despite the heads-up, the reporter still needed to do a little digging of her own. When Quinn finally returned her calls, the DI would have some explaining to do.

  Mrs Kent had shut up and was looking at Caroline with an expectant expression.

  ‘Sorry Elizabeth. Did you say something?’

  ‘You were miles away, dear. I said –’ shouted actually – ‘we’ll soon have Olivia home again, won’t we?’

  ‘So how did she get here?’ Sarah tapped a finger against her lips. She was standing in the open doorway of Cameron Towers, scanning the road. It was only a flying visit; Harries was making calls in the car parked a few doors along. In the cold light of day, she could see just how down-at-heel the area was. Massive detached undeveloped properties few could afford to run or rent these days. Half looked empty, most appeared neglected. With shady landlords and shifting tenants, Westminster Street was not a nerve centre for Neighbourhood Watch.

  ‘They say it’s the first sign, you know.’ A familiar male voice from the hallway. ‘Talking to yourself.’

  Glancing round, she smiled, shuffled along. ‘I usually get more sense that way.’

  ‘Present company excepted, I trust.’ FSI boss Ben Cooper joined her on the step. He was leading the team working the basement and looked tasty even in the bunny suit.

  ‘Natch.’ The banter was easy. No hidden snipe agenda. Ben was a sharp operator, probably the best they had. An inch taller than Sarah, his blond hair had that expensive tousled look. The body he kept trim by running. He’d given up boxing, though five or six years back had lifted the national police welterweight title. She’d gone out with him a few times, before Adam. Would hesitate to call it dating: it was mostly shop talk. And the sort of shops cops frequented left a lot to be desired on the seduction front. She pursed her lips; shame that, because seeing those honey-coloured eyes up close again . . .

  ‘So what are your thoughts, Sarah?’ And the near-perfect teeth.

  Footloose and fiancé-free, should she take the plunge? Swallowing, she started, ‘Well . . .’ She who hesitates is also lost.

  ‘Car, or on foot?’ His pout was pensive. ‘Wheels would be my choice.’

  Focus, woman. He wasn’t talking lifts, not for her anyway. It was the question she’d asked herself he was picking up on. ‘Yeah, mine, too. Some sort of vehicle has to make most sense. He could reverse it here –’ wide asphalt and weed forecourt – ‘drive right up to the door. Boot open and . . .’ She turned her mouth down, imagined herself in the same tight corner.

  ‘Bob’s your abductor uncle.’ Cooper nodded. ‘Victim’s inside in a flash. Most likely after nightfall, but even during the day it’d only take seconds. And looking round now, it’s not exactly buzzing, is it?’ Gobi desert job. Apart from two mangy cats sniffing round the pickings of a split bin liner.

  But even without a soul in sight, Sarah knew that were she in Olivia’s place she’d have yelled, kicked, lashed out: fought the bastard every inch of the way. No one would submit willingly. Yet there’d not been a peep from the door-to-doors. Not a single scream reported. Mind, from what the cops knew about the perp, he was no risk taker. ‘She’d have been knocked out, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Hopefully chemically.’ Despite – maybe because of – the boxing, Cooper loathed violence, knew the damage it could do. There’d been rumours some years ago that one of his fights had gone badly wrong. She knew nothing about that. Either way, he was right on this: drugs, even alcohol, were usually preferable to a fist.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She slipped her hands in her coat pockets. One way or another, they’d know soon enough. Blood samples had gone to the lab; tox results would be back in a few days. She’d be surprised if the kidnapper hadn’t doped her and topped up levels over the period of captivity. She recalled Olivia’s eyes in the photograph: haunted, glazed, spark gone. Emotional restraint was as effective as the physical kind, ropes round wrists a damn sight easier to undo.

  ‘We looked for treads, of course.’ Cooper ran the back of a hand across his forehead. ‘But during the fire and rescue operation the area out front here had more traffic than Spaghetti Junction.’

  Traceable tyre marks assuming there’d been any would’ve been obliterated. She shrugged. That was the way it went sometimes: police priority was to save lives even at the cost of failing to preserve evidence. ‘Actually, Ben, the victim’s car, a blue Golf, still hasn’t come to light.’

  ‘Worth a word with the neighbours?’

  Like they hadn’t. She smiled. ‘Sure, thanks.’ He was only being helpful. Door-to-door teams had already asked about any suspicious vehicles. There were gaps in the inquiries, not every tenant had been at home, or answering the knock and some Asians and Eastern Europeans needed police interpreters. Detectives would have to go up a gear and revisit every household better armed. She made a mental note to get someone in the press office to ring round the news desks as well, issue details including the number plate. It had to be out there somewhere. She might even do an appeal herself. And she’d still to decide about asking radio and TV news stations to broadcast the voice. There were only eleven seconds on tape. But a message like that – a bomb scare – could give the bonkers’ brigade bright ideas, as well as prompt the usual flood of responses that in the main were neither useful nor ornament. Most weren’t malicious, but well meaning didn’t cut it. Only into precious time.

  Lifting her cuff she glanced at her watch: 11.35. They’d be running late if she didn’t get off. ‘I take it . . .?’ She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

  ‘I think I might have mentioned something new, don’t you?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ’Course he would; she knew that. ‘Wishful thinking.’ Warm smile. ‘See you later, Ben.’

  He caught up with her halfway down the drive. ‘How about tomorrow night? A drink maybe? If you’re not doing anything that is?’

  The eyes had it. But she couldn’t just say yes, an invitation like that needed serious thought. ‘You’re
on. What time?’

  ‘Boss.’ A tap on the elbow from an unsmiling Harries. ‘Shona wants you to call, soon as. She reckons we might have a break.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘So this teacher reckons Olivia Kent might’ve been on the verge of slapping in a claim.’ Sarah was talking to Shona on the BlackBerry. Harries tapped the wheel as he drove, clearly frustrated at hearing only one side of the conversation. She glanced across, mouthed, ‘Sexual harassment.’

  ‘Rust?’ he mimed back. Whistled when she nodded.

  ‘I’m reading between the lines, ma’am. But that’s my take.’

  The DC was shrewd; Sarah would bet on her interpretation being sound. ‘Go on, Shona.’

  ‘Seems to me there’s not a lot of love lost between the head and the staff, but professionals close ranks, don’t they?’ She and Jed had interviewed most of them by now. ‘Jill Paige’s the only one to put even a toe across the line. And it struck me she was close to Olivia. Closer than the others, any rate. I definitely think she’s worth having another crack at.’

  Sarah nodded, thinking it through. They were only five minutes from town; she didn’t want to cancel the appointment with Olivia’s ex, divert to the school. And Shona was a gifted interviewer, enviable people skills – if she couldn’t get the Paige woman to open up, it was probably down to the location anyway. ‘Can you persuade her to come to HQ after work, Shona? Maybe make a statement?’

  ‘I can have a go. Will you be there, ma’am? She might respond better to two women.’ Shona hadn’t voiced any criticism but Sarah had got the drift.

  ‘For sure. No problem.’ Smiling, she ended the call. The DI wasn’t over-flattered by the request – Shona had been saddled all morning with No Shit.

  ‘Come on then, boss. Give.’ Harries was gagging for details. The gist went like this: English teacher Jill Paige had found Olivia in tears in the classroom last week. They’d gone for coffee after school and Olivia had brought up the topic of a recent court case in the papers where an employee successfully sued her boss for groping. She’d asked Paige if she’d consider legal action in the same situation. There’d been no direct accusation or specific incident on the table, but Rust had been beating a hasty retreat from the classroom the day Paige had found Olivia crying. According to Paige, the head could come across as overly tactile.