Sarah tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Wonder why no one else has mentioned it?’
‘The girls don’t keep what you’d call office hours, ma’am. Mostly night shifts. Lot of time spent in the window . . . advertising.’
‘So our guy’s a night owl?’ And the girls enjoy a bird’s-eye view? ‘When are they coming in, Huntie?’ Obvious step was a session with a police artist. Get an e-fit out there, soon as.
‘Yeah, well, that’s the rub.’
‘Into massages as well, are they, Huntie?’ Some clown’s quip set off a chorus of sniggers.
She silenced it with a raised hand. ‘Go on, John.’
‘Thing is, the descriptions they’ve given are crap. One’s saying he was tall and fat, the other reckons medium weight and height. They both think black hair, but they wouldn’t like to swear to it ’cause he wore dark clothes and a wide-brimmed hat.’
‘Merde.’ Harries.
‘Not the Milk Tray man, is it?’
‘Nah, it’ll be the bloke from Del Monte. The one who likes to say yes.’
‘Guys, come on.’ Sarah tapped fingers on thigh. ‘It’s a pity, Huntie. A visual could’ve been a big help.’ Or not. Eyewitness evidence is notoriously unreliable. The girls had probably done their best, but people remember different things, often have false memories and details of perceptions vary, especially when distance and poor light are factored in. It was better to get it right than try and force a consensus. As a lot of people are aware – especially cops – dodgy eyewitness testimony is the single biggest cause of wrongful convictions. Not that they had a defendant anywhere near a line-up let alone in the dock.
‘Anyway,’ Hunt said, ‘now they know we’re interested, they’ll tip us the wink the minute they see him again.’
If they see him again. ‘Great. OK, guys, it’s a wrap. Thanks for—’
‘What’s the latest from the hospital, ma’am?’ Paul Wood, who was still wall-propping, had just crossed beefy arms.
‘She’s stable, off the ventilator.’
‘Still out of it?’ Insouciant.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Unconscious, yes.’
‘Any idea when she might be back in action?’
‘I’m no doctor, Twig.’ And what a stupid bloody question. She clocked a few curled lips, pulled faces. And had an idea now why the vibes were so negative. A failed abduction didn’t have the frisson or kudos that went with working a murder inquiry; it wasn’t going to hit the headlines any time soon and a woman lying in a hospital bed could almost certainly save them all a bunch of time and shedload of graft. Olivia Kent held the key and would likely be able to ID the perp in an instant. Shaking her head, Sarah retrieved her briefcase, walked out before saying something she might regret. The squad was only human but some of its detectives needed to grow up and get on with it.
Olivia Kent had to come round first. They could hardly hang about until then.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sarah walked into the pub a few minutes early, brushing raindrops from the shoulders of her coat. The station clock over the bar read five to eight and a quick scan revealed she was first there apart from the current eclectic mix of Primark babes, Emo kids and balding fat blokes. The Prince of Denmark was a joint decision. Caroline had turned down the Queen’s Head; Sarah had said no to the King’s Arms. Then they’d both removed tongues from cheeks and plumped for The Prince. The décor was a touch sepia sludge and the carpet a tacky maroon but it served decent grub, didn’t double as an amusement arcade and the Moseley location was midway between bases. Neutral territory on more than one ground.
After checking the reporter wasn’t lurking in a dark corner, the DI headed for the loo. She’d left HQ in a rush and was keen to freshen up. Not that it had anything to do with meeting the ever immaculate King, she told herself. Ignoring the bottle-green tiles and colourful graffiti, Sarah splashed water on her face, peered into the mirror and grimaced. She blamed her less-than-radiant reflection on the mottled glass and – damn it – the hair needed running repairs. She reached for the first grip. Several strands of the normally tight bun had unravelled during the day. They needed tidying, like the million loose ends that had emerged at the brief. Hair pins in mouth, she told herself not to exaggerate and try to stay positive. Avenues of inquiry were opening; Venus was making steady progress. Sure, nowhere near as fast as she’d like but paraphrasing the old adage: slowly slowly catchee . . . ET. Though the sobriquet hadn’t caught on yet, the DI’s lips curved in a wide smile.
‘You should wear it down more often.’ King with perfect pout sashayed towards the line of sinks. ‘Softens your face; makes you look almost . . .’ Attractive? Human? The reporter turned her mouth down, gave a fill-in-the-blank-shrug.
Great start. A few expert flicks and turns and the hair was firmly back in place; only then did she meet Caroline’s gaze. ‘I didn’t hear you sneak in.’
‘You were too busy.’ She nodded at the mirror. ‘Not sure about the inane grin though. The hair grips gave you a touch of the Hannibal Lecters.’
Don’t let her wind you up. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Hoisting a shoulder bag. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Chianti.’ She was rinsing her hands. ‘Joke. I’ll have G&T. Bombay Sapphire.’
In The Prince of Denmark? You’ll be lucky. Two minutes later and Sarah, menus tucked under arm, was ferrying glasses to a table in the corner. Caroline was in pole position against the wall. It gave a panoramic view and there was less danger of a stab in the back. Force of habit, probably. Sarah would have bagged the spot, if she’d not been standing the round.
‘Cheers.’ Caroline sniffed the contents. ‘Bombay Gordon?’
Nodding, she took a sip of white wine. ‘Shall we eat first?’
‘Pleasure before business? Sure.’ Waving away the menu. ‘I know what I’m having. You?’
Sarah watched her stroll to the bar, place their order and charm the clearly besotted landlord with a warm smile and what looked like a witty exchange. The DI tightened her mouth, began to regret not getting down to the crux of the meeting straight away. How the hell was she going to make small talk with King? A woman whose actions had led to a senior detective’s death? The incident happened when Sarah had been a young officer in the Met and playing a key role in what turned out to be a bungled honey-trap. Dressed as a street girl, she’d been wired for sound aiming to lure a serial rapist into the open. The press were ignorant of the police operation; by rights, the reporter shouldn’t have been anywhere near the scene. More than a decade on and Sarah could still hear King’s scream; see DI Jack Garner’s blood running in the gutter. They’d been live-in lovers on the verge of marrying. Soon after his death Sarah learned he’d been screwing the reporter, and leaking intelligence during the pillow-talk.
Bad blood. And it wasn’t under the bridge.
Observing her now, she wondered if the reporter ever gave it a second thought. Certainly she put new meaning into the phrase ‘drop-dead gorgeous’. King was effortlessly attractive, easy in her skin, oozed confidence. And the DI wouldn’t trust her as far as she could throw a convention of sumo wrestlers. Glancing round, she clocked punters eyeing the reporter, nudging elbows, whispering asides – they’d clearly seen her on TV. As she made her way back one guy asked for an autograph.
‘Doesn’t it ever get to you?’ Sarah indicated the audience.
King sat back, crossed her legs. ‘Being recognized? Nah. What’s not to like. It doesn’t happen that often. It’s not as if I’m in the Cheryl Cole league. As it happens, I usually get mistaken for Victoria Beckham. It must happen to you as well?’
‘Oh, yeah, all the time.’ Droll. ‘Star-struck fans chase me down the street.’
‘You do the odd turn.’ She gave a crooked smile. ‘Very odd. Seriously, you’re on local telly a fair bit and I’ve seen you on Crimewatch often enough.’
She shrugged. ‘Let’s just say – I don’t have a problem.’
‘Must have one of those f
orgettable faces. Once seen . . .’ She sniffed.
‘In my line of work, that’s no bad thing, blending into a crowd.’ Cops made more enemies than friends. She ran a finger round the rim of her glass, recalling some of the arrests she’d been in on, the times she’d given evidence in court, the number of villains who’d eyeballed and bad-mouthed her from the dock before being sent down. Glancing up, she realized King had been watching closely.
‘Do you get scared ever?’ And clearly read her thoughts. Or maybe had sixth sense on her CV.
She stared at the reporter for three or four seconds. ‘What do you think, Caroline?’ Crisp and deep and even. You were there that night.
King paused too and weighted the words. ‘It was a long time ago, Sarah.’ The famous sixth sense must have kicked in again. ‘Why don’t we draw a line?’
Loud guffaws from a table nearby broke the silence. And obviated the need for a reply. Holding the reporter’s gaze, Sarah drank more wine.
‘I’m interested though,’ King persisted. ‘Are you inured by now or do you still get scared?’
Occupational hazards? The question was hardly original. Sarah placed the glass on a mat. ‘I’d be lying if I said, never.’ Gut-churning, spine-chilling moments happened; she’d had her fair share. Dawn raids on drug dealers, suspected terrorist cells, call-outs to hostage situations, armed robberies, English Defence League marches, student protests. ‘But any cop who’s scared all the time wouldn’t be able to hold it together, certainly wouldn’t be able to do the job properly.’
‘Heat of the kitchen and all that?’ King narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you do it?’
Head cocked. ‘You mean a nice girl like me?’
‘Nice?’ She twitched her lips. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Old habits. But the barb was clearly meant as a joke.
‘Honest answer?’ Raised eyebrows. ‘I love the work. Love putting the bad guys away. Sure, there are rough days, shit tasks. But mostly, what cops do makes a difference.’
‘Protect and serve, eh?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Woh there.’ She raised a palm. ‘Chill. I actually think a lot of the time you guys get a bad press.’
Thank God she didn’t have a mouth full of wine. ‘That is so rich – did you borrow it from Croesus?’
‘Please yourself.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a journalist but I don’t take gratuitous pops at the police or anyone else, come to that. When I have a go, there’s always a bloody good reason.’
‘A fair cop?’ she sneered. Yeah, right. ‘Beg to differ, shall we?’
She should’ve known the thaw in relations was never going to last. But for a couple of minutes back then they’d been chatting almost like old mates, as they had been before the Jack fiasco. She cut King a covert glance; saw a leopard and spots.
The distant stares and hostile hush continued as a pony-tailed multi-tattooed waiter hove into view bearing a laden tray. ‘Here we go, ladies.’ He slid plates on to table. ‘Enjoy.’
Both must have mutely decided that talking with a mouth full was rude. Sarah cast envious glances as King tucked into ale and beef pie with thick cut chips. The DI’s ravioli looked pale and uninteresting; tasted pretty bland, too. She was still picking at it with a desultory fork when King went to the bar, came back with more drinks and wordlessly placed them on the table. Sarah regarded it as power play, a puerile bid to force her to talk first. Someone had to stop acting like a kid. She opened her mouth to speak.
‘I was out of order.’ King raised her glass. ‘Sorry.’
Had she just been wrong-footed again? ‘Ditto.’ Sarah forced a smile, pushed the plates to one side. ‘So. How Olivia’s doing?’
‘Good, she . . .’ What? Why the pause? ‘. . . seems to be doing well. The doctors are pleased.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Sarah smiled. ‘You’ve known her for ages. Tell me about her.’ The DI sat back sipped the wine. The vague open question had the desired effect. Caroline’s dark almost black eyes sparkled as she painted a word picture of Olivia Kent, related a few anecdotes. The reporter’s affection shone through and the close relationship appeared beyond question. Livvie could do no wrong in Caroline’s eyes. Sarah let a lot of what the reporter said wash over her: the aim was to get her to talk freely, drop her guard.
‘What about boyfriends? Has she been seeing anyone recently?’ None of Olivia’s circle of friends had given them a steer.
Grimacing, she sucked a slice of lemon, then: ‘Livvie has dates, of course, but since Jack there’s been no one special.’ The name was dropped as though already in the police hat.
Memories stirred again; it was a common enough name. ‘Jack?’ she asked casually.
‘Jack Howe.’ Slight frown. ‘Surely Elizabeth mentioned him?’
‘Blonde moment, sorry.’ She gave a fleeting smile. ‘What’s your take on the guy?’
‘Charm school graduate. Successful career in advertising. A real looker. Template TDH.’ Tall, dark and handsome. ‘Sculpted features, toothpaste ad teeth. A real Mr Smoothie – if you like that kind of thing.’ The grimace returned – minus the lemon.
‘You don’t?’
‘She worshipped him. He broke her heart. Go figure.’ She hadn’t finished. Nor was she warming to the theme. ‘Talk about falling for a guy? Howe swanned in, swept her off her feet, dragged her back to New York, then traded her in for a younger model. Literally. Some catwalk chick he met on a photo shoot. Liv was in a right state.’
Was there a touch of the green eye going on here? ‘Remind me, when was this?’
‘She’s been back a couple of years now. And she was with him for, what, eighteen months? It took ages for her even to start getting over it.’
‘He’s still there, isn’t he?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘And there’s been no contact since?’
She snorted. ‘I seriously doubt she’d tell me either way.’
‘Oh?’
‘After what he did to Olivia? I wanted to string him up by the balls.’
Sarah added more lines to her mental notebook, then: ‘The dates you mentioned. Can you let me have some names?’
The reporter had come prepared, took a slip of paper from her bag. ‘Here you go. As I say there’ve been no more Mr Rights, or Wrongs, as it turned out. If you ask me, she’s still not keen on letting anyone get close.’
Someone had. Sarah scanned the list; it wasn’t long and to her way of thinking a name was missing. Holding the reporter’s gaze, Sarah asked if she knew a Noel Barfoot.
‘Noel who?’ She turned her mouth down. A touch too quickly?
‘Barfoot. An architect. Offices in town. Has a daughter at Green Hill College.’
Caroline raised an eyebrow as the significance sank in. ‘The guy must be a widower then.’ She told Sarah Olivia wouldn’t go near a married man for love nor money.
‘OK.’ It was time to move on before the reporter started asking questions. ‘Did Olivia talk about work? Was she happy at the school?’
‘Yeah, she loves kids. Teaching comes easy to her. And she gets on with most of her colleagues.’
‘Most?’
‘The head was a trainee slime ball, apparently. Rust, I think his name is?’ Sarah nodded. ‘She told me he tried hitting on her once. Not that it was anything she couldn’t handle. In fact we used to have a laugh about it.’
Boy, that would go down well with Rust. ‘Was there any chance he went too far and she decided to seek legal advice?’
‘Less than a snowball in hell. Livvie fights her own battles. If anything I think she feels sorry for Rust, sees him as a bit of a loser.’
Face impassive, Sarah nodded. None of it married with what Jill Paige had said. Truth was the interpretations couldn’t be more diverse. Was it possible Caroline was less close to Olivia than she thought, that the relationship was more one-way than she’d like or care to admit? Or had Paige got the proverbial axe to grind?
‘I’m al
most done. You’ve been a great help. I have to ask though, can you think of anyone . . .?’
‘Who’d want to harm her?’ Shaking her head. ‘And believe me it’s not through want of trying. There’s no one in the frame then?’
She’d slipped that in smartish. ‘Sorry, I can’t really—’
‘Comment?’ The reporter sniffed. ‘OK, what’s the state of play on the inquiry?’ Clearly she thought it was payback time.
Sarah licked her lips, fresh out of small change. ‘We’re pursuing several leads.’
‘’Course you are. So give.’ Palm out.
‘Come on, you know it doesn’t work like that.’
‘What was behind the bomb scare?’
Fighting to keep a straight face: ‘How do you know . . .?’
‘How do you think? A wink’s as good as a . . .’ Tapping the side of her nose. ‘More to the point, is Olivia still in danger?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Can’t or won’t? Why double the police guard at the hospital if you don’t think there’s a risk?’
‘We take precautions. Better safe.’
‘You bet. Or your lot will be sorry.’ She ran a hand through her hair, took a deep breath. ‘Look, I didn’t use the bomb scare story. Or the fact it looks as if she started the fire accidentally.’
Mouth tight. That was privileged information. ‘That’s not for release.’ No one outside the squad had an inkling.
‘And none of it’s going any further.’ She leaned forward, almost placed her Armani elbows on the table but thought better of it. ‘When will you understand – I’m not interested in making a fast buck by flogging a few bits of copy?’
‘No? So what is your interest?’
‘The same as you: protecting Olivia, catching the bad guy, slinging him behind bars and chucking away the key.’
Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘I think you’ll find that’s my job.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’ King rose, reached for her bag. ‘Ciao.’
Caroline couldn’t sleep. She started counting sheep, turned to totting up the night’s score sheet instead. Way more fun. By her reckoning it was King, 3; Quinn, 1. The DI – for what it was worth – had learned about Jack Howe’s existence. Surprising, really, that Elizabeth hadn’t mentioned him to the cops. Quinn’s so-called blonde moment had been risible; Caroline doubted the snow queen had ever had a blonde second. And all those follow-up questions? Couched like she knew the answers? Oldest trick in a journo’s book that. But she had let slip police interest in Noel Barfoot and James Rust. That was Caroline’s reading anyway. Quinn had been far too casual, obviously playing the cards close. From what little Caroline knew of the men, neither struck her as prime suspect material, even so it might be worth speaking to them, sussing it out a little further.
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