Sighing, she reached for a glass of water on the table, slaked a thirst brought on by the chips. Actually make that 4–1: her pie had beaten Quinn’s pasty pasta hands down. She gave a thin smile, lay back, arms over her head and watched shadows play on the ceiling: branches swaying in the wind, lights as the occasional car drove past. The evening had left her with mixed feelings. Being with Quinn semi-socially after all these years had revived a bunch of memories, not all bitter. There was a time when they were both starting out in London that they’d made a half-decent team: crime writer, crime fighter. They’d swap notes and sink pints many a night, especially during a major incident or big court case. When Quinn let her hair down, she could be good company, sharp wit, mischievous sense of humour. Seeing her in the mirror earlier with the hair down literally, reminded Caroline how stunningly attractive the woman was. She recalled back in the day envying the glacial beauty of the tall, slender Quinn. Why she’d started wearing the hair in that schoolmarm, tight-ass bun, God alone knew. Or maybe not. Closing her eyes, Caroline swallowed hard. It wasn’t the only thing Quinn had started doing since Jack’s murder.
There are maybe only a handful of days in a life when an irrevocable event happens. Caroline had lost count of the times she’d prayed Jack Garner hadn’t died that night, wished fervently for a rewind button, the chance to edit out the sequence, the final shots.
Flinging back the duvet, she swung her legs out of bed, strode to the window, telling herself Elizabeth kept the house like a bloody sauna. Breathing in the cold night air, scalding tears pricked her eyes; for once she let them fall, or maybe wouldn’t be able to stop them if she tried.
Caroline had adored Garner. The affair hadn’t been a casual fling – not to her anyway. She hadn’t screwed him exclusively for information. He passed on the odd snippet, sure – but never his love. She bit her lip, stifled a sob. No. That was reserved for Sarah; Garner had dumped Caroline two days before he died. And presumably Quinn still had no idea. Caroline had never told her. There was a time she’d have cut her own throat rather than breathe a word to the cop. Back then, she wasn’t given the chance anyway. Quinn refused to take phone calls, didn’t reply to letters – in effect broke off all communication. But what Caroline had said tonight, she meant: it was a long time ago; they needed to draw a line and move on. Maybe if she told her the real score? Christ, if they worked together instead of pulling apart . . .
‘What the fuck?’
Hairs rising on the back of her neck, Caroline peered into the shadows. A dark figure leaning against a tree in the street stared up at the house. Looked as if he had a hat on and some kind of cloak. Christ, Caro, get a grip, it’s not Lord of the bloody Rings. Her focus wasn’t helped by the tears. She dabbed at her eyes, squinted again. It was dark down there; she could almost believe she was seeing things, that her mind was playing tricks. But not her nose as well – the smell was unmistakeable: Gandalf, or whoever, was smoking dope.
Not the nervy type, soon as the shock faded, the reporter was more curious than spooked. It was one thirty in the morning; Windsor Place was no back street dealing post, it was an exclusive estate not a rat run. People who lived here didn’t stagger back from the pub in the early hours, or wander outside anytime for a crafty spliff. Caroline pursed her lips. Humphrey Bogart’s line – well, close – sprang to mind. Why of all the gin joints in all the world is he skulking outside mine? But it wasn’t hers. It was the Kents’. And she doubted Elizabeth had a secret admirer. Call it gut instinct, sixth sense, reporter’s intuition; she’d lay odds on the guy being Olivia’s abductor. The cerebral activity would have to come later.
Caroline moved away from the window, crept to the bedside table, fumbled in the dark for her phone. Calling the cops was second on the to-do list. First was sneaking downstairs then dashing outside, tripping the security lights and asking Gandalf to say cheese. The camera on her mobile was ace. Presenting the guy’s metaphorical head on a plate to the cops would score another point. And given she’d left Quinn to pick up the bill – it would take her tally to six.
Seemed a wizard plan at the time.
TWENTY-NINE
‘“Are you OK?”’ Sarah repeated into the phone, still half asleep. King was the last person she’d expect to call her before six enquiring about the state of her health. Propping herself up on an elbow, she said, ‘Of course I’m OK. Why?’
‘Not are you OK.’ Sarah heard a loud tut on the line, imagined the reporter stamping her tiny Gucci-shod foot. ‘Think text speak: R U OK? CU. It’s the message carved into the trunk.’
What message? What trunk? Straightening properly, Sarah ran a hand through her hair, stifled a yawn. ‘Take it from the top, would you?’
‘Christ, Quinn. Don’t you ever listen?’
She did now. Her shrewd grey eyes widened as the reporter told her story again. It didn’t take long, wasn’t Listen with Mother and sitting comfortably wasn’t an option. Before the end, the DI was out of bed, pacing the carpet. A stranger skulking outside the Kent house in the middle of the night, smoking pot and leaving a calling card carved in a tree? ‘Why on earth didn’t you ring?’
‘Sorry? Hello? I’m on the phone.’
Smart arse. ‘Don’t be disingenuous. You know exactly what I mean.’ Christ, there was a chance they could have caught the bastard red-handed. She walked briskly to the kitchen, headed for the kettle. Wished it was a bar and a line of optics.
‘You sending the cavalry wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. He’d taken off before I even opened the front door.’
Sarah clenched her teeth. Either way, it wasn’t King’s call. ‘A guy on the streets doing a Gandalf impression in the early hours? We do have patrols, you know.’
‘Yeah, well.
Sarah pictured the sulky pout, the half-shoulder shrug. ‘Not “well”. If you hadn’t gone bumbling in, he might not have legged it.’ And how long had she been cosily ensconced under the Kent’s roof?
‘Are you sending someone out, or not?’
Of course she would. ‘I’ll get someone there soon as it’s light.’ It was pitch black outside, rain trickling down the kitchen window. She threw a tea bag into a mug. At least the earth would be damp – open to impressions, there was a chance Forensics could lift casts, even prints. She opened the bread bin, peered in: waste of time. ‘You didn’t see the joint lying around, I suppose?’ With all that lovely DNA from saliva.
‘You still on the weed? It’s illegal, you know.’
‘Wow!’ She perched on a stool. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘My sides splitting. Did he drop it or not?’
‘He’s not stupid, is he?’
Got that right. There were more CCTV cameras in that part of Edgbaston than virtually anywhere in the city, and Sarah doubted he’d be on a single frame. Not that the cops wouldn’t look.
‘What about the initials? Any ideas, Caroline?’ The name just slipped out. Must be getting soft in her early thirties.
Barely a pause, then: ‘I rather think you’ll find that’s your job, DI Quinn.’
‘You supercilious little . . .’ She glared at the phone. ‘Ring tone.’
‘R U O K C U?’ Harries was at the wheel, his features set in Mr Brooding frown. ‘So what’s ET saying, boss?’ She could do without even more initial speak; she rolled her eyes. They were on the Bristol Road, it was just gone ten, the sun struggling through a bank of slate-grey cloud. Harries had offered to drive Sarah to Philip Kent’s home in Northfield then drop her in town. After the interview, she’d be a free woman until Monday morning, assuming nothing big moved on Venus. Clothes shopping barely figured on her favourite pastimes’ list, but she’d spotted a little taupe number in Zara. It was another shift dress in a slightly different shade to the half dozen already hanging in her wardrobe, but, hey, she was going out tonight. And she could incorporate a bread-and-basics swoop at Tesco into the trip. Sorted.
‘Boss? I said—’
/> She flapped a hand. ‘I know what you said, David. But everyone thrashed it out at the brief.’ Brief just about summed up the squad’s early gathering: short and to the point; the carved message being the only overnight development of note. ET’s handiwork had at least added a little impetus to the inquiry. The reporter’s description of the guy – such as it was – tallied with that given by the working girls in the knocking shop over the road from Cameron Towers. Huntie was going on there after the Rust interview, see if he could chivvy anything more from Suzie and Sadie. It wasn’t just Hunt who had the bit between his teeth, every officer had seemed keener to get on and do rather than sit round and talk. Though not everyone had made the brief.
‘You’ve had time to ask round, David. You should be up to speed by now.’ In the corner of her eye, she caught his Quinn imitation: head rocking from side to side, goldfish mime. ‘Nice one, Harries. Very mature.’
‘Sorry.’ He sighed, tapped the wheel. ‘I did try and get some sense out of Twig. He wasn’t a lot of help.’
No. Paul Wood – if she recalled rightly – reckoned it was a waste of brain cells trying to second guess a guy who was off his face on dope. Best thing to do was catch the bugger and ask him. Like they weren’t trying. She let the silence hang a while, then: ‘Don’t make a habit of it will you, David?’ Oversleeping, not calling in to say he’d be late.
‘’Course not, ma’am. It’s just, I . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I’m really sorry.’
He sounded genuinely contrite. And what had he decided not to say? She turned her head, looked at him properly. Mocha-shaded circles under the eye, flaky patch of skin on the neck. Twitchy fingers still drumming. ‘Anything you want to talk about, David?’
‘Nothing, ma’am.’ Jaw set tight.
Like hell. Now wasn’t the time to push. But on reflection, refusing to discuss the initials with him was childish. Failing to show at one of her briefs was no reason not to give him a hearing. His insight had shed new light on cases before. And they needed all the help they could get. She smiled. ‘Not even our mystery woodcarver?’
‘You said . . .’
‘I can change my mind, can’t I? So come on, Einstein – R U O K C U – what’s he saying?’
‘Three possibilities.’ Perking up a touch. ‘And it depends where you put the stress. One –’ he raised a thumb – ‘he’s asking Olivia if she’s OK and adding a warning, “see you”.’ She nodded: that was the squad’s general census. ‘Two.’ Index finger lifted as well. ‘He doesn’t know she’s still in hospital, he’s seen another bedroom being used and wants to know if it’s Olivia. C U: the same subtle threat.’
Another nod. That meant he’d likely been casing the premises. And keeping an eye on Elizabeth’s movements? For how long? Why? ‘And three?’
Second finger up – thumb down, bird waving. ‘He was off his face – it means sod all and he’s telling us to fu . . . sod off.’
Cynical snort. ‘I like the hand signals. Thing is – it’s not funny, David. The guy was there. We could’ve nailed him. Then King barges in all guns blazing doing an Annie Leibovitz.’ He turned his mouth down. She opened the window an inch. ‘You don’t see it that way?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, boss, but we’d be laughing teacakes if she’d taken a few shots of him.’
‘She didn’t. We’re not. And if she’d kept her nose out, called us instead, he could be cooling his heels in a police cell by now.’ His shrug meant he knew there was no way he’d win the argument. He’d told her before she had a blind spot as far as King was concerned.
She opened her briefcase, skimmed through a few notes. Philip Kent lived in Franklin Avenue with new partner, Kate. He’d left Elizabeth three and a half years ago after being married nearly thirty. A civil engineer, he travelled a lot on business and would, quote, move heaven and earth, to help police find, quote, the monster who’d harmed his daughter.
‘So, boss, what does Baker read into the initials?’
‘Changing the subject, are we?’ Smiling, she closed the briefcase. ‘I phoned him at home first thing.’ The chief wouldn’t put in an appearance at HQ today unless the James Rust interview turned up gold trumps. ‘He has what you might call an idiosyncratic interpretation, David.’ Arch delivery.
‘Go on.’
‘He thinks King’s sudden swoop meant ET legged it before finishing the job. C U?’ She curved a lip. ‘In his inimitable way, the chief reckons the message was a couple of letters short.’
THIRTY
Letters after a man’s name – or woman’s – meant jack shit to the chief. DCS Baker had a few of his own – didn’t make him a cut above. James Rust acted like he had a fucking dictionary. The head teacher had allowed the detectives into his Edwardian villa in Harborne like he was royalty granting an audience. The academic clearly considered himself several classes above cops, whatever the rank. The mad fool had even tried demoting Baker to sergeant. Rust was lucky he was still being called mister, let alone doctor.
The chief’s bulk currently took up the lion’s share of a chintz two-seater settee that coordinated with frilly floral curtains and twee coloured-glass knick-knacks. Rust’s dubious taste in soft furnishings was in sharp contrast to his waspish tongue. Prissy arrogant prat was Baker’s verdict. Quinn would be dead chuffed: these minds were never going to meet. But that wasn’t the reason for the chief’s growing antagonism.
The interview had started badly and gone downhill skiing. Rust wouldn’t have lodged in the chief’s nasal passages if he’d at least made a stab at politeness and had answered the questions without all the shit-bagging bluster. Rust had vehemently denied having the hots for Olivia Kent, accusing her of malicious rumour-mongering and threatening legal action if the gossip went any further. He’d also refuted the Sticky Fingers tag and demanded to know where it came from, like that was going to happen.
Baker had just finished eliciting details of Rust’s movements over the last week. They’d be checked, of course, but as the bloke had fewer social skills than a skunk with leprosy, the chief doubted there’d be much corroboration from close buddies. Quinn had been spot on. James A. Rust was a cocky little git spouting mealy-mouthed words and casting ostentatious glances at his watch. He’d sat there twenty minutes with a cup of tea in his hand and a Guardian draped over the chair arm, and hadn’t offered his guests so much as a glass of tap water. Baker’s opinion wouldn’t change if Rust provided a five-course meal and a weekend in Paris. Gratis. They weren’t here to sample home comforts but it did make him wonder why the man was so hostile, so defensive. Was he hiding something? Either way, Baker loathed anyone taking him for a fool: his short supply of civility had dried up.
Springs creaked as the chief shuffled his backside into a more comfortable position, slung an all-the-time-in-the-world arm across the back of the settee and cast round for a topic that Rust might not see coming: obnoxious though he was, the head wasn’t stupid; he’d clearly anticipated every question so far.
‘So, Mr Rust, live here alone, do you?’ It was posed innocently enough. It was up to Rust if he read anything into it. Mind, it was accompanied by Baker glancing round as if the guy had a harem of concubines secreted in the wings.
‘I’m sorry, Officer.’ Faux puzzled frown. ‘I’m not married and I don’t have a partner. I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.’
Well, smack my wrist. Baker turned to his left where DS Hunt was keeping his head down, making notes. The veteran cops had worked routines together before, were au fait with all the scripts. ‘Are you married, John?’
Huntie glanced up with a ploughed furrow look to go with his line. ‘Married? Not me, sir.’
‘I guess you live on your own then?’ Baker rubbed pensive chin.
Stage chuckle. ‘I wish.’
‘See Mr Rust, Sergeant Hunt here lives with a woman, six kids and two Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs. So in my book, not being married – if you’ll pardon the Latin – means bugger all. So are you
sh . . . shacked up with anyone?’
Shifting in the chair. ‘I really don’t see it’s any of your business.’
‘Yeah. But you don’t really know my business, do you? So don’t try and tell me how to do it. For the record though, I ask a lot of questions and I lock up slime balls. So are you the sole occupant or what?’
Dark eyes narrowed as he crossed his legs. ‘I find your attitude offensive, Officer.’
‘Really, Mr Rust? Do you know something? I don’t give a flying fart. Your finer feelings don’t feature in my thought processes one iota. See, I’m hunting a vicious bastard who abducted a woman on your staff. A valued member, I hear. Yet you’ve not had a good word to say about Olivia Kent. Why’s that, Mr Rust? Did you come on to her and she told you to sling your hook? Are you getting your defence in first?’
‘Am I a suspect?’ The cup clinked as he placed it in the saucer. ‘If so I want a lawyer.’ If the cops had a watertight case, this would be a recorded interview under caution at the station. This was more of a fishing trip and for case read paper bag. Baker only wished to God he had enough evidence to take him in.
‘Do you need a brief, Mr Rust?’ He turned his mouth down. ‘At the moment, I’m just interested in staff relations at your school.’
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