‘That’ll do. So, Stan, what’s the word on the street?’
‘There’s a thieving bunch of yobs turning gaffs over as often as mattresses on an incontinence ward. That do you?’
Hunt stepped back from a shower of vinegar and saliva. ‘It’s a big boy we’re after. You know that, Stan. Not some snotty-nosed kids nicking the salt off your counter.’
‘They’d nick the salt off your chips, mate. Very nearly put my old mate Benny out of business.’ Waste of time. Sooner he’d had his say, the quicker they could push off. Benny ran a hardware store in Victoria Terrace, carried out small repairs on electrical goods, sold cheapo stuff bought in bulk on the side. The place had been done over half a dozen times in a year. ‘I told him to get a burglar alarm like mine: four legs and a mouth full of teeth.’
‘And did he?’ Hunt took his cod and chips from Stan’s sweaty mitt.
‘Nah, he said he didn’t want hairs and dog pee all over the place. Had a coupla cameras fixed up instead. Mind, it didn’t stop the buggers. Little sods lifted a box of candles week before last. Fucking candles, I ask you?’
THIRTY-SIX
They were doing it again. Talking shop. Any hopes Sarah may have harboured for a candlelit dinner, soft music and sweet nothings wouldn’t pan out tonight. She’d met Ben Cooper as arranged in the Queen’s Head but they’d not be going on anywhere. His elderly mother had been allowed home from hospital earlier in the day; broken leg or something, he said. His brother was with her but could only stay a couple of hours. For someone relative-free like Sarah, family commitments were an alien concept. It was touching in a way, she supposed – good to know he cared. Mind, she’d taken care, too; a hint of make-up, dash of perfume. Ben had complimented the new dress, told her she looked lovely. Stunned was the better word when he recounted his latest theory.
Summing up now, he leaned back in the chair. ‘So the way I see it, there’s no way she could’ve survived—’
‘If the perp hadn’t doused the flames before he fled.’ Nodding, Sarah sipped the wine. Did what he was saying make sense? Eyes creased, she tried visualizing it: Olivia lying injured in the far corner; the basement floor strewn with rubbish; the fire confined to one small area – yet singed smoke-logged sacking found by the stairs to the main part of the house.
‘Initially it seemed just part and parcel of all the rubbish down there. But when I gave it more thought –’ Ben shrugged – ‘it struck me he probably ditched it on his way out. And he wouldn’t be hanging around, he’d have no time to think.’
She mulled it over a while. As lead forensics manager, Ben had submitted his report to the squad a couple of hours ago, but she’d been out of the loop, off-duty, supposedly. The implications didn’t take long to consider. She took another sip of wine, then: ‘So it looks as if not only did he not start the fire’ – that was almost certainly down to Olivia knocking over one of the candles – ‘but he also raised the alarm and tried his hand at damage limitation, as well?’
‘If the flames had really taken hold, she’d have fried to a crisp, Sarah.’
Pensive, she twirled the glass, wishing it was a crystal ball. ‘Could he have injuries, too, do you think?’
He turned his mouth down. ‘Possible. I doubt he’d have worn gloves. It’s not as if he’d have gone prepared, is it?’
Loud guffaws from the bar. Glancing over she recognized a few faces from uniform. In her head, the image of a shadowy figure looming over Olivia Kent, the equivalent of a fire blanket in his hands snuffing out flames.
‘I know it’s crazy, Sarah, but if I’m right: he abducts her, holds her prisoner, tortures her . . .’
‘Then saves her life. Why?’ And why can’t I see it? Her fingers tightened, the stem was in danger of snapping. God, what she wouldn’t give to talk to the bloody woman.
‘And probably risks his into the bargain. Certainly his liberty. If you guys had got there any quicker –’ head tilted, he raised his glass – ‘we’d have something to toast. ‘As to, why? I’m no expert but surely you must hate someone to abuse them like that. Still, they say it’s a fine line. Maybe he never intended killing her?’ He smiled, drained his ale, then: ‘And now much as it grieves me, I have to love you and leave you.’
Maybe he never intended killing her? She gave a distracted nod. He’d certainly given her food for thought. And while she was here she might as well grab a sandwich or something. She’d done a quick blitz on Tesco but had zilch desire to cook. Watching as Ben shucked into a soft brown leather jacket, she tried hard not to stare at the bodywork.
Hand on the back of her chair, he leaned over then pulled back. ‘By the way, Sarah, remember me to Dave, will you?’
‘Harries?’
‘Yeah. I bumped into him last night at the hospital. His mum had a heart attack. They took her into intensive care. Did he not mention it?’
She barely noticed the peck on the cheek. And then he was gone.
Five minutes later and Ben could have delivered the message personally. Sarah was standing at the bar waiting for a refill when Harries appeared at her side, rubbing cold hands. ‘Hey, boss, what you doing here? Thought you had a hot—?’
‘Date?’ Turning her head, she smiled. ‘I could ask you the same.’
‘Yeah, well, Keira Knightley cried off at the last minute. Y’know how it is.’ Rolling his eyes, tutting.
‘Drink?’ She waved the twenty-pound note in her hand. ‘And no I don’t know how it is. Your mother?’ A raised eyebrow elicited no response. ‘You might’ve said something.’
‘Half a Guinness ta, and what would be the point?’
‘You could have had time off and I wouldn’t have given you a bollocking for being late – there’s two for starters.’
‘I don’t want time off, thanks.’ Brusque. No argument. Then the boyish smile again. ‘I quite liked the bollocking.’ Trying to make light of it.
She left him to carry the drinks, headed for a table by the door. He was obviously keen to keep his personal and professional life in different boxes. She could hardly complain; he’d probably taken his cue from her.
‘There y’go, boss.’
‘David. We’re in the pub – it’s Saturday night – we’re off duty . . . call me Sarah, OK?’ She raised the glass. ‘Cheers.’ She really ought to eat; two glasses on an empty stomach wasn’t clever.
‘Cheers. Mind if I say something, boss?’ He raised a palm. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
‘You were saying?’
‘Only my mum calls me David. I don’t even like the name.’ He grinned. ‘Can you make it Dave?’
Shaking her head, ‘Why on earth didn’t you say so before?’ Christ, they’d worked together for months, and she’d no idea. Obviously she didn’t know him as well as she thought. But then, you only really know what people tell you. Assuming they tell the truth. Assuming they talk at all. Mouth tight, she realized Olivia Kent’s blunt refusal to see the police let alone be interviewed still bugged her big time.
‘That wasn’t meant to piss you off, boss. Sorry.’
What? He must’ve misinterpreted her Mrs Angry expression. She flapped a hand. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Let me guess.’ Would he read her right this time? ‘Olivia Kent?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘I guess if she can’t remember . . .? He hunched a shoulder, pulled a pack of crisps from his pocket.
‘That’s all it is though – a guess.’
‘Meaning?’ He offered the pack.
Beef and onion. She wrinkled her nose. ‘She won’t let us in so we can’t make an assessment, but what if she can remember? What if she knows the abductor’s identity? What if he has some sort of hold over her? What if they formed some sort of attachment?’
‘What?’ He curved his lip. ‘You mean apart from the noose round her neck?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Seriously. There’s a clinical term for it.’
‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Not just a pretty
face, you know, boss. But come on – how likely is it? She was only with him five days.’
‘Theoretically it’s possible. Lots of factors come into play.’ The most important being the psychological state of the victim. ‘I just wish we knew more about her, Dave. Everyone we speak to says something different. I don’t feel I’ve got a handle on her at all.’ Eyes narrowed, she drummed her fingers on the table.
‘Out with it, boss, come on.’
‘Am I that transparent?’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Tell me, are you hungry? I know a really decent restaurant –’ reaching for her bag – ‘in Harborne.’
‘Harborne?’
‘Yeah, just round the corner from Olivia Kent’s place.’
Sarah’s Audi was in the car park at the back of HQ. Handy, that. ’Cause someone had to pick up the house key. Clocking Harries emerging from the building, she had the engine running before he slipped in beside her.
‘You sure this is a good idea, boss?’
‘Nope.’ She’d be hard pushed to explain the urge to take another look. Olivia Kent’s home had been given the forensic all-clear; maybe Sarah was after something less clinical, more personal. ‘Let’s hit the road before I change my mind.’
‘Fancy some music?’ He was already riffling through her CD stack.
‘Yeah, why not?’ One out of three ain’t bad. ‘And it’s still Sarah.’
Traffic was light but the pavements were busy. Lots of people out in search of Saturday night fun that usually involved copious amounts of cheap booze, cheesy chat-up lines and a costly trip to A&E. It wouldn’t be long before the revelry took on a seasonal quality given shop windows were full of fake snow and fairy lights; even more reindeers and plastic Santas garlanded lamp posts and wall fronts. God rest ye . . .
‘The Police?’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘Weren’t they a bit before your time?’
‘Classic, innit? No one comes close to Sting vocally.’ Harries gave it a whirl though, murdering a few bars of ‘Every Breath You Take’.
‘We’ll ring you . . .’ she drawled.
‘Did you ever do that, boss?’ She followed his gaze. Five or six raucous young women approached, staggering along the pavement, falling out of skimpy gear, clearly off their faces. ‘Get pissed before stepping out the door?’
Pre-loading, the kids called it. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Before I got old, you mean?’
‘You’re not that ancient.’ Winding her up.
‘Thanks, kid. And no, I didn’t. I liked a smoke though.’
‘Ciggies?’
‘Yeah. If you like.’
‘Well, well. You live and learn, DI Quinn.’ Downing the window a fraction. ‘Tell you something else I just picked up. The squad room’s buzzing with it.’ He told her about the candles stolen from a shop near Cameron Towers, that the thief might be on camera.
‘Might?’
‘The owner’s away for the weekend. Not expected back till first thing Monday.’
She turned her mouth down. ‘Could be promising.’
Music. Candles. Two out of three – even better.
‘Nothing doing, Dave?’ Sarah was in the back room on the ground floor; Harries had taken the upstairs, neither really sure what they were looking for. For her it had been something intangible, more a feeling for the owner, trying to build a better mental picture.
‘Couldn’t see anything, boss. Nothing came out and hit me anyway.’
Nor her. The house still made Sarah shudder though. The clutter and colour was over the top. Clean, but a right mess. Maybe it reflected Olivia Kent’s personality.
‘She’s ahead of her chores though, boss. Got her Christmas presents up there all wrapped and ready to go.’
‘Thank God. I can sleep easy now knowing that.’ Sighing, she smoothed her hair. ‘Sorry to drag you out here, Dave. Talk about wild goose.’
‘Wild Goose?’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Thought you said we were going to the Black Swan?’
‘Are you really hungry?’ She was starving as it happened.
‘Appetite like a horse, me.’
She glanced at her watch. Half nine. They should just about grab a table. ‘OK, you’re on. I need to wash my hands.’ And take a leak while she was at it. It was claustrophobia rules OK in the downstairs cloakroom: crammed shelves, used paint tins, hat boxes, two out of three walls with cork boards covered in programmes, flyers, pics, takeaway pizza menus. She’d seen it all before.
And then there was something she hadn’t.
It was at eye level. Deliberately hidden or simply lost under layers? Deliberately hidden was the verdict when Sarah teased it out for closer inspection. The dress had lots of layers, too, and lots of lace. It made Sarah think of meringues and Little Bo Peep. It was probably ivory satin, definitely heavy on the pearls and stitching. Well fussy for a wedding frock. And didn’t Olivia Kent look quite the blushing bride?
‘Married? So why didn’t anyone say?’ Harries looked as puzzled as Sarah felt.
‘Search me. But I intend finding out.’
He studied the photograph a few seconds longer before handing it back. ‘Maybe she didn’t tell anyone?’
‘I refer you to my previous answer.’ She sniffed; took a dim view of people withholding information, if that’s what was going on here. Surely Elizabeth Kent must know though?
‘He’s a good-looking guy. Any idea who it is?’ He rinsed a tumbler under the tap. She’d found him in the kitchen getting a drink.
‘I’d lay bets on Jack Howe. The guy she lived with in America.’
‘How come . . .?’
‘Educated guess.’ He matched King’s description to a tee. But it wasn’t just the groom’s tall, dark, perfect looks. The photo had been shot in the street outside a hotel. In the far background, just about decipherable, was a yellow cab.
‘She certainly didn’t tell her dad then, did she?’
She nodded. ‘Good thinking.’ What was it Philip Kent had said? He was sorry they’d split because he thought Howe was good for her. ‘And though we all know Caroline King’s grasp on the truth is tenuous, unless she’s taking acting lessons on the side, she has no idea either.’ Sarah blew out her cheeks on a frustrated sigh. They wouldn’t find the answers here and if they wanted food, they needed to get a move on.
‘Come on, Dave, let’s . . .’ She froze. He’d heard it, too. Noise out in the hall. Someone trying the front door.
Harries lifted a finger to his lips. She rolled her eyes. What did he think? She was about to break out in song? Using sign language and telling glances they agreed on strategy: wait and watch; the surprise element was always a winning card. Whoever it was outside would get a bigger shock than them on entry. Cops usually turn up after a break-in.
Except it wasn’t a break-in. Ears pricked, Sarah heard the key in the lock, the door bang as it crashed into the wall.
‘OK, out now! Hands in the air.’ Sarah and Harries exchanged what-the-fuck glances. ‘Don’t try anything funny, I’m armed and the house is surrounded.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you.’ Sarah stood in the hall, performing a slow handclap. Harries struggled to keep a straight face. Caroline King’s umbrella spike wouldn’t outgun an armed response unit, but the brass nerve of the woman was priceless, had to be seen to be believed. The instant she’d opened her mouth, the detectives knew who was calling the shots. The biggest danger coming out of the kitchen was not falling about laughing.
‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Sarah asked.
‘I saw the light.’ A surly scowl.
‘Hallelujah,’ Sarah murmured.
The reporter folded her arms. ‘If you’re going to take the piss.’
‘I’ll take you down the nick if I don’t get an answer pronto.’
‘I told you. I saw a light, knew the place was supposed to be empty. Thought kids had broken in or something.’
Or something. ‘That doesn’t explain what you were
doing here in the first place.’
‘I thought I was being community minded, doing the decent thing. I was going to scare the little sods half to death, then call you lot.’
‘Good God, what’s that?’ She pointed upwards. ‘Low flying pigs alert.’
‘Right, I’m off.’
‘Not yet.’ Sarah held out the picture. ‘Take a look at this.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ King’s colour actually drained. Sarah scrutinized the reporter’s face as she stared at the happy couple.
‘It’s news to you?’
‘News? It’s probably the biggest fucking shock of my life.’
‘Best friends, huh? And no invite? I’m surprised you weren’t matron of . . . something.’
King didn’t even rise, seemed reluctant to let the photograph go. Sarah relieved it from her grasp, tucked it into her bag. The reporter still hadn’t answered the original question. ‘So why did you come here tonight?’
‘Told you, I happened to be passing, saw the—’
‘Light. I remember that. Now I’d like the real reason.’ She waited a few seconds, then: ‘OK. I count to ten and if you’re still playing dumb we take a little trip down town.’ Her tapping toe reached seven. Harries jangled car keys to underline the point.
‘All right, all right. Livvie asked me to pick up a few bits and pieces she needs.’
‘Like what?’
King looked away, left the pause too long. ‘This and that.’
Lying. Classic signs. ‘Disappointing, don’t you think, Dave? From someone who makes things up for a living.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘No, boss, three bags full, boss.’ King flashed a fake smile. ‘Talking of balls, Dave . . .’
‘Shut up,’ Sarah snapped. ‘Hand over the key. And get out.’
Her eyes darkened. ‘You can’t—’
Palm out. ‘This is a crime scene and you’re trespassing.’
She dropped the key in Sarah’s waiting palm. ‘Have it your way. You usually do.’
At the door she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I was thinking of changing my mind, even saying sorry, but you know what, Quinn? Screw you.’
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