Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  Sarah and Harries were on the sweet course and still having the occasional laugh. He’d likened King’s gun slinging to a cross between Angelina Jolie and Bonnie Parker. She had a suspicion her Annie Oakley allusion had gone over the young detective’s head.

  ‘Maybe she was auditioning for Lethal Weapon.’ Sarah licked the last spoon of ice cream: death by chocolate.

  ‘Yeah, they’re calling it Killer Umbrella.’

  Smiling, she shook her head, pushed the dish to one side. Hovering waiters would be bringing out the hoover soon; the Black Swan was virtually deserted, tables cleared, lots of glass polishing going on. It had been buzzing earlier, mostly thirty-something professionals having a night off from the kids. Despite the name the cuisine was modern European not classic English. The décor was clean and stark; more Shaker than Sanderson.

  ‘God, I’m stuffed,’ she said. The meal had been great, the company amusing. Harries was still putting away brioche and butter pudding. Appreciating his warm amiability, she realized it was a while since she’d felt so chilled, even longer since she’d enjoyed an evening as much. The job’s all-consuming nature made it difficult, if not impossible, to cut off. The ban on shop talk had been agreed early on.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be screwed?’ Harries’ grin froze, his skin was taking on a pink tinge; he’d clearly seen the look on her face. ‘Oh my God. That sounded . . . I didn’t mean . . .’

  She knew full well he meant King’s parting shot. ‘I find that incredibly offensive. You well and truly crossed a line there.’

  ‘Sarah. I am so sorry.’ His look of mortification was a picture. Her lip twitched. ‘That was a wind-up, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It got me the first Sarah of the night though.’ She winked.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from.’ Wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘I’ll get the hang of it next time.’

  Next time? She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Not on the job of course, boss.’ Faux pas alley. He cringed.

  ‘You know what, Dave? I think you’d better quit while you’re ahead.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad, Quinn?’

  Inwardly groaning, Sarah slowly opened an eye, glanced at the alarm clock. Crack of dawn, Sunday morning. Could anything Baker had to say be good? Swinging bare legs out of bed she said, ‘Hit me with the good, Chief.’ And hello to you, too.

  ‘We’re bringing someone in on the Kent case.’

  ‘What?’ She gasped, watched goosebumps rise on her thighs.

  ‘And some bugger’s slapped in a complaint. That’s the bad. Get your ass in gear, Quinn. Soon as.’

  The bloody man was impossible. Twenty minutes it took to shower, dress, grab keys and bags. She was in full seethe and stomp mode throughout. Why the fuck couldn’t he just tell her on the phone?

  No wonder there was a complaint. The only surprise was that the fat bastard had attracted just the one.

  ‘It’s just not good enough.’ Caroline King was enjoying the conversation if not its contents. Toby White had messaged saying he couldn’t work any digital magic on the pic so she’d called Sam in New York hoping for better news. It wasn’t so much an update as a lack-of-progress report, riddled with negatives and not sures. Jack Howe had an apartment off Bleecker Street, although no one appeared to have seen him for a few weeks. Not unusual, he travelled a lot. Sam had tracked down a couple of guys who’d worked with Howe in the past but neither had been much help on his current whereabouts. Whereabouts? God, Sam was even beginning to sound like a cop.

  ‘Sammy.’ She lifted a leg in the air, admired its contours. ‘I’m sure you could do better if you tried harder.’

  ‘How do you do it, King?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Mock innocence.

  ‘That thing with your voice. It makes me want to try real hard.’

  She gave him the full vocal Monty. ‘How’s this, big boy? Coming on at all?’

  ‘Pack it in, King.’

  ‘Love to, sweetie.’ Game over, she sat on the edge of the bed, delved in her bag for ciggies.

  ‘And you should pack that in as well.’ Nothing wrong with his hearing then. The lighter click wasn’t exactly deafening.

  ‘Sammy. It’s my only vice.’ She blew a perfect ring. ‘And I’m down to one or two a day.’

  ‘Packs or cartons?’

  ‘Ha ha.’ She didn’t laugh. ‘Let’s get back to Howe.’

  ‘I told you, honey, his apartment’s empty. No one’s seen him around.’

  ‘Gosh, Sam.’ Shock horror. ‘Anything could have happened. Surely someone ought to check out the place, make sure everything’s OK?’

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘Sammy.’ Gush, gush. ‘You’re an absolute brick.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Brick. Good egg. Decent cove. Top man.’ She toyed with humming a few bars of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, but decided that would be overdoing it. He was clearly mulling the request over. Outside church bells rang, someone in need of a life walked past whistling The Archers’ theme tune. She took a deep drag on the cigarette. How long can it take, Sam?

  ‘Saying I get in. What am I searching for?’

  ‘How’m I supposed to know? Look for clues: where he is, what he’s up to. See if his passport’s around, letters, receipts, reservations. Check the answerphone. Use your eyes, Sammy. Use your imagination.’

  ‘Anything else I can do for you while I’m at it, ma’am?’

  ‘Yeah. A crate of Jack Daniels would be good.’

  ‘Thought you only had the one vice.’

  ‘I lied. Later, Sammy. Ciao.’

  Like Olivia had lied. Caroline stubbed the butt into a chipped saucer. OK, it was a sin of omission. But why keep her wedding to Howe secret? Quinn had taken great delight last night rubbing Caroline’s face in the evidence. Matron of fucking honour? What was the other line? Low flying pigs? Quinn and the boy David had certainly had their fun at her expense. Yeah, well, Miss Piggy would be laughing the other side of her face soon.

  Shooting off the bed, Caroline padded barefoot to the shower. The trouble with the snow queen was she thought she knew it all.

  But not this time.

  In the bathroom mirror, the reporter watched her scowl morph into a satisfied smile. Hallelujah! She really had seen the light last night. Spotted it while driving past Olivia’s place after a drink in a wine bar, and kicked herself, convinced she’d left it on earlier during her snoop. It was as good as advertising someone had been in the place.

  But she knew she hadn’t set foot in the kitchen.

  She’d registered the light in there the second she opened the front door. Hence the big Sweeney entrance and warning shout. From what she’d picked up on the job, any burglar with a brain cell would leg it out the back. And if anyone had been stupid enough to confront her, she had reinforcements in her bag: mace spray and a flick knife. Thank God the cops hadn’t searched it.

  They’d have found Olivia’s diary, too.

  The reporter puckered her lips. God knows what they paid police these days. Peanuts, probably. But any self-respecting monkey would have had the nous to stick an arm up the chimney breast, surely?

  She stepped into the shower, wishing the jet was more powerful. Staying up half the night trying to read the diary had left her jaded. Not just lack of sleep but also lack of comprehension. Trying was the operative word. The diary – more intermittent journal really – was written in some sort of code. She couldn’t decipher it – or Olivia any more. Sighing, she tilted her head back. The woman she’d grown up with, considered closer than a sister, her so-called best friend was a liar, had betrayed Caroline’s trust. For once she felt almost alone in the world, a little lost. Hurt pride? Self-pity? Genuine sorrow? Her eyes smarted; she told herself it was the shampoo and ignored the taste of salt on her lips.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The ten-minute drive had largely calmed Sarah. Sunday morning roads were mostly empty, sky the
clearest blue she’d seen in a while. It was nippy but the air felt clean, fresh; council vehicles were out trying to do the same to the streets. She’d sung along to a few favourite tracks: ‘Waterloo Sunset’, ‘You Really Got Me’, ‘All Day and All of the Night’. The Kinks had been good company. Like Dave. Smiling, she cut the engine, pictured him walking away after she’d dropped him in town. Inviting the guy back for coffee would have been so easy, going to bed with him an appealing end to the night. But it wouldn’t have been the end. It would have been the start of a whole bunch of complications she wasn’t ready, able or willing, to take on. She sighed, bit her lip. Or was she? The spark was there: he helped her chill out, made her laugh – even when it was unintentional.

  Locking the motor, she inhaled deeply. The smell of petrol laced with Paco Rabanne. She raised an eyebrow. The chief couldn’t have been in that long then. She certainly wasn’t hacked off he’d called her in on a day off. Who wouldn’t want to be in on an arrest? It was the way he’d done it that was irritating. Mind, by the time she was entering her office, she almost felt sorry for the chief. Who the hell had he pissed off this time? This close to retirement, an official complaint was so not good news. He’d sure got that right.

  ‘James Rust? James Rust! On what grounds?’

  ‘Keep your thong on, Quinn.’ Baker was perched on the edge of her desk. He must have been keeping an eye out for her. He’d barged in almost before she sat down.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Très amusing.’

  ‘There’s nowt funny about it, Quinn. The Golf was in his lock-up. Blood-stained rug in the boot. He’s sitting in a cell downstairs. All we’re waiting for is his brief to show.’

  A DC in the squad room had taken the call at 05.20. An anonymous tip. Unlike triple-nines they weren’t automatically recorded. Comms were trying to trace the source.

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Zilch. Told you. He’s keeping shtum till Perry Mason gets here.’

  Perry Mason? Baker was showing his age. ‘Apart from the complaint presumably?’

  ‘Complaint?’ Eyebrows knotted then untangled. ‘Nah. Rust’s not whingeing. Well, not yet.’ He sniffed.

  ‘Then, who?’

  Standing, he slipped a hand in his pocket. ‘Your mate, Lois. She’s claiming you assaulted her.’ He turned at the door. ‘Close your mouth, Quinn. You could get a bus through it.’

  ‘Assaulted her?’ Sarah’s fists were clenched. ‘I’ll swing for her.’

  ‘Did she actually say you hit her?’ Harries pushed away a plate that showed traces of a fry up. She’d only popped into the canteen to grab a coffee, and found him finishing breakfast.

  ‘As good as.’ After Baker’s exit line, she’d caught up with him in the corridor, asked for elaboration. ‘Let’s see now: I used unnecessary force, physical restraint. I was heavy-handed. Oh, yeah, and she tossed in verbally abusive for good measure.’ Baker’s biggest grouse seemed to be that King had called him at home.

  ‘Come on, boss.’ Harries reached out a hand, didn’t quite make contact. ‘You know that’s bull.’

  ‘It is . . . isn’t it?’ She recalled grabbing the reporter’s arm in the hospital. Twice. She’d not gone further in the heat of the moment, had she?

  ‘’Course, it is. King’s shit-stirring. Don’t let it get to you.’

  ‘It does bloody get to me.’ The volume caused a few raised heads at nearby tables. Lowering her voice, she continued. ‘Going over my head like that. And Baker not even telling her to piss off.’

  ‘We know what she’s like. And the chief.’

  ‘Do we?’

  He waggled an eyebrow. ‘I bet he was dying to see her bruises.’

  ‘David.’ Deep sigh.

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  Still standing, she drummed the table. ‘I’d like to know where she got his number though.’ Bloody woman had more contacts than a switchboard.

  ‘Did he believe her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think he was more concerned whether she’d make the complaint official.’

  ‘No worries then. I was there. I saw what went on. She’s not got a cat in hell’s chance of making anything stick. She must know that.’

  Eyes narrowed, the drumming increased.

  ‘What is it, boss?’

  She saw it now. ‘This thing with Baker isn’t a complaint. It’s a not particularly veiled threat. She’s trying to tell me to back off, get out of her face.’ Like that’s going to happen.

  ‘And you’re saying?’

  ‘She must be off her rocker.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to shoot. Rust’s lawyer’ll be here any time.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks, Dave. I appreciate the support.’

  ‘Hey, boss, screw you. Remember?’

  She turned back. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Standing, he started walking down with her. ‘It’s what King said last night. Just as she was leaving. She said she was thinking of changing her mind, even saying sorry.’

  ‘“But screw you, Quinn.”’ She nodded. ‘That’s right, she did.’

  ‘See? Cold feet. She was regretting snitching to Baker even then.’

  That was one way of looking at it. ‘It’s a bit late now.’ But if the reporter wanted to play dirty – so be it.

  FORTY

  James Rust wasn’t playing at all. Glaring straight ahead, he sat next to his brief across a heavily scarred metal table in IR2. Interview room was a misnomer. Apart from one brief opening statement, Baker and Sarah had been mostly talking among themselves. Rust’s spine was rod-like, his thin thighs tightly pressed, lips metaphorically glued. Audio and video tapes were running, hadn’t caught much action yet.

  Baker was having more luck cracking his knuckles than Rust’s stony silence. Sarah had counted five so far. ‘I’m sure it would help your client if he’d at least attempt to answer our questions.’

  For Perry Mason, read Fiona Hamilton, a squat redhead with big hair, grey roots and a penchant for short skirts, towering heels; the voice was Mariella Frostrup on twenty a day and a taste for tequila margaritas. She was known as Hammers – say no more – and had been a familiar figure on the Midland legal circuit for years. Even Baker was a tad awestruck.

  ‘Is that so?’ Her wide smile revealed tombstone teeth with a dash of orange lipstick. ‘I rather think I’ll be the judge of that, Mr Baker.’

  A tiny muscle flexed in the chief’s jaw. Sarah rather thought that was down to the missing rank. The chief stood, started pacing, hands sunk in pockets. It was his customary attempt to unsettle witnesses. ‘A car belonging to an abducted woman has been found in his garage . . .’

  ‘Lock-up.’ Hammers raised a finger, still studying her legal pad. ‘My client doesn’t drive.’

  ‘Inside is a bloodstained rug missing from the victim’s home.’ And now en route to the labs for tests. ‘And your client’s refusing to open his mouth. It doesn’t look good, Ms Hamilton.’

  ‘Au contraire, Mr Baker.’ She rose, placed hands on Rust’s braced shoulders. ‘Tell me, does Dr Rust look like an idiot to you?’ To Sarah, Rust looked like an anally retentive gnome sitting on a toilet brush. ‘If my client was even remotely connected with this unfortunate crime, do you really think he’d be stupid enough to leave incriminating evidence lying around?’

  It wasn’t the greatest defence in the world but Hammers did have a point. Sarah crossed her legs.

  ‘It wasn’t lying around, Ms Hamilton.’ Knuckle number six. ‘It was hidden. Behind locked doors.’

  ‘Indeed it was, Mr Baker.’ That flashy smile again. ‘But by whom? Certainly not my client. As made perfectly plain at the start of this little farce –’ she tottered back, flopped in the seat, tugged at her hem – ‘Dr Rust is the victim here.’

  Stitched up like a kipper on You’ve Been Framed was the tenor of the head’s argument – though not couched in such precise terms.

  He would say that wouldn’t he, was Baker’s response. Sarah agreed – guilty or innoc
ent he would – and he hadn’t budged. Not one iota. Baker had put every point every which way; he’d raked over all the old allegations of groping including claims that Olivia Kent had been considering legal action. The comebacks via Hamilton were: the answer’s already on record or no comment. He’d given them carte blanche to search his property though. Which usually meant there was nothing to find – or it had already been destroyed.

  Sarah’s observations of Rust’s body language were – not surprisingly – more telling. The tightly crossed arms went without saying; a tic in his left eyelid was becoming more pronounced and his bottom lip carried telltale teeth marks. Even Baker’s aftershave couldn’t mask the reek of body odour, and it wasn’t emanating from the chief. ‘Depends how you look at it, Ms Hamilton.’ Baker parked a haunch on the desk, cracked another knuckle. ‘See, I’d say Olivia Kent’s the victim here.’

  ‘She’s not here, though, is she, Mr Baker? As I understand it, she’s in hospital. So instead of badgering my client – an innocent man – why aren’t you asking Olivia Kent how she got there?’

  Good point. Well made.

  ‘We’ll take a break there.’ Baker rose, nodded at Sarah to stop the tapes. ‘I run the inquiry my way, Ms Hamilton.’

  ‘Make the most of it, Mr Baker.’ Rust had broken his silence. ‘I’ll be doing my utmost to make sure it’s your last.’

  ‘The lawyer’s right though, boss. One word from Olivia Kent and . . .?’ Harries raised a thumb then turned it down. DC Nero.

  Sarah hoped any word would be in the chief’s favour because Rust – unlike King – was hell bent on a complaint and on firmer ground. Coats flapping, they were keeping pace across the car park to her Audi. Sarah held no brief for James Rust. He was an arrogant twat. But was he a guilty arrogant twat? With Baker itching to charge a man with offences he may not have committed, it was imperative now that they speak to Olivia. ‘Have you got the tape, Dave?’

  ‘Sure have.’ Harries tapped a pocket. While they were at the hospital, Olivia could also listen to the hoax bomb call. If anyone could put a name to the voice, it would be her. Assuming the medicos said she was fit enough to be interviewed, neither hell, high water nor Elizabeth Kent was going to stand in the way this time.