Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  ‘All we need now is a memory card.’

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘Believe me, I’d tell you more if I could, Inspector.’ Olivia turned her head to the wall, strands of greasy hair splayed across the pillow. Sarah cut the latest in a series of so-help-me glances at Harries. Elizabeth Kent sat in the corner like a tigress ready to pounce the second she thought her daughter needed protection. Olivia had told them the last thing she remembered was going to bed on Saturday night, falling asleep reading. Sarah was beginning to suspect it had been a book of fairy tales.

  ‘Let’s try one more time, Miss Kent.’ She gave a thin smile.

  ‘I’m so tired. I just want to forget everything.’

  ‘You say you can’t remember anything.’ Sharper than she’d intended. At least it prompted the woman to turn back her head.

  ‘A figure of speech, Inspector. That’s all. I can’t recall anything important.’

  ‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘I don’t need a judge. I just need peace and quiet, time to recover properly.’

  And I need something to go on. ‘You remember nothing about your abductor? Nothing at all, Miss Kent?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ She sighed. ‘It could have been anyone.’

  ‘Miss Kent.’ Clenched fist. ‘He wanted to kill you.’

  ‘But he didn’t. I don’t think he ever intended to.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling.’

  ‘A feeling . . .’ She exchanged eye-rolls with Harries.

  ‘It was probably a power thing. Wanting to see me suffer.’

  ‘Why would he want to see you suffer? Unless he knows you.’ And you know him.

  ‘No, no. You’re not listening. It could have been anyone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ She had to know how lame that sounded.

  ‘You were in your own bed, for God’s sake.’ Much sharper than intended. Harries’ pen stilled.

  ‘DI Quinn . . .?’ Mrs Kent’s skirt rustled.

  Sarah flapped a hand. ‘You were found in a basement. Did he stay with you the whole time?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘How did the fire start?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Can’t you leave it for now? I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Not really, Miss Kent. You see, we have a man in custody.’

  Three- to four-second pause. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She waited, wanting eye contact.

  ‘Who are you holding?’

  Another pause. ‘James Rust.’ Emotions raced across Olivia’s face; but in the split second it took to hide them, Sarah hadn’t been able to read them: Shock? Fear? Incredulity? The revelation hadn’t elicited a verbal response. ‘So is it possible Mr Rust’s your abductor, Miss Kent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eyes closed again, she bit her lip. ‘I told you, it could have been anyone. I don’t remember. And whoever it was wore a mask.’ Blurted out. Her eyes widened momentarily. Had she lied? Or was her memory coming back?

  ‘A mask?’

  ‘I think.’

  ‘You think.’ She glanced at Harries. Pass the stone, Dave. It was like drawing blood.

  ‘Either he was or wasn’t, Miss Kent.’

  ‘Everything’s so confused, so hazy. I can barely think at all.’ There was a catch in the voice and her eyes brimmed.

  Sarah fought the urge to give the woman something to cry about. ‘We’re almost done, Miss Kent.’ She nodded at Harries. ‘I’d like you to listen to something before we go. Tell me if you recognize the voice.’

  The tape was cued. ‘Ready?’ Harries hit play.

  ‘Listen up, OK. An hour from now a bomb will go off in the high dependency unit. I could make it quicker. But I won’t, OK. Oh, yeah – and happy hunting, Mr Plod.’

  ‘Miss Kent?’

  She glanced at her mother. ‘I’ve never heard it before in my life.’

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Mrs Kent?’

  The older woman shook her head, dropped her gaze. ‘No, nothing, sorry.’

  ‘She’s lying, Dave.’ Sarah clasped a white mug with both hands, her knuckles were the same shade. The detectives were holding an interview post-mortem at Greggs during a quick pit stop on the way back to HQ. First, she’d put in the obligatory call to the chief. He’d been so not thrilled.

  ‘Which one?’ Harries’ drawl probably meant he thought both the Kents culpable. He was ploughing his way through a plate of cream horns. She’d already told him she wasn’t hungry but her eyes and stomach were demanding a second opinion. Get thee behind me . . .

  She took a sip of coffee. ‘But why lie, for God’s sake? Anyone would think she doesn’t want us to find the guy who did this.’

  ‘The chief’s convinced we have. So where does it leave Rust, boss? Sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘Of course I want one.’ Snippy. Waving away the plate.

  ‘So why . . .?’ Puzzled frown, then: ‘Ah. I see.’

  She doubted it. Unlike Harries, she had to watch her weight. The boy wonder put it away like a horse on a bad diet. He probably thought cholesterol was a washing-up liquid. ‘Let’s get back to the Kents, eh, Dave?’

  ‘She didn’t say it wasn’t Rust, did she?’ How many double negatives did he want?

  She nodded. ‘True.’ Olivia Kent couldn’t categorically clear the head teacher, without revealing the memory loss was convenient and landing herself in the mire. ‘But if it’s not him, who’s she protecting, Dave?’

  ‘Herself?’ He licked some errant cream. ‘Maybe she thinks if she keeps mum, the kidnapper’ll just go away, give it up. If she can’t name him, she’s no threat.’

  ‘But the corollary to that is she’s protecting him, too. Why would she do that? And will she go as far as sacrificing Rust?’

  ‘Turn the old goat into a scapegoat, you mean?’

  Lip curled, she dodged a few pastry flakes; for a second she thought he meant Baker. ‘We can’t let her do that, Dave.’

  ‘What about Barfoot, boss?’

  The athletic architect. ‘His movements pan out so far, don’t they?’ Shona Bruce had put in the checks; it looked like the only thing of which Mr Smarmy was guilty was a predilection for dressing up in uniforms. She gave a tight smile. ‘We could bring him in for impersonating a police officer. You finished here?’

  Walking in step back to the motor, Harries’ new shades got an airing. The sun had brought out Sunday shoppers en masse, if not to mass. It almost felt like a day off. She gave a crooked smile: yeah, right.

  ‘Y’know, boss. You shouldn’t worry about the odd cake now and again.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Back there. I thought you might be worried about putting on weight.’ He must have caught the set of her profile. ‘Not that I think for one minute . . .’

  ‘Got that right.’

  The silence wasn’t golden – more like that of the lambs.

  Harries cast a sheepish glance. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I think you’re in great shape . . .’

  ‘For my age?’

  ‘Why do you have to be so defensive? A little toning here and there, perhaps. I go running. You could come out with me – see if you like it.’

  She sniffed. ‘Thought I was in great shape.’

  ‘Everyone has to work at it, boss. You’d love it once you got into it.’

  ‘I don’t have time.’ She aimed the remote at the car. Locks clunked open.

  ‘You have to make time. It’s worth it for the benefits. All that fresh air, feel-good factor.’

  ‘Enough already. I’ll think about it.’ Like hell. ‘Tell you who I’d really like to bring in for a little chat?’ She waited until he’d fastened the seat belt.

  ‘Jack Howe.’ Harries was with her already.

  She’d put feelers out with the NYPD the morning after King revealed Howe’s existence. The fact he’d been ma
rried to Olivia, maybe still was, added to Sarah’s interest.

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t mention him at the hospital, boss. You’ve still got the pic, haven’t you?’

  The wedding photograph. Oh yes. She’d considered whipping it out of her briefcase. But Olivia Kent must have had damn good reason to keep the marriage secret. Sarah regarded the picture as leverage, didn’t want to show her hand too soon.

  ‘All in good time, Dave.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Caroline King had wasted enough time. Her patience, rarely a strong suit, was running out. She’d sat stifling yawns and making small talk with Olivia for nearly an hour, waiting for Elizabeth to bale out so she could get to the main point. ‘So, why didn’t you tell me about Jack?’

  ‘Tell you what?’ Lethargic, disinterested.

  ‘That you were married.’

  ‘Married? Where did you get that ridiculous—?’

  ‘Don’t. I’ve seen the picture, Olivia. You were married.’

  Caroline heard her wristwatch tick in the silence. If Olivia didn’t talk soon, she was out of here.

  Her neck constricted as she swallowed. ‘We still are.’

  ‘What! Why the hell keep it to yourself? I thought we were best friends and I find out from the cops.’

  ‘You’re not my keeper, Caroline. Some things are . . .’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘Are, what?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘OK. Suit yourself.’ It was a bluff but Olivia didn’t call until Caroline was at the door.

  ‘Please, Caro. Don’t go.’

  The reporter pulled her still-warm chair closer to the bed. Tears ran down Olivia’s cheeks, a judder ran through her frail frame. Caroline watched, waited until she was more composed. ‘Come on, Livvie –’ she dabbed her friend’s face with a tissue – ‘it can’t be that bad. You know what they say about a problem shared?’

  The stab at a smile was pitiful. ‘I’ll tell you everything, Caro. But I have to see Jack first.’

  The reporter’s mouth tightened. ‘He is mixed up in this, isn’t he?’

  Eyes cast down. ‘He could be.’

  ‘Could?’ What the hell did that mean? Caro’s patience was again on the wane.

  ‘The man who held me captive wore a mask. Lots of masks. A different face every time. Mind games. Isn’t that what they call it?’

  ‘And you think it could be Jack?’ Caro winced watching Olivia chew her lip.

  ‘He hates me.’

  In Caroline’s experience, lots of men hate their wives; they don’t all try and kill them. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Something happened.’ The pauses were getting longer. ‘In New York.’

  She saw an internal debate playing on Olivia’s face. Her urge to prompt was strong but staying silent was usually more effective.

  ‘I’ve never told a living soul, Caro. I prayed I wouldn’t have to.’ Panic flitted in her eyes. ‘Elizabeth must never know.’

  Caro still took the silent witness role.

  ‘We had a baby.’

  ‘What?’ Had to speak. No way had she seen that coming.

  ‘Grace. She died.’

  ‘Livvie, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There was an accident. She fell from a window. Seven floors up.’ The voice was a flat drone. But once started, it was as if she had to relate everything. ‘The window was open. Jack blamed me for that. I went to answer the door.’

  Caroline felt the colour drain from her face. Olivia was like a wax statue staring ahead. ‘She was tiny, barely started to crawl.’ The brittle laugh made Caroline jump. ‘Imagine it. I find two Jesus freaks wanting to talk about eternal life and Grace . . .’

  ‘Livvie, don’t.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell anyone. You do see that, don’t you, Caro?’

  ‘Shush, Livvie. ’Course, I do.’ But she didn’t. ‘And Elizabeth has no idea?’ Tentative.

  ‘She doesn’t even know about the wedding.’

  ‘But, why, Livvie?’ It didn’t make sense.

  ‘God, it sounds so stupid now but . . . We wanted it to be a surprise.’

  The reporter raised an eyebrow. ‘You did?’

  ‘I could never lie to you, could I, Caro?’ Deep sigh. ‘You’re right. It was Jack’s idea.’

  ‘But when you were pregnant, when the baby came along? Surely you wanted Elizabeth to know?’

  ‘We . . . Jack . . . I . . .’

  ‘Are you saying he stopped you, didn’t give you a choice?’

  ‘The plan was we’d come over with Grace and give Elizabeth the biggest surprise of her life.’

  Give her a cardiac arrest, more like. Caroline smiled. Suspected she was being played like a violin. The story didn’t add up, there were gaping holes. As a reporter she’d have to fill them. And a reporter always needed both sides.

  ‘We were just a few days away from leaving for England when the accident happened. The only way I could survive it was to blank it out. Bury every memory. That way it never happened. Easier said . . . I relived it a thousand times, always with a different ending. I’d change the position of the furniture, or the window would be closed, or I wouldn’t answer the door. Worse was when I dreamt about Grace. She’d be alive and smiling. And then I’d wake up. And want to die.’

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘He wanted to kill me.’

  FORTY-THREE

  ‘We have to talk. Call me the minute you can.’ Caroline wasn’t expecting Sammy’s voice on her answerphone. Olivia’s maybe. Laughing and telling her it was all a big joke. She strolled to the kitchen, took wine from the fridge. She needed a drink first, a big one. Whatever revelations she’d been expecting, none bore the slightest resemblance to what she’d heard that afternoon.

  Glass in hand, the reporter leaned against the sink, still taking it all in, trying to make sense of it: the baby, the accident inquiry, Jack’s demands. Olivia had apparently been cleared of any blame, but Jack wanted her out of his life, said he never wanted to hear from her or see her again. Since leaving there’d been no contact between them.

  She took a large sip, rolled it around her tongue. The abductor had worn masks and had disguised his voice but Olivia was virtually certain it was Jack. And if he was behind it, she’d said, he was obviously sick and needed help. Caroline hadn’t told her what she thought Howe needed. And she didn’t like the way Olivia seemed to be blaming herself for his actions.

  She thought she knew Olivia as well as it was possible to know anyone and yet she’d no idea. Olivia’s time in the States wasn’t just a closed book, it was out of print. No wonder the journal had been in code.

  The phone rang as she was pouring a refill. Picking up the phone and glass, she took both through to the living room, lay down on the settee.

  ‘Sammy. Hi.’

  ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘Just about to ring.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. The guy’s a weirdo, Caroline.’

  Tell me something I don’t know. ‘Go on.’

  Sam had entered Howe’s apartment with the help of a neighbour, a young woman. No surprise there then. ‘Nothing hit me at first. Just some dude’s place. Neat, tidy, functional rather than fancy, you know?’

  Guided tour I can do without. ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s what I did. And it’s like a show home. Nothing personal. No books, magazines, newspapers. No music, DVDs. I’m thinking this is a waste of time.’

  ‘Cut to the chase, Sammy.’

  ‘There’s one room left. I go in expecting more of the same. And it’s crazy. Everywhere you look there are photographs. Like wallpaper. Every inch covered. Even the ceiling. And every one’s of some little kid.’

  Wine spilled as she straightened. ‘A baby?’

  ‘Yeah. Few months old, year at the most, I’d say.’

  ‘Anyone with her?’

  ‘The odd hand here and there. But whoever it was has been cropped out.’

  ‘That figures.’

>   ‘There’s more, Caroline. The whole room’s set up as a crèche. Crib, baby clothes, changing gear, talc, soft toys. You name it – it’s here.’

  Grace. Except she was missing.

  ‘The weirdest part? In the corner there’s a sort of shrine? A doll dressed in pink, more baby pictures, lots of candles. It creeped me out, I can tell you. Whoever did this is a crazy, Caro.’ Or mad with grief. ‘Are you taking this to the cops now?’

  ‘You bet. Thanks, Sammy. Ciao.’

  ‘DI Quinn, call for you on line four.’

  Sarah gave an inward groan, had been on the point of leaving for home. Gone seven now, she’d only nipped into the squad room to skim reports, catch any developments.

  It was almost light relief after another heavy session with Baker and Rust. The head teacher was being held overnight. A decision on charges would have to be taken tomorrow.

  ‘Who is it, Twig?’ Paul Wood was already rabbiting into another phone. Sighing, she lifted the nearest receiver. ‘DI Quinn. Can I help?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m looking for my wife. My name’s Jack Howe.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘Where are you, Mr Howe?’ Sarah perched on the desk edge.

  ‘In Birmingham. The Hyatt. I’m here on business. Olivia and me, we’d arranged to hook up later in the week but I understand there’s been some sort of incident? She’s in a hospital somewhere?’

  ‘We need to talk.’ But not on the phone. There were too many questions. She needed to gauge reactions, nuances.

  ‘Sure, what can you tell me?’ Hint of American in the voice. No suggestion of anything other than genuine concern, curiosity.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I read a few lines in a newspaper. Something about Olivia being injured in a fire. There were suspicious circumstances? You were quoted. What’s going on here, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like us to meet. Can you come in?’

  ‘Of course. But tell me, is she going to be OK?’

  ‘She’s recovering well, Mr Howe. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Rustle on the line, maybe checking the time? ‘Look I’ve only just got in and I have a couple of meetings in the morning. Can we make it late afternoon?’