Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  ‘I’d rather it was sooner, Mr Howe.’

  ‘Give me a number. I’ll give you a bell the minute I’m through. Which hospital is it?’

  For a few seconds she weighed up whether to tell him. He could find out easily enough and he was her husband. The presence of the police guard quashed any lingering qualms. ‘The Queen Elizabeth.’ His low chuckle was unexpected.

  ‘Sorry. A mother-in-law joke. You wouldn’t get it.’

  Olivia was drifting off to sleep. When the door opened, for a second she thought she was dreaming.

  ‘They won’t let me stay long, darling, but I had to see you.’

  ‘Jack?’ She fought to stay calm. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He smiled. ‘I bought you a present, Livvie.’ She tensed when he slipped a hand in his jacket pocket. A scented candle. ‘I thought it might help pass the time.’ He dropped a matchbook beside it.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her lips barely parted; her mouth too dry. Still the most beautiful man she knew, she asked herself how she could ever have found him attractive. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she flinched.

  ‘Now what exactly have you been saying to the nice policemen, Livvie?’

  ‘Nothing, Jack. I don’t remember anything. I can’t help them at all.’

  ‘Good.’ Still smiling, he gently stroked her hair. ‘That’s excellent, Livvie. Excellent. The way I see it, there’s only one problem. He really should have been charged by now, don’t you think?’ Head cocked, he studied her face. ‘God, you’re ugly when you frown like that. Surely you know I never leave anything to chance? I have an exit strategy, Liv. And his name is James Rust.’

  ‘But, how?’ Her frown deepened. He raised an eyebrow, started humming. It took her a while to recognize the tune: I get by . . . with a little help from my friends.

  ‘Jack and Jill, Livvie? God, you’re thick. I couldn’t have done it on my own, could I?’

  ‘Jill Paige? But she’s . . .?’

  ‘A really good friend, Livvie.’ He yanked her hair before releasing it then rose to his feet. ‘But no more now. You need to rest. Catch up on your beauty sleep, eh?’ He leaned in closer. She felt his hot breath in her ear. ‘Mum’s the word, Olivia. And if you breathe another, next time I will kill you.’

  Olivia watched him walk to the door, turn and blow a kiss. When he’d gone, she let the tears flow freely. No ropes bound her wrists, no gag bit into her mouth, no wire noose dangled in front of her eyes, but she was as much at his mercy here as back in that hellhole basement. She’d known all along, of course. Her freedom now was an illusion. His hold over her would end only in death. She’d known that, too. But she couldn’t do this alone; she reached for her phone. Like Jack, she needed a little help from a friend . . .

  Caroline stared at her BlackBerry, a finger hovering over a fast dial key. On her lap a picture emailed by Sam of the shrine in all its glory. Frigging weird. She’d mulled it over long enough. Olivia had to know about Howe’s crazy obsession. The reporter narrowed her eyes. No. It was too big for a phone call. Time on the screen showed 7.30. Right. She’d pay a quick visit. Jumping up from the chair, she held out a steadying hand, felt dizzy, a little light-headed. Adrenaline rush? More likely the booze. God knows where the whole bottle had gone. She scowled, muttered a few bollocks. There was no way she’d risk her licence.

  Glancing down, she caught sight of the picture, now lying on the floor. OK. She dialled a cab. Cinderella would go to the ball.

  Twenty minutes later, the driver dropped her at the steps of the QE. Glancing up, she froze; for an instant assumed she was hallucinating. But booze conjured up pink elephants, didn’t it? Not mad bastards. With a story to tell.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Jack?’

  ‘Caroline.’ He gave a lazy smile. ‘That’s no way to talk to an old friend.’

  Got that right. Not if she wanted a cosy little chat before delivering his balls on a plate to Quinn. Accustomed to thinking on her feet, Caroline reckoned she had around thirty seconds to hook him. She needed the mental equivalent of a PhD.

  ‘Olivia’s told me everything, Jack. How about cutting a deal?’

  ‘Everything? I very much doubt that.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’ She only had half the story. ‘That’s where the deal comes in. I need your side.’

  ‘My side?’ He laughed out loud. ‘So what’s in it for me, Caroline?’

  ‘Talk to me, or the cops. Give me what I want, and I won’t hand you over.’

  ‘Too late, honey. I’m seeing them tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘And will you tell them the truth?’ Pulling Sam’s pic out of her shoulder bag. ‘Like I will?’

  ‘Olivia, darling. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have done anything for you, you know that.’

  Sitting at the bedside, Elizabeth Kent clasped her daughter’s hand. Olivia looked tired, drawn, deathly pale. As for Elizabeth, she felt she’d aged twenty years in twenty minutes. She’d driven to the hospital in response to a tearful phone call, words she hadn’t heard in a while: ‘I need you, Mummy.’

  She’d hoped it would be a turning point. Perhaps Olivia would allow her to get close again. The recent distance between them had been unspeakably painful. Her daughter’s story infinitely more so.

  She’d sat in stunned silence hearing for the first time about the marriage, the birth of her grandchild. And the appalling death.

  For what seemed a lifetime Elizabeth hadn’t been able to speak; the shock so profound she feared she might faint. Now she lifted her head, looked at Olivia and asked the question again.

  Olivia was calmer now. She’d rehearsed the scene several times before her mother’s arrival. She’d always hoped it would never come to this, realized after Jack’s visit it was inevitable, and vital she played her role to perfection.

  ‘I wanted to tell you. I longed to tell you.’

  ‘Then why . . .?’

  ‘It was my fault.’ Avoiding Elizabeth’s gaze, she traced a circle on the sheet with her finger. ‘I’m not going to blame Jack. I should have been stronger, stood up to him more. I should have picked up the phone, talked to you. I just didn’t want you to worry, Mummy.’

  ‘But what about you, darling? I can’t begin to imagine your pain. I could have been there for you.’

  ‘I was wrong . . . so wrong. I know that now.’ She bit her lip, eyes welled with tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Mummy.’

  She cradled her daughter’s head. ‘You poor child. If only I’d known.’

  Elizabeth so wanted to believe Olivia. But the story was so thin, it barely stood up. She knew her daughter’s apparent composure was superficial. Olivia had control of her voice but couldn’t hide the trembling in her hands. Clearly she was under enormous stress. For her part, Elizabeth was finding it difficult to grieve for a grandchild she hadn’t known existed when her own child’s suffering was staring her in the face.

  ‘I think you should rest now, Olivia. You’re exhausted, I’ll come back—’

  ‘No!’ Eyes widened in what? Panic? Fear? ‘I haven’t finished. I must tell you now.’

  Elizabeth kept her voice an even soothing tone. ‘There’s no rush, dear. We’ll have all the time in the world tomorrow. We’ll talk when you’re less upset.’

  ‘I may not be here tomorrow.’

  ‘What on earth are you saying?’

  Olivia took a deep breath. The next act was crucial. ‘Jack’s in the country. He’s been here tonight. He blames me for . . . what happened to Grace.’

  ‘Then he is behind this? It was his voice on the tape, wasn’t it?’

  Olivia nodded, closed her eyes, felt a draught as her mother moved. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m calling the police, of course.’ Delving in her handbag. ‘He has to be locked away.’

  ‘No. You must listen.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Olivia. He can’t be allowed to get away.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

 
; Clutching her mobile. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘He won’t come back, he’s had his fun.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘He never intended to kill me, Mummy. He wanted me to suffer. To atone for what he sees as my sins.’ Olivia swallowed. ‘But I can’t take any more pressure. I’d rather die than give evidence in court. I mean it. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. I just want him out of the country. Out of my life for good.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Olivia. You can’t know he won’t come back, try again. You’ll never be free, don’t you see? You must tell the police.’

  ‘I’ve gone through it a million times. Going to the police isn’t the answer.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Jack’s a bully, a control freak. The way to beat a bully is to scare them even more.’

  ‘And you know how to do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Olivia held out her hand, drew her mother closer. ‘But I need you to do something for me.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Ithink you’d lie through your teeth to get what you want, Caroline.’ Howe raised a whisky glass in mock toast. Fact was Jack Howe had no choice but to find out exactly what the reporter knew and more importantly what she intended to do with it. It was why he’d agreed to her request. Why they were in his hotel room, sitting across a low marble table on which lay a voice recorder.

  ‘Then why am I here, Jack? When I could be with the police telling them everything I know?’

  He was amazed at King’s audacity, appalled at her apparent nonchalance. It was either naïve ignorance or naked ambition. He suspected the latter. He recalled her as the sort of self-serving shit who thought altruism was a skin disease.

  Howe crossed his legs, listened as she outlined theories: that he’d abducted Olivia; maybe he hadn’t intended killing her but it had almost gone dreadfully wrong and he now thought he could get away it.

  ‘And you can.’ She smiled. ‘Give me your story. I’ll guarantee anonymity. You could be on the next flight home.’

  ‘Helping a criminal to evade justice?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you reported crime, not committed it.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Jack. It’s Olivia I’m trying to help. I don’t want you going anywhere near her ever again. You’ve got what you wanted, you’ve had your sick fun.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Come on, Jack. You blame her for Grace’s death. You wanted to punish her.’

  ‘You’re insane. I’m here on business.’

  ‘You deny it then?’

  ‘There’s nothing to deny.’

  ‘Oh, I think there is, Jack.’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  There was silence after the rapid interchange. Caroline searched Howe’s face for signs of his feelings; the guy could give Quinn a run for her money in the cool stakes. Her own heart was beating hard enough for her to hear the pulse in her ears. It wasn’t fear; the risk coming here she considered minimal. Whatever Howe thought, she was after the truth – the whole truth.

  ‘Let’s try again, Jack. I’m not here to judge. I just want your side of the story. No one knows I’m here. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone.’

  ‘How very trusting, Caroline. If I’m the villain of the piece what makes you think you’re safe? I could leave you for dead like you say I left Olivia.’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you? I think you just wanted to frighten her. You wanted payback for what she did to Grace.’

  ‘Don’t use that name again.’ His voice was hard, cold. The child was his Achilles heel. For the first time Caroline felt uneasy.

  ‘Jack, I can’t help you if you don’t help me.’

  ‘Help me? Don’t make me laugh. How could you possibly help me?’

  ‘You need to talk about her, Jack. Grace is—’

  ‘Once more – and I call security. Get you thrown out.’

  Still she gently persisted. ‘But she’s the key to it all, isn’t she, Jack? You believe Olivia’s neglect led to your child’s death. In your eyes you weren’t committing a crime, you were administering justice.’

  ‘You seem to have made up your mind already, Caroline.’

  ‘It’s your mind I’m interested in, Jack. I want to make sense of this whole thing.’ And she wanted every detail, every fact, every emotion. It wasn’t just a story any more, she could see a book in it.

  ‘No, Caroline. Believe me. You don’t.’

  Her palms were moist, she sensed success was close. She raced on barely registering the warning note in his voice. ‘Wrong, Jack. I want it all. It’s an amazing tale. The sort of story that gets everyone talking. It’s big, Jack. And I can write it.’

  ‘Caroline.’ Gazing down, Howe laced his fingers. ‘You wouldn’t begin to understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  FORTY-SIX

  ‘Best-laid plans, and all that, eh, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s OK, Mr Howe. I quite understand.’ Jack Howe’s meetings had fallen through; he’d turned up on spec at HQ. Front desk had called Sarah down. She’d found one of the best-looking guys she’d seen in a long time sitting in reception reading the Guardian. Now standing, he towered over her.

  ‘Come through, please.’ She led him to IR1. ‘Can I get you coffee or anything?’ The change of plan was fine by her. Good to get an interview in the bag. Early brief over, she had a free half-hour or so before her meeting with the chief. Baker wanted to press ahead with charges against Rust. The head was adamant the car had been planted, that he was being framed. He could have a point. She’d feel happier if they had corroboration. Maybe the tape from Benny, the hardware shop owner’s closed-circuit cameras would provide it.

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Howe waited until she’d taken a seat before sitting himself. ‘I’d rather get on with it, if that’s OK with you?’ Polite tone, perfect smile; he was certainly living up to his charm school image. The dark well-cut suit looked classy, expensive; he could’ve been going to a funeral. ‘I was so relieved to see Livvie, I can tell you, Inspector.’

  ‘You visited last night?’

  He nodded. ‘I needed to make sure she was OK. You know how it is.’

  She knew it sounded pretty damn quick, and hardly the action of someone with something to hide. Even so, there were t’s to cross, i’s to dot. ‘It must be some time since you saw her before that.’

  ‘A while.’ He gazed down at his hands. ‘It’s been too long.’

  Face impassive, she kept a conversational tone. ‘Everyone seems to have forgotten you exist, Mr Howe. We only discovered you were her husband by accident.’

  ‘The dark secret’s out, huh, Inspector?’ He laughed, making light of it. ‘Actually I still am. We’re not divorced. I guess I’ve always thought we might . . .’ Flexing his fingers. ‘Look, I was hoping you could give me an idea what happened. As I say I saw a few lines in a newspaper. Presumably the case has moved on since then.’

  ‘Which paper was that, Mr Howe?’ She tapped a pen on the desk.

  ‘The Mail? Maybe the Post.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll try and remember if it’s important.’

  She smiled. ‘Only if the facts were wrong.’ Observing closely, she gave Howe the barest outline: Olivia’s abduction, five days of captivity ending in the fire. His mobile features reacted accordingly.

  ‘Thank God she’s alive.’ He ran a hand through dark glossy hair that fell perfectly back in place. ‘The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘She remembers nothing. We’re still piecing together her last moments. We’ve been questioning friends, family, building a picture, trying to discover who’d want to harm her.’

  ‘You must have some idea by now?’

  ‘Do you, Mr Howe?’

  Gazing down at his hands again. ‘I only wish I could help.’

  ‘Have you had any recent contact?’

  ‘Not really. I was hoping this week . . .’

  ‘We’ll need to check a few things.’ She
asked for flight details, a record of where he’d been staying over the last seven days, numbers they could reach him on. Standing, she held out a hand and thanked him for coming in. ‘How long are you in the UK, Mr Howe?’

  ‘Another six days, Inspector. I have a little business, then a couple of loose ends that need tidying.’

  ‘Any thoughts, Dave?’

  ‘Howe’s smooth, I’ll give him that.’ Harries had been in the viewing room observing the interview. She’d found the DC, arms folded, propping up the wall outside her office.

  ‘Any useful thoughts?’ She gave a lopsided smile.

  ‘He seemed OK. I mean, he visits her in hospital, walks in here large as life.’ Opening the door for her. ‘He’s got to be on the level, hasn’t he, boss?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Dave. Even so . . .’

  ‘I’ll run some checks.’ He waved a notebook, already on it. ‘Later, boss.’ Seconds as it happened. He popped his head back. ‘Talking of running?’

  ‘Out of here. Now.’ Still smiling, she reached for the ringing phone.

  ‘Quinn. In here. Now. It’s show time.’

  Benny’s camera hadn’t been wielded by Spielberg. The three-strong audience stood round a small screen in Baker’s office watching what looked like an early silent movie.

  ‘Christ, Huntie.’ Baker sank hands in pockets. ‘When you said you’d got something I didn’t think you meant a snow storm down a coal mine.’

  Hunt mopped his brow with a crumpled hankie. ‘The equipment’s second-hand, guv. It’s not exactly state of the art.’

  ‘Got that right. It’s out of the sodding ark.’

  Ignoring the interchange, Sarah moved closer and knelt by the monitor. She’d long suspected the chief needed glasses but was too vain to admit to any sort of defect. The picture wasn’t brilliant but there was a figure there. Tapping the screen with her finger, she said, ‘The techie boys should be able to do something with this.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Baker hunkered down beside her, stared for a few seconds, then: ‘With what?’