A Question of Despair

by Maureen Carter

  Impatient, she rolled back the chair, walked to the window and stuck her head out to catch the breeze. Chance would be a fine thing. There was just a wall of heat, stale air, exhaust fumes. Tendrils of hair stuck damply to the back of her neck. They’d escaped from the customary bun, worn – perhaps deliberately – to reinforce the ice maiden image. Her hair was white blonde and almost waist length, though only a select few at work knew that.

  Give the blokes an inch . . .

  She jumped a mile when what was most likely a fist hammered at the door. ‘Come on, Quinn. Get your ass in gear.’

  That would be the chief, then. Made Gene Hunt look like a new man.

  Caroline King was her own boss. Self-employed, freelance, lone operator, call it what you will, she was a reporter, roving, but definitely not one of the pack. She wouldn’t even want to lead it. Designer-suited, and tanned shapely legs crossed, she sat on the front row, dead centre, in a conference room at police HQ set aside for the press. Her chiselled features and square jaw line were softened by immaculate make-up and a chin-length glossy raven bob. Part of her confidence came from knowing she looked good. But how was the competition shaping up? Glancing round apparently casually, she took in every detail, reckoned there was no contest.

  ITN’s Midlands correspondent Phil Birt was sprawled in a seat next to her, she didn’t recognize the blonde from Sky (they all looked the same to Caroline). One or two of the local print and radio guys she knew by sight. Around twenty in all. And her film crew summoned from the Mailbox, the BBC’s Midlands headquarters, was in pole position. Naturally. It was a decent turnout. No surprise. A baby snatch was potentially big news.

  Assuming the kid didn’t turn up any time soon. She skim-read her draft script waiting for the conference to kick off.

  ‘Slumming it, are we, Caro?’ Phil winked. With those teeth, she’d keep the smiles to a minimum.

  ‘Did you say something?’ Like if he had, it wasn’t worth hearing.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Shrugging, he turned away but not before she’d seen his jaw tighten.

  As for suiting herself, that was a given. Though she had to cede it was pure chance she’d decided to stay on in Birmingham for a few days, not return home to Fulham. She’d been working for the Beeb on an expenses scandal item. The intake editor at TV centre was more than happy when she rang offering to cover the baby story. It had barely hit the wires then, but a journo was only as good as her contacts. Her mouth moved in what could have been a smile. Caroline’s sources were the best in the business. She’d had what you might call a head’s-up. Just the bare bones; the meat she’d have to sniff out here.

  Unlike her colleagues she didn’t react when the double doors swung open, nor did she glance across as three or four cops filed towards the front and took seats behind a black table so highly polished their reflections were visible in the wood.

  So that’s why they’re called woodentops. She dropped the smirk, stiffened almost imperceptibly as she registered the female cop in the line-up.

  Well, well, well. Sarah Quinn was on the case. Quinn was no woodentop. She was more ice cap. And she’d just clocked Caroline. The reporter held the detective’s glacial grey-eyed gaze for a few seconds before glancing ostentatiously at her nails. To say the women’s paths had crossed was like saying water’s wet. They had more history than the Magna Carta. And none of it good.

  Caroline straightened her spine, recrossed her legs and circled a pointy-toed Jimmy Choo. This may not turn out the doddle she’d foreseen. On the other hand it looked as if the fat guy was in charge. The name plate read Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker. His suspiciously black hair was shot through with white streaks. He put her in mind of a badger. She watched him rise heavily to his feet and wipe a checked handkerchief over a visibly damp brow. Feeling the inquiry’s heat already? Probably not. It was too early for that and he looked too experienced. No, he’d be suffering under the real thing, exacerbated by a stuffy room full of stale bodies and hot air. Even the Ice Queen looked as if she might melt round the extremities. Caroline pursed full red lips. Nah. That was wishful thinking.

  ‘Thanks for turning out,’ Baker said. ‘As some of you’ll have heard, a six-month-old baby was abducted in Small Heath this afternoon.’ He nodded towards the back and a lackey hit a button. Behind the cops a wide screen now showed a blown-up photograph of Evie’s face. Sweet kid, Caroline thought.

  ‘Evie Lowe was last seen around three forty-five. She was asleep in a pushchair outside a shop in Prospect Road. There were lots of people—’

  ‘Seen?’ Caroline cocked her head, arch, ingenuous. ‘Do you mean, left?’ OK, it was early to take a pop, but what sort of idiot leaves a kid on its own nowadays? Don’t people watch the news, read the papers?

  Baker paused just long enough to cut her a contemptuous glance. The point had hit home though, and the seed planted among the other hacks. ‘. . . in the vicinity at the time. Shoppers, school children, motorists, cyclists. It’s now ninety minutes since the pushchair with Evie in it was taken. It hardly needs saying it’s imperative we find her, fast.’ Another nod to the lackey at the back, and a second image hit the screen. ‘This is the same model and colour.’ A red and grey Mamas and Papas. ‘Someone must have seen it either outside the shop, or being pushed away. We need to get the word out now.’

  ‘How long was it there?’ A young reporter asked.

  Baker glanced at Sarah. ‘Four, five minutes, no more.’ Her tone was neutral.

  ‘Five minutes?’ Caroline shook her head. ‘What leads are you following?’

  Baker ignored the question. Either they didn’t have any, or he wasn’t prepared to divulge them. ‘Obviously the priority’s to spread the word, to get the baby’s picture out there. We need witnesses to come forward.’

  If it was that busy why hadn’t people come forward already? Could be down to the area, Caroline supposed. It was single mum central out there, pavements chocker with chavs and babies in buggies. Even so . . .

  She made a few notes, half listening to questions fired by other journos, questions the cops couldn’t or wouldn’t answer; they always withheld information, of course, it went with the territory. Like it was hers to dig it out. Baker raised both meaty hands when he’d had enough. ‘I can’t really add much more at this stage. But we’ll be grateful for any publicity, and myself or DI Quinn are happy to do interviews if it’ll help.’

  Looked as if it was news to Quinn. Caroline stifled a snort of derision. As far as she was concerned there was only one person worth interviewing, one player worth pursuing, and it wasn’t fatso or the Ice Queen. ‘Where’s the baby’s mother?’

  ‘Under sedation.’ Sarah answered before Baker opened his mouth. ‘She won’t be—’

  ‘Under sedation where?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘We’re not releasing an address at this stage.’

  ‘Where’s the father?’

  ‘That information’s not for release.’

  Caroline was getting the picture. ‘How old’s the mother?’

  ‘Eighteen? Your point being?’

  Few would admit it, but a story involving an absent father and a teenage mother from an inner city back street wouldn’t have the same punter appeal, the same sympathy factor, as a baby who’d been taken from a professional couple’s home in leafy Edgbaston.

  Caroline shrugged. ‘You tell me, DI Quinn.’

  THREE

  Sarah strode along the corridor, headed for the squad room. Baker could barely keep up. She knew what she’d like to tell Caroline King. And it wouldn’t be, have a nice day. Off would feature somewhere in the short phrase. The reporter’s pointed persistent questioning had distorted the angle of the story, diminished it almost. And she, Sarah, had come off worse in what was little more than a less than subtle slanging match.

  ‘What was that all about, Quinn?’ Baker tugged angrily at his tie.

  ‘I don’t know what yo
u—’

  ‘The mother’s not under sedation, and—’

  ‘I don’t want her hounded by rep—’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap. You’re not talking reporters plural. And there’s no percentage antagonizing them all. Whatever bad blood there is between you and that dark-haired hack, it doesn’t get in the way of the inquiry. Got that?’ Had it been so obvious, then? Maybe she’d not masked her feelings adequately, or the old boy could read her too well. He certainly couldn’t know that King was one of the reasons Sarah had transferred from the Met four years ago. She opened her mouth, but Baker hadn’t finished. Pausing at the door, maybe to catch his breath, he said, ‘We need the media on side. One hundred per cent. Even Ms Smart-arse.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘At least until we find the baby.’

  Half a dozen heads turned as Sarah and Baker entered the open-plan office crammed with desks and computers, printers and files. Most squad members were out, in and around Small Heath, but calls still needed making, answering and hopefully acting on. The faces said it all: there wasn’t a lot to act on. Even those who didn’t have kids looked grim.

  ‘Anything?’ Baker asked the nearest DC.

  ‘Nothing concrete, sir.’ No witnesses, no pushchair, no forensics, nothing on CCTV.

  ‘What about the woman in the shop?’ Sarah asked. The old dear with all the time in the world, according to Karen. She was a regular customer; Robert White had provided a name. Dora Marple had left the premises before Karen, it was conceivable she’d seen something. ‘Have we spoken to her yet?’

  ‘She’s out at the moment, ma’am. David Harries slipped a note through the door.’

  DC Harries, relatively new to the squad. Sarah nodded. Still uneasy, still unable to shake off the bad feeling. Surely something should have moved by now? A baby can’t just be snatched off a busy street in broad daylight. Unless . . .

  ‘What is it, Quinn?’

  ‘I think we should search the mother’s house, sir.’

  Baker didn’t take a lot of convincing. Five minutes later Sarah was in a police motor driving to the girl’s council flat in Victoria Terrace. She’d left the chief prepping the evening brief. If her suspicion was right, he could be wasting his time. Tapping the wheel, she muttered something about the traffic, though after her call to Hunt there was no rush, Karen Lowe wouldn’t be going anywhere. She’d told him not to let the girl out of his sight. Maybe Sarah should have seen the possibility sooner?

  Home was usually the first place police look when a child goes missing. But Evie had been snatched from outside a shop half a mile away. Allegedly. What if the kidnap was an elaborate hoax on Karen’s part? A desperate bid to divert police attention from the truth. The histrionics had seemed over-the-top to Sarah. But if Karen Lowe had harmed her child, it could have been a fit of remorse. Either way she had questions to answer. According to Huntie, she’d refused to allow a family liaison officer into the house and was still refusing to name the baby’s father. They could only hope that with the exposure the story was already getting, the guy would do the decent thing and come forward anyway.

  She sniffed. Yes. And pigs might fly jumbos.

  The block was squat and square, the grimy grey façade broken up by rusting iron railings and peeling balconies. Lines of limp washing hung in the available air space, splashes of colour were provided here and there by children’s bikes, pedal cars, beach balls. Sarah gave a wry smile. Birmingham was as far from the sea as it gets. The search team’s transit van was parked in a side road, two white-suited officers perched on the bonnet waiting for her.

  The team leader approached as she locked the motor. ‘Give me five, Ben. I need a word with her first.’ Tact and diplomacy, Baker had counselled, kid gloves and pulled punches. Like she’d barge in and ask Karen where she’d buried the body. Broaching it either way wouldn’t be easy, but that’s what she was paid for.

  The stairwell stank of lavender air freshener laced with urine and smoke, not all of it from cigarettes. Sarah hadn’t used cannabis since her student days, still missed it occasionally. She bounded up the first flight two stairs at a time, the exercise wouldn’t hurt and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d hit the gym.

  ‘Are you sure about this, boss?’ Huntie was waiting at the door, he’d probably been at the window looking out for her. ‘The girl’s on a knife edge as it is.’

  ‘Can’t say I care much where she is, sergeant.’ The corollary was tacit. He’d know it was Evie’s whereabouts that were giving her grief. His eyes darkened for a second, but he stepped aside to let her pass. ‘You know best, ma’am.’ The ‘ma’am’ spoke volumes. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. She’s asked for a cup of tea.’ Tactical withdrawal more like.

  The small sitting room was spotless, everything in it pink: carpet, curtains, Dralon suite, half-a-dozen crocheted pink crinoline dolls were lined up on top of a gas fire. It was like stepping into Barbie-land.

  Karen, still wearing the sun dress, was slumped in the chair nearest the grate. An ashtray with five butts lay at her feet. She glanced up, curled a lip when she saw who it was. ‘What do you want?’

  Sarah gave a tight smile. ‘Same as you, I expect.’ She perched on the settee, waited to see if Karen would take the cue. A clock ticked six, seven seconds. Mingled smells of toast and talcum powder lingered in the air.

  Karen gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘To find Evie.’

  ‘So what’re you doing here? Why aren’t you looking . . . ?’

  ‘We are. We search everywhere.’ She glanced round the small space. ‘Everywhere we think she might be.’

  The girl was sharp, sharper than she appeared. Staring at Sarah, she straightened slowly, folded her arms. ‘You’re not serious? You can’t really imagine . . .’

  Sarah’s face was impassive. She didn’t have to imagine – she’d seen it: the crimes people are capable of, the violence they inflict, the bodies beaten beyond recognition often by so-called loved ones. And she’d heard the lies. Being a cop meant trusting no one, taking nothing at face value, suspecting your own granny if need be.

  ‘You’re sick, you are.’ The girl sneered. ‘God, I’m glad I don’t have your job.’

  Sticks, stones. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. ‘What job do you have, Karen?’

  She narrowed her eyes, muttered what could have been bitch.

  ‘So we’ll take a look round if that’s OK.’

  ‘Please yourself. It’s not like I can stop you.’

  Sarah walked to the window, gave the search team a thumb’s up. Still with her back to the girl, she asked, ‘Where’s the father, Karen?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Pass.’

  Sarah turned, gazed at the girl a while. ‘What’s your problem, love?’

  ‘What do you think, love?’

  ‘I think you have a bad attitude. You’re doing yourself no favours. I’m not here to give you a hard time. That job you’re so glad not to have? Right now, it’s trying to find your baby. Why not help me out here?’

  ‘This I will tell you.’ Her hand shook as she reached for an Embassy and had trouble lighting it. ‘I’d rather top myself than harm a hair on Evie’s head. She means more to me than anyone in the world. Not that you’d understand. But the sooner you take that on board, the sooner you can get on and do your sodding job properly.’

  FOUR

  ‘I still think it needed doing.’ Sarah sat across the desk from Baker. The wall behind him was covered in framed photographs; the boss posing with bigwigs in fancy costumes like the chief constable and the Lord Mayor. The one with the Queen was pretty prominent. You’d have to be blind to miss it. She tore her gaze away. He still hadn’t responded. ‘Are you with me, or what?’

  The search team had just phoned in with the results from Karen’s flat: nothing to suggest foul play. But two detectives were still questioning other residents at the block,
finding out what if anything they knew about Karen, whether they’d heard rows, a baby crying, if they’d seen visitors, especially boyfriends.

  Baker took a few swigs from a bottle of water. ‘We’re not getting fixated on the girl are we, Quinn?’ It wasn’t the royal we, he meant Sarah.

  She wasn’t prepared to grace the comment with a reply. It wasn’t a question of obsession, though she did feel there was something odd about Karen, something she couldn’t pin down. The girl certainly didn’t seem big on people skills; she was apparently estranged from her own mother. At least she’d finally come round to the idea of having a family liaison officer stay at the flat. Jess Parry would be an extra pair of eyes and ears for the police, as well as providing emotional and psychological support for the girl.

  The silent treatment had worked. Baker lobbed the bottle into a bin, leaned across the desk. ‘Look, if I hadn’t agreed, I wouldn’t have given it the nod. It was a good call. You’re a good cop. Christ, woman, what’s wrong? You don’t need me to tell you that.’ She didn’t much care for his intent gaze. ‘Not losing that famous cool, are you, Quinn?’

  Unblinking, she held the gaze in silence. One of these days she’d count the number of unanswerable remarks he came out with in these sessions. Again, he got the message. ‘Come on.’ He scraped back the chair, grabbed his jacket, slung it over a shoulder. ‘It’s show time.’

  The first brief in any major inquiry is vital. It sets the tone, defines the parameters, energizes and inspires officers. More than that it initiates early actions and assigns tasks to the detectives best equipped to deliver the goods. Make a bad decision, take a wrong turn – and the inquiry goes down a blind alley. Or a dead end. And it’s only as good as the man or woman holding the floor. No pressure there, then.

  Sarah had observed Baker in action scores of times before, of course. But right now he seemed sharper, more focused; he’d cut the customary banter and one-liners that were part of his style, designed to put officers at ease, dilute the tension. The boss’s new sobriety could be down to the image dominating the whiteboard behind him of course.