‘I mean it.’ Laying fork on plate, she pushed both away. ‘Twenty-eight hours down the line and there’s nothing. Not one decent lead.’
‘Way it goes sometimes. You know that. It’s not an episode of The Bill.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ How many times had she heard him say that? ‘But baby cases, boss, they usually generate so much intelligence.’ Even villains come forward with information when child crimes are involved.
He glanced up, brow like a ploughed field. ‘Tell that to the boys in the back room, Quinn. The phones haven’t stopped.’
‘Quality intelligence.’ And there are women slaving away in there too, dummy.
He sniffed. ‘We’ve got Flint’s works of art.’
‘The Mr Men meet L.S. Lowry?’ God, she wished the canteen was licensed, she could murder a drink.
‘L.S. who?’ The suggestion of a wink implied the ignorance was feigned. At least she hoped so; surely he couldn’t inhabit a cultural desert as well? ‘OK. They’re not Gainsborough but they’re not that bad, Quinn.’
She shrugged. The e-fits weren’t brilliant either. Baker had passed them round at the late brief. Opinion was divided. Sarah thought they were universal-one-size-fits-all, though with hindsight the woman did bear a passing resemblance to Cherie Blair. Either way, he’d decided to hang on to them until the saturation coverage of Karen’s witness appeal dried up. Not quite an ace up the sleeve, more a means to gain further media exposure, keep the story out there and in people’s minds. Sarah hoped the visuals didn’t turn into jokers in the pack, and add yet further to the usually well meaning but often time-wasting flood of calls coming in to the incident room. Overload after airtime, was a risk they had to take. But as she’d told Karen, one steer in the right direction could lead to finding Evie. Sarah just wasn’t convinced it would come from Eddie Flint.
Baker moved on to a mountain of custard-coated spotted dick. And changed tack. ‘What about the old dear . . . Dora . . . she still out of it?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Critical but stable.’ She’d checked with the hospital half an hour back. Even if Dora came round spouting fluent Greek, there was no guarantee she’d be able to add anything useful to the inquiry. The FSI team had found no signs of a break-in at the house, nothing to indicate a struggle; the daughter had checked the place, didn’t think any property was missing. Dora had definitely hit her head going down, but it could be she’d missed her footing. They hadn’t completely ruled out an intruder – professionals cover their tracks or don’t leave traces in the first place – even then it didn’t necessarily follow that a putative perp was also the abductor.
Baker glanced up, wielded a spoon in casual greeting. David Harries was heading for the hatch. Mildly surprised, Sarah pursed her lips: Friday night and the young DC didn’t have a home – or hot date – to go to.
‘Keeping an eye on him are we, Quinn?’ Baker’s innocent delivery was at odds with the speculative pout.
She shifted her gaze ostentatiously to the window. High above, jet trails criss-crossed an almost Mediterranean sky, five geese flew in formation like avian red arrows. Sod Baker. The dig was uncalled for: her interest in Harries was purely professional. She’d kind of admired the way he’d stood up to her earlier. A yes-man was no good to anyone. He’d just needed putting straight on the shortcomings of the media in general and Caroline King in particular. He’d seemed to take it on board, they’d even had a laugh about it. As for the chief, he’d clearly had enough of the silent treatment.
‘OK, Quinn, you win. Tell me: what aren’t we doing we should be?’
She shrugged. Every box was being ticked: house-to-house inquiries and street interviews were continuing, already extensive searches would be expanded further at first light, paedophile checks were ongoing, CC footage was still being monitored, the mobile incident unit was up and running, Evie’s missing poster was plastered across the city. So what was the persistent niggle at the back of her mind that try as she might she couldn’t pin down? ‘I wish I knew, boss.’
‘So quit worrying, woman.’ He scraped back the chair, slung jacket over shoulder, slurped the dregs of his tea. ‘We’re doing everything we can. Something’s gotta give.’
The withering look was wasted on his departing back. Was it a man thing, she wondered? She could have consulted Harries, but it looked as if he’d left too. Shame. She might have suggested they go for that drink. Unless she was wrong about that hot date.
THIRTEEN
‘Going up in the world are we, ma’am?’ A smirking Dean Lavery, arch of voice and eyebrow, dropped a pile of post on Sarah’s desk. She glanced up from report-writing – the third that morning – not amused. The toast she’d grabbed from the canteen still sat on a plate. She reached for a slice, thought better of it, slipped it in the bin at her feet.
Saturday before seven was way too early for what passed as Lavery’s humour, especially enigmatic one-liners and especially after another night lying in bed staring at horror movies on the ceiling. Would that they were. Even with eyes tightly closed the images played in her head. Most cops she knew had a macabre mental cinema, dick noir, Adam called it.
‘I’m not with you, Dean. Enlighten me.’ Or maybe not. As far as Sarah was concerned, in a drawer of blunt knives, Lavery wouldn’t be the sharpest.
Sniggering, he pointed to the letter on top. ‘As long as you don’t expect us to curtsey, eh?’
She felt more like telling him to fuck off. His cheap aftershave was getting up her nostrils – it was almost as pungent as Baker’s. ‘I’m sure you have better things to do with your time, Dean.’ Fake smile. ‘Was there something else?’ She hadn’t a clue what he was going on about and didn’t give a toss either way.
He shook his head, mumbled ‘ma’am’ and headed out. She sighed. No wonder they call me the Ice Queen. Tiredness did nothing for her temper or tolerance and both were in pretty short supply. An inquiry that was going nowhere and a personal life that appeared stalled didn’t help.
When he’d closed the door, she picked up her pen, cast a cursory glance at the envelope. Dead funny, Dean. Someone had got her name wrong, written Queen instead of Quinn. So what? She shook her head, muttered, ‘Boy, did you miss your vocation.’ The guy ought to go into comedy. Then she took a closer look. ‘Personal’ had been written and underscored three times. It rather belied the misnomer: Inspector Sarah Queen. Curious, she ran a letter opener under the flap. The Polaroid fell face up. Sarah’s features froze in shocked disbelief as she reached for the phone.
At the same time, four miles away, Karen Lowe opened a similar envelope. The young mother didn’t freeze, she fainted but not before her screams woke several neighbours. Still wet from the shower, Jess Parry ran to the kitchen and found Karen unconscious on the pink lino. It was twenty minutes before Jess alerted the incident room. She had to call an ambulance first.
‘Dean Lavery picked it up with the rest of the stuff on the front desk. He assumed it came with the regular post.’ Sarah’s steady grey-eyed gaze was on DCS Baker. She bit her lip. She’d seen enough of the image to last a lifetime. Suit jacket agape, the boss stood across the desk from her, his podgy fingers straining latex gloves that barely touched the edges of the evidence bag let alone the Polaroid it protected. He’d nicked his neck shaving; she saw a dried bead of blood near the collar of his shirt. The line of perspiration above his top lip was more recent; she’d watched it seep through the pores, doubted it was heat induced even with the temperature rising.
Baker’s focus was exclusively on the picture, a sick parody of the Madonna and child. Hazel eyes creased, he ran his gaze over the surface, scanning it to memory, scouring it for clues. She hoped he’d have more joy than her. He hadn’t uttered a word since taking it from her, though his breathing was audible and eloquent enough.
Karen Lowe had been reunited with her baby. Except Karen was on TV and Evie was propped on a cushion in front of the screen God knew where. Nothing peripheral was visible, no wall, no carpet, no c
urtain. And the proportion was all wrong: Karen’s face was massive, dominated the shot. Incongruously, it put Sarah in mind of 1984, Big Brother; all seeing, all powerful. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Karen Lowe was currently under observation in hospital. Concussion, bruising. The baby’s arms were splayed, ankles crossed, eyes closed. Sarah hands were fisted at her side. She prayed Evie was only asleep.
‘Bastard.’ Baker seethed. ‘Fucking sick bastard.’ Turning, he handed the evidence bag to DC Harries who’d been keeping a low profile by the door. ‘Get it to the labs, Dave. Tell them I want everything they can give me now. Make that yesterday.’
‘Sir.’
The envelope was already with forensics. It was bog standard self-seal, so no saliva, but there could be prints, sweat, fibres; hopefully in addition to Sarah’s and Lavery’s. The envelope would be passed to a handwriting expert as and when. The boss agreed it had been addressed to Sarah as the public face of the police inquiry. Like her, he doubted there was anything personal in it. As for getting the name wrong, maybe the kidnapper had misheard.
‘OK.’ Baker stood legs astride, hands on hips. ‘Where are we at, Quinn?’
‘John Hunt’s going through our CCTV footage.’ It was the first task she’d assigned in the half-hour it took Baker to get in from Erdington.
‘Fucking arsehole.’ Not Huntie. Sarah knew where Baker was coming from but turning the air blue didn’t get them anywhere. Like Sarah, the chief suspected the kidnapper had paid them an out-of-hours visit. There was no stamp on the envelope, no frank, it was what you might call a special delivery. And it could be the kidnapper who’d made it. She’d requested the station’s tapes immediately and Hunt was in a viewing suite along the corridor.
‘We’ve also got a team of DCs knocking doors at Karen’s block of flats. Jess Parry says there was definitely no post on the mat when she got up this morning.’
Baker loosened his tie. ‘Time?’
‘Quarter to seven. She took Karen a cup of tea, heard her get out of bed a few minutes later.’
He scowled. ‘Shame that’s all she sodding heard.’
‘Come on, boss. Don’t lay this on Jess. She was in the shower.’
‘Yeah and the bastard gets clean away.’
‘Don’t. Try. And. Be Funny.’ The icy glare reinforced the clipped cool tone.
The finger jabbing was perilously close to her boob. ‘I’m not the comedian round here, matey.’ She forced herself not to recoil but, boy, when he blew, he blew. Spittle glistened in a corner of his mouth, an unhealthy blush spread across the quivering jowls. She rarely crossed the superior officer line so overtly. She opened her mouth to apologize but he flapped a hand. The anger wasn’t directed at her. ‘The sick sod holding the baby’s the one having a laugh . . . at our expense. Taking happy snaps and dishing them out like Smarties. What’s the shit playing at?’
Not Happy Families for sure. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, but at least we’ve got something to work with now.’ A time frame for one thing: it was possible a neighbour had witnessed the drop off at Karen’s or at least seen a stranger hanging round the flats. More than that. The kidnapper had made contact. OK, coming to police HQ was dicking them around but it also smacked of arrogance to Sarah. A perp who thought he or she was smarter than the cops. By handing in evidence, they’d taken a hell of a risk – it could turn into the second biggest mistake of their life. The first was snatching Evie. Perhaps unwittingly, Sarah’s glance fell on the newspaper on her desk: the baby’s photograph splashed across the front page, her beguiling one-toothed smile.
‘And the pic sent to Karen’s similar?’ Baker asked.
‘I haven’t seen it yet, but from what Jess says it’s virtually identical.’
Baker paced the floor, bottom lip protruding, hand sunk in trouser pocket. Sarah had had longer to mull it over. She let him think it through prior to pooling ideas with the squad. Taking a can of Coke from a drawer, she sank a few mouthfuls watching him wear out the carpet. He’d be oblivious to her attentions; his ability to focus – blank anything extraneous to the case – was legendary round the station. Married to the job the cliché ran. She didn’t see it that way: Baker had a wife, he just loved the job more. At least they were still together.
‘Well, Quinn . . .’ He’d stopped pacing, stood stroking his chin. ‘They’ve certainly got it in for the mother, haven’t they?’
The idea had more than crossed her mind. ‘You can say that again, boss. But, why?’
‘Best find out, hadn’t we? Come on, let’s hit the brief.’ His earlier outburst was history. Another good thing about the boss: he got whatever was bugging him out of his system, bore no malice. Unlike some senior officers she could name, and junior come to that.
She grabbed her jacket: the charcoal linen suit was going to be way too hot on a day like this. He was already holding the door. ‘I know one thing, Quinn . . . I was right last night when—’
‘You said something’s gotta give?’ She gave a wry smile. ‘In spades, boss. But I bet even you didn’t know who’d be handing out the prizes.’
‘I know something else, Quinn. You should smile more often.’
Caroline King’s smile morphed into a scowl as she approached the Mercedes. Bloody traffic wardens: hadn’t they got better things to do? Still, in the wider scheme of things a parking ticket was a minor irritant, it could be written off on expenses – after she’d written up her exclusive. The hot tip had given her more than a steer. All she needed was a quote from Quinn. The scowl was now a smirk; sorry, make that, Queen.
‘What the . . . ?’ Whatever was tucked under the wiper wasn’t a ticket. She eased out a cellophane package, eyes narrowed, breath on hold. Inside was a folded sheet of A4, on it three words cut and pasted from a newspaper. Caroline gasped; felt her heartbeat take a hike. ‘My God.’
She’d no doubt who it was from. It wasn’t just the message – it was the lock of fine blonde hair nestling in the cellophane. Caroline leaned against the motor, thoughts racing. Of course it couldn’t have been a parking ticket, she realized now. This was the Marriot’s car park and she had a resident’s pass. So how come the kidnapper knew where she was staying, had she been followed? Casually she glanced round the cavernous interior: gleaming bodywork, concrete pillars, concealed cameras, the occasional glinting lens revealing locations.
She tapped her fingers on the driver’s door. Why had the kidnapper singled her out? She snorted. Stupid question. Class will out. The question now was how to capitalize on the unexpected gift, the kidnapper’s calling card. Eyes narrowed, she traced top lip with tongue. There’d be no mileage pissing off the police too much, but maybe it was a ticket after all. A ticket to ride.
In the car, she checked the mirror, winked approvingly, awarded herself a perfect ten. Either way a King beats a Queen hands down.
Laughing aloud, she hit the ignition, put her foot down as well.
FOURTEEN
Sarah couldn’t recall seeing a squad so hacked off. Leaning against a desk at the front, she’d been watching reactions as Baker brought them up to speed on the Polaroid. The news had left stony features, slumped posture. It was hardly surprising, most had families, all had feelings. Forty plus detectives were in the room, as many again out in the field. Everyone had worked their butt off since Evie’s abduction and forty hours on had little to show for it. Even the normally dynamic DC Harries looked a touch downbeat. The current despondency wasn’t just down to a sense the perp was yanking their communal chain, though Paul Wood had expressed that view, it was more that the baby was still out there, in the hands of a kidnapper who also held all the cards. And if the attitude displayed here was anything to go by, he or she had just played a blinder. Sarah willed the boss to nip it in the bud; negativity was bad for morale.
‘So that’s where we are.’ He parked a haunch on her desk, ran a keen gaze over the troops. They’d been briefed on which tasks were ongoing, what steps had been taken. ‘Where do you re
ckon we should be going?’
The silence wasn’t far off complete. A fan whirred, papers were shuffled, there were rustles as one or two officers shifted in their seat. Baker let the silence stand until just about everyone was on edge, expectant.
‘That it, then?’ He turned his mouth down, swung a chunky casual leg. ‘Dumbstruck? Cat got your balls? Great.’ He clapped his hands slowly. ‘The perp’d love to see this . . . it’s just what he was after when he sent that pic. It’s called demotivate. Demoralize. Dispirit. Discourage. Dishearten. Disparage. Anything you like beginning with diss. That’s diss with two s’s, by the way.’ For a fat man, he jumped off the desk surprisingly quickly. Papers wafted in his wake. ‘Know what I call it? I call it pissing people off.’ He cocked his head at Sarah. ‘Pissing people off royally.’ Her slightly curved lip acknowledged the not so subtle allusion. Baker’s pause lasted three, four seconds, then: ‘And I don’t like people pissing me off. Specially villains.’
He was hamming it up, but seemed to have the audience with him. Sarah spotted fewer sprawled legs, folded arms.
‘This guy thinks he’s smart,’ Baker sneered.
‘Or she.’ Ventured a female officer near the front.
Baker flapped a hand. ‘I can’t be doing with this he/she, his/her business. We’ll stick with bloke ’til we nail the bastard . . . And believe me – we will.’ No argument; the conviction was absolute. ‘He thinks he’s smart – I know we’re shit-hot. What’s the old saying: “Don’t get mad get even”? Well I say: go ballistic and get one up on the buggers. And take it from me, I know where I’ll be shoving it.’
‘You and me both, gaffer.’ Wood’s crooked arm illustrated the point. A few officers echoed the sentiment. Sarah had to admire the old boy. A macho pep talk peppered with expletives, and though – in concrete terms – nothing had changed, the atmosphere was lighter, the mood less sombre. Detectives started throwing out questions, chipping in ideas. Only Lavery looked less than impressed but he’d still be miffed from the bollocking the other day.
A Question of Despair Page 7
