‘Why show his hand now, sir?’ Harries asked.
Baker shrugged. ‘Arrogance? Control freak? Nutter?’
‘If you ask me, it’s sadistic.’ DC Shona Bruce. When the tall redhead voiced an opinion it was generally worth hearing. She’d certainly vocalized Sarah’s thinking. ‘The kidnapper didn’t just target us.’ Shona didn’t elaborate, they all knew the other recipient on his hit list was in hospital. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Shona said, ‘Sending Karen a picture of her baby posed like that smacks of sheer cruelty to me.’
Several heads nodded. A phone rang on the desk near Harries. ‘Dave? Get that, will you?’ Baker nodded at Shona. ‘Carry on, lass.’
She smoothed non-existent creases from a blue serge skirt. ‘Karen goes on telly pleading to have her baby back. And he sends a photo? How vicious is that?’
‘Not just vicious.’ Heads turned as Sarah spoke. ‘I think it’s personal not random. Not spur of the moment. Planned to the last detail.’ She’d suspected it from the start. Babies aren’t just snatched from the street in broad daylight. And why had Karen been so convinced of the worst? More than once she’d said, ‘They’ll kill her, won’t they?’ They. Not he. Not she. As far as Sarah was concerned, the girl knew more than she was letting on. ‘I think we need to dig . . .’
‘DI Quinn,’ hand over mouthpiece, Harries interrupted. ‘It’s for you. Urgent.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is it?’
‘Caroline King.’
For Christ’s sake. ‘Not now, Harries.’
‘She says it’s vital—’
‘Tell her I’ll—’
‘. . . she speaks to you now.’
‘I’ll speak to her when I’m ready,’ Sarah snapped. ‘Savvy?’
‘Fine.’ By now his tanned complexion had a pink tinge. ‘But she says—’
‘Read my lips, Harries: I don’t care what she says.’
Baker mimed a slammed phone. ‘You think we need to dig where, Quinn?’
‘Karen’s background, family, mates, boyfriends, anyone she’s associated with recently. We need to find out if she’s ever worked; where and how she spends her time. Does she go on-line? We need to know more about her than her own mother. Which is good a place to start as any.’ Given Karen was in no condition to be questioned any time soon. ‘When we’re finished here, I’ll get over to Harborne.’ Harries could tag along, too.
It was nearly a wrap anyway. Further background checks were assigned to four detectives, others still had reported sightings to chase, a number were following up calls to the hotline. Everyone knew what they were doing and there was an eagerness – absent before – to get on with it.
‘OK guys.’ The door opened as Baker was shucking into his jacket. ‘Anything else before we nail his sorry ass?’
‘Guv.’ John Hunt hovered in the doorway, CCTV tape in hand. Normally unflappable, the DS’s hair was mussed, tie askew. ‘Get the hammer. I think we’ve got him.’
Within minutes, half the squad was crammed in the viewing suite. Sarah and Baker, hunched close to the monitor, had ringside seats, their pupils reflecting the flickering colour images playing out on screen. Breath bated, palms moist, Sarah watched a tallish guy lope along the pavement outside the granite and glass façade of Lloyd House. His clothes were in monochrome: black combats, white T-shirt, grey hoodie. A logo emblazoned across the chest read University of California. Sarah sniffed, doubted he’d been within spitting distance of the campus. Either way coming here wasn’t a sharp move. There was nothing furtive in his approach and force HQ CCTV was state of the art. She allowed herself a thin smile. All Postman Prat had to do was show his face.
‘You can see he’s carrying an envelope, guv.’ Hunt leaned across the desk, tapered finger pointing. ‘It’s definitely the one. Personal’s underlined three times and it’s addressed to Inspector Queen.’ Hunt’s running commentary she could do without; the action was unfolding less than a foot away.
The guy paused briefly at the main entrance, bent slightly to make the drop. The digital clock read 06.35. The guy had his back to the camera at this point. Christ, Sarah thought. A couple of minutes earlier and she might have bumped into him. Five seconds passed, ten, fifteen; all they could see was his back.
Sarah fanned her face with a file. Baker tapped testy fingers on the desk. ‘What the fuck’s he doing?’
‘Lighting a fag,’ Hunt said. ‘Don’t worry, guv, it gets better.’
And then he turned. Taking a deep drag, he tilted his head back and blew three perfect smoke rings. The picture was so sharp, they could see the tendons tauten in his neck, then the glint from a nose piercing. The hood had dropped back to reveal wavy black hair, lots of it. He looked pretty fit; regular features, decent bone structure. Sarah estimated his age at late-twenties, early-thirties. She exchanged glances with Baker who was smiling too. Gotcha. ID-ing the guy should be a piece of cake.
Could it get any better?
From the back, a voice piped up, ‘Gaffer. I know him.’
FIFTEEN
‘This is Caroline King, BBC TV News, Birmingham.’ Pink lip gloss glistening, the reporter gazed earnestly into the lens for a further five seconds or so, then: ‘Got that, sweetie?’ They were shooting in the Marriot’s underground car park, Caroline’s staged re-enactment of discovering the kidnapper’s note was already in the can. The young woman behind the camera answered with a thumbs-up and a ‘No worries’. Caroline was slightly uneasy though.
It had taken nearly all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince several editors at TV Centre that they run footage of the kidnapper’s message prior to bringing in the police. Persuasion and precious time. What if the kidnapper had contacted other journalists? What if a rival station got the news on air first? God, no. It didn’t bear thinking about. She checked the BlackBerry for messages or missed calls, breathed a sigh of relief.
Toe tapping, she watched ‘sweetie’ scrawl King PTC in black marker pen on a tape case. Not that her bitch was with the crew. It was the desk-jockeys who were a pain, soon as they came off the road they lost their edge, the thrill of the chase. As for the Beeb’s lawyers . . . She curled a lip. Do me a favour. Christ. Favours didn’t come much bigger than the kidnapper’s. Talk about gift horse and mouth. Of course it had to be broadcast: the public had a right to know. After all Caroline had given the cops a crack at the whip, it was Quinn who’d refused to take the call. Or bothered getting back.
Stiletto heels clacking pitted concrete, she strode over to a despatch rider propping up the nearest pillar. With a winning smile, she handed over the tape. ‘Soon as you can, honey.’
‘For you . . .’ He saluted with gauntleted hand before mounting the bike, the straining black leathers left nothing to the imagination. It brought tears to the eye. Caroline averted her gaze. She’d used only a little imagination to furbish the gaps in the story. She hadn’t actually seen the Polaroid sent to the police. It had been described well enough for her to paint a word picture though.
The piece-to-camera had completed the sequences already shot. Editing would be done at the Mailbox: a short package for rolling news, extended pieces for the main bulletins. They might want a live two-way later. It might be Saturday, but news was 24/7, thank God. She fumbled in her bag for the car keys, then smoothed her immaculate bob. There were other fish to fry. Maybe grill was a better word, given the lengthy list of questions she had in mind. Chuckling to herself, she headed for the Merc. If poss she needed to collar Quinn, before the story broke. When the excrement would really hit the extractor fan.
When someone’s known to a cop, it doesn’t necessarily figure they’re bosom buddies. There’s no sharing popcorn at the cinema, going on for a curry and a couple of Cobras. They’re known, as in: POI. Person of Interest. And the closest contact normally is feeling a collar, or eyeballing each other across a metal desk in a police interview room.
Which is where DS Reg Proctor had last seen Todd Mellor, in the flesh. O
nly Mellor’s face was currently on show, a close up on the monitor in the viewing suite.
‘I think he quite enjoyed the attention, guv.’ Proctor was certainly under the metaphorical spotlight. He’d been giving rapt colleagues an account of his dealings with Mellor. A couple of years back, Proctor and his then partner had apparently brought the guy in for questioning. A few parents and teachers at a primary school near where Mellor lived had complained he’d been hanging round, taking pictures of kids. Mellor, Proctor said, had come in voluntarily, answered all questions satisfactorily, agreed to a search of his house, allowed them to take his computer. ‘Came out cleaner than Persil, guv.’ Sarah sniffed, cut a glance at the screen. Or he’d rumbled they were onto him.
Proctor mopped his shiny brow with a crumpled hankie. He was early thirties, but born middle-aged and wore the uniform: tweed jacket, leather elbow pads, trousers with a killer crease, neatly knotted knitted tie. His horn-rimmed glasses were getting the hankie treatment now. ‘He didn’t have so much as a box Brownie squirrelled away.’
‘Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.’ Baker leaned back in the swivel chair, fingers tapping both chunky thighs. ‘How’d he strike you, Reg?’
Hopefully, Baker would soon form his own assessment. An unmarked car had been despatched to Mellor’s last known address in Aston. If he’d done a bunk, a picture would be circulated to officers across the city. If need be, they’d release copies to the media, issue an all points bulletin.
‘He seemed pretty straight to me, guv.’
‘Cocky?’
Proctor chewed a rubbery lip. ‘More what I’d call laid-back.’
So Mellor had done nothing wrong or he’d destroyed anything incriminating. Sarah checked her watch. Coming up to half-nine, they needed to get on. Couldn’t rely on Mellor holding up his hands. Either way, Baker wanted first interview-shot at the guy.
According to Proctor, apart from being questioned under caution Mellor had no previous and back then had no job, no family, no partner. He lived alone in a crummy one-bedroomed flat over a fish and chip shop. ‘As I say, guv, he seemed to enjoy the attention.’
‘Christ, Reg.’ Baker whacked the desk. ‘The guy was accused of having an unhealthy interest in little kids.’
Mouth turned down, then: ‘He reckoned it was a case of mistaken identity, guv.’
The boss jabbed a thumb at the screen. ‘Yeah? Well, he won’t be getting away with that one this time round.’
SIXTEEN
A subdued DC Harries drove down a tree-lined street in Harborne. Dappled light flickered across the planes of his face. Sarah glanced at his profile. Hoped he wasn’t smarting from the slapping down at the brief. Not that she regretted the rebuke. He was a cop for God’s sake. If he took offence that easy he was in the wrong job. John Hunt had already had a moan because she was working more and more with Harries. Sarah reckoned the DS resented what he saw as being sidelined. Registering Harries’ tight lips, white knuckles, she hoped she’d made the right call. Couldn’t be doing with a sulker.
‘Something on your mind, David?’ Light tone, casual query.
‘No, ma’am.’
She doubted that. He was bright, too bright to share his current thinking if hers was correct. He certainly had the gift of the gab when he needed it. Harries had graduated in law but after two tedious years defending petty crooks decided he’d be better off detecting the criminals. She also knew the old school guard at Lloyd House had initially given him a hard time. He’d told her a while back he realized early on the only way to deal with the sly digs, carping comments, was to laugh them off. Or crack even better ones himself.
Sarah pursed her lips. Since they’d got in the motor, he’d yet to crack a smile.
‘There is actually, ma’am.’
Frowning. ‘Is . . . ?’
‘Something on my mind.’
She waited for him to share. Waited some more. ‘Is it going to stay there?’
‘You won’t like it.’
She held fire while he manoeuvred round a dust cart partially blocking the road. ‘Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?’
‘That call at the brief? Caroline King . . .’
‘Spot on, David. I don’t like it.’
‘I think she’s on to something.’
‘After something more like.’ Derisive snort.
‘She said you’d regret not hearing her out, actually used the words: “on her head, be it”.’
‘Sounds like a threat to me.’ They were at a red light.
‘It did to me, too.’ She sensed his gaze on her. ‘I’m only the messenger ma’am. But what bugs me is this: if she was that desperate to talk to you . . . didn’t you say she had your mobile?’
Karen Lowe’s mother lived in a detached double-fronted red brick: neat garden, net curtains, number nine Wisteria Lane. Sarah twitched a lip: very Desperate Housewives. The ivy-laden property was immaculate and looked late-Victorian. Sarah imagined antimacassars and aspidistras, lace doilies and lavender bags. Even before her hand reached the gleaming brass knocker, the door opened a few inches. A woman’s head appeared in the gap, hair like a steel grey skull cap.
‘Didn’t you see the sign? No circulars. No junk mail.’ The thick Birmingham accent wasn’t brusque, it was bloody rude. Sarah bristled. ‘And definitely no cold callers.’ The woman made to close the door.
Warrant card thrust in gap, Sarah just about managed to keep a civil tone. ‘I’m Detective Inspector—’
‘Why didn’t you say?’ Like there’d been a chance to get a word in? ‘Come in . . . come in.’ She swung the door wide before turning on her heel and traipsing down a long tiled hallway that smelt of lemons and pine, the chemical kind. Sarah and Harries exchanged bemused glances as they trailed in her voluble wake. ‘We get all sorts here trying to sell stuff, double glazing, patio doors, new drives.’ The hair was actually pulled tightly back in a thin ponytail, everything else about the woman was fat, bordering on obese. Given the swaying haunches, the beige sweat pants were not a wise choice. ‘And don’t get me started on the God botherers. You name it, we’ve had ’em. Jehovahs, Mormons, Baptists, Evangelists, happy clappers, I call ’em.’
Was this woman real? Granddaughter missing, daughter hospitalized and she was blathering on about reps and religion.
‘It’ll be Mrs Lowe you want. She’s just through here.’
Sarah arched an eyebrow. Real then, but the genuine article lay on a cream leather Chesterfield in one of the chicest sitting rooms she’d seen in a long time. Thin silk curtains partially drawn, wafted in a gentle breeze, half a dozen marble lamps cast subtle lighting over clean lines, cool pastels, pale woods. Sarah couldn’t comment on the owner. Deborah Lowe was under a satin quilt, a magazine over her face. ‘Who is it, Cath?’
‘The police, Mrs Lowe.’ Cath mouthed, ‘migraine’ at Sarah. ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’
Deborah Lowe slung the quilt over the back of the settee then made heavy weather of sitting up. The glossy magazine slipped to the plush carpet at her feet: Vogue. Sarah recalled the dog-eared copies of Heat and Closer at Karen’s tiny flat. Like mother, not like daughter? ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure this isn’t a social call.’ Thick blue veins stood out on the thin hand she raised to smooth her brow. The hair was an immaculate if suspiciously blonde page boy, the subtle mascara slightly smudged. Sarah wondered idly if the woman’s clothes always coordinated with the décor, the ivory linen shift dress certainly did and looked equally classy. ‘Do sit down. You’re making me nervous.’ The laugh was girlish and brittle. The woman though well-preserved was no spring chicken. Late-forties? Early-fifties?
Straight-faced Sarah ran through the introductions before taking the nearest armchair; the cream leather looked more comfortable than it felt. Harries sat opposite, slipped a notebook from his pocket. He’d be observing, too. Body language could convey more than words.
‘This is about Karen, I suppose.’ Mrs Lowe reached for a slim silver cigarette case fro
m a side table. No. The European Exchange Rate.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, Mrs Lowe, but Karen’s under observation in hospital.’
She clamped a hand round her throat. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’
Sarah explained that Karen had fainted after receiving a photograph of Evie sent by the kidnapper. ‘They’re keeping her in as a precaution.’
‘Poor girl, as if she hasn’t got enough to cope with.’ And? What about Evie?
‘Our main concern is your granddaughter’s abduction.’ It was difficult to keep the censure from her voice. She’d taken an instant dislike to the woman. Making snap judgements was unlike her and not helpful in any inquiry.
‘That goes without saying, surely?’ The pale blue eyes seemed to contain a challenge. Maybe she thought better of it. She broke eye contact, fumbled in a handbag for a tissue. ‘When I think of that little baby . . . If there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all.’ She dabbed away a tear, further smearing the mascara. ‘I only wish Karen would let me . . .’
What? The woman seemed incapable of finishing a sentence. Sarah opened her mouth to speak but Mrs Lowe continued, ‘We’re not close, Karen and I. It tears my heart, but I may as well tell you that now.’
‘Why is that?’ Sarah asked. ‘You and Karen not being close?’
Five-, six-second pause then: ‘It’s a long story, inspector.’ Fingers trembling slightly, she lit the cigarette she’d been toying with. Her eyes were moist.
‘Take your time, Mrs Lowe.’ Harries’ softly-spoken interjection took both women by surprise.
Mrs Lowe acknowledged the sympathy with a tight smile. ‘It’s the usual thing, I suppose. We gave her everything we could. Nice clothes, lovely holidays, generous allowance. But she got in with a bad crowd, started staying out late, running wild. When money began disappearing from my purse, I gave her an ultimatum. I’m sorry to say she . . .’ Her head gave what looked like an involuntary jerk.
A Question of Despair Page 8
