A Question of Despair

by Maureen Carter

  She knew he was ego-aggrandizing at her expense but in a way he was right: she should have phoned King back after that call last night. She pursed her lips. The error ten years ago had been saying too much, yesterday it had been saying too little. She’d make up for it big time when she next saw King. Baker tapped his foot, still waiting for an answer.

  ‘You’re right. I should have called her. I should have known when she hung up so fast that she was up to something. I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘You’d best not be taking the piss, Quinn.’ Fifteen minutes she spent listening to Baker’s lecture on handling the media, mainly King. His ideas for the latter were inventive if not – for her, anyway – anatomically impossible. She glanced again at her mobile. If it didn’t ring any minute she’d road test them on Harries.

  ‘Anyway, Quinn, I had a word with her editor first thing. Guy called Bob Grant.’

  ‘Oh?’ Took his time getting round to that. ‘Has he agreed to a retraction?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘An apology?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  Great prowess dealing with the press, chief. ‘What then?’

  ‘We’ll be asked to contribute when they do a follow-up.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That your phone ringing?’

  ‘9.45 I said. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.’

  ‘Yeah, but, boss . . .’ Harries was striding to keep up as Sarah headed down the corridor to the incident room.

  ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to be cooped up in the same room as that man for more than an hour?’ His Old Spice hadn’t even started wearing off.

  ‘Something important came up.’

  ‘I know that. I told you it was vital you got me out of there the second—’

  ‘No, I mean it, boss. We got a call.’

  Something in his voice made her stop, turn. ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘A punter. Some bloke reckons he saw a woman on the waste ground carrying a baby, the same day Evie was abducted.’

  ‘Why the hell hasn’t he come forward before?’

  ‘He wasn’t aware of all the fuss.’ Harries paused. ‘Until he saw Karen Lowe’s interview. Last night.’

  No wonder he’d hesitated. It was quite a bombshell. Sarah’s thoughts raced. The guy could be a prime witness. Had she made a bad call, not giving King access to Karen sooner? Had the reporter been right all along? She shook her head. No way.

  ‘Has this bloke been on another planet?’

  ‘He’s . . . erm . . . well . . .’

  ‘Stop pissing around Harries.’

  ‘His name’s Walter Clarke. He’s in his late-seventies and he was calling from Lea Bank.’

  She’d heard of the place. ‘The rest home?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Brillliant.’ She sighed.

  ‘They’re old. Not stupid, ma’am.’

  She ignored the rebuke, asked another question. ‘It’s over Walsall way, isn’t it?’ They were walking again, heading for the motor this time.

  ‘Yes. He used to live in Small Heath. One of those houses they knocked down in Blake Street? He likes getting back when he can give the staff a slip.’

  ‘Wanders a lot, does he?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean his mind’s not all there.’

  She sniffed.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, ma’am?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Clearly it did.

  They were pulling out of the car park when she next spoke. ‘So what else did Mr Clarke have to say?’

  ‘Not a lot. The old dragon who runs the place took the phone off him. Said if we wanted to speak to him we could go there. It was her phone bill he was clocking up.’

  ‘Reckoned it was a waste of money, did she?’

  His knuckles whitened round the wheel. ‘We’ve got our first real break since this case began and you’re belittling it before we even speak to the guy.’

  She turned her head, gazed through the window.

  ‘You just don’t like it, do you?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t try telling me what I like or don’t like, constable.’

  ‘The fact the break came via the media. Would it be any easier if it wasn’t Caroline’s piece?’

  ‘I’d so back off if I were you.’

  ‘If I were you I’d be pleased not—’

  ‘I’ve no intention of whooping with joy because a septuagenarian with a penchant for away days sees a woman with a baby. It doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Don’t assume I’m dismissing it. But there’s a long way to go before a jury says guilty.’

  Sarah found herself desperately wishing for a short cut through Walter Clarke’s meanderings. He’d talked them through his school days, army days, high days and holidays. Give me a break, Walter. If there was any consolation for the inordinate amount of time this was taking it was being late for the showdown with Caroline King. She’d asked Dean Lavery to phone the reporter, invite her in for a little chat. He’d texted twenty minutes ago to say she was at HQ. Walter Clarke was still showing no sign of arriving at the point. Her prompts so far had been counter-productive, she let him ramble, allowed her own thoughts to wander.

  She wondered about the other calls after last night’s programme. According to Paul Wood forty plus people had phoned in. Most were being followed-up, checked out. She suspected it would be another instance of quantity rather than quality. That was certainly the case with Walter Clarke’s outpourings.

  She cut the old boy a glance, saw a cross between Captain Bird’s Eye and Alan Sugar. Walter sat well back in an ancient wing chair, cup of tea balanced on his paunch; slippered feet an inch or two off the carpet. ‘Yeah, Winnie was a good bloke.’

  Churchill. She tuned out again. Thought of another good bloke: John Hunt. They’d chatted earlier when she’d asked him to chase forensics. She’d sensed he still felt a touch miffed because he was no longer her partner. Mind she also realized she quite missed the older man’s unquestioning support. Talking of old men . . . She tuned in again.

  ‘I know there’s not much of it left, but I still like to go back, have a look round. I can see it all in my head. I was born in number six, see, then after the war me and Betty moved to number twelve. The kids were born there. Top room at the back.’ His smiled faded. ‘Always thought I’d die in that house . . .’

  His voice petered out. She tried steering his thoughts. ‘You phoned us, Mr Clarke. Can you tell us again what you saw last time you were there?’

  He stared into the distance, miles away, a lifetime ago. She wondered what was in his mind’s eye.

  Walter saw a scruffy little fellow with scabby knees and bruises from fights with his mates; he saw a good-looking kid leaving school at fourteen and learning a trade; a handsome young soldier with big boys’ battle scars then a loving husband with pretty wife and well-mannered kids.

  All these images Walter saw more clearly than his own reflection in the mirror every morning. He barely recognized the face that looked back with its deep lines, dull blue eyes. The once fine features were now coarse, misshapen. No one really looked at it any more. Only Walter and he hated it. Quite often these days, Walter had taken to leaving off his glasses. Soft focus was easier than hard reality. He was still proud, he could pretend. It helped him to turn a blind eye to the yellowing walls and nicotine stained ceiling in his room; the fussing and faults and over-friendliness of fellow residents and the prying and patronizing of the owners. It was more difficult to ignore the odours of age: a staleness, a trace of something less than fresh however fastidious the personal hygiene. He considered it a smell peculiar to aging flesh and it wasn’t easy to ignore because some of it emanated from him. He knew this, was shamed by it. It was why he took refuge in the past.

  Sarah gently removed the cup from its precarious perch on the old boy’s stomach. His eyes struggled to focus for a few secon
ds, then: ‘You know love, they should never have knocked them houses down.’ Dust rose when he whacked the arm of his chair. ‘They mightn’t have looked much from the street but they were little palaces inside. People kept ’em spick and span in them days. And another thing, everybody knew their neighbours. Not like now when hardly anyone knows and nine times out of ten couldn’t give a monkey’s. It’s why I knew who she was straight away, see.’

  Sarah and Harries exchanged glances. Was that a pearl among a pile of verbal pig food?

  ‘The minute I clapped eyes on her, I knew. They used to live round the corner, see. I’ve known her since she was a kid. Cheeky little sod she was.’

  Sarah wanted no misunderstanding. She spoke slowly, clearly. ‘Who exactly are we talking about, Mr Clarke?’

  ‘I’m not deaf y’know. Nor thick.’ He’d misunderstood.

  She smiled. ‘I appreciate that Mr—’

  ‘I’ve told you once. Don’t you listen or something?’

  ‘We have to be absolutely clear here, Mr Clarke. I know you spoke to one of my officers on the phone, but I need you to tell me again now.’

  ‘OK. But this’ll be the last time. Why don’t you people make notes?’

  Harries shrugged, he was.

  ‘I got the bus to Paradise. It’s a nice journey. I like the bus.’

  ‘When was this, Mr Clarke?’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you or not?’

  She’d swing for him in a minute. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘It was the day they were talking about on the telly last night. It’s what made me think of it. If you’d seen anything they said, call the police. So I did.’

  ‘Right. Good.’ Sarah bit her lip. ‘So what did you see?’

  ‘I saw the woman. The mother. She had the baby. She was walking along carrying the baby in her arms.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘No she was too far away.’ He scratched the beard. ‘She didn’t see me. I did wave.’

  ‘You saw her walking along. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Where did they go?’

  ‘I dunno. I weren’t that interested tell the truth.’

  ‘What time was this, Mr Clarke?’

  ‘I don’t wear a watch, love.’

  ‘Approximately?’

  ‘Must’ve been about lunchtime. One-ish? I was getting peckish. I went in The Swan. Had a pie and a pint. Never thought no more about it till I saw the news last night.’

  Sarah wasn’t convinced but could see no reason why he’d fabricate the story. More likely, he was mistaken. ‘You can state categorically can you that the woman you saw was Karen Lowe?’

  ‘If that’s the name of the woman on the telly. That’s who I saw. Without a doubt.’

  ‘I thought you said you knew the family. That you saw Karen grow up.’

  ‘I’ve seen lots of kids grow up, love. It don’t mean I remember all the names.’

  ‘But you’re absolutely certain it was Karen Lowe?’

  ‘No I’m making it up.’ He scowled. ‘Course I’m sure. What do you take me for?’

  A cantankerous old git. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Clarke. Thank you for your time. We may need to talk to you again.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s a reward or anythin’?’

  ‘What do you reckon, boss?’ Harries and Sarah were walking back to the motor. She reckoned a number of things, including the fact she’d forgotten to get back to Tom Lowe. The Birmingham News hadn’t carried anything about a reward though so the old man wasn’t just after a fast buck. Not that she thought he’d be in line for a payout.

  ‘I think Walter Clarke’s convinced he saw Karen Lowe.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘What does it amount to? He saw a woman he says was Karen Lowe carrying a baby across waste ground off Blake Street. He didn’t speak to her because she was too far away. He thinks it was lunchtime because he was hungry. He didn’t see where she went or what she did. It’s not a lot, is it?’

  ‘It’s more than we had yesterday.’

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  ‘Do you think he saw her though?’

  ‘I think it depends whether he’s long- or short-sighted.’

  Harries frowned. ‘But he wasn’t wearing glasses.’

  ‘Precisely.’ And he clearly owned a pair. The indents on the bridge of his nose bore witness to that. Question was how much he needed them. There’d been no mileage further antagonizing the old man. She’d get a couple of DCs over with photographs, if he picked out Karen Lowe it would be a start. She couldn’t see it herself though.

  FORTY-THREE

  Caroline King slipped the silver compact back in her Prada handbag. The mirror confirmed her make-up was flawless. She knew her appearance was immaculate: red silk jacket, black silk vest, skirt with a subtle black-and-white check. Crossing her legs, she tapped her nails on the metal desk. Mentally, she was pondering the equivalent of several ladders in her stocking.

  First the run-in with Bob Grant. The ITN editor had been furious over her less than frank call to Sarah Quinn. He’d been on the receiving end that morning of an ear-bashing from Baker. Getting round the cop, and putting him straight, wasn’t the problem. Grant’s point was it should never have been necessary in the first place. She was under warning never to push her luck or his patience again.

  Second, her own patience was at a premium. Quinn had kept her dangling in an interview room for well over an hour. Ninety-two minutes now she’d been running through potential exchanges with the Ice Queen: all heated.

  Neither setback was the cause of most angst.

  The main source was because she knew, or had been informed, where Quinn was, who she was interviewing and why. Her initial arrogant assumption that last night’s broadcast had got a result was short-lived. It faded when she realized the break in the case could be an embarrassing and humiliating home goal. If the hurried call from her contact was correct the witness who’d come forward had put Karen Lowe in the frame. It was the last picture Caroline wanted to see.

  ‘No white coat today?’ Sarah, doing a Baker, dispensed with formalities and breezed in ferrying files and a mug of tea.

  Caroline broke off a study of her nails. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The white coat? That fetching little number you wear on your ward rounds. Lucky for you Charlotte Kemp was on the mend. The sight of you turning up like that could’ve given her a relapse.’

  ‘Oh! How they laughed.’ Sullen pout. ‘I knew she was out of danger. I got a condition check from the hospital.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. There were none issued.’ She slammed the files on the metal table. ‘Did your informant supply that as well as everything else?’

  ‘What informant?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘When I find out—’

  ‘Water. Bridge. Under. DI Quinn, if that’s all you’ve got . . .’

  ‘Sit down,’ she snapped. ‘How do you live with yourself? Lying, sneaking around, putting words in people’s mouths. What a way to earn a living.’

  ‘I don’t lie. I don’t sneak. I work hard.’ Pause. ‘And I get results.’

  ‘Meaning?’ She cocked a casual eyebrow. But only to mask concern. Had she had the nod about Walter Clarke? Already?

  ‘My results speak for themselves, don’t they, inspector?’

  ‘Unlike Karen Lowe.’ Sipping tea, she studied the reporter’s face over the rim of the cup, then: ‘Tell me, did it take long? Priming her? Making sure she was word perfect?’

  ‘I’m a reporter not a drama teacher.’

  ‘How much did you pay her?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ She would but according to a neighbour Karen was staying overnight at a friend’s in Warley. How convenient. Sarah wasn’t surprised the girl was keeping her head down.

  ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms King. One of these days you’ll get more than you bargain for.’

  She paused. ‘As long as it�
�s not a pig in a poke.’ The brazen stare suggested the words had been carefully chosen.

  ‘Stop messing with people’s lives, Caroline.’

  She rose, tossed her head. ‘You try saving them, eh?’

  ‘One more thing before you go.’ She’d let the reporter reach the door.

  ‘And?’

  ‘That report last night? It was a pile of shite.’

  Within seconds, Baker’s head appeared round the door. He’d bumped into the reporter on her way out. ‘What’s up with Lois Lane, Quinn? Talk about hack in a hurry.’ He sniffed. ‘I hope to God you’ve not given her another sodding scoop.’

  ‘No, chief.’ Inadvertently, he’d given her the best laugh she’d had all week. ‘I kind of told her she needs one.’

  The prospect of spending quality time with Flo Carver held not a hint of amusement. Harries sighed as he killed the ignition and cast a glance at the house in all its pebble-dash glory. At least the net curtain wasn’t twitching. He wondered what he’d done to earn the short straw. Was the boss paying him back for his lippy attitude that morning? He still thought it justified: she was the one who banged on about the be-all and end-all of an open mind. Walter Clarke hadn’t exactly received her credit rating since the start. Was she really so petty? No. Course not. Or was she? What did he really know about her? The only thing he’d take bets on was her loathing towards Caroline King. He groaned, added a mental cringe. Had the boss cottoned on to last night’s subterfuge? In the cold light of day, his Jamie Oliver impersonation had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a soufflé. Or was that his conscience kicking in? Surely she’d have said something? He’d watched her like a hawk, not noticed any shift in manner. No, come on, get real. He’d been tasked with seeing Flo Carver because the boss knew he could charm the fuzz off a peach, never mind sweet talk the old bat. It was nothing to do with payback time.

  Sarah rang a number on her office phone. It was the last task on her daily to-do list. Other entries were ticked though mostly ongoing: gaps in the house-to-house; background checks, particularly on the Kemp family; follow-up calls; forensics, chase. Paperwork went without saying, or listing. A stack of written reports at her elbow were proof of that. Shoving it to one side, she reached for a can of fat Coke. Engaged signal again. No sweat, she’d give it a minute or two.