A Question of Despair

by Maureen Carter

  Lounging back in the chair, she propped stockinged feet on the bottom drawer, mused on how tomorrow’s reconstruction of Evie Lowe’s abduction would go. It was certainly an addition to the routine. She gazed at the baby’s picture on her wall. Hard – in many ways – to believe it was a week since the kidnap. The police use re-enactments to jog memories and keep a crime in the public’s mind. She turned her mouth down. Given the story was already getting blanket coverage, she wondered if it was worth the effort. Karen certainly wasn’t putting herself out. She’d refused point blank to take part. A young officer would play her role while other squad members interviewed everyone on the street.

  Sarah drained the can, crushed it, binned it. Karen had better be back tomorrow. She’d certainly got questions to answer. Like what was she doing with Michael Slater in the Cinnamon Tree? Apart from eating. And arguing. Still, as far as they knew she hadn’t committed a crime, they could hardly put her under house arrest. According to the neighbour, Karen had said she was desperate for a little break.

  Sarah curled a lip. Aren’t we all, love? Had the Slaters been keen to get away too? Neither parent nor Michael had been since for four days now. It wasn’t an age, but even so . . . She’d already jotted: liaise with police in Cumbria, on tomorrow’s list. It couldn’t do any harm to check out the caravan. Thanks to Harries they had an address in Millom now. He’d fed Flo Carver a line about smelling gas through the Slaters’ letterbox. Sarah smiled. The old woman obviously watched too many cop shows, knew full well he was after a snoop. She’d eventually lent him a key, made him work for it though. He’d come away stinking of stale smoke and elderly cat. And several dozen names and numbers copied from a phone book. Just in case . . . Thinking of which. She straightened up, hit redial.

  ‘Mr Lowe? DI Quinn here.’

  ‘Thanks for getting back. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.’

  She bit her lip. Sarcasm she could live without. ‘Busy here, Mr Lowe. Said I’d call about your offer of a reward? My boss and I have talked it through. We’d like to see how the next few days pan out.’

  Slight pause while he gave it some thought. ‘Sounds like you expect a development, inspector?’

  ‘Could be.’ Fudge, fudge. ‘We’re following several lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Oh?’ She heard the chink of ice on glass. ‘I didn’t get that impression from last night’s news.’

  She laughed, made light of it. ‘I’m surprised you believe anything they say.’ You claimed you never watch the bloody thing, smart arse. Unless . . . ‘Did you know Karen would be on?’

  ‘Of course not. Why do you ask?’

  She wasn’t sure. ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘It came as quite a shock actually. She looked . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Long pause. ‘Sad. Lost. Frail. Not . . . the same as I remember her . . . at all.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, inspector. Someone at the door. Can we talk later?’

  She hung up, pensive. Suspected the visitor was an invention. If she wasn’t mistaken, there’d been a catch in his voice. Had seeing his daughter on screen resurrected painful memories of what he’d once had, and lost?

  The mobile rang as Sarah, briefcase under arm, two Sainsbury carriers in hand, stepped into the apartment. Harries’ culinary digs – not that she’d admit it – had acted as a spur. She’d blitzed the supermarket, bagged a bunch of stuff that hadn’t even seen a tin and there wasn’t a ready-meal in sight.

  Slipping the case on the console, she ditched the bags on the hall floor. ‘Adam, hi.’

  ‘Hi, lady. You OK? I tried calling. And texting.’ She heard in his voice that he’d watched the piece last night.

  ‘Sorry, Adam. I’m fine. Just we’re really up against it at the mo.’ Her reflection in the mirror was proof of that. Grimacing, she glanced away.

  ‘I kinda got that impression.’ He obviously wanted to debate it, but . . .

  ‘Look, I’ve just walked in, give me five. I’ll call you back.’ Plus the niggle that had been at the back of her mind all day had just started gnawing again. She’d try focussing on it while unpacking the food. It was one of those mindless chores like washing up, anything domestic come to that.

  It was nearer fifteen by the time the goodies had been offloaded. The nagging thought still eluded her. She carried a glass of wine through to the sitting room, put Dylan on the CD player, sank back into the settee. The ring-tone woke her an hour later.

  ‘Longest five minutes I’ve ever known, lady.’

  ‘I dropped off, sorry.’ She sat up, smoothed her hair.

  ‘No worries. You’re working a tough case. Strikes me it’s King who should be apologizing. That piece last night was appalling. Are you going for a retraction?’ He was like a dog with a bone. She’d let it go now.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Bloody wine was warm.

  ‘There were outrageous allegations in it, Sarah. Christ, it sounds as if you don’t care.’

  ‘I cared, past tense. It’s out there now. I can’t wave a wand and magic it away.’

  ‘What about an apology?’

  ‘Not worth the aggro.’ She’d discussed it with Baker but felt forcing the issue would do more harm than good. King would get extra air time and public interest probably increase in a story best left buried.

  ‘What about the viewers who think you cocked up?’

  She rose, wandered to the window, watched the reflection on the waters of the canal. ‘Come on, Adam. They’re not going to lose sleep over it. If news doesn’t involve people personally – they’re more interested in the weather forecast.’

  ‘And those who are involved?’

  ‘They matter. Which is why I won’t be wasting any more time worrying what the media’s up to. The squad’s working round the clock and it’ll be police routine that leads to the killer, not some rubbish TV report.’

  He paused. ‘Are there any new leads?’

  She told him about Walter Clarke coming forward, the interview at the rest home. ‘He was adamant the woman he saw last Thursday was the same woman he saw on television, but later in the day when he was shown Karen Lowe’s picture he said he couldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘Big help that. Still, even if he saw Karen there, it doesn’t mean she did anything wrong.’

  ‘Except lie.’ Again. ‘She’s always sworn she was nowhere near the waste ground that day.’ Her gaze followed a passing narrow boat.

  ‘She came across pretty convincingly last night.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, buster.’

  ‘Not about you.’ He laughed. ‘No. I meant the way she talked about loving Evie. I keep seeing all those pictures of her and the baby.’

  ‘The ones in the park?’ She replayed the images in her head.

  ‘All of them really. I wonder who took them?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Have to go now, Adam. Talk soon.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  It had been too late to do anything last night and even now Sarah wasn’t sure. She’d tossed and turned, wrestling with nagging thoughts, counting the hours. When the clock showed six, she rose, showered, slipped on a dove grey shift dress, left the apartment at seven. It took twenty minutes to drive to the Birmingham News offices. If the photograph had ever existed, the archives were where she’d find it.

  She could have tasked a junior officer with the action but wanted to do it herself. She told the picture editor what she was after, but with only a vague idea of the year it might have been taken, she assumed it would take an age to locate. It took just over an hour. She’d known what to look for, but was still mildly surprised to find it. She was even less prepared for exactly what the print showed. She wanted a dozen copies, asked how long it would take.

  By nine, Sarah was parked up outside Karen Lowe’s block of flats. She needed another picture for her portfolio. She was pretty sure now she had at least the basis of a case, but it needed building, a few more bricks laying. She’d called the incident room, told Wood she was
following a lead, kept it deliberately vague, asked him to try and keep Baker off her back. She was no maverick, but if this was way off beam at least hers would be the only time wasted.

  It was late morning before she spotted Karen’s approaching figure in the wing mirror. Teetering along the pavement, the girl toted a couple of Primark bags. Her hair was tucked under a baseball cap doubling as eyeshade. Sarah gave the girl a couple of minutes to let herself in, catch her breath.

  ‘Morning, Karen.’ My, she looked pleased, what little of her face was visible. The door was only open a hand’s span.

  ‘I was just on the way out, actually.’ Was she capable of telling the truth?

  ‘Course you were. So let’s get on with it.’

  Sarah trailed the girl into the sitting room, unsurprised she hadn’t stood her ground. Leg to stand on and all that. Her sullen scowl suggested she had an idea why Sarah was there.

  The room was a mess. Sarah moved a pile of magazines to the floor, took a seat, stared at the girl. Then stared some more. It had the desired effect.

  With a diva sigh, she flopped onto the settee. ‘I’m sorry, OK.’ She snatched off the cap, flicked her hair out of her eyes. ‘Those things I said . . . I didn’t really know what I was doing.’

  Sarah pulled a loose thread from her skirt. ‘Stitching me up is what you were doing, Karen.’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘Got that right.’

  ‘Look, DI Quinn, I don’t like you—’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean to do it. Well, not that bad.’ She lit a cigarette, sucked as if her life depended on it.

  ‘Great. You just wanted to ruin my reputation a little bit. Nothing serious. I’m considering legal action actually.’ Not. She wanted Karen scared, running scared. ‘My solicitor’s looking into it.’ She let that sink in then gave her something else to mull over. ‘That’s not why I’m here though.’

  ‘No?’ She narrowed her eyes. Maybe against the smoke. Maybe a chink of light at the end of the tunnel?

  ‘I want to talk to you about Walter Clarke.’

  ‘Who?’ Gormless expression.

  ‘Walter Clarke. Old guy. Garrulous.’

  ‘Garru-what?’

  ‘Gobby. Likes to think he knows everyone’s business.’

  Mouth down, she shook her head.

  ‘Lived on Blake Street,’ Sarah prompted.

  ‘Oh him.’ Flicking ash into a foil tray. ‘Thought he was dead.’

  ‘No. He moved. Likes coming back now and again. Visits old haunts.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s when he saw you and Evie on the waste ground. Not long before you found her missing.’

  ‘He’s brain dead then.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Karen.’

  ‘I wasn’t there. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘What? Like I’m meant to believe you’ve not set eyes on Michael Slater for months?’ The girl opened her mouth, about to deny it. ‘Don’t go there, Karen. You were seen in the Cinnamon Tree.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. I . . . he . . . his parents think I’m a slag.’ She dropped her head. ‘He gets it in the neck if he hangs round with me so we keep it quiet.’

  ‘The argument was pretty loud by all accounts.’

  ‘I was sick of it. Like he was ashamed of me or something.’ The hurt appeared genuine. Sarah had a flash of sympathy for the girl. ‘He’s not Evie’s father though. You can trust me on that.’

  She didn’t think he was. Not now. But she could use him as leverage. ‘You come out with a lot of things . . . I’m supposed to take on trust.’

  ‘Honest to God it’s the truth.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what Walter Clarke said. About seeing you and Evie.’

  ‘He’s mistaken. I was nowhere near the place.’

  ‘I don’t think so. And now we’ve got one witness, we’ll get more. We’re getting close, Karen. Very close.’

  ‘You’re gonna stitch me up. Same’s I did to you, aren’t you?’

  ‘With Walter’s testimony, I don’t need to.’ She watched the girl stub out the cigarette. ‘Tell you what I do need though. That photograph of you and Evie in the park? The one in the report?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I want Walter to take a look at it.’

  She broke eye contact, toed the carpet. ‘Not sure where it is. Could take ages to find.’

  ‘Five minutes.’ Sarah tapped her watch. ‘I have officers downstairs with a warrant.’ She didn’t make a habit of lying, must be contagious. For once she didn’t care.

  The girl left the room, returned almost immediately, sullen expression on her face and a photograph in her hand.

  Sarah held hers out. ‘I’ll take the memory card too.’

  ‘It’s this area here. Can you bring it up at all, Jo?’ Sarah was in the film unit at HQ. The darkroom technician Jo Sim was studying the picture, Karen and Evie the focal point. And the sticking point. As Sarah now realized, people saw a mother and baby – and didn’t look beyond.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’ Jo glanced up, smiling. ‘I’ll give you a bell, shall I?’

  It had been Adam’s words that prompted Sarah to take another look at the recording of last night’s news report that she’d already viewed a dozen times. Thirteen. Lucky for some. At last her half-formed notion had begun to firm up, take shape.

  Like she hoped the fuzzy image would when Jo enhanced it. The photographer had taken it unintentionally: a shadowy figure merged in with trees in the background, an observer seeing but unseen, a part but apart. It had been there all along and bugged Sarah since first watching King’s item. Concentrating so hard on Karen’s words, she’d barely seen the trees, let alone the wood.

  With luck and a little technical wizardry, Jo should be able to put a face to the figure. Sarah had an idea she already knew the name.

  ‘Tom Lowe?’ Baker, arms folded, ankles crossed, leaned against the sill in his office. The enhanced print was on his desk, it was the only shot on which Lowe appeared. ‘You’re sure it’s him, Quinn?’

  Sarah had ditched the Lone Ranger act, outlined her thinking to the chief. Baker might talk bollocks sometimes but at least he was straight. He’d agreed that, with the building leaking like a faulty sieve, the developments should be kept on a ‘need to know’ basis. Withholding the information was important; drip-feeding it could even flush out the mole. Most of the squad would be kept in the dark. The line wouldn’t be mentioned at the late brief. Baker would major on that afternoon’s reconstruction.

  ‘It’s definitely him, chief. He was in the park that day. Whether with Karen or just observing I don’t know yet. Either way he was lying.’

  ‘Must run in the family.’ Baker sniffed. ‘And he’s on his way in, is he?’

  ‘Six-ish, he reckons.’ She’d called Lowe’s mobile. ‘I told him we’re keen to go ahead with the reward. He thinks we want to talk detail.’ Powder dry and all that. No point forewarning him.

  Baker snorted. ‘I suppose he thought offering the dosh would give him brownie points, muddy the waters?’

  She nodded. ‘And maybe give access to inside information.’ She reached for the pic on Baker’s desk. ‘I can’t wait to see the lying bastard’s face when I show him this.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between catching a liar out and nailing a killer, Quinn.’

  Like I don’t know that? ‘I’m not saying he’s the murderer, chief.’

  Just that he had a lot of answering to do.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Tom Lowe had eventually reluctantly agreed to a recorded interview under caution. The new evidence hadn’t been specified. Sarah had expected bluff, bluster, bullshit. Lowe had obliged, briefly. Leaning back in a chair, legs sprawled, he’d batted away the first casual queries. Then she’d taken the photograph from a slim file, slid it across the metal table in IR1. It was like a sucker punch. Lowe seemed to crumple, winded. The physical reaction was extreme. She wa
s about to ask if he needed a doctor when he dropped his head in his hands and confessed to killing both babies.

  She’d wanted to halt the session but he’d eschewed a solicitor. It was almost a relief, he said, not having to live a lie any longer. She’d let him talk, exchanged occasional glances with Harries, made the odd note on her pad.

  It hadn’t taken long. Less than an hour, less than that when the gaps and jagged sobs were omitted. The only break was Lavery bringing in tea no one drank. The mugs stood untouched on the desk. Afterwards, Lowe had been led away to a police cell, drained and seemingly dazed.

  Now Sarah and Harries watched the interview back. The basic story was this: he hadn’t meant to harm Evie, he’d wanted to hurt Karen, the baby wouldn’t stop crying; he’d snapped and killed her.

  Harries’ fists were balled. She heard his muttered, ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I was scared then.’ Lowe’s voice faltered. ‘I had to make you believe there was a maniac on the loose. God forgive me, I took another baby. I can’t live with myself any more. I’m sorry, so very, very sorry.’

  The tape showed Lowe hunched over the desk, shoulders shaking. Sarah drew her lips together. Perhaps that was the point he realized the enormity of what he’d done.

  And she didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘When are we charging him, boss?’ Harries must’ve been hanging round waiting for Sarah to emerge from Baker’s office. It was gone eight. Past home time.

  ‘The chief wants him to have a brief.’

  ‘Did you tell him Lowe refused one?’

  ‘What do you think?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s facing serious charges. The chief wants it done properly.’

  ‘The guy confessed. What’s Baker’s problem?’

  ‘Points need going over. What’s your rush, David? Lowe’s not going anywhere.’

  Ten minutes later, Sarah was in the motor heading home. With Baker’s blessing, she was playing a game. It was devious rather than dangerous, she was pretty sure they’d be on the winning side. She was convinced she knew the killer’s identity now – and it wasn’t the man kicking his heels in a cell at HQ. Tom Lowe was guilty of a number of misdemeanours, but not murder. As she’d pointed out to the chief, Lowe hadn’t told them a single thing he couldn’t have picked up from the newspapers or TV. And there’d been omissions, the doll and note left in Sarah’s apartment for starters. So was he punishing himself or protecting someone else? Probably both.