It was more or less how Sarah had goaded the chief – only a damn sight louder. Enough to attract a sidelong glance from a man delivering the local free sheet.
‘It’s not enough.’ Sarah kept her voice calm and low. ‘You know that.’
‘I know this: Olivia wouldn’t just take off without a word. It’s totally out of character. She might not confide everything to me, but she’d never leave her mother in the dark. Never.’ Utter sincerity. Absolute conviction. Calming breath. ‘Have you even spoken to Elizabeth?’
‘Mrs Kent. Yes. She’s given us a list of her daughter’s friends, associates; perhaps you could flesh it out?’
‘Of course.’ Tetchy hand flap. Like it went without saying. ‘What about the bloodstains? Has she been told?’
Fleeting frown as she worked out who King meant. ‘Come on, Caroline. We’ve only just—’
‘I’ll go and see her – she needs to know.’ Keys already jangled from her hand.
‘No way.’
‘Yes way.’ There was a defiant glint in the dark eye. ‘And get this. It’s not down to you.’
Bristling, the DI braced her shoulders. ‘As investigating officer—’
‘Pah!’ The uncut ice clearly went both ways. ‘Don’t try pulling rank on me. And anyway, according to you there’s nothing to investigate.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. Still, it’s never stopped you before.’ Mental cringe: feet in mouth.
‘Yeah?’ Matter-of-fact. Casual. Throwing and catching the keys without breaking eye contact. ‘So what are you saying?’
King was one of the few people who could wind Sarah up, threaten her customary cool. She told herself to back off. Told herself she was a senior detective. Told herself this wasn’t the school playground. Then she told the reporter a few things. ‘Your concept of the truth’s pretty tenuous: way I see it, the facts don’t often get in the way of your stories.’ Even as the words emerged, she knew it was going too far – if not crossing a line.
‘I don’t have to listen to this crap.’ She wasn’t – she’d already flounced off.
‘Where are you going?’ As if she didn’t know.
‘Guess.’
Striding to catch up, Sarah tapped the reporter’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. Listen.’
She stopped, turned, snapped, ‘What?’
‘It’s important I speak to Mrs Kent first.’ Vital, too, the woman didn’t reveal to the reporter the existence of the letter or the phone call to the school. King would be over it like a rash. ‘If there is an inquiry, Olivia’s mother could hold key information. I need to build a rapport with her.’
‘Tough. I don’t.’ She aimed the fob at a black Mercedes. ‘I’ve known Elizabeth Kent since I was five years old. She’s like a second mother to me. You’re not stopping me seeing her.’
‘That’s not my intention. Really.’ She tried a smile. ‘I’d like a word first, that’s all. Just give me an hour or so.’
Five-second stare, then: ‘Are you holding back on me?’
‘Yes, course I am. Come on, Caroline, what do you take me for?’ Had the heavy sarcasm and exaggerated sigh done the trick?
King opened the driver’s door and cut Sarah a casual glance. ‘One hour – that’s it.’
Elizabeth Kent lived a ten-minute drive away. Caroline King pulled up outside the house in eight – including a pit-stop for twenty Marlborough and the local rag. The speed camera that had flashed the Merc in Coniston Road had probably filmed her sparking up, too. She sniffed, flicked the butt through the window. Depending how it all panned out, the fine might be off-loadable on expenses. Genuine though her concern for Livvie was, King’s journalistic antennae were in overdrive.
Young professional women don’t just disappear.
Eyes narrowed, she tapped the wheel, marshalled her thoughts. Quinn’s bluff was risible: it was blindingly obvious the ice queen’s chest was covered in held back cards. A full FSI team in situ? Several detectives on the knock – including David Harries. Thank you, wing mirror. Caroline’s lip twitched: she might give him a bell later. The fling was unfinished business as far as she was concerned. As for the DI – zero love was lost there. Her poxy gratuitous pop had been well out of line. If it was a sign of heat under pressure it was the only one. As per usual, she’d looked cool, aloof and so sodding superior. Tight bun, tight ass. A poor man’s Uma Thurman without the charm. She snorted. Yeah, right.
But she had to admit – even though it galled – Quinn wasn’t short on calibre. An officer of her standing wouldn’t be faffing round chasing untamed geese. It wasn’t as though the cops didn’t have better – make that worse – things to do. A cursory glance at the Birmingham News on the passenger seat showed they were up to their epaulettes. The DI’s casual denial only confirmed to the reporter that something was going on. And whatever it was, Quinn was trying to cover it up. Like that would work. Caroline didn’t do hush.
Grabbing her bag, she disguised the baccy fumes with a spray of Poison, moistened lips with a flick of her tongue and sucked hard on a Polo. Waiting for the front door to open, a quick glance at her watch prompted a fleeting smirk: forty minutes before the inspector calls.
TEN
‘For Christ’s sake, how long was it lying around down there?’ A Sarah Quinn strop was rare and a full-blown rant unprecedented. Her clipped tones and chilled delivery packed more impact. She’d been summoned back to HQ by DS John Hunt.
The house call to Elizabeth Kent was on hold.
A plain white envelope had been left anonymously on a desk in Reception. Its ugly contents now spread on a table in the squad room where half a dozen other detectives were gathered.
‘They’re short this week, ma’am,’ Hunt said. Until five months ago, the detective sergeant had worked as Sarah’s partner. Six foot two and well padded, Hunt bore a passing resemblance to David Tennant. If the erstwhile doctor had eaten all the pies. ‘A couple of the guys are off sick.’
Rolling up a sleeve of her crisp white blouse, Sarah tilted her head at the desk. ‘Not as sick as whoever left that. What the hell were they playing at downstairs, John?’
‘They had a rush on and Stan was on his own.’ He scratched the side of his face, leaving pale trails. She hoped to God whoever had posted it had left video images; a DC was viewing CCTV footage in an office down the corridor.
She raised an ‘excuses, excuses’ palm. ‘Not good enough, John. It’s slack and it means a sleaze ball’s dumped on us from a great height.’ Because the development scared the shit out of Sarah. The ten-by-eight print was grainy, mostly shades of grey – not exclusively. ‘Does the chief know about this?’ Her focus was on the photograph.
‘He’s in court, ma’am. Giving evidence in the Blake brothers case.’ Armed robbers who’d targeted six banks and building societies across the city over a nine-month period.
She snapped on latex gloves, gently took the picture between her fingertips. The light was low, the shadows dark, the victim recognizable – just. Olivia Kent’s naked paleness was pitiful; her body blotched with bruises, streaked with blood. Her head was held high, hopefully in suspended animation. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Round her slender neck was a noose of what looked like cheese wire. Death – if it hadn’t already arrived – could come from asphyxiation and/or blood loss. Olivia’s haunted eyes stared into the lens. Sarah bit her lip, shifted focus to the single sheet of white paper that still lay on the desk. The handwriting was the same as on the first communication.
Olivia Kent is lying
Olivia Kent is crying
Olivia Kent is dying
I could make it quicker
Put her out of her misery
Sarah tapped a finger against her mouth. ‘But I won’t.’ She could’ve been talking to herself.
‘Say again, ma’am.’ Hunt.
‘But I won’t. He’s left out the last line. Why’s he done that?’
‘’Cause he’s mad as a box of frogs?’ The remar
k wasn’t as flip as it sounded. Hunt and the others were unaware of the previous letter, let alone the call to the school and the bloodstains. Given what was known now, it wouldn’t be long before an edited version hit the front pages.
‘I wish.’ Sarah sighed. A nutter was more likely to cock up somewhere along the line. ‘No, this isn’t someone playing round. And whoever it is, he’s no idiot.’ Seemed to her they were dealing with a meticulous planner, a cold-blooded calculator. And he held all the cards. As she shared what little she knew, she spotted Harries enter clutching a steaming mug of something. He’d called in to say there was nothing doing on the neighbour front and was on the way back. Must’ve driven like the proverbial hell bat.
‘We can’t hang fire till the chief’s free, John.’
‘I’ll get word out.’ Running a finger under his collar. ‘Brief in, what, thirty minutes?’
‘Ten.’ Time wasn’t a luxury given how much had been unwittingly wasted. And another factor in the earlier outburst: the anger had been directed at herself as much as the clowns downstairs. She replaced the picture then watched Hunt head for a computer; other officers had already drifted back to whatever they’d been doing. Playing catch-up, Harries was now studying the perp’s latest offerings. If his expression was anything to go by, he shared Sarah’s fears. She didn’t do vibes, instinct, whatever. Her head was telling her this case could blow up in their faces. The perp had abducted a woman, held her for almost a week with no one any the wiser. And the cops still wouldn’t have a clue what was happening if he wasn’t drip-feeding intelligence. It struck Sarah as breathtakingly arrogant.
‘Arrogant bastard, isn’t he, boss?’ It wasn’t the first time Harries had voiced her thoughts. ‘Wanting us to know what he’s up to, how clever he is.’
‘You’re right.’ And he probably imagined the cops were too dumb to catch him. ‘Still, pride, fall and all that,’ she added.
‘Best hope he trips pretty damn quick.’ He nodded at the photograph. ‘Look at her eyes. The poor bloody woman.’
Sarah didn’t need to; the image now hung in her mental picture gallery. Feeling pity wasn’t the priority, wouldn’t get them anywhere. ‘We need copies – picture and letter. Can you make sure the originals get to the lab soon as, David? The brief’ll kick off in eight minutes.’
He gave a distracted nod, still gazing at the evidence. ‘But I won’t.’
‘What?’ Her eyes darkened for an instant. Cheeky sod. Then the penny dropped. ‘You’ve seen it, too. And?’ Maybe the boy wonder would have an idea why three words had been left out.
‘The last line, wasn’t it? I could make it quicker, and put her out of her misery . . . but I won’t.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is it possible he’s saying he won’t kill her, boss?’
Or he won’t kill her quickly. Or she’s already dead. She gave a tight smile. ‘Who knows?’
ELEVEN
‘Right. Listen up. This is what we know.’ Conveying the facts at the hastily assembled brief didn’t take Sarah Quinn long – it wasn’t as if they had a bunch to go on: Olivia Kent, thirty-two, teacher, current address 13 Platt Lane, Harborne. Last seen Saturday 17 November. Two communications supposedly from her abductor. Faint blood traces found in her home. Shielding her eyes from sunlight streaming through the window, Sarah glanced round the open-plan room, letting the data sink in. Twelve detectives were gathered, some perched on desks; all were silent, still, sombre. She doubted the subdued mood was down to her blunt, no-banter approach – the reverse of Baker’s. Every officer was staring at the whiteboard to her right – its overall picture slightly fuller, manifestly more menacing. The head and shoulders happy snap of Olivia provided by her mother in stark contrast to the sadistic shot provided by her abductor.
Before and after.
Sarah gazed at the display again. But after what?
‘Is she dead then?’ DC Mickey Madison, sprawled legs taking up too much floor space, gave a loud sniff. He was a newbie, just shy of two months in CID. Tall, dark, aesthetically challenged. Pre-PC, the term was pug ugly. It wasn’t the pockmarked complexion or broken nose that bugged Sarah, the question in itself was fair enough, but the guy’s tone bordered on indifferent and was out of order.
Tapping a toe, she held his gaze for five, six seconds. The non-verbal warning worked.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Madison straightened – spine and silk tie. ‘No offence.’
Really? The jury was out: Sarah wasn’t convinced Baker’s protégé had what it took to be a store detective.
Breaking eye contact, she turned to look at the whiteboard. ‘The fact is – we don’t know. Even if she’s not dead in the picture . . .’ The corollary was tacit, the message clear. Using a hand visor again, she nodded at an officer propping the wall near the window who took the cue. ‘As it stands we’re in the dark.’ Her unintentional gag as the light level fell prompted muted laughter from the floor. A slight curve of her lip acknowledged the audience reaction. It was a case of ‘true word spoken in jest’ though. Right now the missing woman’s life was a blank canvas. The squad members assembled here – and others currently off-shift – would work round the clock filling in detail to find a complete stranger. Sarah grimaced, thought, Make that two.
‘Right.’ She took the top off a black marker pen. ‘As far as we’re aware . . . these are her last known movements.’ Writing as she spoke, ‘She was seen by her mother on Saturday around 11.05 a.m. She left shortly after to return books to Bourne Lane library.’ Glancing round: ‘Shona, can you check she got there, what time, who she spoke to, whether she—’
Hand raised. ‘Leave it with me, ma’am.’
Sarah smiled. Shona Bruce didn’t need spoon-feeding. A softly-spoken redhead originally from Glasgow, the DC was tall and solid, in every sense of the word.
‘What about the phone call, boss?’ Harries sat near the front, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘We know she went to the library ’cause she rang her ma on Tuesday. Presumably she was OK then.’
‘We presume nothing.’ Sarah had already thought it through. ‘Until we know otherwise, her mother was the last person to see her. As for the call, it was a bad line and they got cut off. It may well have been made under duress. Like the letters.’
‘The letters, ma’am?’ DS Paul Wood, office manager. Built like an industrial shithouse, most cops – not to mention a few crims – called him Twig. He was a safe pair of hands with an eye for detail.
‘Yes, sorry guys. I should’ve said earlier.’ She pointed the pen at the two photocopies pinned under the photographs. ‘We’ll need to get a comparison, but Mrs Kent swears this is her daughter’s writing. Again, Olivia wouldn’t have put pen to paper without a helping hand.’
‘The phone call to the school’s well dodgy, too.’ DS John Hunt pulled on a fleshy bottom lip. ‘Woman with a heavy cold? Reckon he’s got an accomplice, ma’am?’
‘Christ, Huntie.’ She reached for a bottle of water. ‘Pass the crystal ball.’
‘I wish.’ He shrugged sloping shoulders. ‘Save us all a lot of time.’
‘Saving Olivia Kent’s life’s rather more pressing.’ And it’d be painstaking routine, constant digging – plod slog as Baker called it – that would break the case, not quack fortune-telling. Or – heaven forbid – a Ouija board. She moistened her mouth with a few sips, then: ‘You’re right about the school, though, Huntie. And the call purporting to be from her mother was made first thing Monday.’ She’d already decided to visit the school after the brief. Correction, the house call to Elizabeth Kent would have to come off hold first.
‘OK. Background. I want to know everything there is to know about Olivia Kent by this evening. Favourite haunts, pet hates. How she spends her time – and cash. Bank details, club memberships, daily routines, you name it.’ They knew the drill. ‘How far did you get with known associates, David?’ Olivia’s friends and contacts acquired earlier in the day from Mrs Kent.
‘I only reached a few, boss.’ He scrabbl
ed round on the desk behind searching for the list. ‘There’s a stack more to get through here.’ There were five ticks on the paper. The entire list would only be the tip of the iceberg. No matter how close Olivia was to her mother, it would be an eye-opener if Elizabeth knew everyone in her daughter’s life, let alone the hundred-plus friends a quick check on Facebook had revealed. She took the list, handed it to Madison to pursue and assigned a couple more DCs to help with the phone-bashing. Harries would be more use on the road with her. Given the extra impetus provided by the macabre photograph, the house-to-house was being extended and neighbours already spoken to would be re-interviewed. Confirming Saturday as the last sighting or uncovering later ones was imperative. Establishing a time line meant not wasting hundreds of hours and officer power on stale leads, fruitless trails.
‘Is her father on the scene, ma’am?’ Shona rarely contributed unless she had something worth saying. ‘Just no one’s mentioned a Mr Kent – it’s all been about the mother.’
‘Good point.’ A father, like any family member or loved one, could be a suspect. Given the stats – should be a suspect: random killings by strangers were rare, thank God. What was Baker’s mantra? Assume sod all. Either way, Olivia’s father could have valuable input and may have seen her recently, if not over the weekend. Frowning slightly, she wondered why Elizabeth hadn’t mentioned a husband, then again, Sarah hadn’t asked. ‘I’ll chase it, Shona. Thanks.’ And boyfriends, of course. Elizabeth would have to be questioned closer now. And, joy of joys, Caroline King. I can’t wait.
Stifling a yawn, Madison scratched a man boob. ‘What about the media?’ Sarah sighed. If all his questions were as woolly as that, he’d be better off on a sheep farm. The DC’s imprecision wasn’t the only reason for her pointed pause. He added a ‘ma’am’, but it was late and it seemed to her laboured.
‘Naturally we’ll use the media. But getting the coverage wrong could do more harm than good. It needs careful handling.’
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