‘I’d like to know what’s going on in there, Sarah.’ The registrar tilted his head at the patient. Five foot ten with a Boris Johnson thatch, Pete Lovell was pushing late-forties but had one of those boyish faces that appeal to a lot of women – brought out the maternal instinct, or something.
‘You and me both.’ Was Olivia replaying scenes from her captivity? A jerky silent movie with the baddie centre stage? God, Sarah wished she was a fly on the mental wall.
Lovell walked to the end of the bed, flicked through Olivia’s notes. A line up of pens in his breast pocket had developed a leak, the blue cotton blobbed with ink – had to be red, didn’t it? Sarah was already acquainted with the guy: cops and docs, it went with the territory, especially Accident and Emergency after chucking-out time on a Friday or Saturday night. Normally circumspect if not taciturn, Lovell had waxed medical walking her from A&E to the high dependency unit to see Olivia. She’d only half listened while he rabbited on about CO levels, HBO therapy, high frequency percussive ventilation; alluded to tissue hypoxia, pulmonary oedema, cyanosis, metabolic acidosis. Maybe she’d Google it all later.
More pressing now, observing Olivia, was would she make it? How much carbon monoxide and other crap had she taken in and would respiratory failure kill her – or cardiac arrest get there first?
‘What are her chances, Pete?’
Mouth down, he waggled a hand. ‘Mind, she has youth on her side. And the paramedics got there quick.’ And administered oxygen during the airlift.
That was another unanswered question: who put in the triple-nine? Without the tip-off, Sarah wouldn’t be here discussing survival odds. Nor would a police guard be outside the door, the only way into the windowless side ward. The small space was cheerless, too, to Sarah’s way of thinking. Walls, floor, fittings either white or pale greys, like an overexposed print. Get real, woman. Like décor matters at death’s door.
She glanced at the tube keeping Olivia’s airwaves open, oxygenating her blood; the bilateral IV lines counteracting fluid loss; the bank of machines monitoring toxic levels, vital signs. At least she was in safe hands now. As Lovell had said, all they could do was watch and wait. Pray if you’re that way inclined.
Sarah sighed; gently stroked a tendril of hair from Olivia’s forehead. Her pale face showed none of the trauma she’d endured. Strip away the tubes and wires and she could be auditioning for Sleeping Beauty, from the chin up. From what Sarah had heard, the thin sheet concealed hideous injuries, a multitude of sins, most not inflicted by fire.
‘How can people do this, Sarah?’ Shaking his head slowly, Lovell crossed his arms. Something in his voice made her glance up. She’d seen him tired, but rarely emotional. Like her he dealt a lot with victims of violence, was accustomed, though clearly not inured, to the sight of broken, bleeding bodies. Maybe the severity of the abuse was getting to him. It wasn’t Sarah’s only spur.
‘God only knows.’ The bigger question for her was, why? Every investigation needed to establish a motive. It gave direction, helped reduce wrong turnings, dead ends, wasted time. And usually led to nailing the perp.
‘Come on, Pete, I can’t do anything here.’ Not yet. ‘If there’s a change . . .?’ She handed him a card from her wallet. He glanced at the numbers before slipping it in a pocket, said he’d get someone to call.
It was gone seven now. She’d hung on in the hope Olivia might provide a steer, if not a break. Baker had run the late brief and she needed to get up to speed. Mind, she’d have to grab a cab back to Lloyd House. Harries had already left with Elizabeth Kent. After repeated reassurances from nursing staff, Mrs Kent had reluctantly agreed to go home, get some rest. She’d collect a few things, bring them in tomorrow. It would help, she’d been told, if her daughter was surrounded by familiar objects when she came round.
No one had used the word ‘if’.
TWENTY
‘If the tip-off merchant hadn’t said there was a body trapped, the fire guys wouldn’t have gone in. Simple as that, Quinn.’ Baker waved his fork in the air. The DI dodged flying sauce. Again.
Not far off nine p.m. now, she’d found him hunched over a solitary supper in the canteen. Four or five tables on the far side were occupied by uniforms and support staff chatting, but the DCS sat in splendid isolation. Must be tough at the top – and lonely. She’d headed straight for Billy no-mates. Not that she’d been hungry for company. Famished, she was after calories: her fridge a food-free zone. Again. After listening to her account of Olivia Kent’s condition, Baker had just given his take on the incident out at Ladywood.
‘Not simple though, is it, Chief?’ She took another bite. The lasagne tasted better than it looked. Not hard, given it resembled a mangled fox.
‘Bollocks, Quinn. You’ve not been out there. Talk about derelict? I’ve seen more life in a pot of yoghurt.’
‘Pot of yoghurt?’ Distinctly below par. Maybe the old boy wasn’t feeling himself, as it were. The latest on the Lloyd House gossip-vine was that Mrs B had ridden off into the sunset with another bloke. Shame that, she’d thought his marriage was sound, for a cop. Still, what did she know? She wasn’t even ready to give cohabiting a go, which is why Adam had left.
Engrossed in demolishing double egg, sausage and chips Baker didn’t even look up, just muttered a ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’.
‘You’re wrong actually, Chief. I have been out there.’ She was surprised he hadn’t smelt the smoke on her clothes. She’d got the cab to drop her at the house, had a few words with the forensic team working the site, bagging, tagging, lifting, dusting. Even lit like an operating theatre, the basement had spooked her. Not so much by what she saw: the fire had been confined to a surprisingly small area. The menace was fuelled by an overactive imagination, informed by the abductor’s photographic work. She wouldn’t have missed being there though. No amount of video footage or police reports compared with inspecting a crime scene first hand, getting a feel for it, putting yourself in the victim’s shoes and trying to get a sense of what made the villain tick. Make that, sick.
‘And when I say it’s not simple – I don’t mean the state of the place.’
‘Go on.’ He glanced up; one beady eye was bloodshot.
Enough eaten, she slid the plate to one side. ‘An anonymous caller dials nine-nine-nine, alerts emergency services to a fire in the basement of a boarded-up dive, states categorically a woman’s trapped inside? How’s he know? Unless he’s . . .’
‘Got X-ray vision. Well, well, Quinn.’ Slow smile. ‘Who’s a clever . . .’ Girl?
‘Don’t.’ Her grey eyes flashed a warning. ‘He’d need Superman’s ears, too, Chief.’ No screams would permeate from that basement. Assuming Olivia had been in a state to call out. Watching him, she reached for a can of Coke.
Baker was catching up. ‘Which means . . . the caller knew a woman was in there . . . because he was the bastard who left her.’
She raised the can in a mock toast. ‘Or knows a bastard who did.’
‘You’re thinking there’s more than one perp, Quinn?’
‘Could be.’ Made as much sense as anything at this stage. ‘We know kidnappers rarely stay with victims twenty-four/seven.’ Basics need catering for. He’d have to venture out for food and water if nothing else. And they weren’t exactly dealing with the Mafia. ‘Way I see it, our guy’s got a home somewhere, maybe a family; he might even have to leave for work, keeping up appearances, sticking to routine, all that. He could fly solo, but it makes the job – for want of a better word – a lot harder.’
Baker’s bottom lip jutted. She could almost see the cogs whirring. Turning her head, she gazed through the window, followed the lights of a couple of aircraft as they glided across the night sky. She gave a half-smile, remembering when she was a kid and saw navigation lights for the first time, running to tell her ma there was a UFO up there. She sighed, reckoned the case – Operation Venus as it was now known – could do with some illumination.
‘Ground control to Major Qu
inn.’ Baker was waving at her reflection in the glass.
Facing him again, she gave a mock salute. ‘And?’
‘You seen the FIT report?’ Fire Investigation Team: initial findings.
‘Sure, Chief.’ Ditto most reports filed while she’d been out. ‘They reckon now it was accidental.’ Arson had been the early – and easy – assumption. Hardly surprising. Fires don’t start themselves. Short of spontaneous combustion. ‘A candle setting light to rags, newspapers and a load of rubbish.’ And damn near snuffing out Olivia Kent.
He nodded. ‘Anything strike you?’
Lots. ‘I can’t see how the candle toppled over just like that.’ Clicking fingers. ‘Surely if he’s leaving a naked flame, he makes absolutely sure it’s safe. Last thing he wants is the cavalry rolling up all guns blazing.’ Which is exactly what he got: fire crews, cops, paramedics, FSI, the full emergency works.
‘No, Quinn.’ Podgy finger in the air. ‘I reckon the last thing he wants is Olivia Kent dying.’ He paused, held her gaze. ‘At least . . .?’ His upward inflection was reinforced by a raised eyebrow.
She nodded. ‘Not in a fire.’ Baker had been one step ahead all along.
‘Exactly. And you know what that means?’
Oh yes. That Olivia Kent had most likely started the blaze herself. ‘Christ, Chief, how desperate must she have been?’
‘You tell me. But the bigger question’s this: how desperate’s the perp to take another pop?’
‘On a scale of one to ten?’ She turned her mouth down. ‘Off the scale.’ There had to be some sort of twisted logic to why the mad bastard had abducted her in the first place. Now his prey was their prime witness. If she pulled through, she’d point more fingers than Mr Kipling. ‘He’s not going to get past the guards, Chief.’
Nodding, clearly giving it thought, then a sudden: ‘You done here?’ He cocked his head at the remains. The chair legs grated lino.
Frowning, her wary gaze followed his as he got to his feet. ‘Why?’
‘I’m letting you buy me a pint.’ He winked. ‘Come on, Quinn. Chill.’
‘Are you warm enough?’ Caroline King placed a mug of hot chocolate on the low table in front of the unlit fire. The glow from a couple of Tiffany lamps failed to lift the sitting room’s gloom.
‘I’m fine, dear. Do stop fussing.’ Elizabeth Kent lay her head back on the chesterfield, rested sore pink-rimmed eyes. Pictures of Olivia swarmed in her mind, a montage of unbidden ghastly images. She’d arrived home late from the QE, didn’t want company but found the reporter lurking in her Mercedes. Not lurking, that was uncharitable, but she had been waiting and adamant about not leaving her alone. Elizabeth had finally capitulated after a tired Greta Garbo joke. She was aware of a cushion sinking as Caroline settled alongside, heard stockings swish as feet were tucked up, smelt wine.
‘I don’t want you worrying about anything, Elizabeth. You just concentrate on Olivia. We’ll see her tomorrow and get her better.’
We’ll? The older woman gave a wan smile, eyes still closed, too exhausted to argue. And Caroline’s persistence made a spider look dilatory. Elizabeth seemed to recall a term the reporter used in myriad anecdotes: doorstepping. Elizabeth’s door had been well and truly stepped, and she gathered from what Caroline had said that it was the only entry the reporter had put a foot through in the last few hours. The hospital had refused to let her visit and a senior police officer at the scene of the fire had sent her packing.
‘We’ll use my car, Elizabeth. I can drop everything. Nothing else really matters at a time like this.’
‘Yes, dear.’ Now shut up. Again, she chided herself. Caroline probably wasn’t acting entirely from self-interest. She’d made plain several times that she hadn’t used Olivia’s story, couldn’t bring herself to, apparently. But the casual ‘we wills’ were telling. As it stood the story was sketchy. Only Olivia could add detail, inject colour and fill gaps. Obviously it would have greater impact and be worth more if it came from the horse’s mouth. Elizabeth swallowed. Not that it had stopped Caroline from trying to extract information from Elizabeth. Caroline probably took her for a fool: big mistake. But right now Elizabeth didn’t give a damn about the reporter’s motives. Only two issues were of concern: Olivia’s condition and the capture and conviction of the man responsible for it.
Leaning forward, head throbbing, Elizabeth reached for the mug. The drink was cold now with a skin of milk. She hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’ll take this up with me, Caroline.’ Glancing back at the door, she forced a smile. ‘Make yourself at home, dear.’
‘I will.’ Raising the glass. ‘Thanks a mill, Elizabeth.’
The drinks were on Baker as it happened. From a table in the corner, Sarah watched as the DCS downed half his pint joshing with the blonde behind the bar before wending his way over to the banquette. Good job she wasn’t thirsty. ‘Cheers, Chief.’ And the Pinot wasn’t chilled. Still, the Queen’s Head’s appeal wasn’t its wine list; its draw was being a two-minute stroll from HQ. Couldn’t get more local than that. Though the décor was past it: brass lamps, copper kettles, hunting prints.
‘We’re off shift, Quinn.’ Baker ran the back of a hand over his mouth. ‘Give it a rest, eh? The name’s Fred.’
No way. It’d be like calling the Pope ‘dude’. Besides, thinking on, she couldn’t recall hearing anyone use his first name. ‘Being honest, I’d rather—’
‘But you can call me boss.’ He winked. No wonder that eye was bloodshot. ‘Nah, seriously, anything you fancy when we’re not working, long as it’s not chief.’
‘Sitting Bull?’ It was out before she could stop it.
‘Not bad, Quinn.’ He didn’t miss a beat, ferreted in his pocket, flung down a couple of packs of pork scratchings. ‘That’d be Chief Sitting Bull of Little Big Horn fame? Aka Tatanka Iyotake. Popped his moccasins in 1890?’
The normally passive features were in shock. ‘Christ, Chief, what are you on?’ Magic mushrooms? Mastermind?
‘Still waters, Quinn.’ Tapping the side of his nose. ‘Dark horses.’
‘They’d be Sitting Bull’s mates, would they?’ She couldn’t keep a straight face.
‘Cheeky sod. Help yourself.’ He nodded at the packs.
She knew where they’d been. ‘Just eaten, thanks.’
‘Think of it as pudding.’ He tore the cellophane, tipped a few chunks in his hand. ‘And while we’re on the subject, they wouldn’t be mates, Ms Smarty Pants – they’d be braves.’
’Course they would. ‘Right.’
‘It’s an interest of mine, more obsession, really.’ He leaned back, legs sprawled. Verbally expansive, too? ‘Native American Indians. Amazing people. Must be all the Westerns I watched as a kid.’ He flashed an almost shy grin. Like he was wary of sharing but wanted a reaction.
‘So . . . what . . . ? You read about it and . . . stuff?’ Stuff? But what the hell was she meant to say?
‘Yeah. Got books by the shedload. Been out to Wyoming, Montana, the Rockies a few times.’
‘Wow.’ The old boy was spot on about running deep. She couldn’t get to French conversation class half the time. But the Grand Canyon? She had a sudden vision: Baker in buckskin and feathers riding a piebald bareback round the Bullring. She gulped a mouthful of wine. That took some swallowing.
‘You’ve got to have something apart from work, Quinn.’ Gaze fixed on her, he licked salt from sausage fingers. ‘’Specially when you’re on your own at home.’
Leather creaked as her backside shuffled. ‘Having the time, isn’t it?’ And what wasn’t he saying? Surely to God that wasn’t a ham-fisted chat-up line?
‘Y’know what they say about no play and Jack?’ He sank another inch of Guinness. ‘Same goes for Jill.’
‘Right.’ Least said soonest she was out of here.
‘No. Tell me. When you’re not feeling collars – what do you do, Quinn?’ The raised eyebrow could be read several ways. ‘How do you relax, recharge the batteries?’
<
br /> Sod that for a game of . . . soldiers. Either way he’d hit a raw nerve. Since Adam’s sharp exit, she’d been acutely aware how even more of her life revolved around the job. But that was her business and she sure wasn’t on the market, or needed a lecture. She finished the wine, slapped the glass on the table. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
‘Sit down, Sarah. I’m not hitting on you. I’m concerned.’
‘About?’ Lips tight.
He waited until she sat then shifted nearer along the bench. ‘You look knackered. You put in every hour God sends. It’s so easy to get burned out, Quinn. A good cop needs to stay sharp, focused.’
‘Are you saying I’m not up to it?’
‘Chill, for Christ’s sake. You need to loosen up, Quinn. Get some perspective. Work’s not the be-all and end-all.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Good, ’cause the job can take over, squeeze you dry. Leave you wondering where everything else went. I wouldn’t want to stand by and watch that happen to you.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ The old boy probably meant well, but the way the conversation was going made her uneasy. On top of that, she still hadn’t a clue where he was coming from.
‘Anyway.’ He slurped the dregs. ‘Early shout and all that.’
She followed him out, shaking a bemused head. Never been able to get a handle on Baker. Digging hands into pockets, she glanced up. The sky was doing a Vincent, it’d be white in the morning.
‘Talking of shout.’ Baker waited for her to catch up. ‘I gave your mate Lois a right bollocking this afternoon.’
Mate? Only if hell froze over as well. ‘Go on.’
‘She was at Ladywood. Trying to blag her way into the house. Stroppy little tart. I sent her off with an ear full of fleas.’
‘How the hell did she hear about the fire?’ As far as Sarah was aware the information hadn’t been released; certainly no whisper had gone out on police wires.
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