Mother Love

by Maureen Carter

  ‘You tell me. But heads are gonna roll if another cop’s on the take.’ At his motor, he raised an imaginary hat. ‘Catch you later, Quinn.’

  Deep in thought, she wandered to the Audi. Caroline King was in so deep with the Kents she didn’t even need a mole.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Bleary-eyed, Sarah tweaked the blind, peered through the bedroom window and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. Morning had broken, not. Just gone six, damson trails streaked an indigo sky, silver light glimmered on the smooth dark surface of the canal. Still waters. Chief Sitting Bull Shit. Really. What was that about? Shaking her head, she gave a thin smile, padded barefoot to the kitchen.

  Like the rest of the apartment, it looked as if a cluster bomb had hit. She clocked dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, crumbs and cans littering surfaces, an open pack of Ready Brek on top of the microwave. Cheeks inflated on a sigh. Why couldn’t she hack it domestically? Maybe she should hire a cleaner? Were au pairs just for families? Either way she could do with a wife. Or an Adam. Or maybe other things mattered more and she couldn’t be arsed.

  Nailing Olivia Kent’s kidnapper wouldn’t go amiss. She flicked on the TV, hiked the volume. No inclination or time to watch but she’d hear if the story made breakfast news.

  While the coffee maker did its thing, she dug out long johns, fur-lined boots, a thick navy wool scarf. She’d been wrong about the frost, there was a scattering of snow out there. Ass-freezing weather. Thermals would cover it. No sweat. Doubtless it’d be another long day.

  Coffee smells filtered through. She ferried a mug to the bathroom, left it on the sink while she took a shower. Stepping out, she liberated waist-length hair from a pink shower cap shaped like a pig’s head. The joke gift was from a clown on the squad: Secret Santa had a lot to answer for. She’d been peeved at first, now it just made her smile.

  Still smiling, she studied her face in the mirror. Baker was a cheeky sod. She didn’t look that knackered. Nothing make-up wouldn’t hide. Maybe hit the slap a bit more in future, do a Caroline King paint job. As if. She turned her head from side to side, relished the sensation of hair swishing skin. She’d toyed with getting it cut recently; decided it would take more than a relationship ending for her to part with what Adam described fancifully as her crowning glory. On top of that, a more casual style wouldn’t help the glacial image at work deliberately fostered with the bun. Lifting the hair with both hands, she shivered as it cascaded down her back.

  Ice queen, indeed.

  The snow was grey slush by the time Sarah pulled into the car park at Lloyd House. Radio WM’s headlines had just finished: the Olivia Kent story hadn’t made the radio news either. The DI took it as a good sign. Like the two magpies she watched on the wall tussling and squawking over an anaemic chip. When a car backfired in the road both took off without breakfast. Fat chance. She reached for her briefcase, smiling. She’d put in a quick call to the hospital just before leaving home. If these things go in threes, surely Olivia’s condition improving slightly overnight completed the hat-trick?

  As Sarah locked the Audi, she spotted the chief’s Rover already in its reserved spot. Four early birds then? Make that five. The red two-seater up ahead – the babe magnet as the guys called it – belonged to the boy wonder. In fact Harries, wearing Mission Impossible aviator shades, was just unfurling his six-foot frame.

  ‘Morning, David. How come you’re up with the lark?’ She caught a wave of toothpaste and aftershave. Wondered idly if he had a new woman on the go.

  ‘Wotcha, boss.’ Tapping a temple, he flashed a smile. ‘I’ve got a few reports to catch up on.’

  Only a few? That’s lucky. Her paper forest was impenetrable: pass the machete. ‘Isn’t it a bit dark in the glasses?’ The sun was yet to rise, let alone shine.

  ‘Yeah, but I only got ’em yesterday. D’you like ’em?’

  ‘Very Tom Cruise.’ Mental eye-roll: boys will be . . . They fell into step across the tarmac, skirting puddles topped with petrol spills. ‘How was Mrs Kent last night?’ Harries had chauffeured her home from the hospital; the reason not exclusively altruistic.

  ‘Seemed OK, considering. I chatted her up, she gave me a few more names to check.’ Olivia’s friends that hadn’t made the first list. ‘I didn’t go in though, boss, she had visitors. Well, one visitor.’ The verbal italics said it all. Cutting him a glance as he held the door, she glimpsed her less-than-delirious reflection in his lenses.

  ‘Don’t tell me . . . Caroline King?’

  ‘Got it in one, boss.’

  It wasn’t her gain she was bothered about. What had King benefited by being there? ‘Did you speak to her?’

  The sunglasses finally came off. Boy, had he had a late night. ‘No way, boss. I left them to it.’

  Left them to what exactly? She gave a distracted nod. Filed it away, headed via comms for her office.

  Shots fired, two stabbings, carjacking, street brawl, suspicious death, criminal damage, five break-ins, three muggings – fondue set and a cuddly toy. Not. Still standing, Sarah was leafing through the latest incident reports. The tally was pretty much par for the overnight course, though the carjacking was the fourth in two weeks – it needed keeping an eye on.

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ she drawled as she dropped the printouts on her desk, shucked off the camel coat, sat down and logged on.

  ‘That’d be Disney, would it, Quinn?’ There was no humour in the voice.

  ‘Chief.’ No need to look up. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Get your coat.’ Not a trace. ‘I want you and Harries at the QE. There’s a bomb threat.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  With more than a thousand beds and thirty operating theatres, evacuating the building would be the last resort, disrupting routine and further jeopardizing the health of patients almost unthinkable. But there was a recent precedent.

  Speed-weaving in and out of snarled traffic on three lanes of the A38, Sarah recalled the chaos created last year when a suspect package had been left in toilets at a smaller hospital in Birmingham. Hundreds of operations and appointments were cancelled, roads closed, premises cordoned off. A bomb disposal team was called in, and carried out a controlled explosion on what turned out to be a few wires in a plastic shopping bag. It cost the NHS a cool £200,000.

  Sarah tapped the wheel. This could be another hoax. The authorities couldn’t afford to dismiss it out of hand, but treatment this time round would be more kid glove. Baker had made it clear he felt the threat was connected to the Kent inquiry: there’d been no codeword, and the caller more or less pinpointed the bomb’s location. Security in the high dependency unit was tight so though the threat was being taken seriously it was difficult to see how an intruder could have entered. Either way, it was a tough call.

  She shook her head when Harries offered half shares in a KitKat. He’d abandoned the shades. The light drizzle was getting heavier, the sky leaden. She flicked on the wipers; for the umpteenth time glanced at the dashboard clock. According to the warning, the device was primed to go off at seven thirty.

  ‘Six minutes, boss.’

  Like she needed telling. Swearing under her breath, she hit the gas. Despite Harries’ boy racer reputation, when push came to shove, they both knew she was the better driver. She’d dragged him out of the canteen so fast he wasn’t fully up to speed.

  ‘So why’s Baker want us there, boss?’

  When a specialist search was already underway, uniformed officers were on site and the hospital’s own security – mostly ex-cops – on tap as well.

  ‘Caller claims it’s planted in the HDU.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Go figure.’

  The calculation wasn’t difficult: within hours of Olivia Kent’s admission after the abortive abduction, there was an alert. Harries gave a low whistle. ‘Determined bastard, isn’t he?’ Slight pause for thought. ‘Reckon he’s losing it, boss?’

  Demented, too? She turned her mouth down. It wasn’t the way she saw it.

  ‘The
re’s nothing here, Chief.’ Perched on a desk in the HDU manager’s officer, Sarah was on the phone, pending Tony Hart’s return. Hart’s empire had been fine-tooth combed, the all-clear given; the search was winding down. She could hear Harries along the corridor chatting to a couple of dog handlers.

  ‘A hoax, then, Quinn?’ She heard a rasp: Baker in chin-rubbing mode. ‘Some nutter with nothing better to do?’

  ‘No explosives, that’s for sure, Chief. But in a manner of speaking, not a hoax either.’ Rain pattered the window; glancing over her shoulder she saw blurred figures dash for shelter. ‘My feeling’s the caller knew exactly what he was doing.’

  Audible sigh, then: ‘Spare me the riddles, Quinn.’

  ‘OK, my take’s this: the bomb was by the by; the abductor made the threat just to see how high we’d jump. He wanted us to come running. Light the blue paper and—’

  ‘Come on, Quinn. He’s not gonna pull a stunt like that with half the sodding force milling around.’

  Not her point. Either he was being obtuse or she’d not made it clear. ‘Whole thing was a stunt, Chief. The warning was targeted at us; he’s telling us he’s still out there watching, waiting, biding his time. Think about it, Chief: he’s manipulated us from the start.’

  Baker grunted. ‘Fucking thinks he has.’

  She nodded as Hart re-entered carrying a Jiffy bag. ‘True though. The letters, the bogus call to the school, this morning’s run-around fits the pattern.’ Smiling her thanks, she took the bag from Hart. ‘Our man’s not shed a dead skin cell yet, Chief, let alone left a decent lead. He wants to show us how smart he is. How he’s the one calling every shot.’

  ‘OK, Einstein. Enlighten me.’

  The padded envelope contained a recording of the call made to the hospital. Sarah had heard it already several times. ‘’Cause I’ve got him here on tape saying more or less the same thing.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Listen up, OK. An hour from now a bomb will go off in the high dependency unit. I could make it quicker. But I won’t, OK. Oh, yeah – and happy hunting, Mr Plod.’

  The voice was loud, almost certainly male and had pretty much reduced the squad to stony silence. Sitting at a desk near the front, Sarah glanced round at fourteen, fifteen detectives displaying varying degrees of slap-in-the-face affront. A ticking clock on the wall was for once audible, as was the chief’s heavy breathing. She took a sip of coffee; Harries had done the honours from the machine.

  It was 10.05 a.m. now, the early brief had been put back a couple of hours so fewer bodies were around than normal, tide and time meant a dozen or so officers were out interviewing, chasing, knocking doors. Baker had delayed the meeting because he wanted Sarah’s SIO input.

  Half the squad, including the DI, jumped when the chief’s meaty fist whacked a desk and sent loose papers fluttering. ‘Happy frigging hunting, Mr Plod?’ Theatrical teeth-baring snarl. ‘Who the fuck’s this guy think he is?’

  Sarah rolled her eyes, lips tight. If we knew that the squad wouldn’t be sitting on its collective backside listening to this crap rant. The chief’s foul-mouthed rhetoric invariably riled the DI. Apart from bolstering his big-man image, which most of the blokes then thought it was fine to emulate, it didn’t get the inquiry anywhere. In fact, she suspected younger officers were sometimes intimidated, reluctant to contribute.

  ‘Too right, boss. Wish he’d never been born when we nail him, eh?’ ’Course there was always an exception to any rule.

  ‘Shut it, Madison.’ Her rebuke was automatic. The bootlicker supremo must be running short on cherry blossom and the machismo posturing made Sarah see red. ‘When he’s arrested, he’ll be treated like any other suspect. This isn’t Life on Mars.’

  ‘No. Or you’d be out back making us a nice cup of tea. Joke . . . ma’am.’ Laughing, he glanced round at an unreceptive audience.

  ‘Glad you’re amused, sunshine. ’Cause we’re no nearer a collar than you making chief constable.’

  ‘Yeah, so let’s get on with it.’ Baker nodded at Paul Wood. ‘Play it again, Twig.’ The DS had a finger on the button; he’d already cued the recording back to the start. Sarah closed her eyes, focused her thoughts. The line wasn’t brilliant, fair bit of traffic hum in the background, seagull squawk too; maybe that’s why the voice was loud. It was young-ish, had no discernible accent and probably bore little relationship to how the guy usually sounded because if he hadn’t disguised it, he must be barking. The delivery was matter-of-fact, casual even, made the content come over even more menacing somehow, not to mention mocking.

  ‘Well, we know it’s him.’ Hands in pockets, Baker stopped pacing, faced the floor. ‘The “could make it quicker” line’s no coincidence. He couldn’t make it clearer if he tried. More to the point, we know he’s still after her.’ Which was why the police guard at the hospital had been doubled and was now armed.

  Something had bugged Sarah since first hearing the tape; it struck her now. ‘There’s no upward inflexion.’ The reason suddenly seemed obvious. And nothing to do with not watching Neighbours. Blank looks suggested it needed spelling out. ‘“Listen up, OK.”’ She aped the flat pause-free delivery. And again: ‘“But I won’t, OK.” He’s not asking us to listen. In fact I don’t think he’s telling us anything.’ Except how much contempt he held for cops.

  ‘I get it, boss.’ Harries hunched forward on a hard chair at the front. ‘Not OK – OK, Olivia Kent. The warning’s personal. He wants her to hear it, wants her to be aware he hasn’t gone away.’

  Would that she was aware of anything. ‘That’s my reading, David.’ The acoustic forensics specialists would doubtless read deeper. The tape would go there as soon as.

  ‘How’d he find out she’s in hospital?’ Madison.

  ‘Educated guess?’ Baker grabbed the nearest chair, turned it to face him and proceeded to straddle it. The leg-over manoeuvre wasn’t a good look for a fat man. Sarah averted her gaze, shook off irreverent thoughts of Sitting Bull. The chief elaborated blithely. ‘He knew about the fire ’cause he called it in. Shit! Hey, Quinn, we need the—’

  Tape to compare voices. ‘On to it, Chief.’ As a matter of course, triple-nines were recorded; she’d already asked someone in admin to liaise with the operator bods, rustle up a copy. She’d stake a month’s salary it was the same voice. ‘I’m wondering if it’s more than that though. The QE’s a hell of a big place.’ The location had been specified, he wouldn’t have just plucked the HDU out of the air.

  ‘You think he might have stuck around after making the call? Picked up a whisper?’

  She tilted her head. ‘Possible, isn’t it?’ It was no myth that perps sometimes returned to crime scenes. Maybe their man had loitered with intent. He couldn’t have failed to spot the air ambulance, may have seen Olivia being stretchered out, oxygen mask over her face. ‘Was the press out there, Chief?’ Specifically photographers, TV crews. It was just possible the guy had been captured on film.

  ‘Only your mate, King, as far as I know,’ Baker said. ‘Best check though.’

  Sarah nodded at the DC seated next to Harries: Raj Ali was mid-forties, mild-mannered, single and a safe pair of hands. She watched him make a note, then listened with half an ear as Baker assigned routine tasks.

  Operation Venus was still at that feeling its way, fact-finding stage. Not enough pieces to put together a frame, let alone a picture. Mind, the whiteboard was beginning to fill up. Later sightings of Olivia had been established thanks to Shona Bruce, Huntie and CCTV. Sarah’s keen-eyed gaze followed red arrows and dotted lines added to the map in thick marker pen. Olivia Kent’s library visit on Saturday morning was now confirmed. Shona had talked to staff; none had recalled anything out of the ordinary in Olivia’s manner. No shadowy tail with stalker tattooed across his forehead. That’d be too much to ask.

  There was quite a bit of footage of Olivia though, not just entering and exiting the library. Sarah made a mental note to view the material. Apparently it showed her walk
ing along Precinct Way in Harborne, calling in briefly at three shops: Sainsbury’s Local, Boots, the British Heart Foundation. The DI pursed her lips, wondered if Olivia had taken the motor, or after returning from her mother’s had decided to venture out on foot. The Golf hadn’t shown up in checks on local car parks. Hadn’t surfaced at all yet. Detectives had found the items she’d bought – olive bread, eggs, shampoo – at the house in Platt Lane. So though the CCTV trail ran out shortly after the BHF stop-off, the evidence pointed to Olivia having made it home. Was she abducted from there? There’d been no sign of a struggle. Did she know the guy, let him in with open arms? Or was she snatched off the street later? With Saturday mid-afternoon as the last known sighting, there was still a big window for more to materialize.

  ‘You still with us, Quinn?’

  She gave a distracted nod. ‘Why’d he take her, Chief? And why’s he still after her?’

  ‘Answers on a postcard, please.’ There was no jocularity in the tone. He knew they were the biggies and looked as hacked off as Sarah that they remained unanswered. Not through want of trying: squad members had by now had phone conversations with at least fifty of Olivia’s known associates. Only one so far warranted a face-to-face interview. A keen-eyed DC had spotted the details in an address book brought back from Olivia’s home. And picked up the potential during a brief chat with the guy. Sarah had earmarked the follow-up session for herself. Philip Kent was also on her task list. Olivia’s father had responded to a message she’d left on his voice mail. He’d be back in Birmingham late tonight; they’d arranged a meeting for tomorrow.

  She tapped a pen against her teeth. It’d be a big help if Olivia’s mobile turned up. The search team at the house still hadn’t uncovered it, or her laptop. The fact there’d been no keys – house or motor – in Olivia’s bag found in the basement was telling. It almost certainly meant the perp had trousered them and still had access to both.