Olivia was unconscious again and the young nurse who’d been with her during what was supposed to have been a lucid spell was unable to recall what she’d said. They were in a corridor off the high dependency unit. Dr Pete Lovell who’d alerted Sarah leaned against the wall. Harries was parking the motor.
‘I’ve told you once, her voice was slurred and I wasn’t really concentrating.’ The name badge said Tina Small. She was red-faced and seriously overweight. Sarah wanted to shake her.
‘You must have some idea. You said she kept repeating it.’
‘It’s not my fault.’ She was on the verge of tears. ‘The patient was distressed. There was no one around and I wasn’t sure what to do. I had to go and fetch the doctor.’
Sarah registered the exhaustion and humiliation in the young woman’s eyes. She gave a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry. As you say, it’s not your fault.’ Sarah made to pat her arm, but the nurse backed off.
‘Can I go now, please, Dr Lovell?’
‘Sure, Tina. And don’t take it personally. The police are desperate to talk to Miss Kent. DI Quinn didn’t mean to sound rude.’ Did you, was the tacit corollary.
‘That’s it!’ Small shrieked.
‘What?’ Sarah and Lovell synchronized.
‘Quinn.’ She flashed a smile. ‘Well, close anyway. It doesn’t make sense and it sounds delusional but I’m pretty sure now she said something about wanting to see the King.’
The sight of Caroline King trying not to look smug was almost too much for Sarah. She concentrated instead on what Elizabeth was saying.
‘I’m sorry, DI Quinn, but when Olivia wakes again if she still wants to see Caroline then I think she should.’
She sounded anything but apologetic. ‘Of course, Mrs Kent. I just need to talk to her first. I’m the officer in charge of her—’
‘And I’m her mother.’ Loosening the silk scarf from her neck, adding it to the coat over her arm.
Sarah heard the clock on the wall ticking. She counted to ten, then: ‘Surely as her mother you want to help me find—’
‘I want to do anything that helps Olivia get better.’
Sarah sensed the woman’s implacability. Their priorities, which had once seemed similar, were now diverging. Olivia was back in safe hands. Elizabeth was happy. Sarah would have no peace until the man who’d put her in danger was behind bars.
‘Look, I think we all want what’s best for Livvie.’ King peeled herself off the chair in the corner of the small waiting room, sauntered closer to the stand-off. ‘As I see it you’re both right.’
Sarah tightened her mouth; the reporter looked as if she’d just solved the war on terror.
‘Livvie wants to see me, but you need to talk to her soon as. The answer’s simple.’
She could tell by the open, candid expression on King’s face that simple was the last thing it would be. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ll go in and see her.’ The smile widened. ‘And ask the questions you need answers to.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘She’s a reporter, for God’s sake.’ She took a deep, calming breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I waste a good deal of my time keeping people like her away from situations like this.’
King tapped a toe. ‘You’re not my sister’s keeper. And what sort of lowlife do you think I am? I’m offering to help here. It’s more than you’ve ever done for me.’
‘Let’s keep it professional, Ms King. I’m trained in interview techniques.’
‘And I’m not?’ A perfect eyebrow arched.
‘You know what to ask to get a good story. We’re not dealing with tomorrow’s headlines or the late night news. Olivia’s a vital witness in a vile crime. It’s my job to find the perpetrator.’ God, that sounded so sodding pompous. She unclenched her fists, realized how clammy her palms were. King looked the cool professional.
‘Look, my job isn’t the issue here. I don’t know how many times you need telling but I’m not acting as a reporter. My friend’s in there – she needs me. End of.’
‘I just wish I could believe that.’
‘I’m sorry, DI Quinn.’ Mrs Kent. ‘I do believe it.’
All three heads swivelled as the door opened. Harries appeared and trailing him a smiling ward sister. ‘Good news, Mrs Kent. She’s back with us again. And is one of you two ladies Miss King? She’d like a word.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘It’s OK. There’s no rush.’ Polite inquiries and social pleasantries dispensed with, Caroline had started posing real questions. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’ She gently stroked her friend’s cheek, saw the ghost of a smile appear on her lips. ‘That’s more like it, Livvie.’
She gave a slight shake of the head. ‘All the time in the world. Weird expression. Reminds me of something. I’ll tell you one day maybe.’
‘You bet.’ Fulsome.
Then silence; the latest in a series.
The touching scene wasn’t living up to Caroline’s expectations. Despite the more-than-my-job’s-worth protestations to Quinn, of course wanting the story was part of the deal. Caroline hadn’t lied in the pub claiming she wasn’t interested in flogging a few pars of copy; she intended trading the full exclusive article. So far Olivia wasn’t playing ball; she’d not come out with a line, let alone a lead.
‘I really just don’t want to talk about it, Caro. Sorry.’ She turned her head away.
‘That’s fine, Liv.’ Not. She unclenched her teeth, engaged the voice into gentle coax mode. ‘But you did ask to see me. And there are people out there desperate to speak to you.’ She gave Olivia a few seconds to mull it over, then: ‘Look darling, perhaps it’s best I come back later. I know the police—’
‘Caro, no. Please. I don’t want to talk to the police.’ The plea appeared heartfelt.
‘Livvie, you have to talk to someone.’ The voice was a verbal massage. It usually worked.
‘Don’t try that on me, Caro. I’m just not . . . ready.’
‘I understand, but—’
‘No, Caroline. You don’t.’ The tone was hard. The reporter thought she heard a warning in it.
Olivia was right, Caroline didn’t understand. She’d imagined Olivia gradually opening up to the gentle probing of her journalist’s scalpel. She’d already cast Olivia as the brave and beautiful heroine courageously recounting her horrifying ordeal: my days with the devil, my hours of hell. Caroline could see the coverage now; Olivia wasn’t even looking.
Olivia was inwardly reflecting, not sure how to say what she wanted, torn whether to say anything at all. She and Caroline had been closer than sisters. They’d shared so much, gone back so far, in a way too far. Knowing Caroline inside out, Olivia had no illusions about the reporter’s priorities. Caroline loved her, for sure, but her motives for being here were mixed. It worked both ways.
‘Can I trust you, Caroline?’
‘You really need to ask?’ A frown marred the flawless forehead. The hurt expression was perfect and no doubt practised.
Olivia stifled a snort. Caro hadn’t answered the question, didn’t need to. Olivia had seen glints in the reporter’s eye before, the flared nostrils, firm mouth. Caroline scented her story, but Olivia wanted something as well and could see only one way of getting it.
‘I need to see Jack.’
‘Now I know you’re delusional.’
‘I need you to find him.’
‘I’m only glad he’s lost.’
‘Please, Caro. I must speak to him.’
‘Why, Livvie? He’s an ace shit – you’re well shot of him.’
Olivia licked her lips. ‘Do it for me, Caro? Don’t tell anyone. Not mother. Not the police. Just do it, please?’
‘Is he mixed up in this madness, Olivia?’ Caroline narrowed her eyes. ‘Is he?’ Still no response. ‘If he is, you have to tell the police, Livvie.’
‘No. I’m not talking to them.’
Caroline gently turned Olivia’s face to
wards her. ‘You have no choice, Olivia. There’s a major investigation going on: abduction, attempted murder. You’re not just the victim, you’re the prime witness.’
Pausing, she held Caroline’s gaze. ‘I can’t give them what I don’t have.’ She’d no doubt the reporter’s frown this time was genuine. ‘I can’t remember a thing.’
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Doesn’t remember? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ Sarah strode to keep pace with the reporter, failed to keep a lid on her temper.
‘Keep your voice down. And watch the language. This is a hospital, y’know.’
A lecture from Caroline King? That was all she needed. Not. She wanted chapter and verse on what had transpired during the session with Olivia Kent. The reporter had hurtled out of there like a bat on speed. Woman on a mission or avoidance technique?
Sarah grabbed King’s arm. ‘Will you stand still for one minute?’
‘Boss?’ Harries cautioned. A porter and a couple of patients pushing drips were enjoying the floor show.
Shaking off the DI’s restraining arm, King continued the power walk down the corridor. ‘You can talk to me on the go. If you must.’
Short of slapping on cuffs, Sarah didn’t have much option. Harries trailed along. ‘You were in there over an hour. She must have said something.’
‘’Course. But nothing that would interest you.’
She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. ‘If you’re concealing information, I’ll—’
Eyes flaring, she whirled round. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’
Aware of the gathering audience, Sarah lowered her voice. ‘Do you have any idea how serious this situation is?’
‘What do you think?’ Shrugging she turned to leave again.
Sarah made another grab for her arm. ‘I think I’m trying to track down a sick bastard who almost killed your friend and you’re in there talking knitting patterns. Get real, woman. What did she say?’
‘You’re not tracking down anyone, Quinn. You’re harassing me. Why don’t you get out there and do your bloody job. I’ve told you twice now: she can’t remember anything.’
Sarah searched the reporter’s face for the merest hint of duplicity. Standing inches apart, they couldn’t have been further away. The DI took a deep breath, an icy calm returning. ‘If I discover you’re jeopardizing my inquiry, withholding intelligence, witness tampering or riding a bike without a bell, I’ll throw the bloody library at you. Is that clear?’
‘I can’t give you what I don’t have.’
Sarah watched her walk away. The reporter called back over her shoulder. ‘Throw the Albert Hall if you like, you don’t scare me.’
Harries cleared his throat. ‘Shall we have a word with a medico, boss?’ She nodded, tight-mouthed. At least they’d discover whether the amnesia claim held water. Wandering back along the corridor, she blew out her cheeks on a sigh. ‘Well, David, that was a master class. How not to handle the press.’
When he didn’t respond she cut him a glance. King may have been impervious; it looked as if she’d scared the excrement out of Harries.
Looking at her daughter, Elizabeth tried hiding her fears. Caroline had thought Olivia was just tired, needed rest. But the reporter didn’t know everything. She certainly hadn’t foreseen Elizabeth’s polite request that Caroline leave The Gables. Piqued, was the word. Caroline would get over it, but would Olivia recover from what she’d endured? She seemed so subdued, so tearful; a pale shadow compared with how she’d been before the ordeal. Maybe it was the medication, the side effects of all the sedatives, the strong painkillers? God help her if the memories returned. According to the doctor – if Elizabeth had got it right – the amnesia could be organic, down to the carbon monoxide poisoning. Or psychogenic brought on by emotional trauma. The latter was reversible apparently and could end within hours or days. If the nightmares came flooding back, what would it do to her frail mental defences?
Elizabeth brushed tendrils of hair from Olivia’s face. The bruising was fading thankfully, but who knew what damage lurked within? ‘If there’s anything you want, Olivia? Anything at all, darling?’
‘I’m fine, Mummy.’ The smile nowhere near reached her eyes. ‘If you really want to help try keeping the police off my back. I can’t stand the thought of strangers firing questions at me. I don’t think I could bear going over it all again.’ Again? Elizabeth frowned. Olivia broke eye contact. ‘Even if I could remember.’
Had the pause been telling? Was the memory loss convenient? She wouldn’t push it now; protecting Olivia was paramount. ‘I’m not sure I can keep them away indefinitely, darling. DI Quinn’s very insistent.’
‘I feel sick thinking about it, Mummy.’ Eyes brimming. ‘I can’t cope with any more. I just can’t cope.’ She broke down, seemed close to hysteria. The intensity frightened Elizabeth.
She stroked her daughter’s hair, whispered soothing words, waited until the sobbing subsided, then: ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ll have a word with the inspector. The important thing’s for you to get your strength back. Then you’ll be in a better position to help, won’t you?’
‘How’s about helping out an old mate, Sammy?’ Caroline was calling in – and carrying out – a favour. The reporter had decided to go ahead with Olivia’s ridiculous request, still wasn’t sure, why. Curiosity, natch, and the vision of an exclusive story dangled like a succulent carrot. The customary stick only featured in her fantasy as one with which to beat the high and mighty Quinn. The nerve of the fucking woman? Telling Caroline where to get off? When the reporter had already been given her marching orders by Elizabeth. Being as good as chucked out of the Kent home was partly why Caroline had been so stroppy when she ran into Quinn at the hospital. The reporter reckoned the snow queen didn’t need a reason – with Quinn it was innate. Whatever. Caroline was back in her old family home, rattling round mostly empty rooms, time on her hands. Actually make that a phone in one hand, a G&T in the other and a plan afoot.
‘You’ve got a nerve, King.’
Must be an echo on the line. Her voice had an earthy smile. ‘I’ve got trillions, sweetie, as you well know.’ Sam Francis was an old contact in every sense of the world. He was an ex-actor, now theatre critic and had a lot going for him. From Caroline’s viewpoint the best thing was that he worked on the Post, the New York Post. She hadn’t been in touch with him for a couple of years.
‘You woke me, babe. What’s it all about?’
‘I need a man.’ She’d fed the line, the innuendo deliberate.
‘You don’t usually have trouble in that department, CK. Losing your touch?’
Loud laughter. ‘What do you think, Sammy?’
‘I’d say, not.’
‘You’d say right.’
‘OK. Let’s hear it.’
She wandered to the window. The For Sale sign had gone up in the last day or so. She’d be so glad to get shot of the place. ‘Jack Howe. Advertising exec. Photo director. Used to do a bit for Time and the The New Yorker as well as the comics.’
‘Lives?’
‘Lived. He had a place on East 57th. He’s not there now.’ That was as far as her own snooping had gone.
‘Great.’
‘Oh, come on, Sammy. You can do it.’
‘And if I find him?’
‘Let me know.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. I just need to know where he is.’
‘At least tell me why.’
‘Because if he’s there, I’ll know for sure he’s not over here trying to kill his ex-lover.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t shout, babe. It’ll be fine.’
‘You want me to go find a killer and everything’s hunky?’
‘You’re not listening, are you?’
Throaty chuckle. ‘I love it when you get cross.’
‘I want you to trace where he lives and find out if he’s there – not knock on the door and ask if he’s tried
wasting anyone recently.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll do it? Sam, you are one big sweetie.’
‘On one condition. You come over and see me sometime soon. I’ll remind you how sweet I can be.’
‘Tell me more.’ She ended the call smiling. Sam was a very good contact indeed. The smile didn’t last long. Glancing round at the dust sheets and the bare floorboards didn’t help. Saturday evening and the big shot reporter was at the proverbial loose end.
What was the saying about the devil and idle hands?
DS John Hunt was just knocking off after spending most of the day knocking on doors in Westminster Street and surrounds. Teamed up with Madison, he’d been interviewing residents, carrying out street interviews, had another word with the working girls, Suzie and Sadie, opposite Cameron Towers. There’d not been a bunch to show for it: worn shoe leather, frayed patience, falling hope.
‘Pull in over here, Mickey.’
‘The chippie?’
‘I’m starving, mate.’ And they just might get a nibble. Fat Stan’s attracted a fair bit of passing trade. Hunt knew the guy of old. Stanley Nicholas Graves was a former, if not entirely reformed, petty criminal. In and out of the local nick more often than the cleaner, he’d won a hundred grand on the lottery a couple of years back and taken over the Frying Fish. The only legacy of his former life was being known by more dubious cops around town as Friar Crook.
Hunt put in his order and a request. Had Stan seen anything suspicious? Madison watched as Stan’s podgy fingers pushed to one side the few strands of greying hair that still clung to the shiny pink scalp.
‘D’you lot think I stand round all day doing sod all? This place doesn’t run itself, you know.’
‘Bloke like you, Stan? Lots of mates, loads of punters. You must get to hear all sorts.’ Hunt.
‘Yeah and it’s strictly confidential.’ He tapped the side of a broken nose. ‘Between me and my clients.’
‘Clients? Do me a favour, mate,’ Madison drawled.
Hunt fumbled in his trouser pocket. ‘Mickey, got any change?’
‘Only a tenner.’
Mother Love Page 18
