A Question of Despair (19 page)

‘You said it, Quinn: in their right mind. There's a hell of a difference between killing, and concealing a body. As it stands we've no evidence either way, medical or forensic.'

‘So we find it.' She'd had enough of Baker's bluster. He was yelling like it was her fault.

‘Pass the eggs.' He scowled. ‘I'm not your sodding granny, Quinn.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘OK, so it's not a straightforward death, but—'

‘No, DI Quinn.' His tone was more telling than the words. ‘And it's not a straightforward inquiry.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you saying?'

He gave a casual shrug. ‘It needs careful handling.'

‘Are you taking me off the inquiry?'

‘I'm saying careful handling. It's sloppy at the moment, Quinn. On top of everything else, every lead, every line's being leaked to the media. Some cop playing kiss and sell?'

‘I'll trace whoever it is.' Tight-lipped.

‘Just like that? Like you'll find the name gift-wrapped and tied up in neat little bows? Get real, Quinn.'

‘He's a bastard, Adam.' Sunday evening, Sarah twirled the stem of a wine glass in her fingers, her long legs wrapped round a high stool in the kitchen. Though her hair was down, the lights low and Steve Wonder was providing a soothing soundtrack, she was still uptight.

‘Not literally, but I know what you mean.' Adam winked, topped up her drink. His tan looked good against the tight white T-shirt. He'd been in the apartment when she got back, peeping out from a huge bunch of her favourite sunflowers. He'd clearly hoped the surprise visit would cheer her up, but she'd had more than her fair share of unexpected arrivals that day. Watching as he effortlessly prepared supper – grilled chicken and green salad – she'd delivered a blow by blow account of her encounter with Baker. Adam had made all the right noises but she suspected by now he wanted to move on.

She couldn't let it go, picked desultorily at a bowl of olives as he stacked the dishwasher. ‘He didn't have to come to the pub like that. I had the mobile. But he was itching for a fight, wanted to see the look on my face.' As for undermining her authority in front of Harries . . .

‘Come on, lady, he's a control freak, you know that. At least he didn't take you off the case.'

‘He may as well have.' He'd made it abundantly clear he'd be taking a firmer hold of the reins, and that included taking on her media liaison role. She'd been sidelined at that afternoon's news conference, watching from the metaphorical benches as Baker conducted proceedings. He'd given the press meagre pickings, refusing to be drawn on any aspect of the case other than the pressing need for witnesses. ‘Obviously he doesn't think I'm up to it.' And God, it rankled.

‘Bullshit. You know that.' He draped a cloth over the drainer then shifted his stool closer. But was it? She gave a token smile. The inquiry was going nowhere, her confidence was at rock bottom, Evie was dead and as Karen Lowe had said, nothing was going to bring her back. Tears pricked her eyes, anger as much as angst.

‘Come on, lady.' He stroked her arm. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You know what kind of bloke Baker is. Don't let him get to you. Let's have an early night.' Grinning, he waggled a Marx brothers' eyebrow. ‘Let me take you away from all this.'

The offer was tempting, the transient release of sex appealing. She lifted her gaze, realized she'd barely glanced at Adam all night. His good looks weren't the only thing she took for granted. ‘Sorry, honey. Thanks for being here. You go ahead.'

He pecked her cheek, turned at the door. ‘Five minutes, or I come get you.'

Why couldn't she switch off? Maybe a nightcap would help. She slipped off the stool, headed for the sitting room and the Armagnac. The door was open and a flickering light cast shadows across the ceiling. It took her a second to work out Adam had left the TV on. She hit the overhead light switch and glanced round for the remote but a voice stopped her in her tracks.

Caroline King was on screen. It was the late news. Sarah listened incredulously to the report. She'd missed the top line but it couldn't be any worse than what she was hearing. The reporter had obviously caught wind of the pathologist's findings. No, not caught wind, the information had been carefully fed. All faux concern and fake conviction King was spouting theories like there was no tomorrow. What sort of line was,
smotherly love?
As for:
was Evie killed by a caress?
Where the hell was she getting this stuff? Sarah balled her fists, lowered herself on to the settee. Judicious journalistic catch-alls were scattered throughout the story, key phrases like ‘it's believed, reports suggest, I understand'. The news-speak blurred the boundaries of fact and fiction, accuracy and fairy tale. The piece ended with a carefully worded pay-off:
West Midlands police refuse to confirm that teenage mother Karen Lowe is currently being questioned in connection with her baby's death.

What?
‘You stupid bloody woman.' The whispered words had come unbidden. They were aimed at the reporter, but Sarah was aware they could as easily describe herself.

Hundreds of thousands of viewers watched the same bulletin. Like Sarah most then switched off and went to bed. The kidnapper didn't; the subsequent fury was too great even to consider sleep. After an hour spent pacing and muttering, the kidnapper could no longer fight the urge to get out of the house. At this stage the idea was half-formed, hazy images floated at the edges of the mind, faded in and out of focus. Driving aimlessly brought the fuzzy impressions into sharp relief, stiffened resolve. It was the only way, it had to be done. The compulsion was overwhelming.

THIRTY-ONE

‘
A
neighbour raised the alarm, inspector. The mother got up to go to the loo and looked in on the baby. The cot was still warm.'

It wasn't cold in her bedroom but sitting on the edge of the bed, Sarah shivered. The phone not the clock had woken her. DS Paul Wood.

‘Have you called Baker?' There was a silence. Woodie probably hadn't heard the chief's latest directive: everything had to go through him. ‘Give him a bell now and don't tell him you rang me first.'

She glanced at the clock: 4.55 a.m. By 5.10, she was showered and changed. Adam hadn't stirred.

Driving quickly along near empty roads, Sarah ran through the scant information Wood had supplied on the phone and the huge number of questions it raised.

A six-month-old baby taken from her cot. The mother and baby alone in the house. The mother had seen or heard nothing. It was pure chance that the discovery had been made so quickly. The father was on a course in Coventry but should be travelling back now. The mother had run screaming to neighbours and was still there waiting for the husband and her own parents to arrive.

Sarah knew nothing about the family. As with any inquiry, filling in detail and background was one of the first tasks. But on two points, she was already near certain: that the baby had been taken by the person who'd snatched Evie, and that – despite the pathologist's ambivalent findings – Evie's death had been deliberate. She smacked the wheel with the palm of her hand.

She'd no evidence let alone proof, but one factor was beyond doubt. With a family liaison officer for company, Karen Lowe was blameless in this instance. And surely Patten would have to revise his findings now? Neither thought, though they vindicated her beliefs, brought any pleasure.

How could they when the kidnapper was holding a second baby? And then a picture of the first flashed in her mind's eye. Evie under that filthy stinking bridge.
No one in their right mind would leave a baby like that?
And if that same person now had another baby to dispose of? Was it conceivable they'd return to the same dumping ground?

She shook her head but Evie's image and what she knew were irrational thoughts remained. Sod it. How long would a detour take? She rang the incident room. ‘Woodie? Can you get hold of DC Harries? Tell him to meet me at Blake Street.'

Sarah was hard pushed to explain the impulse that had driven her to take a look at the bridge. As Baker put it, later that morning: You bloody fool. What if the killer had still been there?

But it wasn't the killer she found. She saw the baby almost immediately. A tiny, near-naked body lay in the same position and spot that Evie had been left barely two days earlier. Edging cautiously closer, Sarah played a torch across dark walls glistening green with lichen and damp. She was afraid not for herself but what she'd do if the kidnapper was lurking in the shadows. Nothing human was there. Only herself and a baby whose name she didn't yet know.

Thoughts racing, quickened heartbeat slowing, she took the phone from her pocket. Training kicked in, she had to call in a crime team, contact Baker, alert the incident room
. But not just yet.
She needed a moment. Just a moment. Kneeling, she closed her eyes. Head down, hands covering her face, bitter silent tears trickled through her fingers at the futility of another senseless crime and her inability to catch the killer. No one could hear. No one could see. And even if they could, this time she didn't care. The scene would stay with her forever. A few seconds to get her thoughts together wasn't a lot to ask. A soft footfall alerted her. Spinning round, she saw Harries standing a few feet away. ‘How long have you been there?' Her voice cracked, sounded harsh.

He raised both hands. ‘Just arrived ma'am.' She saw in his eyes it was a lie to save her face. He probably wanted to comfort her but that would mean revealing he'd witnessed her tears. Rising, she brushed dust from her trousers.

‘Everything OK, ma'am?' Tentative. The concern well-meant but badly-timed.

‘No, everything's not OK. Everything's a bloody mess. We need the full team again.' Forensics, photographers, POLSA. ‘I want Patten out too.' He questioned her with a look. ‘There are marks on her, David.' Tiny red pin pricks around the eyes. ‘I'm sure they're the same. I knew what to look for.'

It was just after 6 a.m. when Sarah arrived at HQ. Baker had called her back. She went to the Ladies first, washed her hands, splashed cold water on her face. On the way in, she'd driven past some of the thirty or so officers he'd deployed to the crime scene. The bridge and surrounding streets would now be chocker with police vehicles and activity. It was lucky she wasn't banking on thanks from the DCS, she'd have been out of pocket. Though the inquiry's early steer was down to her intuitive thinking, he'd sneered about not wanting any more Mystic bloody Megging then bollocked her about the folly of going alone into potentially dangerous situations. The real reason he'd called her in soon became clear. He'd changed his mind about the media; he wanted her to hold the morning news conference. Before that, he wanted her to break the news to the baby's parents. She'd agreed without protest. No mileage anyway. As senior officer it was his prerogative.

How do you tell someone their child's dead? Sarah dreaded it, always had, always would. Whatever's said, however it's expressed, nothing will ever be the same again.

A few short words amounted to a life sentence.

Stuck in heavy traffic on Hurst Street, for once she didn't curse. It only served to put off the inevitable but the delay, however brief, was welcome. Given her experiences as a cop, she firmly believed a child's death was the one tragedy it was impossible to recover from completely. Was it worse, she wondered, to be told your child had died at the hands of a murderer? Was the pain less if a child's death was down to accident or illness? She doubted it. The end result was the same. A life cruelly cut short. And the legacy for those left behind? An eternal cycle of if onlys, what ifs and whys.

Waiting on a green light, she tapped the wheel, glanced at the street life: people walking to work, kids dawdling to school, others hitting the shops. Everyone took it for granted until it was snatched away. As the line of traffic moved again, she sighed. The black thoughts weren't going anywhere. Even the sun beating down from an unbroken blue sky wasn't enough to lift her spirits. Delivering a death message never got easier. It was different every time and reactions always impossible to predict. She cast her mind back to Karen Lowe. The girl had appeared relieved, almost seemed to expect it. There'd been grief too of course, but had life already hardened her? She'd acquired independence early from a family life she seemed to despise. She'd grown away but not grown up. And Sarah knew that all this mental meandering wasn't helping one iota.

The harsh reality was that she was about to arrive at the home of complete strangers and her knock on the door would wreck the rest of their lives.

Harry and Charlotte Kemp were in their early forties, Harriet their only child. Mr Kemp was a senior lecturer at the Food College, his wife had given up teaching when Harriet was born. She'd had problems conceiving, was happy to be a full-time mum. Both now waited in the sitting room with Charlotte's parents. Mr Kemp, who'd only recently been told the child was missing, had arrived home a couple of hours ago. An FSI team was upstairs still examining the baby's bedroom. The rest of the property had been checked.

All this Sarah learned from a uniformed officer on the doorstep of a neat thirties villa in Handsworth Wood. PC Linda Ash, a fresh-faced brunette, had been one of the first attending officers. She'd not heard the baby was dead, she'd stayed at the house out of concern for the mother.

Keeping her voice down, she said, ‘Mrs Kemp's not well, ma'am. High blood pressure or something. Her mother's called the doctor. I thought it might be him now.'