A Question of Despair (32 page)

‘What now then?'

‘We'll do what the note told us. We'll ask the mother. Only this time we'll ask the right one.'

FORTY-NINE

D
eborah Lowe perched on the edge of a hard chair. She glanced up, her smile a little wary, as Sarah and Harries entered. If Sarah was right, the woman should be close to cracking. There was no sign of it. She looked to be writing a shopping list; on the table was a completed crossword, two empty tea mugs.

Sarah sat opposite, she'd been working on several opening lines; Deborah supplied it. ‘You've hurt your face, dear. How did you do that?' She reached out as if to touch the swollen cheek. Sarah recoiled, unable to hide an involuntary flinch. Appalled that a woman who'd killed two babies could show concern over a bruise.

‘Your husband punched me.'

The shock tactic prompted a nervous tic: Deborah Lowe's signature shrug and shake. ‘My word, that's unlike Thomas. Mind, I did tell you it was all a mistake.'

‘Lies is what you said.' She took a deep breath, knew keeping cool was going to be tough. ‘How did you know we were holding your husband?'

‘It says so. In that.' She curled a lip at the newspaper.

Sarah picked it up, read aloud: ‘“West Midlands police are questioning a man about the abduction and murder of two babies in the city. It's believed the man blah blah . . .”' She slung the paper back on the desk. ‘
A man. The man.
So I ask again: how did you know your husband was in custody?'

She answered with the truculence of a six-year-old caught out in a lie. ‘I got a phone call, didn't I?'

‘Oh?' From Karen or Caroline King? This would be interesting.

‘Some woman. Said she was a reporter. Asked me how I felt about it.'

‘And what did you tell her?'

‘The same as I'm telling you, it has to be a mistake. I can't understand it when you've got an eyewitness.'

‘Oh?' Sarah cut a glance at Harries. Maybe he'd see the dangers now of leaking privileged information, how detrimental it could be to an inquiry.

‘The reporter mentioned it. Said someone told you they'd seen Karen with Evie.'

‘And who is this “eyewitness”?'

‘She wouldn't say. Just wanted to ask me about Thomas.'

King hadn't been entirely stupid then.
‘So why are you here?'

She looked nonplussed as if the reason was obvious. ‘Well, you'll release him now, won't you? No harm done.'

No harm done?
‘Two babies are dead.'

‘Yes, of course.' Shrug. ‘But it wasn't Thomas.'

‘He's confessed.'

‘Confessed? Confused more like.'

‘What's it to you anyway?' They hadn't lived together for years. Maybe she was worried who'd foot the bills.

‘Not a lot.' She sniffed. ‘But it should matter to you when he's innocent.'

‘So were Evie and Harriet.'

She carried on as if Sarah hadn't spoken. ‘I mean, much as it grieves me, if you've got a witness who can put Karen at the scene, it strikes me it's her you should be questioning not Thomas.'

‘You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

‘Course not. But if she's guilty . . .'

‘Of what?'

‘Doing away with little Evie, of course.'

‘Why do you hate her so much?' Enough to take sick Polaroid pictures and post one through her own daughter's door. She'd had the sense to plant the other one handily down the road from HQ. Ironic that Todd Mellor was the only person who appeared to have been telling the truth.

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Did you decide to punish her for her wickedness?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Oh I think you do, Mrs Lowe. She took your husband, didn't she? So you took her baby.'

Blood flowed to Deborah Lowe's face, mottling the pasty skin. She was clenching and unclenching her fists. The nervous movements of her head and shoulders which had either stopped or gone unnoticed were back with a vengeance.

‘You're mad.' She spat the words. ‘Thomas wouldn't touch Karen. She's his daughter.'

‘He thought she was. That's what you told him. You deceived him all along, didn't you?'

For a few seconds, Sarah thought Deborah Lowe would crack. The woman cast shifty glances to the door; her breath a rasping sound. Then: ‘Liar. Don't be ridiculous.'

‘Then you told him the truth. You hoped it would drive him away but it didn't. It brought them closer. So close, she gave him a baby. Something you hadn't and never could.'

Rocking and keening the woman hugged herself tightly to stop the tremors running through her body.

‘You couldn't stand it, could you?'

She wouldn't or couldn't speak. The silence infuriated Sarah more than the woman's pathetic lies. She itched to shake her, smash her evil face into the wall. Wanted to hear her plead for mercy, then whack her again. From a file on the desk, she slipped out two photographs. Bit her lip. The babies looked like broken discarded dolls.

‘Take a look at these please, Mrs Lowe.'

She lifted her head, cast a cursory dry-eyed glance. Sarah rose, walked round the table, forced the pictures into her hands, wanted to force the reality into her head.

‘Poor little souls,' Lowe said. ‘Look as if they're asleep, don't they?'

‘They're dead, you stupid bitch.' She'd never lost control in an interview room before. She closed her eyes briefly, walked back to her seat. ‘They're dead, and somebody killed them.'

‘Yes. And old Walter's told you who, hasn't he?'

She froze. Spoke very slowly. ‘What did you say?'

Deborah Lowe didn't answer. She knew – like Sarah – she'd already said too much.

FIFTY

‘
I
need to speak to her now.' Caroline King was on the phone, mentally spitting feathers. Her reserves of patience and pleasantries were exhausted. She could so do without this guy's patronizing manner.

‘I've told you once, petal, she's not available.' DS John Hunt sounded as if he was about to hang up.

‘Get her to the phone now. It's really important.' She'd been at Lea Bank earlier where she'd spent the obligatory three hours with Walter Clarke. The old man had refused to be hurried, Caroline had left feeling like a researcher on
This Is Your Life.

‘You can try later, love . . .'

‘Look, I think I know who killed the babies.'

‘Hold on.'

‘Good timing. Put her through, John.' Sarah gave a wry smile. She'd wanted a word with the reporter anyway. Interview halted, she slipped into the corridor to take the call.

‘DI Quinn?' Alert, energized. ‘I've got some amazing—'

Yeah yeah.
‘Did you call Deborah Lowe last night?'

‘Yes, but, listen—'

‘Did you mention Walter Clarke by name?'

‘No.'

‘Are you absolutely sure you didn't divulge his name?'

‘Yes! But listen, I showed him—'

‘No. You listen. I want you in my office in the next hour. And if you go anywhere near Walter Clarke again today, you'll find yourself in a police cell.' Looking through the spyhole, she saw Deborah Lowe leafing through the newspaper.

‘Who the hell do you think you are? Didn't Neanderthal man tell you why I'm calling.'

‘DS Hunt did mention it.'

‘Well then. I think I know who the killer is.'

‘I do know. I'm looking at the killer now.'

‘Can I quote you on that?'

Bloody woman never missed a trick. ‘No. You can't quote me on anything.' She leaned against the wall.

‘You just can't stand it, can you?'

‘What?'

‘Old Walter came forward because he saw my report. You can't handle that.'

She heard the smirk in the reporter's voice. ‘Old Walter, as you put it, is one strand in the inquiry.'

‘It's the biggest break you've had.'

‘And you might have blown the lot this morning.'

Silence. Sarah's efforts had identified Tom Lowe as Evie's father and subsequently established a motive for the murder. But without forensic evidence, it was all speculation, circumstantial. The case hinged on a confession. Several hours' questioning Deborah Lowe had failed so far. Sarah saw Walter Clarke as a way of extracting it.

‘Look, Ms King, get over here soon as you can. I might have something for you.'

‘An apology would do for a—'

Sarah hung up, smiling. For once the reporter was talking to herself.

‘I'm sorry to bring you here like this.'

Though judging by the beam on Walter Clarke's face, Sarah thought her apology was probably unnecessary. Maybe he'd enjoyed the ride in the patrol car, the unaccustomed attention.

‘That's OK, love. Ta, lad.' Sitting in her office now, Walter took a cup of tea from Harries.

She returned his smile. This cantankerous old man could provide the pressure to push Deborah Lowe over the edge. But Sarah had to be so careful.

‘I understand you've been talking to a reporter this morning, Mr Clarke?'

‘That's right, love. I thought she was one of your lot first off.'

‘Did she tell you that?'

‘Not in so many words. But you said you might be back and when she brought out more pictures.' He shrugged.

‘What pictures?'

‘Pictures of the Lowes.'

She groaned inwardly. Then wondered if Caroline's crass interference might prove useful. ‘She showed you some pictures? Tell me more, Mr Clarke.'

‘Yeah. It was then I realized like. It wasn't Karen I saw the other day. It was her mum.' He looked a little sheepish. ‘Easy mistake to make. Anyone could've done it. Like peas in a pod, them two.'

‘But you're sure now? It was Deborah Lowe, not Karen.'

‘Yeah. It was mainly the picture of Deborah and the kiddie.' Sarah masked her surprise. The woman said she'd never set eyes on her granddaughter. ‘Karen's just a kid really. It was definitely her mum, I saw.'

‘And you'd know her again?'

‘Definitely.' He slipped his hand in a jacket pocket. ‘I've even brought me specs.'

Sarah spent five minutes in Baker's office bringing him up to speed. She'd briefed him every step of the way, knew he wanted to be in at the finish. When the chief left to take up a vantage point, Sarah proceeded to IR1

‘OK, you're free to go, Mrs Lowe. I'll see you out.'

Scowling, the woman gathered her belongings. ‘About time, too. You'll be hearing from my solicitor about this.'

Sarah smiled. ‘I'm sure we will.' She led the way, glanced to check Walter Clarke was waiting in reception, primed and ready for action.

The old man's recognition was instant. ‘That's her.' Pointing a finger. ‘I'd swear to it. On my life.'

Judging by Deborah Lowe's reaction, recognition was mutual. White-faced, she staggered, clutched her chest, collapsed in an ungainly heap. Sarah knelt beside her, shouted at the desk sergeant to call an ambulance.

Face dripping with sweat, distorted with pain, she beckoned Sarah closer. The idea of comforting her was repugnant. Deborah Lowe didn't want comfort, she mouthed what Sarah wanted to hear and asked her to pray for absolution.

Sarah's only prayer was that they weren't the woman's final words. She'd wanted a confession, but not on a death bed.

FIFTY-ONE

C
aroline King sprang to her feet when Sarah entered the office.

‘I can think of better ways of spending my time. What the hell's going on?'

Sarah walked to her desk, waved the reporter down. ‘Give it a rest, will you? I've not got the energy.' She sank back in the chair, closed her eyes briefly.

‘Are you OK?'

She suspected the reporter's concern was nowhere near as great as her curiosity. ‘I'll get over it.'
Given time.

‘You said you'd have something for me?'

‘What?' She tried dragging her thoughts from Deborah Lowe, the sight of the ambulance driving away, blue lights flashing.

‘You said you might have something for me?'

Sitting up, she reached for a bottle of water. ‘There'll be a news conference. Here. 4.30.'

‘What? You got me here under false pretences.' Glaring, she rose, hoisted bag on shoulder. ‘That's no good to me.'

‘If I were you, I'd sit down. I've got things to say that may or may not make the press briefing. Either way, you won't want to report them.'

‘Sounds like a threat, DI Quinn.' She sat. ‘Go on then. I'll judge what I report. Not you.' She looked and sounded the cool professional, but broke eye contact first.

‘In that case, I sincerely hope you display sounder judgement than you have so far. While you've been sitting here contemplating better ways to spend your time, I've been spending mine with a sick killer. Not just sick, Deborah Lowe's had a massive heart attack.'

‘Brilliant. Can I—'

‘Christ, Caroline, you're nearly as sick as she is.'

‘No, I'm not. It's a great story. Divine retribution. Weird kind of justice.' Her eyes sparkled, she was probably seeing the headlines already.

‘Divine retribution? It's a cardiac arrest. She's not been struck down by God. And if she dies she won't get sent down either. Justice? Try telling the Kemps that.'