A Question of Despair (16 page)

‘Where exactly was the body found . . . ?'

‘What's the cause of . . . ?'

‘How did she . . . ?'

‘What leads . . . ?'

She raised a hand. ‘I can't comment further. I'd like to . . .' Like hell. ‘But there's an inquiry to run.'

Not too painful. The pressure of work plea paid off. Allowing herself a slight smile, she slipped through the revolving doors. It didn't last.

Caroline King was at the front desk, chatting to a sergeant. She broke off when she spotted Sarah, strode over. ‘Inspector, can I have a word?'

‘How did you get in?'

Lip curved, she tilted her head back at the desk. ‘I was reporting a crime.'

‘Course you were.' It was about the only way she'd have gained access.

‘A word?'

‘I've issued a statement.' She turned to leave.

‘It's me who's got something to say.' Sarah couldn't read the glint in her eye.

‘Go ahead.'

‘Not here.'

‘Forget it.'

‘Suit yourself. But remember what happened last time you didn't hear me out.'

‘Canteen?' She needed coffee anyway.

The breakfast rush had eased but eau de bacon fat hung in the air. Caroline King headed for a table near an open window, beginning to wish she'd pushed for Quinn's office as a location for this tête à tête. As Sarah approached ferrying drinks, the reporter gave her sleeve a surreptitious sniff. ‘Nice place you've got here, inspector.'

‘You're not here to admire the décor.'

‘That's lucky. Cheers.' The thick white mug came away from her lips with a scarlet rim. ‘Are you sure this is coffee?' She gave a wry smile, knowing it would take more than a show of mateyness to connect with Quinn.

‘You had something to say?'

Probably a touch late for niceties then. ‘First, tell me this: is Karen Lowe being brought in for questioning?'

‘Change the record.'

‘I need to know.' It would help her angle the story: Karen Lowe as victim or villain?

‘I don't believe this.' Sarah shook her head. ‘She's only just learned her baby's dead. Have you any idea what she's going through?'

The reporter sipped her coffee, taking stock. Quinn was in holier than thou mood.

‘I can barely imagine, inspector, but talking it through with someone like me could help.'

‘Since when did you qualify as a therapist?'

Since when were you made God?
‘Believe me.' Caroline pushed the mug to one side. ‘People find it helpful to talk to reporters at times like this.'

‘Don't tell me – let me guess.' Wide smile. ‘It's cathartic?'

OK, no more Mr Nice Guy.
‘Nobody tells you anything, DI Quinn. You know everything all already.'

‘If that's it . . .' Scraping back the chair.

‘Will you listen for once? I've been in this business a long time. I know what I'm talking about. People get a sort of comfort, seeing their story on television or in the papers. It validates the experience.'

‘For how long, Ms King?'

‘Does that matter? If it helps – even for a while – it has to be worth it.'

‘And it's worth what to you?'

‘Your point being?'

‘I suppose – very occasionally – what you're saying is true. But don't try and make out you're helping people. You're only doing it to further your career. End of. Quite frankly, it makes me want to throw up.' She reached for her briefcase.

‘Pass the sick bag.'

Stiffening, she creased her eyes. ‘What did you say?'

‘Nothing. Back off, will you?' Caroline frowned; what was wrong with the bloody woman? ‘Look . . .'

‘I'm out of here.'

‘Are you bringing her in or what? I need a steer. Even if it's off the record.'

‘This is on the record, OK?' Palms on the tabletop, she leaned forward. ‘Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn said she had absolutely nothing to say. You can quote me on that. Verbatim.'

TWENTY-SIX

S
arah and Harries were running a few minutes late. It was just after ten when they parked outside the Edgbaston home that Michael Slater shared with his parents. The squat pebble-dash semi like others on the small council estate had been personalized over the years. It was anyone's guess what the Georgian wall lights, mullioned windows and twin bay trees standing sentry said about the Slaters.

The short journey had passed in virtual silence. Sarah jotting notes, Harries concentrating on the road. He spoke as she knocked the door. ‘Ma'am, I just want you to know.' The formal address: he'd read her body language. ‘I think DCS Baker's wrong. I'm with you on the Karen Lowe question.'

‘Thanks.' Smiling, she cut him a glance. ‘I appreciate it.'

A door opened, but not the Slaters'. A woman emerged from the next house, cigarette dangling from slack lips. Slouched in the doorway, she folded flabby arms over pendulous breasts. ‘No one's in, duck. They go to church Sundays.' She said it like it was a perversion.

‘That's OK, Mrs . . . ?'

‘I can pass on a message if you like. Tell 'em who called? Usually help if I can.'

I bet you do.
‘It's fine, thanks.' She hammered the door again knowing Michael had timed the visit to coincide with his parents' absence. On the phone, he'd sounded more scared of incurring their wrath than of being questioned by the police.

‘I told you – there's no one in. What you want anyway? I'm on Neighbourhood Watch, I am.'

Neighbourhood Witch maybe.
‘Why don't you . . . ?' The woman would never know. The door opened and a teenager peered out, one hand still on the latch the other clutching a towel round his waist.

‘That you, Mikey? Everything OK?'

‘Fine thanks, Mrs Carver. Just a couple of visitors.'

‘Long's I know.' Squinty-eyed, she took a final drag, flicked the butt at the hedge and sidled back inside.

‘Are you inviting us in then?' Sarah said. ‘Or are we doing this on the doorstep?'

‘Sorry. I lost track of time. I was . . .' And train of thought.

‘In the bath?' Harries gave him a verbal hand.

‘Yes. No. I was taking a shower. Upstairs. In the bathroom.' His blush deepened with every word. ‘Come through. Come through.' He ushered them into a small cramped room on the right; it took a while for Sarah's eyes to adjust to the gloom. Dark heavy furniture didn't help, neither did the tapestry wall hangings and brocade curtains. It was like stepping back into the 1950s. The youth, hair still dripping, looked expectantly at Sarah then Harries.

She indicated the makeshift toga. ‘Maybe put some clothes on?'

‘What?' He looked almost startled. ‘Oh yeah. Course. Have a seat. Can I get you a tea or something?'

‘Michael. Just go get dressed, OK?'

The towel caught on the edge of a table as he left. He froze stark naked for a couple of seconds before dashing out.

Lip curved, she shook her head. ‘Pick it up for him, David. He's going to find the next few minutes difficult enough without that lying there.'

Draping the towel on a chair, he said, ‘Seems young for his age, doesn't he? Well-mannered, polite, not arrogant or cocky like a lot of kids these days.'

‘I wouldn't know. He had his back to me.' The deadpan delivery took Harries a while to cotton on to, then: ‘DI Quinn!' Wide-eyed, he feigned shock. She was strolling round taking in more of the room's contents: a bag of knitting shoved behind the settee, board games neatly stacked on a shelf, cross-stitched samplers all over the place. ‘Is it me or is there a theme here?'

Harries read a few aloud. ‘The Lord's My Shepherd. Praise the Lord. Our Father. Nah.' He grinned. ‘Must be you, boss.'

‘Shall we go through to the kitchen?' Michael Slater dressed in denims and open-neck white shirt hovered uncertainly in the doorway. His short hair was damp, but probably dried dark blond, pale blue eyes were fringed with dark lashes. He was attractive and – as they'd seen – had a good body. His skin glowed, unless he was still blushing. ‘I can make us a drink.'

‘Sure,' Sarah said. ‘Why not?' Hopefully the routine task would help him chill. He sure needed to. The room was stuffy, poky: pea green walls, black and white tiles, cream Venetian blinds. Dusty palm crosses were fixed to an ancient fridge by alphabet magnets. Sarah ran through name checks while he filled the kettle then waited until he faced them. ‘Tell us about Karen, Michael.' Open-ended, easy starter.

‘I don't really know much.' He turned his mouth down. ‘We were friends. She said she didn't want to see me any more. And now we're not friends.'

‘You can do better than that, Michael.' Pulling out a stool, she gestured Harries to do the same. The message was clear: we're not going any time soon. Harries underlined it with pen poised over notebook.

‘We met at school, went out a few times.' He took three mugs from a cup tree. ‘She was a nice girl. I was sorry when she said it was over. But it's nearly two years ago now, I've moved on.'

All those past tenses.
‘Define “few”, Michael.'

Throwing tea bags into the mugs, he said, ‘I'm not sure.'

Sighing. ‘Twice? Ten? Fifty.'

‘Does it matter?'

Sarah tapped her fingers slowly on the table. ‘Does the local vicar preach a long sermon, Michael?'

‘Look, we went out off and on for about eighteen months. We went to the pictures a bit, mostly we'd go to a pub or a wine bar.' He had that rabbit in the headlights look again. ‘Not that we got drunk or anything.'

Under-age drinking was the last thing on Sarah's mind. ‘Did you bring her back here, Michael?'

‘No. It was never that serious.'

‘Why did she end the relationship?'

‘It wasn't a
relationship
. We were just good friends.'

‘How good?'

Flash of truculence. ‘What are you saying?'

‘Friends can have
relationships
, Michael.'

‘Yes. But we never . . .' He gazed down at his hands.

‘Never what, Michael?'

‘You know what.' Hint of defiance? ‘We didn't do it.'
Why so coy?

Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘Have sex, you mean?'

‘No. Yes. I mean never made love.'

‘Why not?'

Clenched jaw. ‘Not everyone goes round jumping into bed, you know.

Don't they?
‘Did you want to, Michael?'

‘No,' he shouted. Shuffling his feet, he jammed hands in pockets.

‘Why? Karen's a good-looking girl, you're an attractive young man. It's only natural. No one would blame you.'

‘Well we didn't.' Petulant. ‘I know what you're trying to say.'

‘What's that, Michael?'

‘That I'm the baby's father.'

Incredulous. Offended. ‘Did I say that, DC Harries?'

‘No, ma'am.'

‘Are you?

‘No way. Karen and I never . . .'

‘Had sex – I heard.' She flapped a hand. ‘Did you try it on and she didn't want it? Is that why she gave you the elbow, Michael?'

His knuckles were taut, white. ‘No. I did not “try it on” as you put it.'

‘Are you seeing anyone now, Michael?' She wasn't even sure why she'd asked.

He looked confused. ‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Are you?'

‘I don't see it's any of your business but no, I'm not.'

‘So why did she end it?' A tap dripped. An electric wall clock ticked. He jumped a mile when the kettle switched itself off. ‘Leave it, Michael. Answer the question.'

‘If you must know, I got the impression she was seeing someone else.'

‘Who?'

‘She never said, denied it when I asked.'

‘So why did you think she was seeing someone?'

‘Little things. She'd call off dates, turn up late. Just seemed to change somehow.'

‘How did that make you feel?'

Tight mouth. ‘I told you: cut up.'

‘Angry?' Enough to hurt her.

‘No! I was sad. I . . . liked Karen a lot.'

‘And now?'

‘I'm cool.'

Anything but, Sarah reckoned. The shirt had damp patches and a line of sweat glistened over his top lip. Didn't mean he was guilty but, boy, was he gauche.

‘We've found the baby. Did you know that?'

‘Really?' His eyes lit up. ‘That's brilliant.'

‘Dead.'

The colour drained from his face. ‘Dear God.' He slumped against the sink, expressions changing as he went through some sort of internal dialogue, then: ‘How did she die?'

‘We don't know yet.'

‘Please God she didn't suffer.'

Sarah frowned. ‘Did you meet Evie, Michael?'

‘No. But she was just . . . an innocent child.'

‘Exactly.'

The interview lasted a further ten minutes. She tried drawing him out on other people Karen knew, if she'd mentioned rows with anyone, whether she ever saw her father. They took details of his movements on the day Evie was abducted and how he'd spent the previous night. However unlikely Michael Slater was the baby's father let alone her killer, the alibis would be checked. Sarah jumped down from the stool. ‘OK, that's all for now. If you think of anything else, give me a call.'