A Question of Despair (27 page)

‘What have you got in the fridge?'

‘Pass.'

‘May I?'

‘Be my guest.'

It was a huge Smeg, almost food-free. ‘The contents of a fridge say a lot about a person you know, boss.'

‘Is that right? And what are they telling you about me?'

Two bottles of champagne. Five Italian wines. A six-pack of Becks. ‘That you entertain a lot?'

‘Wrong.'

‘That you should entertain a lot.'

‘And that's it?'

‘Hold on.' He turned round clutching an onion and a pack of tomatoes. ‘Right. This is what I've deduced. That you are a woman who is about to sit down . . .' He waited until she took a stool, then added, ‘But not before she's poured more wine.' She rolled her eyes, but entered into the spirit. ‘While I toil away producing perfect pasta à la Quinn and we talk about the case.'

‘Sounds like a plan.'

Twenty minutes at most, Harries reckoned. Caroline had said the piece was going out in the Close-up on Britain slot that invariably led the second half of the bulletin. He prepped a few veg then sauntered to the TV, reached for some penne. It would be too crass to switch the set on by accident. But could he make something of his earlier mistake?

‘Do I detect a deliberate deception going on here, madam?' Would she go along with the light-hearted tease?

‘What's that, Sherlock?'

‘The TV appears to be masquerading as a microwave.'

‘Yeah, course it is. Why would I do that?'

‘You don't want anyone to know you're a telly addict? Hooked on the soaps?'

‘I'm so hooked, I don't even know if the set works.'

‘Only one way to find out.'

It worked. It worked like a dream. He'd anticipated switching it on and casually leaving it playing in the background. There was no need. The story was being trailed: a newsreader's disembodied voice over a picture of Karen Lowe holding Evie.

Mother of murdered baby blames police . . .

Sarah stared in disbelief at the screen.

‘Here, boss, drink this.' Harries who'd had an idea what to expect had been shocked by the headline, dreaded to think what would be in the full report.

Sarah drank the wine without tasting it, barely aware she'd taken the glass. ‘Blames the police for what, for Christ's sake?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What the hell's she going to come out with, David?'

‘I don't know.'

Sarah walked to the door. ‘Bring the bottle. We'll watch in the other room. I want to record it. In case I can't believe it the first time.'

It was worse than she'd feared.

The Kemps' contribution was benign compared with what followed. They came over as a desperately sad couple grieving for their baby and appealing for help to catch the killer. Karen Lowe came over as a desperately sad mother grieving for her baby and baying for blood: Sarah Quinn's.

She sat in shocked silence. Harries drained the bottle into her glass, handed it to her without speaking. Immersed in their separate thoughts, both jumped when the phone rang.

‘Did you see it, Quinn?' The chief certainly had. ‘You've been framed?' For a second she thought he'd flipped, then: ‘Only instead of Harry Hill doing the honours we get Karen bloody Lowe dishing the dirt.'

‘You could say that.'

‘You did see it then. The crap that's just gone out?'

‘Yes. I did.'

‘And?'

She stroked her temple with a finger. ‘It was one-sided to say the least.'

‘One-sided?' The headache just got worse. ‘One-sided! It was a pile of shite. I want you in my office first thing, Quinn. We need to work on a rebuttal. I'm demanding a right to reply and I'll push for equal air time.'

Right to reply.
Caroline King's call earlier. Sarah briefly closed her eyes.

‘They'll have no bloody choice,' Baker blustered. ‘I can't understand why you weren't approached for a comment at least.'

No wonder the bitch had rung off in such a rush.

‘I was. In a way.'

Slight pause. ‘By?'

‘Caroline King.'

‘When?'

‘Earlier today. I said no comment, but—'

‘What!'

‘If you'll just let me finish—'

‘You'll be lucky if King hasn't finished you off, Quinn.'

‘I thought I was commenting on something else. I'd no idea she'd interviewed Karen Lowe.'

‘She wasn't calling to inquire about the state of your health. Why the hell didn't you ask what she wanted?'

‘I did.'

‘And?'

‘She hung up.'

‘And left you out to dry.' She opened her mouth to remonstrate, but Baker had moved on. ‘Another thing, Quinn: how come she knew where the Kemps were?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Best find out sharpish. And while you're at it, work on a way of how you get out of this shit.'

With even less courtesy than he'd started, he rang off.

‘Baker, huh?'

The voice reminded her Harries was still there. He'd kept a low profile while she was on the phone. He'd only have heard one side of the conversation but you didn't need to be a genius to fill in the blanks.

‘Who else?' Sinking back into the settee, she sounded casual, unconcerned. There was a niggle at the back of her mind she was trying to pin down.

‘Would you like another drink?' Harries' question pushed it further back.

‘What?'

He raised the unopened bottle in reply.

‘No. No thanks. Look I've got a few things to do and an early start in the morning, David.'

‘Sure. Of course. Is there anything I can do before I go?'

She held his gaze, tried reading his expression. ‘No, nothing.'

In one way or another, she thought, he'd already done enough.

Sarah lay awake into the night. She'd viewed the recording of King's report so many times she could play it word imperfect in her head. Perhaps she'd looked at it too much and was no longer seeing it properly. But something in the piece had planted that half seed of an idea in her head. She was pretty sure it must be something Karen Lowe had said. The rest of the item was predictable wallpaper pictures for King to voice over, numerous stills of the baby and footage of Karen. There were shots of her in a park, shots of her walking around the estate, shots of her at home leafing through large photo albums of Evie's too short life.

Concentrate.
She was sure there was something there, something significant, something she had to pick up on.
Useless.
Around three a.m. she threw off the duvet, wandered into the kitchen, put water on to boil, dropped a chamomile tea bag into a mug. Leaning against the sink, she glanced round. The place was messier than normal with Harries' peelings and stalks littering the work surface. She smiled. The guy was good company, however unexpected. She had a feeling he fancied her and talking about the case had been an excuse to call round. Was she flattered? Sure. A little flirtation wouldn't hurt. It certainly wouldn't be going anywhere. Even if Adam wasn't on the scene, she wasn't on the market for a relationship at work. Once bitten . . .

She spotted a pan on the cooker, congealed onions and tomatoes swimming in a pool of oil in a pan. She curled a lip. It was just as well they hadn't eaten, her stomach was churning anyway now.

Then she froze, ears pricked. What was the noise?
Low voices?
She cocked her head, tried to pinpoint where they were coming from. Breath bated, she tiptoed to the door.
Bloody fool.
The Pink Panther
was on the box. She'd left the sodding set on. Striding into the sitting room, she reached for the switch. Her hand stilled: the act reminded her of Harries again and sparked a different sequence of thoughts.

If he hadn't dropped by . . . If he hadn't started cooking . . . If he hadn't switched on the TV. Timing? Coincidence?

In bed later, with sleep still eluding her, she stopped thinking ‘if' and started asking ‘why?'

FORTY-TWO

‘
W
hy?'

‘Why what exactly? Sir.'

‘After she hung up – why didn't you call her back immediately. Find out why she was so keen to get a comment?'

Because I missed out on your dish of hindsight. Sir.
Sarah had been in with Baker for forty-two minutes. She'd not expected it to drag on this long, knew it would last three minutes more at most. Something vital was about to come up. Not that she could see the future any better than the past, but because she'd arranged it with Harries. He'd ring at 9.45 on a pressing matter and she'd get to leave. Her suspicions about Harries were on hold, she'd keep a watching brief while allowing him the benefit of the doubt. Which was more than Baker was giving her. At the moment she wasn't so much on the carpet as admiring its underlay.

She knew he was ego-aggrandizing at her expense but in a way he was right: she should have phoned King back after that call last night. She pursed her lips. The error ten years ago had been saying too much, yesterday it had been saying too little. She'd make up for it big time when she next saw King. Baker tapped his foot, still waiting for an answer.

‘You're right. I should have called her. I should have known when she hung up so fast that she was up to something. I'm sorry, sir.'

‘You'd best not be taking the piss, Quinn.' Fifteen minutes she spent listening to Baker's lecture on handling the media, mainly King. His ideas for the latter were inventive if not – for her, anyway – anatomically impossible. She glanced again at her mobile. If it didn't ring any minute she'd road test them on Harries.

‘Anyway, Quinn, I had a word with her editor first thing. Guy called Bob Grant.'

‘Oh?' Took his time getting round to that. ‘Has he agreed to a retraction?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘An apology?'

‘Not in so many words.'

Great prowess dealing with the press, chief.
‘What then?'

‘We'll be asked to contribute when they do a follow-up.'

‘And that's it?'

‘That your phone ringing?'

‘9.45 I said. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.'

‘Yeah, but, boss . . .' Harries was striding to keep up as Sarah headed down the corridor to the incident room.

‘Do you have any idea what it's like to be cooped up in the same room as that man for more than an hour?' His Old Spice hadn't even started wearing off.

‘Something important came up.'

‘I know that. I told you it was vital you got me out of there the second—'

‘No, I mean it, boss. We got a call.'

Something in his voice made her stop, turn. ‘This had better be good.'

‘A punter. Some bloke reckons he saw a woman on the waste ground carrying a baby, the same day Evie was abducted.'

‘Why the hell hasn't he come forward before?'

‘He wasn't aware of all the fuss.' Harries paused. ‘Until he saw Karen Lowe's interview. Last night.'

No wonder he'd hesitated. It was quite a bombshell. Sarah's thoughts raced. The guy could be a prime witness. Had she made a bad call, not giving King access to Karen sooner? Had the reporter been right all along? She shook her head.
No way.

‘Has this bloke been on another planet?'

‘He's . . . erm . . . well . . .'

‘Stop pissing around Harries.'

‘His name's Walter Clarke. He's in his late-seventies and he was calling from Lea Bank.'

She'd heard of the place. ‘The rest home?'

He nodded.

‘Brillliant.' She sighed.

‘They're old. Not stupid, ma'am.'

She ignored the rebuke, asked another question. ‘It's over Walsall way, isn't it?' They were walking again, heading for the motor this time.

‘Yes. He used to live in Small Heath. One of those houses they knocked down in Blake Street? He likes getting back when he can give the staff a slip.'

‘Wanders a lot, does he?'

‘It doesn't mean his mind's not all there.'

She sniffed.

‘What's the matter with you, ma'am?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

He shook his head. ‘Doesn't matter.'

Clearly it did.

They were pulling out of the car park when she next spoke. ‘So what else did Mr Clarke have to say?'

‘Not a lot. The old dragon who runs the place took the phone off him. Said if we wanted to speak to him we could go there. It was her phone bill he was clocking up.'

‘Reckoned it was a waste of money, did she?'

His knuckles whitened round the wheel. ‘We've got our first real break since this case began and you're belittling it before we even speak to the guy.'

She turned her head, gazed through the window.

‘You just don't like it, do you?'

‘I really wouldn't try telling me what I like or don't like, constable.'

‘The fact the break came via the media. Would it be any easier if it wasn't Caroline's piece?'

‘I'd so back off if I were you.'

‘If I were you I'd be pleased not—'

‘I've no intention of whooping with joy because a septuagenarian with a penchant for away days sees a woman with a baby. It doesn't mean I'm not interested. Don't assume I'm dismissing it. But there's a long way to go before a jury says guilty.'