A Question of Despair (28 page)

Sarah found herself desperately wishing for a short cut through Walter Clarke's meanderings. He'd talked them through his school days, army days, high days and holidays.
Give me a break, Walter.
If there was any consolation for the inordinate amount of time this was taking it was being late for the showdown with Caroline King. She'd asked Dean Lavery to phone the reporter, invite her in for a little chat. He'd texted twenty minutes ago to say she was at HQ. Walter Clarke was still showing no sign of arriving at the point. Her prompts so far had been counter-productive, she let him ramble, allowed her own thoughts to wander.

She wondered about the other calls after last night's programme. According to Paul Wood forty plus people had phoned in. Most were being followed-up, checked out. She suspected it would be another instance of quantity rather than quality. That was certainly the case with Walter Clarke's outpourings.

She cut the old boy a glance, saw a cross between Captain Bird's Eye and Alan Sugar. Walter sat well back in an ancient wing chair, cup of tea balanced on his paunch; slippered feet an inch or two off the carpet. ‘Yeah, Winnie was a good bloke.'

Churchill
. She tuned out again. Thought of another good bloke: John Hunt. They'd chatted earlier when she'd asked him to chase forensics. She'd sensed he still felt a touch miffed because he was no longer her partner. Mind she also realized she quite missed the older man's unquestioning support. Talking of old men . . . She tuned in again.

‘I know there's not much of it left, but I still like to go back, have a look round. I can see it all in my head. I was born in number six, see, then after the war me and Betty moved to number twelve. The kids were born there. Top room at the back.' His smiled faded. ‘Always thought I'd die in that house . . .'

His voice petered out. She tried steering his thoughts. ‘You phoned us, Mr Clarke. Can you tell us again what you saw last time you were there?'

He stared into the distance, miles away, a lifetime ago. She wondered what was in his mind's eye.

Sarah gently removed the cup from its precarious perch on the old boy's stomach. His eyes struggled to focus for a few seconds, then: ‘You know love, they should never have knocked them houses down.' Dust rose when he whacked the arm of his chair. ‘They mightn't have looked much from the street but they were little palaces inside. People kept 'em spick and span in them days. And another thing, everybody knew their neighbours. Not like now when hardly anyone knows and nine times out of ten couldn't give a monkey's. It's why I knew who she was straight away, see.'

Sarah and Harries exchanged glances. Was that a pearl among a pile of verbal pig food?

‘The minute I clapped eyes on her, I knew. They used to live round the corner, see. I've known her since she was a kid. Cheeky little sod she was.'

Sarah wanted no misunderstanding. She spoke slowly, clearly. ‘Who exactly are we talking about, Mr Clarke?'

‘I'm not deaf y'know. Nor thick.' He'd misunderstood.

She smiled. ‘I appreciate that Mr—'

‘I've told you once. Don't you listen or something?'

‘We have to be absolutely clear here, Mr Clarke. I know you spoke to one of my officers on the phone, but I need you to tell me again now.'

‘OK. But this'll be the last time. Why don't you people make notes?'

Harries shrugged, he was.

‘I got the bus to Paradise. It's a nice journey. I like the bus.'

‘When was this, Mr Clarke?'

‘Do you want me to tell you or not?'

She'd swing for him in a minute. ‘Yes. Of course.'

‘It was the day they were talking about on the telly last night. It's what made me think of it. If you'd seen anything they said, call the police. So I did.'

‘Right. Good.' Sarah bit her lip. ‘So what did you see?'

‘I saw the woman. The mother. She had the baby. She was walking along carrying the baby in her arms.'

‘Did you speak to her?'

‘No she was too far away.' He scratched the beard. ‘She didn't see me. I did wave.'

‘You saw her walking along. What happened?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing? Where did they go?'

‘I dunno. I weren't that interested tell the truth.'

‘What time was this, Mr Clarke?'

‘I don't wear a watch, love.'

‘Approximately?'

‘Must've been about lunchtime. One-ish? I was getting peckish. I went in The Swan. Had a pie and a pint. Never thought no more about it till I saw the news last night.'

Sarah wasn't convinced but could see no reason why he'd fabricate the story. More likely, he was mistaken. ‘You can state categorically can you that the woman you saw was Karen Lowe?'

‘If that's the name of the woman on the telly. That's who I saw. Without a doubt.'

‘I thought you said you knew the family. That you saw Karen grow up.'

‘I've seen lots of kids grow up, love. It don't mean I remember all the names.'

‘But you're absolutely certain it was Karen Lowe?'

‘No I'm making it up.' He scowled. ‘Course I'm sure. What do you take me for?'

A cantankerous old git.
‘You've been very helpful, Mr Clarke. Thank you for your time. We may need to talk to you again.'

‘Don't suppose there's a reward or anythin'?'

‘What do you reckon, boss?' Harries and Sarah were walking back to the motor. She reckoned a number of things, including the fact she'd forgotten to get back to Tom Lowe. The
Birmingham News
hadn't carried anything about a reward though so the old man wasn't just after a fast buck. Not that she thought he'd be in line for a payout.

‘I think Walter Clarke's convinced he saw Karen Lowe.'

‘But?'

‘What does it amount to? He saw a woman he says was Karen Lowe carrying a baby across waste ground off Blake Street. He didn't speak to her because she was too far away. He thinks it was lunchtime because he was hungry. He didn't see where she went or what she did. It's not a lot, is it?'

‘It's more than we had yesterday.'

‘It's not enough.'

‘Do you think he saw her though?'

‘I think it depends whether he's long- or short-sighted.'

Harries frowned. ‘But he wasn't wearing glasses.'

‘Precisely.' And he clearly owned a pair. The indents on the bridge of his nose bore witness to that. Question was how much he needed them. There'd been no mileage further antagonizing the old man. She'd get a couple of DCs over with photographs, if he picked out Karen Lowe it would be a start. She couldn't see it herself though.

FORTY-THREE

C
aroline King slipped the silver compact back in her Prada handbag. The mirror confirmed her make-up was flawless. She knew her appearance was immaculate: red silk jacket, black silk vest, skirt with a subtle black-and-white check. Crossing her legs, she tapped her nails on the metal desk. Mentally, she was pondering the equivalent of several ladders in her stocking.

First the run-in with Bob Grant. The ITN editor had been furious over her less than frank call to Sarah Quinn. He'd been on the receiving end that morning of an ear-bashing from Baker. Getting round the cop, and putting him straight, wasn't the problem. Grant's point was it should never have been necessary in the first place. She was under warning never to push her luck or his patience again.

Second, her own patience was at a premium. Quinn had kept her dangling in an interview room for well over an hour. Ninety-two minutes now she'd been running through potential exchanges with the Ice Queen: all heated.

Neither setback was the cause of most angst.

The main source was because she knew, or had been informed, where Quinn was, who she was interviewing and why. Her initial arrogant assumption that last night's broadcast had got a result was short-lived. It faded when she realized the break in the case could be an embarrassing and humiliating home goal. If the hurried call from her contact was correct the witness who'd come forward had put Karen Lowe in the frame. It was the last picture Caroline wanted to see.

‘No white coat today?' Sarah, doing a Baker, dispensed with formalities and breezed in ferrying files and a mug of tea.

Caroline broke off a study of her nails. ‘Sorry?'

‘The white coat? That fetching little number you wear on your ward rounds. Lucky for you Charlotte Kemp was on the mend. The sight of you turning up like that could've given her a relapse.'

‘Oh! How they laughed.' Sullen pout. ‘I knew she was out of danger. I got a condition check from the hospital.'

‘No, you didn't. There were none issued.' She slammed the files on the metal table. ‘Did your informant supply that as well as everything else?'

‘What informant?'

Sarah shook her head. ‘When I find out—'

‘Water. Bridge. Under. DI Quinn, if that's all you've got . . .'

‘Sit down,' she snapped. ‘How do you live with yourself? Lying, sneaking around, putting words in people's mouths. What a way to earn a living.'

‘I don't lie. I don't sneak. I work hard.' Pause. ‘And I get results.'

‘Meaning?' She cocked a casual eyebrow. But only to mask concern. Had she had the nod about Walter Clarke? Already?

‘My results speak for themselves, don't they, inspector?'

‘Unlike Karen Lowe.' Sipping tea, she studied the reporter's face over the rim of the cup, then: ‘Tell me, did it take long? Priming her? Making sure she was word perfect?'

‘I'm a reporter not a drama teacher.'

‘How much did you pay her?'

‘Why don't you ask her?' She would but according to a neighbour Karen was staying overnight at a friend's in Warley. How convenient. Sarah wasn't surprised the girl was keeping her head down.

‘You're playing a dangerous game, Ms King. One of these days you'll get more than you bargain for.'

She paused. ‘As long as it's not a pig in a poke.' The brazen stare suggested the words had been carefully chosen.

‘Stop messing with people's lives, Caroline.'

She rose, tossed her head. ‘You try saving them, eh?'

‘One more thing before you go.' She'd let the reporter reach the door.

‘And?'

‘That report last night? It was a pile of shite.'

Within seconds, Baker's head appeared round the door. He'd bumped into the reporter on her way out. ‘What's up with Lois Lane, Quinn? Talk about hack in a hurry.' He sniffed. ‘I hope to God you've not given her another sodding scoop.'

‘No, chief.' Inadvertently, he'd given her the best laugh she'd had all week. ‘I kind of told her she needs one.'

The prospect of spending quality time with Flo Carver held not a hint of amusement. Harries sighed as he killed the ignition and cast a glance at the house in all its pebble-dash glory. At least the net curtain wasn't twitching. He wondered what he'd done to earn the short straw. Was the boss paying him back for his lippy attitude that morning? He still thought it justified: she was the one who banged on about the be-all and end-all of an open mind. Walter Clarke hadn't exactly received her credit rating since the start. Was she really so petty? No. Course not. Or was she? What did he really know about her? The only thing he'd take bets on was her loathing towards Caroline King. He groaned, added a mental cringe. Had the boss cottoned on to last night's subterfuge? In the cold light of day, his Jamie Oliver impersonation had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a soufflé. Or was that his conscience kicking in? Surely she'd have said something? He'd watched her like a hawk, not noticed any shift in manner.
No, come on, get real.
He'd been tasked with seeing Flo Carver because the boss knew he could charm the fuzz off a peach, never mind sweet talk the old bat. It was nothing to do with payback time.

Sarah rang a number on her office phone. It was the last task on her daily to-do list. Other entries were ticked though mostly ongoing: gaps in the house-to-house; background checks, particularly on the Kemp family; follow-up calls; forensics, chase. Paperwork went without saying, or listing. A stack of written reports at her elbow were proof of that. Shoving it to one side, she reached for a can of fat Coke. Engaged signal again. No sweat, she'd give it a minute or two.