A Question of Despair (30 page)

With luck and a little technical wizardry, Jo should be able to put a face to the figure. Sarah had an idea she already knew the name.

‘Tom Lowe?' Baker, arms folded, ankles crossed, leaned against the sill in his office. The enhanced print was on his desk, it was the only shot on which Lowe appeared. ‘You're sure it's him, Quinn?'

Sarah had ditched the Lone Ranger act, outlined her thinking to the chief. Baker might talk bollocks sometimes but at least he was straight. He'd agreed that, with the building leaking like a faulty sieve, the developments should be kept on a ‘need to know' basis. Withholding the information was important; drip-feeding it could even flush out the mole. Most of the squad would be kept in the dark. The line wouldn't be mentioned at the late brief. Baker would major on that afternoon's reconstruction.

‘It's definitely him, chief. He was in the park that day. Whether with Karen or just observing I don't know yet. Either way he was lying.'

‘Must run in the family.' Baker sniffed. ‘And he's on his way in, is he?'

‘Six-ish, he reckons.' She'd called Lowe's mobile. ‘I told him we're keen to go ahead with the reward. He thinks we want to talk detail.' Powder dry and all that. No point forewarning him.

Baker snorted. ‘I suppose he thought offering the dosh would give him brownie points, muddy the waters?'

She nodded. ‘And maybe give access to inside information.' She reached for the pic on Baker's desk. ‘I can't wait to see the lying bastard's face when I show him this.'

‘There's a big difference between catching a liar out and nailing a killer, Quinn.'

Like I don't know that?
‘I'm not saying he's the murderer, chief.'

Just that he had a lot of answering to do.

FORTY-FIVE

T
om Lowe had eventually reluctantly agreed to a recorded interview under caution. The new evidence hadn't been specified. Sarah had expected bluff, bluster, bullshit. Lowe had obliged, briefly. Leaning back in a chair, legs sprawled, he'd batted away the first casual queries. Then she'd taken the photograph from a slim file, slid it across the metal table in IR1. It was like a sucker punch. Lowe seemed to crumple, winded. The physical reaction was extreme. She was about to ask if he needed a doctor when he dropped his head in his hands and confessed to killing both babies.

She'd wanted to halt the session but he'd eschewed a solicitor. It was almost a relief, he said, not having to live a lie any longer. She'd let him talk, exchanged occasional glances with Harries, made the odd note on her pad.

It hadn't taken long. Less than an hour, less than that when the gaps and jagged sobs were omitted. The only break was Lavery bringing in tea no one drank. The mugs stood untouched on the desk. Afterwards, Lowe had been led away to a police cell, drained and seemingly dazed.

Now Sarah and Harries watched the interview back. The basic story was this: he hadn't meant to harm Evie, he'd wanted to hurt Karen, the baby wouldn't stop crying; he'd snapped and killed her.

Harries' fists were balled. She heard his muttered, ‘Bastard.'

‘I was scared then.' Lowe's voice faltered. ‘I had to make you believe there was a maniac on the loose. God forgive me, I took another baby. I can't live with myself any more. I'm sorry, so very, very sorry.'

The tape showed Lowe hunched over the desk, shoulders shaking. Sarah drew her lips together. Perhaps that was the point he realized the enormity of what he'd done.

And she didn't believe a word of it.

‘When are we charging him, boss?' Harries must've been hanging round waiting for Sarah to emerge from Baker's office. It was gone eight. Past home time.

‘The chief wants him to have a brief.'

‘Did you tell him Lowe refused one?'

‘What do you think?' She rolled her eyes. ‘He's facing serious charges. The chief wants it done properly.'

‘The guy confessed. What's Baker's problem?'

‘Points need going over. What's your rush, David? Lowe's not going anywhere.'

Ten minutes later, Sarah was in the motor heading home. With Baker's blessing, she was playing a game. It was devious rather than dangerous, she was pretty sure they'd be on the winning side. She was convinced she knew the killer's identity now – and it wasn't the man kicking his heels in a cell at HQ. Tom Lowe was guilty of a number of misdemeanours, but not murder. As she'd pointed out to the chief, Lowe hadn't told them a single thing he couldn't have picked up from the newspapers or TV. And there'd been omissions, the doll and note left in Sarah's apartment for starters. So was he punishing himself or protecting someone else? Probably both.

It wouldn't do any harm if the real killer believed charges were imminent. The quickest way of achieving that was to release it to the media. They'd not issued the information, but she'd take bets it would appear tomorrow. It was the one time she didn't want to stop a leak – it could reveal who was pulling the plug.

As it happened, she didn't have to wait that long. Her mobile rang as she was parking. Caroline King. Could Sarah confirm a whisper she'd heard?

FORTY-SIX

Man held on baby deaths

I
t wasn't the lead, but it was on the front page. No surprise there, then. Sarah slung the newspaper in her office bin. Driving in, she'd heard the same line on the radio, assumed it made breakfast TV too. She drummed speculative fingers on the desk. Caroline King was freelance; doubtless she'd flogged the story everywhere. The extra cash must come in handy. It wouldn't come cheap keeping such a prolific informant sweet. But if Sarah was on the money, the contract would shortly be cancelled. The need-to-know strategy agreed with the chief meant only a handful of officers were aware Tom Lowe was in custody. Thinking it through Sarah had boiled it down to one man. Knowing who'd been feeding the reporter didn't make it easier. In fact it left a bitter taste.

She reached for the overnights, leafed through reports, answered a few emails, made a couple of calls, told herself it wasn't displacement activity.

The squad room was pretty hectic, twenty or more detectives, bashing phones, tapping keyboards. Media coverage of yesterday's reconstruction had prompted another influx of calls. Sarah walked in, glanced round, spotted John Hunt, headed over. Harries sat at the next desk.

She waited until the DS came off the line.

‘Huntie, how're you fixed? Free to come with me on a house call?'

‘Sure. No problem.' He'd already grabbed his jacket. ‘Where to?'

‘Small Heath. Karen Lowe's place.'

‘Did I get the wrong end of the stick, boss?' Harries frowned. ‘I thought
we
were going out there. You mentioned it last night.'

‘I'm not discussing it now, Harries. I'll see you in my office when I get back.'

‘So what . . . ?'

‘There's a stack of witness statements that need reviewing, cross-referencing. You can make a start on that.'

‘Ma'am.' Tight-lipped.

He looked like a schoolboy who'd been given lines, resentment was there, sure, and she thought she'd seen a touch of fear.

When the door opened, Sarah flashed a bright smile. ‘Karen! Ever get that feeling of déjà vu?'

The girl didn't bother stifling a yawn. Her hair was mussed, cheeks pillow-creased. ‘What time do you call this?'

‘Wake-up time. Are you letting us in or what?'

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘That'll be the kitchen then.' Sarah still breezy. ‘I could do with a coffee.'

‘Sodding make it an' all.' She traipsed into the kitchen, bare feet sticking on tacky lino. She had on a baggy none-too-clean T-shirt and yesterday's slap. Maybe she was thirsty: she'd relented and was filling the kettle. ‘So what you want this time? Come to arrest me, have you?' The tone was light, joshing. Sarah reckoned Karen was damn sure they weren't here to take her in, and why.

‘You haven't seen the news then?'

‘Don't be stupid. I only just got up.'

Sarah waited until Karen turned round. She wanted to see the girl's reactions, they'd be interesting, could be crucial.

‘Your father's at police headquarters. He came in yesterday and confessed to the killings.'

‘No!' She staggered to a chair; her face losing the little colour it had. ‘It's not true. He couldn't have.' She sat on her hands to stop them shaking. Her shock was genuine – so was Sarah's.

She exchanged glances with Hunt. The DS turned his mouth down, held out empty palms. ‘He says he did, Karen.' She watched as the girl rocked back and forth with tears streaming down her cheeks. It was the last thing Sarah was expecting to see. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘
You're
sorry? My father's been charged with murder and
you're
sorry?'

‘He's not been charged.'

‘Is he going to be?'

‘If the confession stands. Yes.'

She shook her head. ‘No way. I don't believe it. It can't be true.'

And until she had answers, Sarah wasn't sure what to believe any more either.

‘What did you think, John?'

Sarah and Hunt were driving back to HQ, the DS at the wheel. She wanted his assessment of Karen's reactions. He'd been on the edge of the action recently, he'd look at it with a fresh pair of eyes, hopefully give a more neutral interpretation.

‘Well, not having—'

‘Come on, John. I don't want chapter and verse. Just your initial impressions.'

‘She was devastated. Virtually incoherent.'

‘Yes. She was . . . wasn't she?' She spoke slowly, lost in thought.

‘What's on your mind?'

‘Nothing really.' She shook her head. ‘Forget it.'

‘Go on, tell me. I'm interested.'

‘I guess I had some preconceived ideas. But they seem to be turning out premature.' She just hoped they weren't going to die on her. ‘I was convinced Karen knew about her father. I laid a false trail or two for her hoping to get at the truth.' Turning her head, she gazed through the window, spoke almost to herself. ‘Maybe I gave the wrong directions.'

‘You've certainly lost me.'

She smiled. He wasn't being obtuse. She was. ‘OK, here's the deal: I'm pretty sure Tom Lowe's no killer. I'm equally convinced Karen Lowe knows who is. Yesterday, I told her we had a witness placing her at the scene.'

‘I hadn't heard that.'

She filled him in on Walter Clarke's statement, then: ‘It's unreliable evidence, John. I don't think he's lying. I think he's mistaken. I told Karen he was prepared to swear to it in court. I think she convinced herself we'd make up the rest and she'd end up inside. Total bollocks, but I didn't try convincing her otherwise.'

‘Why?'

‘She knows something, John. I've felt it off and on all along. I think she knows just about everything. I wanted her to talk. And I think she has, but not to the right people. And certainly not me.'

FORTY-SEVEN

‘
C
an I have a word, ma'am?' Harries popped his head round the door of Sarah's office. ‘Deborah Lowe's downstairs demanding to see her old man.'

Well, that didn't take long.
Unlike her daughter, Deborah Lowe obviously kept an eye on the news. Sarah glanced up from a report she was trying to write. ‘She can't.'
Not yet anyway.

‘She's kicking off, refusing to budge until she speaks to him.'

She saved the file. ‘I'll go down.'

Deborah Lowe, still ranting at the front desk sergeant, failed to register Sarah's approach. Sarah observed the woman in action for fifteen seconds or so, then: ‘Mrs Lowe. Good morning. How may I help?'

She turned, eyes flashing. ‘I want to see my husband, that's how you can help. Have you seen this? It's all lies.' She was tugging a newspaper from her shopping bag. Sarah's copy was in the bin.

‘I have. And we need to talk, Mrs Lowe. The sergeant here will take you through to an interview room. I won't keep you long.'

There was someone she had to see first.

Sarah made her way to the squad room. Harries was hunched over a keyboard, tapping with two fingers.

‘My office, now.'

She turned on her heel, heard footsteps follow. The growing anger was directed at herself almost as much as Harries. She'd trusted him, taken him into her confidence, even let him into her home. No, scrub that. He'd tricked his way in with some cook and bullshit story. Her suspicion had started then, was confirmed last night. His betrayal felt personal as well as professional.

‘Sit down. I'll come straight to the point. How close are you to Caroline King?'

He reddened slightly. ‘Not with you, boss.'

She leaned back in her chair, fingers laced. ‘I don't think you've been
with
me at all.'

‘Sorry?'

‘I thought I could trust you.'

‘Of course you can trust me.' He frowned. ‘I don't understand.' Confused. Uncertain. He was a better actor than she'd given him credit for.

‘Then I'll ask again. How close are you to Caroline King?'

He swallowed, reddened further. ‘We've been out a couple of times.' Breaking eye contact, he added, ‘It's not relevant to the inquiry, ma'am.'

Screwing King?
She snorted. ‘Not relevant to the inquiry?'
The bastard's been screwing us both – one way or another.
‘Since day one, an insider's systematically leaked vital material to that woman. Information I deliberately withheld.'