A Question of Despair (6 page)

Sarah knelt to meet the girl's eye-line. ‘Karen, is there anything you can think of that might help us? Did you see anyone, anyone at all near the paper shop?' Slow head shake. ‘Have you been aware of anyone following you? Anyone acting strangely?'

‘I'd've said, wouldn't I?'

Sarah raised a palm. ‘Think about it, Karen.'

The girl sighed, closed her eyes, rocked back and forth. It looked to Sarah as if she was going through the motions. The sound of kids playing in the street floated through the open window; the cry of a seagull, a police siren. ‘No,' the girl said eventually. ‘Nothing. I told you everything yesterday. I went into the shop, there was an old woman there, I came out and Evie was gone.'

Had they spoken to the woman yet? Sarah made a mental note. ‘I appreciate this is difficult, Karen, but can you think of anyone who'd want to harm you?'

Another shake of the head. ‘The other cop asked already.'

John Hunt. ‘And?'

‘No one I know'd be that sick.'

‘Where's her father?' The sudden change of subject didn't work.

‘He's got nothing to do with this. How many times you need telling?'

‘If he's got nothing to do with it, give me his name.' He'd have to be interviewed if only for elimination purposes. Sooner the better so they could cross him off the list. Or not.

‘I don't know.'

‘Oh come on, Karen.' Sarah was losing patience. ‘You must know his name.'

‘Yeah, maybe.' She reached for a cigarette, scowled when she saw the pack was empty. ‘If I knew who he was.'

Was she lying? Or did she sleep around? Both probably. Sarah rose. It wasn't her role to sit in judgement. The priority was finding the baby. She'd ask Jess to probe further, try and get a list of boyfriends.

The news headlines were on TV now, a split screen showing the pushchair and Evie's pic. It had to be worth a try. Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘Karen, do you want to help?'

‘Course.'

It was hardly a new idea, a relative making a witness appeal on camera. It wouldn't be what Caroline King had in mind, a weepy interview with moody shots and tacky heart-tugging voice-over. It would be a strictly controlled news conference and Karen would be properly coached. The fact it would cut the ground from under King's feet had nothing to do with it.

Sarah took the nearest seat to the girl, leaned towards her, hands between knees. ‘I'll be honest with you, Karen, most criminal investigations rely on witnesses, information from people in the street. Tell you the truth I'm surprised no one's come forward already. We know there were lots of people around yesterday – we need to reach them.'

‘Yeah?' The girl straightened, and for the first time met Sarah's gaze. ‘And how do you do that?'

‘
You
do it, Karen.'

‘What d'you mean?'

Jess entered, picked up the vibe, placed a tray on the table and left them to it. ‘I'll call a news conference,' Sarah continued. ‘Later today would be best. I'll get all the papers and the TV people there and you tell them how much Evie means to you. How much you want her back.'

‘No way.' Her hair swung like limp curtains across her face. ‘I can't do that.'

‘Course you can. Millions of people will see it. Just one phone call could give us the break we need.'

‘I can't, I just can't.' What was wrong with the girl? The protest seemed way over the top.

‘Why not?'

‘I'd be useless.'

It's not about you.
Christ, if it was her child, Sarah would do anything to get it back. Feelings hidden by a warm smile, Sarah gently coaxed. ‘You'll be great. Don't worry, I'll help. You won't have to answer any questions if you don't want to. I'll write a few words for you to read out. That's all you'd have to do, read a few lines asking people if they have any information that could help. And appealing to whoever's holding Evie to bring her back.'

‘Will Jess be there, too?'

‘Sure, no worries.'

More dithering, but she finally agreed. ‘OK. What do you want me to say?'

Sarah sat back. ‘We'll work that out later. When it's set up, I'll send a car to drive you to police headquarters. Would you like your mother there as well?'

‘If she's there – forget it.'

Hunt had mentioned something about them being estranged. It seemed a shame. ‘I'd have thought you could do with your mother around at a time like this?'

‘What would you know?'

Not enough. Not yet anyway. ‘No worries. It's your call, Karen.' She pulled her car keys out of a pocket. Better to leave while the going was relatively good. She'd pursue the mother issue later. The girl either didn't hear or ignored the goodbye.

Sarah found Jess in the kitchen, brought her up to speed, said she'd call as soon as the arrangements were made. She was about to let herself out of the flat when the bell rang. To echo Karen's phrase: that's all she needed. What was Caroline King doing here? As if she needed to ask. She presumed the reporter's shock was mirrored in her own expression. This time her recovery was quicker. ‘Ms King? What do you want?'

‘I'm here to speak to the baby's mother.'

‘Out of the question.' Sarah pulled the door to behind her, invaded King's space. The six-inch height difference didn't seem to faze the reporter.

‘Perhaps we should ask her?'

‘And perhaps we won't. How did you get this address?'

King smiled. ‘I'm a reporter, remember. It's my job to find things out.'

‘And I'm a senior police officer, and it's my job to protect the vulnerable. I say you're not talking to her. She'll be at a news conference later today at Lloyd House. Until then you won't even ask as much as her name. Is that clear?'

King shrugged. ‘What time's the conference?'

‘You're the reporter.' She clutched her briefcase under an arm. ‘Find out.'

It was childish, a cheap jibe, nothing more than point scoring. Yes. Sarah smiled. But, boy, did it feel good. And she had ground to make up. She resisted the urge to wave as she watched King drive past in a black Mercedes sports. Checking the mirror, she pulled away from the kerb, pointed the motor back to base.

When had the sun come out? She lowered the visor, grabbed her shades. A quick glance at the dashboard clock showed 10.05. The early brief would be history now. If there'd been a major development, someone would have phoned. Yes, right. Recalling her rude awakening, Sarah used the hands-free to check in with the incident room. Woodie supplied a quick rundown: six iffy sightings, three women had reported seeing a ‘weirdo' hanging round Small Heath park recently, two men on the sex offenders' register appeared to have gone AWOL. Officers had been tasked, it was all being followed up.

She asked if anyone had spoken to the old woman in the paper shop. Still no joy, there.

‘Give me the house number, Paul.' She virtually passed the end of the street, may as well swing by on the way back. She made a quick call to Jess first. Told her the press was sniffing round. Just in case.

EIGHT

C
aroline King sat in the parked Mercedes waiting until she saw Quinn's motor pass the end of the road. Difference between an amateur and a pro? Forget giving up after the first hurdle, pros persist after the last ditch. Caroline drove back to the flats, parked in the same spot, touched up the lipstick, smoothed the bob and applied the face that said she cared.

She did. Desperately. To talk to Karen Lowe. The reporter wanted an exclusive interview with the mother, not just a few trite platitudes wheeled out at a free-for-all news conference. Caroline didn't want a foot in the door; she wanted both Louboutins under the table. If she could forge some sort of relationship with Karen Lowe, depending how things panned out, there could even be a book in it. She'd covered a couple of similar stories in her career, but her intuition was telling her there was more in this one, a lot more. And she wanted it all.

It was déjà vu with the doorbell. But this time she heard a woman talking inside. The conversation sounded pretty one-sided, could be on the phone, of course. Caroline pressed her ear to the wood, waited until she heard the right noises then rang again.

The woman hadn't answered the door to put out the welcome mat. ‘And you are?' Caroline busked, on the balls of her feet. ‘Hello there. I'm Maggie Fearnley? Social Services? I thought I'd drop by see if Karen needs anything.'

In her line of work, Jess Parry knew a lot of social workers. Her cocked eyebrow and pursed lips suggested none looked like this. Caroline thought the Armani suit might be a giveaway. It said catwalk not council worker. Jess asked for ID.

‘I'm so glad you asked.' Caroline smiled. ‘Not enough people do. Some of us are too trusting these days, aren't we?'

Unsmiling, Jess held out a palm.

‘Of course.' She reached into a taupe leather shoulder bag. Frowning, she dug deeper, careful not to over do it. ‘I'm sorry. I think it must be in my other bag.'

‘Course it is. And I'm the pope's god-daughter.'

‘OK, you got me. What do I say now?' She smiled. ‘It's a fair cop?'

‘That would be particularly stupid, wouldn't it?'

She dropped the pretence. The woman was too hostile to be won round. Probably a cop, then. ‘OK, fair dos. I'm not a social worker, I'm a reporter.'

From Sarah's description on the phone, it wasn't hard for Jess to work out who. ‘Yes, and you've already been told to clear off once.'

‘Come on. I'm only trying to do my job.'

‘True. You're trying. I'm doing. And at the moment that means keeping you and your social work friends away from Karen Lowe.'

Caroline's toe was tapping. ‘Go and ask what she wants.'

Jess made to close the door.

‘Are you refusing to pass on my request for an interview to Miss Lowe?'

‘Got it in one.'

‘You've no right . . .'

‘Miss Lowe will be at a news conference at police headquarters this afternoon. Until then she's resting. She's got enough on her plate without answering stupid questions'

Caroline was angry now. She wasn't some run-of-the-mill hack, and she didn't ask stupid questions. ‘You're the one being stupid. I'm the one who could actually help that girl get her baby back. I'm the one who—'

‘Could stop wasting everyone's time.'

It wasn't the first time a door had been slammed in Caroline's face. She doubted it would be the last.

Sarah stepped back from the pristine front door with its shiny brass knocker and looked up at the neat terraced house. Dora Marple was a widow in her early eighties who lived alone. According to Robert White she rarely went out, a daughter did most of the shopping, Dora popped into the newsagent's now and then, more to pass the time of day than anything. So where was she? And where had she been when officers had called before?

Sarah took a business card from her pocket, scribbled a few lines, slipped it through the letterbox. She was almost at the car when something made her turn back. She knelt, opened the letterbox, and looked through the gap. It was the smell that hit her first.

NINE

B
lood and human waste have distinctive odours, impossible to describe but absolutely unmistakeable. Sarah registered both even before her glance took in the body. Dora Marple's thin frame lay at an unnatural angle at the foot of the stairs. Blood had poured and pooled from a head wound. The dark almost black colour indicated it was a while since it stopped flowing. How long had the body lain there? More to the point, how had it got there? Eyes wide, Sarah gasped. Was that a trick of the light? She refocused. No. Another barley perceptible twitch.

Grabbing her phone from a jacket pocket she barked instructions while sprinting round to the back of the house. Paramedics would be on the way now, but if she could get in . . . Shielding her eyes from the sun, she gazed up at the property. Windows looked secure, back door was locked.

‘Hey, you.' A man with white hair and beard, brandishing a garden fork watched from next door's fence. ‘What's your game?'

‘Police. I need to get into the house. Now.' Tone of voice, urgent air, whatever. It did the trick.

‘I'll get the key. Meet you at the front.'

He was there in less than a minute. ‘Here y'go love. Look out for each other me and Dorrie do.' Neighbourhood gnome?

She turned the key, glanced back. ‘Thanks, Mr . . . ?'

‘Trent. Stanley.'

‘I'll manage now. Can you keep an eye out for the ambulance?'

The smell inside made her gag. The fact it could be a crime scene and she could be compromising evidence was secondary in her thinking, saving life came first.

Breathing through her mouth, she approached Dora, simultaneously darting glances round the hall. No obvious signs of a struggle, no handy blunt instrument, it was conceivable the old woman had fallen on the stairs, hit her head on the way down. Conceivable. And highly coincidental.

The left arm was broken, bone protruded through the skin. X-rays could reveal more fractures. No way could Sarah risk moving her, but she could at least talk to her. Squatting at her side, she brought her face close to the old woman's. ‘Mrs Marple? Can you hear me?'

Brittle beige eyelids fluttered, the faintest puff of breath escaped through sepia lips. ‘Help's on the way, Dora. Hang on in there, sweetheart. We'll soon have you taken care of.' Sarah stroked the woman's hand half afraid of snapping its small twig-like fingers.