Child's Play (11 page)

‘Caitlin can certainly act, boss. Her drama teacher told us that.' Slumped behind a desk, Harries had been uncharacteristically quiet. It could be he hadn't wanted to voice dissent; Dave generally gave Sarah total support in front of the troops. He probably didn't rate the theory. Either that or he was miffed she'd turned down his offer of a quick jar after work tonight.

‘Hey Dave.' Jed Holmes waved from across the room. ‘
Call-me Jude
would've told you anything, wouldn't she?' Holmes followed the sly dig by puckering rubbery lips into a pantomime kiss. Through narrowed eyes, Sarah watched Dave colour and his mouth come the closest she could recall to a snarl.

‘Shut it, No-Shit.' The skin stretched white across his knuckles.

‘Come on, man. You know she fancies the pants—'

‘Go fuck.'

‘After you, son.' Holmes' lascivious wink was superfluous. Sarah didn't need it to interpret the innuendo. Nor Harries apparently, who was already on his feet.

‘Back in the chair, detective.' She raised a palm. ‘What do you think this is? A bloody playgroup?'

‘No.' Harries sank back in the seat. ‘I think you're wrong about Caitlin. The way I see it, she could be Helen Mirren's lovechild, I still can't believe she'd pull off such a shitty trick. So I reckon you need to go back to the drawing board. Ma'am.'

‘And you need to show respect, Harries.'

‘I do. Or I'd have pissed on this Caitlin-crap-parade a lot sooner.'

Parade? The inquiry had a parade? She should be so lucky. Right now she couldn't even see a milk float.

‘Y
ou're bloody lucky I'm still here.' Caroline tapped a showy watch, shoved an empty glass across the table. Lucky to get a seat, too. Gone seven on a Friday, The Bacchus in Broad Street was already heaving. Mind, all the fake grapes draped round faux-Doric columns took up a bunch of floor space.

‘Sorry,' Sarah said. ‘Traffic was the pits.' Rain always slowed the flow. Five minutes wouldn't kill King though. She forced a smile, reached for the glass. ‘Same again, I take it?' The lemon peel bore nibble marks and the two-thirds empty Schweppes' bottle on the table pointed to a G&T, plus Sarah had never known the reporter drink anything else in the decade and more since they'd met.

‘Yeah. Plenty of ice.' Caroline had a glint in the eye. As an afterthought, she called out: ‘Grab some nuts while you're at it, eh?' She curved a lip. Sarah's muttered ‘my pleasure' hadn't been as
sotto voce
as she thought. The reporter lounged back on the mock-leather bench, watched a group of middle-aged suits part like waves as the detective walked to the bar. Maybe they'd heard the nuts remark and feared for their sphericals. No, that was bollocks. Caroline suspected it had more to do with the cool blonde's tight-ass strut. Whatever. Five blokes' heads swivelled in sync to admire the stately process.

Still observing, Caroline swigged the dregs of the tonic. She loathed admitting it but the bloody woman had always had enviable presence. At nearly six foot in stockinged feet, who wouldn't? Not that Caroline blended into the background like a shrinking violet. In her job public recognition was par for the course. As for Sarah? Who knew? The sudden show of male interest could have something to do with the fact that her face, like new author Caroline's, had just been plastered all over the regional telly programme on the pub's widescreen.

Caroline reached for her tote, checked inside. No more fan mail; the original still nestled there though. She shook her head. It didn't take a genius to work out why Quinn had issued the drinks invite. Tucking the bag on the floor at her kitten heels, she glanced up just as the waves parted again. Talk about DI Moses. ‘By the way, pal,' she said, ‘I really appreciate it. Thanks.'

Sarah hadn't sat down, let alone handed over the glass. ‘For?'

‘Spreading the word?' Caroline, all innocence, fished out the slice of lemon, sank perfect teeth into its flesh.

Sarah took the opposite seat. ‘Sorry. I'm not with you.'

‘The news conference? The missing girl? Good of you to let me know.'

‘Right. Look, I'm sorr—'

‘Don't.' Caroline lifted a finger. ‘There's only so many apologies a girl can take in one night.'

Sarah dug the Planters out of her coat pocket, slung the pack across the table. ‘Peace offering?'

‘Cheers.' She clinked her glass against Sarah's, reckoned the end of hostilities would cost more than a palm full of nuts. Given the detective was after Caroline's help, for her not to have mentioned the news conference was piss poor. Waiting until Sarah took a sip of wine, she said, ‘Anyway, the thanks were real. From what I heard it was a non-event, so you saved me a wasted journey. You didn't look exactly ecstatic yourself.' Face like a slapped ass was the phrase that crossed Caroline's mind as she'd watched the DI's turn on the box. Considering it was a witness appeal, the cool cop would hardly have warmed herself to viewers. Maybe Caroline should offer her some media training, mates' rates. The thought prompted a lazy grin that stretched wider when she recalled her own expert act. And the audience in the background. She doubted the tipster would be stupid enough to get in shot but she'd cast her eye over the rushes later, courtesy of Eddie the editor.

‘I didn't catch the report actually.' Sarah draped her coat across the back of the chair. ‘Still, since you're so happy, I'm sure you'll have no problem returning the favour?'

She'd walked into that. ‘Go on.' Elbows on table, Caroline leaned forward, listened carefully as Sarah outlined how vital it was they find out more about the tip-off. If it had come from a bona-fide contact, she said, no one was asking Caroline to break the confidence. But given how few people had known about Caitlin's disappearance, how thin on the ground genuine sources could have been? ‘You know where I'm coming from,' Sarah said. ‘There's a chance it stems from the guy holding her.'

The reporter nodded. Like she hadn't thought of that. Whoever it came from had at least a smidgeon of inside knowledge. Caroline played for time, weighing her options along with a sip of her drink. She'd not deliberately held back; she'd kept her cards close because apart from the note, she had nothing to share. But also, if she played them correctly, the mysterious correspondent, having singled her out once, might deal a few more.
Would
deal a few more. The note had made that clear: the tip off's free –
this time.
What journalist would risk jeopardizing another steer? Certainly not Caroline.

She placed the glass on the table. ‘Scout's honour, Sarah, I'd help if I could. Fact is, I haven't a clue where or who it came from.' She'd found the note in her bag, she said, after a signing at Waterstones. Someone had obviously slipped it in while she was otherwise occupied.

‘Can I see it?'

‘Sure.' She reached for the nuts. ‘I haven't got it on me though.' Strictly speaking that was true. She caught Sarah's eyebrow arching.

‘What did it say?'

‘Let's think.' She ran a pensive hand through her bob, like the words weren't branded verbatim in her brain. ‘A schoolgirl's been snatched off the street … Why no police hunt? … Why isn't it all over the news? Oh yeah …' A smile played on her lips. ‘And why aren't you giving the cops a hard time?'

‘Is that word for word?'

‘Far as I recall.'

Sarah turned her mouth down. ‘And you didn't notice anything in Waterstones? No one acting strangely?'

‘I think I might have mentioned it, don't you?' She ignored the detective's sceptical shrug. ‘Anyway there's no guarantee it happened there. I got into town early so I could troll round the shops, had lunch in Café Rouge. After the signing, I did an interview in the street outside the store. It's not like the bag was surgically attached to me all that time.'

‘And it's always open like that?' Sarah pointed her glass at the bulging bag. ‘Christ, what's in there? The fridge freezer?'

‘No need to look so sniffy, pal.' She popped a couple of peanuts in her mouth, glanced round when the doors burst open and a dozen or so women in fancy dress including four in cop uniform staggered in. The drunken rendition of ‘Love and Marriage' was punctuated by giggles and mutual back-slapping. ‘Reckon it's a police raid?' Caroline smiled. ‘Or a funeral party?'

Sarah flapped a ‘who gives a toss' hand. ‘What I can't work out is whether the note business was planned or spur of the moment? I mean, how would he know you were in Birmingham, let alone what you'd be up to?'

‘Christ, Sarah, I'm on a book tour; there's posters all over the place, a feature in last night's
Birmingham News
. Beside all that – as you well know – I've been a TV journo for years.'

She nodded. ‘So you think he targeted you specifically?'

‘I …' Abrupt pause. She
knew
he had; he'd called himself her secret admirer. Clearly he thought she had clout, could whip up some coverage. Unless the whole thing was a wind-up? ‘I … don't know.'

‘You're sure about that, Caroline?'

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers. If you don't believe me there's no—'

‘That's not what I said.'

‘You didn't have to.' Glaring at Sarah over the rim, she drained her glass.

‘Would you …?'

‘No.' Lips tight, she grabbed the bag, got to her feet and took off.

For a second, Sarah thought Caroline was stropping out, but instead she watched her weave her way past the hen party. Two nuns in minuscule habits and fish nets were clearly in a meaningful relationship. A bottled blonde in pointy bra snatched a twenty-pound note from the cleavage of a schoolgirl with holey tights and Heidi plaits. A smiling Caroline chatted away to a Lady Gaga clone standing next to her at the bar. The reporter's easy warmth helped her connect instantly. Sarah had witnessed it before. People opened up to her, confided in her. It was partly why she was so good at her job. That and the sliver of ice in her soul.

Sarah gave a lop-sided smile. Maybe they had more in common than she'd care to admit. For the sixth or seventh time she checked her phone, had expected Shona or the search team to have been in touch by now. No news is good news? Depends on the definition of good. As for the TV news, coverage of Caitlin's disappearance couldn't have prompted any useful leads or whoever was on duty in the squad room would have contacted her. Head home? Or suggest grabbing a bite with Caroline? Sarah was starving and – who knew – after another drink or three Caroline might loosen up. Either way, she was loath to leave until securing a guarantee from the reporter that if the abductor made contact again, Sarah would be second to know. Sighing, she shook her head. Given she was pretty sure Caroline had already lied three times that evening, she'd not hold her breath. Lies, half-truths, omissions. It boiled down to the same thing really: the reporter was still as trustworthy as a hungry cat locked in a canary cage.

‘Have you read it then?' Caroline thrust a glass in front of the DI. ‘Still on the Sauvignon, yeah?'

‘Yes, cheers.' She took the drink. ‘Read what?'

‘My book.
Bad Men.
' Caroline plonked herself down. ‘I thought I sent you a copy?'

‘Yes, I should have mentioned it.' She'd skimmed it; anything more in-depth was on her to-do list. After painting her toe nails and cleaning the loo.

‘So? What did you think?'

Playing with the stem of her glass, she said: ‘It's what I'd expect from you, Caroline. Well-researched case histories, compellingly written, moving stuff.' After studiously avoiding eye contact, she looked up to find Caroline with a wry smile on her face.

‘Bollocks.' She shook her head. ‘You've not read it, have you?'

Street grooming and the devastating effects on young victims wasn't bedtime reading in Sarah's book. Having run a major investigation into a Birmingham grooming ring the year before last, she felt she knew more than she needed without Caroline's take.

‘Yeah well, it's your loss.' Caroline downed her drink, hoisted her bag, got to her feet. ‘Don't know about you but I've got a hot date.'

She hadn't even got a cold date. Pizza for one then. ‘Caro—'

‘I know, I know. If I hear anything …' Smiling, she waggled her fingers. ‘Ciao.'

Hot date? Cold date? Sarah grimaced. With another empty Friday night ahead, she'd happily settle for a blind date. She pushed the glass away, shucked into her still-damp coat; any more alcohol on an empty stomach and she'd regret it. Halfway to the door her mobile buzzed. She cupped a hand over her free ear to muffle the hen party's current offering: ‘Sisters Are Doin It For Themselves'.

‘Shona. What've we got?'

‘What do you want, ma'am? The good news or … the really good?'

T
he last time Nicola Reynolds saw Caitlin they'd had a blazing row over Luke Holden. Nicola had forbidden her daughter ever to see the guy again. Caitlin's parting shot before storming out of the house? ‘Back off. You don't own me.'

‘So much for never a crossed word.' Sarah huddled in the doorway. Despite Friday night traffic and footfall – think ticking taxis and clacking heels – it was a damn sight quieter than inside the bar. ‘Go on.'

Eliciting the admission, Shona said, had been like pulling wisdom teeth with foam pliers. Nicola eventually cracked when confronted with the Caitlin as co-conspirator scenario, tears had flowed, followed by a stream of words, mostly four-letter. ‘She swore blind Caitlin wouldn't be so cruel unless, quote, “some bastard was holding a fucking knife to her throat”. Well she would, wouldn't she? What mother wants to think the worst of her daughter? But it sort of stands up Naomi's theory, do you think, ma'am?'