Mother Love (15 page)

‘Well, we know it's him.' Hands in pockets, Baker stopped pacing, faced the floor. ‘The “could make it quicker” line's no coincidence. He couldn't make it clearer if he tried. More to the point, we know he's still after her.' Which was why the police guard at the hospital had been doubled and was now armed.

Something had bugged Sarah since first hearing the tape; it struck her now. ‘There's no upward inflexion.' The reason suddenly seemed obvious. And nothing to do with not watching
Neighbours
. Blank looks suggested it needed spelling out. ‘“Listen up, OK.”' She aped the flat pause-free delivery. And again: ‘“But I won't, OK.” He's not asking
us
to listen. In fact I don't think he's telling
us
anything.' Except how much contempt he held for cops.

‘I get it, boss.' Harries hunched forward on a hard chair at the front. ‘Not OK – OK, Olivia Kent. The warning's personal. He wants her to hear it, wants her to be aware he hasn't gone away.'

Would that she was aware of anything
. ‘That's my reading, David.' The acoustic forensics specialists would doubtless read deeper. The tape would go there as soon as.

‘How'd he find out she's in hospital?' Madison.

‘Educated guess?' Baker grabbed the nearest chair, turned it to face him and proceeded to straddle it. The leg-over manoeuvre wasn't a good look for a fat man. Sarah averted her gaze, shook off irreverent thoughts of Sitting Bull. The chief elaborated blithely. ‘He knew about the fire 'cause he called it in. Shit! Hey, Quinn, we need the—'

Tape to compare voices. ‘On to it, Chief.' As a matter of course, triple-nines were recorded; she'd already asked someone in admin to liaise with the operator bods, rustle up a copy. She'd stake a month's salary it was the same voice. ‘I'm wondering if it's more than that though. The QE's a hell of a big place.' The location had been specified, he wouldn't have just plucked the HDU out of the air.

‘You think he might have stuck around after making the call? Picked up a whisper?'

She tilted her head. ‘Possible, isn't it?' It was no myth that perps sometimes returned to crime scenes. Maybe their man had loitered with intent. He couldn't have failed to spot the air ambulance, may have seen Olivia being stretchered out, oxygen mask over her face. ‘Was the press out there, Chief?' Specifically photographers, TV crews. It was just possible the guy had been captured on film.

‘Only your mate, King, as far as I know,' Baker said. ‘Best check though.'

Sarah nodded at the DC seated next to Harries: Raj Ali was mid-forties, mild-mannered, single and a safe pair of hands. She watched him make a note, then listened with half an ear as Baker assigned routine tasks.

Operation Venus was still at that feeling its way, fact-finding stage. Not enough pieces to put together a frame, let alone a picture. Mind, the whiteboard was beginning to fill up. Later sightings of Olivia had been established thanks to Shona Bruce, Huntie and CCTV. Sarah's keen-eyed gaze followed red arrows and dotted lines added to the map in thick marker pen. Olivia Kent's library visit on Saturday morning was now confirmed. Shona had talked to staff; none had recalled anything out of the ordinary in Olivia's manner. No shadowy tail with stalker tattooed across his forehead. That'd be too much to ask.

There was quite a bit of footage of Olivia though, not just entering and exiting the library. Sarah made a mental note to view the material. Apparently it showed her walking along Precinct Way in Harborne, calling in briefly at three shops: Sainsbury's Local, Boots, the British Heart Foundation. The DI pursed her lips, wondered if Olivia had taken the motor, or after returning from her mother's had decided to venture out on foot. The Golf hadn't shown up in checks on local car parks. Hadn't surfaced at all yet. Detectives had found the items she'd bought – olive bread, eggs, shampoo – at the house in Platt Lane. So though the CCTV trail ran out shortly after the BHF stop-off, the evidence pointed to Olivia having made it home. Was she abducted from there? There'd been no sign of a struggle. Did she know the guy, let him in with open arms? Or was she snatched off the street later? With Saturday mid-afternoon as the last known sighting, there was still a big window for more to materialize.

‘You still with us, Quinn?'

She gave a distracted nod. ‘Why'd he take her, Chief? And why's he still after her?'

‘Answers on a postcard, please.' There was no jocularity in the tone. He knew they were the biggies and looked as hacked off as Sarah that they remained unanswered. Not through want of trying: squad members had by now had phone conversations with at least fifty of Olivia's known associates. Only one so far warranted a face-to-face interview. A keen-eyed DC had spotted the details in an address book brought back from Olivia's home. And picked up the potential during a brief chat with the guy. Sarah had earmarked the follow-up session for herself. Philip Kent was also on her task list. Olivia's father had responded to a message she'd left on his voice mail. He'd be back in Birmingham late tonight; they'd arranged a meeting for tomorrow.

She tapped a pen against her teeth. It'd be a big help if Olivia's mobile turned up. The search team at the house still hadn't uncovered it, or her laptop. The fact there'd been no keys – house or motor – in Olivia's bag found in the basement was telling. It almost certainly meant the perp had trousered them and still had access to both.

Baker ran a finger round his collar; had a bit of shaving rash going there, she spotted. Not that it seemed to have affected his heavy hand with the Paco Rabanne.

‘Forensics are still working both scenes. Best hope they find something to write home about. I hear they've lifted a load of goodies from Cameron Towers.'

Goodies?
Sarah had seen some of the bags lined up last night. The FSI guys couldn't afford to ignore potential evidence, but the basement had been a forensic nightmare: chocker with paper rubbish, rags, sacking, cardboard boxes, packing cases, tea chests. Thankfully fire damage had been confined to a small area, but God knows how much water had been pumped in. Forensic guys and the fire investigation team had been wading through black gunge initially.

‘Are we anywhere on who owns it yet, Mickey?' Baker asked.

Madison gave a thumb's up. ‘Nearly there, guv.'

Sarah took that as a no. He was a lazy sod. Establishing ownership wasn't difficult: local authority, land registry, then it was what she called GOYFA, as in Get Off Your Fat Arse. ‘Tried the neighbours, have you, Madison?'

‘Thanks . . . ma'am.' The scowl said anything but.

‘Enough already. 'Fore we hit the trail –' she winced as Baker dismounted – ‘what are we calling this guy?' It was the chief's thing, attaching a handle to an unidentified perp. It was certainly easier if the squad had a name to bandy about, especially at briefs. Bastard got tired very quickly. The chief usually came up with a cracker. ‘Anyone?'

‘Sicknote?' Harries offered.

‘The Poet.' Twig's contribution.

Sarah frowned, couldn't make the connection, interpreted Baker's half-curled lip as: not bad, could do better.

‘FB.' Madison assumed blank expressions meant it was too deep. ‘Y'know, short for fuck . . .' Short for something.

‘Nah.' Baker flapped a hand. ‘We'll call him ET.' The squad watched him amble towards the exit. It took a second or two to work out, but the DI had a half-smile when he turned with the punch line. ‘Let's face it . . . the bloke's always on the bloody phone.'

TWENTY-FOUR

‘
W
ho's the old boy sent to the school then, boss?' DC Harries was driving; Sarah making a few notes. The interview with one of Olivia Kent's exes had been set up for midday in town; the DI wanted to drop by Cameron Towers en route. Should be worth a look in daylight.

‘Old boy, DC Harries?' She smoothed her skirt. David had only been on the squad five minutes. So it was hardly familiarity breeding contempt, it needed knocking on the head. ‘Are you referring to Detective Chief Superintendent Baker?'

‘Sorry, ma'am. No offence.'

She cut him a glance, saw the apology was genuine. Good. She so didn't need another Mickey Madison. ‘Shona and Jed Holmes are out there.'

Shona Bruce and Jed Holmes. Jed was a DC with seven years' squad membership under his belt. If he shared his namesake's powers of deductive reasoning, they were hidden under his hat. Sarah regarded him as a nice enough bloke, a team player, not one of life's thinkers. Baker called him ‘No shit'.

‘Best of luck to them then.' Harries sniffed. ‘Rust won't be rolling out the red carpet.'

‘That won't bother Shona.' DC Bruce was more than capable of holding her own. She'd walk the sergeant's exams if only Sarah could persuade her to go for promotion.

‘Think they'll get anywhere, boss?'

‘Apart from up Dr Rust's proboscis?' She slipped the notepad back in her briefcase. ‘Have to wait and see.' They only had it on the head's authority that a call had been made to the school. Given ET's predilection for the phone, it was even more regrettable the putative conversation hadn't been recorded. As for the JR loves OK artwork, it was still suspect, needed further probing. ‘I guess it depends if there's anywhere to go, David.' And how good Rust's word was.

The roads were slick, though it had stopped raining. She gazed through the window, her thoughts on the upcoming interview. Harries must've read something more into her silence.

‘I didn't mean anything by the “old boy”, boss.'

‘Term of affection, was it?' She masked a smile. Harries' heart was in the right place.

‘I wouldn't go that far. But he's not a bad gaffer.'

‘You'll be gutted to hear he's taking a back seat on Venus then?' Baker had called her in for a word after the brief, said he'd be around in a consultancy capacity, but day-to-day running of the inquiry would – as he put it – be her baby.

‘That's good, isn't it?' He glanced at the DI's profile. ‘Means he has faith in you.'

‘If you say so.' She was under no illusion. The case didn't have major incident status, wouldn't normally warrant a DCS as senior investigator. It was procedure giving it to a DI. At the same time, Baker was partial to a bit of glory. She reckoned if a sniff of it was going, he'd step in from the wings soon enough. Still, boss's prerogative and all that.

‘It must be hard for him sometimes, boss.' Harries tapped the wheel.

‘How'd you make that one out?'

‘Stepping back when you're a hands-on sort of guy. I mean, you'd never call the chief a desk jockey, would you?'

Desk jockey?
It was the thought association that did it. She bit her lip to stifle laughter.

‘You OK, boss?'

She nodded, couldn't speak. It was ages since she'd had a fit of the giggles.

Caroline King was close to tears; the immaculate mascara at serious risk. Crying at will was useful in the news game, a finely pitched blend of emotion could persuade even the most reluctant interviewee to play ball. Apart from anything else it complemented the hard core every decent reporter possessed. Caroline had acquired the tiny tears routine early in her career, after perfecting the clinical detachment. She couldn't recall the last time there'd been genuine waterworks. This was different. These were for real. And they were too close for comfort.

‘Who did this to you, my friend?' One of her small fists was clenched so tightly it hurt; the other she stretched out tentatively to Olivia. Even conscious, Olivia would have struggled to hear the words. Both desperately upset and incandescent, Caroline could barely speak as she took in the damage. A livid damson collar encircled Olivia's neck, darker bruising shaded hollows in her skin, the eyes were swollen, lips cracked. One arm, now elevated, was swathed in sterile white dressings, and a thin cotton sheet lay loosely over her body. The image – bizarrely – put Caroline in mind of an Egyptian mummy, halfway through the procedure, waiting for an attendant to finish the job.

‘Olivia's getting better, Caroline.' Elizabeth Kent's brisk tone brooked no argument as she stroked a gentle finger down her daughter's cheek. ‘The doctors are more than happy with how well she's responding.' Olivia was off the tube and breathing unaided but she was heavily sedated. God knows what psychological state she'd be in when she came round, woke to the full horror of what she'd been through, whatever that was.

Caroline's smile was for Elizabeth's benefit. ‘Good, that's great.' She wouldn't rain on the older woman's parade. She watched Elizabeth slip off her coat, smooth her hair, drag an easy chair closer to the bed. Mrs Kent wore a bright red dress and had made an effort with make-up. Caroline thought the woman still looked shattered. The reporter hadn't slept well either; she'd been up late doing a little research and detective work. A damn sight more than Quinn was doing, she reckoned. She'd flicked through address books, photo albums, family videos, Olivia's letters home. Sure, she was assessing the material for potential use in news reports. But was it possible she'd uncover clues to the abduction?

Glancing at Olivia's still form, Caroline, not for the first time, wished she was clairvoyant. Because assuming it wasn't a random attack by some sort of psycho, then surely Olivia must know the bastard's identity?

She'd come across old diaries in the bedroom Livvie had used as a child. The jottings were amusing but not illuminating. More recent journals, if she still kept them, would presumably be at the house in Harborne. A spare key currently nestled in Caroline's pocket. She was borrowing it; Elizabeth wouldn't mind.

‘Give me a hand with this, would you, dear?' She'd brought in a goodie bag – grape-free, but containing everything Olivia liked, might respond to: family photographs, stuffed toys, crime novels, silk flowers, scarves, paper, pencils, biscuits, jelly babies. Caroline had driven into town to buy other items: a cheap mobile to keep her going, CDs, DVDs, outrageously expensive smellies and a range of glossy trash mags.