Mother Love (19 page)

Nodding, Shona jotted a line in her notebook. Twig lifted the finger again. ‘You and Dave have heard both these guys speak, could one of them be . . .?

‘Our bomb scare merchant? Good question.' She'd given it a lot of thought. ‘Neither Rust nor Barfoot's a dead ringer vocally. But they're both sharp; I'd say they're more than capable of disguising their voice and given the quality of the recording, I wouldn't rule either of them out.' Harries was perched on a desk near the window. ‘David? Is that your take?'

He nodded, then: ‘They couldn't be in it together, could they, boss?' Frowning, hesitant. Either he was still thinking it through, or feared being shot down in flames.

Thinking outside the police box was fine by her. She certainly wouldn't deride, let alone discourage, theories however off-the-wall they appeared at first airing. Besides, connections invariably played a big part in a case. ‘Go on.'

‘Barfoot's a governor at the school, so they'd know each other that way.' He turned his mouth down. ‘Maybe they got chatting and realized Olivia had a hold over both of them. They're powerful men, fairly high profile, reputations to protect and a lot to lose if she opened her mouth.'

‘Must say it's always struck me as a two-man job, ma'am.' Hunt scratched his cheek.

‘OK, let's see if we can firm it up. Find more links.' It meant extra spadework. Did the men use the same gym, pub, barber, supermarket, doctor? Were they on other public bodies, charity boards, committees? How long had they known each other? Christ, they could have bonded over a couple of mugs of Bovril at a Blues match. Just one phone call, just one piece of intelligence could lead to a break that cracked the case. She tasked a couple of officers with the digging, then spotted DC Ali towards the back of the room. ‘Raj? Any joy?'

He'd been checking whether any media vultures had been hovering at the scene of the fire. ‘I rang round, ma'am. None of the picture desks sent out.' Flicking the pages of a notebook. ‘A couple gave me the name of a freelance snapper. Sonny Preston? He gets about a bit apparently.'

‘“Gets about” as in monitors police radio?'

‘I guess, ma'am. I'd ask, but he's not answering his phone.' Raj stroked a loud tie – one of his large collection – with tapered fingers.

‘Has he touted pics of the incident?'

‘Not as far as I know. But his business is hit and miss, ma'am. A guy I spoke to at the
Mercury
says it's conceivable Preston turned up, reeled off a few shots, but as no one covered the story in any great depth . . .' Ali shrugged. ‘Could still be on his camera though, ma'am.'

‘Thanks, Raj. Keep—'

‘Chasing. No worries.'

I wish
. The DI was acutely aware they were losing ground as well as impetus. The twenty-four hours immediately after a crime are the most fertile. With no early collar, a case drags on, leads dry up, trails get cold, forensics are lost, memories fade. They were around thirty-six hours down the line from the start of the inquiry. But evidence pointed to the abduction being carried out five days earlier than that. And what would they be faced with now if the fire hadn't broken out? Would Olivia still be captive or would the crime have escalated, and they'd be hunting a killer?

And why ask so many futile questions? Sighing, she rolled down the sleeves of her shirt, reached for her jacket off a chair back. ‘Anything else before we call it a day?'

‘One point, ma'am.' John Hunt again. ‘The property opposite Cameron Towers? Rambling old pile. Multi-occupancy. Two rooms in it are what you might call a
language
school run by a couple of
girls
.' The emphasis and lopsided grin gave the game away. Game as in, on the.

‘Girls – as in working?'

‘You got it: oldest profession in the book. Though in Suzie and Sadie's case make that a French dictionary.' Their business cards were on display in a couple of shops in the next street apparently: oral classes a speciality.

‘Ooh la la,' Wood threw in.

‘So what's the score, Huntie?'

‘Could be something or nothing, ma'am. Both girls say they've seen a guy let himself in and out of Cameron Towers several times in the last month. There was nothing shifty about him and he had a key so they didn't think anything of it.' They were vague on dates but would get their heads together and try and pin a few down.

Sarah tapped a pen against her teeth. ‘Wonder why no one else has mentioned it?'

‘The girls don't keep what you'd call office hours, ma'am. Mostly night shifts. Lot of time spent in the window . . . advertising.'

‘So our guy's a night owl?'
And the girls enjoy a bird's-eye view?
‘When are they coming in, Huntie?' Obvious step was a session with a police artist. Get an e-fit out there, soon as.

‘Yeah, well, that's the rub.'

‘Into massages as well, are they, Huntie?' Some clown's quip set off a chorus of sniggers.

She silenced it with a raised hand. ‘Go on, John.'

‘Thing is, the descriptions they've given are crap. One's saying he was tall and fat, the other reckons medium weight and height. They both think black hair, but they wouldn't like to swear to it 'cause he wore dark clothes and a wide-brimmed hat.'

‘
Merde
.' Harries.

‘Not the Milk Tray man, is it?'

‘Nah, it'll be the bloke from Del Monte. The one who likes to say yes.'

‘Guys, come on.' Sarah tapped fingers on thigh. ‘It's a pity, Huntie. A visual could've been a big help.' Or not. Eyewitness evidence is notoriously unreliable. The girls had probably done their best, but people remember different things, often have false memories and details of perceptions vary, especially when distance and poor light are factored in. It was better to get it right than try and force a consensus. As a lot of people are aware – especially cops – dodgy eyewitness testimony is the single biggest cause of wrongful convictions. Not that they had a defendant anywhere near a line-up let alone in the dock.

‘Anyway,' Hunt said, ‘now they know we're interested, they'll tip us the wink the minute they see him again.'

If they see him again. ‘Great. OK, guys, it's a wrap. Thanks for—'

‘What's the latest from the hospital, ma'am?' Paul Wood, who was still wall-propping, had just crossed beefy arms.

‘She's stable, off the ventilator.'

‘Still out of it?' Insouciant.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Unconscious, yes.'

‘Any idea when she might be back in action?'

‘I'm no doctor, Twig.' And what a stupid bloody question. She clocked a few curled lips, pulled faces. And had an idea now why the vibes were so negative. A failed abduction didn't have the frisson or kudos that went with working a murder inquiry; it wasn't going to hit the headlines any time soon and a woman lying in a hospital bed could almost certainly save them all a bunch of time and shedload of graft. Olivia Kent held the key and would likely be able to ID the perp in an instant. Shaking her head, Sarah retrieved her briefcase, walked out before saying something she might regret. The squad was only human but some of its detectives needed to grow up and get on with it.

Olivia Kent had to come round first. They could hardly hang about until then.

TWENTY-EIGHT

S
arah walked into the pub a few minutes early, brushing raindrops from the shoulders of her coat. The station clock over the bar read five to eight and a quick scan revealed she was first there apart from the current eclectic mix of Primark babes, Emo kids and balding fat blokes. The Prince of Denmark was a joint decision. Caroline had turned down the Queen's Head; Sarah had said no to the King's Arms. Then they'd both removed tongues from cheeks and plumped for The Prince. The décor was a touch sepia sludge and the carpet a tacky maroon but it served decent grub, didn't double as an amusement arcade and the Moseley location was midway between bases. Neutral territory on more than one ground.

After checking the reporter wasn't lurking in a dark corner, the DI headed for the loo. She'd left HQ in a rush and was keen to freshen up. Not that it had anything to do with meeting the ever immaculate King, she told herself. Ignoring the bottle-green tiles and colourful graffiti, Sarah splashed water on her face, peered into the mirror and grimaced. She blamed her less-than-radiant reflection on the mottled glass and – damn it – the hair needed running repairs. She reached for the first grip. Several strands of the normally tight bun had unravelled during the day. They needed tidying, like the million loose ends that had emerged at the brief. Hair pins in mouth, she told herself not to exaggerate and try to stay positive. Avenues of inquiry were opening; Venus was making steady progress. Sure, nowhere near as fast as she'd like but paraphrasing the old adage: slowly slowly catchee . . . ET. Though the sobriquet hadn't caught on yet, the DI's lips curved in a wide smile.

‘You should wear it down more often.' King with perfect pout sashayed towards the line of sinks. ‘Softens your face; makes you look almost . . .'
Attractive? Human?
The reporter turned her mouth down, gave a fill-in-the-blank-shrug.

Great start
. A few expert flicks and turns and the hair was firmly back in place; only then did she meet Caroline's gaze. ‘I didn't hear you sneak in.'

‘You were too busy.' She nodded at the mirror. ‘Not sure about the inane grin though. The hair grips gave you a touch of the Hannibal Lecters.'

Don't let her wind you up
. ‘I'll leave you to it.' Hoisting a shoulder bag. ‘What are you drinking?'

‘Chianti.' She was rinsing her hands. ‘Joke. I'll have G&T. Bombay Sapphire.'

In The Prince of Denmark? You'll be lucky
. Two minutes later and Sarah, menus tucked under arm, was ferrying glasses to a table in the corner. Caroline was in pole position against the wall. It gave a panoramic view and there was less danger of a stab in the back. Force of habit, probably. Sarah would have bagged the spot, if she'd not been standing the round.

‘Cheers.' Caroline sniffed the contents. ‘Bombay Gordon?'

Nodding, she took a sip of white wine. ‘Shall we eat first?'

‘Pleasure before business? Sure.' Waving away the menu. ‘I know what I'm having. You?'

Sarah watched her stroll to the bar, place their order and charm the clearly besotted landlord with a warm smile and what looked like a witty exchange. The DI tightened her mouth, began to regret not getting down to the crux of the meeting straight away. How the hell was she going to make small talk with King? A woman whose actions had led to a senior detective's death? The incident happened when Sarah had been a young officer in the Met and playing a key role in what turned out to be a bungled honey-trap. Dressed as a street girl, she'd been wired for sound aiming to lure a serial rapist into the open. The press were ignorant of the police operation; by rights, the reporter shouldn't have been anywhere near the scene. More than a decade on and Sarah could still hear King's scream; see DI Jack Garner's blood running in the gutter. They'd been live-in lovers on the verge of marrying. Soon after his death Sarah learned he'd been screwing the reporter, and leaking intelligence during the pillow-talk.

Bad blood. And it wasn't under the bridge.

Observing her now, she wondered if the reporter ever gave it a second thought. Certainly she put new meaning into the phrase ‘drop-dead gorgeous'. King was effortlessly attractive, easy in her skin, oozed confidence. And the DI wouldn't trust her as far as she could throw a convention of sumo wrestlers. Glancing round, she clocked punters eyeing the reporter, nudging elbows, whispering asides – they'd clearly seen her on TV. As she made her way back one guy asked for an autograph.

‘Doesn't it ever get to you?' Sarah indicated the audience.

King sat back, crossed her legs. ‘Being recognized? Nah. What's not to like. It doesn't happen that often. It's not as if I'm in the Cheryl Cole league. As it happens, I usually get mistaken for Victoria Beckham. It must happen to you as well?'

‘Oh, yeah, all the time.' Droll. ‘Star-struck fans chase me down the street.'

‘You do the odd turn.' She gave a crooked smile. ‘
Very
odd. Seriously, you're on local telly a fair bit and I've seen you on
Crimewatch
often enough.'

She shrugged. ‘Let's just say – I don't have a problem.'

‘Must have one of those forgettable faces. Once seen . . .' She sniffed.

‘In my line of work, that's no bad thing, blending into a crowd.' Cops made more enemies than friends. She ran a finger round the rim of her glass, recalling some of the arrests she'd been in on, the times she'd given evidence in court, the number of villains who'd eyeballed and bad-mouthed her from the dock before being sent down. Glancing up, she realized King had been watching closely.

‘Do you get scared ever?' And clearly read her thoughts. Or maybe had sixth sense on her CV.

She stared at the reporter for three or four seconds. ‘What do you think, Caroline?' Crisp and deep and even.
You were there that night
.

King paused too and weighted the words. ‘It was a long time ago, Sarah.' The famous sixth sense must have kicked in again. ‘Why don't we draw a line?'

Loud guffaws from a table nearby broke the silence. And obviated the need for a reply. Holding the reporter's gaze, Sarah drank more wine.

‘I'm interested though,' King persisted. ‘Are you inured by now or do you still get scared?'

Occupational hazards? The question was hardly original. Sarah placed the glass on a mat. ‘I'd be lying if I said, never.' Gut-churning, spine-chilling moments happened; she'd had her fair share. Dawn raids on drug dealers, suspected terrorist cells, call-outs to hostage situations, armed robberies, English Defence League marches, student protests. ‘But any cop who's scared all the time wouldn't be able to hold it together, certainly wouldn't be able to do the job properly.'