Mother Love (21 page)

What message? What trunk? Straightening properly, Sarah ran a hand through her hair, stifled a yawn. ‘Take it from the top, would you?'

‘Christ, Quinn. Don't you ever listen?'

She did now. Her shrewd grey eyes widened as the reporter told her story again. It didn't take long, wasn't
Listen with Mother
and sitting comfortably wasn't an option. Before the end, the DI was out of bed, pacing the carpet. A stranger skulking outside the Kent house in the middle of the night, smoking pot and leaving a calling card carved in a tree? ‘Why on earth didn't you ring?'

‘Sorry? Hello? I'm on the phone.'

Smart arse
. ‘Don't be disingenuous. You know exactly what I mean.' Christ, there was a chance they could have caught the bastard red-handed. She walked briskly to the kitchen, headed for the kettle. Wished it was a bar and a line of optics.

‘You sending the cavalry wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference. He'd taken off before I even opened the front door.'

Sarah clenched her teeth. Either way, it wasn't King's call. ‘A guy on the streets doing a Gandalf impression in the early hours? We do have patrols, you know.'

‘Yeah, well.

Sarah pictured the sulky pout, the half-shoulder shrug. ‘Not “well”. If you hadn't gone bumbling in, he might not have legged it.' And how long had she been cosily ensconced under the Kent's roof?

‘Are you sending someone out, or not?'

Of course she would. ‘I'll get someone there soon as it's light.' It was pitch black outside, rain trickling down the kitchen window. She threw a tea bag into a mug. At least the earth would be damp – open to impressions, there was a chance Forensics could lift casts, even prints. She opened the bread bin, peered in: waste of time. ‘You didn't see the joint lying around, I suppose?' With all that lovely DNA from saliva.

‘You still on the weed? It's illegal, you know.'

‘Wow!' She perched on a stool. ‘Did you hear that?'

‘What?'

‘My sides splitting. Did he drop it or not?'

‘He's not stupid, is he?'

Got that right
. There were more CCTV cameras in that part of Edgbaston than virtually anywhere in the city, and Sarah doubted he'd be on a single frame. Not that the cops wouldn't look.

‘What about the initials? Any ideas, Caroline?' The name just slipped out. Must be getting soft in her early thirties.

Barely a pause, then: ‘I rather think you'll find that's your job, DI Quinn.'

‘You supercilious little . . .' She glared at the phone. ‘Ring tone.'

‘R U O K C U?' Harries was at the wheel, his features set in Mr Brooding frown. ‘So what's ET saying, boss?' She could do without even more initial speak; she rolled her eyes. They were on the Bristol Road, it was just gone ten, the sun struggling through a bank of slate-grey cloud. Harries had offered to drive Sarah to Philip Kent's home in Northfield then drop her in town. After the interview, she'd be a free woman until Monday morning, assuming nothing big moved on Venus. Clothes shopping barely figured on her favourite pastimes' list, but she'd spotted a little taupe number in Zara. It was another shift dress in a slightly different shade to the half dozen already hanging in her wardrobe, but, hey, she was going out tonight. And she could incorporate a bread-and-basics swoop at Tesco into the trip. Sorted.

‘Boss? I said—'

She flapped a hand. ‘I know what you said, David. But everyone thrashed it out at the brief.' Brief just about summed up the squad's early gathering: short and to the point; the carved message being the only overnight development of note. ET's handiwork had at least added a little impetus to the inquiry. The reporter's description of the guy – such as it was – tallied with that given by the working girls in the knocking shop over the road from Cameron Towers. Huntie was going on there after the Rust interview, see if he could chivvy anything more from Suzie and Sadie. It wasn't just Hunt who had the bit between his teeth, every officer had seemed keener to get on and do rather than sit round and talk. Though not everyone had made the brief.

‘You've had time to ask round, David. You should be up to speed by now.' In the corner of her eye, she caught his Quinn imitation: head rocking from side to side, goldfish mime. ‘Nice one, Harries. Very mature.'

‘Sorry.' He sighed, tapped the wheel. ‘I did try and get some sense out of Twig. He wasn't a lot of help.'

No. Paul Wood – if she recalled rightly – reckoned it was a waste of brain cells trying to second guess a guy who was off his face on dope. Best thing to do was catch the bugger and ask him. Like they weren't trying. She let the silence hang a while, then: ‘Don't make a habit of it will you, David?' Oversleeping, not calling in to say he'd be late.

‘'Course not, ma'am. It's just, I . . .' He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I'm really sorry.'

He sounded genuinely contrite. And what had he decided not to say? She turned her head, looked at him properly. Mocha-shaded circles under the eye, flaky patch of skin on the neck. Twitchy fingers still drumming. ‘Anything you want to talk about, David?'

‘Nothing, ma'am.' Jaw set tight.

Like hell. Now wasn't the time to push. But on reflection, refusing to discuss the initials with him was childish. Failing to show at one of her briefs was no reason not to give him a hearing. His insight had shed new light on cases before. And they needed all the help they could get. She smiled. ‘Not even our mystery woodcarver?'

‘You said . . .'

‘I can change my mind, can't I? So come on, Einstein – R U O K C U – what's he saying?'

‘Three possibilities.' Perking up a touch. ‘And it depends where you put the stress. One –' he raised a thumb – ‘he's asking Olivia if she's OK and adding a warning, “see you”.' She nodded: that was the squad's general census. ‘Two.' Index finger lifted as well. ‘He doesn't know she's still in hospital, he's seen another bedroom being used and wants to know if it's Olivia. C U: the same subtle threat.'

Another nod. That meant he'd likely been casing the premises. And keeping an eye on Elizabeth's movements? For how long? Why? ‘And three?'

Second finger up – thumb down, bird waving. ‘He was off his face – it means sod all and he's telling us to fu . . . sod off.'

Cynical snort. ‘I like the hand signals. Thing is – it's not funny, David. The guy was there. We could've nailed him. Then King barges in all guns blazing doing an Annie Leibovitz.' He turned his mouth down. She opened the window an inch. ‘You don't see it that way?'

‘I hear what you're saying, boss, but we'd be laughing teacakes if she'd taken a few shots of him.'

‘She didn't. We're not. And if she'd kept her nose out, called us instead, he could be cooling his heels in a police cell by now.' His shrug meant he knew there was no way he'd win the argument. He'd told her before she had a blind spot as far as King was concerned.

She opened her briefcase, skimmed through a few notes. Philip Kent lived in Franklin Avenue with new partner, Kate. He'd left Elizabeth three and a half years ago after being married nearly thirty. A civil engineer, he travelled a lot on business and would, quote, move heaven and earth, to help police find, quote, the monster who'd harmed his daughter.

‘So, boss, what does Baker read into the initials?'

‘Changing the subject, are we?' Smiling, she closed the briefcase. ‘I phoned him at home first thing.' The chief wouldn't put in an appearance at HQ today unless the James Rust interview turned up gold trumps. ‘He has what you might call an idiosyncratic interpretation, David.' Arch delivery.

‘Go on.'

‘He thinks King's sudden swoop meant ET legged it before finishing the job. C U?' She curved a lip. ‘In his inimitable way, the chief reckons the message was a couple of letters short.'

THIRTY

L
etters after a man's name – or woman's – meant jack shit to the chief. DCS Baker had a few of his own – didn't make him a cut above. James Rust acted like he had a fucking dictionary. The head teacher had allowed the detectives into his Edwardian villa in Harborne like he was royalty granting an audience. The academic clearly considered himself several classes above cops, whatever the rank. The mad fool had even tried demoting Baker to sergeant. Rust was lucky he was still being called mister, let alone doctor.

The chief's bulk currently took up the lion's share of a chintz two-seater settee that coordinated with frilly floral curtains and twee coloured-glass knick-knacks. Rust's dubious taste in soft furnishings was in sharp contrast to his waspish tongue. Prissy arrogant prat was Baker's verdict. Quinn would be dead chuffed: these minds were never going to meet. But that wasn't the reason for the chief's growing antagonism.

The interview had started badly and gone downhill skiing. Rust wouldn't have lodged in the chief's nasal passages if he'd at least made a stab at politeness and had answered the questions without all the shit-bagging bluster. Rust had vehemently denied having the hots for Olivia Kent, accusing her of malicious rumour-mongering and threatening legal action if the gossip went any further. He'd also refuted the Sticky Fingers tag and demanded to know where it came from, like that was going to happen.

Baker had just finished eliciting details of Rust's movements over the last week. They'd be checked, of course, but as the bloke had fewer social skills than a skunk with leprosy, the chief doubted there'd be much corroboration from close buddies. Quinn had been spot on. James A. Rust was a cocky little git spouting mealy-mouthed words and casting ostentatious glances at his watch. He'd sat there twenty minutes with a cup of tea in his hand and a
Guardian
draped over the chair arm, and hadn't offered his guests so much as a glass of tap water. Baker's opinion wouldn't change if Rust provided a five-course meal and a weekend in Paris. Gratis. They weren't here to sample home comforts but it did make him wonder why the man was so hostile, so defensive. Was he hiding something? Either way, Baker loathed anyone taking him for a fool: his short supply of civility had dried up.

Springs creaked as the chief shuffled his backside into a more comfortable position, slung an all-the-time-in-the-world arm across the back of the settee and cast round for a topic that Rust might not see coming: obnoxious though he was, the head wasn't stupid; he'd clearly anticipated every question so far.

‘So, Mr Rust, live here alone, do you?' It was posed innocently enough. It was up to Rust if he read anything into it. Mind, it was accompanied by Baker glancing round as if the guy had a harem of concubines secreted in the wings.

‘I'm sorry, Officer.' Faux puzzled frown. ‘I'm not married and I don't have a partner. I thought I'd made that abundantly clear.'

Well
,
smack my wrist
. Baker turned to his left where DS Hunt was keeping his head down, making notes. The veteran cops had worked routines together before, were au fait with all the scripts. ‘Are you married, John?'

Huntie glanced up with a ploughed furrow look to go with his line. ‘Married? Not me, sir.'

‘I guess you live on your own then?' Baker rubbed pensive chin.

Stage chuckle. ‘I wish.'

‘See Mr Rust, Sergeant Hunt here lives with a woman, six kids and two Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs. So in my book, not being married – if you'll pardon the Latin – means bugger all. So are you sh . . . shacked up with anyone?'

Shifting in the chair. ‘I really don't see it's any of your business.'

‘Yeah. But you don't really know my business, do you? So don't try and tell me how to do it. For the record though, I ask a lot of questions and I lock up slime balls. So are you the sole occupant or what?'

Dark eyes narrowed as he crossed his legs. ‘I find your attitude offensive, Officer.'

‘Really, Mr Rust? Do you know something? I don't give a flying fart. Your finer feelings don't feature in my thought processes one iota. See, I'm hunting a vicious bastard who abducted a woman on your staff. A valued member, I hear. Yet you've not had a good word to say about Olivia Kent. Why's that, Mr Rust? Did you come on to her and she told you to sling your hook? Are you getting your defence in first?'

‘Am I a suspect?' The cup clinked as he placed it in the saucer. ‘If so I want a lawyer.' If the cops had a watertight case, this would be a recorded interview under caution at the station. This was more of a fishing trip and for case read paper bag. Baker only wished to God he had enough evidence to take him in.

‘Do you need a brief, Mr Rust?' He turned his mouth down. ‘At the moment, I'm just interested in staff relations at your school.'

Tugging at his cuffs, he said, ‘Then I think it's time you—'

‘I decide when we go. Answer the question. Did you come on to her?'

Trembling fingers traced the goatee beard. ‘No, I did not “come on to her”, as you so eloquently put it.'

‘Eloquent?' Derisive snort. ‘How would
you
put it, Mr Rust?' He cocked his head. ‘Or should I say, where?'

‘Right, that's it . . .'

‘Sit down. I've not finished. Tell me, did you grope her once too often and she threatened to slap in a suit?'

‘No, she did not.' Mouth tighter than a superglued clam.

‘No claim then. But you did cop a feel?'

‘Even you can't be as pig ignorant as you look. Get this into your thick head: I did not make a pass at Olivia Kent.' The contempt on his face was obvious but Baker thought he'd seen a flash of fear as well. Was he – as Quinn maintained – scared of seeing his precious reputation go down the pan? Baker was hard pushed to call. The man was a boor and a bully but had he got the balls required to abduct a woman and hold her captive? Or did he know a man who did?'