Mother Love (25 page)

‘What?' He curved his lip. ‘You mean apart from the noose round her neck?'

‘Yeah, yeah. Seriously. There's a clinical term for it.'

‘Stockholm Syndrome.' He tapped his nose. ‘Not just a pretty face, you know, boss. But come on – how likely is it? She was only with him five days.'

‘Theoretically it's possible. Lots of factors come into play.' The most important being the psychological state of the victim. ‘I just wish we knew more about her, Dave. Everyone we speak to says something different. I don't feel I've got a handle on her at all.' Eyes narrowed, she drummed her fingers on the table.

‘Out with it, boss, come on.'

‘Am I that transparent?' She gave a thin smile. ‘Tell me, are you hungry? I know a really decent restaurant –' reaching for her bag – ‘in Harborne.'

‘Harborne?'

‘Yeah, just round the corner from Olivia Kent's place.'

Sarah's Audi was in the car park at the back of HQ. Handy, that. 'Cause someone had to pick up the house key. Clocking Harries emerging from the building, she had the engine running before he slipped in beside her.

‘You sure this is a good idea, boss?'

‘Nope.' She'd be hard pushed to explain the urge to take another look. Olivia Kent's home had been given the forensic all-clear; maybe Sarah was after something less clinical, more personal. ‘Let's hit the road before I change my mind.'

‘Fancy some music?' He was already riffling through her CD stack.

‘Yeah, why not?' One out of three ain't bad. ‘And it's still Sarah.'

Traffic was light but the pavements were busy. Lots of people out in search of Saturday night fun that usually involved copious amounts of cheap booze, cheesy chat-up lines and a costly trip to A&E. It wouldn't be long before the revelry took on a seasonal quality given shop windows were full of fake snow and fairy lights; even more reindeers and plastic Santas garlanded lamp posts and wall fronts. God rest ye . . .

‘The Police?' There was a smile in her voice. ‘Weren't they a bit before your time?'

‘Classic, innit? No one comes close to Sting vocally.' Harries gave it a whirl though, murdering a few bars of ‘Every Breath You Take'.

‘We'll ring you . . .' she drawled.

‘Did you ever do that, boss?' She followed his gaze. Five or six raucous young women approached, staggering along the pavement, falling out of skimpy gear, clearly off their faces. ‘Get pissed before stepping out the door?'

Pre-loading, the kids called it. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Before I got old, you mean?'

‘You're not that ancient.' Winding her up.

‘Thanks, kid. And no, I didn't. I liked a smoke though.'

‘Ciggies?'

‘Yeah. If you like.'

‘Well, well. You live and learn, DI Quinn.' Downing the window a fraction. ‘Tell you something else I just picked up. The squad room's buzzing with it.' He told her about the candles stolen from a shop near Cameron Towers, that the thief might be on camera.

‘Might?'

‘The owner's away for the weekend. Not expected back till first thing Monday.'

She turned her mouth down. ‘Could be promising.'

Music. Candles. Two out of three – even better.

‘Nothing doing, Dave?' Sarah was in the back room on the ground floor; Harries had taken the upstairs, neither really sure what they were looking for. For her it had been something intangible, more a feeling for the owner, trying to build a better mental picture.

‘Couldn't see anything, boss. Nothing came out and hit me anyway.'

Nor her. The house still made Sarah shudder though. The clutter and colour was over the top. Clean, but a right mess. Maybe it reflected Olivia Kent's personality.

‘She's ahead of her chores though, boss. Got her Christmas presents up there all wrapped and ready to go.'

‘Thank God. I can sleep easy now knowing that.' Sighing, she smoothed her hair. ‘Sorry to drag you out here, Dave. Talk about wild goose.'

‘Wild Goose?' He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Thought you said we were going to the Black Swan?'

‘Are you really hungry?' She was starving as it happened.

‘Appetite like a horse, me.'

She glanced at her watch. Half nine. They should just about grab a table. ‘OK, you're on. I need to wash my hands.' And take a leak while she was at it. It was claustrophobia rules OK in the downstairs cloakroom: crammed shelves, used paint tins, hat boxes, two out of three walls with cork boards covered in programmes, flyers, pics, takeaway pizza menus. She'd seen it all before.

And then there was something she hadn't.

It was at eye level. Deliberately hidden or simply lost under layers? Deliberately hidden was the verdict when Sarah teased it out for closer inspection. The dress had lots of layers, too, and lots of lace. It made Sarah think of meringues and Little Bo Peep. It was probably ivory satin, definitely heavy on the pearls and stitching. Well fussy for a wedding frock. And didn't Olivia Kent look quite the blushing bride?

‘Married? So why didn't anyone say?' Harries looked as puzzled as Sarah felt.

‘Search me. But I intend finding out.'

He studied the photograph a few seconds longer before handing it back. ‘Maybe she didn't tell anyone?'

‘I refer you to my previous answer.' She sniffed; took a dim view of people withholding information, if that's what was going on here. Surely Elizabeth Kent must know though?

‘He's a good-looking guy. Any idea who it is?' He rinsed a tumbler under the tap. She'd found him in the kitchen getting a drink.

‘I'd lay bets on Jack Howe. The guy she lived with in America.'

‘How come . . .?'

‘Educated guess.' He matched King's description to a tee. But it wasn't just the groom's tall, dark, perfect looks. The photo had been shot in the street outside a hotel. In the far background, just about decipherable, was a yellow cab.

‘She certainly didn't tell her dad then, did she?'

She nodded. ‘Good thinking.' What was it Philip Kent had said? He was sorry they'd split because he thought Howe was good for her. ‘And though we all know Caroline King's grasp on the truth is tenuous, unless she's taking acting lessons on the side, she has no idea either.' Sarah blew out her cheeks on a frustrated sigh. They wouldn't find the answers here and if they wanted food, they needed to get a move on.

‘Come on, Dave, let's . . .' She froze. He'd heard it, too. Noise out in the hall. Someone trying the front door.

Harries lifted a finger to his lips. She rolled her eyes. What did he think? She was about to break out in song? Using sign language and telling glances they agreed on strategy: wait and watch; the surprise element was always a winning card. Whoever it was outside would get a bigger shock than them on entry. Cops usually turn up
after
a break-in.

Except it wasn't a break-in. Ears pricked, Sarah heard the key in the lock, the door bang as it crashed into the wall.

‘OK, out now! Hands in the air.' Sarah and Harries exchanged what-the-fuck glances. ‘Don't try anything funny, I'm armed and the house is surrounded.'

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘
Y
ou've got balls, I'll say that for you.' Sarah stood in the hall, performing a slow handclap. Harries struggled to keep a straight face. Caroline King's umbrella spike wouldn't outgun an armed response unit, but the brass nerve of the woman was priceless, had to be seen to be believed. The instant she'd opened her mouth, the detectives knew who was calling the shots. The biggest danger coming out of the kitchen was not falling about laughing.

‘What the hell were you playing at?' Sarah asked.

‘I saw the light.' A surly scowl.

‘Hallelujah,' Sarah murmured.

The reporter folded her arms. ‘If you're going to take the piss.'

‘I'll take you down the nick if I don't get an answer pronto.'

‘I told you. I saw a light, knew the place was supposed to be empty. Thought kids had broken in or something.'

Or something. ‘That doesn't explain what you were doing here in the first place.'

‘I
thought
I was being community minded, doing the decent thing. I was going to scare the little sods half to death, then call you lot.'

‘Good God, what's that?' She pointed upwards. ‘Low flying pigs alert.'

‘Right, I'm off.'

‘Not yet.' Sarah held out the picture. ‘Take a look at this.'

‘I don't believe it.' King's colour actually drained. Sarah scrutinized the reporter's face as she stared at the happy couple.

‘It's news to you?'

‘News? It's probably the biggest fucking shock of my life.'

‘Best friends, huh? And no invite? I'm surprised you weren't matron of . . . something.'

King didn't even rise, seemed reluctant to let the photograph go. Sarah relieved it from her grasp, tucked it into her bag. The reporter still hadn't answered the original question. ‘So why did you come here tonight?'

‘Told you, I happened to be passing, saw the—'

‘Light. I remember that. Now I'd like the real reason.' She waited a few seconds, then: ‘OK. I count to ten and if you're still playing dumb we take a little trip down town.' Her tapping toe reached seven. Harries jangled car keys to underline the point.

‘All right, all right. Livvie asked me to pick up a few bits and pieces she needs.'

‘Like what?'

King looked away, left the pause too long. ‘This and that.'

Lying. Classic signs. ‘Disappointing, don't you think, Dave? From someone who makes things up for a living.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘No, boss, three bags full, boss.' King flashed a fake smile. ‘Talking of balls, Dave . . .'

‘Shut up,' Sarah snapped. ‘Hand over the key. And get out.'

Her eyes darkened. ‘You can't—'

Palm out. ‘This is a crime scene and you're trespassing.'

She dropped the key in Sarah's waiting palm. ‘Have it your way. You usually do.'

At the door she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I was thinking of changing my mind, even saying sorry, but you know what, Quinn? Screw you.'

Sarah and Harries were on the sweet course and still having the occasional laugh. He'd likened King's gun slinging to a cross between Angelina Jolie and Bonnie Parker. She had a suspicion her Annie Oakley allusion had gone over the young detective's head.

‘Maybe she was auditioning for
Lethal Weapon
.' Sarah licked the last spoon of ice cream: death by chocolate.

‘Yeah, they're calling it
Killer Umbrella
.'

Smiling, she shook her head, pushed the dish to one side. Hovering waiters would be bringing out the hoover soon; the Black Swan was virtually deserted, tables cleared, lots of glass polishing going on. It had been buzzing earlier, mostly thirty-something professionals having a night off from the kids. Despite the name the cuisine was modern European not classic English. The décor was clean and stark; more Shaker than Sanderson.

‘God, I'm stuffed,' she said. The meal had been great, the company amusing. Harries was still putting away brioche and butter pudding. Appreciating his warm amiability, she realized it was a while since she'd felt so chilled, even longer since she'd enjoyed an evening as much. The job's all-consuming nature made it difficult, if not impossible, to cut off. The ban on shop talk had been agreed early on.

‘Shouldn't that be screwed?' Harries' grin froze, his skin was taking on a pink tinge; he'd clearly seen the look on her face. ‘Oh my God. That sounded . . . I didn't mean . . .'

She knew full well he meant King's parting shot. ‘I find that incredibly offensive. You well and truly crossed a line there.'

‘Sarah. I am so sorry.' His look of mortification was a picture. Her lip twitched. ‘That was a wind-up, wasn't it?'

‘It got me the first Sarah of the night though.' She winked.

‘Plenty more where that came from.' Wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘I'll get the hang of it next time.'

Next time?
She raised an eyebrow.

‘Not on the job of course, boss.' Faux pas alley. He cringed.

‘You know what, Dave? I think you'd better quit while you're ahead.'

THIRTY-EIGHT

‘
D
o you want the good news or the bad, Quinn?'

Inwardly groaning, Sarah slowly opened an eye, glanced at the alarm clock. Crack of dawn, Sunday morning. Could anything Baker had to say be good? Swinging bare legs out of bed she said, ‘Hit me with the good, Chief.'
And hello to you
,
too
.

‘We're bringing someone in on the Kent case.'

‘What?' She gasped, watched goosebumps rise on her thighs.

‘And some bugger's slapped in a complaint. That's the bad. Get your ass in gear, Quinn. Soon as.'

The bloody man was impossible. Twenty minutes it took to shower, dress, grab keys and bags. She was in full seethe and stomp mode throughout. Why the fuck couldn't he just tell her on the phone?

No wonder there was a complaint. The only surprise was that the fat bastard had attracted just the one.

‘It's just not good enough.' Caroline King was enjoying the conversation if not its contents. Toby White had messaged saying he couldn't work any digital magic on the pic so she'd called Sam in New York hoping for better news. It wasn't so much an update as a lack-of-progress report, riddled with negatives and not sures. Jack Howe had an apartment off Bleecker Street, although no one appeared to have seen him for a few weeks. Not unusual, he travelled a lot. Sam had tracked down a couple of guys who'd worked with Howe in the past but neither had been much help on his current whereabouts.
Whereabouts?
God, Sam was even beginning to sound like a cop.