Mother Love (5 page)

‘I'm so glad,' she muttered.

Standing in the threshold she ran a visual inventory before entering. It was a habit, getting a feel for a place, a sense of its owner. She'd be hard pushed to say what the room revealed about Olivia, but it would drive Sarah to distraction. Her canal-side apartment in Brindley Place was all white décor, pale woods, cream furniture. This was clutter bordering on chaos. There was no overall colour scheme – more all colours, all over. Vibrant jade throws, bejewelled cushions, strings of fairy lights slung round the cornice. An old-fashioned hat stand stood in one corner bedecked with trailing scarves and an eclectic collection of headgear. A colony of teddy bears had taken squatters' rights on top of two bulging bookcases. Two chunky armchairs were stationed either side of another Victorian fireplace. Sarah noted the slight indentation in one of the cushions, the book left open – unfinished – on the arm.

Unsmiling, she walked in, picked it up, glanced at the title:
The Silence of the Lambs
.

‘Not exactly book at bedtime,' Collins commented.

She tightened her lips. Hopefully he'd get the point and zip his. During this initial stage, she preferred silence, could definitely live without someone wittering in the background. Harries had picked up on that from the start, but he was out knocking on neighbours' doors.

Sarah strolled towards a pinboard on the far wall. The cork was virtually covered with ticket stubs, programmes, appointment cards: theatre, cinema, Dylan gig, dentist, hospital, Help for Heroes concert.

‘She's sure got catholic tastes. Look at this lot.' Collins was browsing the bookshelves. She glanced over her shoulder then wandered across. Enid Blyton rubbed spines with Barack Obama; Shakespeare with Sara Paretsky; William Blake with William Brown. There were hundreds of titles and more books stacked against the wall. ‘Y'know, in theory, you can learn a lot about people by looking at their books.'

‘In theory –' she gave a testy sigh – ‘you can read tea leaves.'

Half-shoulder shrug. ‘I'm not saying you could do a full Sherlock but they might give you a few pointers.'

‘I don't want pointers,' she snapped. ‘I want precision. What's keeping your people?'

‘They'll be here any time.' Collins looked taken aback, if not piqued. He probably didn't even realize he was getting on her nerves.

Palm raised, she walked away. Prints and posters hung on every wall. No neat rows or symmetrical couplings. The only common thread was that several corresponded with the equally haphazard display of tickets and programmes she'd clocked earlier. Been there, done that, bought the poster. It seemed a touch obsessive, but maybe some people need tangible reminders of past pleasures.

A poster over the mantel caught her eye. Walking towards it, she realized her mistake, though poster-sized it was actually a photograph. It took a while to recognize the New York landmarks. This was not the stuff of tourist brochures or Woody Allen movies. Whoever said Manhattan looks good in monochrome hadn't seen this. The under exposure was heavy-handed, the contrast jarred: jet black, virginal white. No shades of grey to soften jagged edges, hard angles. Sarah was surprised she hadn't spotted the picture earlier: once seen it dominated the room.

‘They named it twice, you know.' Collins stood at her shoulder, nodding sagely. ‘New York. New York. Brilliant place. You love it or hate it. No half measures. You been there, Inspector?'

‘It's not a question of whether I've been.'

‘Reckon Olivia Kent has?'

‘How should I know?'

‘You know what she looks like though?' He was heading for a desk in the corner of the room, returned carrying a photograph. As he'd said, it showed two women arms round each other's waist, standing on the rug in the next room. Relaxed and smiling both held champagne glasses mid-clink, in a toast. Sarah recognized Olivia Kent immediately: the likeness to Elizabeth was even more striking in this image. A brief glance registered something vaguely familiar about the other woman, but Sarah's focus was on Olivia. She was weighing up whether it was worth getting copies of the pic ready in case they needed to bring the media on board. They'd have to crop out the friend. ‘Shit!'

‘Is it not her then, Inspector?'

‘Oh yes. It's Olivia Kent.'

He turned his mouth down. ‘So what's the problem?'

‘What the hell's she doing with Caroline King?'

‘Caroline King?'

‘Reporter. TV.'

‘Of course.' Broad grin. ‘I can see it now.' Maybe he read something in Sarah's expression. Frowning, he asked, ‘Have you come across her before then, Inspector?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Tell me more.'

‘It's a long story.' With a hell of an end. She cocked her head, heard the doorbell ring again.

‘That'll be the lads.'

She was halfway there. ‘I'll get it, Rich. I need a breath of fresh air.'

EIGHT

B
ored with house clearing, Caroline was in the shower sluicing dust and cobwebs. Eyes screwed tightly, she tipped her head back, luxuriated in the feel of hot water cascading down her body. When she'd slipped off her combats, the Brownie picture had fallen from the pocket. Rescued from the floor, it was now propped against the dressing table mirror in the bedroom. Out of sight – not mind.

Olivia had been in Caroline's life as long as she could remember. How old had they been when Livvie came up with the sister idea? Six, seven? A smile played across Caroline's lips as she recalled how they giggled and groped their way in the dark to the secret hideout at the bottom of the Kents' garden. Livvie had insisted the ritual had to be carried out at midnight. She'd hidden a candle in the pocket of her pink dressing gown and Caro had stuffed a giant box of Cook's matches down her pyjama top.

She'd been grateful for the subdued lighting, was afraid she'd faint at the sight of blood. She barely felt the pin go in and Livvie swore it was only the cold that was making them shiver. When each thumb had been pricked, they solemnly mixed the drops of blood. Caroline recalled the candle flame reflected in Livvie's pupils, the shadows flickering across her friend's face. ‘We've done it, Caro.' Breathless whisper. ‘We're blood sisters.'

They'd hugged each other tightly, almost overwhelmed by sensations they didn't understand. It had bonded them ever since – through the good, the bad, the bland and the boring. They'd discovered bras and booze, boys and biology. They'd shared miniskirts and massive issues: Green Peace to world peace, global warming to the war on terror. They listened to old Police records but preferred Queen. They'd smoked untipped Gauloises and sunk copious amounts of Blue Nun.

Caroline's career had taken her away from Birmingham. She'd taken it for granted they'd never grow apart. Livvie's time in the States had been their longest period with minimal contact. Caroline liked to think the friendship was now back on track. So where the devil was Livvie? Why the low profile?

Caro stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel toga-style, turbaned her hair and padded through to the bedroom. As soon as she was dressed, she'd put in another call. The scarlet tunic and black linen pants were laid out ready. She was stepping into red leather ballet pumps when her mobile rang. Great minds and all that – it never occurred to her it could be anyone else. Grinning, she grabbed the handset. ‘About time, my friend. Where've you been hiding?'

‘I could say the same about you.'
Damn
. Caro curled a lip. Will Harding. Intake editor, BBC TV news. The guy was an arrogant shit – wouldn't know a good story if it came in dressed as Lady Gaga playing the bagpipes.

‘I told the desk I'd be unavailable for a few days. I'm up in—'

‘Yeah, yeah. But this is a biggie – and it's up your street. Literally.' Wanna bet? She'd no intention of filling his expectant pause. Sitting on a stool in front of the mirror, she examined her face – profiles included. Pretty damn good – even without the slap. ‘You still there, Caro?'

‘Get on with it, Will. I've got a million things to do.'

‘People to see, places to go?' The smirk was almost audible.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Spot on. Must fly.'

‘Don't hang up, Caro. Listen a min.' He droned on about some one-size-fits-all C-list celeb who'd let slip she was shagging a Tory MP. Allegedly. Legs crossed, Caro circled a slender ankle. ‘And get this, Caro, he's only a member of the cabinet to boot.'

Member? He was that all right
. She sniffed. ‘So?'

‘What you mean, “so”? Tory boy's always banging on to the proles about family values.' Splutter. She pictured saliva spray. ‘And he's married with young kids.'

‘It must be a slow news day, Will.'

‘Thing is, he's holed up in your neck of the woods. Some pad in Edgbaston. Everyone's doorstepping him.' Harding wasn't talking milkmen – the media circus must be pitching camp and pointing cameras. Caro glanced at her nails. It had been years since she ran with the pack. As one of the top freelancers in the industry she was picky about which items she covered. A sleazy sex scandal wasn't even on the list. Her preference and speciality was crime. Forget run-of-the-mill murder. Caro only touched stories that – as the tabloids told readers – shocked the nation. Not that she used clichés like that. Wouldn't be seen dead. The thought raised a crooked smile. ‘Sorry, Will. You'll have to find someone else.'

‘You're kidding me, Caro.'

‘Yeah, course I am. Not.' Another time maybe. She had enough on her mind at the moment.

‘But, Caro. He might talk to you.'

She arched a knowing eyebrow. What Harding meant was that her public profile, not to mention reputation, was higher than a house full of motley MPs: her face was on the box more often, her work had won three Sony awards and she'd never fiddled her expenses. Mind, she didn't need to. She was good at the job and it was good to her. It had bought her the house, the Merc, the lifestyle and the freedom to tell the odd odious editor to shove it.

‘No can do, Will. Told you before. I'm tied up.' Frowning, her glance fell on the photograph. Olivia's seven-year-old face stared back, smiling.

‘Had a better offer, huh?'

‘Yeah. Sewage diving.'

‘Very droll.'

‘Come on, Will. Any offer's better than the crap you're pushing.'

‘Say no more, Caro.' He'd be tapping his nose – she just knew it. ‘I've got it now.'

Swine flu? Gout? Gonorrhoea?
Not that she'd have to ask: he sounded as if he couldn't wait to bare all. ‘You've already got something big lined up? A Caroline King special? Another fat, juicy tale. Am I right or am I—'

A moron. She cast a withering look at the phone, cut the call. Willy Wanker would be the last person she'd tell if there was even a whiff of a scoop and if his brain had the cell count of a brick, he'd know not to ask. Sighing she bit her lip, reached for the photograph. Had Olivia had a better offer?

Or was there something sinister in her apparent disappearance?

‘Get a grip, woman. She's not a child. She can go away for a few days, can't she?'

Caroline answered her own question – mentally this time.
She could
,
but not without telling Elizabeth
.
And you know that
.

Had Harding unwittingly hit on the truth? Was there a story in it? She snorted. Yeah, right. But what if there was? Get real, girl. Even if there was and it turned out to be cracking copy, she'd never exploit her best mate, her blood sister. Eyes narrowed, Caroline pursed her lips. There was no harm in a little investigation though. Olivia's place was a twenty-minute drive away.

Throughout the journey, Caro told herself it would be a waste of time. Standing outside, she was virtually convinced Livvie would be inside and soon wondering what all the fuss was about. Smiling, she rang the bell. Her shock must have shown when the door opened and an unsmiling Sarah Quinn appeared. Caro had no idea who spoke first, but both used the same words. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

‘
What are you doing?' Olivia struggled to keep the fear from her voice. Knew she'd failed. He didn't reply. He rarely responded now. Ten, fifteen seconds later he glanced towards her and through the slit in his mask she saw his mouth move. He was about to say something. Quickly she realized her mistake. He was working up saliva. She recoiled shuddering when the warm spit slid down her cheek. Without a word, he turned, continued whatever he was doing.

Standing with his back to her, he seemed to be playing something through his fingers. In the candlelight, his dark shadow flickered against whitewashed bricks. It made her think of silent movies, horror films. She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry, lips stuck together. She wanted to move to get a better look. Didn't dare. Knew he'd tie the ropes again in a heartbeat. Her limbs were loose only because he was here. When she was bound, sometimes the pain was so intense she prayed for his return. Hanging her head in shame, she caught a whiff of her hair as it fell in front of her face. Maybe it was better her view was restricted.

Surely her disappearance had been noticed by now? Colleagues must be concerned. Would they have contacted her mother? Would Elizabeth have called the police? Please God let them be searching, before it's too—

‘
Look at me, bitch.'

He faced her now, in his hand dangled a length of fine wire. The noose he'd fashioned glinted in the candlelight as he advanced slowly towards her. He was a few steps away when she lost control of her bladder. And for the first time since he'd taken her, she saw his mouth move in what could have been a smile.

NINE

‘
W
e can't be certain it's Olivia's blood.' Arms folded, Sarah Quinn stood in the centre of the room addressing Caroline King's back. She hoped granting the reporter admission wouldn't turn out to be a bad call. Her immediate thought on finding King on the doorstep was that she'd somehow got wind of the letter to the police and was on the scent of a story. A hot denial, swiftly followed by King's cool assertion that this was personal, that she and Olivia Kent were practically joined at the hip, had cut no ice. She knew King could lie and/or obfuscate for Europe. The DI had acted on the tent principle – having the reporter inside pissing out was probably better than dodging incoming flow. And on past experience, she knew King wouldn't hold back. The reporter's no holds – let alone anything else – barred approach was potentially more damaging to the inquiry than giving her limited access. If there was an inquiry. Sarah twisted her mouth. She wasn't a hundred per cent sure on that score either.