Mother Love (7 page)

He gave a distracted nod, still gazing at the evidence. ‘But I won't.'

‘What?' Her eyes darkened for an instant. Cheeky sod. Then the penny dropped. ‘You've seen it, too. And?' Maybe the boy wonder would have an idea why three words had been left out.

‘The last line, wasn't it? I could make it quicker, and put her out of her misery . . . but I won't.' He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is it possible he's saying he won't kill her, boss?'

Or he won't kill her quickly
.
Or she's already dead
. She gave a tight smile. ‘Who knows?'

ELEVEN

‘
R
ight. Listen up. This is what we know.' Conveying the facts at the hastily assembled brief didn't take Sarah Quinn long – it wasn't as if they had a bunch to go on: Olivia Kent, thirty-two, teacher, current address 13 Platt Lane, Harborne. Last seen Saturday 17 November. Two communications supposedly from her abductor. Faint blood traces found in her home. Shielding her eyes from sunlight streaming through the window, Sarah glanced round the open-plan room, letting the data sink in. Twelve detectives were gathered, some perched on desks; all were silent, still, sombre. She doubted the subdued mood was down to her blunt, no-banter approach – the reverse of Baker's. Every officer was staring at the whiteboard to her right – its overall picture slightly fuller, manifestly more menacing. The head and shoulders happy snap of Olivia provided by her mother in stark contrast to the sadistic shot provided by her abductor.

Before and after.

Sarah gazed at the display again. But after what?

‘Is she dead then?' DC Mickey Madison, sprawled legs taking up too much floor space, gave a loud sniff. He was a newbie, just shy of two months in CID. Tall, dark, aesthetically challenged. Pre-PC, the term was pug ugly. It wasn't the pockmarked complexion or broken nose that bugged Sarah, the question in itself was fair enough, but the guy's tone bordered on indifferent and was out of order.

Tapping a toe, she held his gaze for five, six seconds. The non-verbal warning worked.

‘Sorry, ma'am.' Madison straightened – spine and silk tie. ‘No offence.'

Really?
The jury was out: Sarah wasn't convinced Baker's protégé had what it took to be a store detective.

Breaking eye contact, she turned to look at the whiteboard. ‘The fact is – we don't know. Even if she's not dead in the picture . . .' The corollary was tacit, the message clear. Using a hand visor again, she nodded at an officer propping the wall near the window who took the cue. ‘As it stands we're in the dark.' Her unintentional gag as the light level fell prompted muted laughter from the floor. A slight curve of her lip acknowledged the audience reaction. It was a case of ‘true word spoken in jest' though. Right now the missing woman's life was a blank canvas. The squad members assembled here – and others currently off-shift – would work round the clock filling in detail to find a complete stranger. Sarah grimaced, thought,
Make that two
.

‘Right.' She took the top off a black marker pen. ‘As far as we're aware . . . these are her last known movements.' Writing as she spoke, ‘She was seen by her mother on Saturday around 11.05 a.m. She left shortly after to return books to Bourne Lane library.' Glancing round: ‘Shona, can you check she got there, what time, who she spoke to, whether she—'

Hand raised. ‘Leave it with me, ma'am.'

Sarah smiled. Shona Bruce didn't need spoon-feeding. A softly-spoken redhead originally from Glasgow, the DC was tall and solid, in every sense of the word.

‘What about the phone call, boss?' Harries sat near the front, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘We know she went to the library 'cause she rang her ma on Tuesday. Presumably she was OK then.'

‘We presume nothing.' Sarah had already thought it through. ‘Until we
know
otherwise, her mother was the last person to see her. As for the call, it was a bad line and they got cut off. It may well have been made under duress. Like the letters.'

‘The letters, ma'am?' DS Paul Wood, office manager. Built like an industrial shithouse, most cops – not to mention a few crims – called him Twig. He was a safe pair of hands with an eye for detail.

‘Yes, sorry guys. I should've said earlier.' She pointed the pen at the two photocopies pinned under the photographs. ‘We'll need to get a comparison, but Mrs Kent swears this is her daughter's writing. Again, Olivia wouldn't have put pen to paper without a helping hand.'

‘The phone call to the school's well dodgy, too.' DS John Hunt pulled on a fleshy bottom lip. ‘Woman with a heavy cold? Reckon he's got an accomplice, ma'am?'

‘Christ, Huntie.' She reached for a bottle of water. ‘Pass the crystal ball.'

‘I wish.' He shrugged sloping shoulders. ‘Save us all a lot of time.'

‘Saving Olivia Kent's life's rather more pressing.' And it'd be painstaking routine, constant digging – plod slog as Baker called it – that would break the case, not quack fortune-telling. Or – heaven forbid – a Ouija board. She moistened her mouth with a few sips, then: ‘You're right about the school, though, Huntie. And the call purporting to be from her mother was made first thing Monday.' She'd already decided to visit the school after the brief. Correction, the house call to Elizabeth Kent would have to come off hold first.

‘OK. Background. I want to know everything there is to know about Olivia Kent by this evening. Favourite haunts, pet hates. How she spends her time – and cash. Bank details, club memberships, daily routines, you name it.' They knew the drill. ‘How far did you get with known associates, David?' Olivia's friends and contacts acquired earlier in the day from Mrs Kent.

‘I only reached a few, boss.' He scrabbled round on the desk behind searching for the list. ‘There's a stack more to get through here.' There were five ticks on the paper. The entire list would only be the tip of the iceberg. No matter how close Olivia was to her mother, it would be an eye-opener if Elizabeth knew everyone in her daughter's life, let alone the hundred-plus friends a quick check on Facebook had revealed. She took the list, handed it to Madison to pursue and assigned a couple more DCs to help with the phone-bashing. Harries would be more use on the road with her. Given the extra impetus provided by the macabre photograph, the house-to-house was being extended and neighbours already spoken to would be re-interviewed. Confirming Saturday as the last sighting or uncovering later ones was imperative. Establishing a time line meant not wasting hundreds of hours and officer power on stale leads, fruitless trails.

‘Is her father on the scene, ma'am?' Shona rarely contributed unless she had something worth saying. ‘Just no one's mentioned a Mr Kent – it's all been about the mother.'

‘Good point.' A father, like any family member or loved one, could be a suspect. Given the stats –
should
be a suspect: random killings by strangers were rare, thank God. What was Baker's mantra? Assume sod all. Either way, Olivia's father could have valuable input and may have seen her recently, if not over the weekend. Frowning slightly, she wondered why Elizabeth hadn't mentioned a husband, then again, Sarah hadn't asked. ‘I'll chase it, Shona. Thanks.' And boyfriends, of course. Elizabeth would have to be questioned closer now. And, joy of joys, Caroline King.
I can't wait
.

Stifling a yawn, Madison scratched a man boob. ‘What about the media?' Sarah sighed. If all his questions were as woolly as that, he'd be better off on a sheep farm. The DC's imprecision wasn't the only reason for her pointed pause. He added a ‘ma'am', but it was late and it seemed to her laboured.

‘Naturally we'll use the media. But getting the coverage wrong could do more harm than good. It needs careful handling.'

‘What?' Clearly unconvinced, he jabbed a thumb towards the whiteboard. ‘Like he's handling her? I'd have thought the sooner it's out there the better, ma'am.'

Polite tone, earnest delivery but Madison was pushing his luck. And trying to push her. Maybe he thought being Baker's current blue-eyed boy gave him some sort of status; that rules and respect for senior ranks didn't apply in his case. Or maybe he had a problem with women. As well as annoying, she found it faintly amusing. She'd spat out more sexist pricks than Madison had scoffed hot meat pies.

‘And what if that provokes the perp, detective? What if that really pisses him off?' Cool, calm but behind her back a fist was clenched; she recalled pictures shot at a crime scene years back, now used in training: a young woman dangling lifeless from a wire noose; her kidnapper had panicked, abandoned her on a narrow ledge over a concrete floor in a derelict warehouse.

‘It's what he wants, isn't it? Publicity? Stories splashed all over the papers, pictures on the telly?' Madison could be right. But the abductor's mailing list hadn't included the media. If he really wanted exposure, why not take the direct route?

‘Know him, do you?' She cocked her head.

‘No but—'

‘Neither do I.' None of them did. It was anyone's guess and it was why not making sweeping generalizations or jumping to conclusions was drummed into every cop from day one. ‘And even if it is what he wants, Madison, we just roll over and oblige, do we?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘And I didn't veto press coverage. We will use it. But we'll use it carefully, tread wisely. There's an old saying about rushing in and—'

‘Stupid wankers.' Twelve heads swivelled as the back door whacked the wall behind it. ‘Stupid time-wasting wankers.' Baker stormed in, suit jacket flapping open, tie over his shoulder. The puce shade matched his flush. ‘Briefs? Who'd fucking have 'em, eh?'

Sarah's relationship with Adam, a lawyer, had broken up last month. Not that the DCS was commenting on her sex life. She surmised the Blake case hadn't gone ahead.

‘Half a day sitting on my arse, thumb-twiddling, while they argue the toss over piddly legal points. Fucking wig-wearing wank pots.'

Come
,
come
,
Chief
.
Don't hold back
. Keeping her own counsel, she sidestepped swiftly. When Baker was in foul mouth mode, the smart move was giving him his head. Come? Mouth? Head? Perish the thought. Grimacing, she bit her lip.

‘Having a stroke, Quinn? Or have I missed the joke?' Snarling, he stuffed the tie in a pocket.

‘No.'

‘Good. The Kent case. I know what we've got.' Clearly he'd done more than twiddle his thumbs at the crown court. A BlackBerry would have been glued to one ear and he'd have been bashing several other ears back at HQ. Baker was known for keeping on top – if not a step ahead – of developments. It kept the troops on their toes, another trait for which he was well known. ‘So what are we doing?'

He listened, threw in the odd comment as she quickly ran through the tasks already assigned. Thrashing out theories could wait until the evening brief. After several hours' interviewing and investigation, it would be clearer what they were dealing with. Hopefully.

‘Righto, good.' Baker clapped meaty hands, flashed a smile. ‘Best get on with it, boys and girls. Chop chop.'

How the old goat got away with it she'd never know. It seemed to her the mood lifted, there was a little light-hearted joshing as chairs were scraped back, jackets shucked into, people started shuffling out. Sarah grabbed a file from the nearest desk.

‘Word before you go, Quinn. When's the news conference?'

‘Not yet, Chief. I thought we'd—'

‘Don't talk daft, woman. We need all the help we can get on this.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘I'll get someone to liaise with the news bureau. Let you know when it's set up.'

‘I could do that, gaffer.' Madison. Crawling past, ears flapping.

‘Ta, Mickey. Soon's you like. Oh, and keep the DI up to speed.'

‘My pleasure.'

Smarmy git. Sarah tightened her lips.

‘I'll go and grab a word with the mad professor.' Baker's pet name for the psychological profiler they used from time to time. ‘Just an initial chat.' Heavy weather wink. ‘See if I can pick his brain.' Baker wasn't stupid; if he squeezed a thought or two from his old drinking buddy, Colin Stone, it might mean not having to cut into a rapidly shrinking police budget. For a while at least. Baker threw a parting shot over his shoulder. ‘Hey, and Quinn, take that lemon out of your mouth.'

Difficult. She'd caught sight of Olivia's image again. The thin wire looked to be cutting into her neck. As for the eyes, haunted was the word. Haunted – and haunting. And she knew they'd follow her until the end of the case. Maybe longer, depending on the outcome.

And even if an innocent explanation emerged for the blood at the house, whoever had strung her up like this was guilty as sin.

TWELVE

‘
T
hey don't know it's Olivia's blood. They have to do tests.' Caroline's voice oozed warmth and concern. ‘But you're her mum, I—'

‘You felt I should be told. Yes, of course.' Elizabeth Kent's fleeting smile held genuine affection but her eyes were troubled. The women were sitting in the Kent kitchen drinking tea and in Caroline's case dispensing sympathy.

‘If there's anything I can do, Mrs Kent.' Gentle squeeze of the woman's arm. ‘Anything.'

Elizabeth nodded, stared into the middle distance, fingers tracing circular score marks on the surface of the beech table. Thinking it through, she felt strangely calm: intelligent enough to realize she could be in denial about what the bloodstains might signify, but so supremely confident of the bond with Olivia, utterly convinced she'd know if her daughter had come to harm. Either way, at least now the police would have to take the disappearance seriously. And this was certainly no time to go to pieces. Maybe her silence was unnerving. In the corner of her eye she glimpsed Caroline fidgeting, playing with her hair. Signs, Elizabeth recognized, of old. There was a saying about the devil and idle hands. ‘I wouldn't say no to another cup, dear.'