A Question of Despair (10 page)

‘I know something else, Quinn. You should smile more often.'

Caroline King's smile morphed into a scowl as she approached the Mercedes. Bloody traffic wardens: hadn't they got better things to do? Still, in the wider scheme of things a parking ticket was a minor irritant, it could be written off on expenses – after she'd written up her exclusive. The hot tip had given her more than a steer. All she needed was a quote from Quinn. The scowl was now a smirk; sorry, make that,
Queen
.

‘What the . . . ?' Whatever was tucked under the wiper wasn't a ticket. She eased out a cellophane package, eyes narrowed, breath on hold. Inside was a folded sheet of A4, on it three words cut and pasted from a newspaper. Caroline gasped; felt her heartbeat take a hike. ‘My God.'

She'd no doubt who it was from. It wasn't just the message – it was the lock of fine blonde hair nestling in the cellophane. Caroline leaned against the motor, thoughts racing. Of course it couldn't have been a parking ticket, she realized now. This was the Marriot's car park and she had a resident's pass. So how come the kidnapper knew where she was staying, had she been followed? Casually she glanced round the cavernous interior: gleaming bodywork, concrete pillars, concealed cameras, the occasional glinting lens revealing locations.

She tapped her fingers on the driver's door. Why had the kidnapper singled her out? She snorted. Stupid question. Class will out. The question now was how to capitalize on the unexpected gift, the kidnapper's calling card. Eyes narrowed, she traced top lip with tongue. There'd be no mileage pissing off the police too much, but maybe it was a ticket after all. A ticket to ride.

In the car, she checked the mirror, winked approvingly, awarded herself a perfect ten. Either way a King beats a Queen hands down.

Laughing aloud, she hit the ignition, put her foot down as well.

FOURTEEN

S
arah couldn't recall seeing a squad so hacked off. Leaning against a desk at the front, she'd been watching reactions as Baker brought them up to speed on the Polaroid. The news had left stony features, slumped posture. It was hardly surprising, most had families, all had feelings. Forty plus detectives were in the room, as many again out in the field. Everyone had worked their butt off since Evie's abduction and forty hours on had little to show for it. Even the normally dynamic DC Harries looked a touch downbeat. The current despondency wasn't just down to a sense the perp was yanking their communal chain, though Paul Wood had expressed that view, it was more that the baby was still out there, in the hands of a kidnapper who also held all the cards. And if the attitude displayed here was anything to go by, he or she had just played a blinder. Sarah willed the boss to nip it in the bud; negativity was bad for morale.

‘So that's where we are.' He parked a haunch on her desk, ran a keen gaze over the troops. They'd been briefed on which tasks were ongoing, what steps had been taken. ‘Where do
you
reckon we should be going?'

The silence wasn't far off complete. A fan whirred, papers were shuffled, there were rustles as one or two officers shifted in their seat. Baker let the silence stand until just about everyone was on edge, expectant.

‘That it, then?' He turned his mouth down, swung a chunky casual leg. ‘Dumbstruck? Cat got your balls? Great.' He clapped his hands slowly. ‘The perp'd love to see this . . . it's just what he was after when he sent that pic. It's called demotivate. Demoralize. Dispirit. Discourage. Dishearten. Disparage. Anything you like beginning with diss. That's diss with two s's, by the way.' For a fat man, he jumped off the desk surprisingly quickly. Papers wafted in his wake. ‘Know what I call it? I call it pissing people off.' He cocked his head at Sarah. ‘Pissing people off royally.' Her slightly curved lip acknowledged the not so subtle allusion. Baker's pause lasted three, four seconds, then: ‘And I don't like people pissing me off. Specially villains.'

He was hamming it up, but seemed to have the audience with him. Sarah spotted fewer sprawled legs, folded arms.

‘This guy thinks he's smart,' Baker sneered.

‘Or she.' Ventured a female officer near the front.

Baker flapped a hand. ‘I can't be doing with this he/she, his/her business. We'll stick with bloke 'til we nail the bastard . . . And believe me – we will.' No argument; the conviction was absolute. ‘He
thinks
he's smart – I
know
we're shit-hot. What's the old saying: “Don't get mad get even”? Well I say: go ballistic and get one up on the buggers. And take it from me, I know where I'll be shoving it.'

‘You and me both, gaffer.' Wood's crooked arm illustrated the point. A few officers echoed the sentiment. Sarah had to admire the old boy. A macho pep talk peppered with expletives, and though – in concrete terms – nothing had changed, the atmosphere was lighter, the mood less sombre. Detectives started throwing out questions, chipping in ideas. Only Lavery looked less than impressed but he'd still be miffed from the bollocking the other day.

‘Why show his hand now, sir?' Harries asked.

Baker shrugged. ‘Arrogance? Control freak? Nutter?'

‘If you ask me, it's sadistic.' DC Shona Bruce. When the tall redhead voiced an opinion it was generally worth hearing. She'd certainly vocalized Sarah's thinking. ‘The kidnapper didn't just target us.' Shona didn't elaborate, they all knew the other recipient on his hit list was in hospital. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Shona said, ‘Sending Karen a picture of her baby posed like that smacks of sheer cruelty to me.'

Several heads nodded. A phone rang on the desk near Harries. ‘Dave? Get that, will you?' Baker nodded at Shona. ‘Carry on, lass.'

She smoothed non-existent creases from a blue serge skirt. ‘Karen goes on telly pleading to have her baby back. And he sends a photo? How vicious is that?'

‘Not just vicious.' Heads turned as Sarah spoke. ‘I think it's personal not random. Not spur of the moment. Planned to the last detail.' She'd suspected it from the start. Babies aren't just snatched from the street in broad daylight. And why had Karen been so convinced of the worst? More than once she'd said, ‘They'll kill her, won't they?' They. Not he. Not she. As far as Sarah was concerned, the girl knew more than she was letting on. ‘I think we need to dig . . .'

‘DI Quinn,' hand over mouthpiece, Harries interrupted. ‘It's for you. Urgent.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is it?'

‘Caroline King.'

For Christ's sake.
‘Not now, Harries.'

‘She says it's vital—'

‘Tell her I'll—'

‘. . . she speaks to you now.'

‘I'll speak to her when I'm ready,' Sarah snapped. ‘Savvy?'

‘Fine.' By now his tanned complexion had a pink tinge. ‘But she says—'

‘Read my lips, Harries: I don't care what she says.'

Baker mimed a slammed phone. ‘You think we need to dig where, Quinn?'

‘Karen's background, family, mates, boyfriends, anyone she's associated with recently. We need to find out if she's ever worked; where and how she spends her time. Does she go on-line? We need to know more about her than her own mother. Which is good a place to start as any.' Given Karen was in no condition to be questioned any time soon. ‘When we're finished here, I'll get over to Harborne.' Harries could tag along, too.

It was nearly a wrap anyway. Further background checks were assigned to four detectives, others still had reported sightings to chase, a number were following up calls to the hotline. Everyone knew what they were doing and there was an eagerness – absent before – to get on with it.

‘OK guys.' The door opened as Baker was shucking into his jacket. ‘Anything else before we nail his sorry ass?'

‘Guv.' John Hunt hovered in the doorway, CCTV tape in hand. Normally unflappable, the DS's hair was mussed, tie askew. ‘Get the hammer. I think we've got him.'

Within minutes, half the squad was crammed in the viewing suite. Sarah and Baker, hunched close to the monitor, had ringside seats, their pupils reflecting the flickering colour images playing out on screen. Breath bated, palms moist, Sarah watched a tallish guy lope along the pavement outside the granite and glass façade of Lloyd House. His clothes were in monochrome: black combats, white T-shirt, grey hoodie. A logo emblazoned across the chest read University of California. Sarah sniffed, doubted he'd been within spitting distance of the campus. Either way coming here wasn't a sharp move. There was nothing furtive in his approach and force HQ CCTV was state of the art. She allowed herself a thin smile. All Postman Prat had to do was show his face.

‘You can see he's carrying an envelope, guv.' Hunt leaned across the desk, tapered finger pointing. ‘It's definitely the one. Personal's underlined three times and it's addressed to Inspector Queen.' Hunt's running commentary she could do without; the action was unfolding less than a foot away.

The guy paused briefly at the main entrance, bent slightly to make the drop. The digital clock read 06.35. The guy had his back to the camera at this point. Christ, Sarah thought. A couple of minutes earlier and she might have bumped into him. Five seconds passed, ten, fifteen; all they could see was his back.

Sarah fanned her face with a file. Baker tapped testy fingers on the desk. ‘What the fuck's he doing?'

‘Lighting a fag,' Hunt said. ‘Don't worry, guv, it gets better.'

And then he turned. Taking a deep drag, he tilted his head back and blew three perfect smoke rings. The picture was so sharp, they could see the tendons tauten in his neck, then the glint from a nose piercing. The hood had dropped back to reveal wavy black hair, lots of it. He looked pretty fit; regular features, decent bone structure. Sarah estimated his age at late-twenties, early-thirties. She exchanged glances with Baker who was smiling too.
Gotcha.
ID-ing the guy should be a piece of cake.

Could it get any better?

From the back, a voice piped up, ‘Gaffer. I know him.'

FIFTEEN

‘
T
his is Caroline King, BBC TV News, Birmingham.' Pink lip gloss glistening, the reporter gazed earnestly into the lens for a further five seconds or so, then: ‘Got that, sweetie?' They were shooting in the Marriot's underground car park, Caroline's staged re-enactment of discovering the kidnapper's note was already in the can. The young woman behind the camera answered with a thumbs-up and a ‘No worries'. Caroline was slightly uneasy though.

It had taken nearly all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince several editors at TV Centre that they run footage of the kidnapper's message prior to bringing in the police. Persuasion and precious time. What if the kidnapper had contacted other journalists? What if a rival station got the news on air first? God, no. It didn't bear thinking about. She checked the BlackBerry for messages or missed calls, breathed a sigh of relief.

Toe tapping, she watched ‘sweetie' scrawl King PTC in black marker pen on a tape case. Not that her bitch was with the crew. It was the desk-jockeys who were a pain, soon as they came off the road they lost their edge, the thrill of the chase. As for the Beeb's lawyers . . . She curled a lip.
Do me a favour.
Christ. Favours didn't come much bigger than the kidnapper's. Talk about gift horse and mouth. Of course it had to be broadcast: the public had a right to know. After all Caroline had given the cops a crack at the whip, it was Quinn who'd refused to take the call. Or bothered getting back.

Stiletto heels clacking pitted concrete, she strode over to a despatch rider propping up the nearest pillar. With a winning smile, she handed over the tape. ‘Soon as you can, honey.'

‘For you . . .' He saluted with gauntleted hand before mounting the bike, the straining black leathers left nothing to the imagination. It brought tears to the eye. Caroline averted her gaze. She'd used only a little imagination to furbish the gaps in the story. She hadn't actually
seen
the Polaroid sent to the police. It had been described well enough for her to paint a word picture though.

The piece-to-camera had completed the sequences already shot. Editing would be done at the Mailbox: a short package for rolling news, extended pieces for the main bulletins. They might want a live two-way later. It might be Saturday, but news was 24/7, thank God. She fumbled in her bag for the car keys, then smoothed her immaculate bob. There were other fish to fry. Maybe grill was a better word, given the lengthy list of questions she had in mind. Chuckling to herself, she headed for the Merc. If poss she needed to collar Quinn, before the story broke. When the excrement would really hit the extractor fan.

When someone's
known
to a cop, it doesn't necessarily figure they're bosom buddies. There's no sharing popcorn at the cinema, going on for a curry and a couple of Cobras. They're known, as in: POI. Person of Interest. And the closest contact normally is feeling a collar, or eyeballing each other across a metal desk in a police interview room.

Which is where DS Reg Proctor had last seen Todd Mellor, in the flesh. Only Mellor's face was currently on show, a close up on the monitor in the viewing suite.

‘I think he quite enjoyed the attention, guv.' Proctor was certainly under the metaphorical spotlight. He'd been giving rapt colleagues an account of his dealings with Mellor. A couple of years back, Proctor and his then partner had apparently brought the guy in for questioning. A few parents and teachers at a primary school near where Mellor lived had complained he'd been hanging round, taking pictures of kids. Mellor, Proctor said, had come in voluntarily, answered all questions satisfactorily, agreed to a search of his house, allowed them to take his computer. ‘Came out cleaner than Persil, guv.' Sarah sniffed, cut a glance at the screen. Or he'd rumbled they were onto him.