A Question of Despair (11 page)

Proctor mopped his shiny brow with a crumpled hankie. He was early thirties, but born middle-aged and wore the uniform: tweed jacket, leather elbow pads, trousers with a killer crease, neatly knotted knitted tie. His horn-rimmed glasses were getting the hankie treatment now. ‘He didn't have so much as a box Brownie squirrelled away.'

‘Yeah, well, we'll see about that.' Baker leaned back in the swivel chair, fingers tapping both chunky thighs. ‘How'd he strike you, Reg?'

Hopefully, Baker would soon form his own assessment. An unmarked car had been despatched to Mellor's last known address in Aston. If he'd done a bunk, a picture would be circulated to officers across the city. If need be, they'd release copies to the media, issue an all points bulletin.

‘He seemed pretty straight to me, guv.'

‘Cocky?'

Proctor chewed a rubbery lip. ‘More what I'd call laid-back.'

So Mellor had done nothing wrong or he'd destroyed anything incriminating. Sarah checked her watch. Coming up to half-nine, they needed to get on. Couldn't rely on Mellor holding up his hands. Either way, Baker wanted first interview-shot at the guy.

According to Proctor, apart from being questioned under caution Mellor had no previous and back then had no job, no family, no partner. He lived alone in a crummy one-bedroomed flat over a fish and chip shop. ‘As I say, guv, he seemed to enjoy the attention.'

‘Christ, Reg.' Baker whacked the desk. ‘The guy was accused of having an unhealthy interest in little kids.'

Mouth turned down, then: ‘He reckoned it was a case of mistaken identity, guv.'

The boss jabbed a thumb at the screen. ‘Yeah? Well, he won't be getting away with that one this time round.'

SIXTEEN

A
subdued DC Harries drove down a tree-lined street in Harborne. Dappled light flickered across the planes of his face. Sarah glanced at his profile. Hoped he wasn't smarting from the slapping down at the brief. Not that she regretted the rebuke. He was a cop for God's sake. If he took offence that easy he was in the wrong job. John Hunt had already had a moan because she was working more and more with Harries. Sarah reckoned the DS resented what he saw as being sidelined. Registering Harries' tight lips, white knuckles, she hoped she'd made the right call. Couldn't be doing with a sulker.

‘Something on your mind, David?' Light tone, casual query.

‘No, ma'am.'

She doubted that. He was bright, too bright to share his current thinking if hers was correct. He certainly had the gift of the gab when he needed it. Harries had graduated in law but after two tedious years defending petty crooks decided he'd be better off detecting the criminals. She also knew the old school guard at Lloyd House had initially given him a hard time. He'd told her a while back he realized early on the only way to deal with the sly digs, carping comments, was to laugh them off. Or crack even better ones himself.

Sarah pursed her lips. Since they'd got in the motor, he'd yet to crack a smile.

‘There is actually, ma'am.'

Frowning. ‘Is . . . ?'

‘Something on my mind.'

She waited for him to share. Waited some more. ‘Is it going to stay there?'

‘You won't like it.'

She held fire while he manoeuvred round a dust cart partially blocking the road. ‘Shouldn't I be the judge of that?'

‘That call at the brief? Caroline King . . .'

‘Spot on, David. I don't like it.'

‘I think she's on to something.'

‘After something more like.' Derisive snort.

‘She said you'd regret not hearing her out, actually used the words: “on her head, be it”.'

‘Sounds like a threat to me.' They were at a red light.

‘It did to me, too.' She sensed his gaze on her. ‘I'm only the messenger ma'am. But what bugs me is this: if she was that desperate to talk to you . . . didn't you say she had your mobile?'

Karen Lowe's mother lived in a detached double-fronted red brick: neat garden, net curtains, number nine Wisteria Lane. Sarah twitched a lip: very
Desperate Housewives
. The ivy-laden property was immaculate and looked late-Victorian. Sarah imagined antimacassars and aspidistras, lace doilies and lavender bags. Even before her hand reached the gleaming brass knocker, the door opened a few inches. A woman's head appeared in the gap, hair like a steel grey skull cap.

‘Didn't you see the sign? No circulars. No junk mail.' The thick Birmingham accent wasn't brusque, it was bloody rude. Sarah bristled. ‘And definitely no cold callers.' The woman made to close the door.

Warrant card thrust in gap, Sarah just about managed to keep a civil tone. ‘I'm Detective Inspector—'

‘Why didn't you say?' Like there'd been a chance to get a word in? ‘Come in . . . come in.' She swung the door wide before turning on her heel and traipsing down a long tiled hallway that smelt of lemons and pine, the chemical kind. Sarah and Harries exchanged bemused glances as they trailed in her voluble wake. ‘We get all sorts here trying to sell stuff, double glazing, patio doors, new drives.' The hair was actually pulled tightly back in a thin ponytail, everything else about the woman was fat, bordering on obese. Given the swaying haunches, the beige sweat pants were not a wise choice. ‘And don't get me started on the God botherers. You name it, we've had 'em. Jehovahs, Mormons, Baptists, Evangelists, happy clappers, I call 'em.'

Was this woman real? Granddaughter missing, daughter hospitalized and she was blathering on about reps and religion.

‘It'll be Mrs Lowe you want. She's just through here.'

Sarah arched an eyebrow. Real then, but the genuine article lay on a cream leather Chesterfield in one of the chicest sitting rooms she'd seen in a long time. Thin silk curtains partially drawn, wafted in a gentle breeze, half a dozen marble lamps cast subtle lighting over clean lines, cool pastels, pale woods. Sarah couldn't comment on the owner. Deborah Lowe was under a satin quilt, a magazine over her face. ‘Who is it, Cath?'

‘The police, Mrs Lowe.' Cath mouthed, ‘migraine' at Sarah. ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?'

Deborah Lowe slung the quilt over the back of the settee then made heavy weather of sitting up. The glossy magazine slipped to the plush carpet at her feet:
Vogue
. Sarah recalled the dog-eared copies of
Heat
and
Closer
at Karen's tiny flat.
Like mother, not like daughter?
‘I don't think so. I'm sure this isn't a social call.' Thick blue veins stood out on the thin hand she raised to smooth her brow. The hair was an immaculate if suspiciously blonde page boy, the subtle mascara slightly smudged. Sarah wondered idly if the woman's clothes always coordinated with the décor, the ivory linen shift dress certainly did and looked equally classy. ‘Do sit down. You're making me nervous.' The laugh was girlish and brittle. The woman though well-preserved was no spring chicken. Late-forties? Early-fifties?

Straight-faced Sarah ran through the introductions before taking the nearest armchair; the cream leather looked more comfortable than it felt. Harries sat opposite, slipped a notebook from his pocket. He'd be observing, too. Body language could convey more than words.

‘This is about Karen, I suppose.' Mrs Lowe reached for a slim silver cigarette case from a side table.
No. The European Exchange Rate.

‘I don't know whether you've heard, Mrs Lowe, but Karen's under observation in hospital.'

She clamped a hand round her throat. ‘Why wasn't I told?'

Sarah explained that Karen had fainted after receiving a photograph of Evie sent by the kidnapper. ‘They're keeping her in as a precaution.'

‘Poor girl, as if she hasn't got enough to cope with.'
And?
What about Evie?

‘Our main concern is your granddaughter's abduction.' It was difficult to keep the censure from her voice. She'd taken an instant dislike to the woman. Making snap judgements was unlike her and not helpful in any inquiry.

‘That goes without saying, surely?' The pale blue eyes seemed to contain a challenge. Maybe she thought better of it. She broke eye contact, fumbled in a handbag for a tissue. ‘When I think of that little baby . . . If there's anything I can do to help . . . anything at all.' She dabbed away a tear, further smearing the mascara. ‘I only wish Karen would let me . . .'

What?
The woman seemed incapable of finishing a sentence. Sarah opened her mouth to speak but Mrs Lowe continued, ‘We're not close, Karen and I. It tears my heart, but I may as well tell you that now.'

‘Why is that?' Sarah asked. ‘You and Karen not being close?'

Five-, six-second pause then: ‘It's a long story, inspector.' Fingers trembling slightly, she lit the cigarette she'd been toying with. Her eyes were moist.

‘Take your time, Mrs Lowe.' Harries' softly-spoken interjection took both women by surprise.

Mrs Lowe acknowledged the sympathy with a tight smile. ‘It's the usual thing, I suppose. We gave her everything we could. Nice clothes, lovely holidays, generous allowance. But she got in with a bad crowd, started staying out late, running wild. When money began disappearing from my purse, I gave her an ultimatum. I'm sorry to say she . . .' Her head gave what looked like an involuntary jerk.

‘What?' Sarah prompted.

‘She attacked me. Threatened me with a knife.' She crushed the cigarette in an onyx ashtray. ‘I told her if she couldn't respect the house rules, she had to leave.'

Sarah had heard similar stories, dysfunctional families weren't confined to sink estates. ‘Where was her father in all this?'

‘Thomas left when Karen was fourteen.' Head down, she started shredding the tissue. ‘It was around then she—' A door opened, interrupting what was hardly a flow.

Cath stepped in, shucking on a coat. ‘I've done the bedrooms, Mrs Lowe. Finished the ironing. If there's nothing else?'

‘No that's fine, Cath. Your money's on the side in the kitchen. Thanks.'

Tight-lipped, Sarah hid a growing impatience. ‘You were saying it was around then Karen started . . . what?'

‘Going off the rails, isn't that the expression, inspector?' Another brittle laugh.

‘When did she move out?'

She turned her mouth down. ‘A year ago? No, two.'

‘Where did she go?'

‘I imagine she went to live with friends.'

Imagine?
‘Does Karen still see her father?'

‘I shouldn't think so. Thomas lives up north somewhere.' She slipped her feet into gold satin ballet pumps. ‘I'll have that coffee after all. Would you like something?'

I'd like you to answer the sodding questions.
Was the woman being deliberately evasive? Keen to put some distance, some thinking space between them?

‘Coffee would be good,' Sarah said. ‘We'll give you a hand.'

Her mouth tightened but she gave a brisk nod of assent. Standing, she was almost as tall as Sarah but stick thin. ‘You'll have to excuse the mess.'

The kitchen was spotless, stainless steel sinks exactly that. Shining appliances looked brand new, pristine fittings as if they'd just been installed. Sarah sniffed. Mess was a relative thing then. She watched as the woman ground beans, poured water and came out with a stream of banal small talk. She let the woman twitter on, fascinated not by the facile tosh but by the fact that every fifteen seconds or so, Mrs Lowe's head jerked, one bony shoulder shrugged. The movements were minuscule but appeared compulsive. She seemed oblivious, inured to what had maybe started as a nervous tic? Now it was as if her body provided punctuation to the conversation. The best place to buy coffee – jerk shrug. The price of beans – jerk shrug. Harries had clocked it too. He glanced at Sarah, quickly looked away. They both found it hard to take their gaze off the woman.

She'd removed obviously clean mugs from the dishwasher, rinsed them under the hot tap and placed them on a draining rack. Now moving to a drawer, she took out a neatly folded tea towel and dried the crockery. Harries looked to be making notes, God knows what about. Using the same cloth to wipe the rack and draining board, Mrs Lowe then held it out in front of her, smiling. She might have forgotten the police were there, she was certainly oblivious to the dubious fascination fixed on their faces. Sarah doubted the woman was admiring the cutesy cat and kittens depicted on the tea cloth. All around the border in bright scarlet lettering were the words, I Love Mum. She gave another jerk shrug then bundled the cloth into the washing machine.

Sarah pulled out a stool and sat down. OK, they'd cut her enough slack. ‘Karen's father, Mrs Lowe? Where exactly up north is he?'

The question clearly irritated her. ‘Manchester, I believe.' More questioning while she poured and handed them coffee elicited that Thomas Lowe was a business consultant. Though separated they weren't divorced and he still paid her a substantial amount of money each month. Sarah made a mental note to put out feelers with Manchester cops. ‘Obviously I want to help, inspector, but does this have anything to do with Evie?'

It was the first time she'd mentioned the baby by name. ‘Maybe nothing. But the more background we discover, the more ideas it may give us.'

‘What progress
have
you made?' Jerk shrug.

‘We're working on a number of lines of inquiry.'

‘So none then?'

‘What was your reaction when Karen told you she was pregnant?'

She perched on another stool. ‘I'd so hoped it would bring us together. I said she could move back in, but she wasn't interested. I haven't even seen the baby. It's so sad.'
Not set eyes on Evie? Poor bloody woman.