A Question of Despair (14 page)

Evie lay on her back on the hard cold earth. Her arms were at her side, the beautiful blue eyes Sarah would never see alive, were closed as if in sleep. Evie wore only a nappy. Dirty. Disposable. Sarah clenched her fists. It was a travesty. A life ended before it had barely begun. How could anyone do this? Moving closer, she knelt on the ground, grit and stones piercing her skin. She ached to lift the baby, cover her near nakedness. It was way too late to offer comfort. A small pink teddy bear lay just out of reach, a bare patch on one of the ears where tiny fingers had stroked away the fur. The bear was on its back too, a grotesque parody of the baby's death pose. Sarah longed to press the toy into Evie's hands, longed to breathe life into this innocent, sinned against little girl. And for an instant, she wanted to kill whoever had snuffed it out.

‘The doc's just coming, ma'am.' Soft-spoken, hesitant, subdued.

Back still turned, she nodded. She couldn't trust her voice not to break, didn't want the young constable to see her grief. She'd never cried at a crime scene before. Like she'd never fainted at a post-mortem or thrown up at the stench of rotting flesh. It was one of the reasons she was known as the Ice Queen. But this was different. She fumbled in a pocket for a tissue. Didn't have one. Dashed away the tears with the heels of her hands.

‘Sarah? OK if I take a look?' A man's voice echoed eerily in the archway. She recognized pathologist Richard Patten's Geordie accent.

‘Of course.' Curt, composed. Rising, she brushed grit from her knees, emerged into the towpath's relatively fresh air. Space under the bridge was confined, claustrophobic, stank of vomit and cat piss. Over Patten's shoulder, she spotted Baker in the far distance, his coat flapping as he scurried towards them. Most of the key players, she noted, were already in situ. The FSI guys were kitted up, the lighting rig good to go. She was mildly surprised; she'd heard no one arrive and there was none of the usual banter now.

Patten handed her a linen hankie warm from his pocket. ‘Your lip's bleeding, Sarah.'

She licked her mouth, tasted blood. ‘Thanks.' She was grateful too, that Patten had got the call-out. Pathologists weren't all known for their people skills. Patten must've been first in the queue. He was tall, lean, late thirties, a dark fringe flopped over even darker – and intelligent – eyes. He was dressed down as usual: faded denims, white tee, creased leather jacket. She didn't care how casual his wardrobe was; he was one of the sharpest operators around. And they were going to need him.

‘Nothing struck me, Richard.' She'd seen none of the usual signs of violence. There'd been no bruising, no obviously broken bones, bite marks, burns. She swallowed, sure now she'd be fine if she kept it brief, businesslike. ‘She looks . . .' There was a catch in her voice, she dropped her head.
She looks like a little doll.
Like the doll in the apartment.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, recalled touching the young constable in the same way. Healing hands. She wished.

‘It's OK, Sarah.' Gentle, simpatico. ‘I'll see for myself. You stay here.'

She couldn't. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat, her scalp tingled, her gut churned with wave after wave of nausea. She had to run, had to put some distance from the squalid stinking horror of it all. The last thing they needed was a contaminated crime scene.

‘Nice one, Quinn.'

Bent double, breathing deep, Sarah was aware of Baker standing over her, shaking his head. Puking into a canal was not cool. But if he said one word, took one more pop . . .

‘Here you go.' A plastic bottle appeared in her periphery vision. It was only half-full and the water tepid. Who cared? She rinsed her mouth, ran the back of her hand over her lips. It came away with damp red streaks. Baker sniffed. ‘We've all been there, y'know.'

‘Thanks.' She offered the bottle back.

‘Hang on to it. It's going to be a long night.' The old boy had done her more than one favour. His bulk, she now realized, had shielded her from the prying eyes of a search team making its single-filed way along the towpath. ‘Do we know who found her, Quinn?'

‘A jogger.' Paul Wood had kept her briefed as she drove to the scene. ‘She almost tripped over the body apparently. Harries is talking to her now.' She waved a hand towards a line of parked police vehicles.

He sighed. ‘Makes a change from a man walking his dog.'
Don't boss, don't.
No cracks, not now.
‘Anyone else around?' he asked.

‘Not as far as we know.' The site wasn't exactly a local beauty spot, and there were no nearby houses or shops. They were checking on canal traffic with the water people. ‘Kids were likely hanging round in the park earlier.' Swings and roundabouts weren't the draw. Youths congregated to shoot-up and swig copious amounts of gut rot. ‘We'll get on to it.'

Baker nodded, glanced towards the action. ‘Has Patten come up with anything yet?'

She followed his gaze. The bridge was fully lit now. Dark silhouettes cast stark shadows under the bricked archway. It put her in mind of a dumb show, prayed fervently that dumb was the last thing it would be. Crime scenes held secrets, crucial evidence, it was the experts' job to get them to speak.

‘He'll be a while, I should think.' The pathologist was hunched over the body, light reflected off his steel case; a police photographer was shooting stills. They'd video it too, every surface, every corner, every crevice. She shuddered. No image would be as sharp or indelible as the one imprinted on her mind's eye.

‘Jeez, chief. How could anyone . . . ?'

He lifted a palm. ‘Not just how, Quinn. You know that.'

Who? Why? When? He was right. She didn't need the lecture. Belatedly, she told him about discovering the doll in her apartment, how it replicated Evie's pose in the photograph. How it was similar to the way the baby's body had been laid out. No point sharing her feeling a break was on its way. Instinct? Complete tosh.

‘What's your thinking on the doll, Quinn?'

I know who you are. I know where you live.
She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a personal message, a warning to me.' But the murdering bastard had already carried out the threat. On a target as soft as it gets.

‘Still could be,' Baker said. ‘He's been inside your home, invaded your space. Forensics been round?'

‘Probably still there.' They'd been told to pick up the key from her neighbour.

‘You'll get the locks changed?'

‘Course. What do you take me for?' She wouldn't. She was tempted to leave the bloody door open, make it easier for the guy. The old boy wasn't taken in by her quick-fire response.

‘I mean it, Quinn.' He pointed a stubby finger. ‘Don't try anything stupid.'

Why not? He was surely taking the cops for a bunch of fools. ‘Come on, boss. You know me.'

‘Do I?' He held her gaze, his was steadier. Truth be told, she was beginning to doubt she knew herself any more. ‘We're not just hunting a kidnapper, Quinn.' The pause was unnecessary. She knew what he was getting at. Scowling, he shook his head. ‘Christ, I'd have given anything for it not to come this.'

‘Anyway, I can't put it off any more.' He'd echoed her earlier sentiment, she nodded her fellow feeling. Maybe he did have a beating heart inside that hulking chest. ‘No need to hold my hand, inspector.'
Thank God for small mercies.
She'd seen more than her fair share. ‘You can hang on here for the boy wonder.'
Harries? Why?
‘Now the baby's dead –' Baker turned to leave – ‘someone'll have to tell the mother.'

Briefly she closed her eyes. Guess who?

‘Where? When?' Caroline King swung her legs out of warm crumpled sheets, cursing her spinning head. The line was bad, the voice hushed, breathless, but the message was clear. The Lowe baby was dead. The cops were at the scene. Grabbing a pen from the bedside table, she jotted a few words on her wrist.

‘Does the mother know?' Frowning, she strained to hear. ‘Say again.' Loads of static. ‘Sod it.' Damn line was dead, too now.

Wincing at the pain in her temples, she glanced at the time. Midnight. Too late for a house call? Not necessarily, but she was in no state to drive. Last thing she needed was to lose her licence. And a story this big needed a brain in gear.

TWENTY-TWO

‘
I
'm not sure she even took it in.' Arms folded, Sarah leaned against the Audi parked outside Karen Lowe's block of flats. Harries' motor was up the road. They'd driven separately so each could go their own way after breaking the news. Neither seemed in a hurry to leave, to be alone with uneasy thoughts. It took a while to get over delivering a death knock. As for the recipient, it could take a lifetime.

The street was deserted but for a couple of lurching drunks murdering ‘Danny Boy' and a brindled dog picking over the remains of an abandoned curry. Sarah could smell both animal and vegetable from here, thank God she no longer felt queasy. Harries had yet to respond.

‘So what's your take on Karen's reaction, David?'

‘Sorry, boss. I was just . . .' Wrestling with some of those thoughts. She repeated her observation.

‘Yeah, you're probably right.' He turned his mouth down. ‘The medication she's on won't have helped,' adding quickly, ‘to take in the baby's death, I mean.'

Sarah flapped a hand. Explanation unnecessary. Tranquilizers and sleeping tablets would certainly blunt the edges. No chemical cosh in the world could take away the pain completely, or for long. ‘Hopefully she'll get a few hours' sleep. We'll need to question her tomorrow.'

They both glanced up at the flat window. Curtains were drawn, amber lighting subdued, a figure crossed in silhouette. Jess Parry's. Sarah found it difficult to imagine the scene playing out in there.

‘Did you get anything from the woman who found the body?'

He sniffed. ‘She won't be jogging there any time soon.'

‘Does she use the route a lot?' And notice anyone/anything they needed to know.

‘A fair bit. I ran through the usual but –' empty palms – ‘nothing useful. She'd help if she could, I'm sure. She seemed real public-spirited. Not like some.' Who look the other way, don't want to get involved.

Sarah watched the dog mooch past, cock its leg against a lamp post.

‘Do you think Karen's holding back, inspector?' Inspector. Ma'am. Boss. She wished he'd stick with one or the other. The question was presumably because he'd picked up rumblings from some members of the squad – including Baker – that Karen knew more than she was saying. The wording on the kidnapper's note had a lot to answer for, and Karen's lack of comment didn't help.

‘I think she's barely holding on at the moment, David.' Sarah massaged her neck, trying to smooth a knot of tension. ‘Fact is, I just don't know. She looked grief-stricken, shell-shocked, completely out of it, everything you'd expect.' Slumped on the settee, she'd stared aimlessly into space, pain etched on her features. She'd barely reacted when Sarah took her cold hands into her own. ‘But you don't need me to tell you . . . Hollywood isn't the only place to find actors, people lie all the time. And not just to the police.'

He nodded. ‘I didn't expect her not to cry though. And she didn't say a word, did she? Didn't even ask how Evie died.' Asphyxiation was the pathologist's initial finding. Baker had phoned the information in just as Sarah was leaving the crime scene. Patten had spotted faint red pin pricks on the baby's eyelids: petechial haemorrhaging. Early signs were that Evie had been smothered.

Head down, Harries toed the pavement. ‘I'm sure you're right though, boss. She's probably not taken it in yet.'

Unless she'd known all along and the news hadn't come as a shock.

Sarah fished car keys from a pocket. ‘Only one good thing about tonight . . .'

‘What's that?'

‘The story's not broken yet, the press hasn't been sniffing round.'

TWENTY-THREE

S
arah stared at her reflection. She was in the bathroom supposedly getting ready for bed and sleep she suspected wouldn't come. Examining her face closely, she was surprised it showed no sign of stress, no inner turmoil. Surely no one witnessing that pitiful scene could remain untouched? The scarring, she knew, was mental not physical. Lifting her arms, she released the long blonde hair from its tight bun. The tension was still in her neck, she circled her head slowly two or three times.

Again, she studied her reflection: the eyes appeared less tired than before, the skin smooth, unblemished.
Like Evie's.
The flashback was involuntary. Sarah clutched the sink. The support wasn't enough.

What's wrong with me?
She was accustomed to being alone, an only child, both parents dead, few friends outside the firm. But this urge for some sort of human contact was overwhelming. She needed to talk, needed someone to hold her, needed someone to make it better. Chiding herself for the weakness she recognized too, how real the need was. Apart from the unprecedented vomiting earlier, she'd maintained her usual cool professional composure throughout, even when telling Karen her baby was dead. She'd offered the girl a little comfort, now she ached for it herself.

Adam picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Hi there, lady. Can't you sleep either?' There was a smile in his voice.

‘We've found her, Adam.' Barely a pause. He knew. Lying on the couch now she gazed through the window, a stiff scotch in the other hand.