A Question of Despair (15 page)

‘I can be with you in a few hours.'

‘No. Don't do that.' It was enough he'd offered. ‘I'll be fine. I just wanted to hear your—'

‘I know, lady. I know.' Knew too, she needed to do the talking.

‘We're waiting on the post-mortem, but the early signs point to asphyxiation.' She mentioned the petechial haemorrhaging then: ‘I saw her, Adam.' She closed her eyes, still saw her, lying in that rank almost final resting place. ‘There wasn't a mark on her body.' She heard rustling. Was he loosening a tie? Shifting position in bed?

‘How's . . . Karen . . . is it?'

‘She's at home. I was there earlier. Family liaison's with her now. A uniform posted outside.' She took a sip, rolled the spirit round her mouth. ‘You know, it's strange, Adam . . .' The thought was taking shape even as she voiced it. ‘Karen's been convinced from the start Evie was dead. Telling her tonight, it was as if she knew, like we were merely confirming it.'

‘And did she? Know? Do you think?'

‘She couldn't have, could she?' Because if she had . . . The notion needed thinking through but not now. Changing the subject she told him about her uninvited guest, his unwanted gift. Deliberately made light of it.

‘Shoot, Sarah. Get the damn lock changed.'

‘Sure.' Agreement was easier than arguing. He'd only fuss. As it happened, the forensic team had left details of an approved locksmith. Their note also said the apartment was clean. They meant forensically, given her aversion to all things domestic.

‘You say there was barely a mark on the baby's body?' He'd obviously been mulling it over. Something in his tone made her sit up mentally.

‘Go on.'

‘I'm no expert . . .' No, but as a lawyer he specialized in child cases. ‘But I do know asphyxiation can be difficult to detect and more important from your point of view to prove.'

Ridiculous.
‘But the haemorrhaging . . .'

‘I'm talking homicidal smothering.' She took a few more sips, listening. He told her suffocating someone usually left corroborative medical evidence: bruising, bleeding, lacerations, even finger or nail marks. ‘But if a pillow or cushion's applied skilfully enough it won't necessarily leave any signs of violence.'

‘Sure, but what about . . . ?'

‘The petechiae on its own doesn't prove she was murdered. It can be present in other causes. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome for instance. She could have died naturally, even accidentally.'

‘For God's sake, Adam!' She was on her feet now. ‘The baby was kidnapped.'

‘Don't shoot the messenger, lady. I'm just saying . . .' She heard a sigh. ‘A good defence lawyer could argue death wasn't deliberate.'

TWENTY-FOUR

S
unlight streamed through the flimsy curtains. Sarah rolled over onto her back, stared at the ceiling. How do you get rid of cobwebs that high? Must be a colony of spiders up there. She sighed, glanced at the clock. Nearly 7 a.m. She'd had five hours sleep. Not much but at least it was deep and relatively dream-free. Did she regret the rash decision to call Adam? No. Yes. Maybe. It had certainly provided food for thought. Even if she'd nearly choked on it. The idea of a kidnapper getting away with murder was enough to make her chuck in the metaphorical badge. It'd be interesting to hear Richard Patten's thinking on it though.

She flung off the sheet, padded through to the kitchen. It wasn't her natural habitat, she left cooking to people who could and had the knack. She'd not expect a chef to walk a crime scene. Anyone could run to tea and toast though. While the kettle boiled, she showered and dressed, choosing a favourite taupe linen skirt suit. Look good, feel good was her old PE teacher's mantra. Not that it was infallible.

The phone rang just as she took the first bite. 7.15. It had to be work.

‘Not eating in bed, are we?' Caroline King. Seething, Sarah scowled. If the reporter was aiming for amiable levity, she'd missed by a mile.

‘Don't call me at home.'

‘Sorry. I can't get through to the press office.'

As if. ‘Someone'll be in – try again.'

‘No time to faff around. You've found the baby, haven't you?' Sarah stiffened, asked where she'd got the information. ‘Yes or no, inspector? It isn't hard.'

Breakfast had lost its appeal. ‘I'm making no comment at this stage.' Nothing was being released until a news conference later in the day. ‘I'll say again: where did you get that information?'

‘Sorry. Can't comment on that.' The bloody woman was taking the piss. ‘Is it true?'

Sarah sauntered to the bin, ditched the toast. ‘You must be running out by now.'

The reporter's voice faltered for the first time. ‘Running out?'

‘That chequebook of yours. Can't have many left.'

‘What makes you think I pay? Mind that implies the tip's sound. Take it as a yes, shall I?'

Take it and shove it.
‘As per, you'll take it any way you want. I'm making no comment. Good morning . . .'

‘Don't hang up. Tell me: are you taking Karen Lowe in for questioning?'

‘Ms King.' She broke the connection.
Right.
Lips tight, she hit a fast-dial number. ‘Frank?' Police press officer. ‘DI Quinn. I've got a short statement for immediate release . . .' King's story wouldn't stay exclusive for long.

‘I think we need to bring Karen Lowe in.' Quite a greeting, even for Baker.

Sarah raised an eyebrow.
And good morning to you, too, sir.
They'd turned up at HQ in tandem, weren't even in the building yet. And despite sunny skies and rising mercury, the morning was turning out anything but good. The heat was clearly getting to the chief. Not the meteorological kind. Sarah had anticipated he'd want pressure put on Karen Lowe but not this early. Walking in step – physically – they crossed the tarmac car park. ‘Before you go fetch her, can you take the brief, Quinn? I've got a meeting. ACC Long.' Assistant Chief Constable, Operations.

‘Sure, chief. But Karen Lowe? I'm not convinced she knows anything.'

Baker had shed the customary dark suit for a light linen number. It was doing nothing for his outlook. Staring grimly ahead, he said. ‘No? Well someone is. What did the note say? “Ask the mother
.
” Let's do it.'

She mentioned Adam's theory, suggested they wait for the post-mortem. He flapped a hand: was he even listening? ‘OK, chief, but surely we should question Todd Mellor before speaking to Karen?' Once they'd tracked him down. The guy was still AWOL.

‘Good point. You can start by asking if she knows where he is.'

What?
She glanced at his profile. ‘She's not even heard of him.'

‘Hasn't she? And the blessed Karen never lies? You know that, do you, Quinn?'

Baker had one on him: a bee-ridden bonnet. And the buzz was getting louder. She lowered her voice hoping the subdued volume would rub off on the boss. ‘I don't know that. Sir. No.'

Breaking stride, he turned, face flushed. ‘It's not the only thing you don't know, Quinn.' Not flinching was a challenge. ‘Get her in. Show her Mellor's mugshot.'

Standing her ground literally, she said, ‘Karen Lowe was sick with grief when I last saw her. I doubt she's even up for questioning yet. I think we should leave it a while.'

‘For the baby, time's already run out.' His eyes darkened. ‘Christ. You were there last night, weren't you?'

Below the belt.
Was the baby's image behind Baker's belligerence? Or was it his meeting with Tony Long? ‘Yes, but Karen—'

‘Wouldn't be the first mother to have a hand in killing her kid. So quit pussyfooting round.'

‘Kill?' Her eyes widened. She harboured suspicions about Karen but they didn't go that far.

‘Accessories, Quinn? They're not just bits of bling, y'know.'

Patronizing bastard. ‘I don't think—'

‘It's a well known fact women can go a bit funny after having a baby.'

‘What! I don't believe I heard that.' Sexist, ignorant prat.

‘A monkey's I do not give.' God, he was finger-jabbing again. ‘I want her in. Inspector.'

‘Are you asking or telling?'

‘Neither. I'm ordering.' Brushing past her, he swept into the building.

Sarah glanced up, for the first time noticed faces at the open windows. It had been quite a floor show.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
he squad was unnaturally quiet, postures affectedly casual. Sounds of church bells drifted in vying with the local mosque's call to prayer. Faithful followers? Sarah took a deep breath, girded metaphorical loins. Officers who hadn't witnessed the stand-off had clearly been enlightened by those who had. John Hunt looked particularly as if butter wouldn't melt jammed in an armpit. She wouldn't be surprised if he or another of her fans had started a book on how long Baker would keep her on as deputy SIO. The boss could run a farm with the scapegoats he'd amassed over the years.

Striding to the front she greeted everyone with a brisk, ‘Morning all.' Thirty or so pairs of eyes watched closely as she faced the team. They were probably looking for bruise marks. Tough. She'd already decided to act as if Baker had just presented her with a floral tribute. Even if she did feel like telling him where to stick the stems.

And it was an act. She was incandescent. The boss's dressing down was only partly to blame. Standing centre stage, she paused a few seconds, ran her gaze over the squad, then: ‘You all know we're no longer searching for Evie. We're hunting her killer.'

Officers were still silent. But no longer with suppressed embarrassment or Schadenfreude. Most had studied the crime scene photographs blu-tacked that morning to what was now a murder board. She noted a number of tight fists, clenched jaws. She let the silence hang a while longer.

‘I can't imagine a more callous crime or more cowardly criminal. But let's get this straight . . . I don't know who the killer is. I have an open mind.' The tacit corollary being:
unlike some.
She paused. No one mentioned Karen Lowe's name – even those who probably sided with Baker. ‘The inquiry's got a long way to go yet.' She took a file from her briefcase. ‘I take it you're all up to speed?' Every officer was expected to keep on top of developments, overnight reports. ‘Good. Let's crack on then.'

She assigned detectives to trawl Small Heath park for potential witnesses, another officer to chase the Waterways people. A specialist police team – POLSA – was already working the towpath. ‘And divers will drag that stretch of the canal this morning. I need officers on the streets talking to passers-by, stopping motorists.' She nodded as hands went up. ‘Not you, Harries. We have a date with Karen's ex or otherwise in an hour or so.'

‘What about the APB on Mellor, inspector?' Shona Bruce's Edinburgh lilt.

‘It's not going anywhere.'

‘Unlike Mellor.' A clown at the back threw in the first even vague approach at a funny all morning.

‘Yeah, well let's hope we get lucky.' Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘The search of his flat starts any time soon.'

‘Reckon Mellor had anything to do with the incident in your apartment, ma'am?' DC Dean Lavery. Forensics had filed an initial report, confirming the non-findings their note to her outlined.

‘I don't know. Whoever it was we need to trace them fast.' Two detectives were already in Brindley Place, knocking doors, talking to neighbours.

‘I could do with more bodies, ma'am.' Office manager Paul Wood, beefy arms crossed, was propping up a side wall. ‘Calls are coming in thick and fast.' The hotline was exactly that.

‘No problem, Woodie. Let me know how many you need.' There'd be no let-up now the news had broken.

‘What about the media, boss?' Harries looked as if he could do with a shave. Overslept, maybe?

Crews and reporters were milling outside the front of the building. She'd clocked them driving in. ‘I'll give them a statement.' Pending a full blown news conference as and when she was ready.

‘They're hassling for interviews.' Lavery.

‘So let them hassle.' She didn't care for the guy's shrug. ‘You have a problem with that, constable?'

He raised both palms. ‘Not me, ma'am.'

She deliberated for a few seconds. It was a distraction from the main event, but: ‘While we're on the subject . . . I'm sick of getting calls at home from a reporter who's obviously being kept in the loop. When I find out who's feeding her the information, they'll be off the case and out of a job. It's jeopardizing the inquiry. Clear?' Like it was a given. ‘Good.' She started gathering papers. ‘There's only one priority.' Finding the killer. ‘Any questions before we get on with it?'

Glances were exchanged but no one spoke.

‘Next brief at six then.' She was halfway to the door when Lavery voiced the question on everyone's lips.

‘What about Karen Lowe, ma'am?'

‘Ah yes.' She smiled, like he'd reminded her. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Baker thinks Ms Lowe needs a breath of fresh air and a change of scenery. He's sure an hour or two at HQ would do her the world of good. DS Hunt would you be kind enough to bring her in? I'd like to see her in my office at 12.30, OK?'

It was an impromptu affair on the steps of HQ. Sarah's aim was to get the press off her back as much as anything. Knew it would be temporary. Surrounded by a barrage of cameras and mics, she read a brief statement outlining the discovery of the baby's body. Wound up with a witness appeal, then: ‘There'll be a news conference later. We'll ring round with a time. Thanks a lot everyone.' As if.