A Question of Despair (17 page)

He studied her card, slipped it in a pocket. At the front door, he hesitated before letting them out. ‘Inspector? Do my parents have to know about this?'

She gave a tight smile. ‘Not if you're telling the truth.'

‘So is he?' Harries started the motor. ‘Telling the truth, boss?'

Sarah glanced back at the house. Still deathly pale, Slater was watching from a downstairs window, the woman next door waved exuberantly from hers as she adjusted the net curtain. It would be a miracle if the Slaters didn't hear about their son's little local difficulty.

‘What's your thinking, David?' There was no mileage colouring his views, she wanted to know if they differed from hers.

‘I wouldn't be surprised if he's lying.' Checking the mirror, he waited for a cyclist to pass before pulling out. ‘Either that or he's gay.'

She snorted. ‘How does that work?'

‘Come on, boss. He's what nineteen, twenty? Good-looking. All parts in working order. He hung round with a girl like Karen Lowe for eighteen months. What full-blooded male wouldn't give her one?'

‘Are you saying Karen's easy?' She glanced at his profile.

He sniffed. ‘I don't think it'd be hard.'

‘Pun intended, David? Come to think of it –' she curved a lip ‘– maybe that's his problem.'

‘Impotent?' He'd caught her drift. ‘I don't think so. He didn't have his back to me, boss.'

‘What turned him on then?'

‘Visions of you in a police uniform?'

‘A crack like that could get you a written warning, constable.'

He raised a placatory hand. ‘Sorry, I didn't—'

‘
Joke
, David.'

‘Could've fooled me, boss.'

‘You could be right though, David. Maybe he is gay, and that's why she went out with him. A relationship like that could be useful.'

‘Useful?'

‘To divert attention from the real thing? An illicit affair? Maybe she needed to protect someone – a married man, teacher, priest, someone like that.' Sighing, she gazed through the window.

‘Course, Slater might just be celibate, boss. He's not got anyone on the go now, has he?'

She turned her mouth down. ‘Couldn't even bring himself to use the word sex, could he?'

‘Weirdo.'

‘You just can't get your head round any bloke not wanting it 24/7?'

‘Something wrong with that, boss?'

Masking a smile, she checked the phone for messages, put a call in to the incident room. ‘OK . . . say Michael Slater and Karen did get it together, why would he lie unless he thinks he's the baby's father?'

‘Christ, boss. Some youths round here worry more about buying a pit bull than fathering a kid.'

‘Yes. But you said yourself, Michael Slater's not like a lot of youths.'

‘You think he has something to with the crime?'

‘Don't know.' She shrugged. ‘But I think he's got something to hide.'

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘
I
've got nothing to hide, Mr Baker.' Todd Mellor sat opposite the DCS in Interview Room Two. Mellor had turned up at the front desk just gone eleven – unannounced, unaccompanied and unfazed by the national hunt. While every cop in the country had been keeping an eye open for his sorry ass, Mellor claimed he'd been at a mate's place in Handsworth knocking back cheap booze: the body weight of an elephant if the stink of alcohol was anything to go by.

Baker shifted in the seat, wished to God the room had a window.

‘I came soon as I knew, Mr Baker.' A smiling Mellor lounged back, ankles crossed, thumbs tucked in jeans' waistband. Care in the world he hadn't got. He'd no idea, allegedly, that the cops were after him until he caught his mug on the TV news. Baker was seriously underwhelmed: Mellor had had ample time to come up with a story. If not an anthology.

‘Tell me about the last time you paid us a visit, Mr Mellor.' The detective placed laced fingers on the metal table.

‘Eh?' Bleary grey eyes creased as he raked his stubble.

‘The envelope you pushed through the door?'

‘Oh that.' Like it was junk post. ‘I was doing someone a favour.'

Course he was.
‘The tooth fairy? Mary Poppins? The Pope?'

‘No need to take that attitude, Mr Baker.' Self-righteous bristling. ‘I found it on the pavement just down the road. I thought I'd do the decent thing, pop it in for you, like.'

Course he did.
‘And I suppose you'd no idea what was in it?'

‘Not a clue.' Blithe smile. Either he was still bladdered or taking the piss.

Baker nudged DC Dean Lavery who opened a file and slid a copy of the baby's photograph across the table.

‘Ring any bells, Mr Mellor?' Baker asked.

His smile faded when he registered the image. ‘Oh, no. You're not pinning that on me.' The chair caught on the lino as he scraped it back.

‘Pinning what, Mr Mellor?'

‘That.' He jabbed his thumb at the print. ‘It's nothing to do with me.'

‘It was in your possession.' Baker felt the faintest stir of doubt. But then the guy would say that, wouldn't he?

‘I told you—'

‘Tell me again. Where and when exactly did you find it?
Lying
there?'

He was sober enough to pick up the implication. ‘I'm telling the truth.'

‘When did you take it?'

‘What?' Dense? Devious?

‘The picture, what do you think?' Baker sighed theatrically.

‘I didn't.' His bottom lip protruded.

‘Like taking pictures of children though, don't you?' Rising, he circled the table. ‘Quite the happy snapper, aren't we?'

‘I know what you're getting at, but—'

‘Karen Lowe. How did you meet her?'

‘I've never set eyes on her in my life.'

‘What's she ever done to you?' Leaning into Mellor's space, he flinched at the smell: stale beer laced with rank body odour.

‘Nothing! How could she? I don't know her, never met her.'

Baker reached for the photograph. ‘Beautiful, isn't she? The baby, I mean.'

Mellor shrugged.

‘We found her body last night.'

‘God rest her soul.' Eyes closed, he crossed himself.

‘Did you kill her, Mr Mellor?'

‘Are you mad? I'd hardly be sitting here talking to you if I had anything to do with it.'

Baker held Mellor's gaze. ‘That's exactly where you'd be, sunshine.'

Eyes narrowed, he shook his head. ‘You're trying to set me up, aren't you?'

‘Now why would I want to do that?'

Scrawny arms folded across his chest, he tightened his mouth.

‘Well?' Baker prompted.

‘I'm saying nothing.'

Baker sank his teeth into an egg baguette, mayo oozed from the edges. Sarah was reading the transcript of Mellor's interview. She'd been summoned to the sanctum the minute she set foot in the building.

‘He's getting lawyered up,' Baker said.

She glanced at him, frowning. ‘Reckon he needs a brief, boss?'

‘Needs a bath, I know that. IR2's being fumigated.'

She rolled her eyes. Any case against Mellor looked pretty thin to her. Waving the statement, she said, ‘This is so lame – he's probably telling the truth.'

‘He's all we've got at the moment.' Baker brushed crumbs off his shirt front. ‘Won't do any harm, letting him sweat.'

Last thing he needed, surely.
‘Was he at this mate's place?'

‘You said it.' He aimed the baguette at her to underline his point. ‘A mate's not going to drop him in it.'

‘But he corroborates Mellor's whereabouts?'

One-shouldered shrug. ‘For what it's worth.'

She stared but Baker wasn't making eye contact. She felt faintly uneasy. The pressure was on for a collar, but not at any price: it had to fit. ‘What about the bedsit? Anything incriminating?'

Baker shrugged. ‘Bit of dope.' Not exactly bodies under the floorboards. ‘They've not finished the search yet.'

‘I take it Mellor didn't see who dropped the envelope?' Stupid question. It'd be on record if he had.

‘Do me a favour, Quinn.' Scathing.

‘And he denies all knowledge of Karen Lowe?'

‘Like he'll admit it? What does she say?'

‘I've not asked yet.' The girl should be on the way in now.

‘Well, get a sodding move on.' She was at the door when he spoke again. ‘Actually, Quinn –' wiping his hands with a paper napkin – ‘the post-mortem's at 12.30. Can you cover it?'

‘And see Karen Lowe at the same time? I don't think so.' She ran a finger above her lip. ‘Egg on your face, boss.' Hoped it was the only kind.

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘
F
ront desk here, DI Quinn.' A woman's voice on the phone. ‘A Mr Lowe to see you?'

‘Mr?'
Must be rushed off their grey cells down there.
‘I think you'll find it's a miss.' Smiling wryly, Sarah glanced at her watch: 12.15. Karen could kick her heels for a few minutes.

‘I think not, inspector. His name's Thomas Lowe and he'd like a word.'

Thomas Lowe?
Bingo.
‘Is there an interview room free?'

A sneak preview through IR3's spyhole revealed the woman's confidence was well-founded. Thomas Lowe was definitely all man, alpha male at that: tanned, lean and seriously fit. She smoothed her hair. When she entered, he glanced up, a tentative smile showed even white teeth.

‘DI Quinn?' Standing, he towered over her. ‘I'm Tom Lowe. I came as soon as I heard. I'd like to help if I can.' The voice was pleasant, more Eton than Aston, but warm and engaging. It was what he said that triggered an alarm bell in Sarah's head.

‘You heard what, exactly, Mr Lowe?'

‘About the abduction? One of your people got in touch. Said there was a big search on? That you were keen to talk to me?'

And another bell tolled. ‘You've heard no news today?'
Or recently?

He turned his mouth down. ‘Should I have?'

Clearly he didn't know. She tilted her head at the chair. ‘Please, Mr Lowe.' Sit down, while I work out how best to break it to you that your granddaughter's dead. It wasn't necessary.

‘You've found her?' He must've intuited it in her voice.

‘Yes. Last night. I'm so sorry.' He lowered himself into the chair as she told him they'd launched a murder inquiry. He bit his lip, struggled for composure. She sat on the edge of the desk observing as the businessman stared at a blank wall. He had a strong jawline, high cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes. Thick black hair curled over a white collar, his dove grey suit was well-cut. He looked the epitome of cool elegance – on the surface.

‘Would you like a few minutes on your own, Mr Lowe?'

Glancing at Sarah, he made an effort to focus. ‘No. I'll be OK.' He ran a finger under his eye then cleared his throat. ‘How did she die, inspector?'

Slight hesitation. ‘We're not sure yet.'

‘Don't worry. I won't break down or anything.'

‘It's not that, Mr Lowe. The cause of death hasn't been confirmed.' And I don't know you from Adam.

‘Was it . . . ?' He looked down at his hands. ‘Was she . . . ?'

They were questions most victims' relatives couldn't quite bring themselves to ask. Sarah shook her head. ‘No. She wasn't assaulted. There were no signs of violence. Evie looked as if she was asleep.'

Eyes closed, he turned his head. Again, she gave him time, wanted to know where he'd go with it.

‘I'd have come sooner if I'd known.'

And do what?
‘The story got a lot of media coverage, Mr Lowe.' Not critical, curious.

He shrugged. ‘I never look at TV and don't read papers. Most of the rubbish you don't want to know, the rest you can't believe.'

Too much information. Or displacement small talk?

She crossed her ankles, leaned her palms on the desk. ‘So the first you knew about Evie's abduction was when?'

‘Late last night. As I said, one of your people rang.' Frowning he added a wary, ‘Why?'

‘Just clarification, Mr Lowe.' Groping in the dark, hoping to shed light. Most interviews were like that. Having to connect instantly with complete strangers, sift fact from fiction, truth from lie, distinguish deception from distraction. She'd no reason to suspect Thomas Lowe of anything other than running out on his family. It didn't mean his innocence was beyond question. And she suspected he was canny enough to know that.

‘Clarification?' He arched an eyebrow. ‘Can I make this clear, inspector? I appreciate you have a difficult job to do. And I know it involves delving into intimate details of people's personal and private lives. If it means you'll get on and catch the killer, you have my full cooperation and I promise not to take offence. Deal?'

Smart arse. Control freak? She felt like telling him to piss off. At the same time at least it meant cutting to the chase. ‘Fair enough.'

‘Fire away.'

‘Have you been in contact with Karen recently?'

‘Have you spoken to my wife?' She nodded. Hoped he wasn't going to answer every question with another. ‘Then I'm surprised you need ask.'

‘I know you separated several years ago. From your daughter, too?'