A Question of Despair (2 page)

The girl gave a quick nod. ‘Evie. Her name's Evie.' She reached for her bag as she spoke. ‘She's six months old. God, she'll be starving. Will they feed her?' Head down, her hand was scrabbling inside the cheap white plastic bag. The photograph wasn't in a wallet. When she took it out, it was flecked with tobacco and fluff. But the girl's sharp features softened as she blew the surface, and for the first time there was a glimmer of a smile on her face. ‘Beautiful, isn't she?'

Sarah stepped forward for a closer look, but the girl's focus was on Hunt, searching his face for the slightest sign of disagreement. There was none.

‘A right little smasher,' he said. ‘Gorgeous.'

Despite the reply's speed, no one could doubt it was genuine. Sarah was no big fan of babies, but with huge blue eyes, pink peachy cheeks and one tiny-toothed smile, Evie could do TV commercials for Mothercare.

And now she'd gone and the clock was ticking. ‘May I?' Sarah reached for the picture. ‘When was it taken, Miss, Mrs . . . ?'

‘Lowe. Karen Lowe.' Reluctantly she let the picture go. ‘And it's Miss. I'm not married.'

There's a surprise. Sarah made no comment, didn't even tighten her lips.

‘And when was it taken, Karen?' Hunt prompted.

‘Last week. In the park. I took a load but I only got that one printed.'

‘And the others are still on the camera?' Sarah asked.

‘Yeah, most of them.'

Sarah nodded at Hunt who took his cue. ‘OK, Karen. Now we need to know what happened.'

The young mother swallowed, took a deep breath. ‘I'd run out of nappies. There's a place up the road sells them a bit cheaper. I nipped in here on the way home for a mag and a packet of fags. I've never left the pushchair anywhere before. But there's no room in here – you can see what it's like.' She paused, seeking approval, perhaps. ‘I was only going to be a few seconds. Had the money ready and everything. Course there's an old dear ahead of me. Buying up the shop, moaning about the weather. Y'know the sort . . . all the time in the world.'

The words must have hit home. She clamped her hand to her mouth, a look of what Sarah interpreted as absolute terror on her face. Maybe she had an image in her mind's eye of Evie being wheeled away by a stranger, some sort of monster. Her face froze, her slight frame shook, and in between heaving sobs, her rasping voice broke through in utter conviction and deepest despair.

‘They'll kill her, won't they? They'll kill her. I'm never going to see my little girl again.'

Evie was screaming, her tiny face red and shiny with furious tears. The kidnapper didn't realize the baby was hungry. Would lifting her out of the pushchair, giving her a cuddle, stop the crying? The racket was getting on the kidnapper's nerves. Hush there hush. The screaming stopped, but only for a second or two, then returned louder than before. Ear-piercing, it was doing the kidnapper's head in. Shut up, for God's sake. The kidnapper pulled Evie closer, tightened the embrace, then walked slowly away.

TWO

W
hen a child goes missing every minute's precious; when a baby's snatched each second counts. Police treat both incidents as major crimes from the get-go even if there's ground for doubt and an innocent explanation emerges. Toddlers can occasionally wander off for a short heart-stopping while then turn up unharmed. But statistics show that a child taken by a predatory paedophile dies within three to six hours. There was no evidence either way yet, but Evie Lowe had gone nowhere without a helping hand.

Which was why less than an hour after the alert was raised Operation Bluebird had been launched: more than sixty officers – uniformed and detectives – were in or on the way to Small Heath; the newsagent's in Prospect Road was now a designated crime scene and Sarah Quinn was at her neat-ish desk in Lloyd House tetchily twiddling her thumbs. She'd been called back to police headquarters to address a hastily-arranged news conference. Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker had wanted the media on board immediately. Not surprising. Given the family's circumstances, a ransom demand wasn't likely. Whoever had taken Evie wasn't after cash. It made the abduction more sinister; the need to catch the perp more pressing. As senior investigating officer, Baker would get top billing. Sarah had no problem with that. So long as he didn't faff around as per, and she could return to the action.

Fanning her face with loose papers, she ticked mental boxes, running through the well-established police procedures that she knew were kicking in across the city: a mobile major incident unit was in the process of being set up on site, officers carrying copies of the baby's photograph were flooding the streets, a specialist search team was combing – initially, at least – the immediate area. Behind the scenes scores of checks were being made: sex offender registers, hospital maternity units, CCTV footage. Operational overkill was acceptable – if it saved a child's life. Better safe . . .

Sarah blew out her cheeks, couldn't get Evie's image out of her head. Or that the young mother's histrionics had wasted a fair number of those priceless early moments. She'd asked Huntie to drive Karen Lowe home, stay with the girl until a family liaison officer arrived. Hopefully, he'd elicit more information. Either way, calling in at the Small Heath bedsit topped Sarah's list of priorities. Assuming she ever got out of this place. She glanced at her watch, where the hell was the chief? Baker was a difficult bloke to get a handle on. He could be a lazy sexist sod, and definitely was coasting to early retirement and a fat pension. Why she had the occasional soft spot for him, God only knew. Maybe because he didn't pay lip service to all the isms? What you saw was usually what you got? A decent-looking bloke in a fat suit? More likely because he wasn't a bad detective. When he put his extraordinarily devious mind to it. And he'd have to. Baby snatching was still rare but thanks to the occasional high-profile case, the critical eyes of both the media and the man and woman in the street would be on how the police handled it. Baker was nobody's mug which was why he'd wanted a full briefing from Sarah before addressing the pack. She'd delivered it five minutes ago, so what was the old devil playing at?

Impatient, she rolled back the chair, walked to the window and stuck her head out to catch the breeze. Chance would be a fine thing. There was just a wall of heat, stale air, exhaust fumes. Tendrils of hair stuck damply to the back of her neck. They'd escaped from the customary bun, worn – perhaps deliberately – to reinforce the ice maiden image. Her hair was white blonde and almost waist length, though only a select few at work knew that.

Give the blokes an inch . . .

She jumped a mile when what was most likely a fist hammered at the door. ‘Come on, Quinn. Get your ass in gear.'

That would be the chief, then. Made Gene Hunt look like a new man.

Caroline King was her own boss. Self-employed, freelance, lone operator, call it what you will, she was a reporter, roving, but definitely not one of the pack. She wouldn't even want to lead it. Designer-suited, and tanned shapely legs crossed, she sat on the front row, dead centre, in a conference room at police HQ set aside for the press. Her chiselled features and square jaw line were softened by immaculate make-up and a chin-length glossy raven bob. Part of her confidence came from knowing she looked good. But how was the competition shaping up? Glancing round apparently casually, she took in every detail, reckoned there was no contest.

ITN's Midlands correspondent Phil Birt was sprawled in a seat next to her, she didn't recognize the blonde from Sky (they all looked the same to Caroline). One or two of the local print and radio guys she knew by sight. Around twenty in all. And her film crew summoned from the Mailbox, the BBC's Midlands headquarters, was in pole position. Naturally. It was a decent turnout. No surprise. A baby snatch was potentially big news.

Assuming the kid didn't turn up any time soon. She skim-read her draft script waiting for the conference to kick off.

‘Slumming it, are we, Caro?' Phil winked. With those teeth, she'd keep the smiles to a minimum.

‘Did you say something?' Like if he had, it wasn't worth hearing.

‘Suit yourself.' Shrugging, he turned away but not before she'd seen his jaw tighten.

As for suiting herself, that was a given. Though she had to cede it was pure chance she'd decided to stay on in Birmingham for a few days, not return home to Fulham. She'd been working for the Beeb on an expenses scandal item. The intake editor at TV centre was more than happy when she rang offering to cover the baby story. It had barely hit the wires then, but a journo was only as good as her contacts. Her mouth moved in what could have been a smile. Caroline's sources were the best in the business. She'd had what you might call a head's-up. Just the bare bones; the meat she'd have to sniff out here.

Unlike her colleagues she didn't react when the double doors swung open, nor did she glance across as three or four cops filed towards the front and took seats behind a black table so highly polished their reflections were visible in the wood.

So that's why they're called woodentops. She dropped the smirk, stiffened almost imperceptibly as she registered the female cop in the line-up.

Well, well, well. Sarah Quinn was on the case. Quinn was no woodentop. She was more ice cap. And she'd just clocked Caroline. The reporter held the detective's glacial grey-eyed gaze for a few seconds before glancing ostentatiously at her nails. To say the women's paths had crossed was like saying water's wet. They had more history than the Magna Carta. And none of it good.

Caroline straightened her spine, recrossed her legs and circled a pointy-toed Jimmy Choo. This may not turn out the doddle she'd foreseen. On the other hand it looked as if the fat guy was in charge. The name plate read Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker. His suspiciously black hair was shot through with white streaks. He put her in mind of a badger. She watched him rise heavily to his feet and wipe a checked handkerchief over a visibly damp brow. Feeling the inquiry's heat already? Probably not. It was too early for that and he looked too experienced. No, he'd be suffering under the real thing, exacerbated by a stuffy room full of stale bodies and hot air. Even the Ice Queen looked as if she might melt round the extremities. Caroline pursed full red lips. Nah. That was wishful thinking.

‘Thanks for turning out,' Baker said. ‘As some of you'll have heard, a six-month-old baby was abducted in Small Heath this afternoon.' He nodded towards the back and a lackey hit a button. Behind the cops a wide screen now showed a blown-up photograph of Evie's face. Sweet kid, Caroline thought.

‘Evie Lowe was last seen around three forty-five. She was asleep in a pushchair outside a shop in Prospect Road. There were lots of people—'

‘Seen?' Caroline cocked her head, arch, ingenuous. ‘Do you mean, left?' OK, it was early to take a pop, but what sort of idiot leaves a kid on its own nowadays? Don't people watch the news, read the papers?

Baker paused just long enough to cut her a contemptuous glance. The point had hit home though, and the seed planted among the other hacks. ‘. . .  in the vicinity at the time. Shoppers, school children, motorists, cyclists. It's now ninety minutes since the pushchair with Evie in it was taken. It hardly needs saying it's imperative we find her, fast.' Another nod to the lackey at the back, and a second image hit the screen. ‘This is the same model and colour.' A red and grey Mamas and Papas. ‘Someone must have seen it either outside the shop, or being pushed away. We need to get the word out now.'

‘How long was it there?' A young reporter asked.

Baker glanced at Sarah. ‘Four, five minutes, no more.' Her tone was neutral.

‘Five minutes?' Caroline shook her head. ‘What leads are you following?'

Baker ignored the question. Either they didn't have any, or he wasn't prepared to divulge them. ‘Obviously the priority's to spread the word, to get the baby's picture out there. We need witnesses to come forward.'

If it was that busy why hadn't people come forward already? Could be down to the area, Caroline supposed. It was single mum central out there, pavements chocker with chavs and babies in buggies. Even so . . .

She made a few notes, half listening to questions fired by other journos, questions the cops couldn't or wouldn't answer; they always withheld information, of course, it went with the territory. Like it was hers to dig it out. Baker raised both meaty hands when he'd had enough. ‘I can't really add much more at this stage. But we'll be grateful for any publicity, and myself or DI Quinn are happy to do interviews if it'll help.'

Looked as if it was news to Quinn. Caroline stifled a snort of derision. As far as she was concerned there was only one person worth interviewing, one player worth pursuing, and it wasn't fatso or the Ice Queen. ‘Where's the baby's mother?'

‘Under sedation.' Sarah answered before Baker opened his mouth. ‘She won't be—'

‘Under sedation where?'

‘At home.'

‘Where's home?'

‘We're not releasing an address at this stage.'

‘Where's the father?'

‘That information's not for release.'

Caroline was getting the picture. ‘How old's the mother?'

‘Eighteen? Your point being?'

Few would admit it, but a story involving an absent father and a teenage mother from an inner city back street wouldn't have the same punter appeal, the same sympathy factor, as a baby who'd been taken from a professional couple's home in leafy Edgbaston.