A Question of Despair (22 page)

‘You've really got a down on the media. What've they done to you, boss?' It was a gentle tease that went with the glint in his eye.

She knew he was joking but there was an old saying about true words and jests.

‘Nothing. I'm sure they're OK in the right place, at the right time.'
But when they're not?
In her mind's eye she saw a street in London, an officer covered in blood. Heard the shot again, a single scream.
Stop it, don't go there.

‘You OK, boss?'

Grimacing, she ditched the rest of lunch in the bin, grabbed some water, then walked to the window and perched on the sill. His concerned gaze was still on her face. He was emotionally intelligent, almost certainly sussed her hostility to the press had a personal edge. Pre-empting any probing on that score, she steered the conversation back to the professional conflict. ‘Don't get me wrong, David. I know they can be useful but their priorities are different to ours. We catch criminals. They catch the next bulletin. We chase detection figures, they chase viewing figures.' She gave a thin smile. ‘I swear some of them make it up as they go along.'

‘That's a bit sweeping, isn't it?' He ran a hand through his hair.

She shrugged. ‘I'm not saying they're all sharks. I've come across some sharp operators out there. On the other hand, I've read stories after press conferences and couldn't believe the reporters had been in the same room as me.' She slipped off the sill, wandered back to the desk, started gathering papers. ‘They probably get their heads together afterwards and work out what angle to take. If enough of them say the same thing, well, there's safety in numbers.'

‘That's pretty harsh, boss. They can do a lot of good exposing scandals and cover-ups, highlighting injustice, corruption, even just passing on info.'

Lip curved, she glanced up. ‘You sound like a public service announcement, David.'

‘Yeah, but fair's fair. You know what I mean.'

‘Then it's a shame the stupid and unscrupulous give the rest a bad name.'

He held her gaze. ‘You could say the same about the police.'

‘I think you'll find the press already do. Anyway, are you coming, or what? It's time to hit the road.' She was rummaging in her briefcase. Where the hell were the car keys?

He was on his feet, heading for the door. ‘If you're looking for your keys, boss, I saw them on your desk.'

‘Clever dick.'

THIRTY-FIVE

‘
S
he's not the sharpest knife in the police canteen.' It wasn't the wittiest line she'd ever come up with but Caroline King was mentally rubbing her elegant little hands in glee. After a false start, she was surprised how well it was going. Not so much a case of feet under the table as tucked up on Karen Lowe's lurid pink settee. The Barbie décor alone meant the women would never be best friends, but for the moment they shared a mutual foe.

‘Quinn's a hard-nosed cow.' Karen ran a hand over her mouth.

Caroline tilted a bottle towards the girl. ‘Top up?'

‘Cheers.'

She smiled. The plonk had been worth every penny. Though the session had been hard-going initially. Even on the doorstep, Caroline had realized her glossy appearance, in marked contrast to Karen's, could work against her. So she'd majored on aspects easier to alter. The long vowels got short shrift immediately as she calculated how best to play the girl. Mirroring body language was good and subtly adopting speech patterns and accent helped, but connecting emotionally was the real skill. Fake that and you were in. Caroline had lost a child too, she'd confided to Karen. The doctors had done everything they could, of course, but . . . It was the trump card in a pack of lies that had led to this cosy little head to heart.

‘Y'know, Karen, Quinn wouldn't let me anywhere near you. I begged her to let me have a chat with you, offer my help. She made out there was no way you wanted to talk to me.'

‘She didn't even ask.' The girl flicked a lank strand of hair from her face. ‘Never even mentioned it.'

Running a scarlet nail round the rim of her glass, Caroline cast the odd covert glance at her quarry who was huddled into a corner of the settee, hugging a pink fur cushion. When not sucking furiously on a cigarette, Karen's lips were set in a scowl, she was clearly mulling over what she'd heard and patently not appreciating Quinn's stance.

‘Yes.' Caroline sighed, circled a slim ankle. ‘I thought you'd turned me down. That you didn't want anything to do with me 'cos I'm a reporter.'

‘I'd no idea you were after me.' She was picking loose strands of the fake fur, laying them on the arm of the chair.

‘It's why I mentioned compensation when we crossed paths the other day. I reckoned it just might persuade you to let me in. I'm really sorry about that. I hated not being straight with you.' She hung her head in what might be shame. ‘Goes against the grain.'

‘'S' OK.' A waved hand brushed off the apology. ‘No sweat.' Plenty of smoke though.

Caroline had explained early on that a claim against the police was a no-no. And that she had a better proposition. She took a sip of wine. ‘I'm surprised the minder didn't mention it.' Jess something. Perry? Parry? She couldn't remember the name, only that the woman could be a problem. ‘When are you expecting her back?'

‘I'm not. I needed my own space, know what I mean?' Karen had apparently told the family liaison officer to leave. That she felt like a prisoner in her own home.

‘I can well believe it.' Sage nod. ‘Eyes and ears of the police, aren't they?'

The girl's face dropped. ‘I liked her. She was—'

‘Oh, I'm sure she was good to you, Karen. They're well trained and all that, but when push comes to shove, we all know what side they're on. I came here once before and she wouldn't let me in. But that would've been Quinn's say-so.'

‘Quinn's a cow,' Karen snarled. ‘She should've at least told me you wanted an interview.' She stubbed out the butt in a packed ashtray.

The reporter remained silent for a while. Pacing was important, the next stage in the strategy vital. Karen was no intellectual, but neither was she anyone's fool. Caroline leaned forward, put the glass on a low table.

‘What really bothers me . . .' She paused, lips pursed, then shook her head. ‘Never mind. Forget I said anything.' The mystique had the desired affect.

‘No, go on. Tell me.'

‘It's just . . .' She narrowed her eyes as if considering whether to divulge what was on her mind. Didn't want to overdo the dissembling though, she wanted the girl thinking she'd dragged it out of her. ‘No, I can't.'

‘Please.' Karen touched the reporter's sleeve. ‘Go on.'

She took a deep breath. ‘OK. I told Sarah Quinn I wanted to do an in-depth interview with you. That it would be seen by millions of viewers. And that it could help lead them to the kidnapper.'

‘Like a proper film? On the telly?'

She gave a rueful nod, watched as Karen mentally digested the missed opportunity of fleeting fame. The
coup de grâce
was imminent. She hesitated.
Was it fair?
Surprisingly, she felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for the girl. It didn't last long.

‘See, Karen, with the proper publicity and exposure I think it might have helped us find Evie.' She paused to give the words full import. ‘Before it was too late.'

Her gaze searched the reporter's face for not-so-hidden meaning. ‘You're saying it might've saved her life?'

‘I can't say that, Karen. Of course I can't.' She placed a gentle hand on the girl's arm. ‘The sad thing is, we'll never know now, will we?'

‘I can't forgive her for that, Caroline.' Eyes brimming. ‘Y'know they actually had me in for questioning? And now another baby's dead. And the killer's still out there. I'd do anything to see the bastard behind bars. Show that bloody woman how wrong you can be.'

‘Would you, Karen?'

‘In a heartbeat.'

‘In that case, I think I know what we could do. Tell me, how many pictures of Evie do you have?'

Karen had lots, seventy odd. Caroline had taken them back to the Marriott and spread them over the bed like a patchwork quilt. She'd needed a hot shower, told herself it was to get rid of the cigarette smoke clinging to her hair and skin. Now, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, she cast an expert eye over the colourful montage, making mental notes on the shots with most potential.

Having spent several hours cooped up in Karen's flat, Caroline was revelling in her own company and what could be one of the biggest exclusives of her career. She sipped a gin and tonic. The time spent with the girl had been a good investment. Karen had signed a contract agreeing the story could be filmed. Caroline had taken the paperwork along just in case. It was in her bag now next to a chequebook.

A fat cheque nestled in Karen's purse. The girl had – in effect – handed back a blank one. She'd given Caroline
carte blanche
or, as stipulated in the contract, unlimited access and total editorial control over the story. Tomorrow Karen would open up her door and her heart to the cameras. Caroline had convinced the girl that extended coverage could lead to the killer's capture, that the moving story could prompt someone harbouring the criminal to come forward and that Karen's on-screen courage would help and inspire others. The fact that the film would be a lasting tribute to Evie had almost certainly clinched the deal.

Caroline padded to the mini bar for a refill. With full glass in hand, she sank into an armchair, picked up the phone. For her the bargaining hadn't even begun. As a freelancer, she'd yet to decide where to offer the material, let alone negotiate her fee. Tapping her lip with a finger, she ran a mental eeny-meeny-miny . . .

‘Bob? Caro here.' Silken tones. ‘How you doing?' Lifting a leg, she admired its contours as she talked through what was on offer with ITN editor Bob Grant. ‘So what d'you think? Is it good or is it shit hot?' TVs played in the background, she heard the odd raised voice but it was Grant's she waited for, and as pauses go, it was long.

‘I don't know, Caro. It sounds more like a strand in a doco to me. Not sure there's enough to sustain a special.' She pictured Grant pushing trendy specs into his hairline, thumb hooked in belt buckle as he stood in front of the newsroom's bank of monitors.

‘You're joking. It'll be brilliant, Bob. As for visuals, there's Evie smiling, sleeping, sitting up. You name it, we've got it.'

‘Even so . . .'

Caroline was fuming. The more infuriated and frustrated she felt, the more persuasive and placatory she sounded. ‘It'll be great telly. Trust me, Bob.' She injected more warmth into her voice. ‘You can trust me, you
know
that.' The appeal was to baser instincts. They'd been lovers off and on for years, Grant's recent marriage had made no appreciable difference to their affair. Her words weren't a veiled threat. Unless he read them that way.

‘It's still a bit look-at-life-ish, honey.'

Tame? Twee? Cutesy? Bloody cheek.
‘You're kidding, mate. It's look at death, look at what it does, look at police pressure, look at the hunt for a double killer. Christ, Bob, it's got everything. Exclusive coverage of a grieving mother while the cops run round like dickheads.'

‘That's the point, Caro. You're offering a follow-up feature. Viewers want the latest developments. Two babies are dead now.'

The Kemps were the proverbial ace up her sleeve. Though not yet in the bag, she knew where they were. Crossing her fingers, she mouthed a silent prayer, then: ‘That's why I'm offering you both. Exclusive coverage of the Kemps and unlimited access to Karen Lowe. Hard news and human life story. What more could you want, darling?'

‘When's the earliest you can deliver?'

There was no time for finer feelings or conscience wrestling. Caroline had to meet a deadline. She'd committed herself to coming up with the goods. It wouldn't quite be professional suicide if she failed to deliver but her reputation would take a hammering. It was more than that though. Caroline wanted the Kemps' story for herself as much as supplying it to Bob. The sensations were physical. Her palms were moist, heartbeat quickened. It was the thrill of the chase, without the chase. She knew where to locate the couple. Her informant wasn't cheap, but the contract was exclusive. The Kemps wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry. Her concern was that if she didn't get a move on another journalist might suss it too. As far as the competition was concerned, she didn't anticipate a stitch-up, it was more a tapestry she had in mind.

THIRTY-SIX

A
t about the time Caroline King was threading her needles, Sarah Quinn was tying loose ends on the day's paperwork. Not that the admin ever really stopped: officer reports, witness statements, summary of incoming calls to catch up on, and as Baker's deputy it fell to her to maintain Operation Bluebird's daily log detailing decisions taken, actions tasked, progress made, budget spent. The record would be referred to whenever the case was reviewed. And as in any major ongoing inquiry, it would be, probably several times. The backtracking could establish if and when wrong steps were taken and which paths should be retraced. In effect, it was a record of accountability. So the brass knew where to lay the blame.

Rolling back the swivel chair Sarah yawned, stretched her arms in the air, then crossed her hands on her head. Coming up to eight o'clock and she'd had enough. Her stomach had been grumbling for at least an hour. Grimacing she recalled there'd be no Adam tonight fixing supper. They'd snatched a few words earlier on the phone: there was a big case on in Aylesbury; he probably wouldn't get back until the weekend. She blew her cheeks out on a sigh. An empty apartment held little appeal, there was too much on her mind, she needed taking out of herself. If Harries hadn't tapped on the door, she'd never have asked. That's what she told herself anyway.