A Question of Despair (23 page)

‘I'm heading off now, boss. Anything I need to know for tomorrow?'

‘What are you doing tonight?' Impulse. The invite was out before she really thought about it.

‘Who? Me?'

‘No, Hannibal Lecter.'
Must have food on the brain.
‘I'm starving. I could murder a balti.'

‘Er . . . yeah . . . no . . . sure . . . can I just make a phone call?'

She flapped a hand. ‘No worries if you're tied up.'

‘No. It's not that. It's just . . .'

No eye contact and the hint of a blush. Either he had something/someone on or he was fazed by the boss asking him out. Mind, it was a touch out of the blue. She masked a smile. ‘It's only a bite to eat, David.' She wasn't looking to exchange body fluids.

Half an hour later they were making inroads on Peshwari naans in the Cinnamon Tree. The restaurant in the balti triangle was a favourite of Sarah's. The food was top notch, its décor an acquired taste. Garish murals of snow-capped mountains and lime green carpets weren't easy on the eye. Focussing on the massive fish tank recessed into one of the walls wasn't quite so taxing, or looking at Harries who was glancing at his plate, smiling.

‘Something on your mind, David?'

‘I was thinking about the last time we grabbed a bite.' The candlelight glinted in his eyes. ‘That late lunch in the Queen's Head? Baker beating a path to the table?'

She snorted. ‘I shouldn't worry. He's not into curry. The old boy only likes spice in his aftershave.'
Cut it out, Sarah.

‘He was in an ace mood at tonight's brief, wasn't he?'

The delivery was so dry for a second she thought he was serious. But nobody could be that wrong. ‘Yeah, right.'

‘Except nothing was. He didn't have a good word for anyone.'

‘Miss Quinn. You're looking ever more lovely, if I may so.' The owner Rajeev Choudry had appeared at her elbow. It was no hardship. Tall, dark, model looks; he was one of the most beautiful men she knew. He always wore tailored black trousers and white Nehru shirts, but wasn't a guy you'd mistake for a waiter.

‘Thank you, Raj. Flattery will get you everywhere.' She flashed a smile, ran through the introductions.

He nodded at Harries, barely took his gaze off Sarah. ‘We haven't seen you for a while. The bad men are keeping you busy, I suppose?'

‘You suppose right, Raj.'

‘This baby business, it's a terrible thing.' He swept his fringe from heavily-lashed eyes. ‘The young mother . . . Karen, is it? She's eaten here a few times.'

Sarah's hand stilled as she reached for water. ‘You know her?'

‘I didn't know who she was until I saw her face in the papers.'

‘When was she here last, Mr Choudry?' Harries chipped in.

‘It was a while back. She was pregnant.' He held his arms in a wide circle in front of his waist. ‘She made a joke about not having the dishes too hot in case the baby came early.' His smile faded.

‘Any idea who she was with, Raj?'

‘She came a few times, but never with the same man.'

‘Recall any names?' She took his empty palms as a no. ‘Would you recognize any of the men again?'

‘Maybe.'

‘If you see . . . ?'

‘You'll be the first to know. And I'll ask around the staff. Enjoy.' Head bowed, he made way for their approaching waiter. Dishes served, appetites kicked in and they ate in silence for a while. She made a mental note to get a DC over to the restaurant first thing. He or she could flash pics of Michael Slater and Todd Mellor on the off chance.

‘Getting back to Baker.' Harries was using the naan as a scoop. ‘Reckon he was having a bad day or what?'

‘Baker?' She'd lost the trail.

‘Yeah, at the brief. It was bollocking central in there. Talk about foul mood.'

A mouthful of lamb gave her time to consider. Baker's performance that night had been poor, but taking a pop would be unprofessional. ‘It comes down to management style, David. He varies it all the time. It's meant to keep the squad on their toes.'

‘Can't see there's much mileage in it.' He took a swig of lager. ‘Pisses people off when they're working their balls . . . sorry . . . fingers to the bone to get a result.'

She agreed. All stick and no carrot was counter productive, but Baker wasn't here to defend himself and she was well aware that the closer to the top, the tougher and lonelier the job got. And she saw an element of duff eggs in the wrong basket.

‘Baker had it in his head Todd Mellor was in the frame. He wasn't happy letting the guy walk.' Mellor had been released that afternoon shouting his mouth off about a police state and threatening to flog his story to the papers. ‘Karen Lowe looks to be in the clear too. Baker's feeling the pressure, big time, David.'

‘And we're not? So what are you saying? We bang a few suckers up in the cells just to keep the chief in a good mood?' Head down, he was engrossed in both eating and the heat of his righteous indignation.

She curved a lip, rather liked the fact he seemed to have forgotten she was his DI.

‘No, I'm saying it's important not to get fixated. Do that and you risk closing your mind to other options.'

‘He's got enough years under the belt to know that surely?'

‘So who's perfect? Cut him some slack.'

The conversation moved on to other topics: films, books, bands. She found him good company, relaxed, easy going. The place was filling up, it was time to go. Harries glanced round while they waited for the bill, nodded at Raj as he passed the table. ‘D'you come here often then, boss?'

She laughed out loud. Knew he'd asked because she was on first name terms with the owner. ‘That's a rubbish chat-up line, David.'

Smiling, he held her gaze. ‘And if I came out with a better one . . . ?

THIRTY-SEVEN

C
aroline King had rehearsed the all-important opening line many times.

‘Mr and Mrs Kemp, I know what you're going through and I'm so very, very sorry.'

The tears had played a crucial role, though Caroline's convincing performance had sealed the deal. She'd lied of course. Not to gain entrance to the hospital. Doctors don't wear white coats these days, but her short-sleeved white jacket had helped open doors. She'd teamed it with a winning smile and authoritative air. She'd also dispensed with most of the slap and tied back the distinctive bob. The medical case she carried had been acquired years ago and kept in the boot for just such emergencies. Once inside, she thanked God for BUPA and private rooms and headed for the Kemps. It was then that the truth became the hospital's latest casualty. The couple had obligingly mistaken her for a medic. A misapprehension she was happy to allow but careful not to confirm. The confusion had enabled her to enter the small side room, close the door and deliver the well practised line.

Clearly confused, their gazes had searched her face. Charlotte Kemp lay propped up on pillows. Her husband sat in a chair at the side of the bed. She'd hoped one of them would pick up the dialogue but neither spoke. She prompted with: ‘I know how tragic it is when a baby dies.'

‘Thank you, doctor.' Harry Kemp placed a hand over his wife's. ‘You must see it a great deal in your job.'

‘No, what I'm saying is . . . I've lost a baby too . . . her life barely begun.' Caroline's voice broke and she staggered slightly as tears fell. She was so convincing she almost believed it herself even though her only brush with motherhood was an early abortion five years back.

Nonplussed, Harry Kemp rose. ‘Have a seat, doctor. Can I get you some water?'

‘Thank you, no.' She allowed him to steer her towards the chair, then moist-eyed she looked gravely at each in turn. ‘Please forgive me for intruding on your personal grief. I didn't want to come here at all.' The couple exchanged bewildered glances. Harry Kemp opened his mouth, but Caroline raised a hand. ‘Please. Let me speak. If I don't set the record straight now, I'll never forgive myself.'

‘Look, doctor . . .' He ran his fingers through thinning mousy hair. Poor guy was too confused to continue and too polite to get stroppy. She almost felt sorry for him.

‘I'm not a doctor. I'm a reporter.' She dropped her head. ‘My editor sent me. He said if I didn't talk to you I'd be out of a job.'

Kemp tightened his lips. ‘That's tough. But there's no way my wife and I want to be in the papers. So if you don't mind . . .' He pointed to the door.

‘Of course. I understand. I told him exactly that. It's just . . . he said if I didn't get down here, get an interview, I'd never work again. And, well, there's only me and Sally at home now.'

‘Sally?' he asked.

‘My other daughter. There's just the two of us since Bob . . .' Thank God they didn't ask for more, just the allusion to an additional personal tragedy was enough already.

‘We're sorry for your loss,' Harry Kemp said. ‘We still don't want publicity.'

She nodded, pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘God I hate this job sometimes. Believe you me, I wouldn't have come at all except I know how much it helped me to talk about Sarah.' She dabbed the tissue round her eyes.

‘Sarah?'

‘My daughter who died.' Caroline smiled wanly as if picturing the dearly departed loved one. It was a much older Sarah she had in mind, one who was very much alive and kicking.

‘How do you mean, it helped?' Charlotte Kemp spoke for the first time. Her complexion was a touch pale, but the face framed by chin-length blonde hair was pretty enough.

‘It's difficult to put into words, Mrs Kemp.' She tried explaining it the way interviewees had in the past. ‘Talking to reporters about Sarah somehow kept her memory alive. And I wanted other people to know her story. I didn't want her to be forgotten. Of course I've still got the video at home. I often get the tapes out to see her.'

‘It was on TV?' Charlotte again.

‘It was a big story at the time.'

‘We've got pictures of Harriet.'

‘I'd love to see her, Mrs Kemp.' She gave her warmest smile, sensing the mother would be the softer touch. ‘D'you have any with you?'

They had.

‘She's beautiful.'
Well, she's OK.
Caroline's voice brooked no argument but didn't gush.

‘There's some lovely film of her too. Harry got the camera out every time she moved, didn't you love?'

‘I took quite a bit on the mobile as well.'

It so could.
As if reluctant, she handed back the baby's photograph. ‘To think the monster who killed her is still walking around out there.' Rueful shake of the head. ‘That's the only other reason I could bring myself to come and see you.'

‘How does that work?' Harry Kemp said.

‘I'm convinced some stories I've covered have contributed to putting people behind bars. I honestly believe that. Otherwise I'd have got out of this game long ago.' A quick glance at Kemp showed she still had work to do. ‘Oh I know we're not perfect. A lot of reporters make things up as they go along. But not me. I want to help. And right now the police need all the help they can get.'

‘What's your point?' Charlotte asked.

She hesitated, ostensibly considering whether to take them into her confidence. ‘Look, I hate saying this but they've been working on the Evie Lowe abduction for days. They still have no idea who they're looking for. They've got no leads, no clues, no witnesses. Between you and me, they're desperate. In cases like this they depend on people coming forward. People who probably don't even realize they have important intelligence.'

‘And?' Harry Kemp.

‘The best way of getting results is with publicity.'

‘You would say that wouldn't you?'

‘But I know what I'm talking about, Mr Kemp. I've been involved in a lot of cases where TV coverage has helped catch criminals and ensure convictions. It's a great feeling to know I play a small part in it.' She paused only to rearrange her halo. ‘But I understand your reluctance. No hard feelings.' She caught an exchange of glances between the couple, detected a definite wavering. A nudge should do it.

‘Again, strictly between us –' she lowered her voice – ‘what worries the police most is that the killer will strike again. That he's got a taste for it now and is out of control.'

‘Look, Miss . . . ?

‘King. But please call me Caroline, Harry.'

‘OK, Caroline. When Charlotte's feeling a little stronger, maybe we can give you a call?'

Sod that.
She'd miscalculated the size of the nudge. A hefty shove was needed. ‘Of course.' No problem. Smiling, she reached for her case. ‘I'll give you my card, Mrs Kemp. I'm sure it won't be too late.'

Another exchange of glances between husband and wife, then: ‘Alright, we'll do it.'

Charlotte sipped some water. ‘Come back tomorrow, around ten.'

I don't think so.
That was her slot with Karen Lowe. ‘Let's do it now.' Opening the case, she wielded a camera. ‘And Mr Kemp could you let me have the pics on your phone?'

THIRTY-EIGHT

1
0.02. Police headquarters. The phone rang as Sarah was leaving her office.

‘DI Quinn? Tom Lowe here. I was wondering if you'd had any thoughts on my offer?'

Offer?
Frowning, she glanced at her watch. She was supposed to have hooked up with Harries in the car park at ten. ‘Can I get back to you, Mr Lowe? I'm just on my way out.'