A Question of Despair (24 page)

‘The sooner the better, given there's a second baby dead.'

Like I need reminding.
Bristling, she kept a civil tone. ‘I'm well aware of that, Mr Lowe. We're doing everything we can. But I'm already late.' The Kemps had agreed to talk to her.

‘According to the
Birmingham News
the inquiry's going nowhere. I'm prepared to give up to £5,000. I'd have thought that sort of figure would persuade someone to come forward.'

Every loony in loon-land. The idea hadn't been discounted but neither she nor Baker was convinced a reward would reap benefits. ‘That's very generous, Mr Lowe. As I say, I'll call you later. We can talk it through then.'

‘If you're busy, inspector, I'm happy to discuss it with a senior officer. Or I could go to the press. I'm sure the editor of the
News
would be interested in carrying the story.'

‘That's your call, Mr Lowe.' Maybe he was on to it already, she was talking to the dialling tone.

Harries lowered his window, tapped the steering wheel. Something must have held her up. DI Quinn was rarely late. Sunlight glared through the windscreen, he pulled down the visor, motor already like a furnace. The young DC was feeling the heat in other ways. He loosened his tie, rolled back his sleeves. What had started as a harmless fling with a reporter, could threaten not only his job but also what he hoped might become more than the professional relationship he already shared with the boss.

It was early days, but he'd really enjoyed Sarah Quinn's company in the restaurant last night. He'd always found her physically attractive, and had caught glimpses of passionate emotions under that cool exterior, but had she felt a spark too? Or was he deluding himself? She'd laughed off his cheesy chat-up line, but hadn't told him to back off. He sighed. Knew the quandary he was in now made a tight corner look like the Gobi desert. If he'd told her early on about his one-night stand or two with a hack, it wouldn't be such an issue, but the fact he'd kept quiet made it a million times worse, made it seem as if he had something to hide.

Even if a more than business partnership with the boss was a no-no, she'd automatically assume he was the source of the leak. The way the DI saw it, getting pally with any reporter was unprofessional. So what did he do? Tell her, or hope it never came out? And pray that Caroline King had been joking when she . . .

‘Sorry about that, David.' Sarah slipped into the passenger seat. ‘God, it's like a sauna in here. Aren't you hot?'

Sarah's pale grey cotton dress clung to her clammy skin. Maybe the air conditioning at the hospital was on the blink. The Kemps' private room was tropical and with four people taking up the space it felt claustrophobic. Sarah's low armchair was near the bed opposite Harry Kemp's, Mrs Kemp sat bolstered by a mound of pillows, Harries leaned against a clinical white wall taking notes. He'd already filled half a dozen pages: the couple's movements on the day Harriet was taken, a list of family, friends, colleagues.

Charlotte Kemp had a touch more colour than when Sarah saw her last, but that was thanks to mauve shadows under puffy bloodshot eyes. She'd bitten every fingernail to the quick and was now chewing at loose skin round her thumb. Sympathy cards lay in an untidy pile on the bedside cabinet as if she couldn't bear to see them displayed.

‘Just a few more questions and we'll get out of your hair.' Sarah gave a tight smile. It wasn't returned. ‘I'm wondering if either of you noticed anything odd in the last few days, anyone following you, acting suspiciously, someone hanging around the house perhaps?'

‘Nothing like that, DI Quinn.' Mr Kemp glanced at his wife. ‘We've talked it through already, done little else, couldn't come up with anything.' She saw now that his mussed hair was down to the almost continual finger-combing, wondered if it was a recent habit.

‘Has anyone been to the property recently? Trades people? Charity workers? Callers of any kind?'

He bit his lip. ‘None that we don't know and haven't used before. Surely you don't think . . . ?'

‘We have to check, Mr Kemp. Names, addresses would be useful.' Harries jotted details of a window cleaner and a builder, they'd had a window fixed recently.

‘Have there been any odd phone calls? You answer and there's no one there or they hang up?' There was an appreciable sigh before Kemp said, no. ‘What about social networking sites? Are either of you on Facebook?'

‘I am actually,' Charlotte said. ‘I keep in touch with colleagues at the school where I worked, a few ex-pupils. But they're people I know and trust. None of them would hurt us like this.'

Sarah nodded. ‘A good deal of what we do is for elimination purposes, Mrs Kemp. If we could have access to your account?' Harries took down the email address and password.

‘You really are desperate, aren't you?' Harry Kemp ran both hands through his hair this time. ‘There's a monster stalking the streets and you're checking up on sixth-form girls.'

‘It's certainly not all we're doing, Mr Kemp. Rest assured, a hundred plus officers are on the case working round the clock.' She aimed a subtle time-to-go-nod at Harries. They'd got enough to be getting on with and Kemp was getting arsey. Not that she blamed him. The man was raw with grief and obviously saw the questioning as rubbing salt in open wounds. She grabbed her briefcase, pushed back the chair. ‘One thing before we go, Mr Kemp, have you thought again about a media appeal? It could just tip the balance.'

He snorted. ‘Tip the balance? I don't see much in the scales, inspector.'

‘Even so, I think it could help.'

‘So do I. It's why we've done one already.'

Harries could barely keep up with Sarah's long-legged stride across the hospital car park.

‘How could they?' It was a hiss through clenched teeth. ‘To fall for a trap like that.' He'd never seen her like this: blind fury was one way of describing it. She certainly seemed oblivious of his presence, storming ahead, muttering. Thank God he hadn't mentioned his dalliance with the reporter.

‘Yeah, but hold on, boss. Was it a trap?' He knew this was a verbal minefield, trod carefully. ‘They're educated people. You heard them say there was no payment involved. It's not as if she forced them.'

She stopped suddenly, swung round, eyes blazing. ‘Caroline King tricked them, Harries. She sneaked a camera into a hospital, inveigled her way into their room, exploited their vulnerability, trampled on their feelings.'

‘It was a witness appeal, ma'am. It wasn't as if she was holding a gun to their head. They could easily have said, no.'

‘Whose fucking side are you on, Harries?'

A couple of passers-by cast curious glances their way. Harries paused and unlike her kept his voice down. ‘I guess I'm on the victim's side, ma'am. And I can't see the problem. You wanted the Kemps to do a turn.'

‘They've done that all right. Come on.' She headed towards the motor. He'd driven a couple of miles before she spoke again. ‘Have you seen any TV today, David, or last night?'

He cut her a glance; clearly she was still thinking it over. ‘No, ma'am.' And he wondered if her thoughts coincided with his: if Harry and Charlotte Kemp had made the news, the cops would have heard by now. Which begged the question: if Caroline King had exclusive footage of the grieving couple, why the hell hadn't she used it?

No news is good news?
He grimaced.
Yeah, right.

‘This is good, Caro. Really good.'

The young man's keen-eyed focus was on a monitor, one of three on the console in front of them. Caroline had note pad and Mont Blanc to hand. A desk close by was strewn with half-drunk cups of coffee. Light in the edit room was subdued, making the pictures on screen seem brighter, more vibrant. They'd been viewing the rushes on tapes shot that day at Karen Lowe's flat, more than an hour's worth. Caroline had already logged picture sequences and earmarked the best interview clips. The rough cut was twice the six-minute duration she'd been given but that was a good sign, an indication the footage had impact. And picture editor Chris Cooke had just voiced the same thought.

‘Cheers, Chris.' She cut him a glance. He was a taciturn piece of work, tall and long-limbed, laid-back to the point of languid. Even the smile was lazy, and rare. It played across his thin lips now. Caroline had chosen Cooke as carefully as she'd selected the pictures and words for that night's piece. Like the crew she'd worked with earlier, Cooke was the best: quick, decisive and with a creative edge. He loved working with pictures, told her often enough that one was worth a thousand of her bon mots. Cooke kept the chat down too and it suited Caroline. Not having to listen to an endless stream of newsroom gossip and gripes. When he did chip in it was usually worth hearing.

He wasn't just talking now, but for Cookie waxing lyrical. At best, picture editors were non-committal, at worst casual-couldn't-give-a-toss. Compliments were rare as pink unicorns.

‘I mean it, Caro. This stuff's top mint.'

‘Let's get on with it then.' She was gratified but not surprised. Aware she had some remarkable footage. It was why ITN was hanging on to it until the later bulletins. It was too good to squander on daytime. She was also acutely conscious of the fact she had just three hundred and sixty seconds to tell two life and death stories. Every second had to shout.

The intro was a no-brainer. They still had the Kemps to themselves, a hard news topping that wrote itself. It left four minutes forty-five seconds to condense and encapsulate the Karen Lowe material. Caroline tapped the pen against her teeth. It should be a piece of piss. She'd coached Karen well and the girl had been surprisingly quick to grasp what was required. They'd concentrated on her love for Evie and skated over less wholesome factors like absent fathers and family breakdown. If those aspects had been left out, Karen's bitterness towards the police had been built up. Caroline checked her notes and told Cooke to run the cop sequence again.

On screen, Karen looked lost, frail, bereft. Staring forlornly at a picture of Evie, her voice, though breaking, came through loud and clear on the speakers: ‘I can't help thinking if the police had . . .' She'd forgotten her lines at that point, glanced off camera. Caroline heard her own voice giving the cue.

The next take was word perfect. ‘I can't help thinking if DI Quinn had let me talk to the media Evie might still be here. I hope and pray that no more babies are taken –' she dashed the heel of her hand across a damp cheek at this point – ‘before the police catch the killer.'

Caroline checked her notes, gave Cooke a timing. ‘That's where I want to mix in pics of Evie and Harriet.' It was a shame in a way because the viewer wouldn't get to see Karen's tears but going back to the babies was the only way to end the piece. ‘So what do you reckon, Chris? A Kleenex job or what?'

He shrugged, frowning. ‘Why are you so keen to name that cop?'

‘Was I?'

‘No, I made it up. Come on, Caro. What's she done to you?'

‘You could ask her the same question.'

‘How come?'

‘How much time have you got?'

‘How much do you need?'

‘Let's finish the piece. Let Bob see it. Then I'll buy you a long drink and give you the short version.'

THIRTY-NINE

‘
I
want to hear her version before deciding whether to take action.' Staring ahead stern-faced, Sarah stirred brown sugar into a double espresso. Harries was making inroads into a pain au chocolat before it melted completely. They were at a pavement café off the main drag through Moseley. Sunlight glared off passing motors giving Sarah retina flash. She shook her head. She'd been dead wrong about Caroline King. The reporter had taken stooping to a new level. Still eating, Harries either hadn't heard or was keeping his head down. She glanced round at the other tables, saw two men in suits drinking wine, a group of women who looked as if they'd dropped by after the gym, an old guy with a ciggie in his mouth studying the
Racing Post.

The detectives were killing ten minutes waiting for the Cinnamon Tree to open. Sarah had meant to task a DC at the early brief with taking in Person of Interest snaps to show the staff. She had copies in her briefcase. The job had slipped her mind. Probably because there were more pressing matters on it, including now the reporter.

‘A witness appeal's fine. It's the underhand way she went about it. Entering the hospital without permission. Carrying a concealed camera. Concocting some sob story.' Her spoon tapping on the metal table provided punctuation. ‘And she knew which room to go to. How?'

‘Come to that, boss, how'd she even know they were in hospital?' He was gathering crumbs with a moist finger. ‘We didn't release the info, did we?'

His query was casual. Too casual? Eyes narrowed, she cut him a glance. He'd struck a nerve. Deliberately? She was painfully aware she'd inadvertently given the fact away at the news conference. It was one of the reasons she'd lashed out earlier. But someone must have supplied detail. Wing, room number, floor. King couldn't have just wandered round a building that size and struck lucky. Was there a chance Harries was playing a game of double-bluff? ‘I've no idea, David. Have you?'

‘Not me, boss.' He lifted his head. ‘Have to ask her.'

He'd be a damn good poker partner. Or she was getting paranoid. She shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, it's not for want of trying.' She had a bunch of questions but the reporter wasn't even answering her phone. All the numbers were going to voicemail and King wasn't at the Mailbox or the Marriott. ‘She's what you might call lying low.'