A Question of Despair (3 page)

Caroline shrugged. ‘You tell me, DI Quinn.'

THREE

S
arah strode along the corridor, headed for the squad room. Baker could barely keep up. She knew what she'd like to tell Caroline King. And it wouldn't be, have a nice day. Off would feature somewhere in the short phrase. The reporter's pointed persistent questioning had distorted the angle of the story, diminished it almost. And she, Sarah, had come off worse in what was little more than a less than subtle slanging match.

‘What was that all about, Quinn?' Baker tugged angrily at his tie.

‘I don't know what you—'

‘The mother's not under sedation, and—'

‘I don't want her hounded by rep—'

‘Don't give me that crap. You're not talking reporters plural. And there's no percentage antagonizing them all. Whatever bad blood there is between you and that dark-haired hack, it doesn't get in the way of the inquiry. Got that?' Had it been so obvious, then? Maybe she'd not masked her feelings adequately, or the old boy could read her too well. He certainly couldn't know that King was one of the reasons Sarah had transferred from the Met four years ago. She opened her mouth, but Baker hadn't finished. Pausing at the door, maybe to catch his breath, he said, ‘We need the media on side. One hundred per cent. Even Ms Smart-arse.' He tapped the side of his nose. ‘At least until we find the baby.'

Half a dozen heads turned as Sarah and Baker entered the open-plan office crammed with desks and computers, printers and files. Most squad members were out, in and around Small Heath, but calls still needed making, answering and hopefully acting on. The faces said it all: there wasn't a lot to act on. Even those who didn't have kids looked grim.

‘Anything?' Baker asked the nearest DC.

‘Nothing concrete, sir.' No witnesses, no pushchair, no forensics, nothing on CCTV.

‘What about the woman in the shop?' Sarah asked. The old dear with all the time in the world, according to Karen. She was a regular customer; Robert White had provided a name. Dora Marple had left the premises before Karen, it was conceivable she'd seen something. ‘Have we spoken to her yet?'

‘She's out at the moment, ma'am. David Harries slipped a note through the door.'

DC Harries, relatively new to the squad. Sarah nodded. Still uneasy, still unable to shake off the bad feeling. Surely something should have moved by now? A baby can't just be snatched off a busy street in broad daylight. Unless . . .

‘What is it, Quinn?'

‘I think we should search the mother's house, sir.'

Baker didn't take a lot of convincing. Five minutes later Sarah was in a police motor driving to the girl's council flat in Victoria Terrace. She'd left the chief prepping the evening brief. If her suspicion was right, he could be wasting his time. Tapping the wheel, she muttered something about the traffic, though after her call to Hunt there was no rush, Karen Lowe wouldn't be going anywhere. She'd told him not to let the girl out of his sight. Maybe Sarah should have seen the possibility sooner?

Home was usually the first place police look when a child goes missing. But Evie had been snatched from outside a shop half a mile away. Allegedly. What if the kidnap was an elaborate hoax on Karen's part? A desperate bid to divert police attention from the truth. The histrionics had seemed over-the-top to Sarah. But if Karen Lowe had harmed her child, it could have been a fit of remorse. Either way she had questions to answer. According to Huntie, she'd refused to allow a family liaison officer into the house and was still refusing to name the baby's father. They could only hope that with the exposure the story was already getting, the guy would do the decent thing and come forward anyway.

She sniffed. Yes. And pigs might fly jumbos.

The block was squat and square, the grimy grey façade broken up by rusting iron railings and peeling balconies. Lines of limp washing hung in the available air space, splashes of colour were provided here and there by children's bikes, pedal cars, beach balls. Sarah gave a wry smile. Birmingham was as far from the sea as it gets. The search team's transit van was parked in a side road, two white-suited officers perched on the bonnet waiting for her.

The team leader approached as she locked the motor. ‘Give me five, Ben. I need a word with her first.' Tact and diplomacy, Baker had counselled, kid gloves and pulled punches. Like she'd barge in and ask Karen where she'd buried the body. Broaching it either way wouldn't be easy, but that's what she was paid for.

The stairwell stank of lavender air freshener laced with urine and smoke, not all of it from cigarettes. Sarah hadn't used cannabis since her student days, still missed it occasionally. She bounded up the first flight two stairs at a time, the exercise wouldn't hurt and she couldn't remember the last time she'd hit the gym.

‘Are you sure about this, boss?' Huntie was waiting at the door, he'd probably been at the window looking out for her. ‘The girl's on a knife edge as it is.'

‘Can't say I care much where
she
is, sergeant.' The corollary was tacit. He'd know it was Evie's whereabouts that were giving her grief. His eyes darkened for a second, but he stepped aside to let her pass. ‘You know best, ma'am.' The ‘ma'am' spoke volumes. ‘I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. She's asked for a cup of tea.' Tactical withdrawal more like.

The small sitting room was spotless, everything in it pink: carpet, curtains, Dralon suite, half-a-dozen crocheted pink crinoline dolls were lined up on top of a gas fire. It was like stepping into Barbie-land.

Karen, still wearing the sun dress, was slumped in the chair nearest the grate. An ashtray with five butts lay at her feet. She glanced up, curled a lip when she saw who it was. ‘What do
you
want?'

Sarah gave a tight smile. ‘Same as you, I expect.' She perched on the settee, waited to see if Karen would take the cue. A clock ticked six, seven seconds. Mingled smells of toast and talcum powder lingered in the air.

Karen gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘What's that, then?'

‘To find Evie.'

‘So what're you doing here? Why aren't you looking . . . ?'

‘We are. We search everywhere.' She glanced round the small space. ‘Everywhere we think she might be.'

The girl was sharp, sharper than she appeared. Staring at Sarah, she straightened slowly, folded her arms. ‘You're not serious? You can't really imagine . . .'

Sarah's face was impassive. She didn't have to imagine – she'd seen it: the crimes people are capable of, the violence they inflict, the bodies beaten beyond recognition often by so-called loved ones. And she'd heard the lies. Being a cop meant trusting no one, taking nothing at face value, suspecting your own granny if need be.

‘You're sick, you are.' The girl sneered. ‘God, I'm glad I don't have your job.'

Sticks, stones. It was nothing she hadn't heard before. ‘What job do you have, Karen?'

She narrowed her eyes, muttered what could have been bitch.

‘So we'll take a look round if that's OK.'

‘Please yourself. It's not like I can stop you.'

Sarah walked to the window, gave the search team a thumb's up. Still with her back to the girl, she asked, ‘Where's the father, Karen?'

‘Pass.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Pass.'

Sarah turned, gazed at the girl a while. ‘What's your problem, love?'

‘What do you think,
love
?'

‘I think you have a bad attitude. You're doing yourself no favours. I'm not here to give you a hard time. That job you're so glad not to have? Right now, it's trying to find your baby. Why not help me out here?'

‘This I will tell you.' Her hand shook as she reached for an Embassy and had trouble lighting it. ‘I'd rather top myself than harm a hair on Evie's head. She means more to me than anyone in the world. Not that you'd understand. But the sooner you take that on board, the sooner you can get on and do your sodding job properly.'

FOUR

‘
I
still think it needed doing.' Sarah sat across the desk from Baker. The wall behind him was covered in framed photographs; the boss posing with bigwigs in fancy costumes like the chief constable and the Lord Mayor. The one with the Queen was pretty prominent. You'd have to be blind to miss it. She tore her gaze away. He still hadn't responded. ‘Are you with me, or what?'

The search team had just phoned in with the results from Karen's flat: nothing to suggest foul play. But two detectives were still questioning other residents at the block, finding out what if anything they knew about Karen, whether they'd heard rows, a baby crying, if they'd seen visitors, especially boyfriends.

Baker took a few swigs from a bottle of water. ‘We're not getting fixated on the girl are we, Quinn?' It wasn't the royal we, he meant Sarah.

She wasn't prepared to grace the comment with a reply. It wasn't a question of obsession, though she did feel there was something odd about Karen, something she couldn't pin down. The girl certainly didn't seem big on people skills; she was apparently estranged from her own mother. At least she'd finally come round to the idea of having a family liaison officer stay at the flat. Jess Parry would be an extra pair of eyes and ears for the police, as well as providing emotional and psychological support for the girl.

The silent treatment had worked. Baker lobbed the bottle into a bin, leaned across the desk. ‘Look, if I hadn't agreed, I wouldn't have given it the nod. It was a good call. You're a good cop. Christ, woman, what's wrong? You don't need me to tell you that.' She didn't much care for his intent gaze. ‘Not losing that famous cool, are you, Quinn?'

Unblinking, she held the gaze in silence. One of these days she'd count the number of unanswerable remarks he came out with in these sessions. Again, he got the message. ‘Come on.' He scraped back the chair, grabbed his jacket, slung it over a shoulder. ‘It's show time.'

The first brief in any major inquiry is vital. It sets the tone, defines the parameters, energizes and inspires officers. More than that it initiates early actions and assigns tasks to the detectives best equipped to deliver the goods. Make a bad decision, take a wrong turn – and the inquiry goes down a blind alley. Or a dead end. And it's only as good as the man or woman holding the floor. No pressure there, then.

Sarah had observed Baker in action scores of times before, of course. But right now he seemed sharper, more focused; he'd cut the customary banter and one-liners that were part of his style, designed to put officers at ease, dilute the tension. The boss's new sobriety could be down to the image dominating the whiteboard behind him of course.

Evie's one-toothed smile and gorgeous blue eyes stared – it seemed – at every man and woman in the room. Everyone of whom should be acutely aware that at 7.06 p.m., it was more than three hours since she'd been seen in the flesh by anyone but her abductor.

Millions of viewers had seen the baby's photograph by now. It had aired on all the major news channels, stories were running on the web, the front pages of the late editions had lead with it. Ditto, radio stations. Word was out, but no quality intelligence had come in. Six so-called sightings had been reported, none checked out. Hopes of an early breakthrough were fading fast.

Fears were heightened further because as the boss had said, they still didn't know what – and more precisely, who – they were dealing with. He'd virtually ruled out kidnap for ransom. Karen Lowe hadn't got two euros to rub together. It left a multitude of sins. Up there with the worst was that Evie was in the hands of a paedophile or that she'd been stolen to order. A childless couple, a beautiful baby, an unscrupulous broker. It happened. Not so far in the UK, but . . . Sarah shuddered. Dear God, give us a break here.

Sitting straight-backed behind a desk at the front, she glanced round at colleagues and not so familiar faces. Thirty officers had been drafted in from across the city's ten local policing units, making a total operation-force of around a hundred. Most were out knocking doors, canvassing passers-by, questioning drivers, but twenty-two detectives were currently hanging on Baker's every word. The shaft of sunlight pouring through a picture window added unnecessary drama. The atmosphere was emotionally supercharged already.

Sarah studied the main players, the squad members she'd work with most closely, those whose qualities differed from her own. The touchy-feely Hunt was still holding Karen Lowe's hand, of course, pending the FLO's arrival. DC David Harries was on the front row as usual. The young constable's nickname was the Boy Wonder. She'd taken him increasingly under her wing recently. Nothing to do with his dark good looks, though he was certainly easy on the eye; it was his empathy she admired, the ability to connect with complete strangers in potentially threatening situations. What she called verbal disarmament. Seated alongside was DC Shona Bruce. The tall redhead had an amazing ability to persuade witnesses, victims, even crims to open up; Shona was worth her not inconsiderable weight in gold in the interview room. Sarah reckoned the Bruce voice could tempt a Trappist to talk. Baker still was.

‘We don't know where she is. We don't know who's holding her. So what we need to establish fast is, why?' In Sarah's book as well as Baker's crime always came down to motive. Except when they were dealing with madness. ‘What we need to ask,' Baker said, ‘is, was the abductor after any baby or Evie Lowe specifically?'

Frowning, DC Harries raised a tentative hand. ‘I thought you'd ruled it out, guv? Evie being taken for ransom?'