A Question of Despair (4 page)

‘Keep up, lad.' Baker shook an impatient head. ‘Doesn't always come down to cash. There's any number of reasons she could have been targeted.'

Sarah's list of possibles on the notepad in front of her made demanding money look like a benevolent act.

‘Least worse scenario's the mother's pissed somebody off big time.' Baker motioned to one of the team for water from the cooler. ‘They've taken the baby to scare the pants off her, teach her a lesson. Then they give the kid back. She on drugs, Quinn?'

Sarah shook her head. ‘No sign of it.' She'd considered it briefly: a dealer with a warped mind exacting revenge.

‘Maybe she dissed some buddy on Facebook.' Baker showed off what he thought was his street cred.

‘Yeah right.' The sotto voce sneer came from one of the new officers. He'd yet to learn Baker's hearing was sharper than a bat colony.

‘Well, let's hope so, sunshine. Cause if it is the case, Karen'll maybe have an idea who.' Hunt had already mooted the possibility to the girl that she might know the kidnapper; she'd dismissed it but as the hours passed, she'd be questioned more closely. ‘If we're talking a complete stranger, a random snatch . . .' Baker sank both hands in his pockets, turned his mouth down. No one needed telling: it made a difficult job nigh on impossible until – make that unless – the perp made a mistake.

‘It'll be some woman who's lost a kid, won't it?' The drawled assertion was made by Dean Lavery, a DC who was going nowhere. Lazy, been there, done that, Sarah wouldn't give him house room let alone a place in CID. The cynical assumption was off beam and no good to anyone. Cases of grieving mothers stealing replacement babies were rare and invariably involved newborns taken from hospitals. If Evie was a case in point, she'd be the first snatched from the street. The possibility couldn't be ignored, however slim, the line still had to be followed, but not as a foregone conclusion. A couple of DCs were running checks now in the squad room along the corridor.

‘If you're so sure, Lavery, you can go give Jenny and Kim a hand.'

He dropped the slouch. ‘But, guv . . .'

Baker jabbed a thumb at the door. ‘Starting now.' Sarah caught the glower on the detective's face as he turned, doubtless it deepened as he headed out with Baker's words ringing in everyone's ears. ‘No one assumes anything, right? Anyone with a closed mind, go join the priesthood. And what's on yours, Harries?'

Sarah masked a smile when the DC jumped, startled. But with furrowed brow and hand stroking chin, it hadn't taken a detective to work out he'd been deep in thought.

‘What if it's down to kids, guv?' No one who'd seen the video footage of two-year-old James Bulger being led away by his killers Robert Venables and Mark Thompson would ever forget it. The image was certainly imprinted on every cop's brain. Birmingham had its share of feral youths from dysfunctional families, kids for whom juvenile court was a second home, but stealing a baby was a hell of a stretch from shoplifting or nicking cars.

‘I hope to God it's not, lad. But we rule nothing out.'

They didn't have the moment – seconds more like – of Evie's abduction on CCTV. Unlike the shopping centre from where James was taken, Robert White's newsagent's had no security cameras. Uniformed officers had collected tapes from neighbouring premises and requests had been made for footage from cameras along all possible routes the kidnapper might have taken. Every man, woman – or youth – captured on tape with a pushchair any time around 3.45 was a suspect until traced and eliminated.

The brief continued for another thirty minutes. More theories were thrashed out, more tasks assigned, duties delegated. Paul Wood would be appointed office manager for the duration, experienced and an eye for detail, the sergeant was respected and well-liked. Not always a combination.

If nothing broke overnight, Baker said, the search grid would be extended at first light, posters of the missing baby would start going up across the city. Chairs were scraped back, files tucked under arms. Baker raised a staying hand. ‘One more thing. We're going to need the media on board like never before. It goes against the grain, I know, but it's how we'll keep Evie's image out there. Not just this evening, tomorrow morning, but for . . . however long it takes. As deputy SIO, DI Quinn will take twice daily news conferences either here or at the incident unit in Small Heath. Ring the changes, eh?'

Wring his neck more like. Sarah opened her mouth, but Baker was still in wrap-up mode. ‘I've got a good team here.' He ran his gaze over every officer. ‘The best. Let's get an early result. She's out there somewhere. Let's find her, bring her home.'

Five minutes later, Sarah was alone in the room. She stood looking out through the window. Despite Baker's rousing words, she still wrestled with uneasy thoughts. What was it with her? Had Caroline King's presence earlier stirred a bunch of emotions she thought were buried deep? Or was it the continuing and surprising absence of a baby with a beguiling smile?

She glanced up at the sky. Divine intervention? No. She'd seen the evil people can do and that no god would allow. For the first time in what seemed weeks, there was a cloud in the sky. Small, white, wispy and were she given to flights of fancy, she'd describe it as shaped like a baby's hand.

Evie screwed her tiny fists into tight balls, damp hair was matted to her scalp, a pulse clearly visible in her neck as she arched her back and screamed. The abductor darted anxious glances round the room, dashed to the television and hiked the volume to drown out the baby's sound. She'd had milk, for Christ's sake, what more could she want? If she didn't look out, there'd be no more cuddles, no more sweet talk. Couldn't afford neighbours hearing a baby cry. Not with all the stuff on the news. There it was again. The baby's picture full screen, the newsreader telling everyone to look out for her. Eyes narrowed, the abductor approached the TV set and hit the off button. The picture faded to black. The abductor turned and walked back to the crying baby.

FIVE

L
ying on her king-sized bed in the Marriott hotel, Caroline hit the remote to switch stations. Her piece had just gone out on the ten o'clock news. She'd have a quick look at ITN, seriously doubted they'd be carrying anything she didn't already know. Raising a glass, she toasted her performance with the remnants of a gin and tonic. ‘Another day, another dollar, sweetie.' Her ironic smile faded as she sucked the lemon between her perfect white teeth. And it was nothing to do with the sour taste in her mouth. It was the thought of Sarah Quinn's arrogant intransigence. And given the bloody woman had blocked official channels, it was going to take a damn sight more than a buck to get to the baby's mother.

Eyes narrowed she pictured the Ice Queen, the cool grey eyes, impossibly blonde hair in that ridiculous bun, the severe charcoal trouser suit that on anyone else would look masculine if not butch. Caroline snorted. My God. The woman hadn't always been so bloody strait-laced. Pensive, the reporter swung her legs over the side of the bed, drifted to the minibar. Buttonholing Quinn after the news conference had been a waste of time. Caroline had asked a few questions on camera, the answers being so bland they were hardly worth using. Then she'd pushed the inspector for access to Karen Lowe. Quinn had stonewalled better than Hadrian, assuming the guy used stone. Caroline curled a lip; he could've used reinforced concrete for all she cared. What did concern her was that Quinn wouldn't even come up with a pic of the mother, let alone the means to a little chat. Well we'll see about that. She poured a second large G and T, carried it back to the bed. Her phone lay on the pillow. The number was on speed-dial.

‘Caro, here. Can you talk?'

Of course he could.

‘I know I shouldn't let it get to me.' Sarah nursed a dry white wine. It was gone 11 p.m., she was at home trying to relax. The Brindley Place apartment was off Broad Street, surrounded by crowded pubs, wine bars and still busy restaurants. The apartment was functional, unfussy; décor white, furnishings ivory. Through floor to ceiling windows, multicoloured lights reflected on the dark waters of the canal. Not that Sarah was admiring the view, she'd been on the phone for nearly half an hour. ‘I'm just surprised it didn't get more air time, Adam.'

The abduction had made the late news, but it wasn't the lead item. Evie's picture had appeared, true, but to Sarah's mind, it had been given less screen time than Caroline King's piece to camera. As for the shots of a visibly self-important Robert White claiming he'd done everything in his power to calm the mother down . . . What earthly purpose did they serve?

‘The baby could be anywhere by now, Adam. God forbid she could even be dead. And the main channel virtually ignores the story.' She sat back on the leather settee, bare feet curled under.

‘Come on, Sarah. I saw it. Have to say, I thought it was a decent piece.'

The power of the press, or a pretty face. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself the coverage probably could have been worse. King was a sharp operator, had a convincing authority on camera. People actually believed her. Adam's voice was teasing but tender. She heard a smile in it, too. He could probably recognize the tension in hers, he'd be concerned. He was close enough to know it wasn't like her to be so down at such an early stage in an inquiry.

‘I wish I was with you, Sarah.' She glanced at his picture on top of the bookcase: he reminded her of Che Guevara in the poster everyone had on their wall at uni. Except she couldn't imagine him leading even a student revolt.

‘Yeah, me too.' The lie came easily. Adam would be a distraction she couldn't afford. He'd be going around taking her jacket from the back of the chair, tidying her shoes, straightening papers, plumping cushions. He didn't mind clearing away after her. She pretended she didn't mind him doing it. But the fussing irritated her. He knew it. But had no idea how much. It was one of the reasons they didn't live together. Adam's law firm was in Oxford, she always resisted the suggestion he commute. They joked about it to the few friends who still asked why. As in: some couples have his n' her towels, we have his n' her homes. It worked after a fashion.

‘I have to go now, Adam. Need to call in, see if anything's broken.'

‘Sure thing lady, take it ease . . .' Frowning, Adam stared at the receiver. Sarah had already ended the call. He gave a deep sigh. She'd looked tired on TV, the beginnings of shadows under her eyes, the light mauve shade would deepen if she didn't look after herself. And she wouldn't.

He'd heard faint noises off during the call, the clink of a glass, cutlery on a plate that meant she was still picking at supper. Or maybe it was lunch, or dinner, tomorrow's breakfast even. Work was her priority, eating didn't come close. She was committed to a job most people wouldn't even consider. And with her analytical, questioning mind, the ability to keep out emotion – she was damn good at it.

It was one of the reasons he loved her, and one of the reasons, sometimes, he did not. But even when he doubted he even liked her any more, he always wanted her. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd been in love with, but she was the only woman he never tired of. Just as he thought he knew her, she'd do something unpredictable and he had to think again. He was convinced he'd never meet anyone who meant so much, most of the time.

As for living together? He told himself it was no big deal, they were happy as they were. Maybe if children came along . . .

The storm broke in the night. Thunder woke Sarah, or maybe it was the rain pounding the windows. Had she left one open? She rose to check, stayed to watch the forked lightning streak across a velvet blue-black sky. Flash after brilliant flash, lighting up the night, reflecting in the ribbon of the canal, accompanied by the deep rumble of distant sound effects. Invigorating. Awesome. Intoxicating. Storms hadn't frightened her since she was a . . .

Briefly she closed her eyes. Evie's image was still in her mind. Did babies get scared of thunder, the dark? Was a little girl with big blue eyes out there now? Cold, wet, crying, hungry? Had some sick bastard taken her for kicks? Too crazy to know what they'd done and mad enough not to care? Or was Evie even now on the way to a new life with a new family? The police had issued alerts at all ports and airports, but if someone was despicable and desperate enough?

Raindrops ran into each other, raced down the glass. Sarah leant forward slightly, pressed her forehead against the cool surface, and whispered softly, ‘Oh Evie. Baby Evie where are you?'

They found the pushchair first. A newspaper boy rang one of the police hotlines. Him and his mate had seen it on the Blake Street waste ground late yesterday afternoon. Hadn't thought anything of it then. But it was still there when they met for a ciggie first thing before they started their rounds. They'd seen on the news about the baby and all that, reckoned there might be a reward or something. A local patrol car was pointed in their direction and the lads led the driver to the spot. The pushchair lay on its side in the mud, rain still falling and pooling in the fabric.

SIX

‘
T
he pushchair's come to light then? It doesn't look too good, does it?' No preamble, no intro needed.

It was a phone call, though Sarah Quinn was barely aware she'd picked up the handset. She'd reached for it on autopilot from the depths of a troubled and too short sleep. Bed long gone midnight on a too large Armagnac was with hindsight not the answer to any problem. And certainly not Evie's abduction. Thoughts of the baby had kept her awake and were now forcing her alert. She glanced at the clock: 7.20. Jesus H. And bolted upright. She couldn't remember the last time she'd overslept. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she was growing wary as fast as she was becoming aware.