A Question of Despair (8 page)

‘Miss Lowe will have a few words to say shortly, before then I'll outline the state of the inquiry and bring you up to date with developments.' She registered several reporters exchange less than thrilled glances. She knew they found her phraseology formal, stilted. Knew she was the sideshow. ‘It's nearly twenty-four hours since Evie Lowe's abduction by a person or persons unknown.' Slight pause for the import to sink in: a six-month-old child out there with a stranger. ‘As you know, she was taken—'

‘Persons?' A thin guy on the front row pounced on the plural. ‘The thinking is there's more than one kidnapper?'

‘The thinking is we'll get on a lot faster if you let me finish.' She wouldn't and couldn't be drawn on it. Baker hadn't authorized the release of Flint's dubious intelligence about the couple he claimed to have seen. The e-fit would be ready in an hour or so, the decision would be taken then.

‘But two kidnappers suggests—'

‘Suggests being the operative word, Mr . . . ?'

‘Beck, Will Beck.
Daily Mail.
'

‘We've no proof either way, Mr Beck. But as in any inquiry we keep an open mind to any possibility. Now, if I can get on . . .' She continued with a summary, on the off-chance the salient facts weren't already known and in the hope they'd be reported accurately. Eyes glazed over, pens were chewed. Tough. She wasn't here to entertain. On the other hand she didn't want to lose them. Statistics always went down well, she threw a few out: a hundred officers on the case, more than two hundred statements taken, getting on for five hundred premises visited. ‘As to developments . . .' She paused. The hush wasn't breathless but interest was piqued. ‘I can confirm reports that the baby's pushchair was found on waste ground on the Paradise estate in Small Heath this morning.'

‘Who by?

‘Where exactly?'

‘What time?'

‘How'd you know it's the right one?'

Sarah raised both palms. The flow ceased. ‘Certain items were found . . .'

‘What items?'

She folded her arms, waited until they got the point. ‘I'm not prepared to go into detail at this stage, but there's no doubt it's Evie's. We need to know how it got there, when it was left. I'd ask anyone who was in the Blake Street area yesterday afternoon from around four onwards to contact the inquiry hotline, or call their local police. It's possible someone witnessed something without realizing the significance. The pushchair's now with our forensics' people . . . it's one of several lines of inquiry we're following.'

‘But you're no further forward?' A voice gloated from the back. Sarah knew who it was without looking, should've known Caroline King would do her bad penny act. ‘Is that a fair assessment?'

Wondering when the reporter had slipped in, Sarah kept a straight face, neutral tone. ‘A fair assessment's that we're making steady progress.'

‘Plod, plod.' The tone was scathing – for those close enough to hear.

‘What did you say?' The bait was too strong to resist.

‘Thank God.' King flashed a smile that fooled nobody. ‘This great progress? Are you going to share?'

‘Misquoting already, Ms King? I didn't say great, I said steady.'

‘We're all ears, DI Quinn.'

Alongside Sarah, Karen was anything but steady. She saw the girl's hands shake, heard her short breaths, feared she'd hyperventilate if they didn't get the ordeal over soon.

‘Well?' King persisted.

How could the bloody woman be so insensitive?
More to the point, why? It wasn't doing her any favours, unless there was an unwritten agenda. ‘I've no intention of taking questions now.'

‘A word in private later?'

The reporter was pushing it. As for private: ‘I'd have thought privacy was an alien concept to you, Ms King.' Sarah frowned. What was that noise? ‘Either way, it isn't going to happen. Miss Lowe will now read a short statement then we can get on with our jobs.'

‘No interviews?' A couple of reporters moaned.

‘You heard.'

Karen's knees were trembling, knocking the table, rippling the water in the glasses. Jess leaned across, put an arm round the girl's shoulder. ‘You'll be fine, Karen,' she whispered. ‘Don't worry.'

‘I can't do it. I feel sick. I'm going to throw up.'

‘No, you're not, Karen.' Sarah's turn for soothing words. ‘Remember, you're doing this for, Evie.'

Karen picked up the script but the tremor in her hands was too great. She dropped it back on the table, dragged it close, then voice devoid of emotion began reciting the words written by Sarah.

‘I'm Evie's mum. I'm appealing to the person who's taken Evie to look after her. Please don't hurt Evie. I want my baby home where she belongs.' The frequent name check was deliberate. ‘Please contact the police, tell them where Evie is, or think of a place where she could be safely left and the police could pick her up and bring her back to me, her mum. If anyone knows anything please, please tell the police.' She stifled a sob, shoulders heaved, teardrops formed damp spots on the paper. Through the window, noises off: the slam of a car door, tuneless whistling, ordinary life.

At least she'd got through it. Sarah started gathering files. But Karen hadn't finished. ‘Evie and me've never been apart before . . . I miss her like mad. She's my precious little baby. I'm crazy about her . . . love her more than anything in the world.' The words were unscripted, heartfelt, heartbreaking. For the first time since entering the room, Karen lifted her head. ‘Please, please help me get Evie back.' The emotion absent from the voice was etched on her ravaged features as the cameras went in for the kill.

ELEVEN

C
aroline King studied her pointed scarlet nails as she waited for her prey. Leaning casually against an outside wall at Lloyd House, she was banking on Karen Lowe leaving by the back entrance and being led to the same car that had whisked her in. The assumption was reasonable; the reporter had been in place an hour ago and witnessed the arrival, filed it away. Timing is all. Actually, she mused, timing plus groundwork plus contacts were the real deal, the full package.

She now knew the girl's frump of a gatekeeper was a FLO called Jess Parry. She'd come across the dishy driver David Harries before. Not that it was something they broadcast. She also knew after watching Karen Lowe perform that the young mother was the only angle worth pursuing. But it had to be up close and personal. Caroline wanted more than Quinn's meagre offerings, more than the run-of-the-mill pack's pickings. Idling here in the car park, she'd observed the competition leave, journalists racing off or drifting away depending on their deadlines. Each to their own.

Sighing, she checked the time, answered a couple of messages on the BlackBerry. How long was this going to take? The temperature was rising and she had a bunch of other stuff to get through. Delving into the shoulder bag for her shades, she missed David Harries' approach until his six-two frame towered over her blocking the sun anyway. ‘Miss King.'

A raised eyebrow. Give her the vertically unchallenged any day. Showcasing perfect teeth with practised smile, she peeled herself off the wall. ‘Hi there.'

The handshake was fleeting, the eye contact intense. ‘I'm sorry, but you're not supposed to be here. Now the news conference is over, it's a restricted area.'

‘Sure thing.' She flapped a vague palm. ‘I just need to grab a few words with Karen.' Like it was a given.

‘That's not possible. 'Fraid, I'll have to ask you to leave.'

‘OK . . . if you say so, David. But we did arrange to meet outside.'

His tightening jawline suggested she'd misjudged. Thinking on her feet, she lowered her eyeline a fraction, toed the ground to display what she hoped was some fancy footwork. ‘That was a lie. I'm sorry. It's just . . .' Contrite, confiding. ‘I truly believe Karen would want to speak to me, if I was allowed anywhere near her.'

‘It's a policy decision. It may change over time, Ms King.'

‘Problem being time's in short supply, David.' She raised her gaze, held his for three, four seconds before elaborating: ‘How long's it been now? Twenty-four hours plus. I keep thinking of that little baby out there with God knows who doing God knows what.' Deepest of sighs. ‘I've covered stories like this before. I know how they can end. But, David, I truly believe if I speak to Karen on camera, a sensitive in-depth interview, it could help get her baby back.' Her dark eyes shone with what could be tears. Unless she could turn them on at will. ‘It's got to be worth a shot, surely?'

He appeared to be wavering slightly, but: ‘It's not down to me. I can have a word with the boss, if you like.'

‘DI Quinn?' Hopeful lilt to voice. Then reluctant resignation. ‘I guess. But I don't think it'll do much good. Don't get me wrong, David . . . I think she's a fine police officer, tough, intelligent, gutsy, but I know from past experience she doesn't trust the media. She lumps us all together which is a shame . . . not all of us are out for what we can get. All I want is to help.' Tight smile. ‘Still, I'm sure she knows what she's doing.' It was archetypal King, almost the full works. And it did the trick. As she turned to leave, he touched her sleeve.

‘Leave it with me, Caroline.'

‘Leave what with you, Harries?' Sarah's narrow-eyed gaze on the reporter's sashaying rear was considerably less approving than the young officer's.

‘Ma'am.' Startled. How long had the boss been there? ‘I didn't see . . .'

‘Quite.' Tight-lipped. ‘So what's she left you with?'

‘I said I'd have a word with you, ma'am.'

‘And?' Sarah nodded towards the back door and they fell into step across the tarmac.

‘She's asking if she can interview—'

‘Karen Lowe.' Sighing, she said, ‘What part of no way can't King get her airhead round?'

Harries turned his mouth down. Caroline King might be a lot of things but, from what he'd seen, being a lamebrain wasn't one of them. And how come the boss was making personal remarks, sweeping statements? She was usually pretty reasonable, rational, not over-emotional. ‘Have you even consid—?'

‘Are you questioning me, constable?' She cut him a withering glance. The ‘constable' was telling. He dropped the ‘boss'.

‘No, ma'am.'

‘Well, maybe you should.'

‘OK.' He held the door, waited for her to go through before taking her at her word. ‘I don't think anything should just be dismissed out of hand.'

‘That's what I do, is it?' Now she sounded faintly amused. Harries frowned; couldn't get a handle on the woman.

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Then what are you saying?'

‘I can't see it'll do any harm.'

She turned to face him. ‘Then I suggest you look further, a darn sight further than Caroline King's backside.'

He shook his head. ‘That's so not fair, ma'am.'

‘What's unfair DC Harries is a mother grieving for her missing baby and some ego-heavy reporter seeing it as a career move.'

For the second time in as many minutes he stood and watched a woman walk away.

By late evening millions of people had seen Karen Lowe's grief. It had been the only image to go for, and every media outlet had gone for it. Karen's misery beamed into countless homes across the UK. The kidnapper had recorded the item, a freeze frame now filled the wide screen: Karen's face distorted with strain and pain, a tear about to drip from her chin. Smiling lazily at the set, the kidnapper resisted the urge to hurl a brick through it. It'd make too much noise. Christ. The baby hadn't long gone down, if she woke bawling like before . . . Didn't bear thinking about.

Sitting on the edge of an armchair, the kidnapper hunched forward, remote in hand and played the recording for the fifth, no, sixth time. Hadn't had such fun for ages. Not. All that banging on about wanting the baby back. Evie this, Evie that, Evie the other. As for the stuck-up copper. It was blindingly obvious the woman didn't have a clue. Not much cop there, then. Both were in dire need of a helping hand. Sniggering, the kidnapper pressed pause, froze Karen's misery full frame again.

‘Want your precious little baby back? See about that, shall we?'

As if on cue, Evie snuffled and cried out. Scowling, the kidnapper cut a glance at the makeshift cot. False alarm. The baby was still asleep, thank God. Mind, it'd be more of a surprise if she'd woken. The last bottle had contained more than milk. Kids need their sleep, don't they? Lots and lots of sleep. Beauty sleep.

Karen's image was still on the screen. Everything was ready for what needed to be done. Strolling across the room, the kidnapper lifted Evie from the cot, placed her in position. She didn't make a murmur as the kidnapper adjusted the cushion, reached for the camera.

TWELVE

B
y nine p.m., reported sightings were being chased in Bristol and Bath, London and Leeds, Durham and Devon. Sarah had little confidence in any of them, couldn't shake her conviction that the killer was closer to home. She was sharing a late supper with Baker in the canteen. Fried onion and stewed coffee odours lingered in the still warm air, they had the floor space virtually to themselves.

As well as a no-holds barred spat with Adam on the phone, Sarah's excuse for not-so-fine dining was an empty fridge and bare cupboards. Glancing at the boss, she suspected a home life that was equally barren emotionally. Sighing, she played a preoccupied fork through sausage, chips and beans. Nursery food, she thought of it: naughty but nice. Somehow her appetite had gone.