A Question of Despair

‘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.

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?’

‘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?’

‘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.

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?’

‘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.

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.