THIRTY

‘Cheers.’ Sarah raised her glass, downed a mouthful of Sauvignon. She and Harries had nipped out for a swift one. A debrief in the Queen’s Head was as good a place as any, and they’d earned a break. ‘Boy I needed that.’ Sank another mouthful.

‘Hard going, isn’t she?’ Harries made inroads into half a Guinness.

‘Karen Lowe’s her own worst enemy.’ Sarah grimaced, recalled recent events. ‘Or maybe not.’ Glancing round she half-expected to see more cops in the pub, though thinking on, it was half-two, late for lunch, even the working kind. The pub was the squad’s local, all low ceilings, subdued lights, dark wood panelling, dimpled brass. The landlord had a collection of copper kettles. Could’ve been his idea of a joke.

‘Someone’s certainly got it in for her.’ Harries dipped a chip in a mound of mayonnaise on the side.

‘Probably not Todd Mellor though. D’you think she recognized him?’ Sarah didn’t; she’d spotted no reaction from Karen. She was eyeing Harries’ egg and chips now. Why did she always want what someone else ordered? Her cheese sandwich had lost its appeal.

‘No, but she’ll certainly know him again. Gave that mugshot a right going over, didn’t she?’

Either way, Sarah reckoned Mellor would have to be released. The search had uncovered nothing further at the bedsit. If they were going to detain the guy, they needed evidence. Not Baker’s personal conviction.

‘Well done, by the way, David. Finding the right button to push.’ Credit where credit was due. Karen had more or less dropped the bolshie act after Harries’ mild censure. The rest of the interview had passed without incident or – more’s the pity – enlightenment.

‘Thanks, boss. Shame she didn’t come up with anything new though. Think she’s holding back?’

‘I did.’ Sarah sighed. ‘And now I’m not sure. We might need to bring her in again. Why would she though, David?’

‘Survival instinct? If she knows who the kidnapper is she’s probably scared he’ll go after her if she opens her mouth.’

‘Not sure she holds life that dear at the moment. What was it she said? With Evie dead she’s got nothing to live for?’ Sarah shoved the plate to one side. ‘If she has got information, I can’t see why she doesn’t give it up. Publish and damn – rather than be damned.’

‘Unless she was going for the sympathy vote?’

A file landed with a thwack on the table. ‘Read that, Quinn.’ Baker’s face was sterner than she’d seen it, his mouth a tight line.

‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ Harries was half out of his chair.

‘Some of us are working, lad.’ Put in his place, Harries sat back. Not that Baker noticed. His glare was fixed exclusively on Sarah.

‘That’s out of line, sir.’ Calmly, she reached for the file, damned if she was going to grovel, she rarely took time out for a bite. As for Baker’s bark, she was pretty sure it was down to where he’d just come from. Attending post-mortems on adults was arduous enough, seeing a baby’s body on the slab was the emotional pits.

‘It’s out of this sodding world, Quinn.’ He watched as she skimmed the report. Richard Patten’s initial findings reflected Adam’s thinking on the phone the night before. Closer examination had revealed no signs of violence, excessive or not. The pathologist had gone further, suggesting the red pin pricks could have been caused by a rough blanket or clothing, even someone unwittingly holding the baby too tightly. Hand on hip, toe-tapping, Baker said, ‘We’re treating as murder what Patten reckons could be accidental death. Even natural causes. Makes us look a bunch of clowns.’

‘Natural causes?’ Harries frowned.

Baker flapped a hand. ‘Fever. Cot death. Christ knows.’ Baker was still staring at Sarah. ‘The markings aren’t enough to prove she was smothered. There could be any number of explanations, all a damn sight less sinister.’

‘It’s not like she died in her own bed, sir,’ Sarah said. Unlike Baker, she’d had more time to consider possibilities. And unlike Baker, the findings’ impact on police image wasn’t something she’d lose sleep over. ‘No one in their right mind’s going to dump her like that if they weren’t responsible for her death.’

‘You said it, Quinn: in their right mind. There’s a hell of a difference between killing, and concealing a body. As it stands we’ve no evidence either way, medical or forensic.’

‘So we find it.’ She’d had enough of Baker’s bluster. He was yelling like it was her fault.

‘Pass the eggs.’ He scowled. ‘I’m not your sodding granny, Quinn.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘OK, so it’s not a straightforward death, but—’

‘No, DI Quinn.’ His tone was more telling than the words. ‘And it’s not a straightforward inquiry.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you saying?’

He gave a casual shrug. ‘It needs careful handling.’

‘Are you taking me off the inquiry?’

‘I’m saying careful handling. It’s sloppy at the moment, Quinn. On top of everything else, every lead, every line’s being leaked to the media. Some cop playing kiss and sell?’

‘I’ll trace whoever it is.’ Tight-lipped.

‘Just like that? Like you’ll find the name gift-wrapped and tied up in neat little bows? Get real, Quinn.’

‘He’s a bastard, Adam.’ Sunday evening, Sarah twirled the stem of a wine glass in her fingers, her long legs wrapped round a high stool in the kitchen. Though her hair was down, the lights low and Steve Wonder was providing a soothing soundtrack, she was still uptight.

‘Not literally, but I know what you mean.’ Adam winked, topped up her drink. His tan looked good against the tight white T-shirt. He’d been in the apartment when she got back, peeping out from a huge bunch of her favourite sunflowers. He’d clearly hoped the surprise visit would cheer her up, but she’d had more than her fair share of unexpected arrivals that day. Watching as he effortlessly prepared supper – grilled chicken and green salad – she’d delivered a blow by blow account of her encounter with Baker. Adam had made all the right noises but she suspected by now he wanted to move on.

She couldn’t let it go, picked desultorily at a bowl of olives as he stacked the dishwasher. ‘He didn’t have to come to the pub like that. I had the mobile. But he was itching for a fight, wanted to see the look on my face.’ As for undermining her authority in front of Harries . . .

‘Come on, lady, he’s a control freak, you know that. At least he didn’t take you off the case.’

‘He may as well have.’ He’d made it abundantly clear he’d be taking a firmer hold of the reins, and that included taking on her media liaison role. She’d been sidelined at that afternoon’s news conference, watching from the metaphorical benches as Baker conducted proceedings. He’d given the press meagre pickings, refusing to be drawn on any aspect of the case other than the pressing need for witnesses. ‘Obviously he doesn’t think I’m up to it.’ And God, it rankled.

‘Bullshit. You know that.’ He draped a cloth over the drainer then shifted his stool closer. But was it? She gave a token smile. The inquiry was going nowhere, her confidence was at rock bottom, Evie was dead and as Karen Lowe had said, nothing was going to bring her back. Tears pricked her eyes, anger as much as angst.

‘Come on, lady.’ He stroked her arm. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You know what kind of bloke Baker is. Don’t let him get to you. Let’s have an early night.’ Grinning, he waggled a Marx brothers’ eyebrow. ‘Let me take you away from all this.’

The offer was tempting, the transient release of sex appealing. She lifted her gaze, realized she’d barely glanced at Adam all night. His good looks weren’t the only thing she took for granted. ‘Sorry, honey. Thanks for being here. You go ahead.’

He pecked her cheek, turned at the door. ‘Five minutes, or I come get you.’

Why couldn’t she switch off? Maybe a nightcap would help. She slipped off the stool, headed for the sitting room and the Armagnac. The door was open and a flickering light cast shadows across the ceiling. It took her a second to work out Adam had left the TV on. She hit the overhead light switch and glanced round for the remote but a voice stopped her in her tracks.

Caroline King was on screen. It was the late news. Sarah listened incredulously to the report. She’d missed the top line but it couldn’t be any worse than what she was hearing. The reporter had obviously caught wind of the pathologist’s findings. No, not caught wind, the information had been carefully fed. All faux concern and fake conviction King was spouting theories like there was no tomorrow. What sort of line was, smotherly love? As for: was Evie killed by a caress? Where the hell was she getting this stuff? Sarah balled her fists, lowered herself on to the settee. Judicious journalistic catch-alls were scattered throughout the story, key phrases like ‘it’s believed, reports suggest, I understand’. The news-speak blurred the boundaries of fact and fiction, accuracy and fairy tale. The piece ended with a carefully worded pay-off: West Midlands police refuse to confirm that teenage mother Karen Lowe is currently being questioned in connection with her baby’s death.

What? ‘You stupid bloody woman.’ The whispered words had come unbidden. They were aimed at the reporter, but Sarah was aware they could as easily describe herself.

Hundreds of thousands of viewers watched the same bulletin. Like Sarah most then switched off and went to bed. The kidnapper didn’t; the subsequent fury was too great even to consider sleep. After an hour spent pacing and muttering, the kidnapper could no longer fight the urge to get out of the house. At this stage the idea was half-formed, hazy images floated at the edges of the mind, faded in and out of focus. Driving aimlessly brought the fuzzy impressions into sharp relief, stiffened resolve. It was the only way, it had to be done. The compulsion was overwhelming.