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Authors: Maureen Carter

Mother Love

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A QUESTION OF DESPAIR *

MOTHER LOVE *

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available from Severn House

MOTHER LOVE
Maureen Carter
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
 

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and the USA by

Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Maureen Carter.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Carter, Maureen.

Mother love.

1. Women detectives – England – Birmingham – Fiction.

2. Women journalists – England – Birmingham – Fiction.

3. Women teachers – Crimes against – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9′2-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-158-3 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-008-9 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-515-2 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Sophie and Dan

My thanks for editorial expertise and insight go to Kate Lyall Grant, Anna Telfer, Sara Porter and the rest of the exceptional team at Crème de la Crime and Severn House. I thank my wide range of contacts for their expert knowledge and priceless input and – as always – I thank readers everywhere for showing interest and care.

She was resigned to dying. It was only a question of when, and she almost welcomed the instant of oblivion when she'd no longer have to suffer the taunts, the menacing whispers, the veiled threats: ‘Why should I kill you? Death is so . . . final. We have all the time in the world . . .'

But Olivia would die. She knew that.

She could deal with the pain for herself, just. But her death would destroy her mother's life. The excruciating thought provoked renewed and even more desperate struggles against the thin cords cutting into her wrists and ankles. The raw flesh chafed again, blood trickled warmly down her palm, through her fingers. She bit her lip to staunch a scream she knew no one would hear.

Did anyone even know she was missing?

What was it? Three days? Four? With nothing to gauge the passage of time, Olivia had lost track. Her watch had been removed on the first night. Though, why? She had no idea. She could see nothing. Not through a thick blindfold, tightly knotted. A scraped match, a brief smell of sulphur, more than any gradual lightening of the dark indicated when the candle or candles had been lit. The illumination was for his benefit. She'd seen neither her captor's face nor her surroundings – were they saving graces?

No. She knew there was no get-out clause. She might not die here, but the end would come soon enough. What would it do to Elizabeth, her mother? Would the woman who'd given Olivia life be able to bear the greater pain of her death? Angry, anguished tears soaked into the already damp scratchy fabric over her eyes.

An idea struck: she'd talk to him again, plead with him; if she could make him see her in a different light . . .? She shook her head, dismissed the notion before it took hold and gave false hope: what was the point when everything had already been said?

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Maybe you had to be drowning to see your life flash before your eyes? Olivia could see nothing. It was a small mercy. And for that she was grateful.

ONE

E
lizabeth Kent, duster tucked in trouser waistband, leaned over one of the chesterfields and plumped a cushion. Domestic Doolittle rather than goddess, housework did nothing for her, but if left untackled the untidiness irked even more. On a good day it was done and sometimes dusted in under ten minutes. She glanced at her watch. Today, she decided, would be a very good day; there were so many better ways to spend her time.

Sweeping the floor with a cursory glance, she dismissed the notion of employing anything more strenuous. She retrieved a couple of errant threads of cotton from the carpet, slipped them in a pocket then, hands on hips, surveyed her empire.

‘To dust or not to dust . . . that is the question.' Running an assessing gaze over dark wood surfaces, Elizabeth mused en passant whether any of her friends talked to themselves. Not that she cared. As habits go, there were worse. ‘I must ask Olivia though. I bet she does.'

The mere thought prompted a curve of her lip and when her glance fell on Olivia's photograph Elizabeth's eyes lit up. She walked to the baby grand, took the silver frame in both hands: her daughter's graduation a decade back, mortar board slightly askew, wide-mouthed grin, perfect teeth. It was like looking in the mirror – twenty-odd years ago. ‘Where does the time go, darling?' Her smile faltered only slightly. Despite the aging, even now, their resemblance was striking; people still commented on the likeness.

Elizabeth's hair was often tied back and the chestnut shade owed more to L'Oreal than Olivia's, but their eyes – almond-shaped, caramel-coloured – were identical. As she replaced the photograph, Elizabeth sighed. Was it just her imagination that Olivia's gaze of late sometimes seemed less open, more guarded?

Much as it had when she returned from America . . .

Elizabeth perched on the edge of her favourite armchair and stared into the distance. Why did Olivia never speak about the time away? The question often crossed Elizabeth's mind, but for the most part she was only too happy to have Olivia back. She'd thought her heart would break when Olivia left to make a new life in the States. To Elizabeth's way of thinking it had all happened so quickly. It seemed to her that Olivia barely knew the man she went to live with. Jack Howe was rich, good-looking, clever, kind. It wasn't that Elizabeth begrudged Olivia's happiness, but it was at the cost of her own. Not that she'd ever have admitted it. Besides, Olivia had been thirty then, an intelligent woman with a mind of her own.

Elizabeth's life hadn't deteriorated dramatically when her only child left. Nothing changed overnight – at least not overtly. She'd continued her voluntary work, started an Open University degree, even considered ending her marriage. Her love for Philip – like other things – had faded over the years. They tolerated each other, didn't fight or frighten the horses. The marriage was convenient and she'd seen no real reason to leave, but was vaguely troubled by the fact there was no pressing motive to stay.

Eventually Philip had made the decision. He now lived in a neighbouring Birmingham suburb with a new partner, a younger woman. His going had barely touched Elizabeth. It was a minor part of a general malaise that had started creeping into her soul the day Olivia went. She'd felt a constant sense of something missing, a yearning for something to happen and a dreadful dawning realization that it probably never would.

She still saw friends, though less often. She made them laugh, though less loudly. She continued to dress the well-groomed part. But she missed Olivia from the depth of her being. Her full diary belied the aching void in her heart.

Two years later, out of the blue, Olivia was back. Jack had said he wanted his own space. It had broken Olivia's heart. Even now she refused to share details; the subject was a non-starter and Elizabeth no longer brought it up. Just thanked God there'd been no children. Elizabeth would have welcomed her daughter back to the family home with open arms, but she'd wanted a place of her own. At least they only lived a few miles apart. Life – as Elizabeth knew well – could be so much worse.

A ringing phone broke Elizabeth's reverie. Frowning, she glanced round, in no particular hurry to answer. In the last few days there'd been three or four odd calls. Not abusive or obscene. No heavy breathing. Just silence. But Elizabeth had been sure someone was on the line. It had been annoying as well as a little unnerving. Standing by the console table now, she counted four, five more rings before snatching the receiver and holding it tightly to her ear.

‘Mrs Kent? Is that you? Are you there?'

Elizabeth released the breath she'd deliberately held and injected a warm smile into her voice. ‘Caroline, how lovely to hear from you – even though you always leave it too long between calls.'

It was a mild admonition. Caroline King was her daughter's oldest friend. The two girls had been seated together on their first day at school. The arrangement had suited them and – it seemed to Elizabeth – they'd shared a little of their lives ever since. ‘How are you, dear?'

‘I'm good, Mrs Kent. You?'

‘No complaints. What can I do for you?'

‘I'm trying to get hold of Olivia. Any idea where she is?'

Smiling, Elizabeth shook her head. Archetypal Caroline: as a high-profile freelance journalist she worked anywhere, anytime, was very much her own boss. Regular hours and routine were alien concepts: she carried a passport the way most women carried a bus pass. ‘Caroline, it's half past eleven, she'll be teaching. Ring the school – but wait until lunch break.' Olivia was head of English and Drama at Green Hill, a local sixth form college.

‘Sure thing. Sorry to bother you.'

‘Where are you calling from?' Caroline kept a flat in Fulham but Elizabeth knew it was little more than a stopover between assignments. The reporter's visits to Birmingham were also increasingly rare and had become more so since her mother's death six months ago.

‘I'm at Mum's place. Things need sorting. I'm putting it on the market.'

‘If there's anything I can do?' It saddened Elizabeth that Caroline had never been close to her mother; even during Felicity King's final illness there'd not been much of a rapprochement. Caroline had inherited everything but – it seemed to Elizabeth – lost a lot.

‘Appreciate it, Mrs Kent.'

‘Isn't it about time you started calling me Elizabeth?' It wasn't the first time she'd made the suggestion. After all these years, she considered Caroline an honorary member of the family. Indeed, when the girls hit their teens, it seemed Caroline stayed at the Kents' house more than her own. The media career had – in some ways – taken her out of their league. Elizabeth sometimes wondered why Caroline maintained the contact.

‘Old habits die hard, Mrs K.'

‘Please –' she gave a mock groan – ‘anything but that.' She knew Caroline was winding her up; she could tease for England. Smiling, she pictured the reporter's exquisite face framed by her signature sleek black bob. ‘Anyway, would you like to leave a message? Just in case you don't get through? I'm seeing Olivia this evening.'

Slight weighing-up pause, then: ‘No, don't worry. I'll catch her later. Ciao, Mrs Kent.'

Ciao?
Replacing the receiver, Elizabeth raised an amused eyebrow and glanced again at her watch. The ten minutes were up. ‘That settles it. The dust can go hang.'

A movement outside caught her eye and this time her groan was genuine. The couple walking up the drive looked respectable enough but – pound to a penny – they were selling something. Should she ignore them, pretend no one was home? She who hesitates is lost. Any idea of subterfuge went through the window as she made brief eye contact with the woman: tall, unsmiling, Nordic colouring, white blonde hair tied back. Elizabeth headed reluctantly to the door, muttering, ‘Damn and damn again.'

BOOK: Mother Love
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