Mother Love (18 page)

‘I'd say he's an old fart.' The guard was well and truly down. She stared at Sarah for three or four seconds, then: ‘I'd also say attack's the best form of defence.'

Changing her reluctant tune, or what? Assuming it had been real in the first place.

Keeping her gaze on Paige, Sarah drank a few sips of now lukewarm tea. The teacher wasn't easy to read. The DI tried another tack. ‘DC Bruce told you about the initials on the police car? JR loves OK. Have you had any more thoughts about that since then, Ms Paige?'

One shoulder shrug. ‘It was probably one of the kids. He . . .' She shook her head. ‘Never mind.'

Sarah did; there was clearly more. ‘You don't think there's anything to it?' Pause while she weighed it up, then a resigned sigh prior to opening her mouth. A saying sprang to Sarah's mind about lambs, sheep and hanging. When the teacher's words came, they came in a rush.

‘If you must know, I think Rust fancies her rotten. But he doesn't stand a cat in hell's chance. Not with someone like Olivia. She's far too classy for the guy.'

‘So any advance he might have made, she'd have rejected?'

‘In a heartbeat.'

‘And did he?'

‘What?'

For a teacher, she wasn't very bright. ‘Make a pass?' Sarah prompted.

‘That's something you'll have to ask her.'

Tell me about it
. The interview continued another ten minutes or so. Had Olivia mentioned fears about being followed? No. Any odd phone calls? No. Any suspicious incidents? No. Could she provide names of men Olivia was seeing? No. And she couldn't think of anyone who'd want to harm Olivia? No. It was going nowhere. The teacher was only prepared to put her purple, pointy-toed pixie boot in so far. And the cops still didn't have a scrap of hard evidence against Rust.

Sarah pushed back the chair, shook hands, thanked her for her time. She waited until the teacher was at the door then: ‘Ms Paige? Does the name Noel Barfoot mean anything to you?'

‘Not a thing.' Was that a slight narrowing of the eyes? ‘Should it?'

Sarah ended a call, cradled her chin in both hands and gazed into space. She'd just grabbed a few words with Elizabeth Kent at her daughter's bedside, managed to kill two birds with one proverbial: there was no change in Olivia's condition – and the name Noel Barfoot meant nothing to Mrs Kent either.

Maybe it was no big surprise. Indulging in a raunchy affair with a married man and acting out traffic warden fantasies wasn't something you'd necessarily share with your mother.

The DI drummed the desk. So had the lust-birds kept their illicit liaison secret from everyone? Only Barfoot's initials had been written next to the number in her phone book. Big cheese Barfoot would be desperate for it not to come out, so to speak. Hypothetically speaking, if Olivia had confided in anyone, Sarah reckoned, it had to be Caroline King. The sigh blew out her cheeks. She'd have to ask the reporter, and not on the phone. King lied as easily as drawing breath, but non-verbal communication was more difficult to hide and often more telling.
Oh
,
what joy
. Sarah needed a face-to-face with Lois Lane. After ignoring King's calls, texts, voicemails all day, she'd now be the one with the begging bowl. The trick would be to illicit a steer while avoiding bestowing a tip.

Rising she walked to the window, pressed her palms on the glass. Jill Paige was down there getting into a 2CV. Sarah hadn't taken to the woman, couldn't put a finger on why. The DI stared up at an almost full moon, her thoughts a lot closer to home. What about James Rust? Where did old Sticky Fingers fit into the case? It was a far cry from a grope behind the bike sheds, to suspending a woman from a wire noose in a filthy basement.

She narrowed her eyes. Both men had reputations to protect. Was that at the centre of all this? Had Rust or Barfoot abducted Olivia to silence her? Hired an accomplice to help with the dirty work? Without solid evidence it was endless speculation and groundless allegation. A hell of a lot of digging needed doing, but at least the squad had meatier inquiries to get its teeth into.

From an empty suspect pot, it looked as if there were now two Persons of Interest simmering at the very least.

‘Come on, big man, give us a break,' she murmured under her breath.

‘God ain't gonna sort it, Quinn.'

No
,
please
,
do come in
. ‘Didn't hear you knock, Chief.'

‘You were too busy, Quinn. All that stargazing.'

She perched on the sill, flashed a fake smile. ‘Well, now you're in, how may I help?'

He slipped a hand in his pocket. ‘I'm gonna do you a favour.'

First time for everything. ‘Oh?'

‘Yeah. This Rust bloke? Thought I'd have a word with him.' The chief was clearly keeping tabs. He must've nobbled Shona Bruce before and after the Paige interview. Exacted what amounted to a running commentary. If this was Baker taking a back seat, she could barely imagine the pain in the arse he'd be holding the reins.

Actually, been there done that. Not an image to hold. And he was asking like she had any choice. ‘What? You mean on a man-to-man basis?'

Stubby finger pointed, he said, ‘You can wipe that sneer off your face, Quinn. When you had a crack at him it wasn't exactly a meeting of minds. Personal dislike's counter-productive in an inquiry. He'll not get up my nose, I can tell you.' He tapped it as if proving the point, but she soon realized it was to underline the next. ‘All it needs is a bit of emotional intelligence.'

EI? The chief? Was he winding her up? The old boy must've dipped into a self-help book.
Not far enough
. She was still working on a comeback when Baker lumbered off door-wards. ‘I'll let you know when it's sorted, Quinn.'
Cheers
,
big man
.

With the workload mounting, she'd be looking to delegate more anyway. It was the principle of the thing that pissed her off. Baker cherry-picking again. She'd brought him up to speed on the Barfoot connection the minute she got back to HQ – making sure he was on top of every development was non-negotiable. Clearly he fancied Rust more as the bad guy. And she was on a hiding to nothing. Baker was the boss man. End of. She slid off the window sill. ‘That's big of you, Chief. Thanks a bunch.' He saluted without even turning. ‘I'm sure you and Rust'll have a lot in common.'

It wasn't often she had the last word. Lip curving, she reached for a file.

Five seconds later his head reappeared. ‘Not sure what your forte is, Quinn, but if I were you, I'd drop the funnies.'

‘You must be joking. Why on earth would I want to see you?' Caroline King wasn't amused; the day was a virtual write-off. Olivia's rally had lasted all of ten seconds, and now Quinn was on the phone threatening to ruin the evening. Studying her reflection in the mirror didn't help much either. The neon strip in the hospital loos was on the blink. In the yellowish light, it looked as if she'd caught something terminal.

‘I was hoping to talk about Olivia,' the DI said. ‘Get a better picture. You knowing her so well.'

Sounded almost genuine. The reporter narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying to be funny?'

‘Not at all. I'd really appreciate your input.'

‘“Appreciate my input”? How very kind.' Her Ms Supercilious face stared back from the glass. ‘So how come you've ignored my calls?' The pensive little pout was good, too.

‘It's been one of those days. Y'know, the kind your mother said there'd be.'

Caroline watched her eyebrow rise. She recognized the line as quoted by an American TV newscaster whose link into every package crashed live on air. What, she wondered, was a cop's equivalent of a bad day at the office? Or maybe Quinn was aiming at a show of knowing mateyness?

‘I thought maybe a drink . . .'

The reporter's open-mouthed shock was for real.
Is this an olive branch I see before me?
No way. The ice queen was after something and Caroline doubted it was half a lager. Turning from the glass, she leaned against the sink. ‘No can do. I've got to get Elizabeth home and I'm starving. Maybe . . .'

‘We could make it a little later?' Tentative offer. Caroline let the silence run, curious to hear if there was a follow-up. ‘Actually, I could do with a bite, too.'

Christ, there was almost cajolery in the voice. If Quinn was that desperate, maybe there was something in it for Caroline as well. She turned to admire her reflection again. ‘Are you buying?' The delivery was deadpan; the face in the glass wreathed in a smile.

‘Well . . .'

‘Only kidding – we'll split the bill. No one wants to feel beholden, do they, DI Quinn?'

Meeting arranged, a pensive Caroline ended the call. Maybe something could be salvaged from the day. It wasn't exactly a bundle of laughs for Olivia either. Delving into her bag, she brought out a make-up case. According to one of the medicos, briefly regaining consciousness then sinking back was a common occurrence with the condition. Livvie could come round at any time or there could be several more false starts, as it were. It was why Caroline had kept Olivia's brief surfacing from the depths to herself. Wouldn't want to raise false hopes in anyone, would she?

Puckering her mouth in the glass, she applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick, then riffled through the other cosmetics. While she was here, she might as well go the whole hog. She winked at her reflection. War paint, some people called it.
Wonder why?

TWENTY-SEVEN

J
ust gone six, Sarah was holding the late brief and couldn't raise so much as a half-smile from some squad members. Quite a few of the men appeared downbeat, desultory; shoulders were slouched, body language slack. It wasn't that the inquiry had stalled, not with two POI, potential leads, feedback from inquiries, incoming calls and another wave likely now details of the missing Golf had been released to the media. But right now, she sensed a marked lack of drive.

Running her gaze over the team, she wished she could tap into the reason for its mood. Operation Venus was mostly dull, routine donkey work. But that was hardly new territory, every cop discovered soon enough the job wasn't all car chases and shoot-outs. Cop slog, Baker called it: she could do without the matching attitude.

The DI envied the chief's knack for energizing the troops – at times like this she wished she possessed it. Baker had left her to it, resumed his back seat and buggered off home. Still, as he took great delight in telling her, she was a big girl now. She reached behind for a pointer on the desk. It was more prop than essential tool. The second whiteboard wasn't exactly cluttered.

‘So we'll be taking a close look at these two. James Rust and Noel Barfoot.' Harries had downloaded Rust's mugshot from the school's website; Barfoot's cheesy grin had been taken by a
Birmingham Post
photographer at some charity do. ‘Both are clearly Persons of Interest, probable suspects. But we still keep our eyes open for others. Closed minds and all that . . .' She gave a fleeting smile.

No reaction. Friday night blues? It was a bit rich considering most of them would be on overtime. Officers from inspector up didn't see an extra penny. Sarah had arranged the interview with Philip Kent for the following morning before realizing it would bite into her first weekend off for ages. Not that she was whingeing. Not with the compensation of a hot date on the horizon. Glancing at Harries, her lip gave an involuntary twitch.
Henry Cooper
,
indeed
.

Focus, woman. ‘The chief's interviewing James Rust tomorrow,' she told the squad. At the head's home. Baker had got a minion to arrange it. ‘Huntie?' The DS lifted his gaze. ‘He'd like you along as well.'

Hunt nodded acknowledgement.

‘Job for the boys, ma'am?' Madison was slumped in a chair, legs sprawled.

No way was she rising. She scratched an eyebrow. ‘Where are the ownership details for Cameron Towers, Madison?'

The DC straightened, flush rising. ‘Sorry, I . . .' Couldn't come up with an excuse quick enough.

‘Forgot?' She tilted her head. ‘Can't be arsed? Can't do a simple task?'

‘Got sidetracked, calls coming in and that.'

The arctic glare had more force than a bollocking.

‘I'll get on to it first thing, ma'am.'

‘A property company bought it four months ago.' John Hunt had clearly done the homework. The place now belonged to the York-based Thorne & Co, he told them. The plan was to raze the premises, build starter homes on the site. ‘The owner was an old bloke who wanted shot of it. I'm told he's been living in Spain for two years.'

‘By?' Sarah asked.

‘An old dear who lives down the road.' Hunt had been on house-to-house, and gone the extra mile. Smiling, the DS unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water. ‘I reckon she thought she was in with a chance with the owner at one time.' He took a sip. ‘Details are on my desk, ma'am. Some need confirming.'

‘Thanks, Huntie.'

He raised the bottle in a cheers. ‘I was out there anyway . . . it's not rocket science – as you know, DI Quinn.' The remarks were pointed, but not at Sarah. She doubted Hunt would have mentioned it at all if Madison had done a proper job. As it was the DC's complexion resembled sweating beetroot.

Reaching behind again, she took a sheet of A4 from a file. ‘I need someone to check these dates et cetera. They're from Noel Barfoot.' The architect had met the six p.m. deadline by the skin of his dental work. The accompanying email hoped the details were
precise
enough for her. Cocky git.

Paul Wood, who was propping up a side wall, lifted a finger.

‘Thanks, Twig. And Shona, can you do some digging on the wife? Her name's Julia and according to Barfoot she's an invalid.'