Mother Love (2 page)

The last thing she needed was a couple of cold callers.

Caroline King slipped her phone back in its pouch, tapped tapering fingers on the arm of a wing chair. OK. So what was Livvie up to? Three days now she'd been incommunicado. Caroline had tried home, mobile and work numbers. The school secretary had inadvertently let slip this morning that
Ms Kent
wasn't expected in until next week. Follow-up questions had elicited nothing further.

Caroline slumped against a lumpy Bisto-coloured chair-back, brushed a cobweb from her once-black combats. She curled a lip at the shapeless grey sweatshirt that completed her unaccustomed ensemble: house-clearance chic, or what?

‘Or what,' she drawled. Then: ‘So why are you playing away, my friend?'

Clearly, Livvie hadn't mentioned to Elizabeth she was taking time off work. Caroline certainly wasn't going to let the cat out of the school bag, as it were. Livvie wasn't tied to her mother's apron strings. She was allowed a little extra-curricular activity. Caroline smirked. Wondered what his name was.

Oh well, lucky for some. Duty beckoned. Peeling herself from the chair, she took the stairs two at a time, feeling more chipper. If Livvie was seeing Elizabeth that night she'd surface soon enough. Shame she'd gone to ground though. Time was limited; Caroline had no intention of staying in this place a minute longer than necessary. God. It had taken eighteen years to escape. She frowned. So why was it difficult sometimes to recall why she'd fled?

Distance. Heart. Fonder? She sniffed. It was a little late for that.

Running fingers through her hair, she entered the bedroom again. Twelve black bin liners – full already – leaned at odd angles against the faux William Morris wallpaper. Clothes, shoes, bags, knick-knacks – all now parcelled up ready to be passed on. Lucky Oxfam. Her mother's room had been the last thing Caroline wanted to face, which was why she'd cleared it first. Even now the familiar scent was just discernible, the merest trace of vanilla lingering here and there.

The only item she intended hanging on to – at least for a while – was a battered leather suitcase she'd placed on the stripped mattress. It was crammed with a lifetime of keepsakes: letters, certificates, greetings cards, postcards, school reports. She wandered over, tugged at the protruding edge of a photograph and beamed. Her and Liv in Brownie uniform, pigtails, yellow ankle socks. ‘Talk about the bee's knees.' Caroline slipped the photo in a pocket; they'd have a laugh over it later.

It would be so good to catch up. Caroline's career meant she saw very little of her best mate these days. The distance between them sometimes seemed more than physical and it was a source of regret. Caroline operated in a world where real friends were as rare as caviar at KFC. The times with Livvie were like touching base, only on this home run her friend had taken off without a word. She'd known Caroline was back in town but hadn't even replied to a text.
You just wait
,
my friend
. There'd be hell to pay when she eventually deigned to pick up the phone.

TWO

T
here were days DI Sarah Quinn disliked her job. Gazing through the passenger window, shrewd grey eyes screwed up against the sun's glare, she barely registered the sweeping lawns, detached mock Tudor houses; she could almost have been talking to herself. ‘It's probably a hoax. A loser playing a sick game.'

She glanced at the driver, who appeared to be feigning intense concentration on the wide tree-lined road in one of Edgbaston's more upmarket enclaves. The young detective had probably intuited her mood and thought silence a better option. He really should know better by now. ‘Sorry, David, I didn't quite catch what you said.'

‘I agree, boss.' Sage nod. ‘One hundred per cent.'

‘Sycophant.' Sarah gave a lopsided smile.

‘Psycho what?'

‘Big ho, funny man.' She flapped a hand, knew David Harries' vocabulary was more than up to a three-syllable put-down. For Sarah, the DC's appeal as a partner didn't lie in his good looks. A sharp brain and ability to connect were more use in the long run than chiselled cheek bones and a disarming smile. Though truth be told, it was no hardship working alongside a guy who bore a passing resemblance to Keith Richards before his sell-by.

‘You know me, boss. I aim to please.'

‘'Course you do.' She knew him better now than when she'd accused him of being a police informant. Way it turned out, Harries hadn't betrayed his colleagues – he'd been screwing a reporter. The media cock-up had involved one of Sarah's least favourite people on the planet. Five months down the line, Sarah's way of thinking was to let sleeping dogs lie. It was Caroline King she envisaged curled up snoring in a kennel: Harries was too good a cop to kick out.

‘You're right though, boss. I mean, what've we got? A letter is all. There's no saying it's genuine.'

She nodded. He'd echoed her thoughts. Plus no one had reported a woman missing. ‘Should be next left, David. Windsor Place.' The house they were after was called The Gables.

He checked the mirror, flicked the indicator. ‘How do you think we should play it, boss?'

‘By ear. See what the woman's like first. One thing though –' she made eye contact – ‘I don't want her looking at the letter. Not yet.'

‘I'll drink to that.' He turned his mouth down.

‘And David – I'll do the talking.'

He started saying something but she was already out of the motor, tightening the belt on a calf-length camel coat. The cloudless, almost Mediterranean sky was deceptive: a mid-November temperature had taken a dive to deep midwinter; a strong wind swirled autumn leaves like golden confetti. She made a mental note to dig out gloves, sank hands in pockets and scanned the surroundings.

Windsor Place was a small private estate with substantial double-fronted properties round a central green. It was the sort of set-up where it was still possible – just – to imagine that life was good and people were decent and crime was something that happened to someone else. In reality, the warm red bricks were dotted with burglar alarms and closed-circuit cameras winked from clinging ivies and climbing roses.

Harries glanced round casually as he locked the car. ‘Wouldn't say no to a little place round here myself.'

‘Your dream or mine?' She masked a smile, well aware of a DC's monthly monetary challenge. Mind, it was nothing compared to the battle going on further down the green. Harries followed her bemused gaze to a groundsman who was grappling inexpertly with a leaf blower. Given the thick russet carpet, green was a misnomer and the horticultural equivalent of a Henry barely scratched the surface; it was like taking a felt tip to touch up the Forth Bridge. The gusting wind was no help either. Leaves were swirling like tipsy moths at a disco.

Dead casual, Harries said, ‘Reckon the guy's a sucker for punishment, boss?'

She sniffed. ‘I reckon you missed your vocation, petal.'

‘Stage? Stand-up?'

‘Coach. One-way ticket.'

‘Cruel.'

‘But fair.' It wasn't the sharpest riposte, but banter had never been Sarah's forte. Until fairly recently she wouldn't have indulged at all. She knew her nickname at police HQ, and had no problem with it. But Harries' more laid-back approach seemed to be catching. Maybe the ice queen was starting to chill out?

As they approached The Gables, she knew immediately what he'd say, even down to the low whistle that preceded it: ‘Très des res.'

‘Anyone ever told you you're predictable?' It was easy to see where he was coming from though: the half-timbered structure was topped by barley sugar chimneys, paintwork gleamed, lead-paned windows glinted. It made Sarah think of dark wood panelling and polished floors, potpourri and huge log fires. She half expected Penelope Keith to emerge with a pair of chocolate Labradors. Scrub that. Looking through the window, she saw a woman who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actress. They made eye contact simultaneously. Looking less than delirious, the woman averted her glance first.

‘At least we know she's in, boss,' Harries murmured, reaching for the knocker.

The door opened before his hand made contact. The woman wasn't rolling out a welcome mat. ‘I was just on the way out. What is it?' Only her head was visible through the narrow gap.

‘Mrs Elizabeth Kent?' Sarah held her ID card at eye level. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Sarah Quinn. This is Detective Constable David Harries. We're from West Midlands police.'

‘What do you want?' Most people panic at a visit from the police. Elizabeth Kent seemed unperturbed, sounded imperious. ‘What's this about?'

‘Your daughter, Mrs Kent. When did you last see Olivia?'

She was ravenous, starving. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Olivia heard her mother's voice. ‘You're not starving, my dear. Think of the little children in Africa. They are starving. Eat up now, there's a good girl.'

In her head, Olivia was a child again. Sunday lunch, Sunday best, elbows in, desperate not to gag on a mouthful of chocolate blancmange. Ugh! She'd never touched it since, hated the taste, the very sight of it. Now she'd savour it – and lick the bowl.

‘
I am bloody starving!' Her words came unbidden and out loud. The outburst startled her awake. If her limbs hadn't been restrained, she'd have shot up in alarm, terrified she was losing her mind. As well.

Deep breath. Hold for five. Let it go. Deep breath. Hold for five. Let it go.

Was that a footfall? Head cocked, she listened for the slightest sound. Was he there? Watching? Leering?

She didn't know how long he'd been gone. Had no idea if it was day or night. Her four-walled world was in perpetual darkness except, ironically, when he was present. Lately he'd taken to removing her blindfold, his face concealed behind a Darth Vader mask.

She knew now there were three candles which he lit in the same sequence every time: left, right, centre. They were supposed to help her pray; she was meant to ask for forgiveness.

Sometimes he'd bring food which she had to watch him eat. He'd throw occasional scraps in her direction: fish batter, cold chips, a chunk of sausage roll. Like a dog she'd have to eat them off the floor. The first couple of times she waited, eyeing the food until he left before consuming it. Not now. She was increasingly weak with hunger, scared that even if he left her untied she wouldn't have the strength to escape. Now she ate every measly offering immediately. As for water, he forced her to drink, pressed the bottle to her mouth. She had to pee in a bucket in the corner. He got a kick out of that. The first night he left her, she'd soiled herself. Furious, he'd slapped her face hard. Next time he came he slung a pack of baby wipes in her face ordered her to clean up. She still stank. She could smell herself. Everything was dirty: her skin, her teeth, her hair, her dress. He'd returned her clothes, thank God. Though he'd stripped her of everything, at least she was no longer naked.

This time her tears of exhaustion and humiliation were laced with something else.

Anger.

THREE

‘
O
livia was here last weekend. Why? What's this about?' Elizabeth Kent's folded arms and tapping court shoe reinforced a verbal hostility that Sarah found both interesting and mildly surprising. Maybe it was a case of attack being the best form of defence, or her default setting was stroppy hauteur. Either way, it was a pre-emptive strike that only served to delay the inevitable.

‘Shall we go inside?' Sarah's measured tone and steady gaze seemed to deflate the bolshie attitude; a fleeting smile revealed a trace of prettiness lurking beneath Mrs Kent's stern features.

‘Yes, of course. I'm sorry, do . . .' Stepping back, she let a trailing hand complete the invitation, simultaneously extending it to the rush mat. Sarah did a quick recce as she wiped her feet. Low beams and sepia walls could have made the squat square hall feel cramped, claustrophobic even; subtle lighting and a pair of gilt mirrors leavened the gloom. For a second, Sarah wondered why the flagstones were splashed with red paint before realizing it was sunlight reflecting through a stained-glass window on the landing.

‘You'll have to excuse the mess,' Mrs Kent said, leading the way into a sitting room that looked pristine to the domestically-challenged detective. Rather like its owner, Sarah thought, there wasn't a hair out of place. Ivory curtains and mocha carpet offset deep reds and dark woods. Despite its warm and welcoming feel, they stood a little awkwardly in front of a vast stone fireplace, like guests at a cocktail party that hadn't quite got off the ground.

‘Would you like a drink? I can make coffee. Tea if you'd prefer. As I say, I was on my way out but there's no hurry . . .'

‘Mrs Kent.' Sarah's level voice and raised palm stemmed a verbal flow that was probably another way of deflecting whatever the police were here for. ‘Look, I don't want to—'

‘Has there been an accident? Please tell me?' Palm resting on cheek, her concerned gaze scrutinized Sarah's face.

‘. . . alarm you.'

‘You
are
alarming me.'

Will you let me finish?
‘It's probably nothing.'

‘Then why are you here? Two detectives.' She glanced at Harries as if registering his presence for the first time.

‘We need to check a few things.'

‘What things?' The peremptory bark was back. ‘For God's sake, tell me.'

This is going well
. ‘Shall we sit down?' Sarah heard a clock tick five, six seconds before Mrs Kent reluctantly lowered herself on to one of the settees. Sarah sat alongside, deliberately mirroring the woman's posture. Mrs Kent's straight spine, crossed ankles, folded hands said,
Get on with it
. Sarah obliged. ‘We've received a letter.'