Mother Love (3 page)

‘A letter?' Facial lines deepened. ‘From Olivia?'

‘Not from her. It purports to be about her. It suggests she's being held against her will.'

There was a tremor in the hand Mrs Kent extended; her voice was steady. ‘Let me see it.'

‘That's not possible.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. I have every right.'

‘Is this Olivia, Mrs Kent?' Standing by the piano, Harries reached for the photograph Elizabeth had been admiring minutes earlier.

‘Yes. And I'd rather you leave my property alone.' Returning her gaze to Sarah, she said, ‘I insist on seeing this letter. It has to be some sort of joke.'

‘No problem.' It wasn't a concession either. ‘As soon as we get it back from Forensics.'

Her glare was arctic. ‘And when's that?'

‘Seven to ten days. By then I'm sure things will be clearer.'

The pat answer didn't pacify the woman, but at least it gave her something to think about. Eyes narrowed, she bit her lip, then murmured, ‘It must be a hoax. Who on earth would want to harm Olivia?'

Sarah's initial question was easier – and still unanswered. She posed it again. ‘Tell me, Mrs Kent, when was the last time you saw Olivia?'

‘Saturday.' Speedy response. Despite the apparent lack of concern over her daughter's whereabouts, she'd clearly been thinking it through. ‘She popped by to pick up my library books.'

‘Popped by on foot?'

‘Car. We normally go together. But I had to wait in – someone was coming to look at the roof . . . a few missing tiles.' Her flapping hand dismissed the irrelevance. ‘We chatted over coffee, then Olivia went off with the books. She knows what I like so was happy to exchange them.'

‘And did she?'

‘Of course.'

‘You've spoken to her since?'

‘She rang, asked if it was OK if she brought them over this evening.' The fleeting smile again. ‘Thursday's our regular girls' night: we catch a film or a concert, maybe have a bite to eat.'

‘So you've spoken to her today?'

Impatient, like Sarah should know better. ‘Tuesday. The last thing she said was, “See you Thursday”.'

False alarm then?
Sarah cut Harries a glance. He took the cue: ‘How did she sound, Mrs Kent?'

Addressing Harries, she said, ‘Fine. She sounded . . . fine.' Sarah concentrated temporarily on the woman's body language; it often said more. The furrowed brow and slight air of distraction suggested there was a hidden ‘but'.

‘Go on,' Harries prompted, adding one of his smiles.

‘Now I come to think of it . . . the line was bad. In fact after a few seconds we got . . . cut off.'

‘Did she ring back?'

‘No.' She stared at her still-laced fingers. ‘Actually I did . . . but . . . her phone was switched off.

Sarah sensed the woman's first faint stirring of unease. She allowed her twenty seconds or so before taking up the questioning. ‘And this was Tuesday? The day before yesterday? You're sure of that, Mrs Kent?' Wrong tone: red rag.

She snapped, ‘What do you take me for? I'm not a child. And this is stupid.' She shot up and was halfway across the room before sharing her thoughts. ‘I'm phoning her now. She'll be at work – she's a teacher, you know.'

Sarah was aware how Olivia made a living. The school was the second place Harries had checked. The first was Olivia's home. Neither colleagues nor neighbours had seen her since Saturday.

Standing with her back to the room, Mrs Kent muttered to herself, waiting for the school to pick up. The odd word was audible: ridiculous, waste, time. Sarah hoped the woman's maternal instinct was sound.

On the plus side: Olivia Kent wasn't a lost child or vulnerable adult, wasn't – officially – a missing person. She may have decided to take off for a few days. There was no indication at the house that she'd been taken against her will; no sign of a struggle, nothing to suggest a crime had been committed. But there was a letter, the letter in Sarah's pocket. She heard the paper rustle when she moved, felt it scratch her skin. She didn't have to see what was written, she remembered every word.

FOUR

I
t was written in black ink, scrawling script bold against unlined white paper. It had arrived late yesterday, addressed to Sarah's boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Fred Baker. He'd called her in to discuss. ‘It'll be some nutter, but we'd best check it out, Quinn.'

‘
We
, sir?' Sarah tilted her head, mock ingenuous. She was accustomed to Baker's regal largesse. The ‘we' word littered the old boy's briefings like royals at a variety performance. His manner could be pretty majestic at times, too. With his chunky six-foot-four frame sprawling in a black leather executive chair, he pointed a ruler across the king-size desk. ‘OK,
you
then.'

She'd seen more convincing smiles on a depressed crocodile. ‘Will do.'

‘Unless you're thinking of letting the boy wonder loose on it.'

Sarah's lip twitched involuntarily. Baker had coined the epithet the day David Harries joined the squad. Still common currency six months on, it was one of Baker's better efforts, but sucking up to the boss by telling him so was the last thing the chief needed – and the last thing she'd do. She put in a good word for the young DC instead. ‘He's shaping up fine, Chief. I think he's got great—'

‘What?' He leaned across the desk, wide-eyed. ‘Do share.' It was Baker's turn to play the innocent. It wasn't the first time he'd taken the piss about what he insisted on calling her toy boy, but he knew her well enough to realize she'd never sleep with anyone on the job.
Didn't he?
The icy look she was casting was one of a large repertoire.

‘Joke, Quinn. Humour alert.' He lifted a finger, reached for a ringing phone perched on a stack of files.

She bit back a barb. If she rose to every bait, she'd never get down from the ceiling. What was it her mum used to say? Choose your battles. She watched while he took the call, had to admit he wasn't a bad-looking guy: smooth skin, regular features, hair a touch too long and suspiciously dark given he was pushing sixty. But – if he dyed it – why leave the white streaks? Unless he fancied they made him look distinguished. She sniffed. Badger-with-attitude, more like. The sniff was a mistake: Baker's aftershave was a standing joke.
Talk about too much of a good thing
.

Not that she disliked the man. He was a complex blend; an acquired taste she'd more or less acquired. An old-school cop, he was too set in his ways to change now. Not that she didn't try to educate him occasionally. It was tricky as he didn't have a lot of time for female cops. Occasionally he made an exception, occasionally Sarah took it. More often than not, they rubbed along just fine.

He winked as he cut the connection after a two-minute conversation. ‘Wrong number.'

It was one of his favourite quips. She'd heard it a million times, gave a mental eye-roll, pointed at the letter on the desk in front of him. ‘Have we run checks yet?'

‘
We
, Quinn?'

Her tapping fingers said the joke was wearing thin. ‘Not you personally.'

‘Sir.'

Pulling rank? Or yanking her chain? The continuing silence suggested the former. ‘Sir.'

He gave the letter a final scan before sliding it across the desk. ‘I suggest you try the phone book first.'

‘Gee, thanks. I'd never have thought of that,' she muttered.

‘What did you say, Quinn?'

‘Thanks for that.' She reached for the paper. The original was with Forensics, of course. No one was holding their breath for a result.

‘Handwriting's pretty distinctive, wouldn't you say?'

She nodded. ‘Shame there's no signature.'

He picked up a pen, pointedly poised it over a pile of admin. ‘You might have time to sit round cracking jokes . . .'

She rose, tucking the letter in a breast pocket. ‘Still, he could've saved us a bunch of trouble.'

‘Or she, Inspector. Or she.' Looking absurdly pleased with himself, he tapped the side of his nose. Maybe her subtle campaign to persuade him to see women in more than domestic, decorative or décolléte roles wasn't as doomed as she thought.

‘I'll get on to it now.'

She was at the door when he spoke again, dead casual. ‘Shouldn't take too long, Quinn.'

‘Oh?'

He consulted a few scribbles in a spiral notepad. ‘Far as I can tell, there are four O. Kents in Birmingham: two Olivers and an octogenarian Olive who's got a parrot with a potty mouth. There's an Olivia in Harborne. Platt Lane, number thirteen. Only no one's answering the phone.'

‘I see.' She also saw a glint in his eye. However up himself, she knew the boss liked keeping a hand in. Rapid swallow. The irreverent thought had prompted a very unwanted mental picture. ‘Nice one, Chief.'

‘'Course, I could've been looking in the wrong book.'

FIVE

I
t had been the right book.

Any doubts Sarah harboured had been dispelled witnessing Elizabeth Kent make call after call trying to trace her daughter. The woman's confidence had taken a perceptible knock; after finally getting through to the school her voice had cracked. Call now ended, she leaned against the wall, clasped the receiver to her chest.

‘Mrs Kent?' Sarah, solicitous, softly spoken, stood close by, hand outstretched but making no contact, physically or emotionally. The woman could have been on another planet. Sarah's cool gaze sought Harries. Subtly motioning him nearer, she mouthed three words, hoped he'd pick up the cue. She needed him to drop the watching brief – he was better at touchy-feely than her.

‘I don't understand.' Mrs Kent's comment was unprompted by either detective. Staring into the distance, mixed emotions ran across her strained features.

Sarah tried reading them, failed. ‘What don't you understand, Mrs Kent?'

‘She was shocked I called.' Clearly trying to make sense of the conversation, she was yet to share its content.

‘Who was?' Sarah had to hide her impatience, provoked by a growing sense of unease.

‘The school secretary. Jenny. Jenny Bold.' She was clawing her neck, oblivious to the weal marks left by her nails. Sarah winced, still wanting to shake her, but gently removed her hand instead.

‘Mrs Kent, this is doing no—'

Brisk nod, sudden gear change. ‘She said a woman rang the school on Monday morning and told them Olivia wouldn't be in, that she wasn't well. That she'd be off for at least a week, maybe longer.'

Sarah and Harries exchanged glances.
False alarm then
.
So why the near meltdown?
Elizabeth Kent's complexion had taken on an unhealthy pallor; sweat beaded over her top lip.

Sarah offered her a tissue from a pack in her pocket. ‘Did the caller say what was wrong with Olivia, Mrs Kent?'

She flapped a hand at what she obviously regarded as a distraction. ‘The school assumed it was flu. The woman had a heavy cold.'

It didn't make sense. Frowning, Sarah said, ‘But Olivia wasn't making the call.'

‘No, but apparently the head teacher put two and two together.'

She was still no wiser. ‘Let's take it from the top, shall we?'

Mrs Kent explained that Jenny Bold hadn't actually spoken to the woman, that the head – James Rust – had taken the call and relayed the gist. Sarah glanced at Harries who was already adding the name to his notes.

Am I being dense here
,
or what?
‘I'm still not with you. Why would he assume Olivia had a cold?'

Ahead of what was clearly not a game, Mrs Kent peeled herself off the wall and visibly pulled herself together. In the short time she'd taken to work out the ramifications, to acknowledge that her daughter could be at risk, she'd seemingly morphed from suburban housewife to warrior queen. Patently seething, she slammed down the receiver and faced Sarah head-on.

‘Because the woman gave my name. She told him she was Olivia's mother.' Fists clenched at her side, cheeks now flushed, her cut-glass vowels were laced with barely contained fury. ‘So what
exactly
are you doing about it?'

SIX

‘
I
f I've got this right, you're telling me my daughter hasn't been seen for five days. That she's not at home, hasn't been in work. And it now emerges an imposter's phoned the school with a pack of lies.' Elizabeth Kent rammed the plunger on a cafetière then whacked the oak work surface with the flat of her hand. Sarah was faintly surprised the glass hadn't shattered. Harries, who was in the hall touching base with Control, probably wondered what the sound effects signified.

‘It looks that way.' Sarah erred on the side of caution. The cops still had no proof of an ongoing abduction, but the accumulating unknowns certainly upped the ante. Important though to keep whatever they were dealing with in perspective, especially when Olivia's mother was all over the place emotionally. Coffee had actually been Mrs Kent's call; caffeine perked her up, helped her think, she said.

‘So what happens now, DI Quinn?'

Sarah's mental list was good to go: tracing Olivia's last known movements and establishing a timeline was basic first procedure. Once they'd dug out information via interviews with colleagues, neighbours, friends, family members, CCTV could be checked along probable and/or habitual routes. Later, if need be, they'd extend checks to social networking sites and places where she spent real time with real people: the gym? Evening class? Whatever. At some stage they'd bring the media on board, but until the situation became clearer, all that was jumping the proverbial gun. ‘Bear in mind, Mrs Kent, there could be a simple explanation.'