Child's Play (20 page)

Sarah masked a smile, gently nudged him back into place. She blamed his squiffy state on the grappa. Not to mention the beers and wine. DI Virtuous had downed one glass of Sauvignon then switched to tonic water, and they'd split the bill. Mind, they had moved on from a quick jar in the Queen's Head to the full works at Giovanni's. For Sarah, it hadn't been a tough call, they both had to eat and the supermarket wasn't going anywhere. Besides, Dave had been on good form: she couldn't remember when she'd laughed so much. Mind, he'd thought her suggestion about the sergeant's exam had been a joke. At first, anyway.

‘A lift's the least I could do, considering.' She braked as a fox shot across the road.

‘Considering what?' Dave made to straighten the tie he'd removed hours ago. She saw the end sticking out of his pocket.

‘The paper trail?'

‘Paper what?' How much had he had to drink? Either he'd taken a drop more than she realized or he'd adopted a new speech pattern.

‘Are all your pronouncements going to end in “what”, Dave?' She cut a glance in the mirror, nudged the Audi into a parking space.

‘Wh—?' The penny dropped and his smile spread slowly. ‘With you. Paper trail, huh?'

In his current state, he'd have cottoned on quicker if she'd said ‘litter lead'. Sarah had a feeling that Nicola's cast-offs could contain metaphorical gold dust. The printout had been badly creased and covered in ash but enough of the story remained to intrigue. After a bit of net-surfing on Dave's phone in the pub, Sarah had called the squad room, tasked a couple of officers with carrying out more stringent background checks. Someone else would get on to Leicester, ask colleagues there to delve into records. If Nicola's interest in the babe-in-the-wood killing turned out to be more than morbid curiosity, the inquiry needed to know. Like, yesterday.

‘Is it a habit of yours then, Dave? Ferreting round in people's bins?'

‘It is now.' He cocked his head, suddenly serious. ‘Calling me nosy, DI Quinn?'

‘Daft sod.' She rolled her eyes.

‘Anyway, strictly speaking the paper wasn't
in
her bin.'

‘Splitting hairs? Time to call it a night I think.'

‘Day.' He nodded at the clock on the dash: 00.05. ‘Strictly speaking.'

‘Out!' Smiling, she leaned across, opened his door.

‘Hey, boss.' His head re-appeared. She'd bet he was holding on to the roof for support. ‘Fancy a coffee?'

You are joking.
‘I'd best be off. Early start and all that.'

‘Instant's quick.'

The gag was glib, but she'd rarely seen him look so serious. ‘Dave, I really have to—'

‘Sarah. Please.'

‘Black. One sugar. Make it snappy.'

‘C
ome in, sit down.' Unsmiling, Sarah looked up from her desk, played a pen between her fingers. She could only remember entertaining Caroline King in her office once before. It hadn't been a social call. Back then the DI had accused the reporter of screwing privileged police information out of Harries. Screw being the operative word. Harries, who'd shown King up from reception, still hovered just behind her in the doorway. Sarah dismissed him with a smile. ‘Thanks, Dave.'

‘Ditto. Davy.' Caroline flashed him a wink before sauntering in and taking a seat. ‘Thanks for seeing me.' Her smile was perfunctory. She took her time crossing slender legs, smoothing an imaginary crease in a tight skirt. It seemed to Sarah that the reporter, who rarely looked less than immaculate, had gone out of her way to make a statement. The tailored black suit was definitely Armani and she'd teamed it with a crisp white shirt and black stilettos. The get-up shouted: business.

‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?' Sarah leaned back, loosely laced her fingers.
It had better be good.
The desk sergeant who'd alerted her to the reporter's arrival had made it sound as if she'd turned up hand-in-hand with Lord Lucan clutching the Holy Grail. Mind, it was first thing Sunday: maybe Caroline had dropped by on her way to church. Not. Either way, Sarah's more pressing priority was a face-to-face meeting with Nicola Reynolds to establish what exactly interested her in the babe-in-the-wood case.

‘You seem very … laid-back this morning, DI Quinn?' King pursed her lips as she studied Sarah's face. ‘Is there something we should know?'

Even Sarah struggled to keep a straight face. Surely to God, Dave hadn't given the game away about last night. Sarah couldn't even blame it on the drink. Unless instant coffee counted. Anyway, sod it. She was a grown woman; her conscience was clear. Ish. ‘Like what?'

‘Oh, I don't know …' Caroline flapped a casual hand. ‘I thought you might have an opening. In the case.'

Bullshit. Yes, the early brief had been a breeze compared with recent ones and Sarah now had a newly energised squad working Dave's paper trail, but King wasn't privy to that. The reporter was on the wind-up. Sarah couldn't be doing with stupid games.

‘My mistake, Caroline. I was told you had important information.' Half rising, she rolled the chair back. ‘I'll see you out.'

‘
That
would be your mistake, DI Quinn. I'd not be here wasting my time if I didn't have something big to share. It's quality intelligence, pukka.'
Another meaningful silence.
‘And it could be the breakthrough in Caitlin Reynolds' abduction.'

Sarah had an idea where she was coming from and sensed a ‘but'. ‘Go on.'

‘Quid pro quo.'

The DI stifled a sigh; the reporter had more pauses than a Pinter play. ‘Meaning?'

‘I want something from you in exchange.'

Nothing new there then.

Caroline delivered the facts concisely, convincingly. Top line: Caitlin Reynolds' grandmother had killed a child in the 1960s, the abductor wanted revenge. Before the recital, Caroline had carefully laid out two cuttings on the desk in front of the DI. Tilting her head now at the display she said, ‘The dish isn't cold. It's absolute zero.'

Continuing silence from the other side of the desk.

‘Well?' Caroline gazed at Sarah, still waiting for reaction. She'd already tried mind-reading because Sarah's face sure as hell hadn't given anything away as she heard Caroline out. Frowning, she watched as the DI rolled back the chair again. This time she headed for the window, perched on the sill. For a few seconds she stared at the reporter, then: ‘So what is it you want from me?'

Was that it?
A miffed Caroline masked her disappointment. On the proverbial plate, she'd handed over the key Reynolds-Bailey connection. OK, Caroline regarded it as a bargaining chip but by rights the detective should be waving her arms yelling Hallelujah not looking like it was yesterday's news.

‘Actually, first.' Sarah folded her arms. ‘Tell me what you intend doing with the story.'

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.' Mock horror. ‘Not until Caitlin's released and you've got whoever's holding her banged up.'

‘Quite sure about that?' She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Because if this got out—'

‘It's a no-brainer. I'm hardly likely to risk someone's life.' Caroline resented the DI's shrugged shoulder but knew when to hold back. Securing a deal outweighed scoring a point.

‘No.' Sarah's smile held no warmth. ‘I suppose you're saving it to go towards the king-sized scoop when it's all over?'

You bet.
And there'd be a book in it. Quinn was nobody's fool, though. ‘Actually that's where you come in, DI Quinn.' Caroline leaned forward, eyes shining as she told Sarah she wanted access all areas, exclusive access. She'd provided the lead, she argued; it was only fair she worked it – within reason – with the police. ‘Observing mostly, natch,' she added, ‘though with me being a skilled interviewer …'

‘You're offering your services? How kind.'

‘I'm a pro, Sarah. I know what I'm doing. I won't get in the way. Besides, I think you owe me, don't you?'

‘You're right, I do.' Nodding, she bit her lip.

Strike while the copper's hot.
‘Oh and I need the grandmother's details. Better still, maybe I could tag along when you go see her?'

‘Sure. Anything else?' She strolled back to her seat, took some papers out of a drawer. ‘Expense account? Police driver? Shrink?'

Shrink?
‘Oh very funny. Big laugh.' Caroline jabbed a finger in the DI's direction. ‘Take the piss all you like but until I walked in here your inquiry was going precisely no—'

‘Enough.' Sarah raised a palm. Her other hand held a cutting which she positioned carefully over Caroline's. ‘Snap.'

The reporter snorted. The line was hardly original. And if the snooty bitch wanted to play, Caroline preferred poker any day. Keeping her gaze on the detective, Caroline reached into her bag for her phone. ‘I'll raise you.' She brought the abductor's artwork up on screen, slid the phone across the desk. ‘I prefer playing big girls' games.'

Caroline regarded the mural as her winning card, and after Quinn's predictable hissy fit over the incident not having been reported, it partly did the trick. She knew Sarah wouldn't fold completely but she did agree to keep Caroline in the loop. Given the reporter could potentially bring communication with the perp to the table, Sarah digging her heels in would have been counter-productive. That was Caroline's take, anyway. ‘Shake on it?' she asked, smiling.

‘Don't push your luck, Caroline.'

Halfway to the door, the reporter turned back. ‘You could've stopped me sooner.'
Before I made a tit of myself.

‘I was curious to see how far you'd go.'

She'd seen nothing yet. Caroline hoisted her bag on her shoulder. ‘Nat sends his regards, by the way.'

‘Oh?' Sarah hadn't run into Caroline's lodger for months.

‘Yeah. He was in Giovanni's last night. He'd have come over to say hello, but he reckoned it looked like a private party. Dead cosy, he told me.' She fluttered her fingers. ‘Ciao.'

The sharp exit would have had more impact if King had a swipe card. She was back within seconds. ‘Can you let me out, please?'

After summoning King a police escort, Sarah grabbed her coat and keys, dashed to the squad room and brought the few officers there up to speed on the killer's bloodline.

‘Caitlin Reynolds' granny?' Paul Wood gave a low whistle. ‘Now that's what I call a turn up.' Going by the stunned silence, he'd voiced everyone's reaction. Until now, the detectives' phone bashing had been little more than speculative. Given the family connection, it had actually been bang on. They'd already amassed a list of names of people they needed to talk to. Near the top were Bolton family members. Pauline's parents were long dead but there'd been an elder sister and a younger set of twins. A retired cop was still around somewhere, too. Harries sat at a desk by the window, making a call. Doubtless the list would grow as the day wore on.

‘So we're thinking the motive's revenge?' Wood tucked a pen behind his ear. ‘Makes sense, I guess. To a sad git.'

‘Yeah, but what's the sad git after?' John Hunt tugged the ring-pull on a can of Red Bull. ‘He's had Caitlin for three days now and not a word. If it's Old Testament revenge he's after, I don't fancy her chances much.'

A rookie DC's blank look suggested religion wasn't his thing. Huntie could enlighten the guy later. Sarah wanted out of there, soon as. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘“not a word” isn't strictly true.' She mentioned Caroline King's un-commissioned wall art and the message ostensibly from Caitlin. A communal groan of incredulity followed. ‘I know, I know.' She waved it down. ‘Tell me about it.' She'd been so furious at the delay in reporting the incident, let alone loss of potential evidence, she'd threatened to slap King with an obstruction charge. She'd have thrown in a perverting the course too if the reporter hadn't agreed to go home and wait for the arrival of a forensic team.

‘At least King tipped us the wink on the family connection.' Holmes opened the bread roll in his hand, inspected the bacon content. ‘Hack doing favours is rarer than a straight coil.'

‘Greeks bearing gifts, Jed. Anyway,' Sarah said, ‘it's a link not the chain. To hear her bang on you'd think she'd cracked the case.' King had bought them a bit of time, hardly saved the day.

Hunt swivelled in a chair, brawny arms folded across his chest. ‘How come Nicola Reynolds blabbed to a reporter anyway?' The tacit corollary?
And not a word to us
.

‘Good question, Twig.' And one of the first she intended asking the bloody woman. ‘I'll get back to you.' Sarah jangled her keys as Harries ended the call.

‘Just coming, boss.' He grabbed his leather jacket, drained whatever he'd been drinking from a paper cup.

‘You pair off to Nicola Reynolds' now then, ma'am?' Hunt asked.

‘Later.'

She'd cut out the middle woman, deal with the matriarch first.

‘B
oss, about last night?'

Here we go.
Sarah tapped the wheel, had been wondering how long it would take. For twenty minutes now, Harries had prattled on about the weather (heavy cloud), the traffic (light flow), the up-coming interview (sooner you than me, boss). She'd not been fooled by the forced jocularity in his voice; it didn't marry with the studiously avoided eye contact, same as at the early brief. Dave wasn't lost for words, she reckoned, just a bit lost. That was no surprise, given Sarah wasn't entirely sure about last night's ramifications either. The promise she made to herself ten years back not to get into bed with another cop had bombed spectacularly.

‘Not at work, eh, Dave?' Thank God she hadn't said ‘not on the job'.