Child's Play (28 page)

‘Why did you feel sorry for Susan?' Caroline had other ideas. The question prompted a puzzled frown from Crawford. Sarah's was more pissed off than nonplussed. ‘You were saying when I came in?' Caroline helped out.

He opened his mouth twice before words emerged. ‘Do you know the expression spare the rod, spoil the child?' She nodded. ‘Well, the Baileys never spared it. Or the belt, or the fist. Great role models, eh? With parents like that, it's no surprise she lashed out at someone smaller.'

‘That's not how she remembers it,' Caroline said. ‘And besides—'

‘Thanks for your time.' Sarah handed him a card.

‘I'll see you out, inspector.' As they walked down the hall he asked about the fire, whether Walker had died.

‘The place was a death trap, Mr Crawford.' She might as well get used to bending the truth: once the news release was issued there'd be no turning back.

‘What part of “button it” don't you understand, Caroline?'

Caroline shrugged as she slipped into the back seat. ‘Condescending git.'

Sarah's hand stilled on the way to the ignition. ‘What did you say?'

‘Crawford, not you.'

‘For what it's worth,' Harries said. ‘I thought he was full of shit too.'

‘That's another thing.' Sarah glanced in the mirror. ‘What took you so long?'

King held up her phone. ‘I took a call.'

‘All that “right from the word go” stuff.' Harries hadn't finished. ‘I thought he was a builder not a bloody trick cyclist.'

‘Aren't you going to ask who from?' King again, another flash of the phone. Her straight face and pointed delivery were answer enough. ‘He wants an end to it. He's set a deadline – twelve hours.'

S
hort and not sweet. The abductor's call had been so brief King hadn't had time even to think about recording his voice. Half an hour later, Nicola Reynolds received the same warning in a text. Both were enough for Sarah to green light the release. Success wasn't guaranteed but what else had they got? The lie surfaced first on the police Twitter account.
Small Heath fire death, woman named as Linda Walker, 64.
Facebook's slightly longer version was posted a minute later. Local radio was broadcasting the fairy story on the hour and half-hour. First paper to carry it was the
Birmingham News.
Sarah held the lunch edition in her hands.

Short and not sweet times two. In fact it sucked. Shaking her head, the DI tossed the paper in the bin next to Harries' desk. It had been a tough call. Sarah Quinn had never deliberately crossed the line ferrying a bent rule book. Releasing false information went against everything she believed in. Having made the decision, she'd kept very few people in the loop: hospital authorities, a handful of squad members, news chiefs. She'd discussed ethics with only one detective.

‘Come on, boss. Baker would've done it without a second thought.' Though the squad room was fairly quiet, Harries kept his voice down. He'd intuited her thinking or read her face because Dave wasn't the officer she'd discussed it with. And he was dead right about the chief. Sarah heard his voice again:
What you waiting for, Quinn? It's a no-brainer
. She'd put in a quick call to see how he was doing as much as anything. She'd already known what his take would be. Had she also expected his typically brash offer?
If it goes tits-up, I'll carry the can. It's not like I'm going to miss out on my pension is it, lass?

And if she let him, wouldn't that push her so far over the line there'd be no way back?

‘Boss. I said—'

‘I heard what you said, Dave. Just get on with it, eh?' He was still trying to track down Jack Bolton. Grace's son hadn't just slipped the net. After absconding from the care home, he appeared to have gone off the radar. Not even the twins – his aunts – had been able to shed any light. Sarah wandered over to the water cooler, nodded at Hunt who was talking on the phone. He and Twig were on standby taking calls. Beth Lally and Holmes were still at the Reynolds' place. Nicola had named Neil Lomas as her muck-spreading go-between on the estate. She'd been warned the release wouldn't be issued if she didn't give up a name. The abductor's deadline had proved a more powerful spur than Sarah's threats. Lomas would soon be helping with inquiries. The hero driver who'd raised the alarm was proving elusive too. She hoped he'd respond to the witness appeal – that was genuine if nothing else.

Sighing, she crushed the paper cup in her hand, jettisoned it in another bin. She wondered too about King's current whereabouts. Last seen, the reporter had been getting into her car at the hospital. Didn't mean she'd driven away though. Sarah knew King wanted the interview with Linda Walker more than she'd ever wanted anything in her career. Knew too there wasn't much to which King wouldn't stoop. Sarah gave a crooked smile. The reporter used to keep a white coat and stethoscope in the BMW, just in case. It wouldn't work this time; the medics had been tipped off.

Restless, she strolled over to the window. With most of the squad out working the estate, she reckoned all the inquiry irons were in the fire. Whoops. What an analogy. Either way, right now it was a waiting game. The wall clock read 13:00. Given the deadline expired in around nine hours, they didn't have long to play. Pressing her forehead against the glass, she murmured, ‘Make a move, you bastard.'

‘Come on, boss.' Dave must have heard. ‘You said it yourself; he's only got to see it once.'

‘Victim?' Monkey man thrust a newspaper in Caitlin's face. She felt his spittle land on her cheek. ‘Victim? That is so fucking rich.'

She grabbed the local rag out of his hands, scanned the front page with narrowed eyes. She hadn't a clue what his problem was but boy was he in a strop. ‘I can't—'

His jabbing finger pointed out the item, an affected newsreader voice provided backup. ‘The victim's been named as Linda Walker. Bitch is no more vic—'

Gran's dead?
Caitlin frowned as she read the few short lines. Arson attack? Extensive burns? Poor bloody woman. What a god-awful way to die. Tears welled but she couldn't risk him seeing her distress. Letting the paper drop to the floor, she walked away. ‘Where's the champagne then?'

‘Victim.' He snorted. ‘Fucking killer is what she is.'

‘Was.' She made heavy weather of a yawn. ‘So when are we celebrating?'

‘
We?
'

‘You've got your revenge.' She lay on the mattress, legs slightly splayed. ‘I get to go.'

‘Yeah, course you do, babe.'

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow. Let the heat die down a bit, eh?'

He'd never let her go, she knew that. Like him, she had nothing left to lose. ‘Why don't we make a night of it then? Champagne, DVD, Indian.' She licked her lips. ‘The Raj is just over the road, isn't it?'

He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘Worked it out, have you?'

Guesswork mainly but she nodded. ‘Sure have.'

‘When you were going on about loving films and all that crap, did you know then?'

‘Had a damn good idea.' He'd just inadvertently confirmed it. ‘This is the old Picture Palace, isn't it?' The disused cinema on the main drag through Kings Heath, place was falling to rack and ruin, dusty greenery sprouting from crumbling brickwork. The bulldozers should've been sent in years ago. Apart from tell-tale smells and voices, she'd remembered the taxi rank right next door, recognized call signs, engine noises. ‘Are we in a store room then? Admin office or something?'

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Who's a clever girl?' Then clocked what her fingers were doing inside her thigh.

‘Do I get a prize?'

He blew her a kiss. ‘That's on account for when I get back.'

She watched him leave, ditched the forced smile. He could come back when the hell he liked as long as the night was one she'd live to remember. Then it hit home. Her gran, the fire. Caitlin buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

S
he'd only seen the outside, but Sarah doubted Linda Walker would ever live in the place again. Fixing blackened brickwork and blistering paint was one thing, but the images inside a head were difficult to shift. That Walker would pull through now looked more likely. The smoke inhalation turned out not as severe as first thought; she'd been taken off the ventilator; burns had never been an issue. Only Sarah's pants had been on fire. Like Mark Twain, reports of Walker's death had been greatly exaggerated. Especially the ones in the press.

‘You here for the guided tour?' Ben Cooper headed her way jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I've just been admiring the artwork round back.'

‘Picasso?' She arched an eyebrow. ‘Good to see you, Ben.'

‘More like Pollock.' He returned her smile. ‘Or would've been if the handiwork hadn't been interrupted. Follow me.'

Chatting, they fell in step towards the poor man's Tate. Sarah got on well with Cooper. The FSI boss was good at the job and easy on the eye. They'd tried giving a relationship a whirl, but it hadn't worked out. Professionally though she had lots of time for him, knew the feeling was mutual.

‘Wish I'd placed a bet now.' Sarah nodded at a foot-high jagged red mark to the side of the boarded-up window. ‘In my book, that was definitely going to be a K.'

‘I won't argue with you.' Ben tapped the plywood. ‘Bedroom's through there by the way.'

She shuddered. An unwanted image in her mind. ‘Anything?'

‘Half a house brick. Shards of glass. Nothing to write home about. The aerosol cans were clean, by the way.'

No prints. No DNA. No surprise there. He told her they'd tagged and bagged a load of stuff lying round outside, drinks cans, butt ends, bottles, matches, bits of wood. ‘But you can see for yourself. There's no fence and it's all a bit of a dumping ground.'

‘I won't hold my breath then.' She pulled her coat tighter as they headed back.

‘Do you want to take a look inside, Sarah? We're just about done now.'

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, no.' No need. She'd dropped by the estate to show her face to the troops, boost morale, pick up any whispers, decided to have a nose at the bungalow's external damage while she was here. Pointing to the land at the side of the property she asked about the tyre marks on the grass.

‘The guy who raised the alarm? I think he must fancy himself as the next Jensen Button.'

She frowned. ‘Have you spoken to him?' It was more than she had.

‘No.' He grabbed a bottle of water from the Transit's passenger seat. ‘The house over the road there? I got a blow-by-blow account from the owner.'

Mr Insomnia? ‘Thanks, Ben.' She tapped her temple. ‘Later.'

Ray Castle could rabbit for Europe. By the time he'd talked her through it, Sarah felt she'd been there. For once, a person's verbal diarrhoea didn't bother her. Nor the fact the earlier door-to-door sweep had missed Walker's elderly neighbour. He'd been out back, he said, wouldn't have heard the knock. A touch deaf he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. In more ways than one he'd had the vision to scribble down the number plate. While Castle banged on, Sarah had called it in to Dave who'd run it through the PNC.

For Jensen Button read Jake Portman. The name had rung an immediate bell. And a faint alarm. There could be an innocent explanation but what the hell was the caretaker at Caitlin Reynolds' school doing driving past Linda Walker's house at two o'clock in the morning?

The late brief – 18:00. A team of DCs and half a dozen uniforms were still on the estate, knocking on doors, stopping drivers, canvassing people in the street. Two youths had been brought in for questioning on the strength of Caroline King's descriptions. Dozens more statements had been taken. Sarah had read every word and still had no answers. The Portman question had been going round in her head for hours; she'd just put it to the squad; it was their turn now.

‘He didn't just drive past, boss,' Harries said. ‘If the neighbour got the right end of the stick, Portman went out of his way to foil the attack.'

‘Drove straight at the buggers, didn't he?' Hunt propped up his patch of wall, pen tucked behind an ear. Twig for once sat at a computer.

Sarah nodded. She stood at the front, hand in jacket pocket. ‘So why didn't Action Man stop? Or at least supply a name and address?'

Twig turned his mouth down. ‘Could've been pissed. You'd need bottle to do what he did.'

‘Skin full, presumably,' Hunt said deadpan.

Twig rolled his eyes. ‘You know what I mean. It could explain why he didn't hang around. If he'd had a drop, he'd not want the law on his neck.'

‘Christ, Twig, have you been to the pun shop?' Hunt again.

‘Enough,' Sarah said. ‘Besides, he'd be sober as the proverbial by now.' So where was he? Portman hadn't turned up for work. He wasn't answering calls. There had been no sign of life at his Balsall Heath flat. Sarah had pushed a note and numbers through his door.

‘The background seemed to stack up, boss.' Dave ran a pen down his notes. ‘Father dead. Small inheritance. Started at the school in January.'

‘Could be coincidence, ma'am,' Hunt said.

‘Could be complete fabrication,' she countered. The abductor would have had years to work on a story; a meticulous almost foolproof plan.