Free Mother Love by Maureen Carter

drinking buddy, Colin Stone, it might mean not having to cut into a rapidly shrinking police budget. For a while at least. Baker threw a parting shot over his shoulder. ‘Hey, and Quinn, take that lemon out of your mouth.’
    Difficult. She’d caught sight of Olivia’s image again. The thin wire looked to be cutting into her neck. As for the eyes, haunted was the word. Haunted – and haunting. And she knew they’d follow her until the end of the case. Maybe longer, depending on the outcome.
    And even if an innocent explanation emerged for the blood at the house, whoever had strung her up like this was guilty as sin.

TWELVE
    â€˜ T hey don’t know it’s Olivia’s blood. They have to do tests.’ Caroline’s voice oozed warmth and concern. ‘But you’re her mum, I—’
    â€˜You felt I should be told. Yes, of course.’ Elizabeth Kent’s fleeting smile held genuine affection but her eyes were troubled. The women were sitting in the Kent kitchen drinking tea and in Caroline’s case dispensing sympathy.
    â€˜If there’s anything I can do, Mrs Kent.’ Gentle squeeze of the woman’s arm. ‘Anything.’
    Elizabeth nodded, stared into the middle distance, fingers tracing circular score marks on the surface of the beech table. Thinking it through, she felt strangely calm: intelligent enough to realize she could be in denial about what the bloodstains might signify, but so supremely confident of the bond with Olivia, utterly convinced she’d know if her daughter had come to harm. Either way, at least now the police would have to take the disappearance seriously. And this was certainly no time to go to pieces. Maybe her silence was unnerving. In the corner of her eye she glimpsed Caroline fidgeting, playing with her hair. Signs, Elizabeth recognized, of old. There was a saying about the devil and idle hands. ‘I wouldn’t say no to another cup, dear.’
    â€˜Of course.’ Caroline jumped up, effortlessly went through the motions.
    Elizabeth was picturing the tall blonde detective who’d visited her. ‘I’m a little surprised the woman in charge – Quinn, I think her name is – hasn’t told me personally. She was adamant about keeping me informed.’
    â€˜Sarah Quinn.’ The reporter sniffed. ‘Clouseau meets Officer Dibble.’
    â€˜Really not funny, Caroline. Do you know her?’
    â€˜We go way back. Talk about cold fish. Even colleagues call her the ice queen. I first came across her when she was a wooden top. Do you mind if I smoke?’
    â€˜Yes. You know I do.’ Reaching in a pocket, she took out Sarah’s business card, laid it on the table. ‘So, you don’t like her? Or you think she’s incompetent?’ Critical difference.
    Caroline shrugged a casual shoulder. ‘Not my call, is it?’
    â€˜Mincing words, dear? That’s not like you.’ If the reporter’s grouse was personal, Elizabeth didn’t care. Given her high-profile media career, Caroline had probably made more enemies than friends over the years. All that mattered to Elizabeth was that the detective looking into Olivia’s disappearance knew what she was doing.
    â€˜OK. Telling it like it is: I don’t think Sarah Quinn’s up to the job.’ No eye contact. Caroline was pouring tea, as well as scorn.
    Elizabeth regarded her carefully. She’d known her as a little girl with scabby knees, knew her endless capacity for manipulating people, knew from countless anecdotes how she used the dubious talent in her profession – was she employing it now? And if so, why?
    â€˜That’s quite an indictment, Caroline. How do you know her?’
    â€˜Like I say, I’ve come across her before. It looks good to have a woman in a senior post but it’s lip service. I’ve seen her in action. She can’t handle the pressure of a big case.’ Cup