Free A Question of Despair by Maureen Carter

wasn’t her style. She ran through introductions, then: ‘The sooner we start the quicker we can get on with why we’re here.’ No reminder was needed: the missing baby’s photograph provided a telling backdrop. Karen’s head and shoulders partially obscured the image, but not the sparkle in Evie’s eyes.
    â€˜Miss Lowe will have a few words to say shortly, before then I’ll outline the state of the inquiry and bring you up to date with developments.’ She registered several reporters exchange less than thrilled glances. She knew they found her phraseology formal, stilted. Knew she was the sideshow. ‘It’s nearly twenty-four hours since Evie Lowe’s abduction by a person or persons unknown.’ Slight pause for the import to sink in: a six-month-old child out there with a stranger. ‘As you know, she was taken—’
    â€˜Persons?’ A thin guy on the front row pounced on the plural. ‘The thinking is there’s more than one kidnapper?’
    â€˜The thinking is we’ll get on a lot faster if you let me finish.’ She wouldn’t and couldn’t be drawn on it. Baker hadn’t authorized the release of Flint’s dubious intelligence about the couple he claimed to have seen. The e-fit would be ready in an hour or so, the decision would be taken then.
    â€˜But two kidnappers suggests—’
    â€˜Suggests being the operative word, Mr . . . ?’
    â€˜Beck, Will Beck. Daily Mail. ’
    â€˜We’ve no proof either way, Mr Beck. But as in any inquiry we keep an open mind to any possibility. Now, if I can get on . . .’ She continued with a summary, on the off-chance the salient facts weren’t already known and in the hope they’d be reported accurately. Eyes glazed over, pens were chewed. Tough. She wasn’t here to entertain. On the other hand she didn’t want to lose them. Statistics always went down well, she threw a few out: a hundred officers on the case, more than two hundred statements taken, getting on for five hundred premises visited. ‘As to developments . . .’ She paused. The hush wasn’t breathless but interest was piqued. ‘I can confirm reports that the baby’s pushchair was found on waste ground on the Paradise estate in Small Heath this morning.’
    â€˜Who by?
    â€˜Where exactly?’
    â€˜What time?’
    â€˜How’d you know it’s the right one?’
    Sarah raised both palms. The flow ceased. ‘Certain items were found . . .’
    â€˜What items?’
    She folded her arms, waited until they got the point. ‘I’m not prepared to go into detail at this stage, but there’s no doubt it’s Evie’s. We need to know how it got there, when it was left. I’d ask anyone who was in the Blake Street area yesterday afternoon from around four onwards to contact the inquiry hotline, or call their local police. It’s possible someone witnessed something without realizing the significance. The pushchair’s now with our forensics’ people . . . it’s one of several lines of inquiry we’re following.’
    â€˜But you’re no further forward?’ A voice gloated from the back. Sarah knew who it was without looking, should’ve known Caroline King would do her bad penny act. ‘Is that a fair assessment?’
    Wondering when the reporter had slipped in, Sarah kept a straight face, neutral tone. ‘A fair assessment’s that we’re making steady progress.’
    â€˜Plod, plod.’ The tone was scathing – for those close enough to hear.
    â€˜What did you say?’ The bait was too strong to resist.
    â€˜Thank God.’ King flashed a smile that fooled nobody. ‘This great progress? Are you going to share?’
    â€˜Misquoting already, Ms King? I didn’t say great, I said steady.’
    â€˜We’re all ears, DI