Free A Question of Despair by Maureen Carter Page A

Quinn.’
    Alongside Sarah, Karen was anything but steady. She saw the girl’s hands shake, heard her short breaths, feared she’d hyperventilate if they didn’t get the ordeal over soon.
    â€˜Well?’ King persisted.
    How could the bloody woman be so insensitive? More to the point, why? It wasn’t doing her any favours, unless there was an unwritten agenda. ‘I’ve no intention of taking questions now.’
    â€˜A word in private later?’
    The reporter was pushing it. As for private: ‘I’d have thought privacy was an alien concept to you, Ms King.’ Sarah frowned. What was that noise? ‘Either way, it isn’t going to happen. Miss Lowe will now read a short statement then we can get on with our jobs.’
    â€˜No interviews?’ A couple of reporters moaned.
    â€˜You heard.’
    Karen’s knees were trembling, knocking the table, rippling the water in the glasses. Jess leaned across, put an arm round the girl’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine, Karen,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry.’
    â€˜I can’t do it. I feel sick. I’m going to throw up.’
    â€˜No, you’re not, Karen.’ Sarah’s turn for soothing words. ‘Remember, you’re doing this for, Evie.’
    Karen picked up the script but the tremor in her hands was too great. She dropped it back on the table, dragged it close, then voice devoid of emotion began reciting the words written by Sarah.
    â€˜I’m Evie’s mum. I’m appealing to the person who’s taken Evie to look after her. Please don’t hurt Evie. I want my baby home where she belongs.’ The frequent name check was deliberate. ‘Please contact the police, tell them where Evie is, or think of a place where she could be safely left and the police could pick her up and bring her back to me, her mum. If anyone knows anything please, please tell the police.’ She stifled a sob, shoulders heaved, teardrops formed damp spots on the paper. Through the window, noises off: the slam of a car door, tuneless whistling, ordinary life.
    At least she’d got through it. Sarah started gathering files. But Karen hadn’t finished. ‘Evie and me’ve never been apart before . . . I miss her like mad. She’s my precious little baby. I’m crazy about her . . . love her more than anything in the world.’ The words were unscripted, heartfelt, heartbreaking. For the first time since entering the room, Karen lifted her head. ‘Please, please help me get Evie back.’ The emotion absent from the voice was etched on her ravaged features as the cameras went in for the kill.

ELEVEN
    C aroline King studied her pointed scarlet nails as she waited for her prey. Leaning casually against an outside wall at Lloyd House, she was banking on Karen Lowe leaving by the back entrance and being led to the same car that had whisked her in. The assumption was reasonable; the reporter had been in place an hour ago and witnessed the arrival, filed it away. Timing is all. Actually, she mused, timing plus groundwork plus contacts were the real deal, the full package.
    She now knew the girl’s frump of a gatekeeper was a FLO called Jess Parry. She’d come across the dishy driver David Harries before. Not that it was something they broadcast. She also knew after watching Karen Lowe perform that the young mother was the only angle worth pursuing. But it had to be up close and personal. Caroline wanted more than Quinn’s meagre offerings, more than the run-of-the-mill pack’s pickings. Idling here in the car park, she’d observed the competition leave, journalists racing off or drifting away depending on their deadlines. Each to their own.
    Sighing, she checked the time, answered a couple of messages on the BlackBerry. How long was this going to take? The temperature was rising and she had a bunch of other stuff to get through.