A Question of Despair by Maureen Carter Page A

tapered finger pointing. ‘It’s definitely the one. Personal’s underlined three times and it’s addressed to Inspector Queen.’ Hunt’s running commentary she could do without; the action was unfolding less than a foot away.
    The guy paused briefly at the main entrance, bent slightly to make the drop. The digital clock read 06.35. The guy had his back to the camera at this point. Christ, Sarah thought. A couple of minutes earlier and she might have bumped into him. Five seconds passed, ten, fifteen; all they could see was his back.
    Sarah fanned her face with a file. Baker tapped testy fingers on the desk. ‘What the fuck’s he doing?’
    â€˜Lighting a fag,’ Hunt said. ‘Don’t worry, guv, it gets better.’
    And then he turned. Taking a deep drag, he tilted his head back and blew three perfect smoke rings. The picture was so sharp, they could see the tendons tauten in his neck, then the glint from a nose piercing. The hood had dropped back to reveal wavy black hair, lots of it. He looked pretty fit; regular features, decent bone structure. Sarah estimated his age at late-twenties, early-thirties. She exchanged glances with Baker who was smiling too. Gotcha. ID-ing the guy should be a piece of cake.
    Could it get any better?
    From the back, a voice piped up, ‘Gaffer. I know him.’

FIFTEEN
    â€˜ T his is Caroline King, BBC TV News, Birmingham.’ Pink lip gloss glistening, the reporter gazed earnestly into the lens for a further five seconds or so, then: ‘Got that, sweetie?’ They were shooting in the Marriot’s underground car park, Caroline’s staged re-enactment of discovering the kidnapper’s note was already in the can. The young woman behind the camera answered with a thumbs-up and a ‘No worries’. Caroline was slightly uneasy though.
    It had taken nearly all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince several editors at TV Centre that they run footage of the kidnapper’s message prior to bringing in the police. Persuasion and precious time. What if the kidnapper had contacted other journalists? What if a rival station got the news on air first? God, no. It didn’t bear thinking about. She checked the BlackBerry for messages or missed calls, breathed a sigh of relief.
    Toe tapping, she watched ‘sweetie’ scrawl King PTC in black marker pen on a tape case. Not that her bitch was with the crew. It was the desk-jockeys who were a pain, soon as they came off the road they lost their edge, the thrill of the chase. As for the Beeb’s lawyers . . . She curled a lip. Do me a favour. Christ. Favours didn’t come much bigger than the kidnapper’s. Talk about gift horse and mouth. Of course it had to be broadcast: the public had a right to know. After all Caroline had given the cops a crack at the whip, it was Quinn who’d refused to take the call. Or bothered getting back.
    Stiletto heels clacking pitted concrete, she strode over to a despatch rider propping up the nearest pillar. With a winning smile, she handed over the tape. ‘Soon as you can, honey.’
    â€˜For you . . .’ He saluted with gauntleted hand before mounting the bike, the straining black leathers left nothing to the imagination. It brought tears to the eye. Caroline averted her gaze. She’d used only a little imagination to furbish the gaps in the story. She hadn’t actually seen the Polaroid sent to the police. It had been described well enough for her to paint a word picture though.
    The piece-to-camera had completed the sequences already shot. Editing would be done at the Mailbox: a short package for rolling news, extended pieces for the main bulletins. They might want a live two-way later. It might be Saturday, but news was 24/7, thank God. She fumbled in her bag for the car keys, then smoothed her immaculate bob. There were other fish to fry. Maybe grill was a better word, given the