Mother Love by Maureen Carter Page A

. I’m emotionally involved . DI Quinn’s detachment must be . . . useful . . . but it doesn’t give her a monopoly on being right .
    The women had history, he knew that. Not chapter and verse, but enough not to take King’s word as gospel. Thinking on though, the reporter didn’t know about the latest picture. It was Mickey Madison who’d told him the woman was looking wired. Either way, Elizabeth Kent’s mental health wasn’t something to play around with. He’d told the reporter he’d pass on the gist.
    No. I’d rather you didn’t. Let’s keep it off the record. Besides, the information about Elizabeth is confidential. Strictly entre nous, Detective Chief Superintendent. I just want to make you aware.
    Beware, more like. He’d almost seen her eyelashes flutter, but the alacrity with which she’d shouted ‘no’ had set Baker’s antennae twitching: was Mrs Kent’s malady mostly in King’s mind? And if so, why? Her drift wasn’t easy to pin down either. Was ace reporter King actually mooting a news blackout? Kidnap cases were generally off limits to the media during the duration – most journos hated being muzzled.
    Don’t misunderstand me, Mr Baker. I think the story should be out there, raising public awareness, helping to get Olivia back. And believe me I know how to cover it for maximum impact.
    I?
    I’m not pretending I don’t see the news value but DI Quinn seems to think it’s just another job for me.
    Ah.
    I assure you it’s not. There’s no one better qualified to tell the story and I certainly know how to handle Elizabeth’s condition. It goes without saying I’d be doing it because Olivia’s my dearest friend and . . . you . . . you . . . you can’t put a price on that.
    He’d been playing his mental Strad at that point. Seemed Lois Lane was angling to jettison the pack so she could land another scoop. Dishing the dirt on Quinn was little more than a sideline, collateral damage. Mind, the ice queen could be just as sodding devious.
    Sighing now, Baker balled the note, lobbed it then headed it at the bin. Close but no Hamlet. Shame the sodding Scissor Sisters couldn’t get their bloody act together as well .
    Whistling ‘A Policeman’s Lot’, he grabbed his jacket off the door, stuffed the pockets with mobile, wallet and emergency Mars bar. Partnership meetings with community leaders, especially in Sparkbrook, could drag on a bit. Quinn was more than capable of holding the Kent fort. King was on the money about her know-it-all cold front though. He’d take bets on it being exactly that: a façade. Every cop he knew had one, and most needed keeping in check now and again.
    Nah. If push came to shove, he’d back Quinn most days against media cuties and newbie DCs. But no one was omniscient and a kick up the backside kept everyone’s eye on the baseball.

    Eyes squinting in the strong light, she chased a beach ball across the golden sand, the sun – a perfect yellow disc – high in the flawless Mediterranean sky. Toddlers were building castles or splashing about in rock pools and horses galloped along the shoreline, manes and tails flying in the breeze. Laughing and breathless, Olivia took in the sights and inhaled a heady mix of smells: sun screen, warm skin, candy floss, ocean. Her long limbs were toned and tanned, her hair wet from swimming; she ran her tongue over her lips, tasted salt – and blood.
    Both were real.
    Everything else make-believe, fantasy. Anywhere where anything was more palatable than her current half life, her pitiful existence. Imagining other places, other people, helped her – momentarily – to forget the past, bear the present, not to dread the future.
    Daydreams helped ward off the hallucinations too, the involuntary delusions when her mind played tricks. She’d see objects,