Baby Love
Maureen Carter
First published in 2006
by Crème de la Crime
Crème de la Crime Ltd, PO Box 523, Chesterfield,
Derbyshire S40 9AT
Copyright © 2006 Maureen Carter
The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren
Cover design by Yvette Warren
Front cover illustration by Peter Roman
ISBN 0-9551589-0-7
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
www.cremedelacrime.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
New Year’s Day
For Peter Shannon
Acknowledgements
I am fortunate to have a wonderful editor in Douglas Hill. Douglas offers generous support, unerring advice and acute vision. I thank him enormously.
I am also hugely indebted to Lynne Patrick for her faith and focus, and to her inspirational team at Crème de la Crime.
Writing would be a lonelier place without the endless support of some pretty special people. For ‘being there’ even when miles away, my thanks, love and affection go to:
Sophie Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Suzanne Lee, Paula and Charles Morris, Frances Lally and Helen and Alan Mackay. And my ‘sister-in-crime’ Sarah Rayne.
www.maureencarter.co.uk
The plain woman in beige trailed wistfully along rail upon rail of tiny baby clothes, pausing here and there to bestow a tender touch, a gentle stroke. Imagining. Anticipating. Knowing.
This time nothing would go wrong.
More than anything in her drab life, the woman ached to nuzzle the delicate skin of a baby’s nape. She pictured it all the time, breathing in the glorious scent, tasting its uniqueness. She wanted it so badly it hurt. Surely a new-born’s neck was the most wonderful, most innocent place in the world?
Her acquisitive glance lingered on a line of tiny pastel-shaded sleep-suits, soft as lamb’s fleece, with exquisite hand-stitched teddy bears. It was a new range, or not one she’d noticed. She wandered closer, impulsively reached out a hand, reluctantly drew it back. The drawers in the nursery at home only just closed as it was. How many clothes could one baby wear?
She moved on, a flicker of a smile adding a fleeting interest to her bland features. At school, the other children had called her The Mouse. Thirty years on, she rarely attracted a second glance, often not even a first. It no longer rankled; going unnoticed had advantages.
As she headed for the soft toys, her fingers slowly circled her swollen stomach in a gesture that had become habitual and was probably unwitting. She visited the store sometimes twice a week, had done so for months. It wasn’t the nearest to where she lived; she drove fifteen miles to this much larger branch. It was worth the trip. She revelled in sharing knowing looks with other women, that conspiratorial glint that boasted approaching motherhood.
Surely, she thought, a woman wasn’t complete until she’d had a child? The days were over, thank God, when it was torture for her even to glimpse a baby. Again, she ran a gentle hand around her stomach.
This time nothing would go wrong.
By now she was on nodding terms with a few of the staff. She suspected one or two of the sales assistants looked out for her. They were probably on commission. She rarely left without a bulging bag or two. Bulkier items like the cot and the changing unit had already been delivered to the house.
The mousy woman smiled hesitantly as she passed the counter. Lorraine and Sue were on the tills. Not that she was on first-name terms; the staff wore badges on their uniforms. That was how the woman knew it had been Sue who’d made the cutting remark all those months ago.
Sue of the pointy stained teeth and flat Midland vowels had blithely assumed the purchases were for the mousy woman’s grandchildren. At the time it was completely crushing, but that was in the summer when her bump had barely begun to show. Five months on, she was able to laugh it off. Just.
Now the time was so close.
Today the woman bought a huge golden teddy bear and half a dozen white vests to add to the collection at home. As she paid in cash, she recalled the positive outcome of Sue’s thoughtless faux pas.
Though she had left the store shaking with pent-up rage and humiliation, at home she’d taken a long appraising gaze in the mirror. It was true. She was old before her time. After Richard’s death she’d lost the will to live, let alone bother with the way she looked. It showed in the face of the dowdy stranger staring back.
Only the thought of the baby had pulled her from the brink. It was unspeakably sad that Richard wouldn’t be around to see the little one grow up. But she could do it. She had to do it. She had to look to the future, not the past.
She’d bought new clothes, even coloured her hair, but the transformation wasn’t cosmetic; she’d always look mousy. The real changes weren’t visible. She was no longer cowed at the prospect of bringing up a baby alone; she looked forward to it with energy and excitement. She’d make Richard proud of her, proud of them both.
Today’s trip had exhausted her. On reaching home, she breathed a sigh of relief and happily, avidly, closed the door on the world. She really ought to rest a while, put her feet up and relax. Later, she whispered, as she slipped off her shoes and carried the bags upstairs to the nursery.
The room never failed to lift her mood. Everything was pristine, everything perfect. It was entirely white: walls, carpet, curtains, each lovingly chosen item of furniture. The only splash of colour was a vibrant rainbow mobile suspended over the cot. As always, she gave it a gentle tap. Tiny sequins stitched into the fabric reflected the light like myriad raindrops. She watched in delight until the swaying was barely perceptible.
As she bent, to pack away the vests and place the bear on the floor by the window, she felt a twinge at the base of her spine. It was the extra weight. There was no cause for alarm. She gently massaged the area before applying the same gentle treatment to her stomach. She smiled; it was so nearly her time.
With difficulty, she reached both hands round her back. The straps were quite tricky to unfasten, even
though she’d created the harness herself and had carried out the procedure on countless occasions. She was rather pleased with the design. She’d ensured it could expand to accommodate increasingly large amounts of padding. This she now removed, placing it gently under the white satin quilt.
Her head brushed against the mobile, sending it into a gentle spin. She gazed at it, mesmerised again by the twinkling raindrops.
This time nothing could go wrong.
1
The rape suite at Highgate police headquarters had six hundred and seventy-six off-white tiles.
Probably.
The number was different every time Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss counted and she’d lost track of how often she’d started. She curled a lip. Tarting up the grim surroundings with primary prints and pot plants didn’t change the ambience. Pain and shame lingered here, almost tangibly.
Bev slouched back in a not-so-easy chair and blew out her cheeks in a sigh. She was acutely aware that counting tiles wasn’t the most productive use of her time but she couldn’t talk to the victim, Laura Kenyon, until the police doctor cleared it. He’d been in the examination room with the teenager for two hours. Bev glanced at her watch. It was 9.05 already. Make that two hours twenty.
She picked at a few strands of fraying fabric on the arm of the chair. If the day had panned out according to the best-laid et cetera, she’d be down the Bullring flashing plastic with her best mate, Frankie. A burger at the Hard Rock Café and Johnny Depp at the UGC had been on the cards for later. Mental note: call Frankie. The girl was going to kill her. Again. Working on a Saturday was a concept Frankie had yet to grasp.
Missing out on a day off Bev could live with, but she deeply regretted eschewing a bowl of bran or a bacon roll during her hasty departure from a house she still couldn’t quite think of as home. Her stomach was making gurgling sounds reminiscent of faulty plumbing or a dodgy balti. She rummaged through the pockets of her denim jacket for chocolate or chewing gum. Nada.
Earlier, en route from the incident room, she’d grabbed the Operation Street Watch files. A bit of light reading while she waited for the action. She skimmed the reports again. It was ninety-nine per cent certain that Laura’s rape was the latest in an on-going inquiry that had touched just about every officer on the force. Bev knew the top lines by heart. Not surprising: she’d written most of them. She’d been assigned the lead interview role from day one.
Her mouth twitched as she recalled how well that had gone down with Mike Powell. DI Powell reckoned empathy was his middle name. Fact was, he had the sensitivity of a morbidly obese rhino in a suit of armour. Her relatively high profile on the team was the governor’s call. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford rated her interview technique. He claimed she could get Trappists to talk among themselves.
She suspected, too, it was a message to the troops that he still had faith in her. She’d cocked up big time earlier in the year, been all ready to jack in the job. The guv had persuaded her to stay, but she was under no illusion: there were still acres of ground to landscape, not just make up. Either way, Byford wanted consistency. It was why she was here now.
And given the inquiry’s complete lack of progress so far, consistency was about the only thing they did have. Unless Laura Kenyon could give them a break.
Laura was the third city teenager to be raped in as many months. In each case they’d been dragged off the streets in the early hours, then dumped like trash. Bev had only caught a glimpse of the latest victim but it was enough to confirm that Laura fitted the profile. Like the others, she was pretty with long blonde hair, blue eyes and flawless skin. All three were slender and below average height, slight young women barely capable of landing a punch, let alone winning a fight.
There was another factor that couldn’t be ignored. From the back Laura Kenyon, Rebecca Fox and Kate Quinn could be mistaken for much younger children. Bev shook her head, but the disquieting thought was still there. As was another: there was little doubt the attacks were down to the same offender.
With hindsight, the signs had been evident back in September. Then, a month later, another attack with an almost identical MO. SOCOs were still at the scene of Laura’s rape, but Bev was sure they’d find the same sick signature. The first two victims had each been missing an earring. It could be coincidence; Bev thought not. Serial sickos often took trophies, pathetic reminders of what big brave men they were.
She shook her head, conceded there was a sliver of doubt on the jewellery angle. But there was none on what he did to his victims’ pubic hair.
The weird stuff had not been released to the media. The reporters didn’t know the half of it. Not that it had stopped the speculation. They were already going big on what they’d dubbed the Beast of Birmingham. They’d hooked up with a couple of women’s groups and a Tory honourable member to get daily comments that were invariably swipes at the police. It was all a bit rent-a-quote and it wouldn’t satisfy the media lust for salacious detail. Bev pursed her lips. Sooner or later there’d be a leak. Sure as eggs are eggs.
“I’m Martha Kemp. Are you with the police?”
A leak on legs? Bev wiped the thought off her face. There could be a reasonable explanation why Martha The Mouth Kemp had been granted access to the rape suite. Bev just couldn’t come up with one right now. She rose and tried to make eye contact, but Kemp’s gaze was sweeping the room, looking for someone more important.
Bev was still trying to get her head round the fact she was face to face with The Mouth. She’d never seen Kemp in the flesh but the woman presented a talk show on Birmingham Sound, the city’s commercial radio station. Provocative and outrageous, Kemp focused on big news issues, encouraging listeners to call in, then baiting them mercilessly when their views didn’t coincide with hers. Shock jock wasn’t in it. The Mouth was vicious, offensive and utterly compulsive. She got away with murder, mainly thanks to the sexiest voice this side of Mariella Frostrup. Talk about vocal Viagra. Bev only sounded that hot when she had a sore throat. Actually, Bev never sounded that hot; hoarse, maybe.
She offered a hand. “Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant...”
Kemp lifted a finger and scrabbled in her bag, eventually taking out a sleek black mobile. Presumably it had been on vibrate and clearly it was a message, not particularly welcome going by Kemp’s furrowed brow.
Bev tried not to stare but it was a shock to find that her mental picture of the woman had been so not right. For years, she’d imagined early Anna Ford. This was late Betty Ford. The severe salt-and-pepper crop was like a skullcap. The skin tone was the shade and texture of old newspapers, probably due less to the lighting than the lighting up. Bev suspected a forty-a-day habit. The long brown woollen coat had no style and little shape.
Kemp returned the phone and Bev tried again. “Bev Morriss, Detective...”
Though standing nearer now, the gap widened as an unsmiling Kemp flapped a dismissive hand before wrapping hostile arms round a spreading waist. “Not now. I need to talk to Laura.”
The urge to mirror Kemp’s body language was strong. Bev settled for clenching her fists. “Are you a doctor as well, Mrs Kemp?”
A tendon stiffened in Kemp’s neck. “Ms Kemp.”
“And the answer to my question is?” Bev’s trainer was tapping the floor tiles.
Kemp made eye contact for the first time. The whites were bloodshot, the irises light blue, almost grey. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude problem?”
Once or twice. It was a sore point. “You still haven’t answered the question. Not that I give a toss. ’Cause unless you’re doing a spot of medical moonlighting with a rape kit, you can get off my case.”
Kemp’s smooth delivery carried an edge of menace. “Who’s your superior officer?”
Red flag. Raging bull. Shame it hid the warning light. Bev snorted. “Don’t pull that one on me, love. As soon as Laura Kenyon’s fit enough to talk, there’s only one person going in there. And that’s me.” Bev jabbed a finger
in the direction of Kemp’s breastbone and took a step closer. “You shouldn’t even be in here. Who the hell was stupid enough to let you in?”
“I guess that’d be me.”
Bev didn’t need to turn. The governor’s voice, in its own way, was as distinctive as Martha Kemp’s.
2
There was no premonition, no inkling of any kind. Natalie Beck’s morning was starting like a bunch of others during the bumpy course of her sixteen-year life: bleary-eyed and bad-tempered. Her slow reluctant surfacing wasn’t prompted by the garish Mickey Mouse alarm clock. She’d forgotten to set it again. Erratic bursts of heavy rain needling the window eventually roused her as cartoon hands pointed to a tardy ten past nine.
The not-so-early riser grabbed the clock and squinted at the dial in disbelief. The sour expression on her sleep-softened features suggested the rodent was deliberately giving her a hard time. She slammed the clock on to a flimsy orange box pressed into service as a bedside table. The off-key ping echoed in the stillness of the house.
Natalie chewed a pierced lip and frowned. The place was like a morgue during a lockout. No blaring radio. No telly. No crocks clattering. She lay motionless, held her breath, listened again. Still silence. And in a mid-terrace with tissue-thin walls, that was saying something. Especially now with the baby.
Her maternal instincts were still in the embryonic stage, but even Natalie knew it was unusual for a newborn to sleep so long. To date, little Zoë Beck had managed no more than a four-hour stretch in a three-week existence. Natalie sighed, gave the faded England duvet a truculent kick, then paused, grabbed by a cooler idea. Her mum, Maxine, must be doing her doting granny bit. On past performance, bit was the operative word. Still, gift-horse and mouth and all that.
Natalie retrieved the cover and snuggled back into its warmth. A lie-in was rare these days; a girl might as well make the most of it. And, boy, did she need one. It had been a late night, a first since the baby. Natalie had been down Broad Street with a few mates on the pop and on the pull – just like the old days. Old days? Christ, she sounded like her ma. Whatever. At sweet sixteen, Natalie was plenty old enough to hit on Mr High and Mighty Gould. She still couldn’t believe she’d made out with a teacher. Gouldie had barely given her the time of day when she was at school.
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