Baby Love

by Maureen Carter

  Blake Way? Why’s it ringing a bell?

  A bunch of hoodies, on the other hand: you’d be spoilt for choice. There was one lot now, hanging round the chip shop. The little shits gave her the finger as she cruised past: synchronised obscenity. Class. She’d nicked one of the bastards for dealing a few months back. Not a hand of poker.

  She tapped her fingers on the wheel. The asbo kids and druggies round here were responsible for a significant portion of south Birmingham’s crime figures. Cops nationally took sixty-six thousand complaint calls every day, three every four seconds. Bev reckoned most of them hailed from the Wordsworth. Low-level stuff, mostly: muggings, intimidation, verbal abuse, music blaring all hours.

  But it didn’t always stop there. Shootings were on the increase and kids carried blades like old women carried handbags. It was a miracle there weren’t more killings. Bad news for the handful of decent law-abiding families who still lived on the estate, clinging like hairs round a scummy sink. God knows what their quality of life was like. Stuff anti-social orders; give the sleaze-balls a good kicking.

  The car was steamed up as well. Bev opened the window a touch, letting in faint traces of cabbage and curry. She opened it a tad wider and caught a whiff of dog shit.

  Why does it always rain on me?

  Closure came quickly along with a generous squirt of Opium, a present from Oz in the days he still bought her things. Blake Way? Of course. Maxine Beck. The guv wouldn’t do that to her, would he? She’d find out soon enough; it was next left, opposite a patch of wasteland laughingly known as The Green. Yeah, right. How green is my valley of rotting bin bags and rusting bike frames?

  Bev’s wry smile vanished as she spotted a police car straddling the kerb a few doors up and Les King having a crafty smoke huddled on the doorstep of number thirteen. Thank you so much, guv.

  Someone should tell that Travis. If it’s only raining, why’s he whinging?

  Maxine Beck had been one of Bev’s first collars. Over the years, she’d taken the silly cow in more times than laundry. Shoplifting, soliciting, scamming the social, you name the pie and Maxine’s digit was in it up to the knuckle. More often than not some bloke would have pushed it in on her behalf. Maxine was a looker, not a thinker: sexy, sensual and borderline stupid, apart from the odd flash of acuity. Women’s lib had never hit her pretty radar. She needed a man like a fish needs fins. Generally she landed sharks.

  Maxine had been cautioned, fined and given a suspended sentence or four but never served a custodial. Until she took off on a two-week jaunt to the sun with her then lover-boy piranha, leaving her daughter, Natalie, to sink or swim. The kid was ten years old at the time. Maxine swore she’d made childcare arrangements but either they fell through or were a figment of her lack of imagination. Whatever. The kid was lucky to pull through after going down with what turned into double pneumonia. Natalie Beck went straight from home alone to intensive care. Bev made damn sure Maxine went down: the sentence was six months in Holloway.

  WPC Morriss – as Bev then was – received a good deal of correspondence from Prisoner Beck during the four months Maxine had kept Her Majesty happy. None of it was fan mail, most of it was threatening. Indeed, if Bev’s memory served her right, Maxine’s last written words had included the phrases: see you, my dead body, over. That had been getting on for five years back and since then, as far as the police were concerned, Maxine had kept her fingers to herself. Even so, Bev did not anticipate a warm reception at the Beck residence.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” Les King’s thick Brummie drawl dribbled contempt. And that was before Bev was over the threshold. Not that she could get over. King’s lard-arse was still spread across the step.

  “Congratulations, Les.” Bev’s tight smile was dangerous. Taking lip from a lazy incompetent git she could do without. The git looked like she’d told him to split the atom. “The sergeant’s exam?” she asked pleasantly. As if she gave a fuck. “When did you pass?”

  “Never took it. Couldn’t be arsed.” The smug leer revealed a black hole with stumps.

  “That’s ‘Couldn’t be arsed, sergeant,’ is it?”

  He shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, love.”

  She took a step nearer, recoiled at the baccy breath and hint of body odour. “Tell you what’ll make me feel better – you getting off your butt and running the facts past me. You know? Like a professional?” The lip-curl was deliberate. “Drop that fag, man, sort yourself out.”

  She rarely pulled rank, but she was sick of Highgate tossers like Les King: time-wasting clock-watchers, drifting to early retirement, treating women as bikes or dykes. Or both. Women bosses especially. The old slacker wouldn’t be here at all if they weren’t so stretched these days. It wasn’t just Street Watch. They were on constant terror alert. And it was the soccer season. Saturdays were bad enough anyway and a derby at the Blues’ ground made it even worse.

  Rising with a couple of exaggerated winces, King stubbed the cigarette under a size ten boot, then made great play of extracting a dog-eared pocket book from his tunic.

  Bev’s trainer was tapping Morse. She de-coded anyway. “Just talk.” Tosser.

  He ignored the remark, continued to riffle the pages with a fat hairy finger.

  “For fuck’s sake, out of my way!”

  Bev couldn’t have put it better herself. But the words had been spat by a blowsy, busty blonde who sent Les flying as she stormed out of the house. Bev recognised the retreating figure instantly, reckoned the years had not been kind. The woman was in four-inch heels but Bev had to lengthen her stride to keep up. “Where you off to, Mrs Beck?”

  “Where d’you think? I’m looking for Zoë.”

  Bev put a hand on the woman’s sleeve. “Let’s get some details first.”

  “That fat sod’s got the details...” Maxine suddenly stiffened, stopping mid-pavement. Bev watched as raindrops dripped from the bleached bird’s nest and trickled down wan cheeks. The face was easy to read. Maxine was scanning her memory bank and clicking on Bev when she’d been in uniform. The penny dropped. Bev caught its flash in the coffee-coloured eyes. “You’re the cop what got me sent down.”

  Bev braced herself for a good slapping. The woman was already as wired as a junction box.

  “I’m putting in a complaint,” Maxine snapped.

  As quick as that? Bev tried not to show her feelings. Signally failed.

  “Not you.” More snapping from Maxine. “That bastard.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. King was lighting up again. “Been here nigh on an hour. Done nothing but drink tea and make stupid cracks.” Maxine sniffed, wiped her nose with a sleeve. “I can’t stand the sodding sight of you. But at least you’ll get the job done.”

  Bev tucked her hand under Maxine’s leopard-print elbow and gently led her back to the house. She’d made a mistake. It wasn’t rain running down Maxine’s face. It was tears.

  5

  “It’s just routine, Mrs Beck. We have to make sure.”

  Two uniforms were upstairs searching every inch of number thirteen. Maxine Beck was unaware the men had been instructed to remove bath panels, lift floorboards and check for false partitions. Bev seriously doubted they’d find a body; but grief didn’t necessarily preclude guilt, and children – including three-week-old babies – are more likely to die at the hands of a supposedly loving parent than a paedophile.

  That there was grief in the house was not in doubt. It had moved in, taken over, dripped off the walls.

  “Whatever needs doing. Whatever it takes. We just want her back.” Maxine Beck looked like a stuffed doll that had been in a fight. And lost. She was cradling her daughter in her arms. Bev hadn’t recognised Natalie at first. Not surprising. The girl had been at death’s door last time she’d seen her. She looked only marginally better now, though that was caused by emotion, not lung infection.

  Within minutes of entering the place, Bev had assessed the girl’s story and initiated a full-scale hunt while Highga
te rang every news desk in the Midlands. If ever the media were called for, it was when a child went missing. In the meantime, every available officer and dog handler was either on or en route to the Wordsworth estate.

  And Les King was already on gardening leave. Bev had heard on the Highgate grapevine that the guv had come close to decking the lazy slob. There’d be an inquest later as to why King had dragged his feet. But if Byford had any say, the suspension would be permanent. Les King had lost them precious time. How much more had been wasted was unclear. What Bev knew, or had been told, was that Baby Zoë had been asleep in her cot at 3am. By 9.10am the baby had vanished. Now the nursery looked as if it had been ransacked, but that was because Natalie had up-ended everything in sight to find the one thing she couldn’t. The empty cot told its own story. God knew what it was doing to the Becks. Bev knew it would loom large in her nightmares.

  “Let’s run through it again, Natalie.”

  The girl was sixteen going on thirty. Think scrawny Britney Spears on a bad hair day. Bad everything, Bev reckoned. Lank blonde locks framed sullen features dotted with spots. Natalie mumbled a few words into her mother’s neck. Maxine looked as if she’d never let her go. They were cuddled up on the sofa opposite, a brown mock-leather affair scarred with cigarette burns and stained with what looked like red wine. A baby’s dummy was wedged at the back of a cushion.

  “The time you got in? Can you narrow it down at all?” Bev looked at her notes. A rare occurrence: Oz usually took care of the written word. DC Khan – lucky best man – was at a wedding in Brighton. According to Bev’s scrawl, Natalie had arrived home after midnight but before 2am. Talk about window of opportunity.

  Natalie eased herself from Maxine’s embrace and sat clutching her bare mottled legs. “Can’t remember.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged, concentrated on her toenails. “Just can’t.”

  Bev wondered why girls Natalie’s age, any age come to that, thought it was cool to have pierced eyebrows. Ears yeah, nose maybe. But eyebrows? It was painful just thinking about it. She tried another tack. “Did you notice anything out the ordinary? Door unlocked? Window open?”

  “Nah. Nuffin’.”

  Blood. Stone. Out of. Bev didn’t think Natalie was being deliberately obstructive or evasive. She reckoned the teenager had been on the piss. Alcohol fumes were wafting across. On the other hand, they could just as easily be emanating from Maxine.

  “What about your mates? Anyone see you back?”

  It was an innocent question, so why the furtive look? Guilt? Shock? Bev wasn’t sure. The recovery was too quick for further pondering. “Yeah, my friend and me got off the same stop. That’s right. We walked back together.”

  Bev jotted down the friend’s address.

  “How about you, Mrs Beck? You reckoned it was three when you got up. Anything strike you as odd?”

  “No. Like I say, I went to the loo. Poked me head round. The baby was fine. I give her a bottle...”

  “You didn’t mention a bottle.” Bev checked her notes. Unless she’d missed it first time... nope, nada. “Did you or didn’t you?”

  It didn’t take a lot to confuse Maxine. She dropped her head into her hands.

  “Leave her alone. It’s no big deal.” Natalie was only looking out for her mother. But the hostility was unnecessary. Bev was looking out for a three-week-old who could be starving to death, assuming she was still alive.

  Still, Bev thought, it wasn’t surprising the Becks’ recall was a tad hazy, since it was clear they were both out of their heads with worry. Everywhere they looked was a reminder of what they’d lost. The small sitting room was littered with baby gear; Mothercare meets the Disney Store.

  “Is it just the three of you here?” Natalie and Maxine seemed to avoid each other’s eyes. Bev wasn’t sure what to read into it, but her antennae twitched. “Well?”

  She got a yes from Maxine and a no from Natalie. She sighed, while they sorted it.

  “Terry’s my bloke, like,” Maxine said. “But he don’t live here.”

  Natalie’s snort suggested otherwise.

  “He don’t,” Maxine whinged. “He’s got his own place over Selly Oak way.”

  Another snort.

  “He stays over once in a blue moon.” Maxine conceded.

  “And last night?” Bev asked. “Was the moon blue?”

  “No.” Maxine was adamant.

  Bev turned her gaze on Beck junior. The girl shrugged. “Weren’t here, was I?”

  Bev added Terry Roper’s name and address to the pot. Dear God, let it come to the boil soon.

  “Is Zoë’s dad round, love?” As if. Round here, lad-dads were called feafos: fuck-’em-and-fuck-offs.

  “She hasn’t got a dad,” Natalie snarled.

  Bev nodded. “Immaculate conception, then?”

  “Don’t be a smart-arse. You know what I mean. I don’t need a bloke. I’m bringing the kid up on me own.” The words’ import registered and the girl’s face crumpled like a soggy kleenex.

  Bev regretted the snide remark. It had done neither of them any good. “I’m sorry, Natalie. But we need to speak to Zoë’s father.”

  “Leave her alone,” Maxine hissed. “Look at her.”

  Mascara-stained tears trickled through Natalie’s fingers and down her wrists as she shook and sobbed.

  Bev sighed. They needed the man’s name and address. A breather, that’s all she could spare the girl. “Have a think about it, love. It could help us find Zoë. That’s what we’re all after here, isn’t it?”

  “’Kay.”

  It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. For an hour or two, she’d settle for an OK. “I’m almost done,” she smiled. “Can one of you sort that picture for me?” Baby Zoë. Not happy snaps. Not right now.

  Maxine hauled herself off the sofa. Natalie was picking her nails again. Bev ran back through her notes. It was a start, but she had a feeling she’d be seeing a hell of a lot more of the Becks over the next few days.

  Sounds of police activity drifted in from the street: radio static, slamming doors, barking dogs, raised voices. She heard the guv’s. She was itching to get out there but had to hang round to brief the family liaison officer, Mandy Forsyth, who’d be babysitting the Becks. Though no one would use the expression within earshot.

  “Nat, have you moved them photos?”

  Natalie had not. She abandoned her pedicure to lend a hand in the search. Mandy Forsyth turned up twenty minutes later; the photographs didn’t. Great, Bev thought. The media circus was in town to show off a missing baby, and they didn’t even have a black-and-white still.

  Big questions were: who did? And where were they?

  Brindley Place was ten minutes from Balsall Heath and about a million miles. The canal-side development was one of the coolest jewels in Birmingham’s burgeoning crown. Vibrant and bustling, it boasted the top bars and clubs, the chicest restaurants and galleries. It was bright lights and big-city buzz. If you were really lucky – and loaded – you lived there. Helen and David Carver had held their apartment-warming three years ago.

  Now framed in their big picture window, Helen gazed down on the activity below. Garishly painted narrow boats bobbed or glided on the surface of the water. A few hardy tourists juggled umbrellas and Nikons, snapping the pub where Bill Clinton had sipped a pint and inhaled chips. Helen remembered when dumped prams and dead rats were about the only entertainment on offer around the canal, and in it. Brindley Place, like Helen Carver, had come a long way.

  Gently, very gently, she eased the baby into a more comfortable position. The last thing she wanted was Jessica to wake and cry again. But she was like a dead weight, hot and sticky, on Helen’s neck. Holding her breath, she carefully laid the baby on the settee, watching anxiously as an incipient protest faded and Jessica drifted back to sleep.

  Helen tugged at the long sleeves of her high-neck blouse, trying to relax. She’d seen the story about the missing baby on the TV news. It
was shocking, of course, but she’d virtually tuned out when the location was mentioned. The Wordsworth estate was notorious across the country, let alone the city, for its sky-high crime rate and dysfunctional lowlifes. Helen shuddered; it was no place for a baby.

  She gazed down at her own child. She and David had tried for years to start a family. They had a gorgeous home, exotic holidays, top-of-the-range cars, but it had begun to pall without a baby. And now? Helen dabbed angrily at a drying patch of milky sick on the shoulder of her blouse. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Jessica; but why hadn’t the books mentioned the mess, and the draining, seemingly endless exhaustion?

  Shaking her head as if to banish the negative thoughts, she stroked Jessica’s cheek. The blemish was barely noticeable, really. Her mouth tightened as the child farted, rigid and red-faced. Another smelly nappy. Wrinkling her nose, Helen drew back a cuff, checked her Gucci watch. It could wait until her mother-in-law, Veronica, returned with the shopping.

  She picked up a copy of Vogue, leafed desultorily through a few pages. Jessica writhed and grizzled. Helen threw the magazine petulantly across the room and went to lift the child just as a key turned in the door. Thank God. Veronica would deal with it. Helen could sleep for an hour, maybe two. That was all she needed. She was so tired these days, what with her hormones and everything.

  6

  “My daughter’s shattered, inspector. I’ll grant you a few minutes. And I’ll sit in. Naturally.”

  Mike Powell, accompanied by DC Carol Mansfield, was paying an unscheduled house call on Martha Kemp. He was spitting spikes but smiled politely and made sure his eyes did as well. Body language was Morriss’s big thing but he reckoned he was more fluent. Take Kemp’s rigid stance, tight lips. They screamed that she was in the wrong and knew it.

  The radio presenter had insisted her daughter’s questioning take place at home. After clearing it with the police doctor, she’d whisked Laura away. No problem with that. Except she hadn’t bothered to inform anyone at Highgate. For nearly an hour, Powell had hung round the place waiting to talk to the girl. Now he was being spoken to as if he was some bloody tradesman at the door. The only surprise was she hadn’t ordered them round the back. Mind, it was a classy pad. Moseley was full of them, more precisely Ludgate Hill was. Kemp’s castle, so to speak, was a double-fronted, three-storeyed Edwardian spread.