Baby Love

by Maureen Carter

  “You’re already stretched with the rapes. Will you be getting in reinforcements?”

  Byford’s pen stopped mid-sentence. Bernie opened his mouth to speak but the guv was already there. “My officers are professionals. They’re dedicated men and women who’re coping brilliantly. If the situation changes I’ll let you know.” His glance covered everyone in the room. “Just don’t hold your breath.”

  “Loyalty to the troops. That’s nice.” Mr Supercilious was on his feet this time. Tall, rake-thin, gold-framed glasses and lank hair scraped back in a tiny ponytail. Bev didn’t recognise him. “Do you have teenage daughters, superintendent?” Instantly clear where he was coming from.

  “No, I don’t, Mr...?”

  “Squires. Colin. Sky News. I’ve been talking to last night’s rape victim. She’s warning girls and older women to stay off the streets.”

  “You can’t use it,” Bernie said. “You know the score on anonymity.”

  Squires flapped a hand. “She’s waived her rights.”

  “Who put her up to that?” Byford snapped.

  “Ask the mother. Not me.” The audience was riveted. Squires was enjoying the attention. “Point is, superintendent, are you adding your voice to the victim’s warning? Or are you confident you can guarantee the safety of every woman on the streets of Birmingham – when most of your people are currently searching for a missing baby?”

  That was catch 22-and-a-half. While the guv worked on an answer that wouldn’t land him in it, the women’s editor of the Evening News threw in another question.

  “Are you aware of the mass street protest?”

  This time the guv’s blank look was genuine. So was Bev’s.

  Celia Bissell, a tall forty-something redhead, turned a sheet of her spiral-bound notebook. As if she had to. “Yeah, details have just been released. Monday night, a march following the route of the latest attack, then a candlelit vigil. The WAR party’s organising it. They’re expecting thousands. Could turn nasty.”

  Nothing to do with Bush or Blair – this was Women Against Rape, formed a few weeks back in response to Operation Street Watch. The news of the demo was a bit of a bombshell. Bev had quite a few contacts among the women but she hadn’t heard a whisper.

  “We’ll be there in force,” Byford said, gathering his papers. “The West Midlands Force.”

  “I’ve put Mike Powell in charge of Street Watch.” Byford kept his glance straight ahead as he pulled out of the car park at Highgate. Bev’s partially masticated cheese and onion pasty nearly choked her.

  “Watch what you’re doing with the crumbs.” He brushed crust from a knee.

  It was the closest he’d come to fast food since the IBS was diagnosed earlier in the year. He watched his diet like a hungry hawk and drank copious amounts of peppermint tea. Bev ate on the hoof so often she’d almost forgotten how to use cutlery. She’d grabbed crisps and pasty from the canteen and the latter was still slowing her verbal response. Which was lucky, given what she had in mind.

  She reckoned Powell was slipping already and not just in the dog-doo. She couldn’t say anything to the guv because it’d get Carol Mansfield in the shit as well – tales out of school and all that. But Inspector Clouseau had failed to bring up a couple of potentially significant points during the interview with Laura Kenyon.

  They were desperate to discover a link between all three girls. Through careful questioning, Bev had elicited that the first victim, Rebecca Fox, had recently had a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. Bev even talked to the guy who put it there. Come to think of it, it might be worth having another word in a day or two. Mental note: call Luke Mangold. Sod Powell.

  The DI’s scepticism was partly down to the fact that when questioned, the second victim, Kate Quinn, said she’d never set foot inside a parlour, let alone been tattooed. So Powell hadn’t even bothered raising the subject with Laura.

  According to Carol, he’d pooh-poohed the suggestion. After the women had recovered from another fit of the dog-shit giggles, Carol dropped the DI in it further by telling Bev that he’d neglected to ask Laura whether she was a student and, if so, where she studied. Carol had gleaned the information from Laura’s mother on the way out. Martha Kemp mentioned a name that had popped up earlier in the inquiry: Queen’s College in Edgbaston. It was an obvious lead, and one Bev so wanted to pursue.

  Byford broke her train of thought. “I’ll still be very much around. But I want you to head up the baby case.”

  “But, guv...”

  “But nothing. I know you’ve built a rapport with the girls and I know you want to nick the bastard...”

  His profile gave nothing away but the silence was telling. “You think the baby’s dead, don’t you?” Bev asked. And a child murder would take priority over Street Watch.

  If he gripped the wheel any tighter it’d come off in his hands. When he spoke, the voice was unutterably sad, didn’t even sound like the guv’s. “Babies don’t get snatched from their cots at home, Bev. Think of the big cases over the years. Babies get taken from maternity wards. Women desperate for a baby of their own sneaking into hospitals and stealing someone else’s. Generally speaking, with newborns, it’s all over in a day or two. The baby’s returned safe and well; woman gets counselling, probation, maybe a suspended slap on the wrist.”

  “Generally speaking...?” She reckoned there was one case not covered by the norm.

  “I only know one instance where a tiny baby was grabbed from her home.”

  And she was found dead.

  “I’ll get the Baby Fay case files out when we get back,” Bev said.

  Byford glanced at her for the first time since they got in the car. “I’ve already put them on your desk.”

  “Just fuck off, will you? She ain’t talking.”

  Terry Roper was hurling obscenities through the warped door of number thirteen. If he had the sense he was born with, he’d have realised it wasn’t yet another door-stepping journalist after an exclusive with the baby’s mother. Though a bunch of snappers was huddled across the road, zoom lenses poised to shoot.

  Bev flicked a glance at the guv. It was an exclusive chat with the baby’s father they were after. And Terry Roper hadn’t got a prayer of getting in the way.

  “For Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “It’s the police; open up.” Bev was hoping Byford’s paternal presence might persuade Natalie to open up as well, on the sensitive issue of Zoë’s paternity.

  Roper, all abject apology and ingratiating smiles, led them into the tiny sitting room. It stank of vinegar and stale smoke. Mother and daughter were still bonding on the settee. Held by an invisible umbilical cord, they looked as if they hadn’t budged a centimetre since Bev’s first visit, though Natalie’s bare legs now bore corned-beef marbling from the gas fire.

  “Cuppa tea?” Roper offered.

  The coffee table was littered with enough mugs to open a seconds shop. Noting the colour and consistency of the dregs, Bev declined. She almost succumbed to Roper’s proffered pack of Marlboro. Three months she’d gone without so much as a puff... But when she went to take one the guv’s glare persuaded her it was a bad move.

  Social niceties out of the way, Byford got to the point. “I want you to know, Natalie, that we’re doing everything in our power to find Zoë.” He ran through the current police activity while mother and daughter supped tea and swallowed smoke.

  Bev crossed her legs and took out a notebook. Jeez, she’d be glad when Oz was around again. The hard chairs weren’t conducive to comfort, which was fine by her; the secondhand oxygen was soporific. She sat back and observed the big man in action. Byford was good at this stuff: open body language, voice pitched right, just enough Brummie accent to make Natalie feel at home. She wasn’t exactly putty in his hands, but he was working on it.

  The guv wasn’t Bev’s only focus. She was trying to get her head round the Maxine-Terry Roper thing. His appeal was obvious but Maxine’s charms were all but hidden these days. And not jus
t by a shapeless sludge-coloured shell-suit.

  Bev looked closer, tried to imagine the woman in decent gear, hair combed, a touch of make-up. It wasn’t that hard. There was some decent raw material under the rough exterior. Maxine might carry a few extra kilos but so had Monroe. And though currently puffy and pasty, Maxine’s face had the kind of bone structure a lot of women paid through the nose for. It might no longer launch a thousand ships, but it’d have no problem with the odd longboat or two. As for Maxine’s intellect, Terry Roper probably wasn’t with her for cerebral stimulation.

  Right now Mr Blue Moon was eagerly perched on an armchair close by the Beck women. He was all rapt attention, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his dimpled chin, switching his gaze to whoever was speaking. Natalie was currently in the spotlight. For the umpteenth time she was saying – in effect – diddlysquat.

  “Honest, I’d tell you if I could.”

  The guv must be feeling the heat; he was running a finger along his collar line. “Natalie, the lad isn’t in trouble.” It was probably true. “We need to have a word with him, that’s all.”

  With any fellow who’d been in spitting distance, let alone shagging.

  The girl was picking a crusty scab on her elbow. “I’ve said. I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” A tad impatient now.

  “Leave her alone.” Maxine glared. “She’s going through hell.”

  Byford hunched forward, palms up and out. “We need your help on this, Natalie.” He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “So does Zoë.”

  The silence lasted ten seconds, fifteen... Bev reached twenty-one before it was shattered by Natalie’s ear-splitting scream. Muffled by sobs, her words were still distinguishable, though the precise meaning was unclear. “I can’t tell you because I don’t fucking know!”

  How many men had she slept with? Two? Twenty-two?

  Bev winced as the teenager tore viciously at the scab; fresh blood oozed from raw skin. Roper grabbed a tissue and gently dabbed the weeping site until Maxine snatched it away, took over the nursing. Bev caught a fleeting exchange of glances between Natalie and Roper, but it wasn’t easy to read.

  “Names, then, Natalie.” The guv’s voice was neutral. “We’re going to need names.”

  “You’ll be lucky.” Her eyes flashed, defiant now. “I don’t know all the fucking names.”

  A moue of distaste flickered across Byford’s features. Bev doubted anyone else had noticed. “Then you’d better start with those you do.” Splinters of ice.

  Maxine stubbed a butt into an overworked ashtray. “I’m her mum, Mr Byford, and I’m buggered if I know who’s had his leg over.”

  Byford passed a hand over his face. What could he say? Bev retrieved a cold greasy chip from the floor, tossed it in a mug, then jerked sideways to avoid a backlash of tepid tea. Kids were playing ball in the street; excited shouts and laughter mingled with bursts of static from police radios.

  The rasp of a match indicated Maxine was on her next nicotine hit. Must be catching. Roper lit a Marlboro, tapped Natalie’s shoulder and handed her the baccy. Bev caught another furtive exchange. Was something dodgy going on there? Had Terry been keeping it in the family, so to speak? Was Maxine’s toy-boy Zoë’s dad? It could explain Natalie’s adamant refusal to come up with a name.

  Bev gave it some more thought. Despite Maxine’s slapdash – to say the least – parenting skills, she didn’t doubt Natalie’s deep love for her mum. And vice versa. On the other hand, if it turned out Maxine was doting granny to her own lover’s baby... The familial knock-on didn’t bear thinking about. But its implications were a damn sight more serious. It provided a hell of a motive to get rid of the kid.

  SOCOs had taken the house apart and found nothing incriminating. Had they been looking in the wrong place?

  Roper broke the silence. “Natalie.” He paused, waiting for her to make eye contact. “No point hiding it any more. I think it’s time you told them the truth.”

  The baby was lying on the bed next to the mousy woman. For hours now, she’d been stroking the fine down that feathered the tiny scalp, fascinated by the gentle flicker of a pulse under the translucent skin of the fontanelle. The child was glorious, perfect; the woman thought she could happily gaze forever into those innocent trusting eyes. She could barely drag herself away, but the next bottle wouldn’t prepare itself.

  She’d hoped to feed the baby herself, but didn’t have the milk. It was unfortunate but not a tragedy. Still, it would have been wonderful to feel the baby’s cheek on her breast, those gorgeous lips clamped greedily around her nipple, those deep-blue-sea eyes staring adoringly as tiny fingers stroked her flesh. The mousy woman sighed. Surely a bond like that could never be broken?

  Gingerly, she eased herself from the bed and gazed down at the tiny wriggling form on the vast mattress. She loved the baby so much it hurt. There was a physical pain in her heart when she thought of all the horrors in the world, the terrible things that could befall the child. Any child. Then she laughed out loud. What rubbish! She’d never allow anything bad to happen to that tiny baby. She’d rather die. Or kill.

  The child was sleepy now, white-blue eyelids growing heavy. The mousy woman nuzzled the warm tiny neck, drinking in the precious baby-smell. But if she didn’t prepare the bottle soon, it would be too late. The baby would drop off, dead to the world, then wake starving and fractious. Again.

  A shadow of a frown appeared briefly on the mousy woman’s forehead. The baby did seem to cry a lot.

  It wasn’t necessary to pass through the nursery to get to the kitchen. The detour and the tapping of the mobile had become a habit, a superstition almost. With the touch of a finger she set it in gentle motion, then stood back smiling as the rainbow swayed and countless sequins glittered in a thin shaft of weak sunlight.

  How, she wondered, how could anyone ever harm a single hair on the head of a tiny child?

  9

  When Terry Roper suggested Natalie tell the truth, it was a close call which of the Beck women was more horrified. Maxine was dumbstruck, slack mouth gaping open, hand clasping her chest. Had she suspected it all along? Had she detected traces of Roper in the baby’s features? Roper’s face revealed nothing now. Unlike Natalie’s. It was wide-eyed, pleading with the man to keep his trap shut.

  “Come on, Nats,” he cajoled. “It’ll be better for everyone if you tell them.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, panda eyes begging him to stop.

  Roper glanced at Bev, shrugged an ‘over to you’.

  “Let me take a wild guess,” Bev said to Natalie, acutely aware the teenager was the only person in the room not looking at her. In an ideal world, Bev would’ve run her thoughts past the guv first. But this was Balsall Heath. And she knew what she’d seen.

  “Zoë’s dad’s not a million miles away from this room, is he?”

  More shifty looks and furtive glances. Bev couldn’t keep up with the optical delusions.

  “Enough.” Byford’s patience was paper-thin. “There’s no time to piss about playing games,” he snapped. “What the fuck’s going on?” This from a man who reckoned swearing was the sign of a shit vocabulary.

  The Becks and Blue Moon struggled for words. Bev cleared her throat. “The baby’s father? My money’s on him.” She pointed at Roper. “That right, Terry? You the loving dad?”

  Raucous laughter from the street broke a stunned silence. No one in the room was amused, especially Natalie. “You stupid fucking bint.” The words dripped vitriol.

  Bev shrugged. She didn’t expect a round of applause.

  “I ain’t snogged the bloke,” the girl snarled. “Let alone shagged him.”

  She didn’t expect that either. Or believe it. “Yeah, right.”

  If Natalie had been on her feet, she’d have stamped one. “Tell her, Tel. Tell the silly cow.”

  “I’m not the baby’s father, sergeant.” Roper took Natalie’s hand, cradled it in his own. “Natalie barely ca
ught a glimpse of him. She got pregnant after being raped.”

  The Cricketers was a pub best avoided. Big on spit, not hot on sawdust. Its regular clientele were local businessmen and traders, which on the Wordsworth meant drug dealers and pimps. The landlord was a fat slap-head whose jukebox blared out pop pap and so-called rock classics. No wonder he had a hearing aid.

  “Any more bright ideas?” Byford nursed a bitter lemon; Bev was two-thirds of the way down a large Grouse. They were both near the end of a long day. Just not near enough. This was a pit stop in which to tank up and thrash out a few thoughts. In theory. As it happened, she could barely hear herself think, let alone talk. Probably best. She’d mouthed off enough already.

  “Bright ideas?” She raised her voice. “Fresh out.”

  “Small mercies.” A fleeting smile took the sting from the quip.

  A massive guy with bad skin and butt-length dreads ambled past, trailing ganja fumes. Bev reached out a hand to steady the table, wondering if he’d knocked it deliberately. She caught the drift of a few words muttered in his wake: pigs, off, fuck summed it up. She’d heard it before; couldn’t get exercised. Not when there was so much new stuff swirling round in her head.

  It had taken two hours to drag the story from Natalie Beck. Top lines, not small print. According to the girl’s account, the rape happened back in January, about one in the morning. She’d been grabbed from behind and dragged into an alleyway only a couple of streets from home. The rapist had a knife and stank of beer but used a condom. She didn’t think about pregnancy till the foetus was five months. Not for a nanosecond had she considered getting rid of it. Abortion was dead wrong, wasn’t it? Couldn’t have coped without Terry. He’d been a rock. No one else knew she’d been attacked. Especially Maxine. Her mum would have been gutted. What irony: Natalie protecting her mum.