Baby Love

by Maureen Carter

  Notes were taken, questions posed. It was donkeys-at-desks stuff, methodical and tedious. Bev wasn’t big on routine plod-work but appreciated that just one call, one follow-up, could give them the breakthrough. And she reckoned it was more likely to come via the backroom players than anyone on the ground.

  Widening the hunt, though logical, was an almost certainly futile step. They all knew, even if no one would say, that without a steer locating the baby was virtually impossible. It made a needle in a haystack look like a piece of piss. If Zoë was still alive, she and the abductor could be holed up anywhere. If it was a body they were looking for, the list of places it could be buried or dumped was endless.

  Point was, they had to be seen to be doing something; a big police presence was vital. They had to keep Zoë uppermost in the public’s mind. If they were out there in strength, the media would be out there in force. A powerful weapon, if a two-edged sword.

  In an apparently motiveless crime, with no forensic evidence and a lack of quality witness reports, the police were almost entirely dependent on the community’s help. Tip-offs leading to arrest were the top end of the informants’ market. More commonly people saw stuff but didn’t realise its significance, others forgot what they’d seen, still more were reluctant to come forward and needed a shove. Emotionally powerful footage could even prompt confessions. A kidnapper’s not likely to pick up the phone but his wife/daughter/mother might cough on his behalf. It had happened before. Look at Michael Sams and Crimewatch. Although, Bev conceded, there was still any number of upstanding citizens who wouldn’t piss on a copper in flames.

  She glanced at Mike Powell, reckoned she’d need to be desperate for a wee. Powell’s appraising gaze was directed downwards. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, clipboard in lap, hand tentatively waving in the air, was DC Sumitra Gosh. She’d only been in CID a month and Bev still wasn’t used to seeing her out of uniform. Not that Goshie didn’t look equally stunning in mufti. Every inch of her was elegant, and at nearly six feet tall, that was a lot of elegance. She had a river of blue-black hair and eyes like toasted almonds. There was nothing remotely plain about Ms Gosh. And neither was she just a pretty face.

  “What about the baby’s mother, sir?” Gosh asked. “Is she prepared to do an appeal?”

  “Good point,” Byford acknowledged. “Time’s not right yet. We’ll almost certainly get round to it.”

  “I could mention it to her,” Powell offered, gaze still fixed on the rookie. “I’m arranging for her to come in later to go through mug shots.”

  Bev knew the guv’s thinking, could see he was torn.

  “Hang fire, Mike,” he said. “Let’s give it twenty-four hours.”

  Bev tended to agree. Natalie Beck was a ladette who aspired to chavdom. In the punter-appeal stakes, she was running on empty. Anyway, in one more day, one way or the other, the waiting could be over. She closed her eyes, mouthed a silent prayer.

  “Do you want to say a few words, Bev?” the guv asked.

  As senior investigating officer, Bev knew she’d have to take the floor. Didn’t make the ordeal any easier. It wasn’t her first case as SIO but it was the biggest. And some of the Highgate hard men would shed few tears if she failed to close it. She rose and took a deep breath, hoping her skirt wasn’t stuck up her bum and her voice would carry to the back.

  She assigned actions, answered queries, then: “I’ve not got a lot more to say.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” Powell muttered behind her back.

  “Crime involving a kid’s a shit job. You don’t need me telling you how to do it. I’ll be around the Wordsworth most of the day and I’m on the end of a phone 24/7. All I ask is keep me informed. I need to know every development, however small, before it happens.” Heads nodded, ties were straightened, fingers combed hair. She sensed they were chomping at the bit. She knew she was. “And that shit job?” She tried to include everyone in her glance. “You’re doing it brilliantly.”

  “I second that,” Byford said. “Ignore the rubbish in the media. They’re stirring. It’s what they do best.”

  He was referring to that morning’s coverage in the Sunday Post. The banner headline read ‘POLICE IN CRISIS’. Despite the journalistic device of sticking quotation marks around the words, it came across as hard fact, not what it was: predictable prejudice from a rent-a-mouth Midlands MP.

  Josephine Kramer was third-hand cant on legs. The media loved her. Christ, she wasn’t even Natalie Beck’s honourable member, nor as far as Bev recalled did she represent any of the rape victims. Informed opinion was a concept Kramer had yet to discover; ‘outraged of Edgbaston’ was more her mindset. The popular sport of cop-bashing was on the rise, and Kramer was in training for an Olympic gold.

  Fuck the impact on morale.

  “Talking about stirring.” DC Darren New took up the guv’s point. “Anyone hear the radio this morning?” Dazza listening to the wireless? Bet it wasn’t Radio Four.

  “Birmingham Sound. They were trailing a Martha Kemp special: WAR on the streets of Birmingham.”

  “The protest tomorrow?” Bev asked.

  Dazza nodded. “Kramer’s gonna be at the rape scene with the organisers and there’ll be a bunch of studio guests.”

  “Like who?”

  He ran through the usual pundits and pondlifes. “Kemp promised a special guest as well: a young rape victim. She teased it as ‘the most moving interview I’ve ever conducted, the most moving you’ll ever hear’.”

  Laura Kenyon? Would The Mouth use her own daughter to boost ratings and take a pop at the police?

  Talk about the stage and Mrs Worthington.

  Powell’s limp-wristed round of applause was presumably meant to be ironic. “Nice one, Morriss. Your patronising little pep talk in there?” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the incident room. “Pass me the sick bag.”

  The DI was lounging casually against a corridor wall, ankles crossed, condescension incarnate. It hadn’t been her finest hour; neither had it been the shit he was making out. And if it came to that, his troop address hadn’t exactly inspired any martyrs. She laid a concerned hand on his by-now-furrowed brow. “Must say, sir, you do look a bit peaky.” She peered closer. “Maybe you should stay in more.”

  Powell’s lips were so tight they looked glued.

  She leaned her head to the side, enquired politely, “Perhaps you could give me a few tips before you go?” He hadn’t a clue till she enlightened him. “People skills? Do share.”

  Powell sprang forward, invaded her space. “Just one tip, Morriss.” An admonitory finger headed her way but an industrial-strength glare forced it off course. “Don’t stick your nose in.” A pause. “If you have Street Watch input, it’s me you talk to. Savvy?”

  How the fuck did he know about last night?

  “Carol Mansfield has the makings of a decent copper. I wouldn’t want her picking anything up off you. Back off.”

  Bev gave a huge mental sigh of relief. The DI was still in the dark about last night. Though he’d obviously cottoned on to the fact she and Carol had discussed lines of questioning both before and after the Laura Kenyon interview.

  “You’re not even on the case, Morriss. You’ll not undermine my authority again.”

  An evidence bag rustling against her skin begged to differ. She took it from a shirt pocket, handed it to Powell. He screwed his eyes as he held it to the light.

  “It’s an earring,” Bev said. “I found it last night at the Moseley rape scene. Nothing to do with me, of course, but I suggest you speak to Laura Kenyon again.”

  She turned at the end of the corridor. Powell was still standing open-mouthed.

  “As for undermining your authority.” She gave a mock salute. “I’d have to find it first.”

  “Don’t let him wind you up, sarge. It’s not worth it.” Oz was more interested in trying to find a space to slot the motor than Bev’s blow-by-blow account of her latest run-in with Powell. The Wordsworth estate resembled a
police car park, with some vehicles straddling pavements and others cluttering grass verges. Officers were everywhere, knocking on doors, stopping passers-by, leaning in talking to motorists. Hearing the questions wasn’t necessary; the blank faces were answer enough.

  Bev pointed out a gap further down, then ransacked her bag on the off chance there’d be something edible at the bottom. The spat with Powell had left a nasty taste in her mouth. Dissing him gave her an instant high but did no good in the long run. And right now it was taking the edge off her pleasure over the guv’s ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ policy on the make-up of the squads.

  “You’re right, Oz. The DI’s an arsehole.” She located a mental backburner marked arseholes, left Powell simmering. “Want a bit?” Oz looked askance at the half-bar of chocolate she was wielding. It had a coating of fluff and a couple of hairs.

  He shook his head as he locked the motor. “You’ve not long had breakfast.”

  “Think of it as pudding.”

  Their arrival at number thirteen provoked a barrage of clicking lenses and flashing lights from a bank of cameras still camped opposite. If anything, numbers had grown since the day before. Bev spotted at least two TV crews as well as a shed-load of stills men. The opening of the door unleashed a second photographic volley.

  Mandy Forsyth’s strained face appeared and Bev and Oz squeezed through a narrow gap in the door; any wider and zooms would be homing in. God knew what they’d pick up chez Beck.

  “How’s it going?” Bev asked.

  The family liaison officer grimaced. Mandy had been a flo for more than a decade, seen it all. She was Mrs Twin-Set, with a face you wouldn’t glance at in an empty room, but her voice was the warmest Bev had ever heard. She’d watched Mandy in action, reckoned she’d prise a word or two out of a concrete clam.

  “Mrs Beck hasn’t moved off the settee. Natalie won’t come out of the baby’s room. They’re not eating, barely talking. Living on tea and cigarettes.”

  “Where’s Roper?”

  “Nipped to the shop. They’ve run out of fags.”

  “You gonna answer that?” Bev could never ignore a ringing phone.

  Mandy shrugged. “I’m in no hurry. They’ll ring again.”

  “Who will?”

  “Whoever’s getting off on it.”

  Bev listened incredulously as Mandy explained. A number of malicious calls had been made, accusing the Becks of doing away with the baby. The voice was muffled, maybe deliberately disguised, could be male or female. The sad sack was well informed, knew about the Becks’ dysfunctional past: Maxine’s flight to the sun and Natalie’s subsequent acquaintance with hospital food.

  “How come this is news to me?” Bev asked.

  Mandy frowned. “I called it in first thing.”

  There was no point having a go at Mandy. “Check it out, Oz. If they’re not already organising a trace and 24/7 protection, put the wheels in motion.” She turned back to Mandy. “What’s the gist?” As if she couldn’t guess.

  “Nasty. Mean. Spiteful. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down.”

  And both women were as low as it gets. Maxine Beck was slumped in front of the gas fire. There was no reaction when Bev looked in briefly.

  Oz was in the hallway still trying to sort crossed wires. Bev asked him to sit in with Maxine when he’d finished. “I want to know if the other pics have turned up. I’ll be upstairs with the girl.”

  Natalie was sitting on the floor at the side of the empty cot, staring into space. The sight was so unexpected, so shocking, that Bev clung to the doorframe to steady herself, taking a deep calming breath.

  The girl was cradling a baby in her arms.

  “Shush.” Natalie put a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake her.”

  The teenager’s rocking motion was calm and measured. She was singing now. It sounded like lines from Angels but the voice was barely audible.

  There were tears in Bev’s eyes as she moved slowly across the room. Natalie was clearly on a knife-edge. Bev brushed at the dampness on her cheeks before kneeling. Natalie was still now, silently weeping. Bev took her into a tender embrace, then gently removed the doll from her arms.

  11

  Helen Carver dabbed a starched linen napkin at the stray croissant crumbs caught in her expertly applied Subtle Plum lip-gloss. Flecks of pastry fell on to Zoë Beck’s face, which covered most of the Mail on Sunday front page. “I see that baby’s still missing, darling.”

  Her husband didn’t respond. She glanced across. “Is there a problem?”

  David Carver was still standing, cradling the phone, a pensive expression on his brooding features. He appeared to be gazing at the waterscape through the window of their apartment, but if the pope had sailed past on a narrow boat Carver wouldn’t have noticed. Neither was he listening. “Mmmm?”

  “The call?” Helen sipped espresso. “Anything wrong?” It was probably the college, she thought, or a pushy parent wanting extra tuition for little Johnnie or Joanna.

  Carver pushed a hand through thick black hair that was a shade too dark and a tad too long for a man clinging to middle age by short fingernails. “No. Just the police.”

  Helen’s hand jerked, sloshing coffee over the side of the porcelain cup. “Damn.” She dabbed her napkin at a spreading stain on the white damask. “Cloth’s ruined.”

  David either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He resumed his seat at the table and continued reading The Observer.

  Her hand was steadier now, if not her voice. “What’s it about this time?”

  “Oh, the usual... Blair’s-a-lying-bastard rubbish.”

  She exhaled sharply. “Don’t try to be funny. What do the police want?”

  “They want to talk to me. They’ll be here in an hour.” He shook the paper: end of subject.

  Not for Helen. “About the girl who was...?” She hated the very word. It contaminated her carefully created world where the garden was full of prize-winning roses, babies didn’t get snatched from their cots and teenage girls could walk the streets unharmed.

  “A different one. There was another rape on Friday, apparently.” He reached a hand from behind the paper, drew it back clutching toast.

  Helen seethed. It was too bad. The police had a job to do, but... She treasured their Sunday breakfasts. On other days David was usually out of the apartment before she was out of the bedroom. Even with the baby, Helen rarely rose early – no need with Veronica fussing around like a mother hen. Grandmother and child were out now, feeding the ducks. Helen’s dream of a peaceful idyll was shattered by the prospect of the police arriving, flat-footed and heavy-handed.

  She slung the napkin on the table. “I must say you’re taking it very calmly.”

  He lifted his glance from the newspaper. “There’s little point in us both having hysterics.”

  “But, David... We’re having people over. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow? I don’t see why they need to interrogate you anyway.”

  “Talk, Helen.” He folded the paper precisely, lined it up with the edge of the table. “They want to talk to me. She’s a student of mine. They think I might be able to help.”

  “Help how?” She tugged compulsively at a sleeve.

  He shrugged. “Like before, I suppose, with the Quinn girl. They spoke to everyone in college who knows Kate. It’ll be the same this time with Laura Kenyon. And quite honestly, Helen, if something I say helps catch the sick bastard who’s violating these poor girls, it’ll be a pleasure.”

  “Don’t swear. You know I hate it.” She shook the crumbs off her newspaper, the baby’s face now splotchy with grease. Helen used it to hide behind while she sneaked glances at her husband. She watched as he brushed a floppy fringe from his eyes. It was a habitual gesture, like the way he flicked his tongue across his top lip, hated Stilton and sang Satisfaction in the shower. She knew him intimately. So why, occasionally, did she feel she didn’t know him at all?

  She sighed, rose and started cleari
ng the table.

  “Helen.” He reached out, stroked her arm. She’d cut it recently, winced as his ring touched the wound. “Don’t get upset. I hardly know the girl. They’re only going to ask a few questions.”

  There are only so many ways a question can be asked. DI Mike Powell was no Jeremy Paxman, but even so the DI had already voiced his sixty-four-thousand-dollar poser five times. And rape victim Laura Kenyon had responded in similar vein: no, no way, never, non, nay. She had not, she insisted, worn earrings the night she was attacked. She’d never in her life seen the earring DC Carol Mansfield was holding. As for wearing diamonds? Over her dead body.

  They were seated in the drawing room of Martha Kemp’s Moseley home, a sanctuary of sage green and soft vanillas. Its plush surroundings were doing nothing to draw out Laura, who lolled opposite, examining her nails. Watching the pose, the DI slowly tapped his fingers against his thigh. Laura Kenyon appeared less vulnerable than he remembered, and less regal. The little-princess look had been replaced by street Goth. Most of her lower half was encompassed in skin-tight Levis with strategic rips flashing glimpses of flesh. The denims were teamed with a black hoodie; across the chest in lettering like dripping blood was a general invite to ‘Suck My Punk’. The girl dangled an ostensibly casual leg over the arm of her chair.

  “See, Miss Kenyon.” Powell traced a finger along his chin. “I have absolutely no idea how else it could have got there.”

  She shrugged. “Best get on and find out, then, hadn’t you?” She sipped full-fat Coke; hadn’t offered drinks.

  DC Mansfield was note-taking and taking note. Why was the girl so lippy all of a sudden? Was she deliberately trying to piss them off? And why keep checking the time? And the door? Laura had readily invited them in, even though her mother was out. Did Laura now want momma Kemp in on the action?