Baby Love

by Maureen Carter

  Bev picked her way through pools of filthy water and charred debris. Household items chucked out during the search of the property lay soaked and smoke-damaged. Heartbreaking. Nothing compared with the junked toys and baby clothes.

  Then she saw the side wall. Daubed in red paint, letters a foot high, was a chilling message.

  BURN IN HELL BABY KILLERS

  Her fists were tight balls. The threat laid to rest any doubt about the fire’s origins. But questions clamoured for answers. She searched for a familiar face in the crowd. John Preston, the chief fire officer, was easy to spot – a six-foot Geordie with a voice like an amplified foghorn.

  “What’s the score, John?” Apart from Becks nil.

  “One occupant out by the time we arrived. Crews in breathing apparatus brought out two more. Both women. The paramedics are working on them.”

  Ambulances were parked across the street. She’d check it out soon as.

  “I was told four occupants,” Bev said.

  He nodded, grim-faced. “We think there’s still someone inside.”

  It wasn’t Mandy Forsyth. The family liaison officer was heading over, a blanket across her shoulders. Bev grabbed the woman’s hands. “Mandy. Thank God. How are you?”

  “I got out before the smoke got too bad. I’ll be OK. “ She shivered. “Best start paying me danger money.”

  “You up to telling me what happened?”

  She nodded, but drew the blanket tightly round her chest, shaking, clearly in shock. Bev grabbed the nearest uniform, told him to take Mandy to a squad car. “I’ll be with you in five minutes, Mandy, OK?”

  She turned to the CFO. “So...if there is anyone in there.” She nodded at what was left of number thirteen. “What are the chances?”

  He shook his head. “Smoke, sergeant. It’s a killer.”

  She closed her eyes. Terry Roper. It had to be. He’d moved in with the Becks to do his knight-in-shining-armour routine. What was that going to do to Maxine?

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Preston tipped his head towards the house. Another breathing apparatus crew was preparing to enter.

  “Any idea how it started?” The writing on the wall couldn’t make it clearer but Preston was the expert.

  “Place was torched, petrol bomb most likely. You can still smell it.”

  Bev bowed to the fire officer’s refined olfactory powers. The only thing she could smell was smoke coming off her clothes, hair, skin, everywhere. Yet she craved a ciggy. How did that work?

  “Should have something more solid after the fire investigation team’s been in.” Preston took off his helmet, wiped the back of his hand across a soot-streaked forehead. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

  Looked pretty shit to her. She raised an eyebrow.

  “A couple of minutes later and we’d be looking for more than one body.”

  He promised to give her a shout as soon as he heard anything, then rejoined his men. Bev scanned the street as she hit fast-dial on her mobile. No hacks or video vultures in sight. Amazing that the media hadn’t heard a whisper. The guv answered after five rings. It took a couple of minutes to bring him up to speed. Byford was happy for Bev to continue calling the shots. There was no sense him turning out as well. They agreed he’d take the early brief while she caught missed zeds.

  The temperature had fallen a couple of degrees. She was pacing so she wouldn’t seize up. Mandy was in the back of a police motor a couple of doors down. Bev slipped in. “Sure you’re up for this?”

  Black flakes fell from the liaison officer’s hair as she nodded. “Let’s get it over with. I want to get home.”

  “Sure. Soon as you like, Mandy.”

  “Natalie went to bed about eleven. I followed soon after. I was out like a light, woke up a couple hours later with a pounding headache. I got up to fetch a glass of water to take a painkiller. Soon as I opened the door I smelled smoke. You know what it’s like when you’re half asleep. For a second or two I wondered why someone was lighting a fire that time of the morning. Then I saw the smoke, drifting up from below.” She paused, pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never moved so fast in my life, Bev. I shouted, screamed, banged doors. Natalie’d taken a couple of sleeping tablets, was well out of it. I shook her, called her name, then ran to the bathroom thinking I’d get some water to chuck over her. I looked into Maxine’s room, saw the bed empty, assumed she and Terry had gone down and out the back.” Her bottom lip trembled and there was a tremor in the hand clutching the blanket.

  “You did brill, Mandy. What happened then?”

  “I got Natalie on her feet. She seemed OK, told me to go on ahead. I was scared, Bev. I didn’t need telling twice. I didn’t know till later that Maxine hadn’t been to bed at all. She was in the sitting room when the fire started. Natalie went to get her out.”

  The Beck women were still in the ambulance undergoing initial medical treatment. Bev stood a few yards away chatting to a couple of uniforms. She was waiting for a green light from the paramedics before grabbing a word with Natalie. Maxine wouldn’t be talking to anyone any time soon. She was on oxygen and intravenous drips, still unconscious.

  “Give us a baccy, Simon.” Three months Bev’d been off the weed. One of the cops handed her a Marlboro. “Ta, mate.” She sneaked another. “I owe you.”

  “Take the pack, sarge. I’ve got more.”

  She slipped it into her bag. What the hell, she could fall under a bus tomorrow. Or have a baby snatched. Or see her life go up in shit. She took a deep drag, savouring the nicotine hit. The thought that the arson attack was down to the Becks’ malicious caller, seriously upping his sick game, was tearing her to shreds. She’d dismissed the poisonous shit behind the calls as deranged, not dangerous. If he or she had taken to fire-raising, she’d badly miscalculated, could’ve got four people killed.

  She inhaled again, creased her eyes as the smoke drifted from her nostrils. There was another possibility. The arsonist could be some sort of self-styled vigilante: a wacko who’d seen pictures of Natalie Beck being driven away in a police car, put two and two together and come up with infanticide. In which scenario, Powell was in the shit. He’d authorised and arranged the girl’s session at the nick.

  The thought gave Bev no pleasure. Whichever way it panned out, the Becks had been badly let down by the people whose job description majored on protection.

  She lit another baccy from the butt.

  PC Simon Wells, her supplier, looked on. “What now, sarge?”

  Jack Daniels? Southern Comfort? “Watching brief for you pair.”

  Most of the other squads had been released or diverted to other calls. Simon and his partner had been questioning the street gawpers: Balsall Heath’s equivalent of Neighbourhood Watch. But the locals had been as much use as eyeless needles. Simon reckoned the Yorkshire Ripper could move in and no one’d notice. Either way, by now the audience had drifted home for its Horlicks.

  “We’ll talk to them again in a few hours,” Bev said. “And everyone else on the estate. I can’t believe we won’t get a steer.”

  It had taken more than the few seconds needed to lob a Molotov or whatever. The arsonist had left a wall painting. Early teams would get cracking on door-to-doors, grab people before they left for work. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a major consideration: Wordsworth wasn’t big on gainful employment.

  “As for now.” A drag, then she ground the butt under a damp Doc Marten. “Keep your eye on the house. It’s our crime scene but it’s Preston’s turf till he pulls his men out.”

  “Sarge.” Simon tilted his head, pointed behind her.

  The CFO was striding towards them. It wasn’t good news. The look was sober even through a face blackened with smut and smoke. “Waste of fucking time. I could have lost men in there.”

  The breathing apparatus crew had been through every room in the house. Hadn’t found a skin cell. Alive or dead.

  Bev frowned. “So Roper got out. Or was never in there...” />
  The fire chief shrugged. Not interested. “Duff info happens. But in this case, every call reported four trapped.”

  And there’d been five calls. Bev thought it through. It was less than forty-eight hours since Roper had taken up residence. It was doubtful five people beyond the family even knew he’d moved in. So who’d raised the alert, upping the head count? And why? And where the fuck was Roper now?

  “Thank God it’s not a fatal,” Preston said. “But my blokes...”

  Risked their lives, having potentially been fed a five-pack of lies. Bev made mental notes: not back burner.

  “Sarge.” Simon was pointing again.

  She turned to see a paramedic on the steps of the ambulance. Hoisting her bag, she headed for the harassed man in green scrubs.

  “I’m sorry, love. She doesn’t want to talk.”

  Bev’s heart sank; she lifted a finger. “One minute, mate. Just one.”

  “The girl’s in shock.” He rubbed a hand over non-designer stubble. “She ain’t making a lot of sense anyway.”

  “How bad...”

  “She’s had plenty of oxygen. I reckon she’ll be OK. Physically.”

  Bev cleared her throat. “And the mother?”

  The paramedic turned his mouth down. “She swallowed a hell of a lot of smoke. They’re getting a bed ready at the General. ICU.”

  Bev closed her eyes. Intensive care.

  The paramedic was already closing the doors. As Bev opened her eyes she caught a glimpse of Maxine flat out on a stretcher and Natalie kneeling, her head burrowed into her mother’s side. Maxine looked like death. Not even warmed.

  14

  “Fucking hell.” The rude awakening was down to an alarm still set for a 5am start. A fruitless hour hanging around the General Hospital meant Bev had slept all of ninety minutes. She reset the call time, turned over, tossed a bit. And crawled out. Sod it. She’d have an early night. After a shampoo and shower involving myriad fruits and essences, she reckoned she still reeked of smoke. How did Mrs Fire Officer Preston cope? A sado-erotic vision of the pyro-pair coupling underwater in rubber gear and masks flashed before her bloodshot eyes. Sleep deprivation’ll do that. She hoped.

  Bev settled on a Cambridge-blue trouser suit and her old DMs. Her favourite pair was curling on the radiator in the hall. She refused to look at the crates and boxes. Christ, the place was more of a tip than usual. After last night’s action, she was starving, headed for the kitchen in search of a horse. It was equine-free. Best hit the canteen.

  En route to Highgate, traffic was light and stars still glistened in a navy sky. She ran a mental check of calls and actions. The guv was taking the brief on the missing baby, which left her free to track loose threads from the fire. Locating Terry Roper was high on the agenda. Had Mr Blue Moon done a moonlight flit? As for the five emergency calls, she’d already requested recordings and transcripts. It was enough to keep her going but if she could fit in a quick meet with Tattoo Man she’d definitely go for it. The morning’s priority, however, was Natalie Beck.

  After breakfast.

  Forty minutes and a canteen fry-up later, Bev was contemplating a third coffee when DI Mike Powell pulled up a chair.

  “God, you look rough, Morriss. Late night?”

  “You old charmer, you.” She flashed a bright smile.

  “Very droll.” He picked at a bowl of mouse-droppings that might’ve been muesli.

  She cast a covert glance or two, not able to read his expression but sure there was a hidden agenda. The canteen was deserted. Why choose her table? Of all the breakfast bars in all the world...

  Her spiky relationship with The Blond had been going on so long, she barely recalled how it started. His promotion to DI over her, four years ago, no longer miffed. Much. They’d both gone for the post but Powell was a yes-man and the force already had its token little lady. Whatever. He was often out of his depth and Bev was sick of throwing life-belts. He saw her as a threat. If she went platinum, had a boob job and zipped her lip they’d get on dandy. Like that was going to happen.

  Bev sucked a biro, blew imaginary smoke. She glanced at Powell again. She didn’t want an escalation. It was unpleasant as well as unprofessional. And in a way she felt sorry for him. Rumour had it his wife left him for a toy girl. He lived alone and, given his solitary nature, was probably a right Billy No-Mates. She’d make an effort. Proffer, if not the branch, a couple of olives.

  “What’s new?” She balked at adding ‘sir’. He’d stopped insisting.

  “That you don’t know?” A derisory snort, maybe a sniff. “Been sticking your nose in again, haven’t you, Morriss?”

  Stuff the olives.

  “If you’re gonna go through my files,” he mumbled through a mouthful of oats, “for God’s sake don’t leave footprints.”

  “Sorry?” And that third coffee was right out the window.

  “You left Vince’s mug.” Charles and Camilla, what a giveaway. “And chuck your sweet wrappers away next time.”

  “Right.” The wayward Wagon Wheel. “Nothing new, then.” She watched, waited, keen to hear his take on Laura Kenyon’s tattoo.

  “You putting in a guest appearance at the WAR thing tonight?”

  Either the tattoo lead had slipped his mind or he didn’t rate it. Far as she was concerned, that gave her carte blanche to have a sniff. As for the Women Against Rape march, she’d barely given it a thought.

  “Not my baby, is it?” she said. “Street Watch territory.” Bland delivery. Blank look. Total bollocks. She was getting good at this.

  “Screaming harpies banging on about men? All blokes are rapists? Right up your street, that.”

  The genesis of her anti-Powell attitude was coming back to her now. She loathed him because he was an arsehole.

  “Practising again?” she asked.

  He was picking foreign objects from his teeth with a fingernail. “What?”

  “Charm school.”

  He smirked. Probably thought she meant it. “How’s lover boy?” The DI’s tone was so casual, it had to be carefully calculated.

  Bev stiffened. Oz Khan was off-limits. She definitely wouldn’t rise; well, maybe, an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t realise Genghis was into polygamy?” Powell’s idea of a cutting remark.

  Thank God Lil had cleared the table. And taken the cutlery.

  “Just bumped into him and Goshie in the car park. Like this they were.” The DI held two fingers in front of her face before slowly twisting them together.

  Stirring. Had to be. She sat on her hands, mentally chose a larger spoon than Powell’s. “Seen the guv this morning?”

  He sniffed, shook his head.

  “Figures.” She smiled sweetly. “Be walking with a limp else.”

  “Fuck you on about?”

  “Wants you to explain why Natalie Beck was all over the news. Shots of the house, cops driving her away.”

  “So?” His indifference was probably feigned.

  She added a pinch of spin to the pot. “Some mad fucker thought we were taking her in for questioning.”

  “Your point being?”

  “The house was firebombed last night. ‘Burn in hell baby killers’ sprayed on the wall.” She popped her phone into her bag and rose, looking down at him. “I was there most of the night. It’s why I look so rough.” She gave his stricken features an ostentatious once-over. “What’s your excuse?”

  The tape and transcripts were on Bev’s desk. The same person had made all five emergency calls. A man’s voice, young-ish, accent-less. It didn’t ring a bell. The content was short and simple: fire at a house in Blake Way, four people trapped. She’d already despatched door-to-door teams.

  “The Becks’ll have to hear it.” Byford nodded at the player.

  “Could be a problem there. Maxine’s still unconscious. And Natalie’s not talking to me.”

  The silence in the office underlined the dilemma.

  “What a mess, Bev.” The guv slouched on a wa
ll, stared at the floor. The posture said it all.

  It wasn’t personal. She knew that. Byford spoke more in sorrow than in censure. He’d just taken an early brief without a single development in the hunt for the missing baby. The squads weren’t losing interest, just hope. The operation was forty-eight hours old. After today, they’d be going over the same ground again. The trail wasn’t just cold, it was invisible.

  “Why take a baby from her cot?” she asked. “That’s the big one, guv. What’s the motive?”

  They’d already hashed and re-hashed the point. Hadn’t come up with an answer.

  “What?” Byford had detected a glint in those bloodshot-blues.

  She was trying a different approach. She rose, started pacing, hands gesturing. “Why take that particular baby?”

  “Go on.”

  “We’re talking Becks, not Beckhams.”

  Byford pulled his feet out of the way. “We’ve ruled out kidnapping.”

  “Exactly. So if not a ransom, what are they after?”

  “Not with you.”

  She wasn’t there yet, still feeling her way. “Suppose Zoë’s value’s not in cash? Suppose she’s special in some other way?”

  “Like...?”

  She halted in front of him. “How about medical?”

  “Rare blood group? Bone marrow?”

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know yet, guv. Something like that. It makes sense. Got to be worth a check.”

  Nothing else had panned out. “Careful how you tread, Bev. Anything along the lines you’re thinking implies inside knowledge, collusion from a doctor, nurse, staff at the hospital where Natalie gave birth, ante-natal clinic, even the girl’s GP.”

  “I’ll get Oz on it. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

  Byford nodded, headed for the door. “You’ll give me a bell from the General?”

  “Soon as.”

  The guv was hoping she could persuade Natalie to appear before the cameras that afternoon. He’d rescheduled the media appeal for four. Bev wasn’t convinced the girl would see her, let alone talk to her.

  15