The last person Bev expected to run into at the hospital was Mr Blue Moon, sprawled on a plastic bench in a shabby waiting area off intensive care. The laid-back Terry Roper looked as if he’d taken excellent care of himself. His soft leather jacket smelt expensive and competed with tangy aftershave she knew was pricey. Oz wore it. Both odours held their own against the smorgasbord of medicinal aromas that invariably made Bev want to throw up.
“Well, well, well. The wanderer returns.” Amiable smile.
He flashed one back. “Hi, sarge.” HELLO! magazine was obviously more interesting.
She dreaded to think what Roper’s attitude was doing to her blood pressure. She moved in on him; unless they exchanged body fluids, she’d not get any closer. “It’s sergeant to you. And where the hell have you been?”
He glanced up, a slight frown marring the fine features. “Here. Since the early hours.”
“Not that early. I didn’t leave till gone four.” Pushing it a bit.
“I got here soon as I could.” He licked an index finger, turned the page. Bev had never understood Kate Moss’s appeal. She grabbed the magazine and Roper’s full, if belated, attention.
“Not soon enough.” The blue eyes blazed. “You were supposed to be looking out for Maxine and Natalie. Where were you when they needed you?” She knew it was a pot-kettle-black call but she’d already given herself a hard time. It was Roper’s turn.
“Get over it. Nobody’s dead.” She’d kill Roper if he didn’t stop checking his reflection in the glass opposite. “Maxine’s off the ventilator. Natalie can leave any time.”
“Thanks, doc. But you haven’t answered the question.”
Neither had he forgotten it. He shrugged indifference. “Max and me had a row. She was doing my head in. I needed to chill, went back to my pad.”
“What time?”
He twisted his mouth. “Must’ve left about midnight, half-twelve.”
“And you went straight home?”
“Yeah. Then I felt guilty. I mean, it’s not Max’s fault, is it? I slipped back about five. Had a word with your people and came down here.”
“Liar.” A squad car had checked Roper’s place in Selly Oak. Several times. “You didn’t go anywhere near home.”
He held his palms out. “True as I’m sitting here.”
“That’s it.” She turned her back. “I’m taking you in.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.” She put the mobile to her ear. Not that it was switched on.
“OK, OK.” Roper raised a placatory palm as he watched her lower the phone. “Look, sergeant. I was hoping this wouldn’t have to come out...”
She wasn’t prompting. The lines were predictable.
“I was...” He cleared his throat. “With a woman.”
Bev’s lips couldn’t get any tighter.
“I don’t want Maxine to know.” Pinching the bridge of his nose was so over the top. “I’d like to spare her that.”
“Spare me an’ all,” Bev muttered. “Name. Address. Give. Now.”
She wrote down details, then hit buttons on the phone.
“What are you doing?” It was almost a shriek.
“Organising wheels. Your lift to the nick.”
“But Maxine needs me,” he pleaded. “And Natalie. Why do I have to go to a police station?”
“So you can help our enquiries.”
“Into what?” He looked even more attractive when he wasn’t putting on an act.
“Zoë’s disappearance. Arson. Wasting police time. Where shall I stop?”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
Far as she knew, he was right. They didn’t have a scrap of evidence against him. Being a cocky toe-rag and ham actor weren’t crimes, last time she looked. “Firemen repeatedly risked their lives for you last night, Roper. They entered a blazing building looking for the sodding invisible man.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” They were probably the first words he hadn’t rehearsed. “But it doesn’t make me a criminal.”
“I want the clothes you were wearing last night.”
The shock was definitely genuine. “You can take my entire wardrobe if it’ll get you off my back.”
“And I want a search of your place.”
“Anything. I swear I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I caught you out in one lie, Roper.” She practised hard stares in her bathroom. She was fixing him with the concrete-piercing one.
“I was only protecting Maxine.”
“Your arse is what you were protecting.”
“You’re wrong, sergeant. I’d do anything to help Max, Nats. Anything at all.”
Eureka. Music to her ears. “When you say anything...?”
The checks would be run, including criminal background, but she didn’t really think Roper’s hands were dirty. She did suspect pretty boy could wrap Natalie round his little finger. And get her to talk.
“I’d rather eat shit.”
“That a no?” The question was superfluous. Not a pore on Natalie Beck’s face was open to appeal. Bev had been giving it her best shot for the better part of thirty minutes. Natalie, stringy arms tight across her chest, legs clamped round the legs of a chair at her mother’s bedside, hissed through clenched teeth, “Look at her! Look what those bastards have done.”
Maxine Beck looked like a stiff. Heavy sedation and grey skin reinforced the deathly aspect. She was off the ventilator but by no means off the sick list.
Natalie was scared; scared to death she’d lose her mother. As well as her baby. Bev reached out a hand. The girl recoiled.
“Fuck off. Leave me alone.”
Neither noticed God and his band of angels hovering at the end of the bed. God was in subtle pinstripe and shiny brogues with stethoscope accessory. The band was in white. The voice accustomed to being obeyed.
“I want to examine the patient.”
They weren’t asked to leave; the consultant’s request was implicit.
In the corridor Natalie asked, “Got a smoke?”
“Sure. Outside?” Thank you, PC Wells.
They sat puffing on a low wall opposite the main entrance. An azure sky and bright sun contrasted sharply with the teenager’s black mood. Natalie’s first deep drag sparked a coughing fit. She’d probably swallowed enough smoke last night to last a lifetime. No point mentioning it.
Bev delved in her bag and proffered a bottle of Evian. “I know you’re angry, Natalie.”
“You got that right.”
Bev sniffed. It was gone eleven. Charm and sweet talk hadn’t done it and she had a stack of other stuff to get through. “I didn’t take your baby, Natalie. And I didn’t set fire to your house.”
The teenager bit her lip.
“I want to nail the bad guys. I can’t do it on my own.”
“Some mad fucker almost killed me. I’m not laying myself open to a load of crazies.”
“You won’t be. My governor’s sorting that as we speak.” Byford had called a news conference to issue a warning on the potential impact of irresponsible coverage. There was no proof the TV pictures had led to the arson attack, so it would be a subtle slap on the wrist combined with an appeal for common sense and restraint. Like, yeah. Either way, if the rollicking was the guv’s big stick, the fat juicy carrot was alongside Bev, still stonewalling.
“You lot have done sod all.” She took another cigarette without asking.
Bev’s patience was on its way out. She recalled the strained expressions on the search teams’ exhausted faces, firefighters selflessly putting their lives on the line, contrasted it with the girl’s monosyllabic grunts. Natalie had contributed nothing. Not a single thought on who might have lied to the emergency services, let alone torched the place. A media appeal for Zoë didn’t seem a lot to ask.
“Managed a damn sight more than you, love.” Bev flicked the dog-end away and briskly rose. “Tell you this. If my kid was taken I’d swallow razor blades and s
hit glass if it got her back. Sitting in front of a couple of cameras is a piece of piss, Natalie. And it just might work.” She made a move to leave, then turned, chucked the pack at the girl. “Have another fag, Nat. Don’t put yourself out, will you?”
Back in the motor, Bev pounded the steering wheel with both hands. It drowned the first rap on the window. At the next, she turned her head. Natalie Beck did not look like Little Miss Happy but at least she was there.
An hour later, Bev was in Mac’s café opposite Luke Mangold’s tattoo parlour – Pain and Ink – in Digbeth. She’d shoehorned a brief encounter into a day already bursting at the seams. And the man was running late. When she at last spotted him striding across the road, her sigh of relief was audible.
Before their first meeting, Bev had envisaged a hairy biker, all chains and leathers, running to fat and crawling in tattoos. Early forties, Mangold was more lace cuffs and paisley cravats, a cross between a camp hairdresser and a men’s tailor, a sort of suits-you-sir with scissors.
As he approached the table, Mangold removed his elegant panama and gave a mock bow. His hair was mole-grey action-man crop. Except for a bald spot the size of a ten-pence piece. “Sergeant Morriss.” He gave a conspiratorial wink, the tone mildly flirtatious. “We can’t go on meeting like this. People will talk.”
She forced a weak laugh. “Good of you to see me again, sir. Appreciate it.” Given the distance from his workplace, it wasn’t exactly putting him out. He’d suggested meeting here the first time as well. Probably just didn’t want police on the premises. Bad for business and all that.
“Have you ordered?” Mangold asked.
“Just coffee.” She lifted the mug. “You go ahead.” The Highgate fry-up was still lining her stomach. Anyway, she was pushed for time. Not to mention a tad on edge. This little chat was off the record. And her own bat.
A blonde waitress called from behind the counter, asking Mangold if he wanted the usual. Mangold gave a thumbs-up, then fixed his gaze on Bev. “So what can I do for you this time, sergeant?”
No point prevaricating. “Another girl’s been raped.”
“And?” Was that a slight edge in the voice?
She tipped sugar into her mug, slowly stirred. She should’ve thought this through a little better. “As you know, we’re still trying to establish a link between the victims.”
“And?”
“We know one of the girls got a tattoo...”
Mangold leaned in close, too close for her comfort; the eye contact was positively claustrophobic. “Let’s get things clear. Am I a suspect? Because if I am, stop pissing around and come straight out with it.”
She would if she could. Fact was, there was no evidence against Luke Mangold. Gut instinct and making her skin creep didn’t count. “We’re talking to everyone who’s come into contact with the girls.”
“Girl,” he snapped. “I’ve only come into contact with Rebecca Fox. Like I told you before. When, as you’ll remember, I bent over backwards to help.”
She nodded. Interesting. Hundreds, thousands of people must pass through the man’s hands. “Do you remember the name of everyone you tattoo?”
Mangold’s stare was unnerving. “Only when they’ve been raped.” He paused. “And the cops come sniffing round.”
No more Mr Nice Guy then? On the other hand, if he was innocent maybe the attitude was justified.
“Here you go, Luke.” The girl plonked a plate of egg and chips in front of him.
“Cheers, Will.”
Bev did a double-take. Will was no waitress. The dark-blond hair had now been pulled back into a neat ponytail, revealing fine though definitely not female features. Tres fit, in fact.
“Get to the match Saturday, Luke?” The waiter’s knowing smile showcased perfect teeth and suggested he didn’t need Mangold’s answer.
Bev observed as the tattooist sighed theatrically and reached reluctantly for his wallet. “The ref was blind, my son.”
Will winked at Bev as he tucked Mangold’s tenner into a back pocket. “Yeah, yeah. And Villa were rubbish.”
For Bev skin setting on custard had more going for it than football, but even she knew Blues had thrashed Aston Villa. Half Highgate had policed the game.
“Five-nil, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Two penalties?”
Will inclined his head, impressed. “Sure I can’t get you anything, lady?”
She could think of a few things but none involved food. The salacious fantasy prompted a quick smile. “No, thanks, mate.”
“Shame.”
His eyes held hers a second longer than strictly necessary. Or was that wishful thinking? She watched as he executed a playful salute, then headed back to the counter.
Mangold was scrutinising her. “You’re not his type, sergeant.” The man’s smile was more of a smirk.
She ignored it, kept her voice casual, conversational. “Kate Quinn. Ever come across her?”
“Nope.”
“Laura Kenyon?”
“Nope.” Another unwavering stare as he bit into a thick chip. “Far as I know.”
“Far as you know?”
“They can say they’re Madonna if they want to. I don’t ask for ID.” He sighed, made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Let’s have a look at the pictures. I never forget a face.”
She stiffened. Photographs. Fuck.
“You’ve not brought any?” A patronising Mangold shook his head in contempt.
She could kick herself. Seeing Mangold was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment arrangement but that was no excuse. Maybe she was taking on too much. “I’ll get them to you, soon as.”
He took a biro from an inside pocket, jotted a number. “My solicitor. Go through him next time, love.” Egg yolk glistened on a chipped front tooth. She saw it when he smiled. “Better still... send a senior officer, eh?”
16
Back at Highgate, Bev raced across the car park, head down against a heavy shower.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, Morriss?”
Powell. Great. She’d almost slammed into him; he was holding her at arm’s length. Could life get any sweeter?
She pulled away. The Beck girl’s media appeal needed a final touch or two and Bev was well late. The sodding MG had let her down in Digbeth. Still smarting from Mangold’s verbal mauling, she’d had to borrow jump leads from some old bloke who’d told her at great length that little ladies shouldn’t have to worry their pretty heads about what goes on under the bonnet. Bev knew full well what was going on under hers: the starter motor was on its way out. The Midget had been on the blink for a fortnight, was booked in for the work.
“Making up for lost time, are we?” Powell asked.
There was a point in there somewhere. “Look, mate, it’s pissing down and I’m in a hurry.”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Little tip, Morriss. Stop telling lies and stirring.”
“You what?”
“All that crap in the canteen? Taking a pop at me?”
Must mean her implication that the arson attack was down to the TV pictures of Natalie being driven into Highgate. The visit Powell arranged. She shrugged.
The DI jabbed a finger. “You’d not be running round like a blue-arsed fly if you focused on the job and quit shit-bagging.”
“Can you get a move on? Natalie Beck’s waiting for me.”
“You think you know it all, don’t you, Morriss? Well, you don’t. One more step out of line...”
She didn’t hang round to find out. The lecture was superfluous anyway. Her crass handling of the Mangold interview had been lesson enough. She’d got up his nose and put him on his guard. Far from advancing the Street Watch inquiry, it could have jeopardised it. If it went tits up, it would be her fault and it wasn’t even her case.
Frail and fragile, dwarfed by the mahogany table’s vast expanse, Natalie Beck faced a bank of cameras and media hard men. The backdrop was a huge photograph of her missing baby. Apart from Natalie’s breathy voice, pleadi
ng and at breaking point, Highgate’s conference room was hushed and still. The teenager was a natural. But it didn’t come across as a performance. Natalie’s honesty, concern and love shone like sunlight on water.
“My heart’s hurting really bad. She’s my little angel. And I’m her mum. We need each other.” The baby was in her mind’s eye; the ghost of a smile played on the girl’s lips. “She’s such a tiny little thing.” Natalie shook away the image, stared straight into the lens. “I’ll do anything to get my baby back. Anything. If you can help me, please call the police. Please let me know where she is and that she’s safe and well.”
Bev exchanged an abashed glance with Byford. They’d done her a disservice. With her pierced eyebrows and pebble-dash skin Natalie might look like an extra from Little Britain, but the sixteen-year-old spoke eloquently and movingly from an open heart the size of a planet. Would the viewing public see beyond the sink-estate schoolgirl-mum image?
“I brought her this.” Natalie produced a tiny teddy bear, set it on the table in all its pink-furred cock-eyed glory. “She loves it. Can you give it to her? I’ll leave it so you can pick it up. Anywhere you like.” She dropped her head. “Just till you give me my baby back.”
The teddy bear was Natalie’s idea. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. No one shouted pointless questions, no one urged the girl to look up. The silence told its own story. The tear-stained polished wood surface added a poignant postscript. Bev put her arms round the weeping girl, helped her stand and led her from the room.
Within minutes of the Natalie Beck Show hitting the airwaves, the control room switchboard resembled a light display. The missing baby had been sighted in Cardiff and Cannock, Derby and Dorset. One caller reckoned he’d seen her take off from Birmingham International Airport – in a spaceship. Other information was less promising.
By seven pm Bev was in the incident room listening to the latest update from the control co-ordinator, Jack Hainsworth. She just held back from taking out her frustration on the phone. “Loony tunes and fruitcakes.” Instead, the bin took the full force of a size seven.
Oz knelt, gathered the load of litter and empty coffee cups. “It’s early days, sarge. Break could come any time.”
Baby Love Page 10
