Baby Love (12 page)

“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.

“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 wall, 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.

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.