Baby Love (14 page)

She grabbed her jacket and bag, mouth watering at the prospect of an Indian. She’d pick up a takeaway, then nip into Threshers for a cheeky little number from the chill cabinet. With a following wind, she’d still be in bed by ten.

And then the phone rang.

“If you ask me, there’s more to that story than meets the eye.” Helen Carver was multi-tasking: applying a fresh coat of lipstick and watching the ten o’clock news. She paused, jabbed the tube at the TV.
“The girl’s revelling in the attention, look at her.” David Carver, who was marking course-work, glanced at the screen: Natalie Beck flanked by police officers against a huge blow-up photograph of her baby.

Carver shrugged disinterest and returned to another startlingly original take on Jane Austen.

“Well?” There were times Helen sounded more like the lecturer. “What do you think?”

Had Helen not been finishing the paint job, she’d have seen his fingers tighten round the pen. “Seems genuine enough to me. Poor girl’s probably in shock.”

“Poor girl?” Helen sneered. “Poor baby, more like.” In Helen’s opinion sluts like Natalie Beck shouldn’t have children. She frowned, eyes creased. The shot now showed Bev shepherding the teenage mother out of the
conference room. “Isn’t she one of the officers who talked to you after your student was...” She couldn’t bring herself to use the word.

“Raped?” Carver said. “Yes, it is. Her name’s Morriss. Sergeant, I think.”

Helen mentally filed that but hadn’t finished with the baby yet. “Do you think the baby’s dead?”

Carver sighed, resigned to a discussion he didn’t want. “I think it’s strange she’s not been seen. My understanding is if a new baby turns up somewhere out of the blue, a neighbour or someone tips off the police.”

Helen adopted a pensive pose. “Maybe the kidnapper’s not some deranged woman. Maybe it’s more sinister than that.” She glanced round as her mother-in-law walked in cradling Jessica. The baby smelt divine after her bath. Helen
barely paused the conversation. “So what do you think is really going on?”

Carver strolled to the sideboard, poured a scotch, held the bottle aloft. “Drink, mother?”

Subject closed, then. Helen scowled, tugged angrily at the long sleeves of her cashmere sweater before reaching to take Jessica. The old woman turned and smiled at her son, then settled into the recliner opposite her daughter-in-law. “Just a
small one, Davy.”

The nightly exchange had become a ritual. Not one in which Helen participated. Or approved.

She had little time for David’s widowed mother. It was pathetic, the way she doted on him. He’d suggested Veronica move in with them and initially Helen had welcomed the arrangement. Domestic challenges held no appeal, and she’d come
to regard Veronica as little more than unpaid housekeeper. Given the old woman’s tight bun and strait-laced wardrobe, it wasn’t surprising. But though Veronica had never uttered a word against her daughter-in-law, Helen sensed her
disapproval.

Irritated, she half-listened as mother and son chatted cosily. Their family history was a subject Helen neither shared nor cared about. She snatched at the remote control and increased the volume. The baby coverage on the regional news was virtually
the same but showing now was an item on the street protest that night in Moseley: Women Against Rape. Which reminded her...

“Is that business over yet, David?”

Heavy dark eyebrows knotted as Carver wondered what Helen was getting at. He followed her gaze, caught a line of women wielding placards.

“The police haven’t caught anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean are you likely to be questioned again?” The tone was peremptory.

“I don’t see your problem, Helen.”

Uneasily she looked down as the baby shifted slightly in her sleep; mauve eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Helen lowered her voice. “Unless you’ve done something wrong, it’s police harassment.”

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It sounded like an accusation. An apology was probably in order but before she’d framed it, he was almost at the door.

“Where...”

“Out.”

The slam startled Jessica who started bawling. Helen glared. Veronica rose, loomed over her daughter-in-law.

“I’ll take the baby, shall I, dear?”

Bev’s sides ached. So did the middle bit, currently awash with mussels, lasagne and tiramisu in a chianti suspension. Frankie Perlagio was laughing gas on tap. Given that her poppa ran an Italian restaurant, eating at Little
Italy in Moseley was a bit chips-to-Silicon-Valley, but it was Frankie’s call. When she’d phoned, Bev had almost turned her down, was so glad now she’d said yes. Though it took a while to recognise the feeling, she was almost laid
back.

She’d met Frankie on their first day at primary school and, as a mate, she was better than a pack of Prozac. She was a semi-pro session singer and had she been offered as many recording contracts as she’d turned down modelling deals,
she’d be filling the Albert Hall by now. Think Nina Simone with a killer accent and tumbling raven locks.

Frankie had only phoned to say thanks for the flowers: Bev’s Interflora grovelfest. Frankie’s emotional radar being sharper than NASA’s, she’d said, “You sound shit. You’re coming out to play, my friend.”

No had not been an option.

Anyway, Little Italy was in staggering distance of Baldwin Street. Luckily, as Bev was making inroads into a second bottle. Frankie was in full Italian flow with a waiter who bore a passing resemblance to Pacino. Mind, in lighting this subtle Bev
could pass for Keira Knightley. She clocked the ambience while Frankie flirted shamelessly. There were chipped busts and flaky statues in every candle-lit alcove and the owner had a thing about water features. Bev had been to the loo three times.

“Are you back on the weed, Beverley?” Frankie’s Roman nose could sniff out cigarette smoke on Bonfire Night.

“Might be.”

“Sucker.”

She took a drag on a breadstick. Frankie rolled her eyes. “Patches, gum, cold turkey. You’ve tried everything. What about Drumsticks?”

“How’s that work? You play Ginger Baker solos till the craving passes?”

Frankie, who’d been rummaging in her bag, pulled out a kid’s lollipop. “This, my friend, is a Drumstick. Mate of mine swears by them. Every time he fancies a ciggie, he sticks one of these in his mouth.”

“So why’ve you got one?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t wish to go there.”

“Pass it over, then. I’ll put it behind my ear for later.”

Pacino hovered, handing them grappas on the house. Frankie’s flirting always paid off; Bev generally had a share of the proceeds. They covered more of the usual ground: blokes, books, the blues (music and Bev’s gear). Then Frankie
mentioned the big b-word.

“If you want to talk about the baby, Bev...”

They discussed cases from time to time. Frankie was solid, wouldn’t breathe a letter, let alone a word. Bev held nothing back: the Becks’ chequered history, Natalie’s rape, the arson attack, Roper’s dubious role in the
women’s lives, the decision to call off the search. Talking it through, she felt fear for the first time. Fear they’d never find Zoë, or her body. She didn’t share the thought.

Frankie put a hand over Bev’s. “She might still be alive, my friend.”

Bev swallowed, looked away.

“You’ve checked women with a history?”

“One of the first things we did.” Every baby-snatch on file. “Thing is, there’s only one record of a baby being snatched from its
home
. Maternity wards, sure. Off the street? Def. But...” She shrugged.

“What happened in that case?”

Baby Fay. Burned, abused and buried. The evidence had been checked and triple-checked in the last forty-eight hours. Witnesses had been re-interviewed. They were trying to track down Fay’s father in the States.

“The baby was murdered. We never discovered who took her, or why.”

They finished the grappa in silent sync.

“What happens to the women?” Frankie asked. “Are they jailed?”

Bev shook her head. “Probation. Psychiatric treatment. They rarely harm the babies – damage themselves more, in the long run.”

“How?”

“They’re all over the media. The public hates them. They’re pointed out wherever they go.” So might they change their identity? She made a mental note.

“What you thinking?” Frankie asked.

“Not sure yet. Fancy another drink?”

Pacino brought the bottle. When he’d gone Frankie asked about Natalie.

Bev sighed. “When she’s not at the General with her mum, she’s at Terry Roper’s place. Natalie’s only got the clothes on her back. The blaze destroyed everything. She’ll get a handout from Social Services, and the
council will re-house them. Eventually.”

“Poor kid.” Frankie stared into space. “Imagine your baby being snatched... It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

But it does. Bev felt a tingle. She sat up straight, focusing. What about babies who died? At birth? Grief could push people over the edge. She’d assigned a team to run checks on women who’d snatched a baby. Not on women who’d lost a
baby. It was conceivable a desperate woman would try to replace the child she’d lost. Bev had no idea what the figures for stillbirths were. And what about miscarriages? And how far back should they go? It could be mega – had to be worth
it.

“Frankie.” Her blue eyes shone. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand. “Born genius, that’s me.”

“Nah, mate. Smart-arse.”

So smart, Bev had to explain why. They were nearly back at Baldwin Street before Frankie was on the same page. That could have been down to the grappa.

Half a mile away a more sober scene was being played. The Women Against Rape march was approaching the railway embankment where Laura Kenyon had been attacked. The organisers’ claims that the protest would attract hundreds of
followers were not realised. The concept of a midnight vigil perhaps losing its attraction with the reality of freezing your ass off on the streets of Moseley.

Spearheading about sixty placard-carrying participants were The MP and The Mouth. The Tory member, Josephine Kramer, linked arms and joined voices with Martha Kemp. They led a chant that barely rhymed and made little reason.

“Safer streets...cage the beast...safer streets...cage the beast...safer streets... cage the beast...”

“Catchy little number.” DI Powell cast a disparaging look through the side window of an unmarked car. “Wonder how long it took to come up with that.”

DC Carol Mansfield cast a surreptitious glance at her watch.

“Keen to get off, are we?” The smirk was not subtle.

Having been stuck in a confined space with The Blond for over an hour, she’d jump at a Mexican wax. And fears that the demonstration could turn nasty appeared exaggerated. Uniforms accompanying the route weren’t so much peacekeeping as
preventing asbo louts taking the piss. Unlike the foot soldiers, Powell and Mansfield were keeping a watching brief from a slow-moving motor.

“It’s hardly the Battle of Little Big Horn,” Carol observed.

Powell’s yawn revealed a couple of fillings. “Nah, all mouth and knicker elastic. Still, you never know. We’ll stick around till they light the candles. Reckon there’ll be a cake?”

The crack didn’t merit comment. The chant continued.

“Safer streets, cage the beast, safer streets...”

“Look at them, Caz. What d’they reckon this’ll achieve? What’s the bloody point?”

Carol tilted her head. “That.” Across the street, a TV reporter was doing a piece to camera with the motley crowd as a moving canvas. “Public awareness,” Carol said. “And it puts the heat on us, doesn’t it?”
She pointed a gloved finger. “Look at the placards.”

‘Police crisis? What police crisis?’ The irony was supposed to echo an insensitive comment on the economy by a seventies Labour PM, who was subsequently kicked out by an underwhelmed electorate.

Powell was clearly not impressed. “Yeah. And who’s gonna catch the bastard? It’ll be us, not this bunch of tarts.” He added a mutter.

“What did you say?” She’d caught the odd word: dyke, dungarees, mouthy, bints.

“Nothing.”

The march had arrived at its destination; the women were beginning to gather alongside the wire fencing.

“Safer streets, cage the beast...”

Powell pulled over, parked. “It’s bloody true, though. Comes down to solid police-work and shoe leather. Not shouting your mouth off and getting your mug on the telly.”

“When you doing
Crimewatch
?” It was a childish but irresistible dig. Powell had been poncing around ever since the call from the programme’s producer. She’d been forced to drop an item at the last moment and wanted
Powell on that week’s show. The DI had been hustling for a spot for months. He was like a kid in Toys ’r’ Us.

“Great, isn’t it? Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried.” Powell would have a nationwide audience for an E-fit that Natalie Beck had finally produced. He’d grabbed her that afternoon after her appeal at
Highgate.

Carol had seen it and was surprised at the detail. Still, as he was in a comparatively decent mood...

“Laura Kenyon’s tattoo? When are we following it up?”

The smile vanished. “Just ’cause Morriss bangs on about something doesn’t mean it’s kosher.”

“Are you pissed because you don’t rate it as a lead or because of whose lead it is?”

“Are you questioning me?”

Does shit stink? She shrugged.

“Look, Carol. One thing you need to learn in this job is when to let go. I had a sniff at the tattoo line. I don’t think...”

Whatever he thought was lost. Martha Kemp was mouthing off and the megaphone was superfluous. Even with the windows closed, they could hear every word. The gist boiled down to: women should fight for freedom; rapists should get jailed for life. And
the crowd went wild.

Powell sniffed. “What’s Kemp doing here, anyway? I thought she was supposed to be talking bollocks in the studio.”

“They decided not to go ahead with that.” Carol shook her head as she recalled the fraught scene at the Kemp house when Laura admitted stealing from her mother. “I guess the star attraction lost its shine. Either Martha dropped the
interview or Laura pulled out.”