Baby Love (17 page)

“I called the General six times and paid Terry Roper a home visit.” The house dry white tasted like paint stripper, so she’d eschewed her preferred poison for tonic water. A tentative sip produced a sour grimace. “It’s
not like the girl’s got that many places to hang.”

Byford shrugged. “Probably holed up in some five-star hotel, courtesy of the
Sun
or the
Mail
.”

Lucky girl. But Bev was still desperate to have a word or several with Natalie. Slinging accusations around the place didn’t marry with what Bev knew of her. But then, what did she know? Maybe Natalie had a chameleon gene. Or maybe the
accusations weren’t so outlandish.

Gould’s image as trendy geography master wasn’t the whole picture. Colleagues and neighbours had painted other aspects. The guy’s marriage had fallen apart and his career looked set to go the same way. He was on a second official
warning for bad timekeeping and absenteeism. Three strikes and he’d be out. His wife had already gone, fed up with Gould’s drinking and skirt-chasing.

“What d’you reckon, guv? Is he in the frame?”

The superintendent had sat in on Callum Gould’s questioning that afternoon. Now he leaned back, hands behind head, and gave it some thought. “Hard to say. He’s admitted having sex with the girl on Friday. They met by chance,
apparently in a club on Broad Street. Claims she was all over him. He was off his face.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand; heard it all before. “What about back in January?”

Byford shook his head. “Denied it absolutely. Refused to answer any more questions. He was pretty open till that point, then he clammed up, demanded his brief.”

The lawyer was defending in a big murder trial at the Crown Court. Gould’s interview had been terminated. It wasn’t the only premature action, in Bev’s opinion. There’d been no chance to question him about Street Watch or the
missing baby.

She unwrapped a Drumstick, sucked pensively. “He doesn’t teach her any more and Natalie’s not under-age. It’s not Romeo and Juliet but it’s not wrong.”

Byford lowered his voice. “In January the girl was fifteen. And if she was raped, her age is irrelevant.”

“If.” She sniffed. The barman had lit up. She took a surrogate drag as smoke drifted by.

“You think she’s lying?”

“Who knows?” What she did know was that Natalie had been through more blokes than hot baltis. She’d told Bev as much that day in the baby’s nursery. Casual sex was no big thing for street-wise cookies like Natalie. Especially
given a role model like Maxine. Natalie saw sex as a sticky handshake. Until Gould’s arrest, Bev had seen her as an insecure kid looking for love. Natalie didn’t just kiss frogs – she fucked them. She’d not yet come across a
prince. But the girl’s say-so on its own didn’t make Gould a pervert.

“‘Who knows’, as you put it, sergeant, isn’t good enough.” Bev flinched as Byford slammed his glass on the table. “There are too many unknowns at the moment. And no one’s coming up with any answers.”

Bev parked the MG, slammed the door and kicked ass out of the drive. Byford’s outburst rankled at a time when she felt bad enough already. She’d tried putting herself in his size tens. The big man’s attack was
almost certainly prompted by tortured thoughts of Baby Fay. He wasn’t the only one affected. The dead baby was a shadow in Bev’s soul. As for the baby she prayed was still alive? She was doing everything she could.

There was only one antidote to blues this big.

Emmy Morriss was in the hall when Bev unlocked the front door. “Sweetheart, lovely to see you.” Soothing words, a verbal massage. And the house smelt of beeswax and basil. Not a packing case in sight. Bliss.

“You should’ve called,” Emmy said. “We’re off out.”

Bev’s shoulders sagged along with her face.

Her mum winked a Bev-blue eye. “Only joking. Come on. I’ll pop the kettle on.”

A golden fur-ball with teeth and tail bounded out of the kitchen and hurled itself at Bev’s thighs. She picked it up before it wet itself. “Glad the training’s going well.”

“He’s pleased to see you, Bev,” Emmy gently admonished.

The retriever puppy was a recent acquisition in the wake of the attack on her gran. Gnipper had yet to get his teeth into the guard-dog role. Anything else lying round, no problem. He’d been to the vet’s three times to have his stomach
pumped.

“How’s gran?”

“Fine.” Sadie had slipped in behind Bev. She didn’t look it. What hair had grown back looked like off-white candyfloss. Dark circles under the old lady’s eyes were now a permanent feature. “You’re looking a bit
peaky, our Bev.”

“Dandy, me mate.” She hugged her gran’s tiny frame.

“Here you go.” Emmy laid out a comfort-food combo: camomile tea, cinnamon toast and chocolate layer cake three storeys high.

Bev demolished a good half of it as they sat around chatting. The kitchen was the cosiest room she knew: warm lighting, pink gingham, polished pine. She sat back, forced herself to switch off. Otherwise what was the point being here? She watched her
mum and gran grinning like schoolgirls, listened as they finished each other’s sentences. They were warm loving people. The dysfunctional fuckwits she came across in the job were light-years away. For an hour or so, anyway.

“What’s Gnipper doing?” Emmy asked.

The puppy’s nose was in Bev’s bag. She dragged him away and caught a glimpse of the goodies she’d bought Sadie at lunchtime. “Almost forgot. Here you go, gran.”

The old lady perked up at the sight of the latest Reg Hill, a Sudoku book and a tin of Roses. They did serious damage to the chocolates during a few rounds of Cluedo.

“Thought you’d be dead good at it, our Bev.” Sadie winked at Emmy.

Bev gave a weak smile as she packed the box. “Obviously I was holding back there.”

“What, every game?” they chorused.

The guffaws nearly woke the puppy. Mind, on the available evidence he was too stuffed to move. Chocolate coated a lolling tongue and pink flecks of toffee were caught between his teeth. As for the location of the stick, Bev really didn’t want to
go there.

Natalie lifted her sleepy head, strained her ears. Crocks rattled outside the door. Someone tunelessly whistled
My Way
as they passed along the corridor. The teenager sat up, glanced round, took a few seconds to remember where
she was. She’d only been to London once, never stayed in a hotel before. Bed and breakfasts didn’t count. The girl shuddered at a montage of flashbacks: stained sheets, stinking bogs, peeling walls, black mould, cockroaches big as rats...

She banished the bad times with a shake of her head, threw back the heavy white satin bedcover and headed for the shower. Tel had done them proud, twisting that stuck-up reporter’s arm to fork out for this place. It screamed posh with polished
knobs on. She lingered under a jet of water, not too hot, not too cold. Bring on the porridge and call me Goldilocks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers. They’d scoffed the full monty on room service. Tel had shovelled it down his neck, then took off on a bit of business. She’d been knackered, gone back to bed for a bit. Now she was running late for the
meet. She stowed the bath freebies in a Morrisons’ carrier, pulled on denims, pink pixie boots, navy fleece, then moved to the dressing table. Sitting on a plush velvet stool, she struck poses in the mirror. She’d look fitter with a bit of
slap but Tel said she’d come across better without. He was probably right. He usually was.

Dead generous an’ all. He knew it took it out of her, talking about Zoë and that. She’d gab 24/7 if it got the baby back, but she kept blarting, breaking down. Tel had slipped her fifty quid for spends, something to cheer herself up a
bit.

Callum Gould would probably need a bit of cheering now – if someone had fingered him on the strength of her E-fit. Served the bastard right. She’d not seen it till Tel’d said. Gould was a teacher, supposed to look out for his kids,
not get off with them. If Gouldie hadn’t turned nasty and told her to fuck off she might not have gone along with it. It was Tel’s idea. Supposed to get the cops off her back. She snorted. Like that’d worked. Bev Morriss had texted her
more times than she could count.

Her face fell. She felt really bad about Maxine. Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed at her reflection. What a freakin’ mess. If the cops hadn’t come on heavy wanting to know who Zoë’s dad was, she wouldn’t’ve
lied about the rape back in January. But she’d no choice. If Maxine knew she’d been screwing Tel it would kill her. Terry
could
be the father. Natalie had told him he was. Fact was, she didn’t know. It could’ve been any
Dick or Harry.

She lifted her hair, turned her head this way and that, pouting. Dropping Gouldie in it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Not only would it throw Mr Plod off the scent, but Tel reckoned Gould would be good for a bob or two: hush money. Smart or
what? Tel made her look dense.

The teenager reached for a cigarette, watched herself light it, blew smoke through her nostrils. Still, she was a quick learner. If she fitted up Gould for one rape, she reckoned he might as well take the rap for both. He’d lied about wearing a
condom when they had it off on Friday, so the bastard had it coming to him.

Anyway, teachers were easy targets. It’d be his word against hers. Anyone who read the papers knew what that meant. She’d come clean, put him out of his misery, before he was in the dock. Blame it on that post-traumatic stuff.
Probably.

Right now she didn’t give a toss about anything except getting Zoë back.

“Fuck’s sake.” She retrieved her mobile from the bedside table. The message was the same:
call me NOW bev morriss.
The girl scowled: the cop’s needle was
so
stuck.

She hit a few numbers, waited while an operator put her through to the ward. “Can you give my mum a message?”

Five minutes late, Natalie and her meagre belongings vacated the room. People to see, places to go, and fifty quid burning a hole in her back pocket.

“You’ll bust that if you’re not careful.” DC New indicated the cell phone that had just crash-landed on Bev’s desk. It was mid-morning on the sixth day of the search for Baby Zoë and all sixteen
detectives working in the incident room were desperate for something besides a phone to break. Over six hundred calls on the hot-line numbers, three hundred and twenty-seven statements taken, thousands of hours invested, incalculable effort expended. It
was as though the baby had never existed.

Bev retrieved the phone, relieved it was still intact. “Wonders of sodding communication.” She’d called or texted the number a dozen times in two hours. Her ensuing sigh ruffled papers.

Oz glanced up from a screen. “The Beck girl?” Bev nodded. She wasn’t the only frustrated bunny. Natalie Beck’s mystery tour had taken up a good deal of discussion at the early brief. It was incomprehensible to most squad
members that the girl had taken off while her baby was still missing. There were one or two vague mutterings, speculation as to whether she was involved in the child’s disappearance. Bev didn’t think anyone took the idea seriously; but as
every cop knew, absolutely nothing could or should be ruled out till the fat lady read the jury verdict.

A boot shot off a desk and a few spines straightened as the guv popped his head round the door. “Lydia Pope’s in reception, Bev. Five minutes, OK?”

“Sure.” Pope was Gould’s lawyer, finally arrived. Let me at her. Powell’s loss was Bev’s gain. Though the guv would take the lead, Bev was sitting in on what by rights was the DI’s baby. It was one reason
she’d made repeated efforts to contact Natalie. Further input from the Beck girl could help determine a line or lines of questioning. Given what they had, they’d be flying not quite blind but partially sighted.

“Wonder how the DI’s getting on?” Oz tapped a pen against his teeth. There wasn’t an officer in the nick who wouldn’t be glued to
Crimewatch
that night. Ratings’d go through the skylight.

“Creaming his jeans if he’s on the sofa with La Bruce,” Darren leered.

Oz nodded. “He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

Bev lifted an eyebrow. “Down, boys.”

“Nah.” Darren corrected his earlier comment. “Nick and Fiona don’t have sofas. That’s Richard and Judy.”

“It’ll be Punch and Judy in a minute.” Compared with Bev’s delivery the Sahara was damp.

Dazza started singing, “Hit me baby one more time,” before being forced to duck a flying stapler. “Sexual harassment.” He was all mock outrage. “I could have you for that, sarge.”

Pad under elbow, pen behind ear, Bev turned at the door and winked. “You wouldn’t know where to start, Dazza.”

Lydia Pope was almost as tall as the guv and thin as a rake on a diet. Garbed entirely in shiny black from skull-hugging cloche to scuffed court shoes, Bev reckoned the brief looked like a well-groomed exclamation mark – from
the back. Face-on, she could have been a man in drag. The nose was made to hang coats on, not enough teeth took what looked like temporary residence in too much gum and either a pair of anorexic caterpillars had died on her face or the eyebrows had been
pencilled in by a piss-head. With those looks, Bev reckoned Pope must be a shit-hot lawyer. A mental wrist-slap swiftly followed. She was catching macho habits from Highgate’s cavemen.

Interview Three was a tad cave-like: no windows, with fresh air and space at a premium. Pope swept in like it was the Supreme Court. She gave a metal chair an ostentatious wipe with a grubby tissue, seat and back, and was waiting, pen poised over
yellow pad, before Bev closed the door. Gould was already in situ behind a metal desk with a bashed tin ashtray as centrepiece. His five o’clock shadow was impressive; a week and he’d be combing a beard. The uniform who’d been keeping
watch asked Byford if they wanted tea, coffee.

“That won’t be necessary,” the lawyer drawled without bothering to turn. “We won’t be here that long.”

Bev exchanged an ooh-la-la glance with the guv, then crossed the room, ran through the spiel for the tape and took a pew next to Byford, opposite La Pope and Gould.