Baby Love (19 page)

She ran a hand along the rail. Black velvet? Too dressy. Oyster cotton? Too cold. Tartan kilt? Get a life. It was no good; she’d have to find time to flash the plastic before Tuesday. She’d just fixed a date with the delicious Doctor
Caine. She reckoned Zach was more Armani than Man at Next. She’d best hit Morgan.

Oz could go fuck himself.

It was his fault. She’d never have called Zach if Oz hadn’t given her the bum’s rush. Again. Christ, she’d only offered a take-the-piss-out-of-Powell-on-the-box session. It was hardly a bodily fluids exchange.

She scooped up the discarded clothes and shoved them into the bottom of the wardrobe. She’d sort everything properly on Saturday when Frankie came round. Take a stack of stuff to Oxfam. Maybe she’d come across those French knickers.
They’d cost an arm and a leg, considering they barely covered her bum. She gave her butt a seductive wiggle in the mirror. And was still laughing when she hit the kitchen.

Incident-room clowns held a line of scorecards aloft when DI Powell made his post-
Crimewatch
entrance next morning. The DI’s marks weren’t perfect but he’d pulled off a creditable performance. Even Bev had
been impressed with presentation, if not content. She lifted her head from a paper mound as he strode past.

“Well done.”

He halted mid-stride. “You taking the piss?”

“Straight up. The phones haven’t stopped ringing.” It was true. According to Jack Hainsworth, they’d taken eighty-plus calls. A few even sounded promising.

Bev had ploughed her way through a pack of Doritos and a half-bottle of pinot watching Powell in action on the programme. ID issues restricted filmed inserts to general views of the crime scenes and a few shots, ostensibly from the girls’ view
point, walking the routes where the three attacks took place. This generally meant great product placement for Nike and the like.

Back in the studio, the feline Fiona had drawn Powell out on the trophy angle. There were close-ups of identical earrings and vapid speculation on what compelled serial offenders to steal from victims. As expected, there was no allusion to the macabre
cutting of the girls’ pubic hair. It finished with a solicitous Ms Bruce appealing for anyone with information to get in touch with the police, and thirty seconds later that nice Nick Ross imploring viewers not to have nightmares.

Bev glanced up to see Powell standing by the whiteboard surrounded by fans. Filthy laughs suggested the DI was milking his three minutes of fame. Good for him. He’d done a decent turn: got the facts across and came over as an intelligent and
sensitive bloke.

“Hey, Morriss. Has that Beck bint shown up yet?”

Yeah, well...

Natalie Beck was on a Virgin train en route from Euston to New Street. Terry Roper was sprawled opposite. He’d settled for the Sundays, eventually:
People, News of the Screws, Mirror, Express.
Sixteen grand, cash in
hand. Well, in back pocket.

“What’s up, doll? Look like you’re chewing a lemon.”

Roper was getting on her tits. “What you think’s up?”

He sat forward, tried to take her hand. “Come on, babe. If this don’t get Zo back...” He didn’t have the balls to finish the sentence. Natalie did.

“Nothing will. Go on – say it.”

Roper glanced round. “Keep your voice down, doll.”

“And her name’s Zo-ee, case you forgot.”

Natalie leaned back, closed her eyes. If he thought she was asleep chances were he’d button it, before she decked him. She was beginning to think Tel was all talk. She’d pissed off to London on his say-so. It was all well and good staying
in a swanky hotel on a nice little earner but at the end of the day the baby was still missing. What difference were a few poxy newspapers gonna make? Mr Big Gob Roper, the man who had an answer for everything, had kept pretty shtum on that lately. As
for getting the police off their back, no chance. She was surprised Bev Morriss hadn’t melted the bloody mobile.

And now Max had taken a turn for the worse. How’d that posh cow on the ward put it? “Your mother’s condition is giving cause for concern.” What the freaking hell was that supposed to mean? She cocked an ear. According to Darth
Vader on the speakers, they were approaching Coventry. Wouldn’t be long before she found out. Found out what’d happened to Callum Gould, too. Not so much time to face the music as the full sodding orchestra.

The letter lying on Byford’s desk was identical. He’d received its twin four days earlier.

REMEMBER BABY FAY?

Bev looked up eagerly. This could be the break they badly needed. So why the guv’s grim face? Realisation dawned and Bev’s question was rhetorical. “The drop’s not on camera?”

The pre-emptive measures, taken within hours of the first missive’s arrival, had clearly failed. Byford had established quickly that the envelope had been hand-delivered to Highgate reception. It was sod’s law that the desk sergeant
hadn’t noticed whose hand. Byford had authorised extra CCTV to cover the entire area. The writer could easily have slipped a few bob to a passing kid, but whoever dropped it off might, after police persuasion, also deliver a steer.

Bev was damn glad it wasn’t her neck on the block. “Duff tape? Or did it just run out?”

“Neither.” He indicated the letter. “That was on the doormat when I got home last night.”

“Shit.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

There was a carafe of water on a low table. She rose, filled a cup and moved to the window, deep in thought. There was no doubt now. It was personal. The guv had been right since the word go. Distracted, she poured water into the drying cactus. Was
the message a malevolent taunt or a veiled threat? But who from? And why?

The guv was drumming his fingers on the desk, staring into the middle distance, probably asking the same questions.

“Could be someone pulling your strings, guv.”

The beat stopped. “I don’t do puppet, sergeant.”

“Who was around back then?” She returned to her seat. “Did you cross anyone? Rattle a few cages?”

He’d given it thought, passed a list across the desk. Names and parts played. She turned her mouth down. Sex offenders, by and large. The register was the first port of call in cases involving kids. Paedophiles were checked as a matter of
course. They took offence. Tough. One name stood out.

“This a cop?” Bev glanced up at the guv.

“Gallimore. Inspector. He was uniform. A right bastard.”

“Must be if he’s on here.”

“Hated my guts. Don’t know why. Took against me from day one and that was it.”

Sounded like someone she knew.

The guv did that mind-reading thing again. “Pete Gallimore makes Powell look like Mr Softie.”

Hard to believe. She shrugged, gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Would a cop really stoop to something like that?” She nodded at the letter.

“I’m ruling nothing out.” He flicked a mangled paper clip into the bin. “Check, check and check again.”

“The baby’s dad’s not on here.” Baby Fay’s errant father. “You had a problem with him.”

“He’s not giving anyone trouble any more .” He pushed a fax across the desk. According to the New York Police Department, the man had died in a road smash three months ago.

“Give the airport a call, shall I?” She was already on her feet. “Get us on a flight first thing?”

“What?” His hand halted mid-air. It held a ball of paper that was about to follow the paper clip’s flight path.

“You said it, guv.” A grin ruined the deadpan delivery. “Check, check, ch...”

The missile hit the door. She was already through it.

The mousy woman raced to the door. She’d been out of her mind with worry. The delivery hadn’t shown up on Wednesday. It was now Friday. She’d cut back on her food intake, of course, but she couldn’t deprive a
growing baby like Angel. One more day and there’d be no more milk. She’d already had to use towels for the last three nappy changes. It really was too bad.

She looked through the spy hole. No one there. Oh God. She clutched trembling fingers. What was she to do? Now the baby was crying. Damn. Why did these things have to happen to her?

She opened the door an inch or two, peered out and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The bags had been left in the porch. Quickly, efficiently, she moved everything into the house. She searched for a note, an explanation perhaps, some indication when
the next delivery would arrive. She looked through every bag. Looked again. Nothing. Not a word. Not even a receipt.

Still, there was enough here to last at least a fortnight. She’d hear before then. She was a little calmer now, more in control. So was Angel; the darling little girl had fallen fast asleep.

The woman took another deep breath, slowly exhaled and smiled. There was no need to panic. Everything would be all right this time.

It was the dog end of a dead-end week. Friday evening, and the seventh day of the search for Baby Zoë was drawing to a close. It was pitch-black outside and the incident room was replicated in reflections on the windows.

Bev perched on a desk, tapped a biro against her teeth. Hainsworth had just run through the latest statistics: more than seven hundred calls, four hundred statements. There wasn’t a lot to show, considering the thousands of people-hours and
endless checks. Maintaining motivation could become a problem if the inquiry continued to drag. Every man, woman and rookie wanted the bastard behind bars, but the atmosphere after those first frenzied days was undoubtedly more subdued. The squad had
already been scaled down and the guv would cut numbers further if nothing broke over the weekend. Crime in the city hadn’t conveniently come to a halt just because the cops were having a hard time.

“Haven’t you got a home to go to, our Bev?”

She glanced round. “Vincie. What’s new?”

Vince Hanlon, on a rare foray from front desk. “Christmas raffle. Dig deep in that thing you call a bag.”

She scrabbled in the depths for her purse. “What am I going to win, then?”

“Murder-mystery weekend.” The stage wink was a dead giveaway. “Nah. Tickets for a West End show and a couple of nights at Claridges.” He winked again, added a nudge. “For two.”

“You’ve twisted my arm, Vincie. Give us a book.”

The call came in as she handed over the cash.

“Sarge.”

Bev turned. The young cop looked shit-scared, the voice deadly serious.

“They’ve found a baby. On the Wordsworth. In a phone box. Dead.”

Bev was hooking up with Oz at the scene. He’d been closest to the Wordsworth estate when the call came in. She drove like a learner on a test. Speeding would only get her there more quickly, the last place she wanted to go. Not
to a body. Not to a life snuffed out almost before it began. This wasn’t how it should end.

She hit the wipers as squally rain slapped the windscreen. The scrape of the blades, the night’s foul conditions, were like special effects. Except this wasn’t a movie. Posters showing the baby’s face were still plastered on every
other lamp post along the Moseley Road. Bev couldn’t look, consciously averted her eyes. Couldn’t censor the mental pictures.

Keats Way was next left. She pulled over, parked the MG just past the junction with Coleridge Drive, grabbed a battered black umbrella from the back. It was textbook crime scene: squad cars, ambulance, flashing lights, uniforms keeping back a growing
crowd. She sensed a difference, too. Couldn’t put her finger on it initially, then realised it was eerily quiet. No one spoke. Maybe no one knew the words.

Oz stood in the rain under the soft orange glow of a streetlight. His hair dripped ink spots on to the shoulders of his leather jacket. He jumped when she tapped his elbow, said nothing, just nodded his head and pointed. The tears in his eyes and the
continuing stillness should have prepared her.

Nothing could.

It was the saddest sight she’d ever seen. A tiny naked body, barely covered by a crumpled sheet of newspaper, dumped on the filthy floor of a public call box. As her emotions reeled at the pathos, the futility, her brain registered facts.

It wasn’t Zoë Beck.

This tiny scrap of humanity had three or so inches of umbilical cord still attached. More than that, the baby was male and almost certainly Asian.

The stench of blood was unmistakeable among all the competing odours. She knelt on the grimy piss-stinking concrete, itched to take the tiny body into the warmth of her arms. A tender touch of posthumous love. Surely nothing could be so little or so
late.

“Poor little sod.” She hadn’t meant anyone to hear.

“The poor little sod’s beyond help.”

The casual delivery of the callous remark punched a button. Sod anger management. Bev sprang up, ready to lash out at the unknown speaker. The middle-aged woman in what looked like a man’s suit either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
Her eyes, creased in concentration, were scanning the cramped interior.

“And if you don’t find her fast, the mother’ll be beyond it as well.”

“Doctor Overdale?” It had to be Gillian Overdale, the new police pathologist. It was Bev’s first face-to-face with Harry Gough’s replacement; best not turn it into a head-to-head. She offered a hand. “Bev Morriss,
Detective Sergeant.”

The pathologist’s round face was pitted with acne scars. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Not all bad, I hope?”

“No.” She paused. “About half.” A twinkle in the pale blue eyes took out any sting.

Bev stood to one side to give Overdale access to the interior, watching as the pathologist peeled on latex gloves. The talk going round Highgate was spot on. Gillian Overdale was Harry Gough in drag: same Cockney drawl, same ravaged skin, same
well-cut wardrobe. And if the Neanderthals weren’t talking through their hairy bums, fancying women was something else Overdale shared with Harry.

Bev missed the old goat. Harry had taken early retirement and a laptop and buggered off to Bermuda or Barbados, somewhere hot and steamy beginning with B. His plan was to write crime novels. At last month’s leaving do he’d outlined
half-a-dozen plots. They were variations on a theme: brilliant pathologist thwarts kinky killer. Nothing new there, then.