Baby Love (20 page)

“I’m worried, Beverley.” The words reinforced the concern etched on the pathologist’s face. “All this blood says the mother’s haemorrhaging badly. She needs urgent hospital treatment.”

Bev nodded, already calling Control. Given the mother’s condition, it was unlikely she’d gone far. Bev ordered increased patrols in the immediate area.

“Get them to keep an eye on hospitals, GP surgeries as well,” Overdale suggested. “If she has any sense she’ll seek medical help.”

And a minder. Bev briefly closed her eyes. The knock-on didn’t bear thinking about if the mother was a young unmarried Muslim. Family honour was the bottom line, top line, every line.

Oz appeared as Overdale was preparing to leave. Bev did the intro thing but it was neither time nor place for small talk. She watched as the pathologist climbed into a sleek two-seater Jag, then turned to Oz. “Anything doing?”

He’d been knocking on doors in the hope someone had seen something. He shook his head. “Zilch.”

Bev sighed. “Can you get on to the news bureau?” If Bernie or whoever was on called a press conference within the hour, the story should make the late news on the telly. It was too late to save the baby but with luck they might trace the
mother in time.

Her own phone rang as she was stowing it in her bag. The guv. He listened as she ran the scene, went through what she’d set in motion. No response.

“Still with me, guv?”

The silence lasted a few seconds more. “A baby’s dead out there. Know what I felt when you said it wasn’t Zoë Beck?” He paused. “I felt relieved. How sick is that?”

Pretty sick. She was a few feet from the tiniest body she’d ever seen. But she knew where he was coming from. Wanting Zoë alive didn’t mean he wanted another baby dead.

Before she could offer her thoughts he changed the subject. “You off now?”

Any time. A baby abandoned at birth, as opposed to snatched after, was more uniform’s territory. “Yeah. I was about to head home when the call came in.”

“I dropped by the squad room earlier but you’d left.”

“Oh?”

“Thought you ought to know Gould’s been released without charge.”

She’d half expected it. Apart from Natalie Beck’s statement, they didn’t have anything on him, yet. “Yeah, well, he isn’t going anywhere.”

The guv had. The phone was dead. As she checked it over, it rang again. She didn’t recognise the number; the sexy voice was no problem. The timing was. She was standing in the pissing rain in the middle of Balsall Heath on a Friday night.
“Can’t talk now, Zach. Can I get back to you?”

“Sure.” Doctor Caine sounded a tad miffed. “Only it’s business, not pleasure. And you did ask me to let you know.”

Like the proverbial bad penny, Natalie Beck had turned up and was currently to be found at her mother’s bedside. Bev ended the call, asked Oz to hang round and tie loose ends. She checked the mirror as she pulled out. Would always regret that.
The final glimpse of the scene was a burly ambulance man kneeling in the rain, the baby’s body in his arms.

Sod Drumsticks. She pulled over at the first tobacconist, was stubbing out the third cigarette as she arrived at the General. Wished to God it was as easy to put out the images in her head.

Natalie lay on the bed, inadvertently flashing a pink thong, her arm tucked protectively round her mother’s waist. Bev watched for a few seconds through the glass pane in the door. It might’ve been a touching little
tableau from
Casualty
or
ER
. She scowled. Or maybe not. Not when it also brought
Porridge
to mind. The last time she’d spied like this was on Callum Gould. In a police cell.

“Well, well, well. The prodigal returns.” The door cracked the wall. The slam wasn’t intentional but it was like a pistol shot in the stark room. “What, no fatted calf? No spit roast? Not even a turkey twizzler?”

The words emerged sneer-wrapped. Bev was more fired up than she realised. Might be down to a dead baby in a phone box, the kind of thing that could make a girl a tad arsie.

She strode in, noting that Maxine was still out of it. Or going for a BAFTA. But Natalie compensated in spades. She went through the whole silent-movie thing: wide black-rimmed eyes, fingers on lips, brow furrowed like a ploughed field. Easing herself
off the bed, she nodded at the door. Bev followed, whirled at the last second. Couldn’t swear to it but thought she saw the flutter of a moth’s-wing eyelid. Had Maxine been following the action?

Natalie was propped against the nearest wall: ankles crossed, arms folded, chewing on her bottom lip. Little Miss Truculent. “Fuck’s sake. D’you have to do that?”

“What?”

“Scare the shit out of everyone.”

“Quaking in your boots, are you, Nat?”

The Beck girl sniffed. Could be churlish contempt or the new nasal piercing: a ring through the right nostril. Either way, it had affected her power of speech. Bev used the impasse for further study. Natalie’s spotless white Vans were brand new,
as was the Bench top.

She mirrored the teenager’s stroppy stance, hoping the monologue would develop into a dialogue. “I would be.” She paused. “Quaking, in my cool new trainers.” Slightly longer pause. “If I’d buggered off while
the cops were searching for my kid. Not knowing whether she’s dead or alive. Looks bad, dunnit? Like you don’t give a shit.”

“What would you know?”

“So tell me.”

Natalie snarled, “Talk to the hand.” She pushed herself off the wall and headed down the corridor.

Bev called after her. “What’s it feel like? Selling your baby’s story?” The loping stride didn’t falter, let alone halt. “How much they paying you, Natalie?”

Without turning, she stuck two fingers behind her back.

“Two grand?” Bev snorted. “A mate at the Beeb says it’s worth at least twenty. Best check that with Tel, hadn’t you, love?”

That brought a momentary pause. Enough for Bev to catch up. She grabbed Natalie’s skinny arm and swung her round.

“Listen up, sweetheart. You can do what the fuck you like. But waste any more police time and I’ll slap a charge on you so fast your feet won’t touch.”

“Sod off.” Short and snappy;
so
not clever.

OK, kid, gloves off. Bev smiled, waited as a brace of nurses walked past, then tightened her grip, lowered her voice. “I thought we’d found Zoë’s body tonight.”

Natalie stiffened. Bev almost pulled her punches but a verbal fist was probably the only way to penetrate the posing. “All the way there, I’m feeling sorry for you.” She released her hold on Natalie’s forearm. “I get
there and there’s this new-born baby dumped in a pool of piss and blood on the concrete floor of a filthy phone box. See, Natalie, I can’t get rid of the image, that God-awful stink. I’m real glad you didn’t have to go through all
that... But don’t piss me around. I’m not in the mood.”

Natalie slapped a hand to her mouth and ran outside, sobbing. Bev found her perched on the low brick wall. It had stopped raining but everywhere was damp. She’d get a wet bum. Shame.

“Cruel, you are,” Natalie whined. “No need for that.” Snot and tears glistened on the back of the teenager’s hand.

Bev said. “Know what? I’m fresh out of sympathy.” She lit a Silk Cut, didn’t offer the pack. “You shouldn’t have left without telling anyone. You shouldn’t have ignored my calls.” And while she was at
it... “And you shouldn’t have dropped Callum Gould in the shit.” It was little more than a shot in the dark, instinct more than anything.

“Pulled him in, ’ave you?” The question was way too casual.

Bev crossed her fingers. “Highgate nick. Charges any time.”

“Good. Bastard raped me.” Bev listened hard, but there was little conviction in the voice.

“Did he, Natalie?”

“Giss a smoke.”

Bev stashed the pack in her bag. “Did Callum Gould rape you?”

The teenager turned her head away. Bev waited, partly to give her an opening, mainly because a departing ambulance with flashing lights and wailing sirens would’ve drowned out any words.

She took a deep drag and spoke through the smoke. “Serious allegation, kid. Bloke could go down for years.”

Natalie swung her leg to a silent beat.

“’Course, you’re under a lot of pressure. Could be you made a mistake.”

The leg stilled momentarily. Bev reckoned she might’ve hit a nerve. “You’d probably get off lightly at this stage. But drag it through the courts... Unless you’re absolutely positive, of course.” She held her breath,
hoping for a reply. Would’ve passed out if she’d held it any longer. “Judges are coming down heavy these days on women who lie about rape.”

She’d offered more openings than the job centre. And she’d be better off talking to the sodding wall. One last drag, then she flicked the dog-end into a waste bin. It was cold and dark, her stomach thought she was fasting and this was
going nowhere. “You still staying at Roper’s place?” Blank look. “Case I need to contact you.” Another prompt. “Case there’s news on Zoë.”

Natalie gave a desultory nod. “Yeah. If I’m not here.”

Bev saluted, turned on her heel, shouted over her shoulder. “Give your mum my love.”

“Yeah, no prob...”

She was in the girl’s face in a second. “Maxine
is
faking, then? What’s going on, Natalie?”

The gap was long enough for a year abroad. Finally the teenager spoke. “Honest. She’s not opened her mouth since I got back.” She was visibly shaking; a pear-drop tear ran down her cheek. “I’ve been cuddling her, stroking
her hair. I know it sounds daft but I talk to her, tell her lots of little things, pretending she can hear and we’re having a little chat. But it’s like she’s not there.” She lifted her face, a plea in her eyes. “They
don’t know what’s wrong and I’m worried sick.”

Bev was a sucker for a sob story and the emotion appeared genuine enough. She handed over a crumpled tissue. She couldn’t leave her like this, but she was famished. “Come on. I need a bite.”

Oz had the mobile in his hand ready to call again. He hit the first two nines before catching the faint wail of a siren in the distance. He hung up, debated whether to call Bev. She’d be with the Beck girl now and there was
nothing she or anyone could do. Except wait for an ambulance that was also too late.

The baby’s mother had been alive – just – when she’d been found. A student had turned down an alley to take a leak, stumbled over what he thought was a roll of carpet someone had dumped. Oz had taken the statement. For worn
Axminster read girl bleeding to death. God knew how she’d got here. Wright Street was a good mile and a half from the Wordsworth. It looked like she’d wedged herself between a bin and a rubbish bag. Oz couldn’t bear the thought that the
location had been deliberate. Not that there was a wide choice. The narrow alleyway ran down the sides of two businesses: an Indian restaurant called Jewel in the Crown and a hairdresser’s, Curl Up And Dye.

He shook his head, recalling the small frame, the lifeless eyes. Though the girl had just given birth, she’d been little more than a kid. Oz had sisters, reckoned she’d been around Amina’s age: thirteen. He took a deep breath. It was
one of those times he wished he could go off and get rat-arsed. The student said he’d be hitting the nearest bar. Oz couldn’t blame him. The second the young man had registered a bare leg and the stench of blood, he’d called the
emergency services, then did what little he could to comfort the victim. He’d been holding her hand when she’d taken her final breath, berated himself that he hadn’t caught her last words.

Blue flashing lights appeared at the top of the road. Oz stepped out of the shadows and held out a hand to guide the ambulance crew. He felt sick, but knew he wouldn’t throw up. He already had.

Ronald’s Golden Arches just off New Street brought a sparkle back to Natalie’s eyes. Two Happy Meals and the girl’s cheeks had a hint of colour. Bev picked at chicken nuggets and super-sized chips. A thin coke was
no counter-balance for the fatty diet. The place was packed with kids too young to be let into pubs, just old enough to be let out on their own. She nearly choked on a chip. That was a laugh. Most of the little dears would rather eat shit than be seen
with a parent in tow. Assuming there was still a parent in the picture.

Bev glanced round, barely concealing a scowl: junk food and juveniles. Not quite how she’d imagined the night panning out. Bumping into Zach Caine and undergoing an in-depth examination wasn’t even near the table now, let alone on the
cards.

A considerably more chipper Natalie was on the other side of the yellow formica prattling one minute about
EastEnders
and
Neighbours,
the next about whether she should get another piercing or go for a tattoo. Bev just couldn’t get
a handle on her. At every encounter Natalie Beck was a stranger. More than that, she could change in the blink of an eye. What was that line from Eliot? Something about ‘dying to each other daily’?

“I wouldn’t swear to it, like. Not in court.” Natalie dunked a chip into a tub of plastic purporting to contain sauce.

Bev’s coke went all over the place. “What?” She’d almost missed a pearl among the pigswill.

“Gould.” She reached for another chip, not looking at Bev. “I wouldn’t go to court.”

“You saying it wasn’t rape?” The street-kids at the next table were agog. Bev glared till they got the message: butt out.

Natalie leaned forward, lowered her voice. “He was dead rough, but...”

“You’re dropping the allegation?”

“S’pose.”

Bev shook her head. Better late than never, but the girl could’ve cost the man his liberty. She’d give the guy a call later, put him out of his misery. “Why, Natalie? Why make up a thing like that?”

“He hurt me, Bev. I wanted to get back at him. To tell the truth... ” Bev raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I don’t give a stuff about Gould. Nothing matters. Nothing at all ’cept getting Zoë back...”

It was the first time she’d mentioned the baby.

“See, I pretend little Zo’s on holiday, away at the seaside for a few days. I daren’t think about what’s happening. If it’s not in my head, it isn’t real. Know what I mean?”