Baby Love (21 page)

She was in denial. Natalie had buried her head – Bev kicked the sand. “Staying with her dad, is she?”

Any grains of truth were engulfed by bullshit. “How many times you need telling? I don’t know who her dad is.”

Bev reached for Natalie’s hand. “Just tell me. Is it Terry Roper?”

“I don’t know! Right?”

She was out the door before Bev had buttoned her coat. As to Terry Roper being Zoë’s dad, it was neither confirmed nor denied. Far as Bev was concerned, the jury was still out.

Bev was in the shower. Singing. Charlotte Church was safe.

“...beautiful morning, beautiful day, wunnerful feeling, everything’s...”

She sounded like a scalded cat on heat – but the sun was shining, it was a day off and fun-time Frankie was coming over later. Bev stepped out, did the toga thing with the towel and hopped on the scales. That can’t be right. She lost the
towel. Better.

The wardrobe was a mess after her earlier
What Not To Wear
session. She scratched her ear, considering the options. Best have an away-day from the blue. Frankie’d started calling her Rita, as in meter maid. She grabbed black denims,
teamed it with a tight black t-shirt. Must remember to suck in the slightly-more-than-a-six-pack.

She looked in the mirror. Not worth putting her face on till they’d given the house its makeover. She’d give herself one before they nipped into town. The plan was to hit Morgan’s, then grab vids, vino and pasta fixings on the way
back. Saturday. Sorted. Sweet.

The doorbell rang as she hit the stairs.

The old codger’s face looked as if it’d been ironed. Badly. Like a Greek, he was bearing gifts. The bony fingers could’ve doubled as twigs. “Took it in for you yesterday. Postman wasn’t happy ’bout leaving it on the
step.”

Bev accepted the brown-paper parcel with a smile. This was her first encounter with the lesser-spotted neighbour. Or in this case liver-spotted.

“Thanks very much, Mr...”

“Tommy’ll do.” Shame. She had him down as Albert, as in Steptoe – scrawny neck and bristly chin, striped pyjamas flapping like pigeon wings under a grey mac.

“Bev.” She smiled. “Bev Morriss. Can I get you a cuppa tea or somethin’?”

He winked a milky-blue eye. “
Somethin’
would do.”

Her smile was even less certain; as for a comeback, she was floundering. It sounded like the old guy was hitting on her.

He tapped her arm. “Don’t mind me, Bev. Love a laugh, I do.”

Fucking hell. She lived next door to a geriatric comedian with Casanova tendencies.

“I’ll not trouble you now, love. Plenty of time for that later.” He tapped the side of an old Roman nose. “Get to know each other a bit better, eh?” The new dentures didn’t quite fit. Tommy looked like a horse
sucking a lemon sherbet.

“Can’t wait.” She gave an outrageously lewd wink, then closed the door. She was still grinning when the mobile rang. The call wiped the smile off her face.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me last night, Oz?” She felt a cold fury as she took in the details of a young girl’s needless bloody death among a load of rubbish bins. Talk about human waste.

“I left a message.” The lips were taut. She could hear it.

“Not good enough, mate.”

“Why? What could you have done?” She didn’t like the tone.

“Not the point.”

“Yes. It is. Unless you’ve taken to raising the dead.”

It wasn’t said in jest. It was cold. As ice. She was about to mouth off, then paused. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was miffed and shooting the messenger.

She tried making light of it. “Not up to the big one. Still working on water into wine.”

“Come in handy, won’t it?”

She smiled despite the deadpan delivery. It faded when she registered the dialling tone. The answer phone was in the hall. She pressed play, listened as Oz’s voice, disembodied and emotionally detached, described the girl’s discovery and
death. He sounded shattered and not in the sense of tired. It had hit him hard and she’d kicked him while he was down. “Oh, Beverley. Brain. Mouth. Get it right, girl.”

She wandered through to the kitchen, still mulling over their terse two-way, wondering if it was too late for a damage-limitation call back. Bread into toast first. The parcel caught her eye as she strolled back to the phone. Deciding to open it
beforehand was classic displacement activity, but the prospect of more crossed words with Khanie didn’t appeal. Could be he was just tired of her. And she didn’t want to think about that.

It didn’t rattle or tick. And it was too light for a book. She used her teeth to tear the sellotape, then ripped the paper like a kid with a Christmas present. The gift box was classy and distinctive. She knew instantly where it came from. Agent
Provocateur. Shopped there too if she was feeling flush. She lifted the lid and smiled.

Oz was a dark horse at times. He shared her penchant for naughty knickers. And these were very naughty. French. Ivory silk. Like the ones languishing around packing-case city.

Like but no cigar. As she lifted them from the tissue paper she spotted a big difference. Small difference, actually. With the best will in the world and the harshest corset, she’d never squeeze her size-twelve bum into a ten. She frowned. Oz
knew that. She riffled the paper, looking for a card. Nothing. The address label was typed, Birmingham postmark. She sighed. Bullet. Bite, Beverley.

“Oz?” The mobile was under her chin as she buttered toast. “You sent me anything in the post?”

“I see you every day. Why would I do that?”

Good point. Except a potential audience of cops would be so un-cool. “That a no?”

“Yes. Why?”

She hesitated. “Nada.” Could they possibly be from Zach Caine? Not a thought to share. “While I’m on, mate, sorry ’bout...”

“Forget it. Look, I was just on my way out.”

Her Motorola slipped and landed in the Marmite. He was so going to think she’d hung up on him.

Mid-morning and Natalie Beck was still in bed. No room service here. No breakfast, come to that. She’d spent the night at Terry Roper’s two-up-two-down in Selly Oak. Tel did as much work in the kitchen as she did in the
boardroom. She’d not slept well, was feigning it now. Tel was on the phone in the bathroom and he’d drop his sneaky voice even lower if he thought she was earwigging.

She reckoned he was a scrote in more ways than one. It wasn’t just keeping her in the dark about the cash. She suspected Bev Morriss was on the button there. Tel was well minted at the moment and she’d only seen fifty quid. Nah. Besides
that, Natalie reckoned Tel was getting his leg over someplace else. And that wasn’t fair on Max. She might not know her own name right now but that was no call for Terry Roper to go sniffing round elsewhere. Natalie knew he wasn’t getting it
from her, she hadn’t let him anywhere near in months. And Tel had the sex drive of a Grand Prix.

She lifted her head off the pillow, still only caught the odd word. Sounded like he was cooking up another deal with the tabloids. If she didn’t get a bigger slice of the cake this time, there’d be hell to pay. There was a whiff in the
air: someone should tell him not to be so generous with the after-shave. She lay back smartish, pulled the duvet over her head.

“Hey, doll. I’m nipping out. Get you anything?”

Yeah, a private detective. She groaned, mumbled “No, ta.” He took the stairs two at a time; she waited till the front door slammed before springing out of bed. He kept his room locked but she’d had a spare key cut weeks back, just in
case. She’d gone through every pocket last night while he was getting hammered in the Selly Tavern. Apart from the fact he must have shares in a condom factory, the search had revealed sod all.

She prowled the small bedroom, working out where to start. The place gave her the creeps. It hadn’t been touched for years. Talk about time warp. The furniture was out of the ark. As for the wallpaper: purple roses. Puh-lease. But she was on a
different kind of paper trail: credit-card statements, cheque stubs, receipts, letters, anything that’d point the finger.

The chest of drawers was the size of a planet. Uninhabited. A trawl turned up only a cheesy line in Superman boxers, a job lot of grey silk socks, more shares in the condom factory and a bit of loose change. She dragged a stool over to the wardrobe.
Should get some clothes on, really. Her fcuk t-shirt wasn’t up to the job. She stood on tiptoe. What a surprise. Big boys’ wank mags. She shook her head. The guy was so obvious.

“Lost something, doll?”

Her footing. She hit the floor bum first. Shit. “Tel. Thought you went out.”

He was leaning against the door, chewing gum, getting an eyeful. She tugged at the t-shirt.

“What you doing, Nat?”

Dusting? “Just looking.” She gave a girlie giggle. Nerves. Tel was putting the shits up her. Never done that before.

“For?”

She shrugged and watched as the chewing gum appeared like an anaemic slug between his perfect white teeth.

“I’ll let it go this time, Natalie. But bear this in what passes for your mind. If I find you going through my things again, you’ll get a slapping you wouldn’t believe.”

He strolled over, held out a hand. She made to rise. “No. Get yourself up, doll.” He prodded her bare thigh with his boot. “Key. Now.”

She slipped it in his palm. “Sorry, Tel.”

Sorry she hadn’t found anything. Sorry he knew she’d been looking. Still, the key bloke had been doing a bogof: buy-one-get-one-free. Would’ve been stupid not to. Wouldn’t it?

Loose end or what? Bev pulled a face, ended the call. Frankie was running late. Running round after Poppa Perlagio, more like. Giovanni wouldn’t let Frankie out the house if he had his way. Even inside, he’d cocoon her in
cotton wool if she’d let him. A widower now, Gio loved his only kid to bits but boy, it could be a pain. Bev had his paternal seal of approval because she was a lady cop, mature, sensible. Yeah, right.

An hour to kill. She drifted among a mini-maze of packing cases. Frankie’d urged her to make a start but it had as much appeal as walking on spikes. She wandered to the window, tapped her fingers on the sill. Her mum had advised her to get nets.
Yeah. That was up there domestically with a hostess trolley and matching Tupperware. Mind, she could do with a broom. The pavement and her concrete lawn were carpeted in mouldy-gold leaves. She glanced up as a youngish couple emerged from the house
opposite, laughing and chatting. He carried a baby in a sling on his chest. She pushed a kid in a buggy. Rare sight, that. Nuclear family: dying breed. Not like the proliferation of single mothers.

She shook her head. It saddened her: absent fathers, broken homes, damaged childhoods. Kids needed a mum and dad, decency and discipline. It was all very well Blair banging on about respect. What about self-respect? The courts were full of yobs who
didn’t give a shit about themselves, let alone society. She was sick of dealing with the fallout: street gangs, gun law, ordinary folk scared to step out of the house during the day, never mind after dark. What good was a sodding asbo against that?
Family values and a clip round the ear might do it. She rolled her eyes. Thank you, President Morriss.

She turned to face the room but her thoughts were elsewhere. Mr and Mrs Nuclear Family had brought the singular Becks to mind, and the baby. She’d already checked in twice; nothing had moved. The weekend team was poring over every report, every
witness statement, every word that had been recorded since day one. A fresh pair of eyes, a new slant might just pick up a lead that had been overlooked. As well as the bums-on-seats stuff, there’d be a team on the beat. She’d authorised
another street canvass on the Wordsworth: officers with clipboards stopping and questioning anyone with a pulse.

Come on, Bev. Day off. Remember?

Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Her finger landed on a case marked ‘ODDS AND SODS’. Crap and tat. She teased open the lid, caught sight of a Bay City Rollers scarf and a Rubik cube. Life’s too short; she’d book a skip on Monday.

She glanced at her watch. Elevenses. Great. Could do with a break.

Quick phone call before she forgot. She’d already tried Callum Gould’s number a couple of times, last night and this morning. He had a right to know Natalie Beck was dropping the rape allegation. And if she could spread a little cheer as
she went along her way...

She smiled, but her good deed was not to be. Gould wasn’t in. And she was out of milk.

There was a shop on the corner so why was she in the motor? Nice day for a drive didn’t cut it. She asked herself again, finally acknowledged what it was about. A niggle at the back of her mind was growing. A quick check was all it needed.

Bathed in the golden glow of a bright autumnal sun, even the Wordsworth looked less like a slum. Jee-zus, Beverley. Poetry in motion. She wasn’t stopping. Her destination was
in
Balsall Heath but not
on
the
estate. She’d checked the A-Z.

She shoved in a CD: Stevie Wonder,
Sunshine of your love
. Least she could do was provide a bit of backing. By the time she pulled up her brain was almost a niggle-free zone. She’d been doing the mountain-molehill thing again.

Gould’s house was tall, narrow, redbrick Victorian. The kind that little kids clutching thick crayons in chubby fingers drew when they first went to school. No smoke from the chimney, though. Bev locked the MG, took a closer look.

It was unseasonably mild but she felt the stirring of a faint chill.
The Guardian
was still in the letterbox; curtains upstairs and down were drawn. A dog barked even before she lifted the knocker. It was a big dog or it had a microphone. She
took a deep breath, hammered on the door, jumped back smartish. It was the hound of the sodding Baskervilles. The wood was going like a wobble board. The tap on her shoulder made her jump even more. She swirled round, half-expecting Christopher Lee. Or
Rolf Harris.

It was the Queen of Bling. “And you are...?” She was a walking jeweller’s: bangles, chains, chandelier-earrings. Even a couple of fillings flashed in the sun.

Bev showed ID, explained she was after a word with Callum Gould. The woman appeared to give it some thought. It wasn’t easy to tell because the face had been lifted; the scaffolding was probably round the back. The leathery complexion was the
shade of strong tea, not a good look on top of a teenage-thin frame. Bo Jangles obviously dieted within an inch of her life.