Baby Love (22 page)

“It’s not like Callum to leave the dog.” The woman could’ve been talking to herself. “He normally asks me to have her.”

“You live next door?” To the she-wolf?

“Over the road, actually.” The hand she offered bowed under the weight of the rings. “Jackie. Jacqueline Jackson.” She gave her fingers a surreptitious wipe on pink animal-print leggings.

Not surreptitious enough. That sort of thing really pissed Bev off. “Any idea where he is?”

“He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Not at all.” It went against the grain but she gave a bright smile.

“You wouldn’t say if he was.” The snarl was lop-sided.

“Do you have a key, Mrs Jackson?”

“Do you have a warrant, Sergeant Mason?”

Getting the name wrong was probably deliberate. She let it go. She needed JJ on side. Quick change of tactics. “It’s just that I’ve left mine at home.”

“What?”

“Key.” Bev went for coy, shuffled her feet, gazed at the ground. “Callum’s not mentioned me, has he?”

Jackson looked uncertain but that was more or less permanent.

“We’ve not told many people,” Bev gushed.

“
You’re
the woman he’s seeing?” With several thousand volts, she couldn’t have sounded more shocked.

Good job it was a scam or Bev would’ve been well offended. “I said I’d pop round, feed the dog but ...” She spread empty palms. Nice touch, Beverley.

There was a glint in the green irises. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

The she-wolf? Bev nodded; weak smile, wary eye. Nice touch? Maybe not.

“Tell me.” Jackie ran a skeletal finger along a razor-sharp jawbone. “What’s her name?”

Bitch? “Never forget a face,” Bev busked. “Names?” She arched a hand six inches over the top of her head. “Crap, I am.”

“You surely are.”

Glances locked for a few seconds. Bev thought JJ was going into spasm then realised it wasn’t a hissy fit – the woman was shaking with suppressed laughter.

Bev had the grace and sense to look a tad sheepish.

“You lying mare,” Jackson sniggered. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Callum’s lady friend...” She paused. “Sonia’s a six-foot Jamaican.”

“Worth a try.”

“Wait there. I’ll get the key.”

Jackson was back in a less than a minute.

“Why’d you change your mind?” Bev asked.

“If you’re that desperate to get in, there must be a bloody good reason, right?”

Bev shrugged. She’d look a right tit if Gould had nipped to the shop.

“Anyway.” Jackson smirked. “If you try anything, Jude’ll have your leg off.”

Jude was a cross Doberman cross. Bev kept her distance while JJ slipped a leash round the dog’s neck.

“I’ll take her round the block. Be back in five.”

It took less than two. Nothing appeared out of place initially. The house was a shrine to Ikea and earth tones. Gould hadn’t slept in his bed.

Bev found his body in the never-land nursery. Sleeping pills and Scotch had put him out of his misery.

“He could’ve lain there for days if you hadn’t gone round.”

Bev snorted. “That supposed to make me feel better?” Her DM sent gravel flying. “Tell you what, guv. It’s not working.”

She was phoning from Gould’s place. A crime team was inside. The pathologist had been and gone. It looked like a clear case of suicide but she’d not take anything for granted ever again. If she’d followed through last night, maybe
Callum Gould would still be alive.

Anyway, he’d left a note. His final words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t even original. “Life’s a bitch. And then you die...” Bev reckoned that said it all. And left out everything.

“He took his own life, Bev. You’re not responsible.”

Cop-out. They’d all played a part as far as she was concerned. Gould must’ve been living on a knife-edge. They’d sharpened it and Natalie Beck had shoved it in. No wonder the guy’s dog had been pissed off. She could hear it
baying from across the street. Jackie had taken it in but its future looked no rosier than Gould’s.

Bev glanced up as a seagull screeched overhead. Seabirds in the city weren’t uncommon. The sound pleased her every time she heard it. Not now. It simply evoked a stretch of sand with a line of buried heads.

“Bev?”

She took a deep breath. “Still here, guv.”

“Look, the man was under pressure. His marriage was down the pan, his job on the line. He’d been on anti-depressants for more than a year.”

“Great. Just what the doctor ordered, then. A false rape accusation.”

“No one forced the tablets down his throat.”

“As fucking good as.” Natalie shovelling a Happy Meal down her neck came to mind. “What’ll happen to the Beck girl?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, guv. She more or less admits making up the rape stuff.”

“And we charge her with what? Wasting police time? The might of the West Midlands’ finest versus a traumatised under-privileged kid? That’ll do us a lot of good.”

Bev clenched her fist but knew the big man was right. They’d be portrayed in the media as uncaring heavies and Natalie as a cerebrally challenged teenager whose tenuous grasp on reality had been further loosened by the cruel loss of her baby. If
she was pursued through the courts, she’d get a caution, at most. And none of that was going to bring back Callum Gould.

On the other hand, if Natalie’s claims hadn’t been levelled in the first place...

“I’m going round,” she said. At the very least, Natalie needed a few home truths.

“You’re not.” It was an order, not an option.

Reluctantly, she agreed. She’d probably end up landing one on the lying little sod. Best to wait till her blood was off the boil.

“Get off home, Bev.” Byford’s words were gently spoken. “There’s nothing you can do there.”

Here. There. Any-freaking-where. What was it Oz said? Unless you’ve taken to raising the dead.

“Here you go, my friend.” The tray held a dinner fit for a cop. Perlagio pasta and spicy meatballs, heavy on the parmesan, saucy little pinot on the side.

“Marry me, Frankie,” Bev said. “I’ll have a sex change.”

“Won’t stop you snoring.”

“Wear plugs.”

Bev pressed play on the DVD. It was Frankie’s choice.
Desperate Housewives
did zilch for Bev but she owed her mate big time. Frankie’d spent half a day helping sort packing cases and putting the place almost to rights. She’d
let herself in and made a decent start before Bev returned from the Gould debacle – late, owing to the MG throwing another wobbly.

They’d not talked much about the teacher’s suicide; Bev could barely bring herself to think about it. But Frankie was there for her. That was worth more than any number of words, however well meant.

Wisteria Lane’s horny housewives were less than absorbing. Frankie’s mind wandered long before the end. “Where are all your photo albums, Bevy? I fancy putting a montage together tomorrow. It’ll make you feel at
home.”

Bev grimaced. She looked like a gargoyle in most pictures, but Frankie loved doing that sort of thing and was clearly on a mission.

“That case in the back.” Bev waved a fork in the general direction. “The one with Photo Albums written all over it.”

“Nice one, Bev. So why’s it empty?”

They downed trays in synch and headed for what might one day be the dining room. Not so much as a strip of negatives in the packing case, where there should’ve been twenty, thirty albums, many donated by Emmy – snaps capturing everything
from Bev’s first breath to her last day at school.

“Must be around somewhere.” Frankie sounded uncertain. She picked up bad vibes like a magnet.

Bev knew her face was being searched for pointers. She sat cross-legged on the floor, ran a mental inventory, picturing each room. She was certain the photo albums weren’t in the house, yet in no doubt they’d been in the box. But Frankie
didn’t need the hassle. “’Course they are, Frankie.”

The pictures were around. Just not around here.

Such deep blue eyes. They followed him everywhere. The Beast scanned the photographs he’d displayed so carefully, his glance resting on a particular favourite here and there. He’d cut out the nobodies in the shots; even
so, the pictures almost covered an entire wall of the lock-up. He was rather pleased with the effect. The candles were arranged like runway lights. He lit the wicks with a long taper and carefully dropped the black silk robe, his naked body bathed in
gold. He moved this way and that, his shadow, dark as blood, seeping across her face. He stood hands on hips, letting her feast those baby blues on his nakedness. He moved a hand, fingers stroking his cock, cupping his balls. Careful. Not yet.

He imagined her opening his gift, leered as he pictured her wearing the knickers. That’s if she lost a few pounds. He sniggered. He’d bought the wrong size deliberately. Little hint. The Beast went for slim pickings. He lifted a hand to
his ear lobe, stroked there too. Wondered if she realised her earring was missing. He’d sent enough messages, dropped enough clues. She’d pick up on it soon. He wanted her to know, wanted her running scared. He wanted a thrilling hunt, before
moving in for the kill.

And this one would die.

He strutted nearer to his favourite picture, stared at her face, stroked the outline of a cheek. The eyes were so striking, so... arresting.

He smiled at the notion. “Catch you later, babe.”

Natalie Beck’s face stared dolefully from the hall mat when Bev drifted downstairs next morning. The girl, with a picture of Zoë in one hand and the baby’s teddy in the other, was splashed across the
News of the
World
front page. Bev’s mouth thinned as she skimmed the story. ‘Tears of tragic mum’ was the gist. Even though the baby could still be alive. Unlike the currently decomposing Callum Gould. The teacher’s overdose didn’t
get a mention.

Frankie was already at the kitchen table, making Nigella Lawson look frumpish. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bev gave an uncertain smile. It was only a few hours since she’d worked it out herself. She’d been up in the night searching the house for the missing pics. She’d obviously woken Frankie. Bev wasn’t ready yet to share her
fears; Frankie worried about the dangers of Bev’s job enough. “Tell you what?”

Frankie sashayed to the fridge, opened the door and grinned like a game-show hostess. “That you’re on a liquid diet.” Apart from a carton of semi-skimmed milk, the interior resembled an off-licence.

Relieved, Bev lifted a finger, hunkered down and scrabbled in the back of a cupboard. Keeping the Best Before date well hidden, she dolloped out a generous helping of Coco Pops.

“Needs must,” Frankie mumbled through a full mouth. “You not having any?”

“Nah. Not hungry.” Soon as she’d fixed coffee, she joined Frankie at the table.

The cereal bowl was empty apart from half an inch of sludge at the bottom. Frankie pushed it to one side. “Haven’t had Coco Pops since I was a kid.” Her tongue flicked across her top lip. “Don’t remember them tasting like
that.”

“In a good way?” Bev ventured.

Frankie waved an undecided hand.

Bev smiled weakly and sipped coffee. They chewed the cud for a while, innocuous chitchat mainly. Bev’s concentration level wasn’t high, her mind elsewhere. Good job she was adept at dissembling.

Frankie clicked her fingers. “Control to Detective Sergeant Morriss. Come in, please.”

“What you going on about?”

“You, Bevy. The lights are on but nobody’s home.”

Frankie didn’t just look concerned, she looked hurt. The last thing Bev wanted was to upset her best mate. Should she confide in Frankie? Even though she wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that her suspicions were correct? She leaned
forward, elbows on table.

“That’s the problem, Frankie. I have a feeling someone has been home.” Frankie’s eyebrows met as she frowned a question. Bev lowered her gaze. “I think I might have a stalker.”

“
What?
”

She described how she’d turned the place over looking for the AWOL albums. Frankie wiggled her shoulders, her mouth turned down. Not exactly conclusive.

“It’s not just that,” Bev said. “Some of my underwear’s missing.” She’d checked it all, found more than one item gone. “And some of it’s been replaced.” She told Frankie about the gift in the
post.

“Shit, Bev.” The huge brown eyes narrowed to slits. “Anything else?”

Bev shook her head. She wasn’t even sure why she’d checked the jewellery case. It wasn’t as though she owned much. Maybe that was why she knew, and valued, every piece. Especially the gold studs her dad gave her before he died.

There was only one now. But a missing earring would be too much information. Frankie looked scared enough. Mind, she had just spotted the Best Before.

Monday. Early. Highgate. The search for Zoë Beck was entering its tenth day. Reluctantly, Bev wanted to come off the case, reckoned she had the leverage. She was grabbing a word in the guv’s office prior to the early
brief, had just informed him about her uninvited guest. “Put me back on Street Watch, guv.”

“No way.” Byford slumped in his chair, a faint twinge at the temple. The big man’s face was impassive but the Waterman in his fingers was in imminent danger of snapping.

“But...”

He’d not even considered it.

“But nothing.” He took a file from a foot-high stack, a weekend’s worth of paperwork. It was an unsubtle brush-off, but she sat her ground. She’d had longer to think it through. If the so-called Beast had her in his sights, the
sick fuck must have been in hers. Their paths must have crossed. If she backtracked, maybe she could pinpoint when and where. Anticipating a negative reaction from the guv, she’d already photocopied key reports.

“I’ve not given up on Zoë Beck, guv, but I’ll be a damn sight better use on Street Watch.” Any number of cops could lead the hunt for the missing baby; in the hunt for the rapist it looked like she
was
the lead. Why
couldn’t he see that? “The bastard’s toying with me, playing games, wants a partner.”

“For Christ’s sake. You’ll offer yourself as live bait next.”

“Good thinking.” She’d not actually considered that.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He lifted a finger. “A, there’s no proof your intruder is the rapist.” Another finger. “B, if he is, he sees you as prey, not playmate. And C...” He hesitated.