Baby Love (23 page)

She rushed in. “And C, I reckon I’ve rattled his cage.” She leaned forward, hands on desk. “So give me a bigger stick.”

“And C...” Byford glanced pointedly at his watch. “I say so. Post-brief, bring DI Powell up to speed.” Byford pointed to the door. “He’s the officer in charge.”

It was still dark outside and the window reflected a Morriss eye roll and particularly pissed-off lip curl as she stamped from his office. Byford braced himself for a slammed door. It could’ve been tissue paper, she closed it
so gently. He should’ve known. Bev was both unpredictable and impetuous: a dangerous combination, especially if the rapist was targeting her.

Far from being intimidated, she’d appeared exhilarated at the possibility. Byford had caught the flash in her eye, the flush on her cheek, as she’d urged him to release her from the Beck case. The big man massaged his temples. He
wouldn’t put it past her to go big-game hunting on her own. But if she went on a one-woman safari, she’d be open to attack. And if she flouted his orders again, he’d bloody well kill her himself.

He needed someone to watch her back, knew she’d never countenance a minder. Still, she didn’t need to know everything.

He put the phone down a couple of minutes later and reached for the drawer. Damn. The pack was empty; the Nurofen was no more. And he had the mother of a migraine.

The sun was getting off its butt at last, releasing mauve-pink tendrils across a blue-black skyline. Bev reckoned the view out there had more going for it than the static action in the incident room. A duty inspector whose name
escaped her was droning on about the weekend’s non-developments. Talk about déjà vu. Ten days in and only the stats were different. She tuned out as her glance fell on the baby’s photograph.

Bet you are, too.

Bev was no Doctor Spock but even she knew how quickly babies changed. OK, Zoë hadn’t been gone a fortnight. But what if she was still missing after three months? Six months? A year? Assuming, of course, she was still alive...

That cheerful thought led inevitably to the poor bloody baby, and young mother, who’d died on Friday night. Bev rubbed a hand over her face. The story had led TV news bulletins most of the weekend, but no one had come forward to identify, let
alone claim, the bodies. Unbelievable. Family honour? Disowning a daughter who’d died in childbirth? She hoped she was around when the relatives were finally traced.

The duty inspector must have signed off. Darren New was talking at her. “What you reckon, sarge?”

“Sorry, Daz, say again.”

“
Crimewatch?
Worth another approach?”

“Good thought, mate.” She’d already floated it to one of the producers but the next slot was a month off. Please God, let there be a break before then. Not that the exposure was all it was cracked up to be. Powell’s appearance
had generated more than a hundred calls, but there was sod all to show apart from a hike in the phone bill.

“If there’s nothing else we’d best get on.” She was perched on a desk and casually uncrossed stockinged legs. The linen skirt rarely lived up to its knee-length description. And Oz was at the front. Not that he was looking at
her. He was tapping a finger against tight lips.

“Natalie Beck, sarge.”

“What about her?”

“Anyone see the coverage in yesterday’s papers?” Most heads nodded. “It was all me, me, me,” Oz explained for those that didn’t. “She barely mentioned the kid.”

Bev’d been so incensed with what she saw as the girl’s part in Gould’s death she’d only skimmed the
Screws
story. “What’s your point, Oz?”

“I think the whole thing stinks. That baby’s been missing for a week and a half and we haven’t found so much as a fingernail.” True, and given crime-scene expertise highly unusual. “No one’s seen anything, heard
anything or is saying anything.” A dozen pairs of eyes focused on Oz, keen to know where he was going. “That’s incredibly good fortune – or exceptionally clever planning.”

“You think...?”

“I think we need to talk to the girl.”

Bev was vaguely aware of a door opening, a figure approaching from the side. Oz was in full flow. Without turning, she lifted a hand to halt the latecomer.

“You said yourself, sarge: the snatch was no random spur-of-the-moment thing. We’ve been looking for someone on the outside. But maybe it was an inside job. And you don’t get any closer than the mother.”

A slow handclap broke the silence. The late arrival, control co-ordinator Jack Hainsworth, had not appreciated the offhand hold-up from Bev. “Glad you’ve got it sorted, sunshine.” He offered her a piece of paper. “Best find
this one now.”

The bare bones were carbon copy: a baby girl abducted from her cot in the early hours of the morning. In every other respect the contrast was off the radar. Brindley Place was as far removed from Balsall Heath as Barcelona from the
Bullring.

Bev gripped the wheel and hunched forward as she scanned the surroundings. Squad cars lined Broad Street and uniformed officers were already throwing police tape round the waterside development. She cast her mind back ten days. The start in the Beck
case had been a damn sight tardier, thanks to Les King. Bet the lazy bugger would’ve got his act together faster if the call’d come from this neck of the woods. The guv didn’t want King back at Highgate. It was to be hoped the fat sod
had a big garden.

Oz indicated a space, moaned as she clipped the kerb. She ignored him; they’d still be sitting in traffic if he’d been driving. She’d got them here in seven minutes. Now they dodged human traffic: office workers, school kids, sales
assistants hurrying or not to various destinations. Theirs was Windsor Place, a block of luxury apartments overlooking the canal. The address had meant nothing to Bev but the name rang a loud bell. David Carver was the English lecturer at Queen’s
College. She’d interviewed him in connection with Street Watch.

A woman constable opened the door, told them crime-scene officers were already on site. She led the way into a room larger than Bev’s entire ground floor. The Carvers sat like mismatched bookends on a sofa the shade of unsalted butter. There was
enough space on the soft leather between them to accommodate another two adults.

David Carver turned his head but Helen appeared oblivious, staring blankly into the distance, picking compulsively at the sleeve of her jumper.

Bev gave the plush surroundings a cursory glance as she approached. The apartment put her in mind of a wedding cake: all frills and flounces, whites and creams. A studio portrait of the couple and, presumably, their missing daughter dominated the
space to the right. The baby was probably the most beautiful she’d ever seen; even in profile the child looked angelic. The photograph was about the only personal touch in what could have been a show home. No, Bev thought, the place was too
pristine for casual callers.

She reached out a hand. “Bev Morriss. We have met.”

“I remember,” Carver said. “You were very...” He struggled for a second. “Professional.”

She acknowledged the remark with a brisk nod. “I’m only sorry we’re meeting again under such sad circumstances.” She glanced at his wife. Helen Carver was in a world of her own, still staring ahead, still tugging at her sleeve.
Bev looked closer. Mrs Carver had applied full make-up. It wouldn’t’ve been Bev’s priority, or most women’s. Still, doubt, benefit and all that: trauma took different people different ways. It’d knocked the shine off David
Carver. The man the kids called Heathcliff looked as if he’d been roaming the moors in a gale.

He gestured at a couple of deep armchairs, talked her through what he knew. He’d gone to bed at eleven, Helen a few minutes later; Jessica had woken for a feed around two. They’d found the empty cot at 7.45. “That’s it.”
He spread his hands in appeal.

“Who fed the baby, Mr Carver?”

“I did.”

Three heads swivelled as a tall elderly woman carrying a tray came into the room. Helen Carver remained immobile, apparently unaware.

“This is my mother,” David Carver said. “Veronica Carver.”

Bev reckoned the old woman looked more like the help: black skirt, white blouse, tight bun. “Mrs Carver. You were the last person to see Jessica?”

“The last of the people in this room.” The correction was administered quietly but firmly. Veronica poured coffee from a silver pot as she spoke. It meant no eye contact; Bev wondered if it was deliberate. “Jessica was absolutely
fine. She took virtually the whole bottle, then fell asleep as normal.” Her hand was steady as she passed cup and saucer.

“You usually get up in the night to feed her?” It was hard not to show surprise.

The old woman gave a slight nod, tight smile.

Bev glanced at the baby’s mother, decided on a change of tack. “None of you heard anything?”

Mother and son shook their head.

Bev looked again at Helen Carver: no one in, lights out. Bit like Maxine Beck. The similarity didn’t end there. Take away the layer of Max Factor or whatever, pile on the pounds and a decade or so, the woman would pass for Maxine in a dim light.
Amazing what money in the bank and a few decent breaks’ll do.

“Anyone notice anything out the ordinary in the last few days?” Bev asked. “Dodgy characters hanging round? Unexpected callers? Anything suspicious?”

Vacant looks, closed mouths. The distant sound of a washing machine going into its spin cycle broke the silence. Domestic non-bliss.

Bev told the Carvers what to expect over the next few hours: a full-scale search of the building and immediate area; a media appeal as soon as it could be arranged; a family liaison officer to be assigned.

“We don’t need a stranger in our home, thank you.” Veronica Carver plucked a thread of cotton from her skirt before smoothing the material.

Bev glanced at David Carver, who gave a one-shoulder-couldn’t-give-a-monkey’s shrug. “We’ll see how it goes, then,” Bev said.

David rose, went to a sleek pale-wood unit, shelves and drawers. “You’ll need this.”

It was a smaller version of the studio portrait. Bev passed it on to Oz, then placed herself in Helen Carver’s eye-line. “I know this is a tough time for you, Mrs Carver.” It was bloody tough for Bev. Whatever she said would sound
crass, even though she meant every word. “I promise we’ll do everything in our power to find Jessica.” And it wouldn’t just be down to cops this time. Brindley Place, the whole of Broad Street, swathes of the city centre crawled
with CCTV. It’d be a sodding miracle if the kidnapper wasn’t on camera. “Trust me, we’ll leave no stone...”

Bev jerked back, totally unprepared. Helen Carver had taken a swing that missed by an inch.

“Trust you? Don’t make me laugh.” But Helen Carver was. Hysterically. “Find Jessica? Like you found the other baby? Wonderful.” She spat every syllable. “Can’t wait.”

“Helen, don’t...”

She slapped furiously at her husband’s hand. “How dare you. How dare you tell me
don’t
.”

He glanced at Bev. “Sorry, sergeant, my wife’s...”

“What?” Helen screamed. “Your wife’s what? How the fuck would you know what your wife is?”

Bev watched, open-mouthed, as Oz rose and took the woman’s hand. “Mrs Carver, Helen, you’re overwrought. Take some deep breaths; try to calm down. Jessica will need you in good shape when we bring her back.”

When. Not if. Maybe it was that, maybe the sincerity in his eyes. Helen Carver’s ragged emotions teetered for a second before she staggered to her feet. “I need to lie down. Please excuse me.”

“Sarge.” A head round the door: Ross West, one of the crime-scene officers. Bev joined him in a soulless lobby where he lowered his soft Edinburgh burr. “No sign of forced entry. Three sets of prints, far as I can tell. We’ve
bagged hairs, fibres, all the usual...” There was something else. He beckoned her to a door on the right, stood back to let her enter first.

The nursery was another tier of wedding cake, the cot a four-poster crib, the only soft toy a polar bear. “What you got, Ross?”

The young man pulled back a sheet. Bev stiffened. There was another colour in the room. Red. Bright red. And still wet.

The blood was Helen Carver’s. Not the baby’s. Apparently mad with grief, the young mother had slit her wrist. Clearly the wound wasn’t life-threatening, merely adding to a lattice of scars that criss-crossed both
arms. According to David Carver, his wife was a serial self-harmer, the legacy of a childhood blighted by sexual abuse. Little wonder she habitually wore long sleeves. Bev’s sympathy was in short supply. Her priority at the moment was the missing
baby, not what she saw as the hysterical mother.

“She’s barking, if you ask me.” All that pristine perfection and immaculate grooming was mere window dressing; Helen Carver’s foundations were cracking. David Carver had talked them through his wife’s battles against
depression and bulimia. The longed-for baby, Jessica, was supposed to have been a brand-new start. And, until this morning, he really thought Helen had turned the proverbial corner. Bev sighed, shook her head. “Woof bleeding woof.”

Oz slowed for a red light on the Bristol Road, glanced across. “That’s really harsh, y’know.”

She waved a sausage roll, prior to taking a bite. “Sorry, Sigmund. But I reckon if my kid was missing, I’d be out looking for her, not making it all about me.”

A half-shrug denoted doubt. “No one knows how they’ll react till it happens.”

She pointed the pastry at the passenger window. “Use the bus lane, Oz.” Traffic was heavy. Mentally she put a foot to the mat. They were cutting it fine to make the news conference at ten. They’d already spotted God knew how many TV
crews grubbing round down Brindley Place. Highgate was going to look like a Hollywood lot.

“Want a bite?” She clocked a Khan eye-roll. “Suit yourself.” She brushed a few crumbs off her skirt. “Reckon she slags him off like that all the time?”

When Bev first met the Carvers, back in October, they’d seemed like Mr and Mrs Cornflakes ad. But given what else she’d witnessed lately, who knew jackshit about what went on in other people’s lives?