Baby Love (25 page)

She caught Carol’s curious stare in the mirror. “The christening?” she said. “From now on I’m Bond. Bev Bond.”

“Yeah?” Carol drawled. “So who’s the bad guy?”

Hidden cameras, surveillance monitors, eyes-in-the-sky. Big Brother’s not the only one watching; the world and his uncle are in on the peep show as well. Bev had read the figures, done the math. The latest official guesstimate
reckoned on more than four and a quarter million CCTV cameras in the UK – one for every fourteen people.

According to her Highgate spies, a damn sight more than one had captured the perp. Bev was both stirred and shaking by the time she hit the video suite.

“What you got, mate?”

Ivor Gask whistled through a gap in off-white teeth. He was Bill Gates to a tee: bad haircut, worse dress sense. Bev suspected it was deliberate. He fancied himself as a techie wunderkid.

“Are you sitting comfortably?” He grinned. “Then I’ll begin...” Tapering fingers flexed like they were about to tickle a Steinway rather than hit a few buttons. “I’ve butt-joined relevant sequences,” he
explained. “Save you ploughing through a load of crap.”

“Great.” She took a perch, blew on a cup of steaming Bovril grabbed from the machine en route.

“We’ve got him entering Windsor Place.”

“Leaving as well?” A tingle started in her fingertips.

Ivor pushed out his bottom lip. “Nah. I got one of the lads down there to check. Camera was smashed.”

“Bit risky.”

“No proof it was down to your man. Could’ve been anyone.”

She didn’t argue. Ivor’s prickly reputation made John Two Jags look like a UN peacekeeper. But the chance of some passing yob putting out the lens just when the kidnapper needed to keep his head down was as likely as Bev making chief
constable.

“Let’s have a butcher’s, then.” She hunched forward.

Ivor talked her through a series of shots that started on Broad Street, took in Windsor Place, Brindley Place, Centenary Square, Chamberlain Square, New Street, Corporation Street, the Bullring. As an illustrated tour of the city, it was great.

“I’m looking at the guy with the hood?” Her hesitant supposition was about as clear as the figure on the screen.

“Duh.” Ivor slipped his fingers beneath a pair of braces. Bev tried to ignore the reindeer motif.

“Sorry, mate, but I haven’t seen a feature yet, never mind a face.”

“He’s definitely the guy who got in, right place, right time.”

Bev sighed. Far as she could see, it was fifty-fifty whether
guy
was even the right gender. The figure was swamped in baggy dark clothing and could just as easily be female. The occasional clip when the head was uncovered was little better.
Either the camera angle was too high or the light level too low.

Silhouettes and shadows.

“Overwhelmed, aren’t you?” Ivor sounded as pissed off as she felt.

“Guess I was expecting too much.” Like a signed confession.

“Still stuff here to view, sarge. I might come up with a bit more later.”

She flashed a smile. He was doing his best; it just wasn’t good enough. The hooded figure appeared on tape from approximately eighty-two cameras. There were no distinguishing features on a single frame.

Highgate’s canteen was not haute cuisine, unless its lofty location on the seventh floor qualified as a culinary criterion. Bev was two-thirds of the way through a solitary meat pie and chunky chips. A portion of mushy peas
paid lip service to eating greens. The steak was on the chewy side but still more palatable than the lonely lump of parmesan in her fridge; the ambience slightly preferable to an empty house.

She brushed an unruly fringe out of troubled blue eyes. The day’s frenetic pace had until now pushed Street Watch and stalker-thoughts out of her head. Not that she’d be allowed to act on them – not with a second abduction on the go.
There was no way the guv would take her off the baby cases.

She drew her mouth down, gazed through the window, took fleeting pleasure in the city-at-night panorama: tower-block pinball machines, streetlights strung like tangerine beads, flashing neon and Dinky-toy traffic. She snorted. The Lilliputian lyricism
didn’t alter the fact that sleaze balls and lowlifes still clung to the city’s underbelly. You just couldn’t see them in the dark.

Like the so-called Beast of Birmingham.

She shoved the plate of congealed cholesterol to one side. Not that fear of personal attack was denting her appetite. She never took unnecessary risks and was well able to kick ass. And break bone. Rough justice was no justice, but she couldn’t
guarantee not dishing it out to an arse-wipe who’d already ruined the lives of three girls. Anyway, if he took first pop, it’d be self-defence, wouldn’t it?

“Penny for them?” Byford.

She started guiltily. Thank Christ he couldn’t read her mind all the time. “Cost you more than that, guv.”

The left eyebrow arched a
doubt it
as he placed a metal tray on the plastic table. “Late supper.”

She took one look at the melded macaroni and over-baked beans and pulled a face. “Late? Past it, if you ask me, guv.”

“I didn’t.” A smile flickered as he sat.

She watched as he toyed with a forkful or two. Reckoned he must get fed up cooking for one all the time. She surely did. What the guv needed was a good woman.

“Fancy a drink after this, Bev?” Good job her open mouth was empty. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Try not to look so shocked.”

They often had a quick jar in The Prince of Wales but the invite, just when she was playing mental cupid, was spooky. She shook her head. “Sorry, guv. Miles away.”

He lifted an imaginary glass. “Well?”

These invites were getting like buses. You wait ages, then a stack comes along. She’d already turned down Oz tonight. Not just to give him a taste of his own medicine, more a case of a back-burner to-do list coming up to the boil.

“Sorry, guv. Something on.”

“Fair enough.”

She’d wait for him to finish, though, didn’t like to think of him eating alone.

They ran through the state of play and took a quick look at tomorrow’s fixtures, then Byford helped her into her coat and they made their way to the car park.

The Midget was in the far corner. Must remember the garage booking first thing. Gawd, her mental notebook was almost out of pages. She was about to get in when Byford called across. “Have you spoken to Mike Powell yet?”

Whoops. She was supposed to have brought the DI up to speed on her sinister secret admirer. “Sorry, guv. Went clean out my head. Today was a bugger.”

“First thing, Bev. Don’t let it slip.” He tapped the side of his fedora. “Watch your back. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Read her mind? The old devil could probably write it.

No perv in the privet, no stalker in the shadows. Shame. Bev had been well psyched for fisticuffs before slapping on the handcuffs. Now settled at the kitchen table, sauvignon to hand, she was poring over the Street Watch files.

She’d already ticked one box. Doubtless Powell would throw a hissy fit if he found out, but she’d just put the phone down on Laura Kenyon. They’d been talking tattoos. The girl told Bev she’d had the heart design applied at
Skin Deep in Northfield. Bev’s own heart had sunk at that point. Not like Rebecca Fox, then, who’d been tattooed by Luke Mangold himself at Pain and Ink in Digbeth.

But on the off chance, Bev asked Laura if she’d sussed out any other tattoo places, before. And what do you know? Bingo.

Did Bev have another winning line? She glanced at the wall clock. Half nine. Not too late. She took a sip of wine and pictured Kate Quinn as she dialled the girl’s number. Kate put her in mind of Alice, as in Wonderland. Must be the headband and
long blonde hair. Wasn’t down to attitude; Kate was demure rather than daring. Saying boo to a timid goose would faze Kate, never mind dissing a homicidal queen.

Bev had already called the Quinn household three times in as many days. She’d leave a message tonight, if need be. Hadn’t so far because the conversation would be tricky; she didn’t want Kate on her guard.

“Kate?” Yes! “Bev Morriss.”

“Sergeant Morriss. How are things?” The girl’s slight lisp made her sound younger than her years. Kate certainly looked younger: eighteen going on thirteen. Could explain why the mother was so protective, and Kate so passive. Then
again, Bev had known neither till after the rape.

“Cool,” Bev said. “You?”

“Same old, same old.”

Bev smiled at the unwitting irony. She had a list of buttons to push to get Kate talking, lull her into a false sense of security before hitting her with the real thing. She mentally skimmed various topics: music, films, college, books, fellas,
clothes. Sod it.

“Your tattoo. Where’d you get it done?”

“I beg your...”

“The tattoo. Tell me about it.”

“I told you...”

“Tell me again.”

“I don’t...”

“The truth.”

Bev held her breath. Come on, girl. Every instinct told her this was important. Something or someone had to link the three victims. She’d combed every report, every witness statement, every hand-scribbled note. No other connection even came
close.

“Just a minute.” The girl must have covered the mouthpiece. Bev heard two voices, both muffled. “I have to go.”

“Kate...”

“Bye.”

Bev ended the call, drained the glass, tapped her fingers on a file. There was another way to find out. If the mountain won’t come to Morriss... See you tomorrow, Mohammed.

In the hours since the newscast, the mousy woman had tried the number twenty, no, thirty times. Now tossing and turning, restless and almost beyond reason, she recalled each failed attempt: where she’d been standing, which
room, whether Angel had been crying. Instead of sheep, she counted the phone calls. Eyes tightly closed, precious sleep still eluded her. Almost afraid to look, she glanced at the clock’s digital readout: 03.00.

She’d tried desperately to come up with an explanation for the second baby’s disappearance; there had to be one. Surely it was only a question of time before she found out, before he got in touch. So why couldn’t she sleep? If she
didn’t get her rest, she’d fall ill. Then where would they be? She had to stay strong for Angel.

Angry now, she threw back the duvet, stole silently to the nursery. Even in the nightlight’s soft glow the baby looked flushed, damp tendrils of silken hair sticking to her tiny skull.

Dear God, don’t let the child be ill. It brought back the horror of the miscarriages, the stillbirths, then the brain tumour that killed her husband. She could not go back to that arid existence.

She knelt at the side of the cot, clung to the bars and prayed harder than ever in her life. Hot tears raced down her cheeks, cooling fast as they trickled over her breasts. The rainbow swayed in the disturbed air but she was oblivious to its gentle
motion. It was unlikely, anyway, that it could have worked its customary soothing magic.

Dear God, don’t let anything go wrong. Not this time.

Pain and Ink was tucked away in a Digbeth side street directly opposite the café where Bev’d already met Luke Mangold twice. The area wasn’t particularly dingy, just dodgy, with most shops shifting sex toys and
adult mags. One window had busty mannequins in crotchless knickers and studded dog collars. It was all a bit in your face. And a lot of it was probably round the back, too, in the line of lock-ups she’d just clocked.

Despite a Closed sign on the door, Mac’s was patently open for business. The young guy who’d served Luke last time was wiping down the counter and in the far corner a couple of old blokes were nursing thick mugs of tea, poring over the
racing pages in the
Sun.

She ordered a bacon bap and a coffee. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”

He gazed at her for a second or two. “Yeah?” So much for her striking personality.

“I was in here with a mate? Luke Mangold? Few days back?” The old-mates routine often paid off.

“Right.” The smile hit his eyes as he recalled. “The football lady.”

She turned her mouth down, waggled fingers. She’d been called a lot of things in her time but...

Will flipped a rasher of bacon, wiped fat on white trousers. “You’re a bit early for Luke.”

“Know what they say about worms and early birds.” Going by the startled look, proverbs were not one of his strengths.

“I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”

Dismissed, she took a seat by the window. The décor hadn’t registered before, but the blue and white stripes made sense, given Will was a Blues fan. And not just into the beautiful game: the walls were covered in posters of movie stars,
Arnie, Brucie, Charlie. Not a chick in sight.

Trade was not roaring. Apart from the ageing tipsters, Bev was it. She lit a Silk Cut, the fumes joining a heady blend of chip fat and onion rings. Taking a drag, eyes creased against the smoke, she glanced across the road, fully aware the tattoo
parlour wouldn’t open for another three hours.

“Here you go.” Will placed a mug on the red plastic cloth. “The food’ll be along in a tick.”

“Cheers.” She watched him stroll back to the counter, tore her gaze from tight buttocks and returned her focus to the tattoo parlour.

The garish shop-front was full of torso-size posters. Spotlights picked out the complex designs: pouncing tigers, crouching dragons, coiling snakes, plus a bunch of skulls and scorpions. Impressive, if you liked that kind of thing. She attempted a
smoke ring, considering. It was too macho to float her boat; like the surrounding culture of sex shops and escort agencies, all a bit sleazy-cheesy. Not that Pain and Ink appeared to offer anything but what it said on the can.

Mangold’s alibi was tighter than a cheap facelift. But he wasn’t the only guy who wielded the needles over there. And knowing now that Laura Kenyon and Rebecca Fox had visited the place, and suspecting still that Kate Quinn had, Bev
reckoned the parlour was worth a closer look.

“You look as if you’re casing the joint.” Will was back with her bap.

It was as well she wasn’t actually on surveillance. She stubbed out the baccy and reached for the brown sauce, masking mild amusement. “What makes you think that?”