Baby Love (26 page)

“You were givin’ it the eye, like.”

Magic eye, maybe. It was that all-important need to get a feel of the place. “Should I be? Know something I don’t, do you?”

“Thought you were Luke’s mate.” The smile was a tad cocky. He’d clocked her little white lie. Not just a pretty face, then; shame about the Birmingham accent.

She shrugged, took a sip of coffee.

He sat down, leaned in close. “Are you a cop? I fancy joining the police. Giving it a go, like.”

A go? Made it sound like Monopoly. She bit into the bap. Saved answering.

“When you were in here with Luke, I thought you were asking about a tattoo.”

“Why’s that?”

“He often brings clients over.”

“Go on.” This guy could be useful.

“Some of them get freaked. Reckon it’ll hurt like shit. Luke generally talks them round. He’s really good with people.” The Brummie accent broadened as he relaxed but his voice was the last thing she was interested in.

She kept hers level. “See a lot of him, do you?”

He shrugged. “He eats here most days. Sometimes I take coffee over there.”

She removed an envelope from her shoulder bag. His eyes doubled in size as he spotted the police insignia in the corner. “I knew it. You
are
a cop.”

Well done, Sherlock. “Just look at the pics.”

She studied his face closely as he scanned each print. Rebecca Fox had definitely frequented the place. Will’s black-coffee eyes lit up when he saw her. He couldn’t swear to Laura Kenyon. If pushed, probably not. As for Kate Quinn, Will
more than confirmed Bev’s suspicions. The girl didn’t have one tattoo; she had two.

“Fact. She sat right there.” He pointed next to Bev.

“You a hundred per cent certain on that, Will?”

“Hundred and ten. Full of it, she was. Showed me the tattoos and everything.”

Bev stuffed the envelope in her bag, scraped back the chair. “What’s your full name, love?”

“Will Browne. With an e.”

“You’ve been a real help. Thanks a bunch.” She stood, took a fiver from her purse, laid it on the table. “Keep the change.”

He rose, rocked on his Reeboks, positively glowing. “Is there a reward, like?”

She paused at the door, flipped the sign so it read Open. “Service is its own reward, sunshine.”

Natalie Beck had caught a bus to the General, hoping to grab a bit of peace and quiet. Tel was driving her doolally. She sniffed. That was rich, considering the doctors now reckoned her mum was off her trolley. They wanted Maxine in
some loony bin in Erdington. She scowled at the consultant’s retreating back. Wanted the sodding bed, more like.

She put on a posh voice, waggled her head from side to side. “Your mother needs psychiatric assessment, Ms Beck. We can’t do nothing for her here.”

The arrogant git said arrangements would be made in the next day or so. What the frigging hell did that mean? She tucked her hand round Maxine’s. “Come on, mum. Don’t leave me on me own. I need you.”

Maxine lay on her back, eyes closed. Natalie sighed, squeezed her mother’s fingers. She was running out of things to tell her. She’d talked her through the soaps and
HELLO!
and that. She kept off the subject of Zoë. If the docs
were right and trauma was doing Max’s head in, it’d be the last thing she’d want to hear.

Maybe a bit of music would get her going. All their stuff had been lost in the fire but she’d nicked a couple of CDs off Tel that her mum liked. It was a toss-up between Simply Red and Elton John. She sneered: each to their own. As she slipped
Elton into the Walkman, her elbow caught the other case. It hit the floor with a crack. Shit. Tel’d kill her. Maybe she could stick a bit of tape over it.

She opened it warily. Sod’s law. It fell apart in her hands. The notes slipped out and a bit of paper fell on her lap. At first she thought it was the receipt. It wasn’t.

It was an address in Edgbaston, a telephone number. And a woman’s name.

Natalie punched the air with a fist. Gotcha.

Bev dithered outside Powell’s office. She felt like a schoolkid caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Maybe she should shove a book down her knickers. No point prevaricating. The DI had a right to know about the new lead, even
though he’d likely bollock her for following it.

She lifted a hand ready to knock. Sod it. She needed a drink first. Great minds and all that: Carol Mansfield was just feeding coins into the machine.

“Sarge.” Carol plumped for hot chocolate.

“What’s new?”

The DC grimaced. “Apart from Helen Carver popping a load of pills?”

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly.”

Carol moved aside as Bev searched for small change at the bottom of her bag. “How is she?”

“I just got back from A & E. She’ll be OK. The husband half-expected something of the sort. Been watching her like a hawk.”

“Hawkeye obviously needs glasses.” She took a cappuccino from the slot.

“The guy can’t see through doors, sarge.”

They walked the corridor as Carol talked her through it. Apparently Helen Carver had locked herself in the bathroom and swallowed the contents of the cabinet. Slight exaggeration. David Carver had rushed her to accident and emergency where she’d
had her stomach pumped. All being well, she’d be allowed home in a few hours.

“Must help if you have more than one kid.” Carol remarked.

“How d’you mean?” Bev couldn’t imagine bringing up a budgie, never mind a baby.

“Well, even if you lose one, you’ve got to keep going for the sake of the others. Otherwise...” She sighed, left it unsaid.

The thought that someone like Carol could even contemplate suicide gave Bev pause for thought. She couldn’t conceive of taking her own life because a loved one had lost theirs. Or maybe there was no one close enough to care about that much? Nah.
Bollocks. She’d adored her dad, worshipped the ground he walked on, but she’d never once considered topping herself when he died.

She felt Carol’s fingers on her arm. “Thing is, sarge. Till I had kids I’d no idea how strong the bond is. The love’s so intense it’s scary. You know what they say...”

She knew she was about to find out.

“A woman might die for her man. She’ll sure as hell kill for her kids.”

Bev wasn’t convinced. She knew a few mothers who knocked seven shades of shit out of their precious offspring when they hadn’t had a fix. And a few more who hired them out to the highest bidder – child prostitution and kiddie porn
being nice little earners.

She opened her mouth but Carol spoke first. “I’m expecting a call, sarge. Best fly.”

Bev’d meant to ask Mansfield something; by the time she remembered, the DC was out of sight. She took off in pursuit, didn’t get far.

“Morriss. My office. Now.”

A book down her knickers would’ve been pissing in the wind. The DI’s icy blast could blow a hole in the British Library. Powell lounged back in padded chair, legs on desk, ankles crossed. “You were ordered to see me
first thing. Since when’s lunchtime first thing?”

Since two babies were snatched and headless-chicken mode would be less pressure. Nonetheless Bev winced inwardly. Powell wasn’t even banging on about the tattoo connection. He was exercised about her stalker. The guv must’ve had a
word.

“I was on the way to fill you in.” She shuffled her feet, tried not to look shifty.

He turned, glanced at the sky through the window. “See that?”

She squinted, shook her head.

“Herd of fucking pigs on a flypast.”

“Red farrows?”

“Not clever. Not funny.” His biro bounced off the desk.

Please yourself. Wasn’t one of her best.

“I want a detailed report. There.” Next to the dove-grey leather loafers, she presumed. “In thirty minutes.”

“You’ll be lucky.”

“You refusing?”

She sighed. It went against the grain but... “Look, sir, it’s not worth it. A few photos missing? Pair of knickers?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The earring
.
She rubbed a hand over her face. “All I know’s this.” She made the points with her fingers. “No one’s been in the house in the last few days, there’s been no more dodgy post, no funny phone
calls. And no one’s on my back. Nothing.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was a goon having a laugh.”

He steepled his fingers. “No tail? You sure?”

The affected pose and a hint of something in the voice rang a faint alarm in her brain.

“Deffo. Why?”

He spread his hands, but a glint in his eyes set off another alarm or increased the volume of the first. Had the bugger put a shadow on her? A professional was more difficult to spot. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred. The DI had
only been in the loop a few hours. But the big man had known almost from the start. Her heart sank. If her suspicions were correct, it had to be down to the guv. Great to know he had so much faith in her.

“It still stinks, Morriss.” Powell lowered his legs. “The missing earring bugs me.”

Bugged her a tad, too. She gave a
so what?
sniff.

“Christ, woman.” He uncurled a paper clip. “If there was a chance a rapist was after me, I’d be shitting myself.”

“Yeah, well, you would.” Take that any way you like.

He cleaned a fingernail with the clip “On the other hand, a good seeing-to might sort you out.”

Her blood boiled, her face would be crimson; at least the voice was cool. “Like to put that in writing?”

He flipped the clip towards the bin. It pinged and hit the carpet. “Gonna slap in a complaint? Go crying to the bosses?”

She took a step nearer. “I fight my own battles.”

“Then you know who’s your worst enemy.”

She turned, headed for the door.

“You are, Morriss.”

If she stayed a split second longer, she’d deck him. Right now she couldn’t talk to the prat, let alone tell him about the tattoo parlour. She’d put it all in the report, sling it on his desk in twenty minutes.

She was in the corridor when he shouted her back. “I’ve had Luke Mangold from Pen and Ink on the phone. Ring any bells?”

Peals. She gave a tight nod, couldn’t trust herself to speak. And it’s Pain, not Pen. Get it right.

“Wanted to know why the cops were keeping an eye on his place. Know anything about that, Morriss?”

Will Browne must’ve spilled the beans, along with the bacon fat. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Save your breath, Morriss. I’m not completely stupid. I didn’t like Mangold’s attitude. I invited him in for a little chat.” He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. “Should be here any time.”

Wow. This she had to see. “Can I...?”

“No.” He brushed past her. “It’s not your case. Butt out and back off.”

She waved as he stormed out. Two fingers. Fuck it. She didn’t care a monkey’s: at least
someone
would be following a lead with potential legs. Not true. She cared. Sometimes you just had to let go.

Natalie Beck sprawled, legs splayed, on the floor of Terry Roper’s dingy bedroom. The carpet was threadbare and the sixteen-year-old looked almost as careworn. She held a piece of paper in trembling fingers. Not the scrap
hidden in Roper’s CD case. This one had been screwed into a ball and chucked in the grate in his room. The buy-one-get-one-free key she’d hung on to had paid off big time. Unlike her previous find, this was a till printout.

She’d been staring at it for ages. Despite the creases and fag ash, every item was legible. It was the meaning that was difficult to understand. The basics were straightforward enough: bread, milk, tea and so on, though the quantities were an
eye-opener. As for the TV dinners, someone was gonna end up square-eyed. Still, Tel was no Gordon fucking Ramsay. No. It was the other stuff that Natalie couldn’t get her head round.

Pampers, baby wipes, cotton wool, a dummy and enough Cow and Gate to keep a baby ward afloat.

It’d be just about OK, except for one frigging great daddy-long-legs in the ointment. The date. November 20.

Tel had splashed out on a load of baby gear a week after Zoë was snatched.

The skin round three of Natalie’s nails was torn and bleeding. She worried a fourth. Since she’d first smoothed out the receipt, the ugly truth had begun to dawn. It glowed behind her eyeballs now, a huge red fiery sun. It was just so
fucking hard to credit that anyone could be so twisted. Imagine nicking a baby to milk cash out of the telly and the papers. Big question now was, which of his tarts had he conned into looking after Zoë?

She toyed with the idea of giving Bev Morriss a bell. Nah. This was Natalie’s baby – literally. She’d play it her way. She jumped to her feet, staring around. There were other places still to search. If it all stood up, one thing was
sure: Terry Roper was going to pay for what he’d done, every day of the rest of his miserable snivelling life.

Bev crossed paths briefly with Luke Mangold as he arrived at Highgate for his parley with Powell. She reckoned it was the nearest she’d get to the guy. For now. She’d armed the DI with a report on the link between the
three victims and the tattoo parlour. It was in his hands, literally and metaphorically.

Mangold made eye contact as he held the door. “Fancy seeing you here.” He tipped his panama, gave a lazy smile. “Ever fancy a tattoo, it’ll be my pleasure. Cut price.” The voice held not the slightest trace of menace, so
why the spine tingle?

She gave a mock salute, brushed past. Oz was kicking his heels, loitering with intent by an unmarked police motor. He opened the driver’s door for her.

“And they reckon chivalry’s dead,” she drawled as he slipped into the passenger seat.

“Just wounded.” Oz sniffed. “All those kicks in the balls.”

“Very deep.” She raised an ironic eyebrow. “Remind me to make a note.”

“Assuming you still can,” he muttered.

And the hits kept on coming, all the way to and down Broad Street. Bev left the motor on a temporary parking site that had been set up off Brindley Place. It was the closest they’d get to the Carvers’ apartment block without walking on
canal water.

The hunt for baby Jessica was only thirty hours old but already officers’ faces wore the same haunted expressions she’d seen during the operation to find Zoë Beck. Bev walked the scene, stopping now and then to question or answer a
searcher.