Baby Love (27 page)

The task was infinitely more complex here than on the Wordsworth, the area bigger and more developed with a variety of premises: commercial, residential, business. And given the canal and its towpath, the terrain was more challenging. Dogs, divers and
fingertips had to cover every inch.

It was dark by four-thirty – sky and spirits.

“I’m heading back.” The paperwork was piling up at Highgate. It was her big date with Zach Caine later but she wasn’t in the mood for getting tarted up and heading back into town. On the other hand, she had to eat. She’d
call Zach and offer a meet over a quick bite in Moseley. Take it or leave it. “You sticking around, mate?”

Oz shook his head. “Nah. I’m out of here.”

Traffic was shite. They didn’t hit Highgate till gone five. She was reversing into a tight space against the far wall when Oz asked if she fancied doing anything that night. The question didn’t distract her, more the implication. After
giving her a berth wide enough for the Queen Mary, this was his third invite in two days. She sniffed a rat, heard a crunch.

She flapped a hand as he tutted. “Fuck’s sake, Oz. It’s what bumpers are for.”

“Right.” He so didn’t agree. “Anyway, fancy a drink or what?”

“Or what.”

“Don’t hold back.”

She glanced across, caught a flared nostril. “
I
don’t.”

“Meaning?”

She turned in the seat, skewered him with a glare. “Straight up. Has the guv put you on my tail?”

He didn’t say a word. Just as well. He was a crap liar. And the truth was all over his face.

“Sodding hell.” She whacked the wheel with the flat of a hand. If anyone knew her capabilities in the d-i-y defence department, it was Oz. He’d witnessed the aftermath when she’d lashed out at a murderer, had recoiled from the
sight of her bleeding knuckles after they’d rearranged the bastard’s face. “I’m a big girl now. I do not need a frigging baby-sitter.”

A muscle in his jaw was on a workout. “If the guy’s determined enough, no one’s untouchable. Not even you.”

Patronising, arrogant, duplicitous git. She was seething, incandescent. “You are so right. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He sighed impatience. “The guv asked me to look out for you because he cares.”

What about you, Oz? “And I’ve got a death wish?” She turned her head away. “Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d both been up front.”

“Yeah, like that would’ve worked. Look at you.”

“Fair enough.” She capitulated. “Do whatever you like. But not tonight.”

He reached to touch her arm. “Bev...”

“No.” She pulled back. “I’ve got a date. I don’t want you cramping my style.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him in the face. Which is more or less what she’d intended.

The spat with Oz took the shine off the evening. Plus the fact that Bev arrived at La Plancha looking like she was there to read the gas meter. Having buried herself in paperwork at Highgate, by the time she surfaced it was touch and
go if she’d reach the tapas bar for eight-thirty, never mind nip home first to change. She managed a coat of lippie and a quick comb through her hair but the crumpled navy trouser suit was hardly haute couture.

She spotted Zach Caine through the window as she approached. He looked lip-smackingly tasty in slate-grey cords and black trench coat. As the gap closed, she noticed a gold chain round his neck. She’d overlook it this time but men in jewellery
were so last century. “Sorry I’m late.”

He pecked her cheek. “No problem. Let me get you a drink.”

The doc had reserved a table downstairs, which meant either he’d not been here before or like many a medico ignored the government health warnings. Twenty Marlboro and a Zippo next to the ashtray was confirmation he smoked. She watched as he
went for drinks, weaving through a sizeable crowd. The Spanish bar, all parlour palms, mirrors and mosaics, attracted a diverse clientele: students, family groups, girls-night-out types and love’s young dreamers. She sighed. Which category did
badass single cop fit?

She couldn’t get Oz’s pained face out of her head. In one way she’d regretted the remark almost immediately. Their liaison, for want of a better description, had always been fairly casual. Far as she was aware, neither she nor Oz
wanted to be tied down. But of late there’d been a definite drift. Maybe it needed bringing to a head. The thought, too, that he’d gone behind her back to set up some minder deal with the guv still pissed her off royally.

“There you go.” Zach handed her a glass of sauvignon blanc. She’d not stipulated size. Thank God it was a large one.

“Cheers.” She sank half of it in a couple of mouthfuls.

“Rough day?”

She shrugged. “You could say that.”

“Me too.” And for the best part of an hour and a half he proceeded to tell her all about it: the ailing health service, government health policies, bird flu, MRSA.

Maybe a bloke so gorgeous was accustomed to his dates hanging on his every pronouncement. Bev almost asked for a couple of matchsticks for eye-props. By the end of the evening, she reckoned strong and silent was more her type. Like Oz?

Upside was, she’d satisfied the appetite; pigged out, more like, given she’d seen off the lion’s share of six tapas dishes plus garlic bread. A lingering notion that she might as well satisfy a different urge by asking Caine back and
having her wicked way went west when he pulled out his mobile and phoned for a cab.

“Don’t know about you, but I’m on earlies tomorrow.”

He knew jackshit about her. How could he? “Yeah, well, since you ask...”

“Sorry. Just a tick.” She stared as he sent a message on his mobile. The smile suggested it was not business. He slipped the phone in his pocket and glanced round. “Looks like my carriage has arrived.”

A black cab had pulled up; the driver sat on the horn. Caine stooped to peck her cheek. “Must do this again, Bev. What do you think?”

So she told him. Exactly.

Sometimes Byford thought he’d never sleep through a whole night again. Certainly the last ten had been badly disturbed. Soon as his head hit the pillow, images of Zoë and Jessica kept him awake. What restless sleep he did
snatch was broken by dark dreams of Baby Fay. Now another fear threatened his shaky peace of mind: that a rapist could be stalking Bev.

The call earlier from Oz Khan, though unwelcome, wasn’t entirely unexpected. However low-profile the tail, he’d known there was a chance she’d spot it. Or in this case, sense it. By the sound of it, Khan had got it in the neck and
less elevated parts of the anatomy.

Byford sighed, threw back the duvet, shucked into dressing gown and made his way downstairs. Again. He poured a finger of single malt, took it and his aching spine to the recliner in the sitting room. It was as good a place to think as any.

Getting Khan and DC New to keep an eye on Bev had always been a halfway-house strategy. Half-assed, too, given that meaningful protection required at least two minders 24/7. First thing, he’d call Bev in, force her to see sense. It would only be
short-term, until the rapist was behind bars.

He sipped the scotch, recalled the conversation that evening with Mike Powell. The DI reckoned the tattoo lead still had legs, even though Luke Mangold had emerged from the interview smelling of roses in virgin snow. Still, the man had furnished
Powell with a list of names, numbers, addresses: staff, clients, cleaners, suppliers, anyone who’d been within spitting distance of the premises in the last six months. Mike had been upbeat, sensed they could be closing in. Byford drained the
glass, hoped to God they were on the right track.

The greatest danger walking back was dodging the vomit. Like most places, Moseley had its share of binge drinkers. What was that all about? Bev liked a glass or two, but what was the point in getting so bladdered you barfed?

She passed a few lovers linking arms, and sidestepped a particularly ardent pair mouth-to-mouth in the middle of the pavement. It brought home her solitary return to a lonely bed. Again. Maybe she should give Oz a bell...?

No, Beverley.

She eased the key in the Yale, registered three facts simultaneously: the door wasn’t locked, the hall light was on and there was music playing. She stiffened, heart thumping. Back off or burst in? No contest.

Coming. Ready or not.

Clutching her keys as a lethal weapon, she stormed in. Adrenalin flooded every cell. Sod flight, she was up for a fight. She hit every room, checked every inch of floor space. All senses on alert to detect the merest hint of an intruder. She detected
a faint unfamiliar smell, not one she could immediately identify.

Fists clenched, she clomped to the music centre, yanked out the plug. Fucking track must be on continuous play. It wasn’t her CD, though she was familiar with the song:
If you don’t know me by now
. Frankie sang it at most of her
gigs. This was the original by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.

“Fucking comedian,” she snarled.

She searched the house again and again until finally convinced she was alone. Far as she could tell, nothing else had been touched, let alone taken. She poured a stiff armagnac, took it with her as she went round for the fourth time, now checking
every door and window, sliding bolts and turning keys. The locks were being changed first thing; it was the earliest date she’d been able to get. She’d been a fucking idiot not to insist on the work being done immediately. Maybe Oz was right?
Maybe she did consider herself untouchable?

She took a shower to cool down, clear her head. That fucking song was still going round and round in there. The second line a mental mantra:
you will never never never know me...

“Don’t bank on it, fuckwit.”

Teeth cleaned, hair brushed, she slipped into a black satin nightie. A little calmer by the time she entered the bedroom, she reckoned tonight’s arrogant display was the latest move in the bastard’s sick game. It was a mind-fuck. Yeah,
well, it hadn’t...

She screamed as she saw it. He’d left it under the duvet. A polaroid. The bastard had been in La Plancha. Bev was smiling at Zach. Only Zach was no longer in the picture. Just a jagged edge where he’d been sitting.

The Beast’s sly smile was involuntary. The snatched shot didn’t really do her justice but the thought behind it amused him. He stroked a finger along her cheek, pressed the photograph against his lips. The chase was so
much fun.

More exciting than the kill? He’d find out soon enough.

He added the latest picture to the gallery on the lockup wall. It wasn’t his favourite. He preferred those where he could see into her eyes. The blue seemed to hold such depths.

Wednesday November 25. Twelve days since Natalie Beck had last cradled her baby in her loving arms. She cried now as she pressed Zoë’s photograph against her flat chest. It wasn’t the picture the public knew so well.
It was one of forty-seven images Natalie hadn’t set eyes on since a couple of days after her mum had picked them up from Super-Snaps.

As she drifted aimlessly round Roper’s kitchen, Natalie cast her mind back to those first desperate hours of the police hunt. She and Max scurrying like scalded ants, desperate to find a photo to give Bev Morriss. They could’ve searched
till the cows moved house, never mind came home. They’d been looking in the wrong place. She’d just found them in Roper’s bedroom, stuck up the chimneybreast with masking tape. Terry Roper made a lousy Father Christmas.

Natalie perched her narrow backside on the kitchen table. She’d thought it through,
so
didn’t like where it was going. She didn’t yet know why Roper had nicked the pictures – but they weren’t the only items
she’d found gathering soot. She’d also come across a bank statement that showed a whopping great deposit. Fifty grand. Paid in by Tel.

Not media money, either. Before Zoë disappeared, there’d been no story.

The teenager lit an Embassy, squinted as smoke drifted into her eyes. A cluster of disparate images floated inside her head. She sifted them, watched as they started to settle. The pieces were beginning to fit together but the puzzle wasn’t
complete. Roper was spending more and more time out of the picture. To make sure the gap wasn’t permanent, she’d lifted his passport. Just in case.

Natalie stubbed the fag out on a greasy plate, lit another. The scrap of paper she’d found in the CD case was in her pocket. Not that she needed it. She’d called the number so often she knew it by heart. She tried again now. Same story.
Someone picked up, never answered. Natalie listened to the soft breathing, sensed the tension. She curbed the urge to scream obscenities, gently replaced the receiver. She could be wrong.

Taking another deep drag, she flicked the butt in the sink, then grabbed her bag, checked the contents. Everything she needed was there. Her slow smile was ironic as she slipped into a pink faux-fur coat and out on to the early morning streets.

As Natalie Beck hopped on a number 50, Bev was closeted in the guv’s office at Highgate. She’d just furnished him with an account of last night’s not-so-happy homecoming. Byford made it clear he wanted a police
guard on the house and a personal protection officer on her.

“Long as it’s only off-duty hours.” Bev’s muttered response sounded like a token protest even to her.

The guv’s eyebrows formed upside-down v’s. He raised a mug of mint tea. He’d expected a harder time.

There was no choice. Though she’d never admit it, Bev had been well and truly freaked last night. She’d given the guv a diluted version, concentrated on her concern for Zachary Caine. Soon as she’d stopped shaking, she’d put a
call through to Zach. He was fine, thank God. Nothing amiss. Even so, security at the hospital would be stepped up and for the time being they’d keep an eye on the doctor’s house.

For the guv’s ears, she’d made light of her own ordeal. As far as she could. The weight still dragged her down. She’d caught herself glancing in mirrors, convinced her face would reflect the lingering fear. A rare emotion for Bev,
and one to which she had no intention of getting attached.

Within the hour the early brief was done and dusted, tasks assigned and actions initiated. Bev bumped into Oz en route to the incident room. She smiled as they went through a silly excuse-me dance in the middle of the corridor. Oz
didn’t return the smile. His face was set in a dark scowl she’d not seen before, wasn’t keen to witness again. Almost without thinking, she reached a hand to touch his arm but he didn’t so much pull back as recoil.