Baby Love (3 page)

“Don’t even go there.” He stood, mentally elsewhere already.

“But...”

“But nothing.” He handed her a slip of paper. “I want you to take a look.”

She clocked the address and snarled. Blake Way, Balsall Heath. Better known as Asbo Alley. What fun. She gave a theatrical sigh, tapped fingers on thigh.

“And you can stop that soon as you like.” Byford read bodies as well as minds.

“What I’d like is to talk to Laura Kenyon.”

“You should have thought about that before inserting yourself in her mother’s nostrils.”

“That is so unfair.”

“That’s life.” He shrugged half-heartedly. “Think yourself lucky she isn’t filing a complaint.”

In his office on the fourth floor, Byford watched through the window as Bev crossed the car park. Even from this distance, he could read the signs. The slumped shoulders and head down had nothing to do with heavy rain falling from a
leaden sky; she was seriously pissed off. He sighed, absentmindedly tipping the dregs of a canteen coffee on to a parched cactus languishing on the windowsill. The plant was the latest in a long horticultural line of Morriss peace offerings. Indeed, had
all the cacti flourished, he could have opened a garden centre. Was the choice of plant significant?

He gave it a passing thought, his focus still on the woman sending smoke signals from below. Detective Sergeant Beverley Morriss didn’t need to open her mouth these days. Learning to button it – which she had by no means mastered –
never helped when she had one on her, so to speak. And she’d had several during the spat with Martha Kemp.

Byford rubbed his eyes as he recalled the radio presenter’s threat to have a word with her mate, Ronnie: Big Chief Constable Ronald Birt. Thank God she wasn’t pally with the Queen’s Constable as well. Kemp had taken exception to
Bev’s slack attitude and sloppy appearance. There’d been no percentage in pointing out the sergeant’s early shout on a day off; that only explained the denims and trainers. Anyway, when Kemp was in full flow, on or off the air, The
Mouth was unstoppable. Only an apparently reluctant agreement that a more senior officer would be assigned to her daughter’s interview had halted the diatribe.

Ms Kemp had looked suitably gratified, not to say smug, at what she perceived as a victory. In reality there’d been no agreement, reluctant or otherwise. Byford had already made the decision to take Bev off the interview. His wayward sergeant
could and did ruffle feathers; she could also soothe entire flocks of birds. If a baby were missing, he could think of no better officer to deal with the family.

Especially the Becks. He was surprised Bev hadn’t picked up on the address. Still, it would register soon enough.

Right now she was alongside the Morriss-mobile, an ageing MG Midget that she loved even though its erratic performance occasionally drove her to distraction. Byford watched her waggle her fingers and mouth a greeting to someone out of his field of
vision. Glossy curtains of chin-length Guinness-coloured hair drew back to reveal a warm smile that lit her entire face and widened the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. It had never occurred to him before but when Bev looked like that, she was almost
beautiful.

The senior detective who’d shortly be questioning Laura Kenyon was currently trying to answer a few being put to him. DI Mike Powell was perched precariously on the muddy slope of a disused railway embankment off the main road
into Moseley. Gnarled oaks provided a dense overhang of twisted branches glistening with slimy moss. Natural light struggled to penetrate the gloom, which explained the battery of police lights and a tableau that at first sight resembled a film set. The
inspector had been carefully positioned camera-left. The scene of Laura Kenyon’s rape – almost certainly the latest in a series – provided a damp and dismal backdrop.

In the distance two white-suited figures were on their knees, steel cases full of fine-tooth combs, a steadily growing pile of small see-through bags on the ground beside them. It looked like a
CSI
shoot or something out of
Doctor Who
.
As for the plastic bags, they could contain evidence or detritus; people had been dumping rubbish in the cutting for years. A few litter louts were probably among the motley crew of extras that had congregated at street level and were now lining a
wire-mesh security fence, agog at the activity below. Clutching the fence and faces pressed against the wire, they could have been spectators at a zoo. Powell half-expected to be tossed a banana. A notice exhorting trespassers to keep out had earlier
been ignored. Or maybe the rapist couldn’t read.

It was wet under the inspector’s expensive Italian loafers and fat raindrops were flattening his recently coiffed locks. The pose was both uncomfortable and fairly ungainly but Nick Lockwood, the BBC’s safest pair of hands in the Midlands,
had been extremely persuasive. It helped that Mike Powell was as keen to get his face on the box as the old TV pro firing the questions was to put it there. Though at this precise moment Lockwood was itching to tighten his fingers round the
inspector’s neck.

Powell wasn’t being deliberately obtuse; it came naturally. But on this occasion, he either didn’t have the information Lockwood was after or he couldn’t or wouldn’t give it. He’d hummed and hedged like a musical privet.
Maybe the officers he’d put on house-to-house might come up with a whisper. He’d heard nothing yet.

The only known fact was the girl’s name and even Lockwood knew that was a no-no. A rape victim’s identity was rarely released to the media, even without the current three-line whip demanding anonymity that Martha Kemp had apparently
issued. Powell hadn’t spoken to the woman, but he’d had an ear-bending from Byford who clearly had. What a nightmare: a female control freak with friends in high places.

Lockwood took advantage of Powell’s wandering thoughts, hoping his casual delivery of a loaded question would slip by unnoticed. “So there is a link with the previous attacks?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Can’t win them all. Lockwood bowled another. “So there isn’t a connection?”

“I didn’t say that either.” Powell regarded Lockwood with renewed interest. The man might look like a crumpled sofa but the journalist brain was sharp as a razor and equally cut-throat.

“So what
are
you saying?”

The newsman had let local radio and the print guys do their bit first so they wouldn’t be around to pick up any exclusive gems Powell might drop during Lockwood’s turn. It wasn’t working; this was more swine before pearls. Powell, or
Blondie as he was commonly known among the hacks, wasn’t singing at all, let alone from the same crime sheet.

“At this preliminary stage in the inquiry, it’s not possible to indicate whether this incident is related to...”

Blah-de-blah-blah. Lockwood tuned out. Apart from a complete lack of anything worth using, at this rate he’d be lucky to hit
Newsnight
.

“Finito?” the inspector asked with a smile that bordered on smug.

“Yep,” Lockwood agreed. “That’s a wrap.” He’d wasted enough energy on this blond twat. He’d give Bev Morriss a bell; she didn’t do police-speak and often had something worth saying.

He’d been surprised not to see her out here. He sensed she wanted a collar particularly badly on this one. They’d bumped into each other quite a bit in the course of Operation Street Watch. He’d even financed a pinot or two in the
Prince of Wales. It was a police pub, good for contacts. Lockwood made it his business to drink there regularly. When Bev Morriss was around it was pleasure as well. Off the record, he reckoned she was well fit and a fucking good cop. And she’d
tossed the occasional snippet his grateful way. Question was, could he sweet-talk the delectable DS into parting with a quality steer?

Lockwood was still mulling it over as he reached the top of the slope and heard a string of expletives ring out from behind. The newsman didn’t actually see Powell’s tumble; the inspector was already down when Lockwood turned. Blondie had
landed slap-bang in what looked suspiciously more pungent than a puddle of mud. The newsman watched as one of the SOCOs raced across to lend an arm.

A red-faced Powell flapped a hand in angry dismissal and immediately lost his footing again. Lockwood had to turn away. Shame the camera hadn’t been running. The crap might wash off the fancy footwear eventually, but it’d be a bugger to
get the stains out of what looked like a brand-new Barbour. As for the smell... Lockwood smiled. Had there been cattle around, he’d swear it was bullshit.

Travis was spouting
Why does it always rain on me?
Bev flicked off the CD with a finger and gave a heartfelt sigh. “You and me both, mate.” The downpour was now a deluge but she wasn’t talking weather;
she’d turned into the Wordsworth estate. She was chasing a wild goose on Balsall Heath’s Little Gorbals, where you washed your motor on the way out. Assuming it still had wheels.

Way she saw it, the whole business was a non-starter. No one snatched babies on the Wordsworth. Girls popped them out like peas, swapped them for a pack of fags. With a bit of luck, she’d be back at Highgate within the hour. End of.

She peered through the windscreen, half-expecting to see animals in pairs forming an orderly queue outside the nearest ark. What she saw was an ugly, graffiti-scarred, derelict high-rise. Tennyson Tower’s smashed windows and rusty grilles
dominated an ominous gunmetal sky. She lowered her sights. Blake Way? Was that the one off Keats Avenue? They all looked the naffing same to her: mean streets of redbrick council semis, with scrubby front gardens and grotty nets at grimy windows.

She took a right into Coleridge Drive. And what joker had come up with the names? Poor sodding poets would be turning in their urns, Grecian or otherwise. As for daffodils, you’d be lucky to spot one in March, never mind a bunch in
mid-November.

Blake Way? Why’s it ringing a bell?

A bunch of hoodies, on the other hand: you’d be spoilt for choice. There was one lot now, hanging round the chip shop. The little shits gave her the finger as she cruised past: synchronised obscenity. Class. She’d nicked one of the
bastards for dealing a few months back. Not a hand of poker.

She tapped her fingers on the wheel. The asbo kids and druggies round here were responsible for a significant portion of south Birmingham’s crime figures. Cops nationally took sixty-six thousand complaint calls every day, three every four
seconds. Bev reckoned most of them hailed from the Wordsworth. Low-level stuff, mostly: muggings, intimidation, verbal abuse, music blaring all hours.

But it didn’t always stop there. Shootings were on the increase and kids carried blades like old women carried handbags. It was a miracle there weren’t more killings. Bad news for the handful of decent law-abiding families who still lived
on the estate, clinging like hairs round a scummy sink. God knows what their quality of life was like. Stuff anti-social orders; give the sleaze-balls a good kicking.

The car was steamed up as well. Bev opened the window a touch, letting in faint traces of cabbage and curry. She opened it a tad wider and caught a whiff of dog shit.

Why does it always rain on me?

Closure came quickly along with a generous squirt of Opium, a present from Oz in the days he still bought her things. Blake Way? Of course. Maxine Beck. The guv wouldn’t do that to her, would he? She’d find out soon enough; it was next
left, opposite a patch of wasteland laughingly known as The Green. Yeah, right. How green is my valley of rotting bin bags and rusting bike frames?

Bev’s wry smile vanished as she spotted a police car straddling the kerb a few doors up and Les King having a crafty smoke huddled on the doorstep of number thirteen. Thank you so much, guv.

Someone should tell that Travis. If it’s only raining, why’s he whinging?

Maxine Beck had been one of Bev’s first collars. Over the years, she’d taken the silly cow in more times than laundry. Shoplifting, soliciting, scamming the social, you name the pie and Maxine’s digit was in it up
to the knuckle. More often than not some bloke would have pushed it in on her behalf. Maxine was a looker, not a thinker: sexy, sensual and borderline stupid, apart from the odd flash of acuity. Women’s lib had never hit her pretty radar. She
needed a man like a fish needs fins. Generally she landed sharks.

Maxine had been cautioned, fined and given a suspended sentence or four but never served a custodial. Until she took off on a two-week jaunt to the sun with her then lover-boy piranha, leaving her daughter, Natalie, to sink or swim. The kid was ten
years old at the time. Maxine swore she’d made childcare arrangements but either they fell through or were a figment of her lack of imagination. Whatever. The kid was lucky to pull through after going down with what turned into double pneumonia.
Natalie Beck went straight from home alone to intensive care. Bev made damn sure Maxine went down: the sentence was six months in Holloway.

WPC Morriss – as Bev then was – received a good deal of correspondence from Prisoner Beck during the four months Maxine had kept Her Majesty happy. None of it was fan mail, most of it was threatening. Indeed, if Bev’s memory served
her right, Maxine’s last written words had included the phrases: see you, my dead body, over. That had been getting on for five years back and since then, as far as the police were concerned, Maxine had kept her fingers to herself. Even so, Bev did
not anticipate a warm reception at the Beck residence.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Les King’s thick Brummie drawl dribbled contempt. And that was before Bev was over the threshold. Not that she could get over. King’s lard-arse was still spread across the
step.

“Congratulations, Les.” Bev’s tight smile was dangerous. Taking lip from a lazy incompetent git she could do without. The git looked like she’d told him to split the atom. “The sergeant’s exam?” she asked
pleasantly. As if she gave a fuck. “When did you pass?”

“Never took it. Couldn’t be arsed.” The smug leer revealed a black hole with stumps.

“That’s ‘Couldn’t be arsed, sergeant,’ is it?”