Baby Love (6 page)

Bernie Flowers, the head of the police news bureau, had commandeered Highgate’s biggest conference room. The vast space only just coped with the numbers. The media turnout here was almost on a par with that of the officers
flooding the Wordsworth estate.

A baby-snatch wasn’t a filler at the bottom of an inside page. Zoë Beck’s tiny face would be splashed across every newspaper and television in the country, posters would soon be going up all over the Midlands and uniform would shortly
be swamping the city with thousands of leaflets. Within hours the baby’s image would be imprinted on the national psyche in the same way as that of James Bulger, Holly Wells, Jessica Chapman, Sarah Payne... The list was too long. To Bev’s way
of thinking, one child’s name was too many.

She was uncomfortably hot and sweaty under the telly lights and she had to keep screwing her eyes against the glare coming off the table. It was distracting and something was bugging her; she couldn’t pin down the errant niggle. She itched to
get back to the action. Under the conference table’s highly polished mahogany her legs jiggled, desperate to get up and go. Sitting on her butt listening to stupid questions was a complete waste of time. Four hours and counting since that empty cot
was found.

She glanced right. Though Byford was in the hot seat, Bernie was taking most of the flak. Not that he couldn’t handle it; a passing resemblance to John Major was misleading. Bernie was a grey suit but had one of the brightest brains in the nick,
not to mention a technicolor turn of phrase. He’d started in news on Fleet Street and ended up editing a redtop in Docklands. Not a bad background for dealing with the current barrage.

“I’m not dodging the question, mate. I don’t have the answer.” Bernie poured water into a glass, glanced up and gave a tight smile. “Next.” He’d already given them the bare bones of the incident. There was no
meat to offer.

The reporters now had a name and timings: when Zoë was last seen, when her absence was discovered. They’d been asked to go big on witness appeals and hot-line numbers for the public to ring. Someone, the cliché goes, must have seen
something. Bev reckoned they invariably had and it was usually Elvis galloping round the Bullring on Shergar. Whatever. Experienced officers would vet the calls, ditching the dross and the loony tunes. Other teams were already going through paedo
registers and child-porn sites. Still more were checking every crime, cold case or not, anywhere in the country, that bore the slightest resemblance to the taking of Baby Zoë.

None of this satisfied the journos. The pack was after the mother. A harrowing tearful plea for the baby’s safe return was
the
story at this early stage. Bev knew the guv had thought long and hard but eventually vetoed all requests.
Saturation coverage was a given in the first day or so. When it began to flag, he could whisk Natalie from the wings and inject more impetus.

She also knew – because he’d told her – that he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There was another less palatable reason for not putting Natalie Beck out there for public consumption. A surly sixteen-year-old from a grotty
estate on the wrong side of town was a hell of a lot less appealing than a picture of her three-week-old baby.

Being denied the star of the show wasn’t the only reason the press were hacked off. The guv had also quashed requests to be interviewed live on lunchtime news bulletins. Byford didn’t give a toss about journalists’ deadlines. Not
when he had one of his own. Bev knew the big man would happily do a turn – Christ, he’d cartwheel down New Street in the buff – if and when there was something worth saying. She watched him scribbling furiously into a notebook: ideas,
reminders, checks, passing notions. He’d carry the pad around, adding more lines as inspiration struck. It was another Byford habit. Not one to which Bev subscribed.

“You’re already stretched with the rapes. Will you be getting in reinforcements?”

Byford’s pen stopped mid-sentence. Bernie opened his mouth to speak but the guv was already there. “My officers are professionals. They’re dedicated men and women who’re coping brilliantly. If the situation changes I’ll
let you know.” His glance covered everyone in the room. “Just don’t hold your breath.”

“Loyalty to the troops. That’s nice.” Mr Supercilious was on his feet this time. Tall, rake-thin, gold-framed glasses and lank hair scraped back in a tiny ponytail. Bev didn’t recognise him. “Do you have teenage
daughters, superintendent?” Instantly clear where he was coming from.

“No, I don’t, Mr...?”

“Squires. Colin. Sky News. I’ve been talking to last night’s rape victim. She’s warning girls and older women to stay off the streets.”

“You can’t use it,” Bernie said. “You know the score on anonymity.”

Squires flapped a hand. “She’s waived her rights.”

“Who put her up to that?” Byford snapped.

“Ask the mother. Not me.” The audience was riveted. Squires was enjoying the attention. “Point is, superintendent, are you adding your voice to the victim’s warning? Or are you confident you can guarantee the safety of every
woman on the streets of Birmingham – when most of your people are currently searching for a missing baby?”

That was catch 22-and-a-half. While the guv worked on an answer that wouldn’t land him in it, the women’s editor of the
Evening News
threw in another question.

“Are you aware of the mass street protest?”

This time the guv’s blank look was genuine. So was Bev’s.

Celia Bissell, a tall forty-something redhead, turned a sheet of her spiral-bound notebook. As if she had to. “Yeah, details have just been released. Monday night, a march following the route of the latest attack, then a candlelit vigil. The WAR
party’s organising it. They’re expecting thousands. Could turn nasty.”

Nothing to do with Bush or Blair – this was Women Against Rape, formed a few weeks back in response to Operation Street Watch. The news of the demo was a bit of a bombshell. Bev had quite a few contacts among the women but she hadn’t heard
a whisper.

“We’ll be there in force,” Byford said, gathering his papers. “The West Midlands Force.”

“I’ve put Mike Powell in charge of Street Watch.” Byford kept his glance straight ahead as he pulled out of the car park at Highgate. Bev’s partially masticated cheese and onion pasty nearly choked her.

“Watch what you’re doing with the crumbs.” He brushed crust from a knee.

It was the closest he’d come to fast food since the IBS was diagnosed earlier in the year. He watched his diet like a hungry hawk and drank copious amounts of peppermint tea. Bev ate on the hoof so often she’d almost forgotten how to use
cutlery. She’d grabbed crisps and pasty from the canteen and the latter was still slowing her verbal response. Which was lucky, given what she had in mind.

She reckoned Powell was slipping already and not just in the dog-doo. She couldn’t say anything to the guv because it’d get Carol Mansfield in the shit as well – tales out of school and all that. But Inspector Clouseau had failed to
bring up a couple of potentially significant points during the interview with Laura Kenyon.

They were desperate to discover a link between all three girls. Through careful questioning, Bev had elicited that the first victim, Rebecca Fox, had recently had a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. Bev even talked to the guy who put it there. Come to
think of it, it might be worth having another word in a day or two. Mental note: call Luke Mangold. Sod Powell.

The DI’s scepticism was partly down to the fact that when questioned, the second victim, Kate Quinn, said she’d never set foot inside a parlour, let alone been tattooed. So Powell hadn’t even bothered raising the subject with
Laura.

According to Carol, he’d pooh-poohed the suggestion. After the women had recovered from another fit of the dog-shit giggles, Carol dropped the DI in it further by telling Bev that he’d neglected to ask Laura whether she was a student and,
if so, where she studied. Carol had gleaned the information from Laura’s mother on the way out. Martha Kemp mentioned a name that had popped up earlier in the inquiry: Queen’s College in Edgbaston. It was an obvious lead, and one Bev so
wanted to pursue.

Byford broke her train of thought. “I’ll still be very much around. But I want you to head up the baby case.”

“But, guv...”

“But nothing. I know you’ve built a rapport with the girls and I know you want to nick the bastard...”

His profile gave nothing away but the silence was telling. “You think the baby’s dead, don’t you?” Bev asked. And a child murder would take priority over Street Watch.

If he gripped the wheel any tighter it’d come off in his hands. When he spoke, the voice was unutterably sad, didn’t even sound like the guv’s. “Babies don’t get snatched from their cots at home, Bev. Think of the big
cases over the years. Babies get taken from maternity wards. Women desperate for a baby of their own sneaking into hospitals and stealing someone else’s. Generally speaking, with newborns, it’s all over in a day or two. The baby’s
returned safe and well; woman gets counselling, probation, maybe a suspended slap on the wrist.”

“Generally speaking...?” She reckoned there was one case not covered by the norm.

“I only know one instance where a tiny baby was grabbed from her home.”

And she was found dead.

“I’ll get the Baby Fay case files out when we get back,” Bev said.

Byford glanced at her for the first time since they got in the car. “I’ve already put them on your desk.”

“Just fuck off, will you? She ain’t talking.”

Terry Roper was hurling obscenities through the warped door of number thirteen. If he had the sense he was born with, he’d have realised it wasn’t yet another door-stepping journalist after an exclusive with the baby’s mother. Though
a bunch of snappers was huddled across the road, zoom lenses poised to shoot.

Bev flicked a glance at the guv. It was an exclusive chat with the baby’s
father
they were after. And Terry Roper hadn’t got a prayer of getting in the way.

“For Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “It’s the police; open up.” Bev was hoping Byford’s paternal presence might persuade Natalie to open up as well, on the sensitive issue of Zoë’s paternity.

Roper, all abject apology and ingratiating smiles, led them into the tiny sitting room. It stank of vinegar and stale smoke. Mother and daughter were still bonding on the settee. Held by an invisible umbilical cord, they looked as if they hadn’t
budged a centimetre since Bev’s first visit, though Natalie’s bare legs now bore corned-beef marbling from the gas fire.

“Cuppa tea?” Roper offered.

The coffee table was littered with enough mugs to open a seconds shop. Noting the colour and consistency of the dregs, Bev declined. She almost succumbed to Roper’s proffered pack of Marlboro. Three months she’d gone without so much as a
puff... But when she went to take one the guv’s glare persuaded her it was a bad move.

Social niceties out of the way, Byford got to the point. “I want you to know, Natalie, that we’re doing everything in our power to find Zoë.” He ran through the current police activity while mother and daughter supped tea and
swallowed smoke.

Bev crossed her legs and took out a notebook. Jeez, she’d be glad when Oz was around again. The hard chairs weren’t conducive to comfort, which was fine by her; the secondhand oxygen was soporific. She sat back and observed the big man in
action. Byford was good at this stuff: open body language, voice pitched right, just enough Brummie accent to make Natalie feel at home. She wasn’t exactly putty in his hands, but he was working on it.

The guv wasn’t Bev’s only focus. She was trying to get her head round the Maxine-Terry Roper thing. His appeal was obvious but Maxine’s charms were all but hidden these days. And not just by a shapeless sludge-coloured
shell-suit.

Bev looked closer, tried to imagine the woman in decent gear, hair combed, a touch of make-up. It wasn’t that hard. There was some decent raw material under the rough exterior. Maxine might carry a few extra kilos but so had Monroe. And though
currently puffy and pasty, Maxine’s face had the kind of bone structure a lot of women paid through the nose for. It might no longer launch a thousand ships, but it’d have no problem with the odd longboat or two. As for Maxine’s
intellect, Terry Roper probably wasn’t with her for cerebral stimulation.

Right now Mr Blue Moon was eagerly perched on an armchair close by the Beck women. He was all rapt attention, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his dimpled chin, switching his gaze to whoever was speaking. Natalie was currently in the
spotlight. For the umpteenth time she was saying – in effect – diddlysquat.

“Honest, I’d tell you if I could.”

The guv must be feeling the heat; he was running a finger along his collar line. “Natalie, the lad isn’t in trouble.” It was probably true. “We need to have a word with him, that’s all.”

With any fellow who’d been in spitting distance, let alone shagging.

The girl was picking a crusty scab on her elbow. “I’ve said. I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” A tad impatient now.

“Leave her alone.” Maxine glared. “She’s going through hell.”

Byford hunched forward, palms up and out. “We need your help on this, Natalie.” He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “So does Zoë.”

The silence lasted ten seconds, fifteen... Bev reached twenty-one before it was shattered by Natalie’s ear-splitting scream. Muffled by sobs, her words were still distinguishable, though the precise meaning was unclear. “I can’t tell
you because I don’t fucking
know
!”

How many men had she slept with? Two? Twenty-two?

Bev winced as the teenager tore viciously at the scab; fresh blood oozed from raw skin. Roper grabbed a tissue and gently dabbed the weeping site until Maxine snatched it away, took over the nursing. Bev caught a fleeting exchange of glances between
Natalie and Roper, but it wasn’t easy to read.

“Names, then, Natalie.” The guv’s voice was neutral. “We’re going to need names.”