Baby Love (2 page)

With hindsight, the signs had been evident back in September. Then, a month later, another attack with an almost identical MO. SOCOs were still at the scene of Laura’s rape, but Bev was sure they’d find the same sick signature. The first
two victims had each been missing an earring. It could be coincidence; Bev thought not. Serial sickos often took trophies, pathetic reminders of what big brave men they were.

She shook her head, conceded there was a sliver of doubt on the jewellery angle. But there was none on what he did to his victims’ pubic hair.

The weird stuff had not been released to the media. The reporters didn’t know the half of it. Not that it had stopped the speculation. They were already going big on what they’d dubbed the Beast of Birmingham. They’d hooked up with a
couple of women’s groups and a Tory honourable member to get daily comments that were invariably swipes at the police. It was all a bit rent-a-quote and it wouldn’t satisfy the media lust for salacious detail. Bev pursed her lips. Sooner or
later there’d be a leak. Sure as eggs are eggs.

“I’m Martha Kemp. Are you with the police?”

A leak on legs? Bev wiped the thought off her face. There could be a reasonable explanation why Martha The Mouth Kemp had been granted access to the rape suite. Bev just couldn’t come up with one right now. She rose and tried to make eye
contact, but Kemp’s gaze was sweeping the room, looking for someone more important.

Bev was still trying to get her head round the fact she was face to face with The Mouth. She’d never seen Kemp in the flesh but the woman presented a talk show on Birmingham Sound, the city’s commercial radio station. Provocative and
outrageous, Kemp focused on big news issues, encouraging listeners to call in, then baiting them mercilessly when their views didn’t coincide with hers. Shock jock wasn’t in it. The Mouth was vicious, offensive and utterly compulsive. She got
away with murder, mainly thanks to the sexiest voice this side of Mariella Frostrup. Talk about vocal Viagra. Bev only sounded that hot when she had a sore throat. Actually, Bev never sounded that hot; hoarse, maybe.

She offered a hand. “Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant...”

Kemp lifted a finger and scrabbled in her bag, eventually taking out a sleek black mobile. Presumably it had been on vibrate and clearly it was a message, not particularly welcome going by Kemp’s furrowed brow.

Bev tried not to stare but it was a shock to find that her mental picture of the woman had been so not right. For years, she’d imagined early Anna Ford. This was late Betty Ford. The severe salt-and-pepper crop was like a skullcap. The skin tone
was the shade and texture of old newspapers, probably due less to the lighting than the lighting up. Bev suspected a forty-a-day habit. The long brown woollen coat had no style and little shape.

Kemp returned the phone and Bev tried again. “Bev Morriss, Detective...”

Though standing nearer now, the gap widened as an unsmiling Kemp flapped a dismissive hand before wrapping hostile arms round a spreading waist. “Not now. I need to talk to Laura.”

The urge to mirror Kemp’s body language was strong. Bev settled for clenching her fists. “Are you a doctor as well, Mrs Kemp?”

A tendon stiffened in Kemp’s neck. “Ms Kemp.”

“And the answer to my question is?” Bev’s trainer was tapping the floor tiles.

Kemp made eye contact for the first time. The whites were bloodshot, the irises light blue, almost grey. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude problem?”

Once or twice. It was a sore point. “You still haven’t answered the question. Not that I give a toss. ’Cause unless you’re doing a spot of medical moonlighting with a rape kit, you can get off my case.”

Kemp’s smooth delivery carried an edge of menace. “Who’s your superior officer?”

Red flag. Raging bull. Shame it hid the warning light. Bev snorted. “Don’t pull that one on me, love. As soon as Laura Kenyon’s fit enough to talk, there’s only one person going in there. And that’s me.” Bev jabbed
a finger in the direction of Kemp’s breastbone and took a step closer. “You shouldn’t even be in here. Who the hell was stupid enough to let you in?”

“I guess that’d be me.”

Bev didn’t need to turn. The governor’s voice, in its own way, was as distinctive as Martha Kemp’s.

There was no premonition, no inkling of any kind. Natalie Beck’s morning was starting like a bunch of others during the bumpy course of her sixteen-year life: bleary-eyed and bad-tempered. Her slow reluctant surfacing
wasn’t prompted by the garish Mickey Mouse alarm clock. She’d forgotten to set it again. Erratic bursts of heavy rain needling the window eventually roused her as cartoon hands pointed to a tardy ten past nine.

The not-so-early riser grabbed the clock and squinted at the dial in disbelief. The sour expression on her sleep-softened features suggested the rodent was deliberately giving her a hard time. She slammed the clock on to a flimsy orange box pressed
into service as a bedside table. The off-key ping echoed in the stillness of the house.

Natalie chewed a pierced lip and frowned. The place was like a morgue during a lockout. No blaring radio. No telly. No crocks clattering. She lay motionless, held her breath, listened again. Still silence. And in a mid-terrace with tissue-thin walls,
that was saying something. Especially now with the baby.

Her maternal instincts were still in the embryonic stage, but even Natalie knew it was unusual for a newborn to sleep so long. To date, little Zoë Beck had managed no more than a four-hour stretch in a three-week existence. Natalie sighed, gave
the faded England duvet a truculent kick, then paused, grabbed by a cooler idea. Her mum, Maxine, must be doing her doting granny bit. On past performance,
bit
was the operative word. Still, gift-horse and mouth and all that.

Natalie retrieved the cover and snuggled back into its warmth. A lie-in was rare these days; a girl might as well make the most of it. And, boy, did she need one. It had been a late night, a first since the baby. Natalie had been down Broad Street
with a few mates on the pop and on the pull – just like the old days. Old days? Christ, she sounded like her ma. Whatever. At sweet sixteen, Natalie was plenty old enough to hit on Mr High and Mighty Gould. She still couldn’t believe
she’d made out with a teacher. Gouldie had barely given her the time of day when she was at school.

School. What a joke. The head had written suggesting she go back, sit the exams next year. As if. She wasn’t a kid any more; she had a nipper of her own. What use was a bunch of poxy GCSEs?

She reached down, fumbling for a ciggie from her bag on the floor; swore as she brought out an empty pack. As she moved, she caught the spicy scent of Gould’s aftershave. Not surprising, really. He’d been all over her. She recalled some of
the more hard-to-reach places, smiled; she’d certainly taught Sir a thing or two. Bastard had buggered off, then. Didn’t even walk her to the bus.

“Nat’ly! Nat’ly!” The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. Maxine Beck’s voice could dent concrete, never mind daydreams. “I’m off now, our kid. Get your ass in gear.”

Yeah, yeah.

“And you shouldn’t have the baby in bed with you. It’s not safe.”

Whatever.

Natalie counted the seconds until the front door slammed. Yep. Seven. You could set your watch by Maxine and her dull little routines. The bossy clack of heels on pavement would fade by thirty.

Natalie hit twelve before registering her mother’s words.

The girl’s bare feet skimmed freezing lino as she dashed across the landing, heart pounding. Halfway across the cheap carpet she halted, dizzy with relief, closing her eyes briefly and mouthing a silent thanks to any passing god. The baby was
asleep, the top of her head just visible above the pink quilt. Her mum must have fed Zoë, then put her down before leaving the house.

Natalie took a calming breath to slow her racing heart. Maxine’s mean trick had forced her out of bed all right. Into a state of shock.

She tiptoed to the tiny cot and gently pulled back the covers. The macabre sight turned her insides to ice. She cupped a hand over her mouth to stem the bile rising in her throat, not able to make sense of what she saw.

Zoë wasn’t in the cot. It was a doll. A stupid doll.

Natalie flung it across the room, angrily snatched at the pillow, yanked the covers aside and up-ended the mattress. It had to be another mean trick, a nightmare hide-and-seek. But in her heart she knew Maxine wouldn’t be that malicious.

Her panic rose as her breathing quickened. She stared wildly round the room before turning back to the cot. All that remained was a white cotton sheet, a little crumpled and so very cold. Natalie lifted it to her cheek, inhaled the scent of her
beautiful baby. She lost it, then. Screaming, unable to stop, she clamped her hands over her ears. She needed to think straight but couldn’t think at all over the appalling noise she was barely conscious of making.

In the street, the sound stopped Maxine in her stilettoed tracks. She was vaguely aware of furtive stares from passers-by, but no one else halted. Why would they? It’d just be the estate kids mucking about again. Except Maxine Beck knew it
wasn’t. Her daughter’s anguish was clamouring in her ears. Rooted to the spot, she felt her blood run cold.

“How was I meant to know?”

Bev had been kicking her heels in the corridor while the guv did his best to placate Martha Kemp. He’d just emerged from the rape suite and it turned out the presenter wasn’t a media queen on the sniff for a scoop. She was Laura
Kenyon’s mother.

Byford waited as Bev tried to get her head round the fact that Ms Kemp had kept the Happy Families card extremely close to her chest. “She didn’t say a word, guv.”

“Maybe she couldn’t get one in,” he suggested. “Cut her some slack, sergeant. She’s in shock. That’s her daughter in there.”

She shrugged. Kemp could still have said
something
. Bev felt she’d been deliberately wrong-footed, like it had been some sort of test. And she’d failed.

“Uniform had a hell of a job getting hold of her to break the news,” Byford said. “She wasn’t answering the door. A neighbour had a key. They found her on the bathroom floor. She’d got bladdered at some awards do. So
she’s feeling guilty as sin on top of everything else.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a mind reader.”

“Clearly. Or you’d have an idea why I’m here.”

She hadn’t given it a thought. Her entire focus was on Laura Kenyon, how soon she could talk to the girl. How soon she could elicit every fact while staying alert to every nuance. The Street Watch squad badly needed pointing in the right
direction, any direction. There was an outside chance the girl had caught a glimpse of the attacker. It hadn’t happened yet; he’d been smart, or lucky. But grey cells died off and luck ran out. There was always a first time. A visual was
probably too much to hope for but there was more than one way to skin a cat – even the most repulsive tom on the block. An accent, for instance, could give away loads; a distinctive smell; the way he wore his hair...

“You all right?” Byford asked. God knew what her face was doing. His was full of concern.

“Just thinking.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Her look spoke volumes. “Let’s sit down a minute, sergeant.”

He indicated a heavy wooden bench lining one of the custard-coloured walls. Kilroy had been there, and his mate Elroy. And they’d carved their names with pride, and a blunt penknife. Bev traced the letters with a finger, reluctant to meet the
big man’s gaze. He’d used the s-word, for one thing, and she didn’t like the way he said it. A quick glance confirmed her suspicions. She could read his eyebrows like a book. The left had almost disappeared into the hairline: something
was bugging him.

She let the silence stand and sneaked a few more covert glances. She reckoned he’d aged a bit in the last couple of years. The grey flecks among the still-thick black hair were more snow-scatter than sprinkle. And the lines down the side of his
mouth had become a permanent feature rather than the by-product of late nights and early mornings, often back to back. He was early fifties, nothing these days, but he’d had a health scare earlier in the year, had even toyed with the idea of early
retirement.

That had sent shock waves rippling down Bev’s vertebrae. The guv was on her side, almost the only suit at Highgate that was. Without his metaphorical arm around her shoulder the world would be a much colder place. Not that he didn’t call a
spade an earth mover, and not that he was afraid to tell her to her face what a lot of the Highgate neanderthals only whispered behind her back. Whatever the reason for the current uncharacteristic shilly-shallying, it was neither fear nor concern for
her sometimes fragile self-esteem.

“It’ll probably all be over by the time you get there.”

Where? The only place she had the slightest intention of going was the room at the end of the corridor where Laura Kenyon was waiting to be interviewed. The guv still hadn’t looked her in the eye. She folded her arms, slumped back against the
wall. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “Like I say, I’m no mind-reader.”

“I’m taking you off Street Watch.” He lifted a hand to quell a Morriss outburst. “Just till we know how this thing pans out. As I say, by the time you get there, it’ll probably be sorted.”

“What will?” Her gaze fixed on a peeling poster extolling safe sex. Given the state of her love life, any sex would be a fine thing. Oz had been giving her so much space lately she could rent rooms.

“We got a call-out. Looks like it could be a missing baby.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she abandoned the slouch. “Missing?” Her senses were on red alert. Baby-snatch, kidnap, abduction, call it what you like. A dictionary couldn’t come close to describing the horror, the emotional fall-out
when a baby’s taken, a young life’s at stake. Priority didn’t get much higher. So why the shifty look?

“Uniform’s there,” Byford said. “Les called it in. He reckons there’s something fishy. Wants another pair of eyes.”

Les King. Laziest copper on the force. Christ, if Kingie thought it was fishy, there must be shoals of the bloody things. It was a time-waster. And there was none to spare. Byford knew it. She knew it. “With respect, guv...”