Dazza’s “Promise?” prompted a chorus of snickers.
It was a rare moment of levity in an incident room heavy with disappointment and near-despair. Twenty-plus detectives made phone calls, ran computer checks, input data or chased paper. When any one of them glanced up, the baby’s image stared back from the walls and picture boards. Many felt it was the only connection with her they’d ever make.
The early brief had thrown out a load of negatives: nothing on the hospital front, nothing on the latest sightings, nothing on the hoax calls. It went with the territory; police work was often a process of elimination. But nothing was filling the gaps. Now they were treading the same ground: re-interviewing witnesses, checking reports and records. Uniforms were out on the streets with clipboards and questions. It was plod-work and it was inevitable, given the state of play. Didn’t make it appealing.
Bev pursued thoughts following on from the Lockwood call. Nick reckoned each media outlet would cough up two to three grand for an exclusive one-to-one with the mother of the missing baby. Roper had already tried negotiating a deal with the Beeb’s London operation. If the slimy toad timed it right, he could flog any number of exclusives. If all the material came out on the same day, who’d argue? Wall-to-wall scoops. Everyone happy.
“Except Natalie.” Unless she knew cash was part of the equation. “Friggin’ blood money, if you ask me.”
Oz’s fingers hovered over a keyboard. “Say something, sarge?”
She gave a half-smile. “Talking to myself.” She watched as he continued tapping out whatever lack-of-progress report he was writing. Her smile grew when a tiny pink tip appeared between his lips. Always happened when he was concentrating. He’d not been aware of the tongue thing till she pointed it out ages ago. When a lock of hair fell across his forehead, she itched to stroke it away. She glanced at the time. “Lunchin’, Oz?” She was already on her feet, bag hoisted.
“Love to, sarge.” She sensed an unspoken but. “I’m meeting someone in town. Maybe tom...”
“No prob.” The incident room had fallen silent. Or was that her imagination? She dropped half-a-dozen lollipop sticks in the bin on the way out. Who loves ya, baby?
The crystal glass held three fingers of single malt. Helen Carver, who hated the taste of alcohol, drained it in two gulps. The liquid burnt her throat, set fire to her belly. For a woman who desperately needed to feel in control, Helen’s thoughts were spiralling. And the mental turmoil was David’s fault. The earrings could mean only one thing: she was married to a rapist. A man who’d attacked three teenage girls. The Beast of Birmingham.
She threw her head back and laughed out loud. It was ridiculous. There could be any number of reasons why the earrings were in his study. So why not ask? And why act the lush? She half-filled the heavy tumbler this time, caught her reflection in the glass: beauty and the beast. She laughed again, neither loud nor convincingly. She looked like a dog. She’d barely slept and well past midday was neither showered nor dressed.
What should she do?
Her gut reaction had been to call the police. That lasted the two minutes it took for her head to react. Helen knew only what she could not do.
Already swaying a little, she stepped carefully across the deep ivory carpet. The lounge was her favourite room: every item handpicked, exquisite, expensive. She pressed her forehead against the picture window, gazed across Brindley Place bustling as usual with businessmen, bright young things, loud tourists. She could not give this up. Would not.
A key turned in the door. Veronica, the old hag, back with the baby. Helen stumbled on the way to the bathroom. She locked herself in and stared at her ravaged features in the mirror. She loathed imperfection, hated ugliness. In that instant, Helen knew what she would do. It was David’s fault. He’d pay for his sins. He’d brought it on himself.
A lunchtime mooch round Moseley had done sod all to boost the Morriss morale. She’d nipped into her usual retail therapists: patchouli-scented shops full of arty-farty flimflam and ethnic mood music, the odd singing whale or chanting monk. She loved it all. But its magic hadn’t worked. Bev had spotted Oz folding his long legs into Sumitra Gosh’s low-slung two-seater in the car park at Highgate. A threesome with Johnny Depp and Joseph Fiennes wasn’t going to erase that particular image.
She shifted the bag on to her other shoulder. Its awesome capacity was nearly breached. It now contained a birthday present for her mum and a few bits to cheer up Sadie. She’d try to get there tonight. The Sicilian pizza she’d been munching on her solitary travels was already making its own alimentary journey. She popped in the last mouthful as she passed the front desk. Vince Hanlon was spooning sugar into a mug. She waggled her fingers and headed for the stairs.
“Not out celebrating?” Big Vince had a broad grin. Think Cheshire cat. On happy pills.
Lottery? Promotion? Gold handcuffs? Bev waited patiently. Vince was clearly dying to share, rubbing his hands together. It put her in mind of copulating sausages.
“Uniform brought the rapist in. Half-hour back. He’s banged up downstairs. Powell wants the bastard to sweat before he gives him a grilling.”
20
DI Powell was in the pub with the lads. Bev raised Carol Mansfield on the phone for the detail. Apparently three punters had called the Street Watch incident room in response to the visuals compiled by Natalie. All supplied the same identification – a twenty-eight-year-old man named Callum Gould. A squad car had picked him up in Balsall Heath.
Bev ended the call and gave a low whistle. Her whopping great porkie to Natalie in the hospital last night had turned out eerily prescient. She took the stairs two at a time and got an eyeful through the cell’s spy-hole.
There was no crucifix dangling from an ear. Apart from that, Bev reckoned the guy could have posed for the E-fit. There was a minuscule white nick in the right eyebrow and an ink-spot mole over the top lip. Callum Gould was the Beck girl’s rapist made flesh.
He sat straight-backed on the bed. His mop of black hair looked limp and greasy but that was probably down to the constant raking of his long tapering fingers. Nut-brown needle-cord strides and an open-neck check shirt gave him the look of a trendy geography teacher. Which he was.
“Having a nose, Morriss?” The DI’s stealthy approach was presumably meant to startle her.
She refused to jump. “You charging him?”
Powell leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Natch.”
“With?”
“The Beck girl’s rape, for starters.”
Bev rose on her toes, took another butcher’s. No doubt about it: he was a dead ringer for the E-fit. Natalie either had perfect recall, or she’d lied about only catching a glimpse of her attacker. “What’s he saying?”
“What they all say. She asked for it.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Bev hissed. “These are real people. Not stock baddies from some naff B-movie. What’s Gould actually saying, as opposed to the crap script you’ve given him?”
“Natalie Beck was gagging for a shag. Clearer?”
As mud. They’d had sex. But was it consensual? Or was Gould a lying two-faced bastard? He’d hardly admit the offence; on the other hand Natalie wouldn’t be the first girl to cry rape. But why so long after the event? And why the sudden clarity of vision? And had any of it got a flea’s thighbone to do with the Street Watch attacks?
“Let’s face it, Morriss, Gould’s hardly going to put a hand up to raping an ex-pupil.”
“Gould was her teacher?” She sounded as if she’d been at the helium. But if Gould had taught Natalie, why hadn’t she blown the whistle before?
“I know what you’re thinking. Took her frigging time, didn’t she? Scared shitless, that’s why. He threatened to kill her. ’Course,” he drawled “That was the first time.”
What? She rarely spluttered; she did now. “First time?”
“Back in January. Gets the horn, comes back for more. Raped her again. Friday night.”
Her th
oughts swirled. A million questions tumbled round. Was Callum Gould Zoë’s father? Had Natalie told Gould about the baby during Friday’s alleged attack? Paternity could be proved with DNA samples: DNA from a baby who went missing within hours of the alleged rape and five days later still hadn’t been found.
It could be kosher. On the other hand, Natalie could be away with the fairies. The wicked fairies, if she was stitching up some innocent sod out of spite. Bev shook her head. It boiled down to the same old same old: his word against hers, Callum Gould v Natalie Beck.
Natalie Beck had gone to ground. It was early evening. Bev and the guv were having a jar in The Prince of Wales.
“I called the General six times and paid Terry Roper a home visit.” The house dry white tasted like paint stripper, so she’d eschewed her preferred poison for tonic water. A tentative sip produced a sour grimace. “It’s not like the girl’s got that many places to hang.”
Byford shrugged. “Probably holed up in some five-star hotel, courtesy of the Sun or the Mail.”
Lucky girl. But Bev was still desperate to have a word or several with Natalie. Slinging accusations around the place didn’t marry with what Bev knew of her. But then, what did she know? Maybe Natalie had a chameleon gene. Or maybe the accusations weren’t so outlandish.
Gould’s image as trendy geography master wasn’t the whole picture. Colleagues and neighbours had painted other aspects. The guy’s marriage had fallen apart and his career looked set to go the same way. He was on a second official warning for bad timekeeping and absenteeism. Three strikes and he’d be out. His wife had already gone, fed up with Gould’s drinking and skirt-chasing.
“What d’you reckon, guv? Is he in the frame?”
The superintendent had sat in on Callum Gould’s questioning that afternoon. Now he leaned back, hands behind head, and gave it some thought. “Hard to say. He’s admitted having sex with the girl on Friday. They met by chance, apparently in a club on Broad Street. Claims she was all over him. He was off his face.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand; heard it all before. “What about back in January?”
Byford shook his head. “Denied it absolutely. Refused to answer any more questions. He was pretty open till that point, then he clammed up, demanded his brief.”
The lawyer was defending in a big murder trial at the Crown Court. Gould’s interview had been terminated. It wasn’t the only premature action, in Bev’s opinion. There’d been no chance to question him about Street Watch or the missing baby.
She unwrapped a Drumstick, sucked pensively. “He doesn’t teach her any more and Natalie’s not under-age. It’s not Romeo and Juliet but it’s not wrong.”
Byford lowered his voice. “In January the girl was fifteen. And if she was raped, her age is irrelevant.”
“If.” She sniffed. The barman had lit up. She took a surrogate drag as smoke drifted by.
“You think she’s lying?”
“Who knows?” What she did know was that Natalie had been through more blokes than hot baltis. She’d told Bev as much that day in the baby’s nursery. Casual sex was no big thing for street-wise cookies like Natalie. Especially given a role model like Maxine. Natalie saw sex as a sticky handshake. Until Gould’s arrest, Bev had seen her as an insecure kid looking for love. Natalie didn’t just kiss frogs – she fucked them. She’d not yet come across a prince. But the girl’s say-so on its own didn’t make Gould a pervert.
“‘Who knows’, as you put it, sergeant, isn’t good enough.” Bev flinched as Byford slammed his glass on the table. “There are too many unknowns at the moment. And no one’s coming up with any answers.”
Bev parked the MG, slammed the door and kicked ass out of the drive. Byford’s outburst rankled at a time when she felt bad enough already. She’d tried putting herself in his size tens. The big man’s attack was almost certainly prompted by tortured thoughts of Baby Fay. He wasn’t the only one affected. The dead baby was a shadow in Bev’s soul. As for the baby she prayed was still alive? She was doing everything she could.
There was only one antidote to blues this big.
Emmy Morriss was in the hall when Bev unlocked the front door. “Sweetheart, lovely to see you.” Soothing words, a verbal massage. And the house smelt of beeswax and basil. Not a packing case in sight. Bliss.
“You should’ve called,” Emmy said. “We’re off out.”
Bev’s shoulders sagged along with her face.
Her mum winked a Bev-blue eye. “Only joking. Come on. I’ll pop the kettle on.”
A golden fur-ball with teeth and tail bounded out of the kitchen and hurled itself at Bev’s thighs. She picked it up before it wet itself. “Glad the training’s going well.”
“He’s pleased to see you, Bev,” Emmy gently admonished.
The retriever puppy was a recent acquisition in the wake of the attack on her gran. Gnipper had yet to get his teeth into the guard-dog role. Anything else lying round, no problem. He’d been to the vet’s three times to have his stomach pumped.
“How’s gran?”
“Fine.” Sadie had slipped in behind Bev. She didn’t look it. What hair had grown back looked like off-white candyfloss. Dark circles under the old lady’s eyes were now a permanent feature. “You’re looking a bit peaky, our Bev.”
“Dandy, me mate.” She hugged her gran’s tiny frame.
“Here you go.” Emmy laid out a comfort-food combo: camomile tea, cinnamon toast and chocolate layer cake three storeys high.
Bev demolished a good half of it as they sat around chatting. The kitchen was the cosiest room she knew: warm lighting, pink gingham, polished pine. She sat back, forced herself to switch off. Otherwise what was the point being here? She watched her mum and gran grinning like schoolgirls, listened as they finished each other’s sentences. They were warm loving people. The dysfunctional fuckwits she came across in the job were light-years away. For an hour or so, anyway.
“What’s Gnipper doing?” Emmy asked.
The puppy’s nose was in Bev’s bag. She dragged him away and caught a glimpse of the goodies she’d bought Sadie at lunchtime. “Almost forgot. Here you go, gran.”
The old lady perked up at the sight of the latest Reg Hill, a Sudoku book and a tin of Roses. They did serious damage to the chocolates during a few rounds of Cluedo.
“Thought you’d be dead good at it, our Bev.” Sadie winked at Emmy.
Bev gave a weak smile as she packed the box. “Obviously I was holding back there.”
“What, every game?” they chorused.
The guffaws nearly woke the puppy. Mind, on the available evidence he was too stuffed to move. Chocolate coated a lolling tongue and pink flecks of toffee were caught between his teeth. As for the location of the stick, Bev really didn’t want to go there.
21
Natalie lifted her sleepy head, strained her ears. Crocks rattled outside the door. Someone tunelessly whistled My Way as they passed along the corridor. The teenager sat up, glanced round, took a few seconds to remember where she was. She’d only been to London once, never stayed in a hotel before. Bed and breakfasts didn’t count. The girl shuddered at a montage of flashbacks: stained sheets, stinking bogs, peeling walls, black mould, cockroaches big as rats...
She banished the bad times with a shake of her head, threw back the heavy white satin bedcover and headed for the shower. Tel had done them proud, twisting that stuck-up reporter’s arm to fork out for this place. It screamed posh with polished knobs on. She lingered under a jet of water, not too hot, not too cold. Bring on the porridge and call me Goldilocks.
Sod that for a game of soldiers. They’d scoffed the full monty on room service. Tel had shovelled it down his neck, then took off on a bit of business. She’d been knackered, gone back to bed for a bit. Now she was running late for the meet. She stowed the bath freebies in a Morrisons’ carrier, pulled on denims, pink pixie boots, navy fleece, then moved to the dressing table. Sitting on a plush velvet stool, she struck poses in the mir
ror. She’d look fitter with a bit of slap but Tel said she’d come across better without. He was probably right. He usually was.
Dead generous an’ all. He knew it took it out of her, talking about Zoë and that. She’d gab 24/7 if it got the baby back, but she kept blarting, breaking down. Tel had slipped her fifty quid for spends, something to cheer herself up a bit.
Callum Gould would probably need a bit of cheering now – if someone had fingered him on the strength of her E-fit. Served the bastard right. She’d not seen it till Tel’d said. Gould was a teacher, supposed to look out for his kids, not get off with them. If Gouldie hadn’t turned nasty and told her to fuck off she might not have gone along with it. It was Tel’s idea. Supposed to get the cops off her back. She snorted. Like that’d worked. Bev Morriss had texted her more times than she could count.
Her face fell. She felt really bad about Maxine. Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed at her reflection. What a freakin’ mess. If the cops hadn’t come on heavy wanting to know who Zoë’s dad was, she wouldn’t’ve lied about the rape back in January. But she’d no choice. If Maxine knew she’d been screwing Tel it would kill her. Terry could be the father. Natalie had told him he was. Fact was, she didn’t know. It could’ve been any Dick or Harry.
She lifted her hair, turned her head this way and that, pouting. Dropping Gouldie in it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Not only would it throw Mr Plod off the scent, but Tel reckoned Gould would be good for a bob or two: hush money. Smart or what? Tel made her look dense.
The teenager reached for a cigarette, watched herself light it, blew smoke through her nostrils. Still, she was a quick learner. If she fitted up Gould for one rape, she reckoned he might as well take the rap for both. He’d lied about wearing a condom when they had it off on Friday, so the bastard had it coming to him.
Anyway, teachers were easy targets. It’d be his word against hers. Anyone who read the papers knew what that meant. She’d come clean, put him out of his misery, before he was in the dock. Blame it on that post-traumatic stuff. Probably.
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