Right now she didn’t give a toss about anything except getting Zoë back.
“Fuck’s sake.” She retrieved her mobile from the bedside table. The message was the same: call me NOW bev morriss. The girl scowled: the cop’s needle was so stuck.
She hit a few numbers, waited while an operator put her through to the ward. “Can you give my mum a message?”
Five minutes late, Natalie and her meagre belongings vacated the room. People to see, places to go, and fifty quid burning a hole in her back pocket.
“You’ll bust that if you’re not careful.” DC New indicated the cell phone that had just crash-landed on Bev’s desk. It was mid-morning on the sixth day of the search for Baby Zoë and all sixteen detectives working in the incident room were desperate for something besides a phone to break. Over six hundred calls on the hot-line numbers, three hundred and twenty-seven statements taken, thousands of hours invested, incalculable effort expended. It was as though the baby had never existed.
Bev retrieved the phone, relieved it was still intact. “Wonders of sodding communication.” She’d called or texted the number a dozen times in two hours. Her ensuing sigh ruffled papers.
Oz glanced up from a screen. “The Beck girl?” Bev nodded. She wasn’t the only frustrated bunny. Natalie Beck’s mystery tour had taken up a good deal of discussion at the early brief. It was incomprehensible to most squad members that the girl had taken off while her baby was still missing. There were one or two vague mutterings, speculation as to whether she was involved in the child’s disappearance. Bev didn’t think anyone took the idea seriously; but as every cop knew, absolutely nothing could or should be ruled out till the fat lady read the jury verdict.
A boot shot off a desk and a few spines straightened as the guv popped his head round the door. “Lydia Pope’s in reception, Bev. Five minutes, OK?”
“Sure.” Pope was Gould’s lawyer, finally arrived. Let me at her. Powell’s loss was Bev’s gain. Though the guv would take the lead, Bev was sitting in on what by rights was the DI’s baby. It was one reason she’d made repeated efforts to contact Natalie. Further input from the Beck girl could help determine a line or lines of questioning. Given what they had, they’d be flying not quite blind but partially sighted.
“Wonder how the DI’s getting on?” Oz tapped a pen against his teeth. There wasn’t an officer in the nick who wouldn’t be glued to Crimewatch that night. Ratings’d go through the skylight.
“Creaming his jeans if he’s on the sofa with La Bruce,” Darren leered.
Oz nodded. “He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”
Bev lifted an eyebrow. “Down, boys.”
“Nah.” Darren corrected his earlier comment. “Nick and Fiona don’t have sofas. That’s Richard and Judy.”
“It’ll be Punch and Judy in a minute.” Compared with Bev’s delivery the Sahara was damp.
Dazza started singing, “Hit me baby one more time,” before being forced to duck a flying stapler. “Sexual harassment.” He was all mock outrage. “I could have you for that, sarge.”
Pad under elbow, pen behind ear, Bev turned at the door and winked. “You wouldn’t know where to start, Dazza.”
Lydia Pope was almost as tall as the guv and thin as a rake on a diet. Garbed entirely in shiny black from skull-hugging cloche to scuffed court shoes, Bev reckoned the brief looked like a well-groomed exclamation mark – from the back. Face-on, she could have been a man in drag. The nose was made to hang coats on, not enough teeth took what looked like temporary residence in too much gum and either a pair of anorexic caterpillars had died on her face or the eyebrows had been pencilled in by a piss-head. With those looks, Bev reckoned Pope must be a shit-hot lawyer. A mental wrist-slap swiftly followed. She was catching macho habits from Highgate’s cavemen.
Interview Three was a tad cave-like: no windows, with fresh air and space at a premium. Pope swept in like it was the Supreme Court. She gave a metal chair an ostentatious wipe with a grubby tissue, seat and back, and was waiting, pen poised over yellow pad, before Bev closed the door. Gould was already in situ behind a metal desk with a bashed tin ashtray as centrepiece. His five o’clock shadow was impressive; a week and he’d be combing a beard. The uniform who’d been keeping watch asked Byford if they wanted tea, coffee.
“That won’t be necessary,” the lawyer drawled without bothering to turn. “We won’t be here that long.”
Bev exchanged an ooh-la-la glance with the guv, then crossed the room, ran through the spiel for the tape and took a pew next to Byford, opposite La Pope and Gould.
The woman’s business voice made Bev’s bum prickle. Think Anne Robinson on a menstrual-meets-migraine sort of day. Forget the weakest link; the brief went straight for the carotid.
“Help me out here. My client admits having sex. The girl’s not a minor.” She riffled a lined pad that even Bev saw had zilch written in it. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t an offence.” Pope looked up quizzically. Though given the lie of the eyebrows, facial expression was severely restricted.
Byford raised a more articulate arch. “If Natalie Beck was drawing her pension, it’d still be rape if she didn’t want it.”
Pope scratched the back of her neck, relieving an itch clearly more of a priority than giving a response. The hand inadvertently dislodged the cloche. The slightly comic angle was the only vaguely amusing aspect in Lydia Pope’s entire attitude.
“And the evidence?” She looked expectant, held the pen ready.
Byford revealed that, as well as Natalie Beck’s statement, five people had now phoned a hotline naming Gould as the suspect depicted in the E-fit.
Her scorn was predictable. “And that proves?” She offered her own suggestion. “That Ms Beck’s imagination is as active as her sex life?”
Given what Bev knew, there was no answer to that. Anyway, Pope didn’t hang round for comment. Tapping her pen, she hammered home points. “My client has gone out of his way to co-operate. You’ve had access to his home, car, bank account. Charge him or release him.”
Byford ignored her. “Where were you, Mr Gould, in the early hours of January 12?”
Gould briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I have absolutely no idea. Could you recall where you were?”
“According to Nat...”
He surged forward, slammed his palms on the table. “The only thing I know is I wasn’t within spitting distance of Natalie Beck!” He slumped back, leaving damp handprints on the aluminium. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on the bloody girl.”
“Bit more than eyes,” Bev said.
CCTV footage had captured Gould and Natalie staggering out of Jollies nightclub on Broad Street. Looked like they were giving each other mouth-to-mouth.
“She was giving it away. No man’s going to say no.”
“You’re wrong there.” The guv’s opinion wasn’t open to argument.
“Charge him or let him go.” The lawyer sounded as if it was her call.
Byford turned to Bev. “Ask one of the lads to bring in tea, please.”
Bev collared a passing uniform and crossed back to the desk. En route she shot a loaded question. “The baby’s not yours, then?”
She was after a snap reaction. The words elicited a range of emotion. She couldn’t isolate the real from what might have been rehearsed. Had a nerve been touched? If so, where? And why?
“What baby?” He had to be joking.
“What planet are you on, Mr Gould?” Only the tape recorder prevented a Morriss snort. “The baby that’s been missing nearly a week. The one all over the telly and the papers.” Christ, the man lived in Balsall Heath; the place was smothered in Have You Seen posters.
Gould’s face was going like an emotional windsock. Shame she wasn’t a mind reader, or meteorologist. “I know nothing about a baby. Missing or otherwise.” He fiddled with an earlobe.
“Zoë Beck,” Bev supplied. “Nearly four weeks old now. Natalie says she’s the result of the January ra
pe.”
“Alleged rape.” Pope raised a hand.
Ignoring her, Bev took a photograph from her bag, slid it across the table.
Gould’s hand shook as he lifted it for a closer look.
“Only a day old there,” Bev said. “Prob’ly changed quite a bit by now. Assuming she isn’t dead.”
Even Lydia Pope looked aghast as Gould clutched the picture to his heart. Silent tears flowed down his cheeks, diverted only by day-old stubble. “I’d like to talk to Natalie.”
Pope whispered in Gould’s ear, then addressed Byford. “My client is under duress. He has nothing further to add at this time.”
Bev would have cracked on but it wasn’t her call. She glanced at the guv, who nodded. “Interview terminated at 12.07,” she said, switching off the tape, then looked at Gould. He wasn’t the only one who wanted a word with Natalie Beck.
22
“I doubt she’ll talk to you, detective. But you’re welcome to try.”
The junior doctor was a dish. Bev refrained from licking her lips. They were closeted in a cluttered side-office, all bulging files and bowing shelves. Zachary Caine’s six-two frame leaned casually against a wall-chart promoting healthy living. Given the guy’s drop-dead looks, Bev reckoned he could induce cardiac arrest, never mind care for it.
“May as well give it a whirl.” She flashed a smile, toyed with the idea of clutching her chest, rolling her eyes and executing a quick swoon. Caine, who was making notes on a clipboard, was oblivious to her imminent demise.
Her current heart rate was actually the result of a mad dash across town. She’d hotfooted it to the General on the off-chance Natalie Beck had put in an appearance. It was a no-show. The only thing Natalie had put in were a couple of phone calls checking her mum was still in the land of the living. Bev was praying that Maxine could point her in Natalie’s direction.
It was increasingly urgent that she speak to the Beck girl. The search team at Gould’s house had sent word back to Control. Two uniformed officers had entered a room on the top floor that was kitted out as a nursery. Brand-new gear, pristine baby clothes, boxes of nappies, bottles, bedding – you name it, Gould had it. Only one thing he didn’t have. And never had. A baby.
Caine was following a different train of thought. Not an easy ride, the beginnings of a frown suggested. “It’s as if Mrs Beck’s given up.”
“Oh?” Bev’d seen Maxine Tuesday evening, reckoned she was on the mend.
The doctor squeezed fingertips into pockets of uncommonly tight moleskin trousers. Bev forced herself to maintain eye contact.
“It happens, detec...” He inclined his head. “May I call you Bev?”
Call me any time. “Sure.”
“I’ve seen it in patients before,” Caine continued. “There’s no physical reason why they don’t respond. In Mrs Beck’s case, the X-rays are more or less clear, her oxygen levels are as normal as they’re going to get, given she’s a heavy smoker. But...” He gave a one-shoulder shrug.
“Delayed shock?” Bev speculated.
He pushed himself off the wall and indicated the door. “It’s more than that. It’s like she’s shut down.”
They were outside Maxine’s ward when he tried to explain further. “Are you familiar with the expression ‘turning your face to the wall’?”
Yeah. And banging your head against it. She nodded.
“As a way of coping with trauma, it’s not uncommon,” Caine said. “She lost everything in the fire, didn’t she?”
“And her granddaughter went missing before it.”
“The baby on the posters?” His eyebrows disappeared under a thick blond fringe. “I should have realised.”
Bev gave a grim nod. “Now her daughter’s buggered off.”
“Know what?” He took a chest-expanding breath. “If I was Maxine Beck, I’d switch off too.”
“Yeah.” She rested a hand on the door. “But for how long?”
Corporation Street was stuffed with flashing lights, fake snow and nauseatingly jolly blow-up Santas. Christmas, lock stock and flying reindeer, appeared to have hit town. Bev gave a silent groan: it wasn’t even December, for Christ’s sake. She’d come straight from the General and hit Caffè Nero from force of habit. It was just about the only coffee shop in town where you could still smoke. She settled into a chunky leather armchair, rested her bag on her lap and delved. Delved again. Of course she hadn’t got any. She’d given up. “Bugger.”
The profanity provoked a puckered tut from a nearby mauve rinse. The old woman’s creased sepia cheeks caved in as she sucked furiously on a king-size. Bev, who’d even run out of Drumsticks, nearly snatched it out of her mouth. She sighed, sipped on a double espresso, then took a bite-sized chunk from a Mexican chicken wrap. A bit of sustenance was called for, before breaking the good news.
She hit a number, then quickly brought the guv up to speed on Maxine Beck’s ultra-stable condition. He asked the same question Bev had posed to Caine. She answered through a mouthful of pepper and breast. “It’s a piece-of-string job, guv.” Basically no one knew what was going on in the Beck brain, or how long the near-catatonic state would last. “Think of it as psychological meltdown.”
The thought was almost enough to put her off the late lunch. She hoped Byford wasn’t sharing the mental picture of a mushroom cloud spewing steaming grey matter. The guv appeared lost for words. She pricked her ears, heard a rasp on the line again. He was using his hand as a razor. The image brought to mind their hirsute reluctant interviewee.
“What’s the latest on Callum Gould?”
Byford snorted. “He’s pulling a Maxine. Refusing to open his mouth. Pope wants him released.”
“Pushing it, isn’t it? What about the baby-free nursery?”
“We’re trying to trace the erstwhile Mrs Gould. Pope says she left because they can’t have kids. The perfect nursery was premature pie in the sky. They tried everything, including three rounds of IVF. When it became clear it wasn’t going to happen, she took off. Spain, apparently.”
“They couldn’t have kids?” Bev asked. “Or he couldn’t?” If Gould was shooting blanks, there was no way he was Zoë’s father.
“It’s one of the questions we need answered. Fast.”
Bev reran the scene in Interview Three, recalled Gould’s emotions when he saw the baby’s photograph. Were the tears for the babies he’d never have? Or the one he’d lost? Or worse?
“Is he implicated, guv?”
“The baby’s disappearance?” Byford must’ve been thinking along similar lines. “SOCOs are still out there but we’d’ve heard by now if they’d found anything. As it stands we’ve no evidence, no witnesses. Nothing tying Gould to the snatch. You know as well as me, he wouldn’t be where he is now without the Beck girl’s allegations.”
And where the hell was she?
Bev frowned, recalling the hospital bedside scene. “You said Gould was pulling a Maxine. I don’t reckon she’s faking it, guv.”
The woman could’ve come straight from the set of Land of the Dead: hollow-eyed, grey clammy skin. Bev shuddered. Mind, she’d hedged her bets and given Maxine an earful. If she was actually more compos mentis than comatose, Momma Beck could be in no doubt now how vital it was that Natalie contact the police generally, Bev specifically. Whether a single word had filtered through what appeared to be a self-imposed mental safety net was anyone’s guess.
She could hear the guv’s sigh in his voice. “Either way, it’s no use to us, is it?”
Couldn’t argue with that. Still... “Something’ll give soon, guv. Bound to.”
“You sound amazingly chirpy under the circumstances.”
“Gotta look on the bright side, guv.” She smoothed out a scrap of paper she’d been clutching in a sweaty palm. Doctor Caine’s phone number. Personal. He’d winked an extraordinarily beautiful grey eye and urged her not to wait for an emergency. With humour that cutting-edge, she obviously wouldn’t die laughing. But then, given Zach Caine�
�s amazing anatomy, the main attraction was never going to be his funny bone.
Oz ended the call, cradled the mobile in his hands. Was he doing the right thing? It was the third time in as many days he’d as good as told Bev to get lost. He tightened the bath-towel round his waist, lay on the bed, hands behind his head. Watching a bit of TV at Baldwin Street was no big deal. Except it would almost certainly lead to bed, maybe breakfast.
He wasn’t sure he wanted either, any more.
Wasn’t sure what he wanted.
He gazed at familiar surroundings, favourite possessions. Failed to feel the normal cosy glow. He was twenty-five years old and still lived with his parents. His bedroom was more like a teenager’s with its Freddie Flintoff posters, school cricket trophies, shelf of Wisdens, CD stack of Stones. He sighed. He loved his family deeply, of course he did. His mother and sisters were downstairs now, laughing and chatting as they fixed dinner. Cumin and cardamom wafted from the kitchen. The Khan women doted on him. Even his father had started to consult, occasionally defer to, FirstBorn Son.
It was no longer enough. He wanted a life with Bev. He snorted. If only it were that simple. He reached for her photograph by the bedside: low-cut red dress, high heels, lots of make-up; so not Bev. His smile was unwitting, mirroring hers. The bloody woman had a chip-shop on her shoulder and a stable of high horses, but on the odd occasion he didn’t want to kill her, he’d die for her.
She wouldn’t even live with him.
He knew it was wrong always to get what you want, but with Bev he wasn’t even close to it. She wouldn’t let him near. Paranoid about being hurt. Sex was OK, but not secrets. She wanted a bedmate; he needed a soul-mate. He was in way too deep and it hurt like shit. Yet Bev was pissed because he was putting distance between them. Ironic or what? Not that she’d said anything; she never opened up about anything personal. He heard it in the silence.
The bedroom was too quiet. He hit the remote: Dylan’s times were a-changin’ as well.
Oz sighed. He’d asked Summi for advice. She was in the stay-mean-keep-them-keen school. But he wasn’t into mind games. He’d rather not play at all.
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