Sod Drumsticks. She pulled over at the first tobacconist, was stubbing out the third cigarette as she arrived at the General. Wished to God it was as easy to put out the images in her head.
Natalie lay on the bed, inadvertently flashing a pink thong, her arm tucked protectively round her mother’s waist. Bev watched for a few seconds through the glass pane in the door. It might’ve been a touching little tableau from Casualty or ER. She scowled. Or maybe not. Not when it also brought Porridge to mind. The last time she’d spied like this was on Callum Gould. In a police cell.
“Well, well, well. The prodigal returns.” The door cracked the wall. The slam wasn’t intentional but it was like a pistol shot in the stark room. “What, no fatted calf? No spit roast? Not even a turkey twizzler?”
The words emerged sneer-wrapped. Bev was more fired up than she realised. Might be down to a dead baby in a phone box, the kind of thing that could make a girl a tad arsie.
She strode in, noting that Maxine was still out of it. Or going for a BAFTA. But Natalie compensated in spades. She went through the whole silent-movie thing: wide black-rimmed eyes, fingers on lips, brow furrowed like a ploughed field. Easing herself off the bed, she nodded at the door. Bev followed, whirled at the last second. Couldn’t swear to it but thought she saw the flutter of a moth’s-wing eyelid. Had Maxine been following the action?
Natalie was propped against the nearest wall: ankles crossed, arms folded, chewing on her bottom lip. Little Miss Truculent. “Fuck’s sake. D’you have to do that?”
“What?”
“Scare the shit out of everyone.”
“Quaking in your boots, are you, Nat?”
The Beck girl sniffed. Could be churlish contempt or the new nasal piercing: a ring through the right nostril. Either way, it had affected her power of speech. Bev used the impasse for further study. Natalie’s spotless white Vans were brand new, as was the Bench top.
She mirrored the teenager’s stroppy stance, hoping the monologue would develop into a dialogue. “I would be.” She paused. “Quaking, in my cool new trainers.” Slightly longer pause. “If I’d buggered off while the cops were searching for my kid. Not knowing whether she’s dead or alive. Looks bad, dunnit? Like you don’t give a shit.”
“What would you know?”
“So tell me.”
Natalie snarled, “Talk to the hand.” She pushed herself off the wall and headed down the corridor.
Bev called after her. “What’s it feel like? Selling your baby’s story?” The loping stride didn’t falter, let alone halt. “How much they paying you, Natalie?”
Without turning, she stuck two fingers behind her back.
“Two grand?” Bev snorted. “A mate at the Beeb says it’s worth at least twenty. Best check that with Tel, hadn’t you, love?”
That brought a momentary pause. Enough for Bev to catch up. She grabbed Natalie’s skinny arm and swung her round.
“Listen up, sweetheart. You can do what the fuck you like. But waste any more police time and I’ll slap a charge on you so fast your feet won’t touch.”
“Sod off.” Short and snappy; so not clever.
OK, kid, gloves off. Bev smiled, waited as a brace of nurses walked past, then tightened her grip, lowered her voice. “I thought we’d found Zoë’s body tonight.”
Natalie stiffened. Bev almost pulled her punches but a verbal fist was probably the only way to penetrate the posing. “All the way there, I’m feeling sorry for you.” She released her hold on Natalie’s forearm. “I get there and there’s this new-born baby dumped in a pool of piss and blood on the concrete floor of a filthy phone box. See, Natalie, I can’t get rid of the image, that God-awful stink. I’m real glad you didn’t have to go through all that... But don’t piss me around. I’m not in the mood.”
Natalie slapped a hand to her mouth and ran outside, sobbing. Bev found her perched on the low brick wall. It had stopped raining but everywhere was damp. She’d get a wet bum. Shame.
“Cruel, you are,” Natalie whined. “No need for that.” Snot and tears glistened on the back of the teenager’s hand.
Bev said. “Know what? I’m fresh out of sympathy.” She lit a Silk Cut, didn’t offer the pack. “You shouldn’t have left without telling anyone. You shouldn’t have ignored my calls.” And while she was at it... “And you shouldn’t have dropped Callum Gould in the shit.” It was little more than a shot in the dark, instinct more than anything.
“Pulled him in, ’ave you?” The question was way too casual.
Bev crossed her fingers. “Highgate nick. Charges any time.”
“Good. Bastard raped me.” Bev listened hard, but there was little conviction in the voice.
“Did he, Natalie?”
“Giss a smoke.”
Bev stashed the pack in her bag. “Did Callum Gould rape you?”
The teenager turned her head away. Bev waited, partly to give her an opening, mainly because a departing ambulance with flashing lights and wailing sirens would’ve drowned out any words.
She took a deep drag and spoke through the smoke. “Serious allegation, kid. Bloke could go down for years.”
Natalie swung her leg to a silent beat.
“’Course, you’re under a lot of pressure. Could be you made a mistake.”
The leg stilled momentarily. Bev reckoned she might’ve hit a nerve. “You’d probably get off lightly at this stage. But drag it through the courts... Unless you’re absolutely positive, of course.” She held her breath, hoping for a reply. Would’ve passed out if she’d held it any longer. “Judges are coming down heavy these days on women who lie about rape.”
She’d offered more openings than the job centre. And she’d be better off talking to the sodding wall. One last drag, then she flicked the dog-end into a waste bin. It was cold and dark, her stomach thought she was fasting and this was going nowhere. “You still staying at Roper’s place?” Blank look. “Case I need to contact you.” Another prompt. “Case there’s news on Zoë.”
Natalie gave a desultory nod. “Yeah. If I’m not here.”
Bev saluted, turned on her heel, shouted over her shoulder. “Give your mum my love.”
“Yeah, no prob...”
She was in the girl’s face in a second. “Maxine is faking, then? What’s going on, Natalie?”
The gap was long enough for a year abroad. Finally the teenager spoke. “Honest. She’s not opened her mouth since I got back.” She was visibly shaking; a pear-drop tear ran down her cheek. “I’ve been cuddling her, stroking her hair. I know it sounds daft but I talk to her, tell her lots of little things, pretending she can hear and we’re having a little chat. But it’s like she’s not there.” She lifted her face, a plea in her eyes. “They don’t know what’s wrong and I’m worried sick.”
Bev was a sucker for a sob story and the emotion appeared genuine enough. She handed over a crumpled tissue. She couldn’t leave her like this, but she was famished. “Come on. I need a bite.”
25
Oz had the mobile in his hand ready to call again. He hit the first two nines before catching the faint wail of a siren in the distance. He hung up, debated whether to call Bev. She’d be with the Beck girl now and there was nothing she or anyone could do. Except wait for an ambulance that was also too late.
The baby’s mother had been alive – just – when she’d been found. A student had turned down an alley to take a leak, stumbled over what he thought was a roll of carpet someone had dumped. Oz had taken the statement. For worn Axminster read girl bleeding to death. God knew how she’d got here. Wright Street was a good mile and a half from the Wordsworth. It looked like she’d wedged herself between a bin and a rubbish bag. Oz couldn’t bear the thought that the location had been deliberate. Not that there was a wide choice. The narrow alleyway ran down the sides of two businesses: an Indian restaurant called Jewel in the Crown and a hairdresser’s, Curl Up And Dye.
He shook his head, recalling the small frame, the lifeless eyes. Though t
he girl had just given birth, she’d been little more than a kid. Oz had sisters, reckoned she’d been around Amina’s age: thirteen. He took a deep breath. It was one of those times he wished he could go off and get rat-arsed. The student said he’d be hitting the nearest bar. Oz couldn’t blame him. The second the young man had registered a bare leg and the stench of blood, he’d called the emergency services, then did what little he could to comfort the victim. He’d been holding her hand when she’d taken her final breath, berated himself that he hadn’t caught her last words.
Blue flashing lights appeared at the top of the road. Oz stepped out of the shadows and held out a hand to guide the ambulance crew. He felt sick, but knew he wouldn’t throw up. He already had.
Ronald’s Golden Arches just off New Street brought a sparkle back to Natalie’s eyes. Two Happy Meals and the girl’s cheeks had a hint of colour. Bev picked at chicken nuggets and super-sized chips. A thin coke was no counter-balance for the fatty diet. The place was packed with kids too young to be let into pubs, just old enough to be let out on their own. She nearly choked on a chip. That was a laugh. Most of the little dears would rather eat shit than be seen with a parent in tow. Assuming there was still a parent in the picture.
Bev glanced round, barely concealing a scowl: junk food and juveniles. Not quite how she’d imagined the night panning out. Bumping into Zach Caine and undergoing an in-depth examination wasn’t even near the table now, let alone on the cards.
A considerably more chipper Natalie was on the other side of the yellow formica prattling one minute about EastEnders and Neighbours, the next about whether she should get another piercing or go for a tattoo. Bev just couldn’t get a handle on her. At every encounter Natalie Beck was a stranger. More than that, she could change in the blink of an eye. What was that line from Eliot? Something about ‘dying to each other daily’?
“I wouldn’t swear to it, like. Not in court.” Natalie dunked a chip into a tub of plastic purporting to contain sauce.
Bev’s coke went all over the place. “What?” She’d almost missed a pearl among the pigswill.
“Gould.” She reached for another chip, not looking at Bev. “I wouldn’t go to court.”
“You saying it wasn’t rape?” The street-kids at the next table were agog. Bev glared till they got the message: butt out.
Natalie leaned forward, lowered her voice. “He was dead rough, but...”
“You’re dropping the allegation?”
“S’pose.”
Bev shook her head. Better late than never, but the girl could’ve cost the man his liberty. She’d give the guy a call later, put him out of his misery. “Why, Natalie? Why make up a thing like that?”
“He hurt me, Bev. I wanted to get back at him. To tell the truth... ” Bev raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I don’t give a stuff about Gould. Nothing matters. Nothing at all ’cept getting Zoë back...”
It was the first time she’d mentioned the baby.
“See, I pretend little Zo’s on holiday, away at the seaside for a few days. I daren’t think about what’s happening. If it’s not in my head, it isn’t real. Know what I mean?”
She was in denial. Natalie had buried her head – Bev kicked the sand. “Staying with her dad, is she?”
Any grains of truth were engulfed by bullshit. “How many times you need telling? I don’t know who her dad is.”
Bev reached for Natalie’s hand. “Just tell me. Is it Terry Roper?”
“I don’t know! Right?”
She was out the door before Bev had buttoned her coat. As to Terry Roper being Zoë’s dad, it was neither confirmed nor denied. Far as Bev was concerned, the jury was still out.
Bev was in the shower. Singing. Charlotte Church was safe.
“...beautiful morning, beautiful day, wunnerful feeling, everything’s...”
She sounded like a scalded cat on heat – but the sun was shining, it was a day off and fun-time Frankie was coming over later. Bev stepped out, did the toga thing with the towel and hopped on the scales. That can’t be right. She lost the towel. Better.
The wardrobe was a mess after her earlier What Not To Wear session. She scratched her ear, considering the options. Best have an away-day from the blue. Frankie’d started calling her Rita, as in meter maid. She grabbed black denims, teamed it with a tight black t-shirt. Must remember to suck in the slightly-more-than-a-six-pack.
She looked in the mirror. Not worth putting her face on till they’d given the house its makeover. She’d give herself one before they nipped into town. The plan was to hit Morgan’s, then grab vids, vino and pasta fixings on the way back. Saturday. Sorted. Sweet.
The doorbell rang as she hit the stairs.
The old codger’s face looked as if it’d been ironed. Badly. Like a Greek, he was bearing gifts. The bony fingers could’ve doubled as twigs. “Took it in for you yesterday. Postman wasn’t happy ’bout leaving it on the step.”
Bev accepted the brown-paper parcel with a smile. This was her first encounter with the lesser-spotted neighbour. Or in this case liver-spotted.
“Thanks very much, Mr...”
“Tommy’ll do.” Shame. She had him down as Albert, as in Steptoe – scrawny neck and bristly chin, striped pyjamas flapping like pigeon wings under a grey mac.
“Bev.” She smiled. “Bev Morriss. Can I get you a cuppa tea or somethin’?”
He winked a milky-blue eye. “Somethin’ would do.”
Her smile was even less certain; as for a comeback, she was floundering. It sounded like the old guy was hitting on her.
He tapped her arm. “Don’t mind me, Bev. Love a laugh, I do.”
Fucking hell. She lived next door to a geriatric comedian with Casanova tendencies.
“I’ll not trouble you now, love. Plenty of time for that later.” He tapped the side of an old Roman nose. “Get to know each other a bit better, eh?” The new dentures didn’t quite fit. Tommy looked like a horse sucking a lemon sherbet.
“Can’t wait.” She gave an outrageously lewd wink, then closed the door. She was still grinning when the mobile rang. The call wiped the smile off her face.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me last night, Oz?” She felt a cold fury as she took in the details of a young girl’s needless bloody death among a load of rubbish bins. Talk about human waste.
“I left a message.” The lips were taut. She could hear it.
“Not good enough, mate.”
“Why? What could you have done?” She didn’t like the tone.
“Not the point.”
“Yes. It is. Unless you’ve taken to raising the dead.”
It wasn’t said in jest. It was cold. As ice. She was about to mouth off, then paused. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was miffed and shooting the messenger.
She tried making light of it. “Not up to the big one. Still working on water into wine.”
“Come in handy, won’t it?”
She smiled despite the deadpan delivery. It faded when she registered the dialling tone. The answer phone was in the hall. She pressed play, listened as Oz’s voice, disembodied and emotionally detached, described the girl’s discovery and death. He sounded shattered and not in the sense of tired. It had hit him hard and she’d kicked him while he was down. “Oh, Beverley. Brain. Mouth. Get it right, girl.”
She wandered through to the kitchen, still mulling over their terse two-way, wondering if it was too late for a damage-limitation call back. Bread into toast first. The parcel caught her eye as she strolled back to the phone. Deciding to open it beforehand was classic displacement activity, but the prospect of more crossed words with Khanie didn’t appeal. Could be he was just tired of her. And she didn’t want to think about that.
It didn’t rattle or tick. And it was too light for a book. She used her teeth to tear the sellotape, then ripped the paper like a kid with a Christmas present. The gift box was classy and distinctive. She knew instantly where it came from. Agent Provocateur. Shopped there too if she was feeling
flush. She lifted the lid and smiled.
Oz was a dark horse at times. He shared her penchant for naughty knickers. And these were very naughty. French. Ivory silk. Like the ones languishing around packing-case city.
Like but no cigar. As she lifted them from the tissue paper she spotted a big difference. Small difference, actually. With the best will in the world and the harshest corset, she’d never squeeze her size-twelve bum into a ten. She frowned. Oz knew that. She riffled the paper, looking for a card. Nothing. The address label was typed, Birmingham postmark. She sighed. Bullet. Bite, Beverley.
“Oz?” The mobile was under her chin as she buttered toast. “You sent me anything in the post?”
“I see you every day. Why would I do that?”
Good point. Except a potential audience of cops would be so un-cool. “That a no?”
“Yes. Why?”
She hesitated. “Nada.” Could they possibly be from Zach Caine? Not a thought to share. “While I’m on, mate, sorry ’bout...”
“Forget it. Look, I was just on my way out.”
Her Motorola slipped and landed in the Marmite. He was so going to think she’d hung up on him.
Mid-morning and Natalie Beck was still in bed. No room service here. No breakfast, come to that. She’d spent the night at Terry Roper’s two-up-two-down in Selly Oak. Tel did as much work in the kitchen as she did in the boardroom. She’d not slept well, was feigning it now. Tel was on the phone in the bathroom and he’d drop his sneaky voice even lower if he thought she was earwigging.
She reckoned he was a scrote in more ways than one. It wasn’t just keeping her in the dark about the cash. She suspected Bev Morriss was on the button there. Tel was well minted at the moment and she’d only seen fifty quid. Nah. Besides that, Natalie reckoned Tel was getting his leg over someplace else. And that wasn’t fair on Max. She might not know her own name right now but that was no call for Terry Roper to go sniffing round elsewhere. Natalie knew he wasn’t getting it from her, she hadn’t let him anywhere near in months. And Tel had the sex drive of a Grand Prix.
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