She brushed an unruly fringe out of troubled blue eyes. The day’s frenetic pace had until now pushed Street Watch and stalker-thoughts out of her head. Not that she’d be allowed to act on them – not with a second abduction on the go. There was no way the guv would take her off the baby cases.
She drew her mouth down, gazed through the window, took fleeting pleasure in the city-at-night panorama: tower-block pinball machines, streetlights strung like tangerine beads, flashing neon and Dinky-toy traffic. She snorted. The Lilliputian lyricism didn’t alter the fact that sleaze balls and lowlifes still clung to the city’s underbelly. You just couldn’t see them in the dark.
Like the so-called Beast of Birmingham.
She shoved the plate of congealed cholesterol to one side. Not that fear of personal attack was denting her appetite. She never took unnecessary risks and was well able to kick ass. And break bone. Rough justice was no justice, but she couldn’t guarantee not dishing it out to an arse-wipe who’d already ruined the lives of three girls. Anyway, if he took first pop, it’d be self-defence, wouldn’t it?
“Penny for them?” Byford.
She started guiltily. Thank Christ he couldn’t read her mind all the time. “Cost you more than that, guv.”
The left eyebrow arched a doubt it as he placed a metal tray on the plastic table. “Late supper.”
She took one look at the melded macaroni and over-baked beans and pulled a face. “Late? Past it, if you ask me, guv.”
“I didn’t.” A smile flickered as he sat.
She watched as he toyed with a forkful or two. Reckoned he must get fed up cooking for one all the time. She surely did. What the guv needed was a good woman.
“Fancy a drink after this, Bev?” Good job her open mouth was empty. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Try not to look so shocked.”
They often had a quick jar in The Prince of Wales but the invite, just when she was playing mental cupid, was spooky. She shook her head. “Sorry, guv. Miles away.”
He lifted an imaginary glass. “Well?”
These invites were getting like buses. You wait ages, then a stack comes along. She’d already turned down Oz tonight. Not just to give him a taste of his own medicine, more a case of a back-burner to-do list coming up to the boil.
“Sorry, guv. Something on.”
“Fair enough.”
She’d wait for him to finish, though, didn’t like to think of him eating alone.
They ran through the state of play and took a quick look at tomorrow’s fixtures, then Byford helped her into her coat and they made their way to the car park.
The Midget was in the far corner. Must remember the garage booking first thing. Gawd, her mental notebook was almost out of pages. She was about to get in when Byford called across. “Have you spoken to Mike Powell yet?”
Whoops. She was supposed to have brought the DI up to speed on her sinister secret admirer. “Sorry, guv. Went clean out my head. Today was a bugger.”
“First thing, Bev. Don’t let it slip.” He tapped the side of his fedora. “Watch your back. And don’t do anything stupid.”
Read her mind? The old devil could probably write it.
No perv in the privet, no stalker in the shadows. Shame. Bev had been well psyched for fisticuffs before slapping on the handcuffs. Now settled at the kitchen table, sauvignon to hand, she was poring over the Street Watch files.
She’d already ticked one box. Doubtless Powell would throw a hissy fit if he found out, but she’d just put the phone down on Laura Kenyon. They’d been talking tattoos. The girl told Bev she’d had the heart design applied at Skin Deep in Northfield. Bev’s own heart had sunk at that point. Not like Rebecca Fox, then, who’d been tattooed by Luke Mangold himself at Pain and Ink in Digbeth.
But on the off chance, Bev asked Laura if she’d sussed out any other tattoo places, before. And what do you know? Bingo.
Did Bev have another winning line? She glanced at the wall clock. Half nine. Not too late. She took a sip of wine and pictured Kate Quinn as she dialled the girl’s number. Kate put her in mind of Alice, as in Wonderland. Must be the headband and long blonde hair. Wasn’t down to attitude; Kate was demure rather than daring. Saying boo to a timid goose would faze Kate, never mind dissing a homicidal queen.
Bev had already called the Quinn household three times in as many days. She’d leave a message tonight, if need be. Hadn’t so far because the conversation would be tricky; she didn’t want Kate on her guard.
“Kate?” Yes! “Bev Morriss.”
“Sergeant Morriss. How are things?” The girl’s slight lisp made her sound younger than her years. Kate certainly looked younger: eighteen going on thirteen. Could explain why the mother was so protective, and Kate so passive. Then again, Bev had known neither till after the rape.
“Cool,” Bev said. “You?”
“Same old, same old.”
Bev smiled at the unwitting irony. She had a list of buttons to push to get Kate talking, lull her into a false sense of security before hitting her with the real thing. She mentally skimmed various topics: music, films, college, books, fellas, clothes. Sod it.
“Your tattoo. Where’d you get it done?”
“I beg your...”
“The tattoo. Tell me about it.”
“I told you...”
“Tell me again.”
“I don’t...”
“The truth.”
Bev held her breath. Come on, girl. Every instinct told her this was important. Something or someone had to link the three victims. She’d combed every report, every witness statement, every hand-scribbled note. No other connection even came close.
“Just a minute.” The girl must have covered the mouthpiece. Bev heard two voices, both muffled. “I have to go.”
“Kate...”
“Bye.”
Bev ended the call, drained the glass, tapped her fingers on a file. There was another way to find out. If the mountain won’t come to Morriss... See you tomorrow, Mohammed.
In the hours since the newscast, the mousy woman had tried the number twenty, no, thirty times. Now tossing and turning, restless and almost beyond reason, she recalled each failed attempt: where she’d been standing, which room, whether Angel had been crying. Instead of sheep, she counted the phone calls. Eyes tightly closed, precious sleep still eluded her. Almost afraid to look, she glanced at the clock’s digital readout: 03.00.
She’d tried desperately to come up with an explanation for the second baby’s disappearance; there had to be one. Surely it was only a question of time before she found out, before he got in touch. So why couldn’t she sleep? If she didn’t get her rest, she’d fall ill. Then where would they be? She had to stay strong for Angel.
Angry now, she threw back the duvet, stole silently to the nursery. Even in the nightlight’s soft glow the baby looked flushed, damp tendrils of silken hair sticking to her tiny skull.
Dear God, don’t let the child be ill. It brought back the horror of the miscarriages, the stillbirths, then the brain tumour that killed her husband. She could not go back to that arid existence.
She knelt at the side of the cot, clung to the bars and prayed harder than ever in her life. Hot tears raced down her cheeks, cooling fast as they trickled over her breasts. The rainbow swayed in the disturbed air but she was oblivious to its gentle motion. It was unlikely, anyway, that it could have worked its customary soothing magic.
Dear God, don’t let anything go wrong. Not this time.
31
Pain and Ink was tucked away in a Digbeth side street directly opposite the café where Bev’d already met Luke Mangold twice. The area wasn’t particularly dingy, just dodgy, with most shops shifting sex toys and adult mags. One window had busty mannequins in crotchless knickers and studded dog collars. It was all a bit in your face. And a lot of it was probably round the back, too, in the line of lock-ups she’d just clocked.
Despite a Closed sign on the door, Mac’s was patently open
for business. The young guy who’d served Luke last time was wiping down the counter and in the far corner a couple of old blokes were nursing thick mugs of tea, poring over the racing pages in the Sun.
She ordered a bacon bap and a coffee. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”
He gazed at her for a second or two. “Yeah?” So much for her striking personality.
“I was in here with a mate? Luke Mangold? Few days back?” The old-mates routine often paid off.
“Right.” The smile hit his eyes as he recalled. “The football lady.”
She turned her mouth down, waggled fingers. She’d been called a lot of things in her time but...
Will flipped a rasher of bacon, wiped fat on white trousers. “You’re a bit early for Luke.”
“Know what they say about worms and early birds.” Going by the startled look, proverbs were not one of his strengths.
“I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”
Dismissed, she took a seat by the window. The décor hadn’t registered before, but the blue and white stripes made sense, given Will was a Blues fan. And not just into the beautiful game: the walls were covered in posters of movie stars, Arnie, Brucie, Charlie. Not a chick in sight.
Trade was not roaring. Apart from the ageing tipsters, Bev was it. She lit a Silk Cut, the fumes joining a heady blend of chip fat and onion rings. Taking a drag, eyes creased against the smoke, she glanced across the road, fully aware the tattoo parlour wouldn’t open for another three hours.
“Here you go.” Will placed a mug on the red plastic cloth. “The food’ll be along in a tick.”
“Cheers.” She watched him stroll back to the counter, tore her gaze from tight buttocks and returned her focus to the tattoo parlour.
The garish shop-front was full of torso-size posters. Spotlights picked out the complex designs: pouncing tigers, crouching dragons, coiling snakes, plus a bunch of skulls and scorpions. Impressive, if you liked that kind of thing. She attempted a smoke ring, considering. It was too macho to float her boat; like the surrounding culture of sex shops and escort agencies, all a bit sleazy-cheesy. Not that Pain and Ink appeared to offer anything but what it said on the can.
Mangold’s alibi was tighter than a cheap facelift. But he wasn’t the only guy who wielded the needles over there. And knowing now that Laura Kenyon and Rebecca Fox had visited the place, and suspecting still that Kate Quinn had, Bev reckoned the parlour was worth a closer look.
“You look as if you’re casing the joint.” Will was back with her bap.
It was as well she wasn’t actually on surveillance. She stubbed out the baccy and reached for the brown sauce, masking mild amusement. “What makes you think that?”
“You were givin’ it the eye, like.”
Magic eye, maybe. It was that all-important need to get a feel of the place. “Should I be? Know something I don’t, do you?”
“Thought you were Luke’s mate.” The smile was a tad cocky. He’d clocked her little white lie. Not just a pretty face, then; shame about the Birmingham accent.
She shrugged, took a sip of coffee.
He sat down, leaned in close. “Are you a cop? I fancy joining the police. Giving it a go, like.”
A go? Made it sound like Monopoly. She bit into the bap. Saved answering.
“When you were in here with Luke, I thought you were asking about a tattoo.”
“Why’s that?”
“He often brings clients over.”
“Go on.” This guy could be useful.
“Some of them get freaked. Reckon it’ll hurt like shit. Luke generally talks them round. He’s really good with people.” The Brummie accent broadened as he relaxed but his voice was the last thing she was interested in.
She kept hers level. “See a lot of him, do you?”
He shrugged. “He eats here most days. Sometimes I take coffee over there.”
She removed an envelope from her shoulder bag. His eyes doubled in size as he spotted the police insignia in the corner. “I knew it. You are a cop.”
Well done, Sherlock. “Just look at the pics.”
She studied his face closely as he scanned each print. Rebecca Fox had definitely frequented the place. Will’s black-coffee eyes lit up when he saw her. He couldn’t swear to Laura Kenyon. If pushed, probably not. As for Kate Quinn, Will more than confirmed Bev’s suspicions. The girl didn’t have one tattoo; she had two.
“Fact. She sat right there.” He pointed next to Bev.
“You a hundred per cent certain on that, Will?”
“Hundred and ten. Full of it, she was. Showed me the tattoos and everything.”
Bev stuffed the envelope in her bag, scraped back the chair. “What’s your full name, love?”
“Will Browne. With an e.”
“You’ve been a real help. Thanks a bunch.” She stood, took a fiver from her purse, laid it on the table. “Keep the change.”
He rose, rocked on his Reeboks, positively glowing. “Is there a reward, like?”
She paused at the door, flipped the sign so it read Open. “Service is its own reward, sunshine.”
Natalie Beck had caught a bus to the General, hoping to grab a bit of peace and quiet. Tel was driving her doolally. She sniffed. That was rich, considering the doctors now reckoned her mum was off her trolley. They wanted Maxine in some loony bin in Erdington. She scowled at the consultant’s retreating back. Wanted the sodding bed, more like.
She put on a posh voice, waggled her head from side to side. “Your mother needs psychiatric assessment, Ms Beck. We can’t do nothing for her here.”
The arrogant git said arrangements would be made in the next day or so. What the frigging hell did that mean? She tucked her hand round Maxine’s. “Come on, mum. Don’t leave me on me own. I need you.”
Maxine lay on her back, eyes closed. Natalie sighed, squeezed her mother’s fingers. She was running out of things to tell her. She’d talked her through the soaps and HELLO! and that. She kept off the subject of Zoë. If the docs were right and trauma was doing Max’s head in, it’d be the last thing she’d want to hear.
Maybe a bit of music would get her going. All their stuff had been lost in the fire but she’d nicked a couple of CDs off Tel that her mum liked. It was a toss-up between Simply Red and Elton John. She sneered: each to their own. As she slipped Elton into the Walkman, her elbow caught the other case. It hit the floor with a crack. Shit. Tel’d kill her. Maybe she could stick a bit of tape over it.
She opened it warily. Sod’s law. It fell apart in her hands. The notes slipped out and a bit of paper fell on her lap. At first she thought it was the receipt. It wasn’t.
It was an address in Edgbaston, a telephone number. And a woman’s name.
Natalie punched the air with a fist. Gotcha.
Bev dithered outside Powell’s office. She felt like a schoolkid caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Maybe she should shove a book down her knickers. No point prevaricating. The DI had a right to know about the new lead, even though he’d likely bollock her for following it.
She lifted a hand ready to knock. Sod it. She needed a drink first. Great minds and all that: Carol Mansfield was just feeding coins into the machine.
“Sarge.” Carol plumped for hot chocolate.
“What’s new?”
The DC grimaced. “Apart from Helen Carver popping a load of pills?”
“You’re joking.”
“Hardly.”
Carol moved aside as Bev searched for small change at the bottom of her bag. “How is she?”
“I just got back from A & E. She’ll be OK. The husband half-expected something of the sort. Been watching her like a hawk.”
“Hawkeye obviously needs glasses.” She took a cappuccino from the slot.
“The guy can’t see through doors, sarge.”
They walked the corridor as Carol talked her through it. Apparently Helen Carver had locked herself in the bathroom and swallowed the contents of the cabinet. Slight exaggeration. David
Carver had rushed her to accident and emergency where she’d had her stomach pumped. All being well, she’d be allowed home in a few hours.
“Must help if you have more than one kid.” Carol remarked.
“How d’you mean?” Bev couldn’t imagine bringing up a budgie, never mind a baby.
“Well, even if you lose one, you’ve got to keep going for the sake of the others. Otherwise...” She sighed, left it unsaid.
The thought that someone like Carol could even contemplate suicide gave Bev pause for thought. She couldn’t conceive of taking her own life because a loved one had lost theirs. Or maybe there was no one close enough to care about that much? Nah. Bollocks. She’d adored her dad, worshipped the ground he walked on, but she’d never once considered topping herself when he died.
She felt Carol’s fingers on her arm. “Thing is, sarge. Till I had kids I’d no idea how strong the bond is. The love’s so intense it’s scary. You know what they say...”
She knew she was about to find out.
“A woman might die for her man. She’ll sure as hell kill for her kids.”
Bev wasn’t convinced. She knew a few mothers who knocked seven shades of shit out of their precious offspring when they hadn’t had a fix. And a few more who hired them out to the highest bidder – child prostitution and kiddie porn being nice little earners.
She opened her mouth but Carol spoke first. “I’m expecting a call, sarge. Best fly.”
Bev’d meant to ask Mansfield something; by the time she remembered, the DC was out of sight. She took off in pursuit, didn’t get far.
“Morriss. My office. Now.”
A book down her knickers would’ve been pissing in the wind. The DI’s icy blast could blow a hole in the British Library. Powell lounged back in padded chair, legs on desk, ankles crossed. “You were ordered to see me first thing. Since when’s lunchtime first thing?”
Since two babies were snatched and headless-chicken mode would be less pressure. Nonetheless Bev winced inwardly. Powell wasn’t even banging on about the tattoo connection. He was exercised about her stalker. The guv must’ve had a word.
Baby Love Page 20