“I was on the way to fill you in.” She shuffled her feet, tried not to look shifty.
He turned, glanced at the sky through the window. “See that?”
She squinted, shook her head.
“Herd of fucking pigs on a flypast.”
“Red farrows?”
“Not clever. Not funny.” His biro bounced off the desk.
Please yourself. Wasn’t one of her best.
“I want a detailed report. There.” Next to the dove-grey leather loafers, she presumed. “In thirty minutes.”
“You’ll be lucky.”
“You refusing?”
She sighed. It went against the grain but... “Look, sir, it’s not worth it. A few photos missing? Pair of knickers?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The earring. She rubbed a hand over her face. “All I know’s this.” She made the points with her fingers. “No one’s been in the house in the last few days, there’s been no more dodgy post, no funny phone calls. And no one’s on my back. Nothing.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was a goon having a laugh.”
He steepled his fingers. “No tail? You sure?”
The affected pose and a hint of something in the voice rang a faint alarm in her brain.
“Deffo. Why?”
He spread his hands, but a glint in his eyes set off another alarm or increased the volume of the first. Had the bugger put a shadow on her? A professional was more difficult to spot. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred. The DI had only been in the loop a few hours. But the big man had known almost from the start. Her heart sank. If her suspicions were correct, it had to be down to the guv. Great to know he had so much faith in her.
“It still stinks, Morriss.” Powell lowered his legs. “The missing earring bugs me.”
Bugged her a tad, too. She gave a so what? sniff.
“Christ, woman.” He uncurled a paper clip. “If there was a chance a rapist was after me, I’d be shitting myself.”
“Yeah, well, you would.” Take that any way you like.
He cleaned a fingernail with the clip “On the other hand, a good seeing-to might sort you out.”
Her blood boiled, her face would be crimson; at least the voice was cool. “Like to put that in writing?”
He flipped the clip towards the bin. It pinged and hit the carpet. “Gonna slap in a complaint? Go crying to the bosses?”
She took a step nearer. “I fight my own battles.”
“Then you know who’s your worst enemy.”
She turned, headed for the door.
“You are, Morriss.”
If she stayed a split second longer, she’d deck him. Right now she couldn’t talk to the prat, let alone tell him about the tattoo parlour. She’d put it all in the report, sling it on his desk in twenty minutes.
She was in the corridor when he shouted her back. “I’ve had Luke Mangold from Pen and Ink on the phone. Ring any bells?”
Peals. She gave a tight nod, couldn’t trust herself to speak. And it’s Pain, not Pen. Get it right.
“Wanted to know why the cops were keeping an eye on his place. Know anything about that, Morriss?”
Will Browne must’ve spilled the beans, along with the bacon fat. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth to speak.
“Save your breath, Morriss. I’m not completely stupid. I didn’t like Mangold’s attitude. I invited him in for a little chat.” He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. “Should be here any time.”
Wow. This she had to see. “Can I...?”
“No.” He brushed past her. “It’s not your case. Butt out and back off.”
She waved as he stormed out. Two fingers. Fuck it. She didn’t care a monkey’s: at least someone would be following a lead with potential legs. Not true. She cared. Sometimes you just had to let go.
32
Natalie Beck sprawled, legs splayed, on the floor of Terry Roper’s dingy bedroom. The carpet was threadbare and the sixteen-year-old looked almost as careworn. She held a piece of paper in trembling fingers. Not the scrap hidden in Roper’s CD case. This one had been screwed into a ball and chucked in the grate in his room. The buy-one-get-one-free key she’d hung on to had paid off big time. Unlike her previous find, this was a till printout.
She’d been staring at it for ages. Despite the creases and fag ash, every item was legible. It was the meaning that was difficult to understand. The basics were straightforward enough: bread, milk, tea and so on, though the quantities were an eye-opener. As for the TV dinners, someone was gonna end up square-eyed. Still, Tel was no Gordon fucking Ramsay. No. It was the other stuff that Natalie couldn’t get her head round.
Pampers, baby wipes, cotton wool, a dummy and enough Cow and Gate to keep a baby ward afloat.
It’d be just about OK, except for one frigging great daddy-long-legs in the ointment. The date. November 20.
Tel had splashed out on a load of baby gear a week after Zoë was snatched.
The skin round three of Natalie’s nails was torn and bleeding. She worried a fourth. Since she’d first smoothed out the receipt, the ugly truth had begun to dawn. It glowed behind her eyeballs now, a huge red fiery sun. It was just so fucking hard to credit that anyone could be so twisted. Imagine nicking a baby to milk cash out of the telly and the papers. Big question now was, which of his tarts had he conned into looking after Zoë?
She toyed with the idea of giving Bev Morriss a bell. Nah. This was Natalie’s baby – literally. She’d play it her way. She jumped to her feet, staring around. There were other places still to search. If it all stood up, one thing was sure: Terry Roper was going to pay for what he’d done, every day of the rest of his miserable snivelling life.
Bev crossed paths briefly with Luke Mangold as he arrived at Highgate for his parley with Powell. She reckoned it was the nearest she’d get to the guy. For now. She’d armed the DI with a report on the link between the three victims and the tattoo parlour. It was in his hands, literally and metaphorically.
Mangold made eye contact as he held the door. “Fancy seeing you here.” He tipped his panama, gave a lazy smile. “Ever fancy a tattoo, it’ll be my pleasure. Cut price.” The voice held not the slightest trace of menace, so why the spine tingle?
She gave a mock salute, brushed past. Oz was kicking his heels, loitering with intent by an unmarked police motor. He opened the driver’s door for her.
“And they reckon chivalry’s dead,” she drawled as he slipped into the passenger seat.
“Just wounded.” Oz sniffed. “All those kicks in the balls.”
“Very deep.” She raised an ironic eyebrow. “Remind me to make a note.”
“Assuming you still can,” he muttered.
And the hits kept on coming, all the way to and down Broad Street. Bev left the motor on a temporary parking site that had been set up off Brindley Place. It was the closest they’d get to the Carvers’ apartment block without walking on canal water.
The hunt for baby Jessica was only thirty hours old but already officers’ faces wore the same haunted expressions she’d seen during the operation to find Zoë Beck. Bev walked the scene, stopping now and then to question or answer a searcher.
The task was infinitely more complex here than on the Wordsworth, the area bigger and more developed with a variety of premises: commercial, residential, business. And given the canal and its towpath, the terrain was more challenging. Dogs, divers and fingertips had to cover every inch.
It was dark by four-thirty – sky and spirits.
“I’m heading back.” The paperwork was piling up at Highgate. It was her big date with Zach Caine later but she wasn’t in the mood for getting tarted up and heading back into town. On the other hand, she had to eat. She’d call Zach and offer a meet over a quick bite in Moseley. Take it or leave it. “You sticking around, mate?”
Oz shook his head. “Nah. I’m out of here.”
Traffic was shite. They didn’t hit Highgate till gone five. She was reversing in
to a tight space against the far wall when Oz asked if she fancied doing anything that night. The question didn’t distract her, more the implication. After giving her a berth wide enough for the Queen Mary, this was his third invite in two days. She sniffed a rat, heard a crunch.
She flapped a hand as he tutted. “Fuck’s sake, Oz. It’s what bumpers are for.”
“Right.” He so didn’t agree. “Anyway, fancy a drink or what?”
“Or what.”
“Don’t hold back.”
She glanced across, caught a flared nostril. “I don’t.”
“Meaning?”
She turned in the seat, skewered him with a glare. “Straight up. Has the guv put you on my tail?”
He didn’t say a word. Just as well. He was a crap liar. And the truth was all over his face.
“Sodding hell.” She whacked the wheel with the flat of a hand. If anyone knew her capabilities in the d-i-y defence department, it was Oz. He’d witnessed the aftermath when she’d lashed out at a murderer, had recoiled from the sight of her bleeding knuckles after they’d rearranged the bastard’s face. “I’m a big girl now. I do not need a frigging baby-sitter.”
A muscle in his jaw was on a workout. “If the guy’s determined enough, no one’s untouchable. Not even you.”
Patronising, arrogant, duplicitous git. She was seething, incandescent. “You are so right. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He sighed impatience. “The guv asked me to look out for you because he cares.”
What about you, Oz? “And I’ve got a death wish?” She turned her head away. “Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d both been up front.”
“Yeah, like that would’ve worked. Look at you.”
“Fair enough.” She capitulated. “Do whatever you like. But not tonight.”
He reached to touch her arm. “Bev...”
“No.” She pulled back. “I’ve got a date. I don’t want you cramping my style.”
He looked as if she’d slapped him in the face. Which is more or less what she’d intended.
The spat with Oz took the shine off the evening. Plus the fact that Bev arrived at La Plancha looking like she was there to read the gas meter. Having buried herself in paperwork at Highgate, by the time she surfaced it was touch and go if she’d reach the tapas bar for eight-thirty, never mind nip home first to change. She managed a coat of lippie and a quick comb through her hair but the crumpled navy trouser suit was hardly haute couture.
She spotted Zach Caine through the window as she approached. He looked lip-smackingly tasty in slate-grey cords and black trench coat. As the gap closed, she noticed a gold chain round his neck. She’d overlook it this time but men in jewellery were so last century. “Sorry I’m late.”
He pecked her cheek. “No problem. Let me get you a drink.”
The doc had reserved a table downstairs, which meant either he’d not been here before or like many a medico ignored the government health warnings. Twenty Marlboro and a Zippo next to the ashtray was confirmation he smoked. She watched as he went for drinks, weaving through a sizeable crowd. The Spanish bar, all parlour palms, mirrors and mosaics, attracted a diverse clientele: students, family groups, girls-night-out types and love’s young dreamers. She sighed. Which category did badass single cop fit?
She couldn’t get Oz’s pained face out of her head. In one way she’d regretted the remark almost immediately. Their liaison, for want of a better description, had always been fairly casual. Far as she was aware, neither she nor Oz wanted to be tied down. But of late there’d been a definite drift. Maybe it needed bringing to a head. The thought, too, that he’d gone behind her back to set up some minder deal with the guv still pissed her off royally.
“There you go.” Zach handed her a glass of sauvignon blanc. She’d not stipulated size. Thank God it was a large one.
“Cheers.” She sank half of it in a couple of mouthfuls.
“Rough day?”
She shrugged. “You could say that.”
“Me too.” And for the best part of an hour and a half he proceeded to tell her all about it: the ailing health service, government health policies, bird flu, MRSA.
Maybe a bloke so gorgeous was accustomed to his dates hanging on his every pronouncement. Bev almost asked for a couple of matchsticks for eye-props. By the end of the evening, she reckoned strong and silent was more her type. Like Oz?
Upside was, she’d satisfied the appetite; pigged out, more like, given she’d seen off the lion’s share of six tapas dishes plus garlic bread. A lingering notion that she might as well satisfy a different urge by asking Caine back and having her wicked way went west when he pulled out his mobile and phoned for a cab.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m on earlies tomorrow.”
He knew jackshit about her. How could he? “Yeah, well, since you ask...”
“Sorry. Just a tick.” She stared as he sent a message on his mobile. The smile suggested it was not business. He slipped the phone in his pocket and glanced round. “Looks like my carriage has arrived.”
A black cab had pulled up; the driver sat on the horn. Caine stooped to peck her cheek. “Must do this again, Bev. What do you think?”
So she told him. Exactly.
Sometimes Byford thought he’d never sleep through a whole night again. Certainly the last ten had been badly disturbed. Soon as his head hit the pillow, images of Zoë and Jessica kept him awake. What restless sleep he did snatch was broken by dark dreams of Baby Fay. Now another fear threatened his shaky peace of mind: that a rapist could be stalking Bev.
The call earlier from Oz Khan, though unwelcome, wasn’t entirely unexpected. However low-profile the tail, he’d known there was a chance she’d spot it. Or in this case, sense it. By the sound of it, Khan had got it in the neck and less elevated parts of the anatomy.
Byford sighed, threw back the duvet, shucked into dressing gown and made his way downstairs. Again. He poured a finger of single malt, took it and his aching spine to the recliner in the sitting room. It was as good a place to think as any.
Getting Khan and DC New to keep an eye on Bev had always been a halfway-house strategy. Half-assed, too, given that meaningful protection required at least two minders 24/7. First thing, he’d call Bev in, force her to see sense. It would only be short-term, until the rapist was behind bars.
He sipped the scotch, recalled the conversation that evening with Mike Powell. The DI reckoned the tattoo lead still had legs, even though Luke Mangold had emerged from the interview smelling of roses in virgin snow. Still, the man had furnished Powell with a list of names, numbers, addresses: staff, clients, cleaners, suppliers, anyone who’d been within spitting distance of the premises in the last six months. Mike had been upbeat, sensed they could be closing in. Byford drained the glass, hoped to God they were on the right track.
The greatest danger walking back was dodging the vomit. Like most places, Moseley had its share of binge drinkers. What was that all about? Bev liked a glass or two, but what was the point in getting so bladdered you barfed?
She passed a few lovers linking arms, and sidestepped a particularly ardent pair mouth-to-mouth in the middle of the pavement. It brought home her solitary return to a lonely bed. Again. Maybe she should give Oz a bell...?
No, Beverley.
She eased the key in the Yale, registered three facts simultaneously: the door wasn’t locked, the hall light was on and there was music playing. She stiffened, heart thumping. Back off or burst in? No contest.
Coming. Ready or not.
Clutching her keys as a lethal weapon, she stormed in. Adrenalin flooded every cell. Sod flight, she was up for a fight. She hit every room, checked every inch of floor space. All senses on alert to detect the merest hint of an intruder. She detected a faint unfamiliar smell, not one she could immediately identify.
Fists clenched, she clomped to the music centre, yanked out the plug. Fucking track must be on continuous play. It wasn’t her CD, though she was familiar with the s
ong: If you don’t know me by now. Frankie sang it at most of her gigs. This was the original by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.
“Fucking comedian,” she snarled.
She searched the house again and again until finally convinced she was alone. Far as she could tell, nothing else had been touched, let alone taken. She poured a stiff armagnac, took it with her as she went round for the fourth time, now checking every door and window, sliding bolts and turning keys. The locks were being changed first thing; it was the earliest date she’d been able to get. She’d been a fucking idiot not to insist on the work being done immediately. Maybe Oz was right? Maybe she did consider herself untouchable?
She took a shower to cool down, clear her head. That fucking song was still going round and round in there. The second line a mental mantra: you will never never never know me...
“Don’t bank on it, fuckwit.”
Teeth cleaned, hair brushed, she slipped into a black satin nightie. A little calmer by the time she entered the bedroom, she reckoned tonight’s arrogant display was the latest move in the bastard’s sick game. It was a mind-fuck. Yeah, well, it hadn’t...
She screamed as she saw it. He’d left it under the duvet. A polaroid. The bastard had been in La Plancha. Bev was smiling at Zach. Only Zach was no longer in the picture. Just a jagged edge where he’d been sitting.
The Beast’s sly smile was involuntary. The snatched shot didn’t really do her justice but the thought behind it amused him. He stroked a finger along her cheek, pressed the photograph against his lips. The chase was so much fun.
More exciting than the kill? He’d find out soon enough.
He added the latest picture to the gallery on the lockup wall. It wasn’t his favourite. He preferred those where he could see into her eyes. The blue seemed to hold such depths.
33
Wednesday November 25. Twelve days since Natalie Beck had last cradled her baby in her loving arms. She cried now as she pressed Zoë’s photograph against her flat chest. It wasn’t the picture the public knew so well. It was one of forty-seven images Natalie hadn’t set eyes on since a couple of days after her mum had picked them up from Super-Snaps.
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