“Fuck you.” She dashed an angry hand at specks of saliva on her mouth.
“Whatever.” Bev looked away, made a few notes, affected complete indifference. The silence was uneasy, unnerving. Like watching a bad actor dry on stage. When Bev glanced up, Natalie’s face was wet with tears, her bony shoulders hunched and shaking as she fought for composure. Bev made no move to comfort her.
Eventually Natalie spoke. “Let me see her, Bev, please.” She wiped slime from her nose with a sleeve. “I might remember more once I’ve seen Zo.”
“More lies?”
She spread her hands. “Please, Bev. I’m begging.”
“No.”
Carol Mansfield passed Natalie a bunch of tissues. “Sarge?”
Bev gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. She watched as Natalie sat up straight and tightened her pony-tail. Holding Bev’s gaze, she said, “OK, then.”
Bev gave an encouraging smile. Thank God for that. For a minute she thought she’d lost her touch.
“If I can’t see my baby – go fuck yourself.”
At that, Bev almost lost it. She itched to give the girl a good slapping. Instead, she took a deep breath, her voice blasé. “Callum Gould killed himself. Know that?” The teacher’s suicide still hadn’t made the papers as far as Bev was aware.
The colour drained from Natalie’s already pasty face. “So?” The tone was uncertain this time, not insolent.
“So.” Bev rose, slowly approached Natalie, leaned over and for the first time in the interview – any interview – she screamed at the top of her voice. “A man’s dead because of your fucking lies! If you don’t level with me now, I’ll see it’s laid at your door!”
It would never happen, of course. No one – as the guv put it – had forced the tablets down the guy’s throat. But Natalie was already in emotional overload. Gould’s untimely death was one more shock to her already creaking system. Cruel but fair. Bev backed off, headed for the door.
“Wait!” Natalie yelled. “I’ll talk.”
Bev locked glances with the girl before slowly resuming her seat. “This had better be good.”
Natalie pointed at the tape. “Turn that off, then.”
Bev considered the offer before reaching for the switch.
“Sarge?” Carol didn’t add further protest. One word said it all.
Bev changed the subject without looking round. “Chase the tea, Carol.”
The DC rose, stood in front of Bev. “Sarge.”
Bev tilted her head at the door. When they were alone, she told Natalie she had two minutes. She listened as the teenager gave another version of events; this one rang truer. She’d kicked Sally Barnes down the stairs but only after the woman had spoken the fatal words: ‘I’ll give her a better life’. Prior to that, Natalie had meant her no harm. Unlike her intentions towards Roper. Framing him for the murder was Natalie’s warped way of seeking revenge. She’d not stabbed Roper. It was a genuine accident. She wanted him alive, so he could pay for what he’d done.
A part of Bev understood the girl’s actions. Roper had stolen her baby, then a sick woman had told her she wasn’t a fit mother. Extenuating circumstances, a sympathetic jury – Natalie might get out after twelve years or so.
“Fix it for me?” Bev drew back as Natalie made another grab for her arm, wide eyes pleading. “You can fix it, Bev. Terry deserves everything that’s coming. He torched Blake Way as well. Wanted us both dead.”
Maxine Beck: another sorry victim in all this. Bev shook her head. “I can’t...”
“’Course you can. It’s his word against mine. I can lie for England.”
As Callum Gould discovered. “Not against evidence, love.”
Tears welled in the girl’s bloodshot eyes. “But I’ll lose her.”
Bev looked away, saw the baby in her mind’s eye, recalled the warmth of that tiny body as she cradled it against her own. With Maxine on another planet, Zoë would go into care.
“Please, Bev. You know how the system works. Get me out of here.” The girl was on her knees, huge tears rolling down blotchy cheeks. “Please, Bev. Do it for Zoë.”
She put her arms round Natalie’s quaking shoulders, tasted blood as she bit her lip. Did she seriously consider it? Just for a second? Afterwards, Bev often asked herself the same question. Always came back with the same answer. No. Not for an instant.
She was an even better liar than Natalie Beck.
37
Highgate. Bev squatted on her office floor, back against the radiator, head in hands. It was coming up to six o’clock and minus five outside. Bitter, like her. This had turned into one of the blackest days of her life. And it wasn’t over yet. She was steeling herself to pay a house call: the Carvers.
“Fucking job. Hate it.”
“You do?”
She peered through her fingers. Byford hovered in the doorway, coat on, hat in hand. She scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirt and grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk. Through a watery smile she managed a weak quip. “Talking to myself again, guv.”
He came in, stood by her, fiddled with the fedora. “Everyone does, you know.”
“You said it. Must be mad to work here.”
“Don’t be obtuse, you know what I mean.” The right eyebrow formed an arch. “We all hate the job. From time to time.”
Yeah, but she really really loathed it. That afternoon, she’d watched a sixteen-year-old kid, who’d not started out with a lot, lose what little she had. An inconsolable Natalie Beck was banged up in a police cell. She’d appear in court first thing, when she’d almost certainly be remanded in custody. Even if the magistrates took pity on her, she had nowhere to go. And no idea when she’d see Zoë again. The baby was in emergency foster care.
Byford strolled to his preferred spot on the windowsill. “The girl stabbed a woman through the heart, Bev.” He must’ve read her report. As well as her mind.
“Yeah, I know...”
“But?”
“Nothing’s ever black and white, is it?”
“Mostly it’s all a mess.”
She tugged at her fringe. “The kid’ll end up adopted. Natalie’ll spend the best years of her life behind bars. And Maxine... God knows what’ll happen there.”
“You’re a cop, Bev. You haven’t got a magic wand.”
Just as well. Or Terry Roper would be slug turd. Cancel that. He already was. They’d not been allowed near the shit-for-brains so far. They only had Natalie’s word that he was involved in the Carver baby’s abduction. Like that was worth a bunch.
She blew out her cheeks. “Mums are supposed to tell you.”
“What?”
“There’d be days like this.” She gave a lop-sided smile at the thought of a bad day in Emmy’s book: an unfinished crossword. “Come on, guv.” She grabbed her coat from the hook. “I’m out of here.”
Byford held the door. “Have you spoken to Larry yet?”
Was he avoiding her gaze? Had he only dropped by to check up on her? Larry Drake was the main man in personal protection. “Sure have. One of his guys has already checked the house.” Baldwin Street’s new locks and alarm were up to scratch.
As they crossed the car park she started whistling the Minder theme tune. He didn’t say a word but she caught a fleeting grin on his face. “Sorry, guv, couldn’t resist.”
She scanned the car park, searching for the MG, then remembered it was in the garage having major surgery. She’d been allocated an unmarked Peugeot, so uncool.
At the motor, Byford reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. The gesture caught her off guard. The silence lasted a second or two longer than it should. Had he crossed a line? And would she welcome that?
He smiled, tapped the brim of his hat, headed for his wheels, then turned back. “You never said.”
“Guv?” She paused, key in lock.
“What you’d do if you weren’t a cop.”
She turned down her mouth, waggled a hand. “Lap da
ncer?”
Even at the best of times, Bev hated mirrors in lifts. The ones in Windsor Place were wall-to-wall and the last twenty-four hours had been a bugger. Not to mention the last two weeks. They’d certainly left a mark or two. She lifted a hand to her cheek: flaky skin, suitcase eyes. Early night after this, girl.
Shouldn’t take long. The Carvers knew the score: uniform had kept them up to date. But as officer in charge, Bev felt duty-bound to show her face. Not that they were answering. She frowned, rang the bell again, held her breath as she pressed an ear against the door, straining to identify the faint sounds emanating.
A woman’s voice, in the cadences of prayer.
Bev had God-bothered enough in her Catholic schoolgirl days to recognise a Hail Mary or four. If the Carvers could talk to the Big Man, they could give her a hearing. She hammered the wood with the flat of her hand.
She barely recognised Veronica Carver. The lines on the old woman’s face were so deep they looked felt-tipped. The grey hair swung like steel cable.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I was about to call.” After communing with Our Lady? The rosary in her fingers was a giveaway.
“Right. Great. Come in, shall I?” Bev rubbed her hands together. “Parky out here.”
The woman moved aside, led the way into the large sitting room. Helen Carver lay asleep on the sofa. There was no sign of David. Veronica drifted over to a wing chair by the open fire.
Bev glanced through the window, glimpsed a dumb show of revellers geared up for a night on the town. Wouldn’t say no to a drink herself. Might pop into the Boat for a quickie after this. The old woman was waiting. Bev hesitated. Made more sense if the Carver women heard it together. Wasn’t exactly good news, but it was better than nothing. It was just possible Natalie wasn’t lying through her teeth and Roper knew Jessica’s whereabouts. Bev glanced at the sofa, raised a querying eyebrow. Veronica shook her head.
Bev shrugged. “Just want you to know, we’ll be talking to a suspect first thing. It’s possible he can tell us where Jessica is. It’s important not to get your hopes up, though.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed a crease from her skirt. “As I said, I was about to call.” She tilted her head towards the sofa. “I found her a few moments ago.”
“Found her?” Bev froze, stunned.
“I’m afraid I was too late.”
Bev raced over, knelt at Helen’s side. Surely she was asleep? Hair tousled, make-up smudged, warm to the touch... Bev felt for a pulse. Nothing. It had to be another overdose.
Veronica sat stiff-backed, rosary in her lap. The old lady must be in shock. Christ, Bev was in shock.
“Do you know what she took, Mrs Carver?” Bev reached for her phone: Control could sort the arrangements. Veronica shook her head.
Bev glanced round, struggling to keep her cool. “Where’s your son?”
“This is nothing to do with David.”
None of this made sense. “Meaning?”
“Helen couldn’t cope with... It was hardly Jessica’s fault, was it?”
Bev had no idea where any of this was going. Silence was often the best way to find out. She took a seat, waited.
“Helen won’t admit it, of course.” The rosary slipped to the floor. Veronica made no effort to retrieve it. “She says it was to punish David. She found some earrings, you see.”
Bev registered that the old woman was talking as if Helen was alive. Not surprising, given the body temperature.
“They belong to a woman David’s friendly with. He was getting them repaired.”
Bev was beginning to see a minuscule chink of light. David Carver had been questioned a couple of times in connection with Street Watch; the media reported that the rapist took trophies, earrings. “And Helen jumped to the conclusion...?”
Veronica Carver snorted. “Ludicrous.”
Fucking tragic. “I’m not clear, Mrs Carver. What’s all this to do with Jessica’s disappearance?”
“Two birds with one stone, sergeant.” She made eye contact, held it for three, four seconds as if preparing the ground for a dense pupil. “Punish a man you love by killing a baby you don’t.”
“Jessica’s dead?” Bev swallowed hard. “She killed the child just to get back at her old man?”
“Not just that.” Veronica frowned, impatient. “I told you. She couldn’t bear to look at the baby. Hated Jessica’s imperfection. That awful mark on her face.”
Bev shook her head, didn’t want to believe it. She ran the new data, desperate to comprehend it. Had Helen Carver seen Zoë’s abduction as an opportunity to get rid of her own baby? Banked on the police lumping the crimes together? And when she learned that Zoë had been found safe and well, had it tipped her over the edge? Knowing there’d be no homecoming of any kind for Jessica? Knowing the police would widen the net?
“How?” Bev asked. “How did she kill her?”
The old woman looked down. “She drowned her in the bath, then disposed of the body in the canal.”
Bev dropped her head in her hands. It was too much to take in. And it still didn’t add up. So far Helen Carver had been spectacularly unsuccessful in topping herself. And what was it Carol had said after the last failed attempt? David Carver watches her like a hawk.
Lifting her head, Bev peered at Veronica, who immediately looked away. Her calm was preternatural.
“She’s always been unstable, of course.” The old woman rose, poured herself a scotch from a decanter on the sideboard. “It was only a question of time before she succeeded, I suppose.”
Bev chewed her bottom lip. “That’s why you’d keep an eye on her, right?”
Veronica shrugged indifference. “If someone’s determined enough, sergeant...”
Bev searched the old woman’s face. Didn’t like what she saw. It struck Bev that the old bag was calm because she didn’t give a monkey’s. Or maybe the suicide was no great shock because she knew a damn sight more than she was letting on.
“Where’d you find her?”
A barely perceptible pause. “On the settee, of course.”
“And the pill bottles, the packs, where are they?”
Confusion flitted across the face. Or was it anger? The old woman clearly didn’t like her authority being questioned. She waved arthritic fingers. “I have no idea.”
“You’ve searched the place?”
“Yes. No.”
“Which?” Bev fired back.
The old woman took a lace handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her temples and top lip. Playing for time? Or feeling the pressure? Bev sprang up, headed for a door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice was a whiplash.
“I’m gonna take this place apart, till I find what killed your daughter-in-law.”
“You won’t. And I’ll sue you for any damage you cause.”
It was the arrogance, the absolute certainty, as the old woman sipped her scotch, stared at Bev and pressed her thin lips into a superior smile. Bev saw the dark probability and leapt.
“How’d you get her to do it?”
“I beg your pardon?” It was the last thing she’d beg, going by the contemptuous drawl.
“Painkillers, paraquat, whatever she took... How’d you get her to take it?”
“I hope you can substantiate that remark.” She glared at Bev. “For your sake.”
Bev ignored the implied threat. “You and Helen close, were you?” The old woman shrugged. “Thought not,” Bev went on. “So how come you know all this? I can’t see her confiding in you.”
“Let’s just say I’m a light sleeper.” She rose to replenish the glass, turned her back on Bev. “And she left a note.”
Bev stretched out a hand. “Give.”
Veronica waved dismissively. “I burned it.”
“Bullshit.”
“It would have been painful for David to read.”
Bev glanced over her shoulder. “Where is he? You never did say.”
“He’s on a few errands.”
Convenient. “Had to get him out of the way, did you? Wouldn’t want your precious son implicated.”
“He’s not.”
“Just you, then?”
She raised the glass, draining it. “Prove it.”
At that moment, Bev knew for certain. Not every comma and crossed t. But in some macabre twisted way Veronica Carver had presided over her daughter-in-law’s death. Either she’d coerced Helen into popping the pills herself, or she’d forced them down Helen’s throat with her own bony fingers.
And from where Bev stood, it looked as if the old crone would get away with it.
38
Bev’s footsteps rang out in the tinny acoustics of the multistorey. From the street below, raucous laughter and a flat falsetto warbled, “I will survive.” Don’t bet on it, mate. With a vicious kick she sent an empty can clattering across the concrete. It was getting on for ten pm and tonight would not go down as one of her best.
Veronica Carver hadn’t budged an iota from her fairy story. The old woman had cast a scathing eye over the evening’s activities, including the removal of her daughter-in-law’s body. Bev held little hope that the post mortem, scheduled for first thing, would reveal anything other than what it was: death by overdose.
Murder by proxy. Perfect crime.
Bev snorted. Ironic, considering that Helen had been so obsessed with perfection she’d killed a baby who couldn’t live up to it. Veronica had wreaked a warped revenge. And it looked like the evil old cow would never face a court. Veronica, like Natalie Beck, had taken the law into her own hands. Only difference: the old woman’s were a safer pair.
Bev nodded at the driver of a silver Passat parked in the bay behind. Number plate and description matched details of tonight’s shadow that Larry Drake had phoned through an hour ago. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk. She made for the Peugeot, sat for a minute or two catching her mental breath, then wrinkled her nose. Pool motors were a right pain: smelly and tacky, all fag ash and fast food. Thinking of which, she could murder a bag of chips. She’d pick one up on the way home. And looking on the bright side – she’d get the MG back in the morning.
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