Baby Love (11 page)

The mug-shots session had been a no-no. Bev discovered this when she’d phoned Natalie to tell her the arrangements for the telly appeal and make sure the teenager was up for the ordeal. No problem: she’d do anything if it helped get
Zoë back. As it turned out, Natalie could kill two birds with the proverbial; she was due back in Highgate anyway, to help put together an E-fit of her attacker.

The alarm was set for 6am. It was almost midnight. Tomorrow would be the third day in the hunt for Baby Zoë. Bev reached out a hand – best make that 5am.

A dark shape was barely perceptible in the shadows, watching, waiting. He’d been there two hours, biding his time, making sure. He’d seen a rat scuttle into the alleyway opposite; a tabby had brushed against his trousers
then slunk away; the last piss-heads had staggered past ages ago. Apart from the occasional firework, the place was dead.

The man didn’t want to be here tonight. The pictures on the news had forced his hand. He lifted his gaze as a cascade of colours burst across the night sky. It put him in mind of the Beatles’
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
. The man
was still smiling as he checked the time. He’d already checked his pocket to make sure the matches were there. Humming softly, he adjusted the rucksack, headed for the house.

The baby was fractious, the now-frazzled woman inexperienced, unable to contact the only person she could ask for help. The little one couldn’t be hungry; she’d refused the bottle again. And her nappy was dry. The mousy
woman checked it anyway. She took the naked child into her arms, gently tucked the tiny head under her chin and stroked the smooth perfect skin. The baby wriggled and squirmed, hot, flushed, crabby.

The woman tried to recall what the books said. Some recommended soothing motion to calm a crying child. A drive in the car often helped. No, she decided, too many people around. On edge anyway, she jumped at what sounded like distant shots, quickly
realised it was only fireworks. The booms and bangs had spooked her a couple of times already that night. Maybe the sudden noises were unsettling the baby.

The nursery would be quieter. Supporting the baby’s head, she cradled the tiny form gently in her arms and stole up the stairs. A soft tap set the rainbow swaying. The baby seemed to follow the motion with her eyes. The books said babies
couldn’t focus before six weeks old, but this baby was clearly special. The woman smiled proudly as she gazed at the tiny face, her incipient panic replaced by renewed confidence.

After all, it was early days. It would get easier in time. Everything would get so much easier.

Scarlet flames licked at the agonised face, jagged fire-fingers stretched towards the skull, the tiny body was already charred black. Thirty or more firefighters stood round helplessly, beaten back by intense heat, choking smoke.
Bev, restrained by Oz in a powerful grip, kicked and fought, desperate to free herself, desperate to save the baby, knowing it was too late. Scalding tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the baby’s head become a ball of fire.

Bev screamed then, a lung-bursting, ear-piercing scream that shattered her sleep, jarred her awake. Heart racing, pulse pounding in her throat, she could barely catch her breath. Only vaguely aware of its ring, her hand reached automatically for the
phone.

Something big was going off on the Wordsworth estate. A control-room operator at Highgate said they’d received five triple-nines. “It’s being treated as a major incident, sergeant. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Cheers.” She squinted at the clock: half-one. “What’s happening?”

“Fire. Domestic. Blake Way. Still patchy but four occupants unaccounted for.”

With a foot on the floor it took five minutes. She ran six reds and nearly mowed down a drunk who was doing a big Fred Astaire number in the middle of the Moseley Road. Emergency vehicles nose-to-tail blocked Blake Way. Nearest
access was round the corner. She ditched the MG, legged it the rest of the way. A cacophony of sound: engines, pumps, generators, radio transmissions, shouted instructions. Eyes closed, it was the noise of a fairground. No eau de candyfloss, only smoke.
Cloying clinging suffocating fumes.

It was impossible at first to see past the vast bulk of the fire engines. Their revolving lights cast sickly blue-grey hues on the faces of the crowd. It looked as if the entire neighbourhood had turned out: women smoking, men with pyjama bottoms
flapping under their coats, kids feigning indifference, even a couple of toddlers. It wasn’t
Towering Inferno
but it was live action.

Please God. Let it be live action.

Smoke stung her eyes, caught in her throat as she assessed the situation. The blaze looked under control; crews trained hoses at what appeared to be the seat of the fire, the front sitting room. Damping down was in operation elsewhere. Anything not
destroyed by flames or smoke was under four inches of water. Bev grimaced; the Becks hadn’t had much to begin with.

She glanced round, recognised a few of the firefighters from previous incidents. It was the main man she needed. A uniformed cop pointed her in the right direction. As she approached the house, though there were no flames, a huge pall of smoke hung in
the air. More drifted or billowed from blackened blistered window frames.

Bev picked her way through pools of filthy water and charred debris. Household items chucked out during the search of the property lay soaked and smoke-damaged. Heartbreaking. Nothing compared with the junked toys and baby clothes.

Then she saw the side wall. Daubed in red paint, letters a foot high, was a chilling message.

BURN IN HELL BABY KILLERS

Her fists were tight balls. The threat laid to rest any doubt about the fire’s origins. But questions clamoured for answers. She searched for a familiar face in the crowd. John Preston, the chief fire officer, was easy to spot – a six-foot
Geordie with a voice like an amplified foghorn.

“What’s the score, John?” Apart from Becks nil.

“One occupant out by the time we arrived. Crews in breathing apparatus brought out two more. Both women. The paramedics are working on them.”

Ambulances were parked across the street. She’d check it out soon as.

“I was told four occupants,” Bev said.

He nodded, grim-faced. “We think there’s still someone inside.”

It wasn’t Mandy Forsyth. The family liaison officer was heading over, a blanket across her shoulders. Bev grabbed the woman’s hands. “Mandy. Thank God. How are you?”

“I got out before the smoke got too bad. I’ll be OK. “ She shivered. “Best start paying me danger money.”

“You up to telling me what happened?”

She nodded, but drew the blanket tightly round her chest, shaking, clearly in shock. Bev grabbed the nearest uniform, told him to take Mandy to a squad car. “I’ll be with you in five minutes, Mandy, OK?”

She turned to the CFO. “So...if there is anyone in there.” She nodded at what was left of number thirteen. “What are the chances?”

He shook his head. “Smoke, sergeant. It’s a killer.”

She closed her eyes. Terry Roper. It had to be. He’d moved in with the Becks to do his knight-in-shining-armour routine. What was that going to do to Maxine?

“We’ll know soon enough.” Preston tipped his head towards the house. Another breathing apparatus crew was preparing to enter.

“Any idea how it started?” The writing on the wall couldn’t make it clearer but Preston was the expert.

“Place was torched, petrol bomb most likely. You can still smell it.”

Bev bowed to the fire officer’s refined olfactory powers. The only thing she could smell was smoke coming off her clothes, hair, skin, everywhere. Yet she craved a ciggy. How did that work?

“Should have something more solid after the fire investigation team’s been in.” Preston took off his helmet, wiped the back of his hand across a soot-streaked forehead. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

Looked pretty shit to her. She raised an eyebrow.

“A couple of minutes later and we’d be looking for more than one body.”

He promised to give her a shout as soon as he heard anything, then rejoined his men. Bev scanned the street as she hit fast-dial on her mobile. No hacks or video vultures in sight. Amazing that the media hadn’t heard a whisper. The guv answered
after five rings. It took a couple of minutes to bring him up to speed. Byford was happy for Bev to continue calling the shots. There was no sense him turning out as well. They agreed he’d take the early brief while she caught missed zeds.

The temperature had fallen a couple of degrees. She was pacing so she wouldn’t seize up. Mandy was in the back of a police motor a couple of doors down. Bev slipped in. “Sure you’re up for this?”

Black flakes fell from the liaison officer’s hair as she nodded. “Let’s get it over with. I want to get home.”

“Sure. Soon as you like, Mandy.”

“Natalie went to bed about eleven. I followed soon after. I was out like a light, woke up a couple hours later with a pounding headache. I got up to fetch a glass of water to take a painkiller. Soon as I opened the door I smelled smoke. You know
what it’s like when you’re half asleep. For a second or two I wondered why someone was lighting a fire that time of the morning. Then I saw the smoke, drifting up from below.” She paused, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I’ve never moved so fast in my life, Bev. I shouted, screamed, banged doors. Natalie’d taken a couple of sleeping tablets, was well out of it. I shook her, called her name, then ran to the bathroom thinking I’d get some water to
chuck over her. I looked into Maxine’s room, saw the bed empty, assumed she and Terry had gone down and out the back.” Her bottom lip trembled and there was a tremor in the hand clutching the blanket.

“You did brill, Mandy. What happened then?”

“I got Natalie on her feet. She seemed OK, told me to go on ahead. I was scared, Bev. I didn’t need telling twice. I didn’t know till later that Maxine hadn’t been to bed at all. She was in the sitting room when the fire
started. Natalie went to get her out.”

The Beck women were still in the ambulance undergoing initial medical treatment. Bev stood a few yards away chatting to a couple of uniforms. She was waiting for a green light from the paramedics before grabbing a word with Natalie.
Maxine wouldn’t be talking to anyone any time soon. She was on oxygen and intravenous drips, still unconscious.

“Give us a baccy, Simon.” Three months Bev’d been off the weed. One of the cops handed her a Marlboro. “Ta, mate.” She sneaked another. “I owe you.”

“Take the pack, sarge. I’ve got more.”

She slipped it into her bag. What the hell, she could fall under a bus tomorrow. Or have a baby snatched. Or see her life go up in shit. She took a deep drag, savouring the nicotine hit. The thought that the arson attack was down to the Becks’
malicious caller, seriously upping his sick game, was tearing her to shreds. She’d dismissed the poisonous shit behind the calls as deranged, not dangerous. If he or she had taken to fire-raising, she’d badly miscalculated, could’ve got
four people killed.

She inhaled again, creased her eyes as the smoke drifted from her nostrils. There was another possibility. The arsonist could be some sort of self-styled vigilante: a wacko who’d seen pictures of Natalie Beck being driven away in a police car,
put two and two together and come up with infanticide. In which scenario, Powell was in the shit. He’d authorised and arranged the girl’s session at the nick.

The thought gave Bev no pleasure. Whichever way it panned out, the Becks had been badly let down by the people whose job description majored on protection.

She lit another baccy from the butt.

PC Simon Wells, her supplier, looked on. “What now, sarge?”

Jack Daniels? Southern Comfort? “Watching brief for you pair.”

Most of the other squads had been released or diverted to other calls. Simon and his partner had been questioning the street gawpers: Balsall Heath’s equivalent of Neighbourhood Watch. But the locals had been as much use as eyeless needles.
Simon reckoned the Yorkshire Ripper could move in and no one’d notice. Either way, by now the audience had drifted home for its Horlicks.

“We’ll talk to them again in a few hours,” Bev said. “And everyone else on the estate. I can’t believe we won’t get a steer.”

It had taken more than the few seconds needed to lob a Molotov or whatever. The arsonist had left a wall painting. Early teams would get cracking on door-to-doors, grab people before they left for work. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a
major consideration: Wordsworth wasn’t big on gainful employment.

“As for now.” A drag, then she ground the butt under a damp Doc Marten. “Keep your eye on the house. It’s our crime scene but it’s Preston’s turf till he pulls his men out.”

“Sarge.” Simon tilted his head, pointed behind her.

The CFO was striding towards them. It wasn’t good news. The look was sober even through a face blackened with smut and smoke. “Waste of fucking time. I could have lost men in there.”

The breathing apparatus crew had been through every room in the house. Hadn’t found a skin cell. Alive or dead.

Bev frowned. “So Roper got out. Or was never in there...”

The fire chief shrugged. Not interested. “Duff info happens. But in this case, every call reported four trapped.”

And there’d been five calls. Bev thought it through. It was less than forty-eight hours since Roper had taken up residence. It was doubtful five people beyond the family even knew he’d moved in. So who’d raised the alert, upping the
head count? And why? And where the fuck was Roper now?

“Thank God it’s not a fatal,” Preston said. “But my blokes...”

Risked their lives, having potentially been fed a five-pack of lies. Bev made mental notes: not back burner.

“Sarge.” Simon was pointing again.

She turned to see a paramedic on the steps of the ambulance. Hoisting her bag, she headed for the harassed man in green scrubs.

“I’m sorry, love. She doesn’t want to talk.”

Bev’s heart sank; she lifted a finger. “One minute, mate. Just one.”