Baby Love (13 page)

“Fuck off. Leave me alone.”

Neither noticed God and his band of angels hovering at the end of the bed. God was in subtle pinstripe and shiny brogues with stethoscope accessory. The band was in white. The voice accustomed to being obeyed.

“I want to examine the patient.”

They weren’t asked to leave; the consultant’s request was implicit.

In the corridor Natalie asked, “Got a smoke?”

“Sure. Outside?” Thank you, PC Wells.

They sat puffing on a low wall opposite the main entrance. An azure sky and bright sun contrasted sharply with the teenager’s black mood. Natalie’s first deep drag sparked a coughing fit. She’d probably swallowed enough smoke last
night to last a lifetime. No point mentioning it.

Bev delved in her bag and proffered a bottle of Evian. “I know you’re angry, Natalie.”

“You got that right.”

Bev sniffed. It was gone eleven. Charm and sweet talk hadn’t done it and she had a stack of other stuff to get through. “I didn’t take your baby, Natalie. And I didn’t set fire to your house.”

The teenager bit her lip.

“I want to nail the bad guys. I can’t do it on my own.”

“Some mad fucker almost killed me. I’m not laying myself open to a load of crazies.”

“You won’t be. My governor’s sorting that as we speak.” Byford had called a news conference to issue a warning on the potential impact of irresponsible coverage. There was no proof the TV pictures had led to the arson attack,
so it would be a subtle slap on the wrist combined with an appeal for common sense and restraint. Like, yeah. Either way, if the rollicking was the guv’s big stick, the fat juicy carrot was alongside Bev, still stonewalling.

“You lot have done sod all.” She took another cigarette without asking.

Bev’s patience was on its way out. She recalled the strained expressions on the search teams’ exhausted faces, firefighters selflessly putting their lives on the line, contrasted it with the girl’s monosyllabic grunts. Natalie had
contributed nothing. Not a single thought on who might have lied to the emergency services, let alone torched the place. A media appeal for Zoë didn’t seem a lot to ask.

“Managed a damn sight more than you, love.” Bev flicked the dog-end away and briskly rose. “Tell you this. If my kid was taken I’d swallow razor blades and shit glass if it got her back. Sitting in front of a couple of cameras
is a piece of piss, Natalie. And it just might work.” She made a move to leave, then turned, chucked the pack at the girl. “Have another fag, Nat. Don’t put yourself out, will you?”

Back in the motor, Bev pounded the steering wheel with both hands. It drowned the first rap on the window. At the next, she turned her head. Natalie Beck did not look like Little Miss Happy but at least she was there.

An hour later, Bev was in Mac’s café opposite Luke Mangold’s tattoo parlour – Pain and Ink – in Digbeth. She’d shoehorned a brief encounter into a day already bursting at the seams. And the man
was running late. When she at last spotted him striding across the road, her sigh of relief was audible.

Before their first meeting, Bev had envisaged a hairy biker, all chains and leathers, running to fat and crawling in tattoos. Early forties, Mangold was more lace cuffs and paisley cravats, a cross between a camp hairdresser and a men’s tailor,
a sort of suits-you-sir with scissors.

As he approached the table, Mangold removed his elegant panama and gave a mock bow. His hair was mole-grey action-man crop. Except for a bald spot the size of a ten-pence piece. “Sergeant Morriss.” He gave a conspiratorial wink, the tone
mildly flirtatious. “We can’t go on meeting like this. People will talk.”

She forced a weak laugh. “Good of you to see me again, sir. Appreciate it.” Given the distance from his workplace, it wasn’t exactly putting him out. He’d suggested meeting here the first time as well. Probably just
didn’t want police on the premises. Bad for business and all that.

“Have you ordered?” Mangold asked.

“Just coffee.” She lifted the mug. “You go ahead.” The Highgate fry-up was still lining her stomach. Anyway, she was pushed for time. Not to mention a tad on edge. This little chat was off the record. And her own bat.

A blonde waitress called from behind the counter, asking Mangold if he wanted the usual. Mangold gave a thumbs-up, then fixed his gaze on Bev. “So what can I do for you this time, sergeant?”

No point prevaricating. “Another girl’s been raped.”

“And?” Was that a slight edge in the voice?

She tipped sugar into her mug, slowly stirred. She should’ve thought this through a little better. “As you know, we’re still trying to establish a link between the victims.”

“And?”

“We know one of the girls got a tattoo...”

Mangold leaned in close, too close for her comfort; the eye contact was positively claustrophobic. “Let’s get things clear. Am I a suspect? Because if I am, stop pissing around and come straight out with it.”

She would if she could. Fact was, there was no evidence against Luke Mangold. Gut instinct and making her skin creep didn’t count. “We’re talking to everyone who’s come into contact with the girls.”

“Girl,” he snapped. “I’ve only come into contact with Rebecca Fox. Like I told you before. When, as you’ll remember, I bent over backwards to help.”

She nodded. Interesting. Hundreds, thousands of people must pass through the man’s hands. “Do you remember the name of everyone you tattoo?”

Mangold’s stare was unnerving. “Only when they’ve been raped.” He paused. “And the cops come sniffing round.”

No more Mr Nice Guy then? On the other hand, if he was innocent maybe the attitude was justified.

“Here you go, Luke.” The girl plonked a plate of egg and chips in front of him.

“Cheers, Will.”

Bev did a double-take. Will was no waitress. The dark-blond hair had now been pulled back into a neat ponytail, revealing fine though definitely not female features. Tres fit, in fact.

“Get to the match Saturday, Luke?” The waiter’s knowing smile showcased perfect teeth and suggested he didn’t need Mangold’s answer.

Bev observed as the tattooist sighed theatrically and reached reluctantly for his wallet. “The ref was blind, my son.”

Will winked at Bev as he tucked Mangold’s tenner into a back pocket. “Yeah, yeah. And Villa were rubbish.”

For Bev skin setting on custard had more going for it than football, but even she knew Blues had thrashed Aston Villa. Half Highgate had policed the game.

“Five-nil, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Two penalties?”

Will inclined his head, impressed. “Sure I can’t get you anything, lady?”

She could think of a few things but none involved food. The salacious fantasy prompted a quick smile. “No, thanks, mate.”

“Shame.”

His eyes held hers a second longer than strictly necessary. Or was that wishful thinking? She watched as he executed a playful salute, then headed back to the counter.

Mangold was scrutinising her. “You’re not his type, sergeant.” The man’s smile was more of a smirk.

She ignored it, kept her voice casual, conversational. “Kate Quinn. Ever come across her?”

“Nope.”

“Laura Kenyon?”

“Nope.” Another unwavering stare as he bit into a thick chip. “Far as I know.”

“Far as you know?”

“They can say they’re Madonna if they want to. I don’t ask for ID.” He sighed, made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Let’s have a look at the pictures. I never forget a face.”

She stiffened. Photographs. Fuck.

“You’ve not brought any?” A patronising Mangold shook his head in contempt.

She could kick herself. Seeing Mangold was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment arrangement but that was no excuse. Maybe she was taking on too much. “I’ll get them to you, soon as.”

He took a biro from an inside pocket, jotted a number. “My solicitor. Go through him next time, love.” Egg yolk glistened on a chipped front tooth. She saw it when he smiled. “Better still... send a senior officer, eh?”

Back at Highgate, Bev raced across the car park, head down against a heavy shower.

“Whoa, where’s the fire, Morriss?”

Powell. Great. She’d almost slammed into him; he was holding her at arm’s length. Could life get any sweeter?

She pulled away. The Beck girl’s media appeal needed a final touch or two and Bev was well late. The sodding MG had let her down in Digbeth. Still smarting from Mangold’s verbal mauling, she’d had to borrow jump leads from some old
bloke who’d told her at great length that little ladies shouldn’t have to worry their pretty heads about what goes on under the bonnet. Bev knew full well what was going on under hers: the starter motor was on its way out. The Midget had been
on the blink for a fortnight, was booked in for the work.

“Making up for lost time, are we?” Powell asked.

There was a point in there somewhere. “Look, mate, it’s pissing down and I’m in a hurry.”

He tapped the side of his nose. “Little tip, Morriss. Stop telling lies and stirring.”

“You what?”

“All that crap in the canteen? Taking a pop at me?”

Must mean her implication that the arson attack was down to the TV pictures of Natalie being driven into Highgate. The visit Powell arranged. She shrugged.

The DI jabbed a finger. “You’d not be running round like a blue-arsed fly if you focused on the job and quit shit-bagging.”

“Can you get a move on? Natalie Beck’s waiting for me.”

“You think you know it all, don’t you, Morriss? Well, you don’t. One more step out of line...”

She didn’t hang round to find out. The lecture was superfluous anyway. Her crass handling of the Mangold interview had been lesson enough. She’d got up his nose and put him on his guard. Far from advancing the Street Watch inquiry, it
could have jeopardised it. If it went tits up, it would be her fault and it wasn’t even her case.

Frail and fragile, dwarfed by the mahogany table’s vast expanse, Natalie Beck faced a bank of cameras and media hard men. The backdrop was a huge photograph of her missing baby. Apart from Natalie’s breathy voice,
pleading and at breaking point, Highgate’s conference room was hushed and still. The teenager was a natural. But it didn’t come across as a performance. Natalie’s honesty, concern and love shone like sunlight on water.

“My heart’s hurting really bad. She’s my little angel. And I’m her mum. We need each other.” The baby was in her mind’s eye; the ghost of a smile played on the girl’s lips. “She’s such a tiny
little thing.” Natalie shook away the image, stared straight into the lens. “I’ll do anything to get my baby back. Anything. If you can help me, please call the police. Please let me know where she is and that she’s safe and
well.”

Bev exchanged an abashed glance with Byford. They’d done her a disservice. With her pierced eyebrows and pebble-dash skin Natalie might look like an extra from Little Britain, but the sixteen-year-old spoke eloquently and movingly from an open
heart the size of a planet. Would the viewing public see beyond the sink-estate schoolgirl-mum image?

“I brought her this.” Natalie produced a tiny teddy bear, set it on the table in all its pink-furred cock-eyed glory. “She loves it. Can you give it to her? I’ll leave it so you can pick it up. Anywhere you like.” She
dropped her head. “Just till you give me my baby back.”

The teddy bear was Natalie’s idea. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. No one shouted pointless questions, no one urged the girl to look up. The silence told its own story. The tear-stained polished wood surface added a poignant
postscript. Bev put her arms round the weeping girl, helped her stand and led her from the room.

Within minutes of the Natalie Beck Show hitting the airwaves, the control room switchboard resembled a light display. The missing baby had been sighted in Cardiff and Cannock, Derby and Dorset. One caller reckoned he’d seen her
take off from Birmingham International Airport – in a spaceship. Other information was less promising.

By seven pm Bev was in the incident room listening to the latest update from the control co-ordinator, Jack Hainsworth. She just held back from taking out her frustration on the phone. “Loony tunes and fruitcakes.” Instead, the bin took
the full force of a size seven.

Oz knelt, gathered the load of litter and empty coffee cups. “It’s early days, sarge. Break could come any time.”

Break as in through or crack? Natalie Beck’s fragile veneer couldn’t stand much more. The third day’s search had just been called off. It would not resume on the Wordsworth estate. The teenager was back at her mother’s
bedside.

Oz shucked into his jacket. “If there’s nothing else, I’m off.”

“Sure.” The sigh came from her boots. She was still in the foothills of the latest paper mountain. So much for an early night.

Oz picked up on her mood, came over, took a perch. “It was a good thought, sarge. A medical link.”

She snorted. Good thought. Crap result. Oz’s report was on the desk in front of her. He’d contacted every medico who’d so much as laid eyes, let alone hands, on the baby. Not so much as a hint of surgical skulduggery. Short straw
wasn’t in it. It was brick wall after brick wall.

“Fancy a drink, Ozzie?” They could job-talk, bounce ideas. She missed that. She missed him.

“Not tonight, Josephine.” Making light of it didn’t work. He saw her face. In a normal voice he said he had something on.

Something or someone? She’d brushed off the DI’s poisonous dart about Oz and Sumitra Gosh. Maybe it had left a flesh wound.

Pointedly, she turned her back, picked up a file. “G’night.”

Nothing beat a couple of hours’ ploughing through the tangled prose of police witness reports. Well, maybe feeding your head through a mangle. Bev leaned back, rubbed the taut tendons in her neck. Her running commentary of
notes included a few thoughts for tomorrow. She rang control one last time before hitting the road. Loads of callers had expressed sympathy, a handful was beyond abusive. One nutter claimed slags like Natalie Beck sold babies for cash; it’d be best
all round if she was sterilised. Bev sighed. At least there were no more little green men.