1

The rape suite at Highgate police headquarters had six hundred and seventy-six off-white tiles.

Probably.

The number was different every time Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss counted and she’d lost track of how often she’d started. She curled a lip. Tarting up the grim surroundings with primary prints and pot plants didn’t change the ambience. Pain and shame lingered here, almost tangibly.

Bev slouched back in a not-so-easy chair and blew out her cheeks in a sigh. She was acutely aware that counting tiles wasn’t the most productive use of her time but she couldn’t talk to the victim, Laura Kenyon, until the police doctor cleared it. He’d been in the examination room with the teenager for two hours. Bev glanced at her watch. It was 9.05 already. Make that two hours twenty.

She picked at a few strands of fraying fabric on the arm of the chair. If the day had panned out according to the best-laid et cetera, she’d be down the Bullring flashing plastic with her best mate, Frankie. A burger at the Hard Rock Café and Johnny Depp at the UGC had been on the cards for later. Mental note: call Frankie. The girl was going to kill her. Again. Working on a Saturday was a concept Frankie had yet to grasp.

Missing out on a day off Bev could live with, but she deeply regretted eschewing a bowl of bran or a bacon roll during her hasty departure from a house she still couldn’t quite think of as home. Her stomach was making gurgling sounds reminiscent of faulty plumbing or a dodgy balti. She rummaged through the pockets of her denim jacket for chocolate or chewing gum. Nada.

Earlier, en route from the incident room, she’d grabbed the Operation Street Watch files. A bit of light reading while she waited for the action. She skimmed the reports again. It was ninety-nine per cent certain that Laura’s rape was the latest in an on-going inquiry that had touched just about every officer on the force. Bev knew the top lines by heart. Not surprising: she’d written most of them. She’d been assigned the lead interview role from day one.

Her mouth twitched as she recalled how well that had gone down with Mike Powell. DI Powell reckoned empathy was his middle name. Fact was, he had the sensitivity of a morbidly obese rhino in a suit of armour. Her relatively high profile on the team was the governor’s call. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford rated her interview technique. He claimed she could get Trappists to talk among themselves.

She suspected, too, it was a message to the troops that he still had faith in her. She’d cocked up big time earlier in the year, been all ready to jack in the job. The guv had persuaded her to stay, but she was under no illusion: there were still acres of ground to landscape, not just make up. Either way, Byford wanted consistency. It was why she was here now.

And given the inquiry’s complete lack of progress so far, consistency was about the only thing they did have. Unless Laura Kenyon could give them a break.

Laura was the third city teenager to be raped in as many months. In each case they’d been dragged off the streets in the early hours, then dumped like trash. Bev had only caught a glimpse of the latest victim but it was enough to confirm that Laura fitted the profile. Like the others, she was pretty with long blonde hair, blue eyes and flawless skin. All three were slender and below average height, slight young women barely capable of landing a punch, let alone winning a fight.

There was another factor that couldn’t be ignored. From the back Laura Kenyon, Rebecca Fox and Kate Quinn could be mistaken for much younger children. Bev shook her head, but the disquieting thought was still there. As was another: there was little doubt the attacks were down to the same offender.

With hindsight, the signs had been evident back in September. Then, a month later, another attack with an almost identical MO. SOCOs were still at the scene of Laura’s rape, but Bev was sure they’d find the same sick signature. The first two victims had each been missing an earring. It could be coincidence; Bev thought not. Serial sickos often took trophies, pathetic reminders of what big brave men they were.

She shook her head, conceded there was a sliver of doubt on the jewellery angle. But there was none on what he did to his victims’ pubic hair.

The weird stuff had not been released to the media. The reporters didn’t know the half of it. Not that it had stopped the speculation. They were already going big on what they’d dubbed the Beast of Birmingham. They’d hooked up with a couple of women’s groups and a Tory honourable member to get daily comments that were invariably swipes at the police. It was all a bit rent-a-quote and it wouldn’t satisfy the media lust for salacious detail. Bev pursed her lips. Sooner or later there’d be a leak. Sure as eggs are eggs.

“I’m Martha Kemp. Are you with the police?”

A leak on legs? Bev wiped the thought off her face. There could be a reasonable explanation why Martha The Mouth Kemp had been granted access to the rape suite. Bev just couldn’t come up with one right now. She rose and tried to make eye contact, but Kemp’s gaze was sweeping the room, looking for someone more important.

Bev was still trying to get her head round the fact she was face to face with The Mouth. She’d never seen Kemp in the flesh but the woman presented a talk show on Birmingham Sound, the city’s commercial radio station. Provocative and outrageous, Kemp focused on big news issues, encouraging listeners to call in, then baiting them mercilessly when their views didn’t coincide with hers. Shock jock wasn’t in it. The Mouth was vicious, offensive and utterly compulsive. She got away with murder, mainly thanks to the sexiest voice this side of Mariella Frostrup. Talk about vocal Viagra. Bev only sounded that hot when she had a sore throat. Actually, Bev never sounded that hot; hoarse, maybe.

She offered a hand. “Bev Morriss. Detective Sergeant...”

Kemp lifted a finger and scrabbled in her bag, eventually taking out a sleek black mobile. Presumably it had been on vibrate and clearly it was a message, not particularly welcome going by Kemp’s furrowed brow.

Bev tried not to stare but it was a shock to find that her mental picture of the woman had been so not right. For years, she’d imagined early Anna Ford. This was late Betty Ford. The severe salt-and-pepper crop was like a skullcap. The skin tone was the shade and texture of old newspapers, probably due less to the lighting than the lighting up. Bev suspected a forty-a-day habit. The long brown woollen coat had no style and little shape.

Kemp returned the phone and Bev tried again. “Bev Morriss, Detective...”

Though standing nearer now, the gap widened as an unsmiling Kemp flapped a dismissive hand before wrapping hostile arms round a spreading waist. “Not now. I need to talk to Laura.”

The urge to mirror Kemp’s body language was strong. Bev settled for clenching her fists. “Are you a doctor as well, Mrs Kemp?”

A tendon stiffened in Kemp’s neck. “Ms Kemp.”

“And the answer to my question is?” Bev’s trainer was tapping the floor tiles.

Kemp made eye contact for the first time. The whites were bloodshot, the irises light blue, almost grey. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude problem?”

Once or twice. It was a sore point. “You still haven’t answered the question. Not that I give a toss. ’Cause unless you’re doing a spot of medical moonlighting with a rape kit, you can get off my case.”

Kemp’s smooth delivery carried an edge of menace. “Who’s your superior officer?”

Red flag. Raging bull. Shame it hid the warning light. Bev snorted. “Don’t pull that one on me, love. As soon as Laura Kenyon’s fit enough to talk, there’s only one person going in there. And that’s me.” Bev jabbed a finger in the direction of Kemp’s breastbone and took a step closer. “You shouldn’t even be in here. Who the hell was stupid enough to let you in?”

“I guess that’d be me.”

Bev didn’t need to turn. The governor’s voice, in its own way, was as distinctive as Martha Kemp’s.

2

There was no premonition, no inkling of any kind. Natalie Beck’s morning was starting like a bunch of others during the bumpy course of her sixteen-year life: bleary-eyed and bad-tempered. Her slow reluctant surfacing wasn’t prompted by the garish Mickey Mouse alarm clock. She’d forgotten to set it again. Erratic bursts of heavy rain needling the window eventually roused her as cartoon hands pointed to a tardy ten past nine.

The not-so-early riser grabbed the clock and squinted at the dial in disbelief. The sour expression on her sleep-softened features suggested the rodent was deliberately giving her a hard time. She slammed the clock on to a flimsy orange box pressed into service as a bedside table. The off-key ping echoed in the stillness of the house.

Natalie chewed a pierced lip and frowned. The place was like a morgue during a lockout. No blaring radio. No telly. No crocks clattering. She lay motionless, held her breath, listened again. Still silence. And in a mid-terrace with tissue-thin walls, that was saying something. Especially now with the baby.

Her maternal instincts were still in the embryonic stage, but even Natalie knew it was unusual for a newborn to sleep so long. To date, little Zoë Beck had managed no more than a four-hour stretch in a three-week existence. Natalie sighed, gave the faded England duvet a truculent kick, then paused, grabbed by a cooler idea. Her mum, Maxine, must be doing her doting granny bit. On past performance, bit was the operative word. Still, gift-horse and mouth and all that.

Natalie retrieved the cover and snuggled back into its warmth. A lie-in was rare these days; a girl might as well make the most of it. And, boy, did she need one. It had been a late night, a first since the baby. Natalie had been down Broad Street with a few mates on the pop and on the pull – just like the old days. Old days? Christ, she sounded like her ma. Whatever. At sweet sixteen, Natalie was plenty old enough to hit on Mr High and Mighty Gould. She still couldn’t believe she’d made out with a teacher. Gouldie had barely given her the time of day when she was at school.

School. What a joke. The head had written suggesting she go back, sit the exams next year. As if. She wasn’t a kid any more; she had a nipper of her own. What use was a bunch of poxy GCSEs?

She reached down, fumbling for a ciggie from her bag on the floor; swore as she brought out an empty pack. As she moved, she caught the spicy scent of Gould’s aftershave. Not surprising, really. He’d been all over her. She recalled some of the more hard-to-reach places, smiled; she’d certainly taught Sir a thing or two. Bastard had buggered off, then. Didn’t even walk her to the bus.

“Nat’ly! Nat’ly!” The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. Maxine Beck’s voice could dent concrete, never mind daydreams. “I’m off now, our kid. Get your ass in gear.”

Yeah, yeah.

“And you shouldn’t have the baby in bed with you. It’s not safe.”

Whatever.

Natalie counted the seconds until the front door slammed. Yep. Seven. You could set your watch by Maxine and her dull little routines. The bossy clack of heels on pavement would fade by thirty.

Natalie hit twelve before registering her mother’s words.

The girl’s bare feet skimmed freezing lino as she dashed across the landing, heart pounding. Halfway across the cheap carpet she halted, dizzy with relief, closing her eyes briefly and mouthing a silent thanks to any passing god. The baby was asleep, the top of her head just visible above the pink quilt. Her mum must have fed Zoë, then put her down before leaving the house.

Natalie took a calming breath to slow her racing heart. Maxine’s mean trick had forced her out of bed all right. Into a state of shock.

She tiptoed to the tiny cot and gently pulled back the covers. The macabre sight turned her insides to ice. She cupped a hand over her mouth to stem the bile rising in her throat, not able to make sense of what she saw.

Zoë wasn’t in the cot. It was a doll. A stupid doll.

Natalie flung it across the room, angrily snatched at the pillow, yanked the covers aside and up-ended the mattress. It had to be another mean trick, a nightmare hide-and-seek. But in her heart she knew Maxine wouldn’t be that malicious.

Her panic rose as her breathing quickened. She stared wildly round the room before turning back to the cot. All that remained was a white cotton sheet, a little crumpled and so very cold. Natalie lifted it to her cheek, inhaled the scent of her beautiful baby. She lost it, then. Screaming, unable to stop, she clamped her hands over her ears. She needed to think straight but couldn’t think at all over the appalling noise she was barely conscious of making.

In the street, the sound stopped Maxine in her stilettoed tracks. She was vaguely aware of furtive stares from passers-by, but no one else halted. Why would they? It’d just be the estate kids mucking about again. Except Maxine Beck knew it wasn’t. Her daughter’s anguish was clamouring in her ears. Rooted to the spot, she felt her blood run cold.

3

“How was I meant to know?”

Bev had been kicking her heels in the corridor while the guv did his best to placate Martha Kemp. He’d just emerged from the rape suite and it turned out the presenter wasn’t a media queen on the sniff for a scoop. She was Laura Kenyon’s mother.

Byford waited as Bev tried to get her head round the fact that Ms Kemp had kept the Happy Families card extremely close to her chest. “She didn’t say a word, guv.”

“Maybe she couldn’t get one in,” he suggested. “Cut her some slack, sergeant. She’s in shock. That’s her daughter in there.”

She shrugged. Kemp could still have said something. Bev felt she’d been deliberately wrong-footed, like it had been some sort of test. And she’d failed.

“Uniform had a hell of a job getting hold of her to break the news,” Byford said. “She wasn’t answering the door. A neighbour had a key. They found her on the bathroom floor. She’d got bladdered at some awards do. So she’s feeling guilty as sin on top of everything else.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a mind reader.”

“Clearly. Or you’d have an idea why I’m here.”

She hadn’t given it a thought. Her entire focus was on Laura Kenyon, how soon she could talk to the girl. How soon she could elicit every fact while staying alert to every nuance. The Street Watch squad badly needed pointing in the right direction, any direction. There was an outside chance the girl had caught a glimpse of the attacker. It hadn’t happened yet; he’d been smart, or lucky. But grey cells died off and luck ran out. There was always a first time. A visual was probably too much to hope for but there was more than one way to skin a cat – even the most repulsive tom on the block. An accent, for instance, could give away loads; a distinctive smell; the way he wore his hair...

“You all right?” Byford asked. God knew what her face was doing. His was full of concern.

“Just thinking.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Her look spoke volumes. “Let’s sit down a minute, sergeant.”

He indicated a heavy wooden bench lining one of the custard-coloured walls. Kilroy had been there, and his mate Elroy. And they’d carved their names with pride, and a blunt penknife. Bev traced the letters with a finger, reluctant to meet the big man’s gaze. He’d used the s-word, for one thing, and she didn’t like the way he said it. A quick glance confirmed her suspicions. She could read his eyebrows like a book. The left had almost disappeared into the hairline: something was bugging him.

She let the silence stand and sneaked a few more covert glances. She reckoned he’d aged a bit in the last couple of years. The grey flecks among the still-thick black hair were more snow-scatter than sprinkle. And the lines down the side of his mouth had become a permanent feature rather than the by-product of late nights and early mornings, often back to back. He was early fifties, nothing these days, but he’d had a health scare earlier in the year, had even toyed with the idea of early retirement.

That had sent shock waves rippling down Bev’s vertebrae. The guv was on her side, almost the only suit at Highgate that was. Without his metaphorical arm around her shoulder the world would be a much colder place. Not that he didn’t call a spade an earth mover, and not that he was afraid to tell her to her face what a lot of the Highgate neanderthals only whispered behind her back. Whatever the reason for the current uncharacteristic shilly-shallying, it was neither fear nor concern for her sometimes fragile self-esteem.

“It’ll probably all be over by the time you get there.”

Where? The only place she had the slightest intention of going was the room at the end of the corridor where Laura Kenyon was waiting to be interviewed. The guv still hadn’t looked her in the eye. She folded her arms, slumped back against the wall. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “Like I say, I’m no mind-reader.”

“I’m taking you off Street Watch.” He lifted a hand to quell a Morriss outburst. “Just till we know how this thing pans out. As I say, by the time you get there, it’ll probably be sorted.”

“What will?” Her gaze fixed on a peeling poster extolling safe sex. Given the state of her love life, any sex would be a fine thing. Oz had been giving her so much space lately she could rent rooms.

“We got a call-out. Looks like it could be a missing baby.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she abandoned the slouch. “Missing?” Her senses were on red alert. Baby-snatch, kidnap, abduction, call it what you like. A dictionary couldn’t come close to describing the horror, the emotional fall-out when a baby’s taken, a young life’s at stake. Priority didn’t get much higher. So why the shifty look?

“Uniform’s there,” Byford said. “Les called it in. He reckons there’s something fishy. Wants another pair of eyes.”

Les King. Laziest copper on the force. Christ, if Kingie thought it was fishy, there must be shoals of the bloody things. It was a time-waster. And there was none to spare. Byford knew it. She knew it. “With respect, guv...”

“Don’t even go there.” He stood, mentally elsewhere already.

“But...”

“But nothing.” He handed her a slip of paper. “I want you to take a look.”

She clocked the address and snarled. Blake Way, Balsall Heath. Better known as Asbo Alley. What fun. She gave a theatrical sigh, tapped fingers on thigh.

“And you can stop that soon as you like.” Byford read bodies as well as minds.

“What I’d like is to talk to Laura Kenyon.”

“You should have thought about that before inserting yourself in her mother’s nostrils.”

“That is so unfair.”

“That’s life.” He shrugged half-heartedly. “Think yourself lucky she isn’t filing a complaint.”

In his office on the fourth floor, Byford watched through the window as Bev crossed the car park. Even from this distance, he could read the signs. The slumped shoulders and head down had nothing to do with heavy rain falling from a leaden sky; she was seriously pissed off. He sighed, absentmindedly tipping the dregs of a canteen coffee on to a parched cactus languishing on the windowsill. The plant was the latest in a long horticultural line of Morriss peace offerings. Indeed, had all the cacti flourished, he could have opened a garden centre. Was the choice of plant significant?

He gave it a passing thought, his focus still on the woman sending smoke signals from below. Detective Sergeant Beverley Morriss didn’t need to open her mouth these days. Learning to button it – which she had by no means mastered – never helped when she had one on her, so to speak. And she’d had several during the spat with Martha Kemp.

Byford rubbed his eyes as he recalled the radio presenter’s threat to have a word with her mate, Ronnie: Big Chief Constable Ronald Birt. Thank God she wasn’t pally with the Queen’s Constable as well. Kemp had taken exception to Bev’s slack attitude and sloppy appearance. There’d been no percentage in pointing out the sergeant’s early shout on a day off; that only explained the denims and trainers. Anyway, when Kemp was in full flow, on or off the air, The Mouth was unstoppable. Only an apparently reluctant agreement that a more senior officer would be assigned to her daughter’s interview had halted the diatribe.

Ms Kemp had looked suitably gratified, not to say smug, at what she perceived as a victory. In reality there’d been no agreement, reluctant or otherwise. Byford had already made the decision to take Bev off the interview. His wayward sergeant could and did ruffle feathers; she could also soothe entire flocks of birds. If a baby were missing, he could think of no better officer to deal with the family.

Especially the Becks. He was surprised Bev hadn’t picked up on the address. Still, it would register soon enough.

Right now she was alongside the Morriss-mobile, an ageing MG Midget that she loved even though its erratic performance occasionally drove her to distraction. Byford watched her waggle her fingers and mouth a greeting to someone out of his field of vision. Glossy curtains of chin-length Guinness-coloured hair drew back to reveal a warm smile that lit her entire face and widened the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. It had never occurred to him before but when Bev looked like that, she was almost beautiful.

The senior detective who’d shortly be questioning Laura Kenyon was currently trying to answer a few being put to him. DI Mike Powell was perched precariously on the muddy slope of a disused railway embankment off the main road into Moseley. Gnarled oaks provided a dense overhang of twisted branches glistening with slimy moss. Natural light struggled to penetrate the gloom, which explained the battery of police lights and a tableau that at first sight resembled a film set. The inspector had been carefully positioned camera-left. The scene of Laura Kenyon’s rape – almost certainly the latest in a series – provided a damp and dismal backdrop.

In the distance two white-suited figures were on their knees, steel cases full of fine-tooth combs, a steadily growing pile of small see-through bags on the ground beside them. It looked like a CSI shoot or something out of Doctor Who. As for the plastic bags, they could contain evidence or detritus; people had been dumping rubbish in the cutting for years. A few litter louts were probably among the motley crew of extras that had congregated at street level and were now lining a wire-mesh security fence, agog at the activity below. Clutching the fence and faces pressed against the wire, they could have been spectators at a zoo. Powell half-expected to be tossed a banana. A notice exhorting trespassers to keep out had earlier been ignored. Or maybe the rapist couldn’t read.

It was wet under the inspector’s expensive Italian loafers and fat raindrops were flattening his recently coiffed locks. The pose was both uncomfortable and fairly ungainly but Nick Lockwood, the BBC’s safest pair of hands in the Midlands, had been extremely persuasive. It helped that Mike Powell was as keen to get his face on the box as the old TV pro firing the questions was to put it there. Though at this precise moment Lockwood was itching to tighten his fingers round the inspector’s neck.

Powell wasn’t being deliberately obtuse; it came naturally. But on this occasion, he either didn’t have the information Lockwood was after or he couldn’t or wouldn’t give it. He’d hummed and hedged like a musical privet. Maybe the officers he’d put on house-to-house might come up with a whisper. He’d heard nothing yet.

The only known fact was the girl’s name and even Lockwood knew that was a no-no. A rape victim’s identity was rarely released to the media, even without the current three-line whip demanding anonymity that Martha Kemp had apparently issued. Powell hadn’t spoken to the woman, but he’d had an ear-bending from Byford who clearly had. What a nightmare: a female control freak with friends in high places.

Lockwood took advantage of Powell’s wandering thoughts, hoping his casual delivery of a loaded question would slip by unnoticed. “So there is a link with the previous attacks?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Can’t win them all. Lockwood bowled another. “So there isn’t a connection?”

“I didn’t say that either.” Powell regarded Lockwood with renewed interest. The man might look like a crumpled sofa but the journalist brain was sharp as a razor and equally cut-throat.

“So what are you saying?”

The newsman had let local radio and the print guys do their bit first so they wouldn’t be around to pick up any exclusive gems Powell might drop during Lockwood’s turn. It wasn’t working; this was more swine before pearls. Powell, or Blondie as he was commonly known among the hacks, wasn’t singing at all, let alone from the same crime sheet.

“At this preliminary stage in the inquiry, it’s not possible to indicate whether this incident is related to...”

Blah-de-blah-blah. Lockwood tuned out. Apart from a complete lack of anything worth using, at this rate he’d be lucky to hit Newsnight.

“Finito?” the inspector asked with a smile that bordered on smug.

“Yep,” Lockwood agreed. “That’s a wrap.” He’d wasted enough energy on this blond twat. He’d give Bev Morriss a bell; she didn’t do police-speak and often had something worth saying.

He’d been surprised not to see her out here. He sensed she wanted a collar particularly badly on this one. They’d bumped into each other quite a bit in the course of Operation Street Watch. He’d even financed a pinot or two in the Prince of Wales. It was a police pub, good for contacts. Lockwood made it his business to drink there regularly. When Bev Morriss was around it was pleasure as well. Off the record, he reckoned she was well fit and a fucking good cop. And she’d tossed the occasional snippet his grateful way. Question was, could he sweet-talk the delectable DS into parting with a quality steer?

Lockwood was still mulling it over as he reached the top of the slope and heard a string of expletives ring out from behind. The newsman didn’t actually see Powell’s tumble; the inspector was already down when Lockwood turned. Blondie had landed slap-bang in what looked suspiciously more pungent than a puddle of mud. The newsman watched as one of the SOCOs raced across to lend an arm.

A red-faced Powell flapped a hand in angry dismissal and immediately lost his footing again. Lockwood had to turn away. Shame the camera hadn’t been running. The crap might wash off the fancy footwear eventually, but it’d be a bugger to get the stains out of what looked like a brand-new Barbour. As for the smell... Lockwood smiled. Had there been cattle around, he’d swear it was bullshit.

4

Travis was spouting Why does it always rain on me? Bev flicked off the CD with a finger and gave a heartfelt sigh. “You and me both, mate.” The downpour was now a deluge but she wasn’t talking weather; she’d turned into the Wordsworth estate. She was chasing a wild goose on Balsall Heath’s Little Gorbals, where you washed your motor on the way out. Assuming it still had wheels.

Way she saw it, the whole business was a non-starter. No one snatched babies on the Wordsworth. Girls popped them out like peas, swapped them for a pack of fags. With a bit of luck, she’d be back at Highgate within the hour. End of.

She peered through the windscreen, half-expecting to see animals in pairs forming an orderly queue outside the nearest ark. What she saw was an ugly, graffiti-scarred, derelict high-rise. Tennyson Tower’s smashed windows and rusty grilles dominated an ominous gunmetal sky. She lowered her sights. Blake Way? Was that the one off Keats Avenue? They all looked the naffing same to her: mean streets of redbrick council semis, with scrubby front gardens and grotty nets at grimy windows.

She took a right into Coleridge Drive. And what joker had come up with the names? Poor sodding poets would be turning in their urns, Grecian or otherwise. As for daffodils, you’d be lucky to spot one in March, never mind a bunch in mid-November.

Blake Way? Why’s it ringing a bell?

A bunch of hoodies, on the other hand: you’d be spoilt for choice. There was one lot now, hanging round the chip shop. The little shits gave her the finger as she cruised past: synchronised obscenity. Class. She’d nicked one of the bastards for dealing a few months back. Not a hand of poker.

She tapped her fingers on the wheel. The asbo kids and druggies round here were responsible for a significant portion of south Birmingham’s crime figures. Cops nationally took sixty-six thousand complaint calls every day, three every four seconds. Bev reckoned most of them hailed from the Wordsworth. Low-level stuff, mostly: muggings, intimidation, verbal abuse, music blaring all hours.

But it didn’t always stop there. Shootings were on the increase and kids carried blades like old women carried handbags. It was a miracle there weren’t more killings. Bad news for the handful of decent law-abiding families who still lived on the estate, clinging like hairs round a scummy sink. God knows what their quality of life was like. Stuff anti-social orders; give the sleaze-balls a good kicking.

The car was steamed up as well. Bev opened the window a touch, letting in faint traces of cabbage and curry. She opened it a tad wider and caught a whiff of dog shit.

Why does it always rain on me?

Closure came quickly along with a generous squirt of Opium, a present from Oz in the days he still bought her things. Blake Way? Of course. Maxine Beck. The guv wouldn’t do that to her, would he? She’d find out soon enough; it was next left, opposite a patch of wasteland laughingly known as The Green. Yeah, right. How green is my valley of rotting bin bags and rusting bike frames?

Bev’s wry smile vanished as she spotted a police car straddling the kerb a few doors up and Les King having a crafty smoke huddled on the doorstep of number thirteen. Thank you so much, guv.

Someone should tell that Travis. If it’s only raining, why’s he whinging?

Maxine Beck had been one of Bev’s first collars. Over the years, she’d taken the silly cow in more times than laundry. Shoplifting, soliciting, scamming the social, you name the pie and Maxine’s digit was in it up to the knuckle. More often than not some bloke would have pushed it in on her behalf. Maxine was a looker, not a thinker: sexy, sensual and borderline stupid, apart from the odd flash of acuity. Women’s lib had never hit her pretty radar. She needed a man like a fish needs fins. Generally she landed sharks.

Maxine had been cautioned, fined and given a suspended sentence or four but never served a custodial. Until she took off on a two-week jaunt to the sun with her then lover-boy piranha, leaving her daughter, Natalie, to sink or swim. The kid was ten years old at the time. Maxine swore she’d made childcare arrangements but either they fell through or were a figment of her lack of imagination. Whatever. The kid was lucky to pull through after going down with what turned into double pneumonia. Natalie Beck went straight from home alone to intensive care. Bev made damn sure Maxine went down: the sentence was six months in Holloway.

WPC Morriss – as Bev then was – received a good deal of correspondence from Prisoner Beck during the four months Maxine had kept Her Majesty happy. None of it was fan mail, most of it was threatening. Indeed, if Bev’s memory served her right, Maxine’s last written words had included the phrases: see you, my dead body, over. That had been getting on for five years back and since then, as far as the police were concerned, Maxine had kept her fingers to herself. Even so, Bev did not anticipate a warm reception at the Beck residence.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Les King’s thick Brummie drawl dribbled contempt. And that was before Bev was over the threshold. Not that she could get over. King’s lard-arse was still spread across the step.

“Congratulations, Les.” Bev’s tight smile was dangerous. Taking lip from a lazy incompetent git she could do without. The git looked like she’d told him to split the atom. “The sergeant’s exam?” she asked pleasantly. As if she gave a fuck. “When did you pass?”

“Never took it. Couldn’t be arsed.” The smug leer revealed a black hole with stumps.

“That’s ‘Couldn’t be arsed, sergeant,’ is it?”

He shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, love.”

She took a step nearer, recoiled at the baccy breath and hint of body odour. “Tell you what’ll make me feel better – you getting off your butt and running the facts past me. You know? Like a professional?” The lip-curl was deliberate. “Drop that fag, man, sort yourself out.”

She rarely pulled rank, but she was sick of Highgate tossers like Les King: time-wasting clock-watchers, drifting to early retirement, treating women as bikes or dykes. Or both. Women bosses especially. The old slacker wouldn’t be here at all if they weren’t so stretched these days. It wasn’t just Street Watch. They were on constant terror alert. And it was the soccer season. Saturdays were bad enough anyway and a derby at the Blues’ ground made it even worse.

Rising with a couple of exaggerated winces, King stubbed the cigarette under a size ten boot, then made great play of extracting a dog-eared pocket book from his tunic.

Bev’s trainer was tapping Morse. She de-coded anyway. “Just talk.” Tosser.

He ignored the remark, continued to riffle the pages with a fat hairy finger.

“For fuck’s sake, out of my way!”

Bev couldn’t have put it better herself. But the words had been spat by a blowsy, busty blonde who sent Les flying as she stormed out of the house. Bev recognised the retreating figure instantly, reckoned the years had not been kind. The woman was in four-inch heels but Bev had to lengthen her stride to keep up. “Where you off to, Mrs Beck?”

“Where d’you think? I’m looking for Zoë.”

Bev put a hand on the woman’s sleeve. “Let’s get some details first.”

“That fat sod’s got the details...” Maxine suddenly stiffened, stopping mid-pavement. Bev watched as raindrops dripped from the bleached bird’s nest and trickled down wan cheeks. The face was easy to read. Maxine was scanning her memory bank and clicking on Bev when she’d been in uniform. The penny dropped. Bev caught its flash in the coffee-coloured eyes. “You’re the cop what got me sent down.”

Bev braced herself for a good slapping. The woman was already as wired as a junction box.

“I’m putting in a complaint,” Maxine snapped.

As quick as that? Bev tried not to show her feelings. Signally failed.

“Not you.” More snapping from Maxine. “That bastard.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. King was lighting up again. “Been here nigh on an hour. Done nothing but drink tea and make stupid cracks.” Maxine sniffed, wiped her nose with a sleeve. “I can’t stand the sodding sight of you. But at least you’ll get the job done.”

Bev tucked her hand under Maxine’s leopard-print elbow and gently led her back to the house. She’d made a mistake. It wasn’t rain running down Maxine’s face. It was tears.

5

“It’s just routine, Mrs Beck. We have to make sure.”

Two uniforms were upstairs searching every inch of number thirteen. Maxine Beck was unaware the men had been instructed to remove bath panels, lift floorboards and check for false partitions. Bev seriously doubted they’d find a body; but grief didn’t necessarily preclude guilt, and children – including three-week-old babies – are more likely to die at the hands of a supposedly loving parent than a paedophile.

That there was grief in the house was not in doubt. It had moved in, taken over, dripped off the walls.

“Whatever needs doing. Whatever it takes. We just want her back.” Maxine Beck looked like a stuffed doll that had been in a fight. And lost. She was cradling her daughter in her arms. Bev hadn’t recognised Natalie at first. Not surprising. The girl had been at death’s door last time she’d seen her. She looked only marginally better now, though that was caused by emotion, not lung infection.

Within minutes of entering the place, Bev had assessed the girl’s story and initiated a full-scale hunt while Highgate rang every news desk in the Midlands. If ever the media were called for, it was when a child went missing. In the meantime, every available officer and dog handler was either on or en route to the Wordsworth estate.

And Les King was already on gardening leave. Bev had heard on the Highgate grapevine that the guv had come close to decking the lazy slob. There’d be an inquest later as to why King had dragged his feet. But if Byford had any say, the suspension would be permanent. Les King had lost them precious time. How much more had been wasted was unclear. What Bev knew, or had been told, was that Baby Zoë had been asleep in her cot at 3am. By 9.10am the baby had vanished. Now the nursery looked as if it had been ransacked, but that was because Natalie had up-ended everything in sight to find the one thing she couldn’t. The empty cot told its own story. God knew what it was doing to the Becks. Bev knew it would loom large in her nightmares.

“Let’s run through it again, Natalie.”

The girl was sixteen going on thirty. Think scrawny Britney Spears on a bad hair day. Bad everything, Bev reckoned. Lank blonde locks framed sullen features dotted with spots. Natalie mumbled a few words into her mother’s neck. Maxine looked as if she’d never let her go. They were cuddled up on the sofa opposite, a brown mock-leather affair scarred with cigarette burns and stained with what looked like red wine. A baby’s dummy was wedged at the back of a cushion.

“The time you got in? Can you narrow it down at all?” Bev looked at her notes. A rare occurrence: Oz usually took care of the written word. DC Khan – lucky best man – was at a wedding in Brighton. According to Bev’s scrawl, Natalie had arrived home after midnight but before 2am. Talk about window of opportunity.

Natalie eased herself from Maxine’s embrace and sat clutching her bare mottled legs. “Can’t remember.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged, concentrated on her toenails. “Just can’t.”

Bev wondered why girls Natalie’s age, any age come to that, thought it was cool to have pierced eyebrows. Ears yeah, nose maybe. But eyebrows? It was painful just thinking about it. She tried another tack. “Did you notice anything out the ordinary? Door unlocked? Window open?”

“Nah. Nuffin’.”

Blood. Stone. Out of. Bev didn’t think Natalie was being deliberately obstructive or evasive. She reckoned the teenager had been on the piss. Alcohol fumes were wafting across. On the other hand, they could just as easily be emanating from Maxine.

“What about your mates? Anyone see you back?”

It was an innocent question, so why the furtive look? Guilt? Shock? Bev wasn’t sure. The recovery was too quick for further pondering. “Yeah, my friend and me got off the same stop. That’s right. We walked back together.”

Bev jotted down the friend’s address.

“How about you, Mrs Beck? You reckoned it was three when you got up. Anything strike you as odd?”

“No. Like I say, I went to the loo. Poked me head round. The baby was fine. I give her a bottle...”

“You didn’t mention a bottle.” Bev checked her notes. Unless she’d missed it first time... nope, nada. “Did you or didn’t you?”

It didn’t take a lot to confuse Maxine. She dropped her head into her hands.

“Leave her alone. It’s no big deal.” Natalie was only looking out for her mother. But the hostility was unnecessary. Bev was looking out for a three-week-old who could be starving to death, assuming she was still alive.

Still, Bev thought, it wasn’t surprising the Becks’ recall was a tad hazy, since it was clear they were both out of their heads with worry. Everywhere they looked was a reminder of what they’d lost. The small sitting room was littered with baby gear; Mothercare meets the Disney Store.

“Is it just the three of you here?” Natalie and Maxine seemed to avoid each other’s eyes. Bev wasn’t sure what to read into it, but her antennae twitched. “Well?”

She got a yes from Maxine and a no from Natalie. She sighed, while they sorted it.

“Terry’s my bloke, like,” Maxine said. “But he don’t live here.”

Natalie’s snort suggested otherwise.

“He don’t,” Maxine whinged. “He’s got his own place over Selly Oak way.”

Another snort.

“He stays over once in a blue moon.” Maxine conceded.

“And last night?” Bev asked. “Was the moon blue?”

“No.” Maxine was adamant.

Bev turned her gaze on Beck junior. The girl shrugged. “Weren’t here, was I?”

Bev added Terry Roper’s name and address to the pot. Dear God, let it come to the boil soon.

“Is Zoë’s dad round, love?” As if. Round here, lad-dads were called feafos: fuck-’em-and-fuck-offs.

“She hasn’t got a dad,” Natalie snarled.

Bev nodded. “Immaculate conception, then?”

“Don’t be a smart-arse. You know what I mean. I don’t need a bloke. I’m bringing the kid up on me own.” The words’ import registered and the girl’s face crumpled like a soggy kleenex.

Bev regretted the snide remark. It had done neither of them any good. “I’m sorry, Natalie. But we need to speak to Zoë’s father.”

“Leave her alone,” Maxine hissed. “Look at her.”

Mascara-stained tears trickled through Natalie’s fingers and down her wrists as she shook and sobbed.

Bev sighed. They needed the man’s name and address. A breather, that’s all she could spare the girl. “Have a think about it, love. It could help us find Zoë. That’s what we’re all after here, isn’t it?”

“’Kay.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. For an hour or two, she’d settle for an OK. “I’m almost done,” she smiled. “Can one of you sort that picture for me?” Baby Zoë. Not happy snaps. Not right now.

Maxine hauled herself off the sofa. Natalie was picking her nails again. Bev ran back through her notes. It was a start, but she had a feeling she’d be seeing a hell of a lot more of the Becks over the next few days.

Sounds of police activity drifted in from the street: radio static, slamming doors, barking dogs, raised voices. She heard the guv’s. She was itching to get out there but had to hang round to brief the family liaison officer, Mandy Forsyth, who’d be babysitting the Becks. Though no one would use the expression within earshot.

“Nat, have you moved them photos?”

Natalie had not. She abandoned her pedicure to lend a hand in the search. Mandy Forsyth turned up twenty minutes later; the photographs didn’t. Great, Bev thought. The media circus was in town to show off a missing baby, and they didn’t even have a black-and-white still.

Big questions were: who did? And where were they?

Brindley Place was ten minutes from Balsall Heath and about a million miles. The canal-side development was one of the coolest jewels in Birmingham’s burgeoning crown. Vibrant and bustling, it boasted the top bars and clubs, the chicest restaurants and galleries. It was bright lights and big-city buzz. If you were really lucky – and loaded – you lived there. Helen and David Carver had held their apartment-warming three years ago.

Now framed in their big picture window, Helen gazed down on the activity below. Garishly painted narrow boats bobbed or glided on the surface of the water. A few hardy tourists juggled umbrellas and Nikons, snapping the pub where Bill Clinton had sipped a pint and inhaled chips. Helen remembered when dumped prams and dead rats were about the only entertainment on offer around the canal, and in it. Brindley Place, like Helen Carver, had come a long way.

Gently, very gently, she eased the baby into a more comfortable position. The last thing she wanted was Jessica to wake and cry again. But she was like a dead weight, hot and sticky, on Helen’s neck. Holding her breath, she carefully laid the baby on the settee, watching anxiously as an incipient protest faded and Jessica drifted back to sleep.

Helen tugged at the long sleeves of her high-neck blouse, trying to relax. She’d seen the story about the missing baby on the TV news. It was shocking, of course, but she’d virtually tuned out when the location was mentioned. The Wordsworth estate was notorious across the country, let alone the city, for its sky-high crime rate and dysfunctional lowlifes. Helen shuddered; it was no place for a baby.

She gazed down at her own child. She and David had tried for years to start a family. They had a gorgeous home, exotic holidays, top-of-the-range cars, but it had begun to pall without a baby. And now? Helen dabbed angrily at a drying patch of milky sick on the shoulder of her blouse. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Jessica; but why hadn’t the books mentioned the mess, and the draining, seemingly endless exhaustion?

Shaking her head as if to banish the negative thoughts, she stroked Jessica’s cheek. The blemish was barely noticeable, really. Her mouth tightened as the child farted, rigid and red-faced. Another smelly nappy. Wrinkling her nose, Helen drew back a cuff, checked her Gucci watch. It could wait until her mother-in-law, Veronica, returned with the shopping.

She picked up a copy of Vogue, leafed desultorily through a few pages. Jessica writhed and grizzled. Helen threw the magazine petulantly across the room and went to lift the child just as a key turned in the door. Thank God. Veronica would deal with it. Helen could sleep for an hour, maybe two. That was all she needed. She was so tired these days, what with her hormones and everything.

6

“My daughter’s shattered, inspector. I’ll grant you a few minutes. And I’ll sit in. Naturally.”

Mike Powell, accompanied by DC Carol Mansfield, was paying an unscheduled house call on Martha Kemp. He was spitting spikes but smiled politely and made sure his eyes did as well. Body language was Morriss’s big thing but he reckoned he was more fluent. Take Kemp’s rigid stance, tight lips. They screamed that she was in the wrong and knew it.

The radio presenter had insisted her daughter’s questioning take place at home. After clearing it with the police doctor, she’d whisked Laura away. No problem with that. Except she hadn’t bothered to inform anyone at Highgate. For nearly an hour, Powell had hung round the place waiting to talk to the girl. Now he was being spoken to as if he was some bloody tradesman at the door. The only surprise was she hadn’t ordered them round the back. Mind, it was a classy pad. Moseley was full of them, more precisely Ludgate Hill was. Kemp’s castle, so to speak, was a double-fronted, three-storeyed Edwardian spread.

She led the way up a curving carved staircase as Powell checked out marble floors and big mirrors, Regency stripes and old paintings. Carol, who he reckoned was nursing a cold, was bringing up the rear. She shouldn’t have much to do. Sitting-in job really, like Martha Kemp. He’d do the talking.

Laura Kenyon, bolstered by pillows, was sitting up in a four-poster bed that was covered in candyfloss. Netting and drapes, actually, but Powell didn’t do soft furnishings. He did know Laura looked like a princess, the fairytale kind. Stick a petit pois under her mattress and she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. She’d had none last night. There were coffee-coloured smudges under double-glazed eyes. She didn’t even try to stifle a yawn.

Given Laura’s fragile state, Powell tried to cover the main points first; mop-up sessions would follow. It appeared Laura was grabbed from behind as she walked home from a friend’s house in Fair View, half a mile from the rape scene off the Alcester Road. The attacker dragged her through a gap in the wire fencing, then down the slope to the abandoned rail line.

“What time was this, Laura?” he asked.

“I kind of lost track, sorry.”

He let it go for the moment, concentrated on physical details of her assailant. He was taller and heavier than her – she was probably a size eight – but she couldn’t estimate by how much. He’d put some sort of bag over her head and tied her hands behind her back. And threatened to kill her if she screamed.

“What about the voice, Laura? Young? Old? Any accent?”

She shook her head. “The mask... Everything was muffled.”

And she’d been so terrified she could barely breathe. He had a knife. And scissors. As with the other victims, he’d further violated Laura by hacking off her pubic hair. For Laura it was almost the worst moment in an ordeal that had lasted... how long? Powell still hadn’t got a fix on the timings. The triple-nine had come in at 5am after she’d dragged herself up to the wire fence and been spotted by a shift-worker. She’d either left her friend’s house way too late to be walking home alone or she’d lain around down there for hours.

“You’re doing really well, Laura.” There was a warm smile in Carol Mansfield’s voice. Powell had forgotten she was there.

He asked Laura if the attacker had said anything before fleeing.

“He warned me not to move. Said he’d cut me. He untied my hands. Ordered me to close my eyes. Removed the bag...”

Powell pounced on what that could mean. “And you saw...?” The prompt came out more like a prod.

The tears that had threatened throughout coursed down her cheeks. “I was scared. My eyes were closed. I was tired... So very, very tired...”

And she fell asleep? Powell found that hard to believe. Unless she’d been on the jolly juice. “Were you...?”

“That’s enough for now.” Martha Kemp’s voice brooked no argument. Hands tucked under her armpits, she’d listened to every word from the foot of the bed. Carol Mansfield thought the woman would be better occupied comforting her daughter. Laura was in bits.

They were at the bedroom door when Mansfield turned. “Just one thing, Laura. Did your attacker take anything? An earring, perhaps?”

“No.” A trembling hand shot to her earlobe. “No. I wasn’t wearing any.”

The answer was quick. Too quick? “You’re sure?” Mansfield asked.

“She’s sure,” Kemp spat. “Look at her. Don’t you think he took enough?”

Mike Powell was behind the wheel. He wanted another look at the crime scene and it was always good to keep the guys on their toes. It was a bit stop-start; traffic was generally slow through Moseley on farmers’-market Saturdays. He glanced at his passenger. Carol Mansfield was dabbing her nose with a tissue. As well as the sniffs, her eyes were streaming. He hoped to God he’d not come down with it as well. Aside from the cold, he reckoned she was well fit. He liked his women with curves. He preferred petite blondes and Mansfield was tall and very dark but at least she wasn’t lippy. Like Morriss.

“What were you going to ask Laura, sir?” There was a blank look on his face. “You didn’t get the question out. Ma Kemp called time.”

Of course. He’d made a mental note to check with the medical man. “Blood tests. Jot it down, would you, love?”

Patronising prick. “Blood tests?”

“Yeah. I was going to ask if she’d been drinking. Could be why she was out of it for so long. And how she ended up in it in the first place.”

“How d’you mean?” As if she didn’t know.

“Girls nowadays, go out of a night, get tanked up. Alcohol lowers the resistance. And a few other things, if you get my drift.”

She was beginning to understand Bev’s deep antipathy for the guy. She bit her tongue.

“I’m not saying they ask for it...” He checked his hair in the driving mirror.

“That’s exactly what you’re saying. And it’s bollocks.” It just came out.

The lack of a comeback suggested he suspected he’d gone too far; he was certainly taken aback. He cast a surreptitious glance: bloody woman was probably on the rag.

The continuing silence was punctuated by the odd sniff. He switched the wipers off, wondering how long ago the downpour had ended. He sighed. The rain would’ve played havoc with the crime scene. It was a quagmire down there and only a slim chance of lifting a decent cast. Fucking lethal as well. At least he had his boots with him this time. He glanced again at Carol, who was looking queasy – probably feeling a touch contrite.

“Meant to mention it before, love.” He was good at people skills. “The earring? Good question. Joined-up thinking.”

The eye-roll was hidden beneath a tissue. “It was Sergeant Morriss’s,” Mansfield offered. “She’s convinced he takes them as trophies.”

“Word in the shell-like, love. Morriss isn’t exactly flavour of the month. I’d keep your distance if I were you. The lads call her...”

Lonely. “I’m fully aware what a handful of wankers call her. And know what? It’s double bollocks. Can you open the window, sir?”

“Sure thing.” Change the subject. “Need some fresh air.”

“Yeah. The car stinks of shit. Did you step in something?”

7

Few crimes are bigger than child kidnap. Child murder is one. While there was the slightest chance of finding Zoë Beck alive, every available body was out there hunting. Blake Way and adjoining streets were teeming with police officers, dog handlers and squad cars. Off-duty uniforms and detectives, who’d offered their services, were swelling the ranks. Volunteers were being briefed and would be employed on non-specialist tasks. Every householder had to be interviewed; every shed, outbuilding, garage and lock-up searched. If Baby Zoë wasn’t found quickly, leave would be cancelled and unlimited overtime up for grabs. It would be taken eagerly. Crimes against kids touched every copper. Those who committed them were scum.

Bev registered the action with a glance as she stepped out of number thirteen. The fresh air was welcome after the suffocating atmosphere inside. And it had stopped raining. Puddles still pooled and pavements glistened but a weak sun appeared, determined to shine.

At six-five, Superintendent Bill Byford was a head above most of his officers and head and shoulders above the press pack. Bev spotted him, standing out against a roiling sea of pushy hacks shoving mics and camera lenses in his face. The notebooks had been shunted to the back.

With half an ear and growing incredulity, she listened to a string of questions that at this stage no one could answer and at any stage no one should ask. It was a close call, but most crass was: how’s the mother feeling? The usually unflappable Byford was riled. She saw it in the tightened jaw and raised palms. The journalists must be fully aware nothing further would be released before the one o’clock news conference. She checked the time: 12.15. Three hours since the baby was reported missing. She closed her eyes, mouthed a silent prayer.

Unless God now answered prayers via a mobile, someone else was trying to get through. She ferreted for her phone in the depths of a seemingly bottomless shoulder bag. The number displayed didn’t ring a bell. She adopted her I’m-a-busy-woman-don’t-bother-me voice.

“Nick Lockwood here.”

“Nick?” Beeb bloke. Boyish fringe. Brown eyes. Beer gut. Not exactly a pleasure but it could be worse. “What can I do for you?”

He laughed. “Don’t sound so suspicious.”

“It’s in the job description, mate.” She listened to the newsman’s take on events at the crime scene in Moseley that morning, realised that the baby snatch had pushed Street Watch on to one of her many mental back burners. Powell’s pratfall was a laugh but she had the nous to know Lockwood was after something in return.

“I’m after a new line, Bev.”

At least he was up front. “I’m not up to speed, mate. I’m on the missing baby. I’ll have a sniff round, get back to you if I come up with anything.” Hacks weren’t her favourite people but she knew the old saying about tents and urine.

“Appreciate it.” She sensed there was more. “Don’t fancy a drink tonight, do you?”

It would be a miracle if she was off before midnight. “Prince of Wales ’bout eight?”

No harm in keeping him sweet. She felt a hand on her shoulder as she stuffed the phone back into her bag.

“Sergeant?” Byford, fresh from the media mauling, wanted the top lines from the Beck interviews. He’d listen carefully to every word, keep his thoughts to himself until she’d finished. That was his way. Like lowering his voice when he was about to erupt. Like making his face a blank screen. Bev often tried copying the technique. Hers was an open book with pop-up illustrations.

After digesting the gist, his neutral knack appeared to have deserted him. The big man’s screen was showing a double feature: frustration and fury. Not surprising. He had two grown-up sons, third grandkid on the way.

When he heard there were no photographs of Zoë, Byford shook his head and sighed. The image of a missing child had immense impact on the emotions of a telly-viewing, newspaper-reading public. Some may already have seen something significant; others might, over the next few hours and days. With thousands of potential witnesses out there, the importance of a visual was impossible to over-estimate. “For Christ’s sake, Bev. A baby’s only got to break wind and its parents shoot a roll of film.”

In Perfect Land maybe, where mummy and daddy live happily ever after. “That’s another thing, guv. We haven’t got a steer on the kid’s dad yet. Natalie won’t say who he is.”

“We’ll see about that.” He stroked an eyebrow. Ominous.

She didn’t fancy Natalie Beck’s chances in a run-in with the big man. Not in his current frame of mind. Given how long the guv had been around, it was odds-on he’d been one of the officers on the Baby Fay abduction in the late eighties. The tiny body – burned and abused – wasn’t discovered for three weeks. The kidnapper never found. As a schoolgirl, Bev had followed the news coverage with equal degrees of horror and fascination. Details were hazy but going by the guv’s grim face, now would not be a good time to ask him to share.

“You the cop been talking to Maxine Beck?”

She swung round, eyes flashing, as a hand tapped her bum. It was attached to one of the best-looking blokes she’d seen in a long time. But it wasn’t aesthetic appeal that saved him from a verbal hammering. It was what he clutched in his other mitt.

Bev took it from him without speaking. The photograph was probably a good likeness; shame the baby’s eyes were closed. Little Zoë was asleep on her back, tiny perfect fingers loosely splayed, wisps of pale blonde hair only just discernible on a head fragile as eggshell. Bev bit her lip. The line about newborns all looking like Winston Churchill was dead wrong.

“Where’s the rest?” she snapped. The pic was lovely but not brilliant for publicity posters and handouts.

The guy shrugged. “Can’t help with that. Sorry.” It was the only photograph around because it was the only one Maxine Beck had given away. Terry Roper – Mr Blue Moon – said he’d driven over with it the minute he heard it was needed. Max had phoned and told him to look out for a woman cop in blue with a chin-length bob and a mouth on her.

“She was right.” Roper winked. “’Bout the blue.”

Bev arched an eyebrow Byford-fashion, didn’t return the cheeky grin. She had him down as Lovejoy meets Jack the lad: an alumnus of easy-charm school. His soft black curls looked just washed and striking slate-grey eyes glinted from a face that could sell skin-care products. He was only five-six but every inch looked as if it visited health clubs. Daily. The leather coat was dark chocolate, the chinos and granddad shirt mocha and milk. Tasty.

“Where were you last night?” Bev didn’t beat around bushes. Not when a baby could be hidden there.

“I was with Max,” he said.

Bev narrowed her eyes. So Max was telling porkies.

“Till half-eleven.”

Had she given Maxine’s lie away in her face? Roper’s was doing a poker. A diamond stud twinkled in his left earlobe.

“And then?”

He’d gassed the car and picked up a balti on the way home. Bev wrote times and names. “We’ll check. Naturally.”

It should have taken the wind out of his overblown sails, but he only nodded. “I’ve probably got receipts in the motor if it’ll get me out of the frame.”

“Watch The Bill, do you?” Bloody cops-on-the-box. Telly addicts knew as much police procedure as some of the uniforms.

“I’m not thick, sergeant. Stands to reason you’ll look at anyone who knows the family. But do it quick. ’Cause some bastard out there’s got the baby. And if I get to him first, he’ll be lucky if he survives.” Roper’s fists were clenched at his side. The tremor was detectable, as were the tears in his eyes.

Easy words. Byford had heard it all before. “We’ll need to talk to you again, Mr Roper.”

“You’ll find me at Max’s. I’m staying here till this thing’s sorted.”

They watched him walk away, then headed for the motor. As Byford got in, he pointed skywards. A stunning double rainbow overarched the ugly sprawl of the Wordsworth estate.

“Know what, guv?” Bev said. “I’d rather find the baby. You can stick the pot of gold.”

8

Bernie Flowers, the head of the police news bureau, had commandeered Highgate’s biggest conference room. The vast space only just coped with the numbers. The media turnout here was almost on a par with that of the officers flooding the Wordsworth estate.

A baby-snatch wasn’t a filler at the bottom of an inside page. Zoë Beck’s tiny face would be splashed across every newspaper and television in the country, posters would soon be going up all over the Midlands and uniform would shortly be swamping the city with thousands of leaflets. Within hours the baby’s image would be imprinted on the national psyche in the same way as that of James Bulger, Holly Wells, Jessica Chapman, Sarah Payne... The list was too long. To Bev’s way of thinking, one child’s name was too many.

She was uncomfortably hot and sweaty under the telly lights and she had to keep screwing her eyes against the glare coming off the table. It was distracting and something was bugging her; she couldn’t pin down the errant niggle. She itched to get back to the action. Under the conference table’s highly polished mahogany her legs jiggled, desperate to get up and go. Sitting on her butt listening to stupid questions was a complete waste of time. Four hours and counting since that empty cot was found.

She glanced right. Though Byford was in the hot seat, Bernie was taking most of the flak. Not that he couldn’t handle it; a passing resemblance to John Major was misleading. Bernie was a grey suit but had one of the brightest brains in the nick, not to mention a technicolor turn of phrase. He’d started in news on Fleet Street and ended up editing a redtop in Docklands. Not a bad background for dealing with the current barrage.

“I’m not dodging the question, mate. I don’t have the answer.” Bernie poured water into a glass, glanced up and gave a tight smile. “Next.” He’d already given them the bare bones of the incident. There was no meat to offer.

The reporters now had a name and timings: when Zoë was last seen, when her absence was discovered. They’d been asked to go big on witness appeals and hot-line numbers for the public to ring. Someone, the cliché goes, must have seen something. Bev reckoned they invariably had and it was usually Elvis galloping round the Bullring on Shergar. Whatever. Experienced officers would vet the calls, ditching the dross and the loony tunes. Other teams were already going through paedo registers and child-porn sites. Still more were checking every crime, cold case or not, anywhere in the country, that bore the slightest resemblance to the taking of Baby Zoë.

None of this satisfied the journos. The pack was after the mother. A harrowing tearful plea for the baby’s safe return was the story at this early stage. Bev knew the guv had thought long and hard but eventually vetoed all requests. Saturation coverage was a given in the first day or so. When it began to flag, he could whisk Natalie from the wings and inject more impetus.

She also knew – because he’d told her – that he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There was another less palatable reason for not putting Natalie Beck out there for public consumption. A surly sixteen-year-old from a grotty estate on the wrong side of town was a hell of a lot less appealing than a picture of her three-week-old baby.

Being denied the star of the show wasn’t the only reason the press were hacked off. The guv had also quashed requests to be interviewed live on lunchtime news bulletins. Byford didn’t give a toss about journalists’ deadlines. Not when he had one of his own. Bev knew the big man would happily do a turn – Christ, he’d cartwheel down New Street in the buff – if and when there was something worth saying. She watched him scribbling furiously into a notebook: ideas, reminders, checks, passing notions. He’d carry the pad around, adding more lines as inspiration struck. It was another Byford habit. Not one to which Bev subscribed.

“You’re already stretched with the rapes. Will you be getting in reinforcements?”

Byford’s pen stopped mid-sentence. Bernie opened his mouth to speak but the guv was already there. “My officers are professionals. They’re dedicated men and women who’re coping brilliantly. If the situation changes I’ll let you know.” His glance covered everyone in the room. “Just don’t hold your breath.”

“Loyalty to the troops. That’s nice.” Mr Supercilious was on his feet this time. Tall, rake-thin, gold-framed glasses and lank hair scraped back in a tiny ponytail. Bev didn’t recognise him. “Do you have teenage daughters, superintendent?” Instantly clear where he was coming from.

“No, I don’t, Mr...?”

“Squires. Colin. Sky News. I’ve been talking to last night’s rape victim. She’s warning girls and older women to stay off the streets.”

“You can’t use it,” Bernie said. “You know the score on anonymity.”

Squires flapped a hand. “She’s waived her rights.”

“Who put her up to that?” Byford snapped.

“Ask the mother. Not me.” The audience was riveted. Squires was enjoying the attention. “Point is, superintendent, are you adding your voice to the victim’s warning? Or are you confident you can guarantee the safety of every woman on the streets of Birmingham – when most of your people are currently searching for a missing baby?”

That was catch 22-and-a-half. While the guv worked on an answer that wouldn’t land him in it, the women’s editor of the Evening News threw in another question.

“Are you aware of the mass street protest?”

This time the guv’s blank look was genuine. So was Bev’s.

Celia Bissell, a tall forty-something redhead, turned a sheet of her spiral-bound notebook. As if she had to. “Yeah, details have just been released. Monday night, a march following the route of the latest attack, then a candlelit vigil. The WAR party’s organising it. They’re expecting thousands. Could turn nasty.”

Nothing to do with Bush or Blair – this was Women Against Rape, formed a few weeks back in response to Operation Street Watch. The news of the demo was a bit of a bombshell. Bev had quite a few contacts among the women but she hadn’t heard a whisper.

“We’ll be there in force,” Byford said, gathering his papers. “The West Midlands Force.”

“I’ve put Mike Powell in charge of Street Watch.” Byford kept his glance straight ahead as he pulled out of the car park at Highgate. Bev’s partially masticated cheese and onion pasty nearly choked her.

“Watch what you’re doing with the crumbs.” He brushed crust from a knee.

It was the closest he’d come to fast food since the IBS was diagnosed earlier in the year. He watched his diet like a hungry hawk and drank copious amounts of peppermint tea. Bev ate on the hoof so often she’d almost forgotten how to use cutlery. She’d grabbed crisps and pasty from the canteen and the latter was still slowing her verbal response. Which was lucky, given what she had in mind.

She reckoned Powell was slipping already and not just in the dog-doo. She couldn’t say anything to the guv because it’d get Carol Mansfield in the shit as well – tales out of school and all that. But Inspector Clouseau had failed to bring up a couple of potentially significant points during the interview with Laura Kenyon.

They were desperate to discover a link between all three girls. Through careful questioning, Bev had elicited that the first victim, Rebecca Fox, had recently had a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. Bev even talked to the guy who put it there. Come to think of it, it might be worth having another word in a day or two. Mental note: call Luke Mangold. Sod Powell.

The DI’s scepticism was partly down to the fact that when questioned, the second victim, Kate Quinn, said she’d never set foot inside a parlour, let alone been tattooed. So Powell hadn’t even bothered raising the subject with Laura.

According to Carol, he’d pooh-poohed the suggestion. After the women had recovered from another fit of the dog-shit giggles, Carol dropped the DI in it further by telling Bev that he’d neglected to ask Laura whether she was a student and, if so, where she studied. Carol had gleaned the information from Laura’s mother on the way out. Martha Kemp mentioned a name that had popped up earlier in the inquiry: Queen’s College in Edgbaston. It was an obvious lead, and one Bev so wanted to pursue.

Byford broke her train of thought. “I’ll still be very much around. But I want you to head up the baby case.”

“But, guv...”

“But nothing. I know you’ve built a rapport with the girls and I know you want to nick the bastard...”

His profile gave nothing away but the silence was telling. “You think the baby’s dead, don’t you?” Bev asked. And a child murder would take priority over Street Watch.

If he gripped the wheel any tighter it’d come off in his hands. When he spoke, the voice was unutterably sad, didn’t even sound like the guv’s. “Babies don’t get snatched from their cots at home, Bev. Think of the big cases over the years. Babies get taken from maternity wards. Women desperate for a baby of their own sneaking into hospitals and stealing someone else’s. Generally speaking, with newborns, it’s all over in a day or two. The baby’s returned safe and well; woman gets counselling, probation, maybe a suspended slap on the wrist.”

“Generally speaking...?” She reckoned there was one case not covered by the norm.

“I only know one instance where a tiny baby was grabbed from her home.”

And she was found dead.

“I’ll get the Baby Fay case files out when we get back,” Bev said.

Byford glanced at her for the first time since they got in the car. “I’ve already put them on your desk.”

“Just fuck off, will you? She ain’t talking.”

Terry Roper was hurling obscenities through the warped door of number thirteen. If he had the sense he was born with, he’d have realised it wasn’t yet another door-stepping journalist after an exclusive with the baby’s mother. Though a bunch of snappers was huddled across the road, zoom lenses poised to shoot.

Bev flicked a glance at the guv. It was an exclusive chat with the baby’s father they were after. And Terry Roper hadn’t got a prayer of getting in the way.

“For Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “It’s the police; open up.” Bev was hoping Byford’s paternal presence might persuade Natalie to open up as well, on the sensitive issue of Zoë’s paternity.

Roper, all abject apology and ingratiating smiles, led them into the tiny sitting room. It stank of vinegar and stale smoke. Mother and daughter were still bonding on the settee. Held by an invisible umbilical cord, they looked as if they hadn’t budged a centimetre since Bev’s first visit, though Natalie’s bare legs now bore corned-beef marbling from the gas fire.

“Cuppa tea?” Roper offered.

The coffee table was littered with enough mugs to open a seconds shop. Noting the colour and consistency of the dregs, Bev declined. She almost succumbed to Roper’s proffered pack of Marlboro. Three months she’d gone without so much as a puff... But when she went to take one the guv’s glare persuaded her it was a bad move.

Social niceties out of the way, Byford got to the point. “I want you to know, Natalie, that we’re doing everything in our power to find Zoë.” He ran through the current police activity while mother and daughter supped tea and swallowed smoke.

Bev crossed her legs and took out a notebook. Jeez, she’d be glad when Oz was around again. The hard chairs weren’t conducive to comfort, which was fine by her; the secondhand oxygen was soporific. She sat back and observed the big man in action. Byford was good at this stuff: open body language, voice pitched right, just enough Brummie accent to make Natalie feel at home. She wasn’t exactly putty in his hands, but he was working on it.

The guv wasn’t Bev’s only focus. She was trying to get her head round the Maxine-Terry Roper thing. His appeal was obvious but Maxine’s charms were all but hidden these days. And not just by a shapeless sludge-coloured shell-suit.

Bev looked closer, tried to imagine the woman in decent gear, hair combed, a touch of make-up. It wasn’t that hard. There was some decent raw material under the rough exterior. Maxine might carry a few extra kilos but so had Monroe. And though currently puffy and pasty, Maxine’s face had the kind of bone structure a lot of women paid through the nose for. It might no longer launch a thousand ships, but it’d have no problem with the odd longboat or two. As for Maxine’s intellect, Terry Roper probably wasn’t with her for cerebral stimulation.

Right now Mr Blue Moon was eagerly perched on an armchair close by the Beck women. He was all rapt attention, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his dimpled chin, switching his gaze to whoever was speaking. Natalie was currently in the spotlight. For the umpteenth time she was saying – in effect – diddlysquat.

“Honest, I’d tell you if I could.”

The guv must be feeling the heat; he was running a finger along his collar line. “Natalie, the lad isn’t in trouble.” It was probably true. “We need to have a word with him, that’s all.”

With any fellow who’d been in spitting distance, let alone shagging.

The girl was picking a crusty scab on her elbow. “I’ve said. I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” A tad impatient now.

“Leave her alone.” Maxine glared. “She’s going through hell.”

Byford hunched forward, palms up and out. “We need your help on this, Natalie.” He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “So does Zoë.”

The silence lasted ten seconds, fifteen... Bev reached twenty-one before it was shattered by Natalie’s ear-splitting scream. Muffled by sobs, her words were still distinguishable, though the precise meaning was unclear. “I can’t tell you because I don’t fucking know!”

How many men had she slept with? Two? Twenty-two?

Bev winced as the teenager tore viciously at the scab; fresh blood oozed from raw skin. Roper grabbed a tissue and gently dabbed the weeping site until Maxine snatched it away, took over the nursing. Bev caught a fleeting exchange of glances between Natalie and Roper, but it wasn’t easy to read.

“Names, then, Natalie.” The guv’s voice was neutral. “We’re going to need names.”

“You’ll be lucky.” Her eyes flashed, defiant now. “I don’t know all the fucking names.”

A moue of distaste flickered across Byford’s features. Bev doubted anyone else had noticed. “Then you’d better start with those you do.” Splinters of ice.

Maxine stubbed a butt into an overworked ashtray. “I’m her mum, Mr Byford, and I’m buggered if I know who’s had his leg over.”

Byford passed a hand over his face. What could he say? Bev retrieved a cold greasy chip from the floor, tossed it in a mug, then jerked sideways to avoid a backlash of tepid tea. Kids were playing ball in the street; excited shouts and laughter mingled with bursts of static from police radios.

The rasp of a match indicated Maxine was on her next nicotine hit. Must be catching. Roper lit a Marlboro, tapped Natalie’s shoulder and handed her the baccy. Bev caught another furtive exchange. Was something dodgy going on there? Had Terry been keeping it in the family, so to speak? Was Maxine’s toy-boy Zoë’s dad? It could explain Natalie’s adamant refusal to come up with a name.

Bev gave it some more thought. Despite Maxine’s slapdash – to say the least – parenting skills, she didn’t doubt Natalie’s deep love for her mum. And vice versa. On the other hand, if it turned out Maxine was doting granny to her own lover’s baby... The familial knock-on didn’t bear thinking about. But its implications were a damn sight more serious. It provided a hell of a motive to get rid of the kid.

SOCOs had taken the house apart and found nothing incriminating. Had they been looking in the wrong place?

Roper broke the silence. “Natalie.” He paused, waiting for her to make eye contact. “No point hiding it any more. I think it’s time you told them the truth.”

The baby was lying on the bed next to the mousy woman. For hours now, she’d been stroking the fine down that feathered the tiny scalp, fascinated by the gentle flicker of a pulse under the translucent skin of the fontanelle. The child was glorious, perfect; the woman thought she could happily gaze forever into those innocent trusting eyes. She could barely drag herself away, but the next bottle wouldn’t prepare itself.

She’d hoped to feed the baby herself, but didn’t have the milk. It was unfortunate but not a tragedy. Still, it would have been wonderful to feel the baby’s cheek on her breast, those gorgeous lips clamped greedily around her nipple, those deep-blue-sea eyes staring adoringly as tiny fingers stroked her flesh. The mousy woman sighed. Surely a bond like that could never be broken?

Gingerly, she eased herself from the bed and gazed down at the tiny wriggling form on the vast mattress. She loved the baby so much it hurt. There was a physical pain in her heart when she thought of all the horrors in the world, the terrible things that could befall the child. Any child. Then she laughed out loud. What rubbish! She’d never allow anything bad to happen to that tiny baby. She’d rather die. Or kill.

The child was sleepy now, white-blue eyelids growing heavy. The mousy woman nuzzled the warm tiny neck, drinking in the precious baby-smell. But if she didn’t prepare the bottle soon, it would be too late. The baby would drop off, dead to the world, then wake starving and fractious. Again.

A shadow of a frown appeared briefly on the mousy woman’s forehead. The baby did seem to cry a lot.

It wasn’t necessary to pass through the nursery to get to the kitchen. The detour and the tapping of the mobile had become a habit, a superstition almost. With the touch of a finger she set it in gentle motion, then stood back smiling as the rainbow swayed and countless sequins glittered in a thin shaft of weak sunlight.

How, she wondered, how could anyone ever harm a single hair on the head of a tiny child?

9

When Terry Roper suggested Natalie tell the truth, it was a close call which of the Beck women was more horrified. Maxine was dumbstruck, slack mouth gaping open, hand clasping her chest. Had she suspected it all along? Had she detected traces of Roper in the baby’s features? Roper’s face revealed nothing now. Unlike Natalie’s. It was wide-eyed, pleading with the man to keep his trap shut.

“Come on, Nats,” he cajoled. “It’ll be better for everyone if you tell them.”

Her bottom lip trembled, panda eyes begging him to stop.

Roper glanced at Bev, shrugged an ‘over to you’.

“Let me take a wild guess,” Bev said to Natalie, acutely aware the teenager was the only person in the room not looking at her. In an ideal world, Bev would’ve run her thoughts past the guv first. But this was Balsall Heath. And she knew what she’d seen.

“Zoë’s dad’s not a million miles away from this room, is he?”

More shifty looks and furtive glances. Bev couldn’t keep up with the optical delusions.

“Enough.” Byford’s patience was paper-thin. “There’s no time to piss about playing games,” he snapped. “What the fuck’s going on?” This from a man who reckoned swearing was the sign of a shit vocabulary.

The Becks and Blue Moon struggled for words. Bev cleared her throat. “The baby’s father? My money’s on him.” She pointed at Roper. “That right, Terry? You the loving dad?”

Raucous laughter from the street broke a stunned silence. No one in the room was amused, especially Natalie. “You stupid fucking bint.” The words dripped vitriol.

Bev shrugged. She didn’t expect a round of applause.

“I ain’t snogged the bloke,” the girl snarled. “Let alone shagged him.”

She didn’t expect that either. Or believe it. “Yeah, right.”

If Natalie had been on her feet, she’d have stamped one. “Tell her, Tel. Tell the silly cow.”

“I’m not the baby’s father, sergeant.” Roper took Natalie’s hand, cradled it in his own. “Natalie barely caught a glimpse of him. She got pregnant after being raped.”

The Cricketers was a pub best avoided. Big on spit, not hot on sawdust. Its regular clientele were local businessmen and traders, which on the Wordsworth meant drug dealers and pimps. The landlord was a fat slap-head whose jukebox blared out pop pap and so-called rock classics. No wonder he had a hearing aid.

“Any more bright ideas?” Byford nursed a bitter lemon; Bev was two-thirds of the way down a large Grouse. They were both near the end of a long day. Just not near enough. This was a pit stop in which to tank up and thrash out a few thoughts. In theory. As it happened, she could barely hear herself think, let alone talk. Probably best. She’d mouthed off enough already.

“Bright ideas?” She raised her voice. “Fresh out.”

“Small mercies.” A fleeting smile took the sting from the quip.

A massive guy with bad skin and butt-length dreads ambled past, trailing ganja fumes. Bev reached out a hand to steady the table, wondering if he’d knocked it deliberately. She caught the drift of a few words muttered in his wake: pigs, off, fuck summed it up. She’d heard it before; couldn’t get exercised. Not when there was so much new stuff swirling round in her head.

It had taken two hours to drag the story from Natalie Beck. Top lines, not small print. According to the girl’s account, the rape happened back in January, about one in the morning. She’d been grabbed from behind and dragged into an alleyway only a couple of streets from home. The rapist had a knife and stank of beer but used a condom. She didn’t think about pregnancy till the foetus was five months. Not for a nanosecond had she considered getting rid of it. Abortion was dead wrong, wasn’t it? Couldn’t have coped without Terry. He’d been a rock. No one else knew she’d been attacked. Especially Maxine. Her mum would have been gutted. What irony: Natalie protecting her mum.

Bev reached for the rest of her pork pie, then changed her mind. The pink bits were too reminiscent of the mottled flesh on Natalie’s skinny legs. Bev’s initial shock-horror-what-a-fucking-mess reaction now included real anger towards the Beck girl. Of course Natalie had suffered a shocking ordeal. But it was infuriating that she hadn’t reported it at the time. Because there was an outside chance that Natalie could’ve been the Street Watch rapist’s first victim.

The teenager’s attack hadn’t featured missing earrings or hacked pubic hair; Natalie had looked blank at both suggestions. But she was a young slim blonde, more or less fitting the victim profile. Maybe back then the Beast hadn’t yet worked out the sick signature he’d leave in the three later attacks. Bev reached for her drink, scowling. Street Watch connection or not, the Beck girl’s silence had let a rapist get away with it.

“Don’t be too hard on her, Bev.”

The glass stopped halfway to her mouth. How did he do that? The guv could run a stall at the end of Brighton pier: mind-reading.

“I know the horses have already bolted,” Byford said. “But she is going to come in.”

Natalie said she’d caught a brief glimpse of the rapist. She’d reluctantly agreed to go through the mug shots at Highgate, a none-too-pretty parade of pervs and known offenders. If that failed, she’d work with the E-fit guys, try to compile a likeness. Bev gave an eloquent snort. Eleven months after the event? Just listen to those stable doors.

“I know how you feel,” the guv said. “Natalie Beck was selfish and irresponsible.” He rubbed a hand over a face etched with exhaustion. “But, my God, she’s paying a high price now.”

Bev agreed with a sigh. Sixty-five uniforms and almost as many plain-clothes officers had trawled every inch of the Wordsworth estate. All but a couple of dozen householders had been interviewed, more than eighty statements taken. Every empty building had been entered and meticulously searched. Joe and Jo Public had put in more than two hundred calls to the hot-line numbers. The most promising were being acted on first. It was a lot of activity – and nada to show. Nothing had been thrown up that led the inquiry an inch further forward. Not a single hair of the baby’s head.

Until now, the disused rail line in Moseley was the only rape scene Bev hadn’t attended. This was her second cruise past in the last twenty minutes. It was approaching midnight, bed was calling but the pull of the place was too great. She left the MG on a single yellow line, grabbed a torch to augment pale moonlight, slipped on wellies and headed for the police tape.

After leaving Byford, she’d nipped back to Highgate, preferring to pore over the latest Street Watch reports than prop up the bar at The Prince with Nick Lockwood. The Beeb man had taken her last-minute cancellation in good spirits, sounding like he’d already imbibed a few anyway. As well as the written reports, she’d studied the visuals. But stills, even video, only went so far. Bev had to feel a crime scene. The smells and touch, the atmosphere, the being there was vital. A good cop had a sixth sense, sometimes more.

Not that she had any right to be here. Powell was in charge of the inquiry. She was on the missing-baby case. Professionally, she’d rarely been so torn. Talk about a rock and a slab of steel. Zoë’s image was constantly in her head. Bev would go the extra mile and then some to get the baby back. But she owed the rape victims as well. She’d forged a bond with the first two girls. They phoned her now and again to find out if there’d been any developments, sometimes staying on the line to chat about films or frocks. Teenage things, normal things.

She didn’t want to let them down, so she’d come up with a working compromise. She just hadn’t told anyone at work. She’d decided to give her all to finding the baby, a hundred per cent. Then pull out more, on her own time, for the big girls: Rebecca Fox, Kate Quinn and Laura Kenyon. Though the guv had taken her off Street Watch, there was nothing to say she couldn’t cast the odd glance down the road.

Carefully she started edging down the embankment to the track. The slope was drier now but she didn’t want to do a Powell. What with the moonlight casting sinister shadows and the gnarled branches and twisted roots, it looked like a location from Lord of the Rings.

She gasped when a rat the size of an Alsatian darted for cover. There’d be colonies of the buggers round here. Imagine poor Laura lying scared and alone in the dark and rain, dehumanised, dumped like rubbish. Bev hadn’t met the girl yet but hell... How do you get over something like that? She shivered, though it wasn’t cold.

Another minute or so and she’d seen enough. She wasn’t here to search. There was no point, not when the SOCO A-team had covered every inch. She turned to head back to the Midget and stopped so suddenly she had to shoot out a hand to keep her balance.

The crime boys hadn’t been here in moonlight. Or torchlight.

It was probably a ring-pull or a shard of glass, but something near the track had definitely glinted in the light. She backed fractionally, slowly moving her head, adjusting her eye-line, trying to reproduce the exact angle at which she’d spotted it. No good. Probably a rat’s eye. One more go. Carefully, she inched forward, shining the torch in the direction of whatever she’d seen. Yes: a definite glitter. Now she had a firmer fix, it was worth a closer look.

Inching and sliding, she homed in on one of the rotting sleepers. Down on her haunches, she spotted it at close quarters, reached a fingernail into the cracked timber and pulled out a tiny earring. It was silver and the diamond looked real. Bev closed her eyes, tried to call up the interview notes she’d read that evening. She was certain Laura Kenyon had told Powell she’d not been wearing earrings. Was the girl lying? And if she’d lost an earring during the attack, what had happened to the other? Was it down here as well? Or had the rapist added it to his trophy collection?

Bev held the earring between thumb and forefinger, twirling it to catch the moon’s silvery light. Deep in thought, she was unaware of a figure in the shadows, barely twenty feet away.

He was taking great pains not to be seen. Not yet. The time would come soon enough.

Gondolas, gondolas, more fucking gondolas. The Monty Python sketch popped into Bev’s head every time she set foot in her new home. Only it wasn’t gondolas, it was packing cases. Six months she’d been here and still hadn’t located the microwave, two library books and a particularly fetching pair of French knickers. She was sick of it: bits of her life crammed into crates and cardboard boxes. Towering stacks of the stuff.

Was it lack of time? Or inclination? The Baldwin Street terrace didn’t feel like home, but if she didn’t do the unpacking and have her things around her it never would. Maybe she needed a housemate. Or a wife. How good would it be to come home to dinner in the oven and slippers by the fire?

She slammed a piece of granary in the toaster and checked the answer-phone. Frankie. Shit. Bev had forgotten to call that morning to put off their fun for another day. Seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Thanks a bunch, sister.” Not a trace of Frankie’s Italian accent. Not good, then. Bev closed her eyes. Her mate, Frankie Perlagio, was closer than a sister. And she’d let her down. Again. It was too late to call now.

Her mum’s voice was next: Emmy. “Can you make lunch tomorrow, love? Roast beef and Worcesters. I’ll even do you a treacle pud.” The pause was deliberate. And the lowered voice. “Sadie misses you, Bev. She’d love to see you.”

Bev clenched her fists. Another stick to beat herself with. Sadie, her gran, was scared of her own shadow since a vicious battering nine months back. An intruder connected to a case Bev was working had broken into the family home. The bastard smacked Sadie round the face before hacking off her lovely long hair. Bev doubted her gran would ever fully recover.

She sighed. The chances of making lunch – even Emmy’s signature Worcester puds – were as good as Bin Laden doing Big Brother. The bread popped up, burned to a crisp. She slung it in the swing bin and headed for bed. Ten minutes later she was sprawled fully dressed on top of the duvet, snoring for Europe.

The Baby Fay case files lay open across the pillow next to her.

It was twenty-two hours since Baby Zoë had last been seen alive.

Bill Byford was gazing at the sprawl of city lights glittering like diamonds and ice in the indigo distance. Sleep was a long way off too. He’d got up, made tea, brought it back to the bedroom. He’d been looking out for twenty minutes, looking back nearly twenty years.

The superintendent didn’t need the case files to remember Baby Fay. He’d been a uniformed sergeant when she’d been snatched in ’88. He and another officer had found the body. Byford had come close to a career change. Only the thought of watching a sick pervert go down for the rest of his life had kept him going. And the loving support of his wife. Margaret had died six years ago. Byford still missed her like a limb.

An anonymous letter had told the police to search a building site over in Chelmsley Wood where the foundations for a new school were being laid. Without the tip-off they’d probably never have found the baby. The tiny body had been stuffed into filthy sacking; covered in concrete dust, she’d resembled a miniature mummy. The pathologist recorded twenty-three broken bones, eleven cigarette burns and indications of sexual abuse. Fay lived in Byford’s head now. Always would.

The baby had been snatched from her cot in the middle of the night from a white, middle-class family in Northfield. Fay was six months old and the parents’ only child. Within a year of burying her, they’d separated. The father took off to America, if Byford remembered right. The mother took an overdose. She died three weeks later without regaining consciousness.

He pressed his head against the window, welcoming the cool on his clammy skin. It took three long weeks to find Fay. After eighteen years, they still hadn’t caught the evil monster who’d killed her.

10

“Brought you a stick of rock.”

Bev looked up from a desk that was in imminent danger of collapse from paper-fatigue. Oz’s smiling face was the last thing she expected to see poking round the incident-room door. She hoped, very much, that the rest of DC Khan was present in the corridor. It was. He strolled in, looking considerably tastier than the proffered stick of sugar and E-numbers. Man in black, today: fitted linen trousers, torso-hugging t-shirt. Lucky t-shirt. It was easy to forget how staggeringly fit Oz was in the flesh: classic bone structure, big brown eyes and first-degree brain. What more could a girl want? A peck on the cheek would be good. No one else was around. Not this early on a Sunday.

Bev had been in since 6am. Apart from a quick no-can-do-lunch call to her mum, the time had been spent going through the Baby Fay case files. Oz was a sight for extremely sore eyes. She was glad she’d made more of a sartorial effort herself this morning. As usual, Bev was woman in blue; her entire working gear was blue, blue and a touch of blue. But the skirt was new, fitted and knee-length. When she was on her feet.

She casually crossed her legs and, just to show willing, tugged at the rock’s sticky wrapping before taking a lick. “Thought you weren’t back till tomorrow?”

“Pining for you, sarge.” So why was he riffling paperwork? “Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, wasting away I was.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wish. A year ago, maybe...

He grabbed a chair, turned it and straddled. “I saw the story on the news about the missing baby. Hands-on-deck job, isn’t it? Thought I’d get up to speed on the reports.”

She bit off a chunk of rock. “How’d the wedding go? Did the bride blush? Did you lose the ring?”

“Did I what?” Oz winced as she crunched and swallowed.

“Best man always loses the ring.” She flashed a grin. “Traditional, that is. Like the groom’s hangover and the mothers bawling their socks off and...”

He was studying her closely. “What’ve you been up to, Bev?”

“Nothing!” How come he could see right through her?

“You’ve got that glint in your eye. And you’re babbling like a brook. In flood.”

Apart from a word in DC Carol Mansfield’s ear, Bev had intended keeping it quiet. But Oz soon had edited chapter and verse of her midnight recce at the crime scene.

“What’s the guv’s take on it?”

“Ah. That’s a long story, Oz.” She walked round the desk, slipped an arm through his. “Come on, I’ll fill you in. Breakfast’s on me.”

“It’s not the only thing, Sergeant Morriss.” His smile was heart-stopping. “Come here.”

Stay mean, keep ’em keen. “Best not, mate.” She went for coy. “The others’ll be in any time.”

He handed her a virgin-white cotton handkerchief. “Wipe your mouth, sarge. It’s covered in pink gunge.”

They nipped to a greasy spoon just round the corner from the nick. Oz was getting the full works: a verbal update from Bev on both inquiries. It was littered with one-liners and caustic comments but as an up-sum it was fast, professional and incisive. She did a mean wheat-from-chaff and it beat written reports into a cocked helmet. Oz was digesting details and ingesting eggs: two, soft-boiled. It was sixteen minutes before the guv’s brief and Bev was ploughing her way through a full English. If an army marched on its stomach, she’d be well ready to join up.

And judging by the WAR posters that had appeared overnight in the streets of south Birmingham, maybe the whole force should consider enlisting. Women Against Rape had plastered almost as many notices as those pasted up by uniform about the missing baby. Every other lamppost carried signs about the mass protest and candlelit vigil. Those that didn’t showed Zoë Beck’s picture and a plea for information from the public.

Oz broke a yolk with a soldier. “If the baby’s not found soon, the guv’ll have to re-organise the squads, won’t he?”

Bev nodded, took a slurp of tea. “I’m already off Street Watch.” Registering his wide-mouthed surprise, she waved a reassuring fork. “I’m cool with it now. He’s made me SIO on the search.” She dabbed at a cluster of beans soaking into her shirt. “Anyway...”

“Hold on. If you’re off the case, what were you doing at the scene last night?”

She thought she’d slipped that in but it snagged on Oz’s radar. No point in diversionary tactics now. She leaned in, lowered her voice. “I needed to see it, Oz. I’m off the case but...I can’t just drop it. I want the bastard behind bars.”

He could barely hear her but was in no doubt how strongly she felt. “We all do, Bev.” He took her hand. “You have to let it go. DI Powell’s...”

“A plonker.” She snatched her hand back.

“...a good officer,” Oz persisted. “Have you told him? About finding the earring?”

She sighed, shook her head. “That’s something else I’m really looking forward to.”

Oz opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. He knew when to leave it. Bev hoped the guv’d leave her and Oz as a team as well. They knew each other’s ways, didn’t always see eye to eye but in a tight corner... Oz had covered her back more times than a duvet. He was the only man in the entire universe who knew it sported a tiny rose tattoo. Though they hadn’t shared the bottom sheet much recently. Not since she’d beaten the shit out of the psycho-killer who’d attacked Sadie. It hadn’t been a pretty sight – and Oz had seen it. Now, apart from on shift, he saw a lot less of Bev.

“There’s a limit to what the guv can do.” Oz was back on safer ground. “He can switch people round, but it’s all a bit Peter and Paul.”

Bev nodded. Oz was spot on. Whatever Byford said to the media in the public domain, privately he’d told Bev that West Mercia police were already on standby, should he have to call in more bodies. It went against the grain, implying an inadequacy, an inability to cope. But two high-profile on-going operations, constant high-alert security status and normal run-of-the-nick crime were enough to stretch any force to its limit. Maybe beyond.

Sunday, 8am, day two of the search and it was standing room only. Huge blow-up photographs of the missing baby dominated the briefing room where more than eighty men and women gathered, many – like Oz – turning up on a day off. About a third had been temporarily re-assigned from Street Watch, which explained Mike Powell’s presence – a sort of two-briefings-with-one-stone scenario.

Bev was seated next to the DI behind a metal desk up at the front. She’d attended hundreds of similar meetings, couldn’t recall an atmosphere remotely like this. It could power the national grid, no problem. Every officer was focused; many were grim-faced. There was no slouching posture, no irreverent asides, no black humour. Most of these people had kids. All were acutely aware that the first twenty-four hours following a crime were important; in the case of a missing child they were crucial. Baby Zoë hadn’t been seen for twenty-nine.

“We’re extending the search parameters.” Byford was on his feet, centre stage, an impatient hand jiggling keys in a trouser pocket. An enlarged street plan of Balsall Heath and surrounding suburbs had been pinned to one of the incident boards. The map was dotted with coloured markers showing the places teams had already covered. The guv waved a pointer over the areas to be added, plus special-interest sites such as wasteland, derelict buildings, allotments and a recreation ground. Sniffer dogs and handlers were already out there; divers would shortly be dragging further stretches of the canal.

“Back here,” Byford said, “we’ll continue phone-bashing and putting in the checks. As of now, Jack’s control room co-ordinator.”

Inspector Jack Hainsworth lifted an arm like a leg of pork. Early forties, thinning ginger hair, he was admired and respected by everyone in the building, not necessarily liked. He was chunky, bull-necked and had the look of a nightclub bouncer wearing uniform for a bet. A Yorkshireman who loathed cricket, he’d read classics at Cambridge and was into campanology. He suffered neither fools nor fuck-ups gladly; in fact, not at all. Hainsworth’s sharp beady eyes would scan every sheet of paper, assess every piece of data; he’d then prioritise and point the inquiry in the right direction. He had a brain like a computer and a mouth like an open sewer. It was currently running through state of play and future activity.

Notes were taken, questions posed. It was donkeys-at-desks stuff, methodical and tedious. Bev wasn’t big on routine plod-work but appreciated that just one call, one follow-up, could give them the breakthrough. And she reckoned it was more likely to come via the backroom players than anyone on the ground.

Widening the hunt, though logical, was an almost certainly futile step. They all knew, even if no one would say, that without a steer locating the baby was virtually impossible. It made a needle in a haystack look like a piece of piss. If Zoë was still alive, she and the abductor could be holed up anywhere. If it was a body they were looking for, the list of places it could be buried or dumped was endless.

Point was, they had to be seen to be doing something; a big police presence was vital. They had to keep Zoë uppermost in the public’s mind. If they were out there in strength, the media would be out there in force. A powerful weapon, if a two-edged sword.

In an apparently motiveless crime, with no forensic evidence and a lack of quality witness reports, the police were almost entirely dependent on the community’s help. Tip-offs leading to arrest were the top end of the informants’ market. More commonly people saw stuff but didn’t realise its significance, others forgot what they’d seen, still more were reluctant to come forward and needed a shove. Emotionally powerful footage could even prompt confessions. A kidnapper’s not likely to pick up the phone but his wife/daughter/mother might cough on his behalf. It had happened before. Look at Michael Sams and Crimewatch. Although, Bev conceded, there was still any number of upstanding citizens who wouldn’t piss on a copper in flames.

She glanced at Mike Powell, reckoned she’d need to be desperate for a wee. Powell’s appraising gaze was directed downwards. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, clipboard in lap, hand tentatively waving in the air, was DC Sumitra Gosh. She’d only been in CID a month and Bev still wasn’t used to seeing her out of uniform. Not that Goshie didn’t look equally stunning in mufti. Every inch of her was elegant, and at nearly six feet tall, that was a lot of elegance. She had a river of blue-black hair and eyes like toasted almonds. There was nothing remotely plain about Ms Gosh. And neither was she just a pretty face.

“What about the baby’s mother, sir?” Gosh asked. “Is she prepared to do an appeal?”

“Good point,” Byford acknowledged. “Time’s not right yet. We’ll almost certainly get round to it.”

“I could mention it to her,” Powell offered, gaze still fixed on the rookie. “I’m arranging for her to come in later to go through mug shots.”

Bev knew the guv’s thinking, could see he was torn.

“Hang fire, Mike,” he said. “Let’s give it twenty-four hours.”

Bev tended to agree. Natalie Beck was a ladette who aspired to chavdom. In the punter-appeal stakes, she was running on empty. Anyway, in one more day, one way or the other, the waiting could be over. She closed her eyes, mouthed a silent prayer.

“Do you want to say a few words, Bev?” the guv asked.

As senior investigating officer, Bev knew she’d have to take the floor. Didn’t make the ordeal any easier. It wasn’t her first case as SIO but it was the biggest. And some of the Highgate hard men would shed few tears if she failed to close it. She rose and took a deep breath, hoping her skirt wasn’t stuck up her bum and her voice would carry to the back.

She assigned actions, answered queries, then: “I’ve not got a lot more to say.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Powell muttered behind her back.

“Crime involving a kid’s a shit job. You don’t need me telling you how to do it. I’ll be around the Wordsworth most of the day and I’m on the end of a phone 24/7. All I ask is keep me informed. I need to know every development, however small, before it happens.” Heads nodded, ties were straightened, fingers combed hair. She sensed they were chomping at the bit. She knew she was. “And that shit job?” She tried to include everyone in her glance. “You’re doing it brilliantly.”

“I second that,” Byford said. “Ignore the rubbish in the media. They’re stirring. It’s what they do best.”

He was referring to that morning’s coverage in the Sunday Post. The banner headline read ‘POLICE IN CRISIS’. Despite the journalistic device of sticking quotation marks around the words, it came across as hard fact, not what it was: predictable prejudice from a rent-a-mouth Midlands MP.

Josephine Kramer was third-hand cant on legs. The media loved her. Christ, she wasn’t even Natalie Beck’s honourable member, nor as far as Bev recalled did she represent any of the rape victims. Informed opinion was a concept Kramer had yet to discover; ‘outraged of Edgbaston’ was more her mindset. The popular sport of cop-bashing was on the rise, and Kramer was in training for an Olympic gold.

Fuck the impact on morale.

“Talking about stirring.” DC Darren New took up the guv’s point. “Anyone hear the radio this morning?” Dazza listening to the wireless? Bet it wasn’t Radio Four.

“Birmingham Sound. They were trailing a Martha Kemp special: WAR on the streets of Birmingham.”

“The protest tomorrow?” Bev asked.

Dazza nodded. “Kramer’s gonna be at the rape scene with the organisers and there’ll be a bunch of studio guests.”

“Like who?”

He ran through the usual pundits and pondlifes. “Kemp promised a special guest as well: a young rape victim. She teased it as ‘the most moving interview I’ve ever conducted, the most moving you’ll ever hear’.”

Laura Kenyon? Would The Mouth use her own daughter to boost ratings and take a pop at the police?

Talk about the stage and Mrs Worthington.

Powell’s limp-wristed round of applause was presumably meant to be ironic. “Nice one, Morriss. Your patronising little pep talk in there?” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the incident room. “Pass me the sick bag.”

The DI was lounging casually against a corridor wall, ankles crossed, condescension incarnate. It hadn’t been her finest hour; neither had it been the shit he was making out. And if it came to that, his troop address hadn’t exactly inspired any martyrs. She laid a concerned hand on his by-now-furrowed brow. “Must say, sir, you do look a bit peaky.” She peered closer. “Maybe you should stay in more.”

Powell’s lips were so tight they looked glued.

She leaned her head to the side, enquired politely, “Perhaps you could give me a few tips before you go?” He hadn’t a clue till she enlightened him. “People skills? Do share.”

Powell sprang forward, invaded her space. “Just one tip, Morriss.” An admonitory finger headed her way but an industrial-strength glare forced it off course. “Don’t stick your nose in.” A pause. “If you have Street Watch input, it’s me you talk to. Savvy?”

How the fuck did he know about last night?

“Carol Mansfield has the makings of a decent copper. I wouldn’t want her picking anything up off you. Back off.”

Bev gave a huge mental sigh of relief. The DI was still in the dark about last night. Though he’d obviously cottoned on to the fact she and Carol had discussed lines of questioning both before and after the Laura Kenyon interview.

“You’re not even on the case, Morriss. You’ll not undermine my authority again.”

An evidence bag rustling against her skin begged to differ. She took it from a shirt pocket, handed it to Powell. He screwed his eyes as he held it to the light.

“It’s an earring,” Bev said. “I found it last night at the Moseley rape scene. Nothing to do with me, of course, but I suggest you speak to Laura Kenyon again.”

She turned at the end of the corridor. Powell was still standing open-mouthed.

“As for undermining your authority.” She gave a mock salute. “I’d have to find it first.”

“Don’t let him wind you up, sarge. It’s not worth it.” Oz was more interested in trying to find a space to slot the motor than Bev’s blow-by-blow account of her latest run-in with Powell. The Wordsworth estate resembled a police car park, with some vehicles straddling pavements and others cluttering grass verges. Officers were everywhere, knocking on doors, stopping passers-by, leaning in talking to motorists. Hearing the questions wasn’t necessary; the blank faces were answer enough.

Bev pointed out a gap further down, then ransacked her bag on the off chance there’d be something edible at the bottom. The spat with Powell had left a nasty taste in her mouth. Dissing him gave her an instant high but did no good in the long run. And right now it was taking the edge off her pleasure over the guv’s ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ policy on the make-up of the squads.

“You’re right, Oz. The DI’s an arsehole.” She located a mental backburner marked arseholes, left Powell simmering. “Want a bit?” Oz looked askance at the half-bar of chocolate she was wielding. It had a coating of fluff and a couple of hairs.

He shook his head as he locked the motor. “You’ve not long had breakfast.”

“Think of it as pudding.”

Their arrival at number thirteen provoked a barrage of clicking lenses and flashing lights from a bank of cameras still camped opposite. If anything, numbers had grown since the day before. Bev spotted at least two TV crews as well as a shed-load of stills men. The opening of the door unleashed a second photographic volley.

Mandy Forsyth’s strained face appeared and Bev and Oz squeezed through a narrow gap in the door; any wider and zooms would be homing in. God knew what they’d pick up chez Beck.

“How’s it going?” Bev asked.

The family liaison officer grimaced. Mandy had been a flo for more than a decade, seen it all. She was Mrs Twin-Set, with a face you wouldn’t glance at in an empty room, but her voice was the warmest Bev had ever heard. She’d watched Mandy in action, reckoned she’d prise a word or two out of a concrete clam.

“Mrs Beck hasn’t moved off the settee. Natalie won’t come out of the baby’s room. They’re not eating, barely talking. Living on tea and cigarettes.”

“Where’s Roper?”

“Nipped to the shop. They’ve run out of fags.”

“You gonna answer that?” Bev could never ignore a ringing phone.

Mandy shrugged. “I’m in no hurry. They’ll ring again.”

“Who will?”

“Whoever’s getting off on it.”

Bev listened incredulously as Mandy explained. A number of malicious calls had been made, accusing the Becks of doing away with the baby. The voice was muffled, maybe deliberately disguised, could be male or female. The sad sack was well informed, knew about the Becks’ dysfunctional past: Maxine’s flight to the sun and Natalie’s subsequent acquaintance with hospital food.

“How come this is news to me?” Bev asked.

Mandy frowned. “I called it in first thing.”

There was no point having a go at Mandy. “Check it out, Oz. If they’re not already organising a trace and 24/7 protection, put the wheels in motion.” She turned back to Mandy. “What’s the gist?” As if she couldn’t guess.

“Nasty. Mean. Spiteful. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down.”

And both women were as low as it gets. Maxine Beck was slumped in front of the gas fire. There was no reaction when Bev looked in briefly.

Oz was in the hallway still trying to sort crossed wires. Bev asked him to sit in with Maxine when he’d finished. “I want to know if the other pics have turned up. I’ll be upstairs with the girl.”

Natalie was sitting on the floor at the side of the empty cot, staring into space. The sight was so unexpected, so shocking, that Bev clung to the doorframe to steady herself, taking a deep calming breath.

The girl was cradling a baby in her arms.

“Shush.” Natalie put a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake her.”

The teenager’s rocking motion was calm and measured. She was singing now. It sounded like lines from Angels but the voice was barely audible.

There were tears in Bev’s eyes as she moved slowly across the room. Natalie was clearly on a knife-edge. Bev brushed at the dampness on her cheeks before kneeling. Natalie was still now, silently weeping. Bev took her into a tender embrace, then gently removed the doll from her arms.

11

Helen Carver dabbed a starched linen napkin at the stray croissant crumbs caught in her expertly applied Subtle Plum lip-gloss. Flecks of pastry fell on to Zoë Beck’s face, which covered most of the Mail on Sunday front page. “I see that baby’s still missing, darling.”

Her husband didn’t respond. She glanced across. “Is there a problem?”

David Carver was still standing, cradling the phone, a pensive expression on his brooding features. He appeared to be gazing at the waterscape through the window of their apartment, but if the pope had sailed past on a narrow boat Carver wouldn’t have noticed. Neither was he listening. “Mmmm?”

“The call?” Helen sipped espresso. “Anything wrong?” It was probably the college, she thought, or a pushy parent wanting extra tuition for little Johnnie or Joanna.

Carver pushed a hand through thick black hair that was a shade too dark and a tad too long for a man clinging to middle age by short fingernails. “No. Just the police.”

Helen’s hand jerked, sloshing coffee over the side of the porcelain cup. “Damn.” She dabbed her napkin at a spreading stain on the white damask. “Cloth’s ruined.”

David either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He resumed his seat at the table and continued reading The Observer.

Her hand was steadier now, if not her voice. “What’s it about this time?”

“Oh, the usual... Blair’s-a-lying-bastard rubbish.”

She exhaled sharply. “Don’t try to be funny. What do the police want?”

“They want to talk to me. They’ll be here in an hour.” He shook the paper: end of subject.

Not for Helen. “About the girl who was...?” She hated the very word. It contaminated her carefully created world where the garden was full of prize-winning roses, babies didn’t get snatched from their cots and teenage girls could walk the streets unharmed.

“A different one. There was another rape on Friday, apparently.” He reached a hand from behind the paper, drew it back clutching toast.

Helen seethed. It was too bad. The police had a job to do, but... She treasured their Sunday breakfasts. On other days David was usually out of the apartment before she was out of the bedroom. Even with the baby, Helen rarely rose early – no need with Veronica fussing around like a mother hen. Grandmother and child were out now, feeding the ducks. Helen’s dream of a peaceful idyll was shattered by the prospect of the police arriving, flat-footed and heavy-handed.

She slung the napkin on the table. “I must say you’re taking it very calmly.”

He lifted his glance from the newspaper. “There’s little point in us both having hysterics.”

“But, David... We’re having people over. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow? I don’t see why they need to interrogate you anyway.”

“Talk, Helen.” He folded the paper precisely, lined it up with the edge of the table. “They want to talk to me. She’s a student of mine. They think I might be able to help.”

“Help how?” She tugged compulsively at a sleeve.

He shrugged. “Like before, I suppose, with the Quinn girl. They spoke to everyone in college who knows Kate. It’ll be the same this time with Laura Kenyon. And quite honestly, Helen, if something I say helps catch the sick bastard who’s violating these poor girls, it’ll be a pleasure.”

“Don’t swear. You know I hate it.” She shook the crumbs off her newspaper, the baby’s face now splotchy with grease. Helen used it to hide behind while she sneaked glances at her husband. She watched as he brushed a floppy fringe from his eyes. It was a habitual gesture, like the way he flicked his tongue across his top lip, hated Stilton and sang Satisfaction in the shower. She knew him intimately. So why, occasionally, did she feel she didn’t know him at all?

She sighed, rose and started clearing the table.

“Helen.” He reached out, stroked her arm. She’d cut it recently, winced as his ring touched the wound. “Don’t get upset. I hardly know the girl. They’re only going to ask a few questions.”

There are only so many ways a question can be asked. DI Mike Powell was no Jeremy Paxman, but even so the DI had already voiced his sixty-four-thousand-dollar poser five times. And rape victim Laura Kenyon had responded in similar vein: no, no way, never, non, nay. She had not, she insisted, worn earrings the night she was attacked. She’d never in her life seen the earring DC Carol Mansfield was holding. As for wearing diamonds? Over her dead body.

They were seated in the drawing room of Martha Kemp’s Moseley home, a sanctuary of sage green and soft vanillas. Its plush surroundings were doing nothing to draw out Laura, who lolled opposite, examining her nails. Watching the pose, the DI slowly tapped his fingers against his thigh. Laura Kenyon appeared less vulnerable than he remembered, and less regal. The little-princess look had been replaced by street Goth. Most of her lower half was encompassed in skin-tight Levis with strategic rips flashing glimpses of flesh. The denims were teamed with a black hoodie; across the chest in lettering like dripping blood was a general invite to ‘Suck My Punk’. The girl dangled an ostensibly casual leg over the arm of her chair.

“See, Miss Kenyon.” Powell traced a finger along his chin. “I have absolutely no idea how else it could have got there.”

She shrugged. “Best get on and find out, then, hadn’t you?” She sipped full-fat Coke; hadn’t offered drinks.

DC Mansfield was note-taking and taking note. Why was the girl so lippy all of a sudden? Was she deliberately trying to piss them off? And why keep checking the time? And the door? Laura had readily invited them in, even though her mother was out. Did Laura now want momma Kemp in on the action?

The crunch of scattering gravel outside the room’s stained-glass windows suggested her minder was home. Behind leaded panes, a gleaming black people-carrier hove into view. Carol watched closely, expecting Laura to relax a little. Whatever emotion flitted across the teenager’s face, it wasn’t relief.

Laura sat up, straight-backed. Her voice was too loud and too high. “I’m tired now. I want you to leave.”

The clack of heels on marble preceded the crash of door on wall. Martha Kemp briefly assessed the tableau, then storm-trooped her way across polished floorboards. Shiny black boots and an ankle-length leather coat underlined the SS effect.

She stamped into Powell’s comfort zone. “How dare you? How dare you come in to my house and talk to my daughter without my permission?”

The DI looked as if he’d been caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Carol Mansfield rallied faster. She rose to take advantage of her five-ten height. “Laura isn’t a child. She’s eighteen. We were invited in. She’s been under no pressure to speak.”

Three reasonable points, calmly delivered. Kemp paused, briefly. “I don’t want you in my home when I’m not here.”

“Why?” Carol asked. “We’re trying to catch the man who raped your daughter. Isn’t that what you want?”

Kemp ran a hand over her face. Of course it was; she just loathed not being number-one controller. She had the grace and sense to cede. “Sorry. Please, sit down.”

Carol resumed her seat next to Powell.

“So, Laura...” he started.

“Mum, I don’t feel too good.” The teenager paused, then pushed the point. “Like I’m about to faint, you know?”

Kemp crossed to Laura, laid a hand on her daughter’s forehead, then turned to Powell. “I’m sorry. She’s burning up. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

The DI was on his feet. “No problem.”

Carol was thinking on hers.

Kemp held the door open and Carol, as she passed, shoved the earring in front of the other woman’s face. “This yours, by any chance?”

Kemp’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful. Where did you find it?”

“Ask your daughter.” Carol glanced back at Laura, who was keeping her head down in more than one way. Her earlier twitchiness hadn’t been due to her mother’s absence. Quite the reverse.

“I don’t understand,” Kemp said.

Carol did – and its implications. “When did you lose it?”

“Them, actually. I lost them both about a month ago. They were insured, of course, but it’s the sentimental value, isn’t it...?”

Carol nodded. Emotional cost in this case was going to be shattering.

“Where did you find it?” Kemp repeated. “Any sign of the other one?”

Carol paused, letting Kemp work it out. Maybe she couldn’t. After an increasingly uneasy few seconds, the detective told her it had been discovered at the railway embankment in Moseley, embedded in a sleeper. Martha Kemp wasn’t stupid. Carol didn’t need to spell it out further.

Kemp glanced back at Laura, curled foetus-like on the sofa, softly crying and visibly shaking. “But that means...”

Carol nodded. Either the rapist was also a jewel thief who’d just happened to nick Martha Kemp’s earrings or Laura had a penchant for diamonds and was lying through her teeth.

Carol didn’t put it quite like that. Neither did she mention immediately that she’d glimpsed a tattoo under Laura’s left buttock. One rip in the jeans had momentarily revealed a tiny black heart.

The wires and wherefores were in place to trace future malicious calls to the Becks, should the obnoxious little shit have further faeces to dump. Patrols would keep an eye on the property but 24/7 surveillance was too costly. Bev’s considered opinion was that the caller was a sad sack rather than a psycho. And family liaison and Terry Roper were both in residence for the foreseeable.

“I reckon it’s covered,” Bev said. “I’m gonna head off.”

Mandy Forsyth was making tea. “Drink before you go?”

“Mandy, after this morning my blood group’s PG. I’ll just pop my head in to say ’bye. Catch you later.”

Mother and daughter Beck were ensconced in the small, cluttered sitting room again, mute and immobile. Bev had noticed it before. When anxious relatives wait for news, their world often shrinks to the same four walls, shattered lives go on hold as if to stave off further damage. Bev lifted a hand in farewell.

“Give us a bell any time, Nat. Day or night. But you’ll be seeing me again. Regular Arnie, me.”

Maxine hadn’t a clue. “You what, love?”

“Arl bee beck.” Natalie’s Schwarzenegger impression was spot on but Maxine was still perplexed. Natalie gave Bev a knowing look. “Don’t worry, mum. Everything’ll be OK.”

The transformation was stunning, given how she had lost it earlier. Two hours Bev had sat with her, held her, talked to her. Two hours desperate to connect, using everything from inconsequential chitchat to life-and-death stuff. Flake by flake, she’d chipped a way through Natalie’s brittle carapace. Tiny step by tiny step, Natalie had come back from empty-eyed zombie to teenager stable as any in her appalling circumstances.

The breakthrough, Bev discovered, was tapping into the daughter’s love for her mother. Bev convinced Natalie that Maxine needed her even more now, that her mum’d never survive the next few days without Natalie’s support. It was touch and go but the need to be needed, combined with the teenager’s caring nature, gradually won whatever battle her mental demons were waging. Bev had no doubt there’d be wobbles ahead, but for now Natalie had a reason to carry on apart from her missing baby. She had to look out for her mother.

Bev was at the front door when Natalie placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks for all that. Appreciate it.”

Bev made eye contact, held it. “I’m here for you, Natalie. I’ll help anyway I can.”

Natalie’s eyes brimmed. “Find Zoë, Bev. That’s all.”

12

Fading light and falling hopes.

Bev called off the search at four that afternoon. It’d be resumed first thing but as of now it was thirty-nine hours since Zoë Beck was last seen. The search paraphernalia had been packed away, the personnel headed for home or back to base. Bev was taking a final solitary pass round the Wordsworth before hitting Highgate and a stack of paperwork. The estate was like a ghost town after the day’s frenetic activity. A feral cat rooted in an upturned bin. A mangy dog defecated in the gutter. An elderly dosser was kipping on a bench under a cardboard duvet.

The old codger was missing the fireworks. They’d actually been going off all day. Now that it was dark, at least the kids could see their pocket money going up in smoke. Multi-coloured showers and starbursts flashed intermittently against a swathe of sable velvet. Bev scowled. It’d been the same for weeks. It was November 15^th, not the fifth, but bonfire night these days went through to Christmas and New Year.

Christmas. And what of Baby Zoë?

It was a train of thought Bev refused to board. She slipped Aretha Franklin into the CD player and took a left. All the houses in Blake Way looked the same: dingy little boxes, so normal, so ordinary. Number thirteen should be weeping and wailing and wiping its windows. God, she wished she had better news for the Becks.

The search teams had covered the area like nappy rash and not come up with so much as a sniff of the kid. She smiled wryly, recalling some of the items they had found stashed around the place: pirate DVDs, counterfeit designer labels, a warehouse full of hot white goods. Fact was, an unofficial amnesty was operating along the lines of ‘you scratch my back’... If a local villain came up with a tip-off, they wouldn’t nick him for giving Curry’s a run for its money.

Meanwhile, every cop with a snout had put feelers out. A few informants had come forward anyway. Not with decent dope but promises to keep their eyes peeled. Crimes against kids were the most despicable in the book. Normal rules of engagement didn’t apply.

“OK,” she told herself. “Once more around the block, dear friend, then hit the nearest chippy.” Food. Fuck. Frankie. The thought association stemmed from the fact that Frankie’s dad, Giovanni, ran an Italian restaurant. Bev still hadn’t phoned Frankie to apologise for failing to show yesterday. She made a mental note: ring Interflora. And grovel.

Then joined Aretha Franklin, who was saying a little prayer.

“You look like you need this more than me, Bev.” Vince Hanlon was on the front desk. Highgate’s longest-serving sergeant drank more tea than Tony Benn, and he’d just brewed. Big Vince raised a Charles and Camilla wedding mug in one hand and half a Wagon Wheel in the other. “You’re a star, Vincie. Anyone ever told you that?” Vince parked brawny forearms across an impressive paunch and looked set to launch into the latest gossip. She loved the man but he could talk the hind legs off a donkey sanctuary.

Scooping up both offerings, she blew him a kiss and hit the stairs. A call in the car from Carol Mansfield had put a spring or two in Bev’s step. Not only did Laura Kenyon have a tattoo, but she’d blatantly lied when she first said she hadn’t been wearing earrings during the attack. Not surprising, given she’d nicked the studs from her mother. Laura had eventually admitted ‘borrowing’ other items of jewellery from Kemp over a period of some months, mostly selling them to eke out her allowance, but she’d taken a shine to the diamond studs. She’d lied because her mother scared the shit out of her.

The file Bev needed to check was in the Street Watch incident room. If Laura had lied about an earring, it raised several questions about mothers and daughters, especially their lines of communication. It was just possible, for similar reasons, that Kate Quinn had been less than frank on the tattoo front.

Carol had informed DI Powell about Laura’s tattoo, but Bev knew he hadn’t yet instigated any action. Question now was whether she should follow the lead herself? She jotted down a couple of numbers but a decision was deferred in favour of answering a phone. “Bev Morriss.”

“What are you doing there?” The guv, who’d sounded happier.

“Answering the phone.” Whoops, wrong reply. The quality of silence at the other end was severely strained. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to be flip. I’m the only one around at the mo.”

“I want DI Powell.”

Someone had to. “Can’t help you, guv. He’s not here.”

“Have you seen the TV news?”

Yeah, in between painting my toenails and licking Haagen Dazs from Johnny Depp’s every orifice. “Nope.”

“I’ve just watched footage of Natalie Beck in the back of a police motor being driven into Highgate.”

“What?” Unbelievable. It had to be connected with the Beck girl’s rape. Powell must have got her in to go through albums of known offenders. It was a bit hot off the mark, considering what the poor kid was going through.

“Precisely,” Byford said. “I told him to hang fire.”

Casting her mind back, Bev caught a loophole in the guv’s argument. As she recalled his conversation with the DI, Byford had been referring to a different issue entirely – that of putting Natalie Beck in front of the TV cameras. “You were talking tearful appeal, guv, not mug shots.”

There was an audible groan from the guv’s end. Either way, Bev couldn’t see how Natalie’s premature public appearance could jeopardise the baby inquiry. Given the complete lack of progress, the young mother’s time in the wings had been coming to an end anyway. An emotional plea from Natalie via the nation’s media was the next logical step.

“May as well fix an appeal, then?” Bev asked.

“Tomorrow morning. 11.30.”

She snatched the receiver from her still ringing ear. And a good night to you too, guv.

It wasn’t a good night. Bev was pissed off returning to an empty house and an empty bed. Oz hadn’t even left a message on the answer-phone. Come to that, no one had. It was little wonder she couldn’t sleep. Her stomach churned and her head was spinning with a zillion thoughts, fears, hopes and ideas. The missing baby was foremost but the Street Watch girls were going round in there as well. The tattoo question still bugged her. Powell had done sod all so far. Surely it couldn’t hurt if she put in a few quick calls, had another little chat with Tattoo Man, Luke Mangold? She’d scanned the rape latest before leaving Highgate. The team had been out all day interviewing. It was routine stuff: no new leads or fresh lines. One name rang a bell with Bev: David Carver, the English lecturer at Queen’s. She’d interviewed him herself after Kate Quinn’s attack. He’d seemed straight, apart from fancying himself rotten. She smiled, recalling his nickname with the students: Heathcliff. Not that his missus bore the slightest resemblance to Cathy. Helen Carver was so determinedly upbeat she made Pollyanna look like a manic-depressive. Powell’s interview notes were a bit sparse; maybe she’d have another word with Carol Mansfield.

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.

13

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.”

“The girl’s in shock.” He rubbed a hand over non-designer stubble. “She ain’t making a lot of sense anyway.”

“How bad...”

“She’s had plenty of oxygen. I reckon she’ll be OK. Physically.”

Bev cleared her throat. “And the mother?”

The paramedic turned his mouth down. “She swallowed a hell of a lot of smoke. They’re getting a bed ready at the General. ICU.”

Bev closed her eyes. Intensive care.

The paramedic was already closing the doors. As Bev opened her eyes she caught a glimpse of Maxine flat out on a stretcher and Natalie kneeling, her head burrowed into her mother’s side. Maxine looked like death. Not even warmed.

14

“Fucking hell.” The rude awakening was down to an alarm still set for a 5am start. A fruitless hour hanging around the General Hospital meant Bev had slept all of ninety minutes. She reset the call time, turned over, tossed a bit. And crawled out. Sod it. She’d have an early night. After a shampoo and shower involving myriad fruits and essences, she reckoned she still reeked of smoke. How did Mrs Fire Officer Preston cope? A sado-erotic vision of the pyro-pair coupling underwater in rubber gear and masks flashed before her bloodshot eyes. Sleep deprivation’ll do that. She hoped.

Bev settled on a Cambridge-blue trouser suit and her old DMs. Her favourite pair was curling on the radiator in the hall. She refused to look at the crates and boxes. Christ, the place was more of a tip than usual. After last night’s action, she was starving, headed for the kitchen in search of a horse. It was equine-free. Best hit the canteen.

En route to Highgate, traffic was light and stars still glistened in a navy sky. She ran a mental check of calls and actions. The guv was taking the brief on the missing baby, which left her free to track loose threads from the fire. Locating Terry Roper was high on the agenda. Had Mr Blue Moon done a moonlight flit? As for the five emergency calls, she’d already requested recordings and transcripts. It was enough to keep her going but if she could fit in a quick meet with Tattoo Man she’d definitely go for it. The morning’s priority, however, was Natalie Beck.

After breakfast.

Forty minutes and a canteen fry-up later, Bev was contemplating a third coffee when DI Mike Powell pulled up a chair.

“God, you look rough, Morriss. Late night?”

“You old charmer, you.” She flashed a bright smile.

“Very droll.” He picked at a bowl of mouse-droppings that might’ve been muesli.

She cast a covert glance or two, not able to read his expression but sure there was a hidden agenda. The canteen was deserted. Why choose her table? Of all the breakfast bars in all the world...

Her spiky relationship with The Blond had been going on so long, she barely recalled how it started. His promotion to DI over her, four years ago, no longer miffed. Much. They’d both gone for the post but Powell was a yes-man and the force already had its token little lady. Whatever. He was often out of his depth and Bev was sick of throwing life-belts. He saw her as a threat. If she went platinum, had a boob job and zipped her lip they’d get on dandy. Like that was going to happen.

Bev sucked a biro, blew imaginary smoke. She glanced at Powell again. She didn’t want an escalation. It was unpleasant as well as unprofessional. And in a way she felt sorry for him. Rumour had it his wife left him for a toy girl. He lived alone and, given his solitary nature, was probably a right Billy No-Mates. She’d make an effort. Proffer, if not the branch, a couple of olives.

“What’s new?” She balked at adding ‘sir’. He’d stopped insisting.

“That you don’t know?” A derisory snort, maybe a sniff. “Been sticking your nose in again, haven’t you, Morriss?”

Stuff the olives.

“If you’re gonna go through my files,” he mumbled through a mouthful of oats, “for God’s sake don’t leave footprints.”

“Sorry?” And that third coffee was right out the window.

“You left Vince’s mug.” Charles and Camilla, what a giveaway. “And chuck your sweet wrappers away next time.”

“Right.” The wayward Wagon Wheel. “Nothing new, then.” She watched, waited, keen to hear his take on Laura Kenyon’s tattoo.

“You putting in a guest appearance at the WAR thing tonight?”

Either the tattoo lead had slipped his mind or he didn’t rate it. Far as she was concerned, that gave her carte blanche to have a sniff. As for the Women Against Rape march, she’d barely given it a thought.

“Not my baby, is it?” she said. “Street Watch territory.” Bland delivery. Blank look. Total bollocks. She was getting good at this.

“Screaming harpies banging on about men? All blokes are rapists? Right up your street, that.”

The genesis of her anti-Powell attitude was coming back to her now. She loathed him because he was an arsehole.

“Practising again?” she asked.

He was picking foreign objects from his teeth with a fingernail. “What?”

“Charm school.”

He smirked. Probably thought she meant it. “How’s lover boy?” The DI’s tone was so casual, it had to be carefully calculated.

Bev stiffened. Oz Khan was off-limits. She definitely wouldn’t rise; well, maybe, an eyebrow.

“I didn’t realise Genghis was into polygamy?” Powell’s idea of a cutting remark.

Thank God Lil had cleared the table. And taken the cutlery.

“Just bumped into him and Goshie in the car park. Like this they were.” The DI held two fingers in front of her face before slowly twisting them together.

Stirring. Had to be. She sat on her hands, mentally chose a larger spoon than Powell’s. “Seen the guv this morning?”

He sniffed, shook his head.

“Figures.” She smiled sweetly. “Be walking with a limp else.”

“Fuck you on about?”

“Wants you to explain why Natalie Beck was all over the news. Shots of the house, cops driving her away.”

“So?” His indifference was probably feigned.

She added a pinch of spin to the pot. “Some mad fucker thought we were taking her in for questioning.”

“Your point being?”

“The house was firebombed last night. ‘Burn in hell baby killers’ sprayed on the wall.” She popped her phone into her bag and rose, looking down at him. “I was there most of the night. It’s why I look so rough.” She gave his stricken features an ostentatious once-over. “What’s your excuse?”

The tape and transcripts were on Bev’s desk. The same person had made all five emergency calls. A man’s voice, young-ish, accent-less. It didn’t ring a bell. The content was short and simple: fire at a house in Blake Way, four people trapped. She’d already despatched door-to-door teams.

“The Becks’ll have to hear it.” Byford nodded at the player.

“Could be a problem there. Maxine’s still unconscious. And Natalie’s not talking to me.”

The silence in the office underlined the dilemma.

“What a mess, Bev.” The guv slouched on a wall, stared at the floor. The posture said it all.

It wasn’t personal. She knew that. Byford spoke more in sorrow than in censure. He’d just taken an early brief without a single development in the hunt for the missing baby. The squads weren’t losing interest, just hope. The operation was forty-eight hours old. After today, they’d be going over the same ground again. The trail wasn’t just cold, it was invisible.

“Why take a baby from her cot?” she asked. “That’s the big one, guv. What’s the motive?”

They’d already hashed and re-hashed the point. Hadn’t come up with an answer.

“What?” Byford had detected a glint in those bloodshot-blues.

She was trying a different approach. She rose, started pacing, hands gesturing. “Why take that particular baby?”

“Go on.”

“We’re talking Becks, not Beckhams.”

Byford pulled his feet out of the way. “We’ve ruled out kidnapping.”

“Exactly. So if not a ransom, what are they after?”

“Not with you.”

She wasn’t there yet, still feeling her way. “Suppose Zoë’s value’s not in cash? Suppose she’s special in some other way?”

“Like...?”

She halted in front of him. “How about medical?”

“Rare blood group? Bone marrow?”

She spread her hands. “I don’t know yet, guv. Something like that. It makes sense. Got to be worth a check.”

Nothing else had panned out. “Careful how you tread, Bev. Anything along the lines you’re thinking implies inside knowledge, collusion from a doctor, nurse, staff at the hospital where Natalie gave birth, ante-natal clinic, even the girl’s GP.”

“I’ll get Oz on it. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

Byford nodded, headed for the door. “You’ll give me a bell from the General?”

“Soon as.”

The guv was hoping she could persuade Natalie to appear before the cameras that afternoon. He’d rescheduled the media appeal for four. Bev wasn’t convinced the girl would see her, let alone talk to her.

15

The last person Bev expected to run into at the hospital was Mr Blue Moon, sprawled on a plastic bench in a shabby waiting area off intensive care. The laid-back Terry Roper looked as if he’d taken excellent care of himself. His soft leather jacket smelt expensive and competed with tangy aftershave she knew was pricey. Oz wore it. Both odours held their own against the smorgasbord of medicinal aromas that invariably made Bev want to throw up.

“Well, well, well. The wanderer returns.” Amiable smile.

He flashed one back. “Hi, sarge.” HELLO! magazine was obviously more interesting.

She dreaded to think what Roper’s attitude was doing to her blood pressure. She moved in on him; unless they exchanged body fluids, she’d not get any closer. “It’s sergeant to you. And where the hell have you been?”

He glanced up, a slight frown marring the fine features. “Here. Since the early hours.”

“Not that early. I didn’t leave till gone four.” Pushing it a bit.

“I got here soon as I could.” He licked an index finger, turned the page. Bev had never understood Kate Moss’s appeal. She grabbed the magazine and Roper’s full, if belated, attention.

“Not soon enough.” The blue eyes blazed. “You were supposed to be looking out for Maxine and Natalie. Where were you when they needed you?” She knew it was a pot-kettle-black call but she’d already given herself a hard time. It was Roper’s turn.

“Get over it. Nobody’s dead.” She’d kill Roper if he didn’t stop checking his reflection in the glass opposite. “Maxine’s off the ventilator. Natalie can leave any time.”

“Thanks, doc. But you haven’t answered the question.”

Neither had he forgotten it. He shrugged indifference. “Max and me had a row. She was doing my head in. I needed to chill, went back to my pad.”

“What time?”

He twisted his mouth. “Must’ve left about midnight, half-twelve.”

“And you went straight home?”

“Yeah. Then I felt guilty. I mean, it’s not Max’s fault, is it? I slipped back about five. Had a word with your people and came down here.”

“Liar.” A squad car had checked Roper’s place in Selly Oak. Several times. “You didn’t go anywhere near home.”

He held his palms out. “True as I’m sitting here.”

“That’s it.” She turned her back. “I’m taking you in.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.” She put the mobile to her ear. Not that it was switched on.

“OK, OK.” Roper raised a placatory palm as he watched her lower the phone. “Look, sergeant. I was hoping this wouldn’t have to come out...”

She wasn’t prompting. The lines were predictable.

“I was...” He cleared his throat. “With a woman.”

Bev’s lips couldn’t get any tighter.

“I don’t want Maxine to know.” Pinching the bridge of his nose was so over the top. “I’d like to spare her that.”

“Spare me an’ all,” Bev muttered. “Name. Address. Give. Now.”

She wrote down details, then hit buttons on the phone.

“What are you doing?” It was almost a shriek.

“Organising wheels. Your lift to the nick.”

“But Maxine needs me,” he pleaded. “And Natalie. Why do I have to go to a police station?”

“So you can help our enquiries.”

“Into what?” He looked even more attractive when he wasn’t putting on an act.

“Zoë’s disappearance. Arson. Wasting police time. Where shall I stop?”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

Far as she knew, he was right. They didn’t have a scrap of evidence against him. Being a cocky toe-rag and ham actor weren’t crimes, last time she looked. “Firemen repeatedly risked their lives for you last night, Roper. They entered a blazing building looking for the sodding invisible man.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” They were probably the first words he hadn’t rehearsed. “But it doesn’t make me a criminal.”

“I want the clothes you were wearing last night.”

The shock was definitely genuine. “You can take my entire wardrobe if it’ll get you off my back.”

“And I want a search of your place.”

“Anything. I swear I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I caught you out in one lie, Roper.” She practised hard stares in her bathroom. She was fixing him with the concrete-piercing one.

“I was only protecting Maxine.”

“Your arse is what you were protecting.”

“You’re wrong, sergeant. I’d do anything to help Max, Nats. Anything at all.”

Eureka. Music to her ears. “When you say anything...?”

The checks would be run, including criminal background, but she didn’t really think Roper’s hands were dirty. She did suspect pretty boy could wrap Natalie round his little finger. And get her to talk.

“I’d rather eat shit.”

“That a no?” The question was superfluous. Not a pore on Natalie Beck’s face was open to appeal. Bev had been giving it her best shot for the better part of thirty minutes. Natalie, stringy arms tight across her chest, legs clamped round the legs of a chair at her mother’s bedside, hissed through clenched teeth, “Look at her! Look what those bastards have done.”

Maxine Beck looked like a stiff. Heavy sedation and grey skin reinforced the deathly aspect. She was off the ventilator but by no means off the sick list.

Natalie was scared; scared to death she’d lose her mother. As well as her baby. Bev reached out a hand. The girl recoiled.

“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?”

16

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.

She grabbed her jacket and bag, mouth watering at the prospect of an Indian. She’d pick up a takeaway, then nip into Threshers for a cheeky little number from the chill cabinet. With a following wind, she’d still be in bed by ten.

And then the phone rang.

“If you ask me, there’s more to that story than meets the eye.” Helen Carver was multi-tasking: applying a fresh coat of lipstick and watching the ten o’clock news. She paused, jabbed the tube at the TV. “The girl’s revelling in the attention, look at her.” David Carver, who was marking course-work, glanced at the screen: Natalie Beck flanked by police officers against a huge blow-up photograph of her baby.

Carver shrugged disinterest and returned to another startlingly original take on Jane Austen.

“Well?” There were times Helen sounded more like the lecturer. “What do you think?”

Had Helen not been finishing the paint job, she’d have seen his fingers tighten round the pen. “Seems genuine enough to me. Poor girl’s probably in shock.”

“Poor girl?” Helen sneered. “Poor baby, more like.” In Helen’s opinion sluts like Natalie Beck shouldn’t have children. She frowned, eyes creased. The shot now showed Bev shepherding the teenage mother out of the conference room. “Isn’t she one of the officers who talked to you after your student was...” She couldn’t bring herself to use the word.

“Raped?” Carver said. “Yes, it is. Her name’s Morriss. Sergeant, I think.”

Helen mentally filed that but hadn’t finished with the baby yet. “Do you think the baby’s dead?”

Carver sighed, resigned to a discussion he didn’t want. “I think it’s strange she’s not been seen. My understanding is if a new baby turns up somewhere out of the blue, a neighbour or someone tips off the police.”

Helen adopted a pensive pose. “Maybe the kidnapper’s not some deranged woman. Maybe it’s more sinister than that.” She glanced round as her mother-in-law walked in cradling Jessica. The baby smelt divine after her bath. Helen barely paused the conversation. “So what do you think is really going on?”

Carver strolled to the sideboard, poured a scotch, held the bottle aloft. “Drink, mother?”

Subject closed, then. Helen scowled, tugged angrily at the long sleeves of her cashmere sweater before reaching to take Jessica. The old woman turned and smiled at her son, then settled into the recliner opposite her daughter-in-law. “Just a small one, Davy.”

The nightly exchange had become a ritual. Not one in which Helen participated. Or approved.

She had little time for David’s widowed mother. It was pathetic, the way she doted on him. He’d suggested Veronica move in with them and initially Helen had welcomed the arrangement. Domestic challenges held no appeal, and she’d come to regard Veronica as little more than unpaid housekeeper. Given the old woman’s tight bun and strait-laced wardrobe, it wasn’t surprising. But though Veronica had never uttered a word against her daughter-in-law, Helen sensed her disapproval.

Irritated, she half-listened as mother and son chatted cosily. Their family history was a subject Helen neither shared nor cared about. She snatched at the remote control and increased the volume. The baby coverage on the regional news was virtually the same but showing now was an item on the street protest that night in Moseley: Women Against Rape. Which reminded her...

“Is that business over yet, David?”

Heavy dark eyebrows knotted as Carver wondered what Helen was getting at. He followed her gaze, caught a line of women wielding placards.

“The police haven’t caught anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean are you likely to be questioned again?” The tone was peremptory.

“I don’t see your problem, Helen.”

Uneasily she looked down as the baby shifted slightly in her sleep; mauve eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Helen lowered her voice. “Unless you’ve done something wrong, it’s police harassment.”

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It sounded like an accusation. An apology was probably in order but before she’d framed it, he was almost at the door.

“Where...”

“Out.”

The slam startled Jessica who started bawling. Helen glared. Veronica rose, loomed over her daughter-in-law.

“I’ll take the baby, shall I, dear?”

17

Bev’s sides ached. So did the middle bit, currently awash with mussels, lasagne and tiramisu in a chianti suspension. Frankie Perlagio was laughing gas on tap. Given that her poppa ran an Italian restaurant, eating at Little Italy in Moseley was a bit chips-to-Silicon-Valley, but it was Frankie’s call. When she’d phoned, Bev had almost turned her down, was so glad now she’d said yes. Though it took a while to recognise the feeling, she was almost laid back.

She’d met Frankie on their first day at primary school and, as a mate, she was better than a pack of Prozac. She was a semi-pro session singer and had she been offered as many recording contracts as she’d turned down modelling deals, she’d be filling the Albert Hall by now. Think Nina Simone with a killer accent and tumbling raven locks.

Frankie had only phoned to say thanks for the flowers: Bev’s Interflora grovelfest. Frankie’s emotional radar being sharper than NASA’s, she’d said, “You sound shit. You’re coming out to play, my friend.”

No had not been an option.

Anyway, Little Italy was in staggering distance of Baldwin Street. Luckily, as Bev was making inroads into a second bottle. Frankie was in full Italian flow with a waiter who bore a passing resemblance to Pacino. Mind, in lighting this subtle Bev could pass for Keira Knightley. She clocked the ambience while Frankie flirted shamelessly. There were chipped busts and flaky statues in every candle-lit alcove and the owner had a thing about water features. Bev had been to the loo three times.

“Are you back on the weed, Beverley?” Frankie’s Roman nose could sniff out cigarette smoke on Bonfire Night.

“Might be.”

“Sucker.”

She took a drag on a breadstick. Frankie rolled her eyes. “Patches, gum, cold turkey. You’ve tried everything. What about Drumsticks?”

“How’s that work? You play Ginger Baker solos till the craving passes?”

Frankie, who’d been rummaging in her bag, pulled out a kid’s lollipop. “This, my friend, is a Drumstick. Mate of mine swears by them. Every time he fancies a ciggie, he sticks one of these in his mouth.”

“So why’ve you got one?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t wish to go there.”

“Pass it over, then. I’ll put it behind my ear for later.”

Pacino hovered, handing them grappas on the house. Frankie’s flirting always paid off; Bev generally had a share of the proceeds. They covered more of the usual ground: blokes, books, the blues (music and Bev’s gear). Then Frankie mentioned the big b-word.

“If you want to talk about the baby, Bev...”

They discussed cases from time to time. Frankie was solid, wouldn’t breathe a letter, let alone a word. Bev held nothing back: the Becks’ chequered history, Natalie’s rape, the arson attack, Roper’s dubious role in the women’s lives, the decision to call off the search. Talking it through, she felt fear for the first time. Fear they’d never find Zoë, or her body. She didn’t share the thought.

Frankie put a hand over Bev’s. “She might still be alive, my friend.”

Bev swallowed, looked away.

“You’ve checked women with a history?”

“One of the first things we did.” Every baby-snatch on file. “Thing is, there’s only one record of a baby being snatched from its home. Maternity wards, sure. Off the street? Def. But...” She shrugged.

“What happened in that case?”

Baby Fay. Burned, abused and buried. The evidence had been checked and triple-checked in the last forty-eight hours. Witnesses had been re-interviewed. They were trying to track down Fay’s father in the States.

“The baby was murdered. We never discovered who took her, or why.”

They finished the grappa in silent sync.

“What happens to the women?” Frankie asked. “Are they jailed?”

Bev shook her head. “Probation. Psychiatric treatment. They rarely harm the babies – damage themselves more, in the long run.”

“How?”

“They’re all over the media. The public hates them. They’re pointed out wherever they go.” So might they change their identity? She made a mental note.

“What you thinking?” Frankie asked.

“Not sure yet. Fancy another drink?”

Pacino brought the bottle. When he’d gone Frankie asked about Natalie.

Bev sighed. “When she’s not at the General with her mum, she’s at Terry Roper’s place. Natalie’s only got the clothes on her back. The blaze destroyed everything. She’ll get a handout from Social Services, and the council will re-house them. Eventually.”

“Poor kid.” Frankie stared into space. “Imagine your baby being snatched... It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

But it does. Bev felt a tingle. She sat up straight, focusing. What about babies who died? At birth? Grief could push people over the edge. She’d assigned a team to run checks on women who’d snatched a baby. Not on women who’d lost a baby. It was conceivable a desperate woman would try to replace the child she’d lost. Bev had no idea what the figures for stillbirths were. And what about miscarriages? And how far back should they go? It could be mega – had to be worth it.

“Frankie.” Her blue eyes shone. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand. “Born genius, that’s me.”

“Nah, mate. Smart-arse.”

So smart, Bev had to explain why. They were nearly back at Baldwin Street before Frankie was on the same page. That could have been down to the grappa.

Half a mile away a more sober scene was being played. The Women Against Rape march was approaching the railway embankment where Laura Kenyon had been attacked. The organisers’ claims that the protest would attract hundreds of followers were not realised. The concept of a midnight vigil perhaps losing its attraction with the reality of freezing your ass off on the streets of Moseley.

Spearheading about sixty placard-carrying participants were The MP and The Mouth. The Tory member, Josephine Kramer, linked arms and joined voices with Martha Kemp. They led a chant that barely rhymed and made little reason.

“Safer streets...cage the beast...safer streets...cage the beast...safer streets... cage the beast...”

“Catchy little number.” DI Powell cast a disparaging look through the side window of an unmarked car. “Wonder how long it took to come up with that.”

DC Carol Mansfield cast a surreptitious glance at her watch.

“Keen to get off, are we?” The smirk was not subtle.

Having been stuck in a confined space with The Blond for over an hour, she’d jump at a Mexican wax. And fears that the demonstration could turn nasty appeared exaggerated. Uniforms accompanying the route weren’t so much peacekeeping as preventing asbo louts taking the piss. Unlike the foot soldiers, Powell and Mansfield were keeping a watching brief from a slow-moving motor.

“It’s hardly the Battle of Little Big Horn,” Carol observed.

Powell’s yawn revealed a couple of fillings. “Nah, all mouth and knicker elastic. Still, you never know. We’ll stick around till they light the candles. Reckon there’ll be a cake?”

The crack didn’t merit comment. The chant continued.

“Safer streets, cage the beast, safer streets...”

“Look at them, Caz. What d’they reckon this’ll achieve? What’s the bloody point?”

Carol tilted her head. “That.” Across the street, a TV reporter was doing a piece to camera with the motley crowd as a moving canvas. “Public awareness,” Carol said. “And it puts the heat on us, doesn’t it?” She pointed a gloved finger. “Look at the placards.”

‘Police crisis? What police crisis?’ The irony was supposed to echo an insensitive comment on the economy by a seventies Labour PM, who was subsequently kicked out by an underwhelmed electorate.

Powell was clearly not impressed. “Yeah. And who’s gonna catch the bastard? It’ll be us, not this bunch of tarts.” He added a mutter.

“What did you say?” She’d caught the odd word: dyke, dungarees, mouthy, bints.

“Nothing.”

The march had arrived at its destination; the women were beginning to gather alongside the wire fencing.

“Safer streets, cage the beast...”

Powell pulled over, parked. “It’s bloody true, though. Comes down to solid police-work and shoe leather. Not shouting your mouth off and getting your mug on the telly.”

“When you doing Crimewatch?” It was a childish but irresistible dig. Powell had been poncing around ever since the call from the programme’s producer. She’d been forced to drop an item at the last moment and wanted Powell on that week’s show. The DI had been hustling for a spot for months. He was like a kid in Toys ’r’ Us.

“Great, isn’t it? Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried.” Powell would have a nationwide audience for an E-fit that Natalie Beck had finally produced. He’d grabbed her that afternoon after her appeal at Highgate.

Carol had seen it and was surprised at the detail. Still, as he was in a comparatively decent mood...

“Laura Kenyon’s tattoo? When are we following it up?”

The smile vanished. “Just ’cause Morriss bangs on about something doesn’t mean it’s kosher.”

“Are you pissed because you don’t rate it as a lead or because of whose lead it is?”

“Are you questioning me?”

Does shit stink? She shrugged.

“Look, Carol. One thing you need to learn in this job is when to let go. I had a sniff at the tattoo line. I don’t think...”

Whatever he thought was lost. Martha Kemp was mouthing off and the megaphone was superfluous. Even with the windows closed, they could hear every word. The gist boiled down to: women should fight for freedom; rapists should get jailed for life. And the crowd went wild.

Powell sniffed. “What’s Kemp doing here, anyway? I thought she was supposed to be talking bollocks in the studio.”

“They decided not to go ahead with that.” Carol shook her head as she recalled the fraught scene at the Kemp house when Laura admitted stealing from her mother. “I guess the star attraction lost its shine. Either Martha dropped the interview or Laura pulled out.”

“Got a new best buddy now.” Powell nodded in Kemp’s direction. She was hugging Josephine Kramer. The MP then gave the gathering the benefit of her take on capital punishment and concluded with a call for the establishment of a national police body along FBI lines. That was new. Yawn.

Powell checked his hair in the mirror. “Not mentioned castration? There’s a surprise.”

Carol perked up as the first candles were lit. Guidelines had been established showing where and how the candles were to be placed. Within minutes flickering flames spelt the letter W.

Powell’s face creased in puzzlement. “Women? War?”

“Could be wanker.” The merest hint of a lip-twitch.

“Are you...?”

“We calling it a night, then?”

He wavered, not sure. Sixty-odd females bursting into the first bars of You’ll Never Walk Alone tipped the balance.

He turned the engine on. “Where d’you want dropping?”

The man in the shadows rather liked his pet name. The Beast of Birmingham had a certain ring to it. He smiled. The women’s chanting had given him a hard-on.

“Cage the beast...cage the beast...”

He’d masturbated along to it. Shame he couldn’t come in their faces. Couldn’t risk being seen, though. Not when he had so much work to do. He’d selected his next prey already. Given the pigs were out in force tonight, he’d half-expected to see her here. Like last time. He reached in a pocket for the silk French knickers he’d taken from her house. The semen was already stiffening. Shame. They didn’t smell of her any more.

“Cage the beast...cage the beast...cage the beast...”

18

Tuesday. Eight am. Highgate. Cappuccino in one hand, a stack of printouts in the other, Bev bummed the office door shut and headed for her desk. A picture of a geek from a boy band was propped on the keyboard. Why? Her frown deepened as realisation sank in. The pretty boy with smouldering looks wasn’t some pop-star wannabe. It was an artist’s impression of the man who raped Natalie Beck. Underneath was an E-fit. Ditto.

A hand-scrawled post-it note fluttered to the floor. It wasn’t signed but Powell’s name was all over it.

Morriss, these are hot off the press via your mate Natalie Beck. They’ll also be on network telly Thursday night. Thought I’d keep you posted – save you poking your nose in again.

Why couldn’t the berk just say Crimewatch? Bev sipped coffee, deep in thought. Cosying up to Fiona Bruce would be the fulfilment of a lifetime’s ambition for Powell. Good for him – if it got them any nearer a collar.

She parked the cup on a beer mat and picked up the visuals again. Something wasn’t right. E-fits were often one-size-fits-all. Christ, some of them were so general they could be your mother. This picture had a fair bit of detail: a mole above the top lip, a tiny white scar on a dark eyebrow, a crucifix dangling from an earlobe. Bev drummed the desk with her fingers. It was impressive, given that Natalie claimed she’d only caught a brief glimpse of the attacker almost a year ago.

Whatever. She had to back off; it wasn’t her case. She laid them to one side, unwrapped a lollipop and got stuck into her own. Phone-bashing the hospitals was a big job. She’d make a start but it would have to be dished out. The thought led to Frankie. The girlie night had been great. All being well, Ms Perlagio was coming round on Saturday to lend a hand getting Baldwin Street straight. She’d taken one look at the place and told Bev to call the cops, she’d been burgled. Bev shook her head and smiled. Mind, not being able to lay her hands on things was getting to be a pain.

On that thought, she rang the General to get the latest on Maxine Beck’s condition. Sounded promising: if the X-rays looked good she’d be moved from IC later that morning.

The letter, marked Personal, was on Byford’s desk when he arrived at Highgate that morning. There was no postmark. Inside, three words typed on a sheet of A4. His hand shook as he read and re-read the contents.

REMEMBER BABY FAY?

Every day. Every night. He’d never forget that tiny burned broken body.

“Everything OK?” An admin assistant breezed in with a handful of post. Rachel habitually dressed in black but her nickname was Ray, as in sunshine.

“When did this arrive?” The voice was sharper than he’d intended.

She glanced at the envelope, her smile wavering. “No idea. Obviously not with this lot.” She dropped the mail in his in-tray. “Sure you’re OK? Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Bacon roll?”

He almost gagged at the thought. “Don’t fuss, woman.” He’d known her ten years, never spoken to her so harshly, nowhere near. It wasn’t her fault she had a walk-on part in his personal nightmare.

The early brief was tense and tetchy. It was the fourth day of the search for the missing baby. They were seventy-two hours down the line, not a step further forward.

Determination was now tinged with depression. To many, it was no longer a question of finding the baby alive, but when they’d find the body.

As Jack Hainsworth ran through overnight reports, Bev glanced at the guv. He’d not opened his mouth; with a jaw so clamped, maybe he couldn’t. When Hainsworth finished, Bev took over. She moved to the front and outlined the calls that needed follow-ups: the less outlandish sightings and dubious steers from a public that seemed desperate to help but didn’t have a lot to offer.

By contrast, a sadistic sleaze-ball had reported finding a baby’s body in a dustbin at the back of a butcher’s in Aston. Squad cars were there within minutes. Officers discovered a doll dumped on top of a load of stinking bones and putrid meat. The sleaze-ball’s IQ barely equalled his hat size. Wasting police time was the charge. He’d be wasting magistrates’ in a couple of hours.

“Sick bastard.” Darren New’s up-sum was universally shared.

“There’s a new line on the arson attack.” Bev hoped for a show of enthusiasm but bodies slouched and faces were mostly down-turned. “As you know, we traced the phone boxes where the calls were made.” Both in Balsall Heath. “A youth was seen – right place, right time – by three separate witnesses.”

“So?” DC Ricky Shephard: young, brash, bordering on bolshie.

Thanks, mate. It wasn’t earth-shattering but it was a development. If they tracked the kid down, it could open a new line of inquiries. She put Shephard on the trail, then assigned the rest of the actions.

A glance at Byford invited him to chip in. A barely perceptible shake of his head declined. She outlined her embryonic theory that the snatch was down to a woman whose baby had died either ante- or shortly after birth. Given the expressions, people were thinking it over. Dazza voiced his.

“Hell of a haystack, isn’t it, sarge?”

“It is and it isn’t.” She’d thought it through a bit more. “Zoë wasn’t snatched at random. Whoever took her didn’t hit the Beck house on the off chance a new-born just happened to be lying around.”

“They had to know Natalie was pregnant. Had to know she’d given birth.”

Bev knew the voice, looked round for the speaker. DC Gosh was at the back. Next to Oz. Bev filed a thought, expounded her idea. “So we’re looking for someone who was maybe in hospital at the same time as Natalie, someone on the same GP list, maybe a woman who attended ante-natal classes. Anyone with that level of contact.”

“I’ll give you a hand, sarge,” Oz said. “I already contacted some of the likely places on the earlier medical line.”

She nodded thanks, then threw the brief open. Discussion was desultory. It was as though everyone knew the ending. And that there’d be tears.

“I’ve no idea. You tell me.” Byford’s head was in his hands. Bev was floundering. She’d been summoned to his office immediately after the briefing. She’d never heard the guv sound so... diminished? Defeated? And why hadn’t he mentioned the anonymous letter to the troops? Was he doing a Morriss? Getting personally involved? She placed the paper on the desk between them.

“Could be anyone, guv. It was a big inquiry at the time.”

“Bull.” He strode to the window, perched on the sill, nearly dislodged the cactus. “Whoever sent it knows something. That letter’s a taunt.” He tucked hands under armpits. “And it’s personal.”

She didn’t read it that way. “It’s hardly Sutcliffe territory, guv.” Coppers’ blood still ran cold at the mocking tapes and letters sent by the hoaxer purporting to be the Yorkshire Ripper. It had taken nearly thirty years to track the sicko down. “It’s just three words. Sounds innocuous enough to me.”

“You weren’t around at the time, sergeant.”

She shrugged. “So what’s behind it?”

“How the devil should I know?”

Least he wasn’t swearing. “What do you want to do about it?”

“What the fuck can I do about it?”

“Start by finding out how it got here.” Highgate wasn’t exactly access all areas. Someone in the building must have dropped it off.

Her sharp tone seemed to galvanise him. Back at his desk, he opened the Baby Fay file. “Then we track down the father.”

Bev frowned. There wasn’t so much as a thin hint at the time that Fay’s father had anything to do with his daughter’s murder. “How does that work?”

Byford shook his head. “Unfinished business, Bev.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’m not sure myself.” He took out a picture: the father holding Fay in his arms. Uncertain smile, curly perm, gold stud. “I never took to the man,” Byford said. “Don’t get me wrong. We couldn’t have checked him out more. His alibi was sound. He seemed mad with grief. But there was something not quite right. Call it a copper’s gut feeling.”

“That the same as a woman’s intuition?”

He didn’t return the half-smile. “And I’ll tell you this, Bev. If that letter isn’t a taunt, it sounds to me very much like a threat.”

“If this is down to you, Morriss, you’ll be on traffic in the morning.” Powell flung the late edition of the Evening News on her desk. “M6. Fast lane. Rush hour.”

Powell’s missile sent paperwork flying. Bev had spent the better part of six hours poring over or writing reports. The DI was making another bad day worse. “Fuck’s sake. What’s your problem?”

He jabbed a finger. “Bottom of page five.”

The story had Matt Snow’s by-line, the paper’s crime correspondent. Bev frowned. She’d leaked the news gem to Nick Lockwood, her man at the Beeb. It had been in the way of a sop for pulling out of their session at The Prince. Had Lockwood then fed it to Snowie? She knew the hacks did a bit of horse-trading from time to time.

“Sod all to do with me, mate.” She’d not said a word to Snow.

“How’d it get out, then?”

“I’m a cop. Try Mystic Meg.” She picked up the fallen papers, turned her back.

“Don’t fuck with me, Morriss.”

“Like that’s gonna happen.”

She hadn’t released it to piss Powell off. She hoped it might rattle the Beast’s cage. According to the papers and the news, the Street Watch cops had lost the plot. The Beast, like everyone else, probably imagined they didn’t have a clue, let alone a lead. Bev reckoned a line about the Beast’s trophy-taking compulsion might at least capture a few airwaves and column inches, if not goad the Beast. The fact the rapist was still out there irked her almost beyond reason.

“You sure you’re not behind this?” Powell’s arms were tight across his chest, his back ramrod-straight. There were times he put her in mind of some anally retentive housemaster in a poncy prep school.

“Read my lips.” She mouthed a fuck-off-arsehole.

“Can’t handle it, can you, Morriss?” He was doing heavy-breather sound effects.

“What’s that?”

“The fact I’ll be the one bringing in him, seeing him sent down.”

“Soon as you like, mate.” She raised the coffee in mock salute. “I’m behind you all the way.”

He glared. “You surely are.”

“Can’t stand chrysanths, make me sneeze.” Maxine Beck sniffed. “Drop of Gordons’d go down a treat.”

The hospital visit was on Bev’s way home. She bit back a line about beggars and choosers. “Not sure how that’d go down with the doctor, Mrs B.” She took the hard chair next to Natalie. Terry Roper sat on the bed, admiring his nails.

“Medicinal, innit?” Maxine croaked. Her throat had taken a battering from the smoke inhalation. Though she’d been moved from intensive care to a chintzy cheerful side ward, Bev reckoned it would take more than a gin and tonic to restore Maxine to her pre-fire self. The woman’s eyes were lifeless, her skin dull, her attitude jaded.

“Brought you this as well.” Bev ferreted in her bag. Since she’d scoffed most of the grapes on the drive over, her fingers bypassed what remained of the bunch. A family-sized bar of fruit and nut was at the bottom. “There you go.”

Maxine curled a lip. “Got any fags in that thing?”

Yeah. Twenty Drumsticks. “Sorry, love. I’ve stopped.” Bev was still rummaging. “Brought you something as well, Natalie.”

The teenager perked up but her face fell when she saw the newspaper. Her artwork was splashed across the front page. Bev watched like a hawk with binoculars, eager to pounce on any reaction. Her suspicious mind had been in overdrive on the way to the General. What if Natalie had come up with a likeness purely to keep the police off her back? No problem – till it hit the press. Of course, the idea could be a complete no-no. A flash of emotion momentarily ousted Natalie’s sulk but Bev was hard pushed to define it. Excitement? Pleasure? Semi-smirk? Either way, a jaw-breaking yawn followed as the teenager dumped the paper in the bin. “Seen it already.”

Bev took the wrapper off a Drumstick, sucked it a few times. “Couple of punters’ve already called in.” A whopper but it wiped the scowl off the girl’s face.

“You what?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a name to go on as well now.”

Natalie tightened an already taut ponytail. “So?”

Bev opened her mouth to speak but Roper butted in. “Come to apologise, have you?” He reached casually for the Cadbury’s.

She almost choked. “What?”

“Accusing me of every crime in the book.” Chocolate melted on his teeth. “Waste of time, weren’t it?” Roper was clean. Maybe he just hadn’t been caught. “Time you should’ve been out there searching for the baby.”

She buttoned her mouth. The words on the tip of her tongue should probably stay there. Three pairs of eyes were waiting for a response. “I can assure you we’re do...”

Roper pointed a finger. “You’re not. Doing enough. Tell her, Natalie.”

“I’m talking to the papers and the telly and that.”

Bev frowned. “You’ve done an appeal, love.”

“They want more than that,” Roper sneered. “They’re after interviews.”

“Paying, are they?” Bev asked.

“No!” Natalie was Little Miss Indignant. Not Roper. Bev reckoned he was already counting the cheques. “It’s not about money. I’ll do anything to get her back.” There were tears in Natalie’s eyes. Bev didn’t doubt the girl’s sincerity. She rose, flicked the lollipop stick in the bin.

“So will I, Natalie.” She lifted a hand. “Catch you later.”

She turned when the girl called. “What name did they give you? The punters who phoned?”

She made great play of racking her brains. “Nope. Sorry, love. It’s gone.”

19

Helen Carver gazed into the huge gilt mirror that dominated the apartment’s hallway. Her make-up was immaculate, of course, but it would take cosmetic surgery to lift those tired lines. She widened her eyes and attempted a bright smile that failed. Maybe she could still get away with botox.

She listened at the nursery door. Veronica, stupid woman, was reading a story to a baby barely a month old. Helen slipped the key from the pocket of her jade silk kimono and unlocked the study door. David was so precious about his personal space. She never locked her studio. Anyone could go in and look at her work.

Not that she’d done any recently. The landscape series was only half-finished. She sighed. Would she ever paint again? She was exhausted all the time and it seemed to be getting worse. David assured her it would get easier as the baby got older. Was that another lie? Like tonight. He said he was going out with a male colleague – but the colleague had just phoned to have a chat with David.

She stood with her back against the door, wondering where to begin, seeking peace of mind as much as anything. Her palms were damp and she felt sweat trickle down her spine as she slid open a desk drawer. It was David’s fault. She hated snooping like this. He knew it upset her.

“Damn.” The nail was broken. Badly. She sucked at a few drops of blood as she glanced round. Theatre posters covered the wall, David’s college productions alongside the classics. Carver and company. Helen raised an over-plucked eyebrow. Delusions of adequacy.

The décor was not to her taste. The dark greens and darker woods were so macho, so obvious. She wrinkled her nose, lips pressed in disapproval. He still smoked in here. Another lie. Then a nostril flared as she caught the faintest trace of an unfamiliar perfume. The next drawer was flung open. And the next. She searched filing cabinets, riffled books and magazines, ran a hand along and under shelves. Nothing incriminating. She sighed her relief. White lies she could handle. What had she been expecting, after all? David didn’t have time to be unfaithful.

Her glance fell on the small black velvet pouch as she was leaving the room. It was on top of a speaker, not even hidden. She opened the drawstrings and tipped the contents into the palm of her hand.

Three earrings. Different designs. None hers. Blood drained from her face as she slapped a hand over her mouth and gagged. She’d read about earrings in that night’s newspaper. Only the reporter used another name to describe them: trophies. Snatched from young rape victims.

She barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

Veronica Carver watched from the door of the nursery, hoping the drama-queen hysteria wouldn’t wake the baby.

As each day passed, the mousy woman felt more at ease. Maybe her increasing confidence conveyed itself to the baby. Or maybe the little one sensed the bond between them as it grew, strengthened. Either way, the child was less fractious, slept more deeply and for longer periods. The woman gazed down, an adoring smile transforming her plain features.

She brightened further at the prospect of tomorrow. Supplies were due to arrive: more nappies for the baby, food for them both, a few basics. She’d already prepared the next list. She sighed, then banished faint stirrings of a dark mood. She could cope with another few months. For Angel, she’d endure anything. Anything at all.

Angel. It sounded wonderful. As soon as the woman had heard it, she’d known it was the perfect name. She leaned over the cot and tenderly stroked the baby’s head. Angel. Angel. Running a finger along the curve of a delicate cheek, she whispered it softly.

“Sleep tight, my darling Angel.”

Bev laid the phone down pensively. She’d been picking Nick Lockwood’s journalistic brain. Now she grabbed a pen, worked figures on a lined pad. On a rough calculation, Terry Roper stood to net around twenty grand in interview fees. Made thirty pieces of silver look like small change. She creased her eyes, sucked on the day’s third Drumstick. Unwittingly her cheeks were going like bellows.

“You shaving your head next, sarge?” DC Darren New ran a hand over his pate as if she needed sign language to follow the drift.

Kojak jokes were going round like circles. She tapped a beat with her fingers. “Next clown’s gonna get a stick shoved where the sun don’t shine.”

Dazza’s “Promise?” prompted a chorus of snickers.

It was a rare moment of levity in an incident room heavy with disappointment and near-despair. Twenty-plus detectives made phone calls, ran computer checks, input data or chased paper. When any one of them glanced up, the baby’s image stared back from the walls and picture boards. Many felt it was the only connection with her they’d ever make.

The early brief had thrown out a load of negatives: nothing on the hospital front, nothing on the latest sightings, nothing on the hoax calls. It went with the territory; police work was often a process of elimination. But nothing was filling the gaps. Now they were treading the same ground: re-interviewing witnesses, checking reports and records. Uniforms were out on the streets with clipboards and questions. It was plod-work and it was inevitable, given the state of play. Didn’t make it appealing.

Bev pursued thoughts following on from the Lockwood call. Nick reckoned each media outlet would cough up two to three grand for an exclusive one-to-one with the mother of the missing baby. Roper had already tried negotiating a deal with the Beeb’s London operation. If the slimy toad timed it right, he could flog any number of exclusives. If all the material came out on the same day, who’d argue? Wall-to-wall scoops. Everyone happy.

“Except Natalie.” Unless she knew cash was part of the equation. “Friggin’ blood money, if you ask me.”

Oz’s fingers hovered over a keyboard. “Say something, sarge?”

She gave a half-smile. “Talking to myself.” She watched as he continued tapping out whatever lack-of-progress report he was writing. Her smile grew when a tiny pink tip appeared between his lips. Always happened when he was concentrating. He’d not been aware of the tongue thing till she pointed it out ages ago. When a lock of hair fell across his forehead, she itched to stroke it away. She glanced at the time. “Lunchin’, Oz?” She was already on her feet, bag hoisted.

“Love to, sarge.” She sensed an unspoken but. “I’m meeting someone in town. Maybe tom...”

“No prob.” The incident room had fallen silent. Or was that her imagination? She dropped half-a-dozen lollipop sticks in the bin on the way out. Who loves ya, baby?

The crystal glass held three fingers of single malt. Helen Carver, who hated the taste of alcohol, drained it in two gulps. The liquid burnt her throat, set fire to her belly. For a woman who desperately needed to feel in control, Helen’s thoughts were spiralling. And the mental turmoil was David’s fault. The earrings could mean only one thing: she was married to a rapist. A man who’d attacked three teenage girls. The Beast of Birmingham.

She threw her head back and laughed out loud. It was ridiculous. There could be any number of reasons why the earrings were in his study. So why not ask? And why act the lush? She half-filled the heavy tumbler this time, caught her reflection in the glass: beauty and the beast. She laughed again, neither loud nor convincingly. She looked like a dog. She’d barely slept and well past midday was neither showered nor dressed.

What should she do?

Her gut reaction had been to call the police. That lasted the two minutes it took for her head to react. Helen knew only what she could not do.

Already swaying a little, she stepped carefully across the deep ivory carpet. The lounge was her favourite room: every item handpicked, exquisite, expensive. She pressed her forehead against the picture window, gazed across Brindley Place bustling as usual with businessmen, bright young things, loud tourists. She could not give this up. Would not.

A key turned in the door. Veronica, the old hag, back with the baby. Helen stumbled on the way to the bathroom. She locked herself in and stared at her ravaged features in the mirror. She loathed imperfection, hated ugliness. In that instant, Helen knew what she would do. It was David’s fault. He’d pay for his sins. He’d brought it on himself.

A lunchtime mooch round Moseley had done sod all to boost the Morriss morale. She’d nipped into her usual retail therapists: patchouli-scented shops full of arty-farty flimflam and ethnic mood music, the odd singing whale or chanting monk. She loved it all. But its magic hadn’t worked. Bev had spotted Oz folding his long legs into Sumitra Gosh’s low-slung two-seater in the car park at Highgate. A threesome with Johnny Depp and Joseph Fiennes wasn’t going to erase that particular image.

She shifted the bag on to her other shoulder. Its awesome capacity was nearly breached. It now contained a birthday present for her mum and a few bits to cheer up Sadie. She’d try to get there tonight. The Sicilian pizza she’d been munching on her solitary travels was already making its own alimentary journey. She popped in the last mouthful as she passed the front desk. Vince Hanlon was spooning sugar into a mug. She waggled her fingers and headed for the stairs.

“Not out celebrating?” Big Vince had a broad grin. Think Cheshire cat. On happy pills.

Lottery? Promotion? Gold handcuffs? Bev waited patiently. Vince was clearly dying to share, rubbing his hands together. It put her in mind of copulating sausages.

“Uniform brought the rapist in. Half-hour back. He’s banged up downstairs. Powell wants the bastard to sweat before he gives him a grilling.”

20

DI Powell was in the pub with the lads. Bev raised Carol Mansfield on the phone for the detail. Apparently three punters had called the Street Watch incident room in response to the visuals compiled by Natalie. All supplied the same identification – a twenty-eight-year-old man named Callum Gould. A squad car had picked him up in Balsall Heath.

Bev ended the call and gave a low whistle. Her whopping great porkie to Natalie in the hospital last night had turned out eerily prescient. She took the stairs two at a time and got an eyeful through the cell’s spy-hole.

There was no crucifix dangling from an ear. Apart from that, Bev reckoned the guy could have posed for the E-fit. There was a minuscule white nick in the right eyebrow and an ink-spot mole over the top lip. Callum Gould was the Beck girl’s rapist made flesh.

He sat straight-backed on the bed. His mop of black hair looked limp and greasy but that was probably down to the constant raking of his long tapering fingers. Nut-brown needle-cord strides and an open-neck check shirt gave him the look of a trendy geography teacher. Which he was.

“Having a nose, Morriss?” The DI’s stealthy approach was presumably meant to startle her.

She refused to jump. “You charging him?”

Powell leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Natch.”

“With?”

“The Beck girl’s rape, for starters.”

Bev rose on her toes, took another butcher’s. No doubt about it: he was a dead ringer for the E-fit. Natalie either had perfect recall, or she’d lied about only catching a glimpse of her attacker. “What’s he saying?”

“What they all say. She asked for it.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Bev hissed. “These are real people. Not stock baddies from some naff B-movie. What’s Gould actually saying, as opposed to the crap script you’ve given him?”

“Natalie Beck was gagging for a shag. Clearer?”

As mud. They’d had sex. But was it consensual? Or was Gould a lying two-faced bastard? He’d hardly admit the offence; on the other hand Natalie wouldn’t be the first girl to cry rape. But why so long after the event? And why the sudden clarity of vision? And had any of it got a flea’s thighbone to do with the Street Watch attacks?

“Let’s face it, Morriss, Gould’s hardly going to put a hand up to raping an ex-pupil.”

“Gould was her teacher?” She sounded as if she’d been at the helium. But if Gould had taught Natalie, why hadn’t she blown the whistle before?

“I know what you’re thinking. Took her frigging time, didn’t she? Scared shitless, that’s why. He threatened to kill her. ’Course,” he drawled “That was the first time.”

What? She rarely spluttered; she did now. “First time?”

“Back in January. Gets the horn, comes back for more. Raped her again. Friday night.”

Her thoughts swirled. A million questions tumbled round. Was Callum Gould Zoë’s father? Had Natalie told Gould about the baby during Friday’s alleged attack? Paternity could be proved with DNA samples: DNA from a baby who went missing within hours of the alleged rape and five days later still hadn’t been found.

It could be kosher. On the other hand, Natalie could be away with the fairies. The wicked fairies, if she was stitching up some innocent sod out of spite. Bev shook her head. It boiled down to the same old same old: his word against hers, Callum Gould v Natalie Beck.

Natalie Beck had gone to ground. It was early evening. Bev and the guv were having a jar in The Prince of Wales.

“I called the General six times and paid Terry Roper a home visit.” The house dry white tasted like paint stripper, so she’d eschewed her preferred poison for tonic water. A tentative sip produced a sour grimace. “It’s not like the girl’s got that many places to hang.”

Byford shrugged. “Probably holed up in some five-star hotel, courtesy of the Sun or the Mail.”

Lucky girl. But Bev was still desperate to have a word or several with Natalie. Slinging accusations around the place didn’t marry with what Bev knew of her. But then, what did she know? Maybe Natalie had a chameleon gene. Or maybe the accusations weren’t so outlandish.

Gould’s image as trendy geography master wasn’t the whole picture. Colleagues and neighbours had painted other aspects. The guy’s marriage had fallen apart and his career looked set to go the same way. He was on a second official warning for bad timekeeping and absenteeism. Three strikes and he’d be out. His wife had already gone, fed up with Gould’s drinking and skirt-chasing.

“What d’you reckon, guv? Is he in the frame?”

The superintendent had sat in on Callum Gould’s questioning that afternoon. Now he leaned back, hands behind head, and gave it some thought. “Hard to say. He’s admitted having sex with the girl on Friday. They met by chance, apparently in a club on Broad Street. Claims she was all over him. He was off his face.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand; heard it all before. “What about back in January?”

Byford shook his head. “Denied it absolutely. Refused to answer any more questions. He was pretty open till that point, then he clammed up, demanded his brief.”

The lawyer was defending in a big murder trial at the Crown Court. Gould’s interview had been terminated. It wasn’t the only premature action, in Bev’s opinion. There’d been no chance to question him about Street Watch or the missing baby.

She unwrapped a Drumstick, sucked pensively. “He doesn’t teach her any more and Natalie’s not under-age. It’s not Romeo and Juliet but it’s not wrong.”

Byford lowered his voice. “In January the girl was fifteen. And if she was raped, her age is irrelevant.”

“If.” She sniffed. The barman had lit up. She took a surrogate drag as smoke drifted by.

“You think she’s lying?”

“Who knows?” What she did know was that Natalie had been through more blokes than hot baltis. She’d told Bev as much that day in the baby’s nursery. Casual sex was no big thing for street-wise cookies like Natalie. Especially given a role model like Maxine. Natalie saw sex as a sticky handshake. Until Gould’s arrest, Bev had seen her as an insecure kid looking for love. Natalie didn’t just kiss frogs – she fucked them. She’d not yet come across a prince. But the girl’s say-so on its own didn’t make Gould a pervert.

“‘Who knows’, as you put it, sergeant, isn’t good enough.” Bev flinched as Byford slammed his glass on the table. “There are too many unknowns at the moment. And no one’s coming up with any answers.”

Bev parked the MG, slammed the door and kicked ass out of the drive. Byford’s outburst rankled at a time when she felt bad enough already. She’d tried putting herself in his size tens. The big man’s attack was almost certainly prompted by tortured thoughts of Baby Fay. He wasn’t the only one affected. The dead baby was a shadow in Bev’s soul. As for the baby she prayed was still alive? She was doing everything she could.

There was only one antidote to blues this big.

Emmy Morriss was in the hall when Bev unlocked the front door. “Sweetheart, lovely to see you.” Soothing words, a verbal massage. And the house smelt of beeswax and basil. Not a packing case in sight. Bliss.

“You should’ve called,” Emmy said. “We’re off out.”

Bev’s shoulders sagged along with her face.

Her mum winked a Bev-blue eye. “Only joking. Come on. I’ll pop the kettle on.”

A golden fur-ball with teeth and tail bounded out of the kitchen and hurled itself at Bev’s thighs. She picked it up before it wet itself. “Glad the training’s going well.”

“He’s pleased to see you, Bev,” Emmy gently admonished.

The retriever puppy was a recent acquisition in the wake of the attack on her gran. Gnipper had yet to get his teeth into the guard-dog role. Anything else lying round, no problem. He’d been to the vet’s three times to have his stomach pumped.

“How’s gran?”

“Fine.” Sadie had slipped in behind Bev. She didn’t look it. What hair had grown back looked like off-white candyfloss. Dark circles under the old lady’s eyes were now a permanent feature. “You’re looking a bit peaky, our Bev.”

“Dandy, me mate.” She hugged her gran’s tiny frame.

“Here you go.” Emmy laid out a comfort-food combo: camomile tea, cinnamon toast and chocolate layer cake three storeys high.

Bev demolished a good half of it as they sat around chatting. The kitchen was the cosiest room she knew: warm lighting, pink gingham, polished pine. She sat back, forced herself to switch off. Otherwise what was the point being here? She watched her mum and gran grinning like schoolgirls, listened as they finished each other’s sentences. They were warm loving people. The dysfunctional fuckwits she came across in the job were light-years away. For an hour or so, anyway.

“What’s Gnipper doing?” Emmy asked.

The puppy’s nose was in Bev’s bag. She dragged him away and caught a glimpse of the goodies she’d bought Sadie at lunchtime. “Almost forgot. Here you go, gran.”

The old lady perked up at the sight of the latest Reg Hill, a Sudoku book and a tin of Roses. They did serious damage to the chocolates during a few rounds of Cluedo.

“Thought you’d be dead good at it, our Bev.” Sadie winked at Emmy.

Bev gave a weak smile as she packed the box. “Obviously I was holding back there.”

“What, every game?” they chorused.

The guffaws nearly woke the puppy. Mind, on the available evidence he was too stuffed to move. Chocolate coated a lolling tongue and pink flecks of toffee were caught between his teeth. As for the location of the stick, Bev really didn’t want to go there.