Baby Love (31 page)

“Do you know what she took, Mrs Carver?” Bev reached for her phone: Control could sort the arrangements. Veronica shook her head.

Bev glanced round, struggling to keep her cool. “Where’s your son?”

“This is nothing to do with David.”

None of this made sense. “Meaning?”

“Helen couldn’t cope with... It was hardly Jessica’s fault, was it?”

Bev had no idea where any of this was going. Silence was often the best way to find out. She took a seat, waited.

“Helen won’t admit it, of course.” The rosary slipped to the floor. Veronica made no effort to retrieve it. “She says it was to punish David. She found some earrings, you see.”

Bev registered that the old woman was talking as if Helen was alive. Not surprising, given the body temperature.

“They belong to a woman David’s friendly with. He was getting them repaired.”

Bev was beginning to see a minuscule chink of light. David Carver had been questioned a couple of times in connection with Street Watch; the media reported that the rapist took trophies, earrings. “And Helen jumped to the
conclusion...?”

Veronica Carver snorted. “Ludicrous.”

Fucking tragic. “I’m not clear, Mrs Carver. What’s all this to do with Jessica’s disappearance?”

“Two birds with one stone, sergeant.” She made eye contact, held it for three, four seconds as if preparing the ground for a dense pupil. “Punish a man you love by killing a baby you don’t.”

“Jessica’s
dead
?” Bev swallowed hard. “She killed the child just to get back at her old man?”

“Not just that.” Veronica frowned, impatient. “I told you. She couldn’t bear to look at the baby. Hated Jessica’s imperfection. That awful mark on her face.”

Bev shook her head, didn’t want to believe it. She ran the new data, desperate to comprehend it. Had Helen Carver seen Zoë’s abduction as an opportunity to get rid of her own baby? Banked on the police lumping the crimes together? And
when she learned that Zoë had been found safe and well, had it tipped her over the edge? Knowing there’d be no homecoming of any kind for Jessica? Knowing the police would widen the net?

“How?” Bev asked. “How did she kill her?”

The old woman looked down. “She drowned her in the bath, then disposed of the body in the canal.”

Bev dropped her head in her hands. It was too much to take in. And it still didn’t add up. So far Helen Carver had been spectacularly unsuccessful in topping herself. And what was it Carol had said after the last failed attempt? David Carver
watches her like a hawk.

Lifting her head, Bev peered at Veronica, who immediately looked away. Her calm was preternatural.

“She’s always been unstable, of course.” The old woman rose, poured herself a scotch from a decanter on the sideboard. “It was only a question of time before she succeeded, I suppose.”

Bev chewed her bottom lip. “That’s why you’d keep an eye on her, right?”

Veronica shrugged indifference. “If someone’s determined enough, sergeant...”

Bev searched the old woman’s face. Didn’t like what she saw. It struck Bev that the old bag was calm because she didn’t give a monkey’s. Or maybe the suicide was no great shock because she knew a damn sight more than she was
letting on.

“Where’d you find her?”

A barely perceptible pause. “On the settee, of course.”

“And the pill bottles, the packs, where are they?”

Confusion flitted across the face. Or was it anger? The old woman clearly didn’t like her authority being questioned. She waved arthritic fingers. “I have no idea.”

“You’ve searched the place?”

“Yes. No.”

“Which?” Bev fired back.

The old woman took a lace handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her temples and top lip. Playing for time? Or feeling the pressure? Bev sprang up, headed for a door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice was a whiplash.

“I’m gonna take this place apart, till I find what killed your daughter-in-law.”

“You won’t. And I’ll sue you for any damage you cause.”

It was the arrogance, the absolute certainty, as the old woman sipped her scotch, stared at Bev and pressed her thin lips into a superior smile. Bev saw the dark probability and leapt.

“How’d you get her to do it?”

“I beg your pardon?” It was the last thing she’d beg, going by the contemptuous drawl.

“Painkillers, paraquat, whatever she took... How’d you get her to take it?”

“I hope you can substantiate that remark.” She glared at Bev. “For your sake.”

Bev ignored the implied threat. “You and Helen close, were you?” The old woman shrugged. “Thought not,” Bev went on. “So how come you know all this? I can’t see her confiding in you.”

“Let’s just say I’m a light sleeper.” She rose to replenish the glass, turned her back on Bev. “And she left a note.”

Bev stretched out a hand. “Give.”

Veronica waved dismissively. “I burned it.”

“Bullshit.”

“It would have been painful for David to read.”

Bev glanced over her shoulder. “Where is he? You never did say.”

“He’s on a few errands.”

Convenient. “Had to get him out of the way, did you? Wouldn’t want your precious son implicated.”

“He’s not.”

“Just you, then?”

She raised the glass, draining it. “Prove it.”

At that moment, Bev knew for certain. Not every comma and crossed t. But in some macabre twisted way Veronica Carver had presided over her daughter-in-law’s death. Either she’d coerced Helen into popping the pills herself, or she’d
forced them down Helen’s throat with her own bony fingers.

And from where Bev stood, it looked as if the old crone would get away with it.

Bev’s footsteps rang out in the tinny acoustics of the multistorey. From the street below, raucous laughter and a flat falsetto warbled, “I will survive.” Don’t bet on it, mate. With a vicious kick she sent an
empty can clattering across the concrete. It was getting on for ten pm and tonight would not go down as one of her best.

Veronica Carver hadn’t budged an iota from her fairy story. The old woman had cast a scathing eye over the evening’s activities, including the removal of her daughter-in-law’s body. Bev held little hope that the post mortem,
scheduled for first thing, would reveal anything other than what it was: death by overdose.

Murder by proxy. Perfect crime.

Bev snorted. Ironic, considering that Helen had been so obsessed with perfection she’d killed a baby who couldn’t live up to it. Veronica had wreaked a warped revenge. And it looked like the evil old cow would never face a court. Veronica,
like Natalie Beck, had taken the law into her own hands. Only difference: the old woman’s were a safer pair.

Bev nodded at the driver of a silver Passat parked in the bay behind. Number plate and description matched details of tonight’s shadow that Larry Drake had phoned through an hour ago. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk. She made for the
Peugeot, sat for a minute or two catching her mental breath, then wrinkled her nose. Pool motors were a right pain: smelly and tacky, all fag ash and fast food. Thinking of which, she could murder a bag of chips. She’d pick one up on the way home.
And looking on the bright side – she’d get the MG back in the morning.

Window down, she lit a Silk Cut, shuddered involuntarily as Veronica Carver’s face flashed before her eyes; heard again the old woman’s words: “Let’s say I’m a light sleeper.” She could picture the action: the old
woman creeping after her daughter-in-law, witnessing the crime, working out how to turn it into Helen’s death sentence. Maybe she’d taunted the younger woman, threatened her with the police and prison. Unless Helen did the decent thing.

Bev smacked the wheel. One thing she wasn’t sure of: was the son in on it? She’d eventually reached David Carver on his mobile. The guy had sounded stunned, amazed. But then Heathcliff taught drama. And Bev had heard a female voice in the
background. She suspected one of his lady friends was there, giving him an audience.

She took a final drag, flicked the butt, closed the window. Then tensed. Her hand froze on the ignition, heartbeat quickening. She’d caught movement. In the mirror. She looked again. Must be mistaken. Reflection, perhaps. She turned the key. A
CD began to play.

If you don’t know me by now...

Rustling from the back. Her eyes met his in the mirror, an unwavering stare through jagged holes in a black mask. He’d been lying in wait, biding his time. The shock was so great she nearly pissed herself. Cool it, girl. Show fear and
you’re fucked. “OK, sunshine, out you get.”

“I don’t think so.”

Don’t panic. Larry’s guy was in the car behind. Two against one. “Hop out and we’ll forget this ever happened.” Like hell.

“You’ll remember.” A mocking whisper. “Every detail.”

She hit the horn hard, glared at the mirror. Where the fuck was the minder?

“It was quick. He didn’t suffer. Much.” Cold steel against her neck, then a warm trickle. “Start the car, Bev.”

“Go to hell.” His knife hand twitched. She nearly passed out in pain. Fingers trembling, she turned the key, reversed the motor, trying to think ahead. Stay calm, go by the book, establish rapport.

And there was something about the bastard’s voice...

“Gonna tell me your name?”

“Next right.”

She took it. “Still don’t know what to call you.”

“Give the dog a bone.”

She’d heard it before. Recently? Think. She needed to hear more.

“Come on, you know my name.”

“And the rest.” Ice on her spine.

She needed more to go on; talk, you bastard. Sod the book.

“Get off on wearing frilly knickers, do you?”

“Wank off.” The Birmingham accent was stronger. And the menace.

“The pair you sent don’t fit.”

“Lose weight,” he sneered. “I’ll help.” The knife bit into her flesh.

But it was enough. The voice had told her what she needed to know.

“Thought you only went after blondes?”

“Oh, I will. When I’ve got you off my back.”

Another jab of the knife took her breath away; a knee in her kidneys punctuating more words that confirmed her suspicions. And the food smells hadn’t been trapped in the pool car. They were wafting off her attacker. As for on his back,
she’d not even been close.

“Clocked you as filth first time I laid eyes on you. Should’ve kept your piggie snout out.”

Then the wannabe cop, Will Browne, told her how she’d die and what he’d do before then.

Storefronts and shop windows passed in a blur. She focused only on what was ahead. Within minutes the city streets lay behind them. The last signpost pointed to Hollywood. No hills, no movie stars. The south Birmingham suburb shared the name, not the
glamour.

The roads were narrower here, the lanes winding. He’d make a move soon; aroused, nervy, maybe distracted, he’d order her to stop the car.

“Pull over. Now.”

She never had liked taking orders. She took a deep breath, braced herself and slammed her foot down. Not on the brake. On the gas.

The body was found at 11.37 during a routine security patrol. It took a further five minutes to establish identity. Kevin Melrose, a thirty-seven-year-old protection officer, married with two children, had been killed by a single
stab wound to the heart. The implications were obvious and immediate.

Larry Drake, personal protection unit head, alerted Byford at home. By 12.05, every available officer and detective was either on the road or about to join the hunt for the missing Peugeot. Control was unable to raise Bev. She’d been out of
radio contact for more than two hours.

In the nightmare, she was being raped. She fought to regain consciousness, struggled frenziedly to throw off the attacker. His body pinned her to the frozen earth as he thrust into her. Desperate to wake, she screamed, writhing in
pain and terror. Something sharp pressed into her spine. She forced her eyes open, gulped for breath. And smelt cow-shit and petrol and fear and sweat.

Not a dream. They were in a field: long grass, thistles, straggly hedge. The car on its side a few yards away, a main beam casting light over a scene she wanted no part in. Filthy, shivering, half-naked, she could barely move under the rapist’s
weight. She had no recollection of anything since hitting the accelerator. Guessed the impact of the crash had knocked her out, and he’d pulled her clear.

This wasn’t how she’d envisaged it panning out. Lamb to the slaughter was not her style. But this wouldn’t be the final act. With absolute clarity and coldest fury, she determined that when this was over, he was going to die.

Operations room at Highgate. The place buzzed with barked orders, snatched conversation, radio static. Byford was heading the search, Jack Hainsworth co-ordinating. As SIO Street Watch, Mike Powell had been informed and was in a
squad car heading towards the main search area.

The general location was down to data from CCTV. Cameras had also captured what looked like an ostensibly innocent encounter between the personal protection officer and an unknown assailant. The stranger, who’d kept his back to the lens,
appeared to be assisting Melrose into the Passat. To the casual observer, Melrose then looked as if he was sitting at the wheel, waiting for a friend.

Bev’s motor had been filmed exiting the multi-storey, and travelling along Broad Street. It had then been picked up at various points including the Bristol Road, Moseley Road, Kings Heath High Street. It was last recorded heading towards
Redditch on the Alcester Road, the A435.

The most intense police activity was centred south of the city. The area was swarming with squad cars, unmarked motors and hard-faced cops itching to catch the bastard.

Byford’s glance kept returning to a freeze-frame on the monitor: a shot of Bev in the car park, hands deep in pockets, that funny little half-smile on her face. Byford closed his eyes. Dear Jesus, keep her safe.

Fear and nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She gagged, gasped with pain. Blood ran into her eyes and mouth, warm and sticky. It felt as if a vice was tightening round her skull. She had to think. All that mattered was survival. She
had to get out alive. Had to control this.