Baby Love (32 page)

Black eyes stared through the mask’s holes. She had to blank out what he was doing. Concentrate on what
she
could do. Training and experience kicked in. Go for the groin, the eyes, the knees. How? She could barely move and the pain was
intense. Then she remembered what he’d done to the other girls: Rebecca, Kate, Laura. How he’d diminished them, damaged their lives. She would not be a victim. She had to act, seize the slightest chance.

The bastard was reaching a climax. It was almost over. A new terror ran through her. The knife? Where was it? He’d kill her if she didn’t act.

Fear wasn’t going to do it. Fury was the way. Cold and calculating, she worked out what to do. She’d have a second, maybe two. No more.

The call came via control from a motorist on his way home. A car in a field off the B291, looked as if it had ploughed into a ditch and gone over, no information on occupants or vehicle. Byford put the phone down, felt a stir. With
neither number nor model, it wasn’t a given; his gut told him otherwise. Road and map reference had been relayed to every car in the area. He rubbed knuckles into tired eyes. They’d find out soon enough.

Bev’s image was still frozen on the monitor. Byford studied it for thirty seconds or so, realising – maybe acknowledging – that he no longer saw her as the lippy daughter he’d never had. He couldn’t define exactly what he
felt now. Paternal wasn’t even close.

He grabbed his overcoat. He wouldn’t get there first, but he’d get there.

It wasn’t cold fury. It was animal instinct, passion for survival. Pinned down, in pain, Bev couldn’t kick or punch. There was only one option. Adrenalin fizzed in every vein as she jerked her head up and sank her teeth
into his face.

She aimed for the nose, found the lips. Biting through the mask in a gross parody of a kiss, she tore the flesh, thrashing from side to side like a pit bull savaging a child.

He howled, his hands flailing at her face. With his blood soaking through the mask into her mouth, she clamped her teeth tighter, reaching out, frantically scrabbling for a weapon. Her fingers found the hilt of the knife, fallen to the ground beside
her. Tried to lift it. Christ. It was snagged. Tangled grass? She gave another desperate tug, groaning, hot furious tears wet on her cheeks.

Blood gushed from Browne’s wound as he fought to get away from her teeth. He hurled himself aside, falling on his back with a gasp. It was the opening she’d prayed for. When he twisted back towards her, she was ready, slamming a knee into
him, throwing a punch at his ruined face. Again and again she lashed out, then yanked off the mask, saw bloody flesh and glazed eyes. Why wasn’t the bastard fighting back?

She staggered to her feet, waves of pain she’d blanked out now threatening to fell her. Still Browne didn’t move. Slowly she circled him, swung a vicious kick at his ribs. As the body rolled with the impact, she saw the glint of the blade
– the inch or so not embedded in his back.

She was only vaguely aware of the car, the new headlights. Sinking to her knees on the grass, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed uncontrollably in relief, in shame, in sorrow. She felt a blanket being draped around her
shoulders, the gentle touch of a hand.

“It’s over now, Bev. It’s all over.”

Even in the aftermath of horror and death, she registered the words and recognised the voice. For the first time in seven years, Mike Powell hadn’t called her Morriss.

As she glanced up, the DI gave a tentative smile, then knelt on the frozen earth and held her in his arms until she stopped crying.

“I spy with my...”

Emmy Morriss’s little eye searched for inspiration. A starkly clinical private room in Edgbaston’s Nuffield Hospital didn’t provide a lot of scope. Especially after seven days’ play.

“Mum,” Bev sighed. “I swear if it’s b for bed again, you’re gonna end up in the next one.”

“Glad to hear you’re feeling yourself.” The guv hovered in the doorway, both hands clutching his fedora.

“That’s b for boss, then, is it?” She threw Emmy a withering glance.

Her mum hastily gathered sewing gear, satsuma peel and a less than enthusiastic old lady. “We’ll leave you to it, love. Grab some coffee, shall we, Sadie?”

Bev’s gran mumbled like a kid missing all the fun. “See you later, Mr B.”

“Best come in,” Bev said. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She’d not allowed the big man anywhere near since the attack. Nor Oz, nor Dazza, nor Vince. Her mum, Sadie, Frankie, Carol – they’d been the ones on grape
duty. She could handle them.

Mike Powell was the only guy who’d got past reception on the couple of occasions he’d dropped by. She couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t as though they had a lot to say. She supposed it was to do with him having been there, having
comforted her when she felt like dirt on the bottom of a shoe.

Byford sat back in an armchair still warm from Emmy. “How you doing?”

“Tickety-boo.” She saw his lips tighten. Physically she was on the mend. The aubergine bruises had faded to plum; they’d turn dingy green in no time. Blood tests for STDs were clear. She wasn’t pregnant. The stitches had been
removed from her neck; the scar would be a permanent reminder. Like she needed one.

“Want the truth, guv?”

“No point otherwise.”

“I don’t feel myself,” she said. “I feel like shit.”

He reached a tentative hand. “Bev...”

She jerked back, folded her arms. “What?”

“I...”

“Don’t know what to say? Where to look?” She snorted. “No. Nor me.”

He hesitated, then launched into an account of the week’s highlights, events not emotions. She knew most of it, of course, but the monologue filled what threatened to be a spiky silence.

Terry Roper had pleaded guilty to child abduction and arson with intent to endanger life. The phone calls – hoax and malicious – were also down to him. He’d be looking at a six-year stretch. Natalie Beck and Veronica Carver were
sticking to their stories; the crown prosecution guys would have to sift fact from fantasy. Police divers had recovered Jessica’s body; Byford and Carol Mansfield had attended the funeral. Helen Carver’s body was on ice, pending the
possibility of further forensic tests.

“The Beck baby’s with foster parents in Northfield,” Byford said. “But Maxine’s made headway since Zoë was found. There’s a chance she’ll get custody. She’ll certainly fight for it.”

Bev reached for a glass, slowly sipped tepid water.

“And...” This was new. He paused, hoped she was ready. “Will Browne’s body’s being released for burial tomorrow.”

If she didn’t put the glass down, it’d break. “You’re telling me all this like I give a shit?”

“Is that right, Bev?” He waited for her to look at him. She knew and took her time. “You don’t care any more ?”

She broke eye contact. It was one big mess and she couldn’t sort it. Will Browne was dead. And she was dead sorry. Sorry it hadn’t really been her doing. The fatal stab wound was inflicted when he fell on the blade. Its lethal position was
down to her frantic fumbling, and it getting caught in a clump of grass. Inadvertent, not intentional.

The Beast was dead and she was sorry she’d only mauled him. How sick was that?

“You’ve not answered, Bev.”

How could she? Browne had violated more than her body. She’d heard about the sick fuck’s lock-up in Digbeth, gagged whenever it sprang unbidden to mind. She barely knew who she was any more. Desperately needed someone to tell her. Not so
long ago, she’d have looked to Oz. But he was finding the attack and her actions difficult to handle. So Carol had told her – and had also told her about the sergeant’s exams Oz was about to take. Best all round. Probably. Didn’t
mean it didn’t hurt. But she was damaged goods anyway.

And was fucked if she’d show it. “Lob us a grape.”

He sighed, passed her the bowl. “How long are they keeping you in?”

A shrug.

“When you coming back?” It sounded more than a query about returning to work.

Another shrug. Out of the corner of her eye she caught him clenching his jaw. The visitor was losing patience. How could she explain? About panic attacks in the day? And being scared to sleep at night, with Will Browne’s ruined face in front of
her every time she closed her eyes?

“Tell you who won’t be on the welcoming committee,” Byford said.

That piqued her interest. “Oh?”

The guv popped a grape in his mouth. “Les King.”

Lazy Les. PC Plod who’d dragged his feet on the first day. “Still on gardening leave, is he?” Not that she cared.

“Bit more than that. Bastard’s on a charge.”

Criminally negligent, but that wouldn’t land him in court. “What for?”

“You know those letters I got?”

Remember Baby Fay... One to the station, one to the guv’s home. “He didn’t?” She closed a gaping mouth.

“We got a camera installed at my place. Caught him red-handed.” Byford gazed down at his own. “Should’ve occurred to me, really. King was around at the time. We never hit it off.”

“’Specially after you nearly decked him the day Zoë Beck disappeared.” The lop-sided smile was rare these days but it went unnoticed. The big man was miles away. And she’d bet a pony to a pound his thoughts weren’t
on the
Beck
baby. “What you thinking, guv?”

He met her glance. “Baby Fay. That we’ll never know what happened, who abducted her, killed her. We all have them, you know, Bev.” Her raised eyebrow inquired. “Bits of hell on the pillow.”

She nodded. So how come hers were all over the sodding bedspread as well?

“Almost forgot.” He dug a hand in a pocket, passed an envelope. “Vince Hanlon said to give you this. You won the Christmas raffle.”

She tossed it unopened at her side. Another memory from hell. Vince had been flogging tickets the night a terrified young mother had dumped her newborn in a stinking phone box in Balsall Heath. Relatives had flocked forward to bury the corpses.
Not.

Byford rose, hat under his elbow. “You’re bigger than this, sergeant.”

That’s what she’d thought, too.

“No one thinks any the less of you, Bev.” She’d spot tears in his eyes, if she could see through the veil of her own. He turned at the door. “Browne isn’t doing this. You are.”

She stared at the wall. The big man was right. She’d vowed not to be a victim but, God, was it easier said than done. She heard his voice in low conversation in the corridor. Her fingers brushed against the envelope. The faintest of smiles
tugged at her lips as she opened it. “Guv?”

He popped his head round the door.

She waved a couple of tickets. “Fancy a night out? West End job?”

“Sounds good.” A sceptical voice suspected a catch.

“Front-row seats.” She winked. “
An Inspector Calls.
” Best not mention Claridges. Bags of time to worry about that.

Byford shook his head, gave a slow smile. She’d get there; he knew she would. “Go on, then. You’re on.”

“Cool. Oh, and guv?” She threw a grape in the air, caught it between her teeth. “You’re driving.”

“Cool. Oh, and Bev?” The grin took ten years off him. “We’ll take the train.”

Byford left the Rover in its customary spot, preferring to walk the final part. It was early morning and below freezing with a biting wind; dirty snow lay here and there. His eyes watered, which meant his first glimpse was blurred.
Rapid blinking cleared the haze so that as he approached the angel came into sharper focus. She was no longer white and the marble was badly chipped. The once-beautiful face was pitted with age and erosion. Byford had removed the moss and lichen many
times. It was one of the reasons he was here.

This was his eighteenth pilgrimage to the baby’s grave. As far as he knew, he was now the only person who visited, brought Fay flowers.

Not this year.

Intrigued, he halted, peered closer, then continued the short walk. He took off his hat as he knelt on the frozen earth. There was no message, no name, no indication from whom the gift had come. As he stroked one of the tiny pink flowers, his lips
formed a smile of sorts.

It was bitterly cold out here, but cacti were hardy and resilient. The big man was pretty sure this one would survive.

Author’s note

Several spooky incidents occurred during the writing of this book. For instance, I alluded in the narrative to a real and shocking crime that happened nearly thirty years ago and – out of the blue and within twenty-four hours
– there was a development that made every national news bulletin and newspaper in the country.

This and one or two other happenstance instances made the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Were they mere coincidences? Or portents? Or... what? They may mean nothing at all but for what it’s worth, I share this one with you...

Rainbows, real and fabricated, are featured throughout the story. On the day I finished writing
Baby Love,
I printed the first hard copy. Chapter thirteen was coming off the printer when I turned to look through the window of my office. There,
spanning a blue-grey sky was a spectacular rainbow, so perfect it could have been painted. A minute later and I’d have missed it. The timing, the chance of that was – to me – stunning. What a story, I thought. Who’d believe it? So
I raced downstairs and took a photograph, just to prove it wasn’t journalistic licence.

And even now every time I look at that rainbow I get goose bumps.