Baby Love by Maureen Carter

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