Baby Love by Maureen Carter Page B

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 The little-princess look had been replaced by street Goth.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