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,
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,
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