couldn’t get exercised. Not when there was so much new stuff swirling round in her head.
It had taken two hours to drag the story from Natalie Beck. Top lines, not small print. According to the girl’s account, the rape happened back in January, about one in the morning. She’d been grabbed from behind and dragged into an
alleyway only a couple of streets from home. The rapist had a knife and stank of beer but used a condom. She didn’t think about pregnancy till the foetus was five months. Not for a nanosecond had she considered getting rid of it. Abortion was dead
wrong, wasn’t it? Couldn’t have coped without Terry. He’d been a rock. No one else knew she’d been attacked. Especially Maxine. Her mum would have been gutted. What irony: Natalie protecting her mum.
Bev reached for the rest of her pork pie, then changed her mind. The pink bits were too reminiscent of the mottled flesh on Natalie’s skinny legs. Bev’s initial shock-horror-what-a-fucking-mess reaction now included real anger towards the
Beck girl. Of course Natalie had suffered a shocking ordeal. But it was infuriating that she hadn’t reported it at the time. Because there was an outside chance that Natalie could’ve been the Street Watch rapist’s first victim.
The teenager’s attack hadn’t featured missing earrings or hacked pubic hair; Natalie had looked blank at both suggestions. But she was a young slim blonde, more or less fitting the victim profile. Maybe back then the Beast
hadn’t yet worked out the sick signature he’d leave in the three later attacks. Bev reached for her drink, scowling. Street Watch connection or not, the Beck girl’s silence had let a rapist get away with it.
“Don’t be too hard on her, Bev.”
The glass stopped halfway to her mouth. How did he do that? The guv could run a stall at the end of Brighton pier: mind-reading.
“I know the horses have already bolted,” Byford said. “But she is going to come in.”
Natalie said she’d caught a brief glimpse of the rapist. She’d reluctantly agreed to go through the mug shots at Highgate, a none-too-pretty parade of pervs and known offenders. If that failed, she’d work with the E-fit guys, try to
compile a likeness. Bev gave an eloquent snort. Eleven months after the event? Just listen to those stable doors.
“I know how you feel,” the guv said. “Natalie Beck was selfish and irresponsible.” He rubbed a hand over a face etched with exhaustion. “But, my God, she’s paying a high price now.”
Bev agreed with a sigh. Sixty-five uniforms and almost as many plain-clothes officers had trawled every inch of the Wordsworth estate. All but a couple of dozen householders had been interviewed, more than eighty statements taken. Every empty building
had been entered and meticulously searched. Joe and Jo Public had put in more than two hundred calls to the hot-line numbers. The most promising were being acted on first. It was a lot of activity – and nada to show. Nothing had been thrown up that
led the inquiry an inch further forward. Not a single hair of the baby’s head.
Until now, the disused rail line in Moseley was the only rape scene Bev hadn’t attended. This was her second cruise past in the last twenty minutes. It was approaching midnight, bed was calling but the pull of the place was too
great. She left the MG on a single yellow line, grabbed a torch to augment pale moonlight, slipped on wellies and headed for the police tape.
After leaving Byford, she’d nipped back to Highgate, preferring to pore over the latest Street Watch reports than prop up the bar at The Prince with Nick Lockwood. The Beeb man had taken her last-minute cancellation in good spirits, sounding
like he’d already imbibed a few anyway. As well as the written reports, she’d studied the visuals. But stills, even video, only went so far. Bev had to feel a crime scene. The smells and touch, the atmosphere, the being there was
vital. A good cop had a sixth sense,
It had taken two hours to drag the story from Natalie Beck. Top lines, not small print. According to the girl’s account, the rape happened back in January, about one in the morning. She’d been grabbed from behind and dragged into an
alleyway only a couple of streets from home. The rapist had a knife and stank of beer but used a condom. She didn’t think about pregnancy till the foetus was five months. Not for a nanosecond had she considered getting rid of it. Abortion was dead
wrong, wasn’t it? Couldn’t have coped without Terry. He’d been a rock. No one else knew she’d been attacked. Especially Maxine. Her mum would have been gutted. What irony: Natalie protecting her mum.
Bev reached for the rest of her pork pie, then changed her mind. The pink bits were too reminiscent of the mottled flesh on Natalie’s skinny legs. Bev’s initial shock-horror-what-a-fucking-mess reaction now included real anger towards the
Beck girl. Of course Natalie had suffered a shocking ordeal. But it was infuriating that she hadn’t reported it at the time. Because there was an outside chance that Natalie could’ve been the Street Watch rapist’s first victim.
The teenager’s attack hadn’t featured missing earrings or hacked pubic hair; Natalie had looked blank at both suggestions. But she was a young slim blonde, more or less fitting the victim profile. Maybe back then the Beast
hadn’t yet worked out the sick signature he’d leave in the three later attacks. Bev reached for her drink, scowling. Street Watch connection or not, the Beck girl’s silence had let a rapist get away with it.
“Don’t be too hard on her, Bev.”
The glass stopped halfway to her mouth. How did he do that? The guv could run a stall at the end of Brighton pier: mind-reading.
“I know the horses have already bolted,” Byford said. “But she is going to come in.”
Natalie said she’d caught a brief glimpse of the rapist. She’d reluctantly agreed to go through the mug shots at Highgate, a none-too-pretty parade of pervs and known offenders. If that failed, she’d work with the E-fit guys, try to
compile a likeness. Bev gave an eloquent snort. Eleven months after the event? Just listen to those stable doors.
“I know how you feel,” the guv said. “Natalie Beck was selfish and irresponsible.” He rubbed a hand over a face etched with exhaustion. “But, my God, she’s paying a high price now.”
Bev agreed with a sigh. Sixty-five uniforms and almost as many plain-clothes officers had trawled every inch of the Wordsworth estate. All but a couple of dozen householders had been interviewed, more than eighty statements taken. Every empty building
had been entered and meticulously searched. Joe and Jo Public had put in more than two hundred calls to the hot-line numbers. The most promising were being acted on first. It was a lot of activity – and nada to show. Nothing had been thrown up that
led the inquiry an inch further forward. Not a single hair of the baby’s head.
Until now, the disused rail line in Moseley was the only rape scene Bev hadn’t attended. This was her second cruise past in the last twenty minutes. It was approaching midnight, bed was calling but the pull of the place was too
great. She left the MG on a single yellow line, grabbed a torch to augment pale moonlight, slipped on wellies and headed for the police tape.
After leaving Byford, she’d nipped back to Highgate, preferring to pore over the latest Street Watch reports than prop up the bar at The Prince with Nick Lockwood. The Beeb man had taken her last-minute cancellation in good spirits, sounding
like he’d already imbibed a few anyway. As well as the written reports, she’d studied the visuals. But stills, even video, only went so far. Bev had to feel a crime scene. The smells and touch, the atmosphere, the being there was
vital. A good cop had a sixth sense,
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