Baby Love Read Free Page B

hummed and hedged like a musical privet.
Maybe the officers he’d put on house-to-house might come up with a whisper. He’d heard nothing yet.
    The only known fact was the girl’s name and even Lockwood knew that was a no-no. A rape victim’s identity was rarely released to the media, even without the current three-line whip demanding anonymity that Martha Kemp had apparently
issued. Powell hadn’t spoken to the woman, but he’d had an ear-bending from Byford who clearly had. What a nightmare: a female control freak with friends in high places.
    Lockwood took advantage of Powell’s wandering thoughts, hoping his casual delivery of a loaded question would slip by unnoticed. “So there is a link with the previous attacks?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    Can’t win them all. Lockwood bowled another. “So there isn’t a connection?”
    “I didn’t say that either.” Powell regarded Lockwood with renewed interest. The man might look like a crumpled sofa but the journalist brain was sharp as a razor and equally cut-throat.
    “So what are you saying?”
    The newsman had let local radio and the print guys do their bit first so they wouldn’t be around to pick up any exclusive gems Powell might drop during Lockwood’s turn. It wasn’t working; this was more swine before pearls. Powell, or
Blondie as he was commonly known among the hacks, wasn’t singing at all, let alone from the same crime sheet.
    “At this preliminary stage in the inquiry, it’s not possible to indicate whether this incident is related to...”
    Blah-de-blah-blah. Lockwood tuned out. Apart from a complete lack of anything worth using, at this rate he’d be lucky to hit Newsnight .
    “Finito?” the inspector asked with a smile that bordered on smug.
    “Yep,” Lockwood agreed. “That’s a wrap.” He’d wasted enough energy on this blond twat. He’d give Bev Morriss a bell; she didn’t do police-speak and often had something worth saying.
    He’d been surprised not to see her out here. He sensed she wanted a collar particularly badly on this one. They’d bumped into each other quite a bit in the course of Operation Street Watch. He’d even financed a pinot or two in the
Prince of Wales. It was a police pub, good for contacts. Lockwood made it his business to drink there regularly. When Bev Morriss was around it was pleasure as well. Off the record, he reckoned she was well fit and a fucking good cop. And she’d
tossed the occasional snippet his grateful way. Question was, could he sweet-talk the delectable DS into parting with a quality steer?
    Lockwood was still mulling it over as he reached the top of the slope and heard a string of expletives ring out from behind. The newsman didn’t actually see Powell’s tumble; the inspector was already down when Lockwood turned. Blondie had
landed slap-bang in what looked suspiciously more pungent than a puddle of mud. The newsman watched as one of the SOCOs raced across to lend an arm.
    A red-faced Powell flapped a hand in angry dismissal and immediately lost his footing again. Lockwood had to turn away. Shame the camera hadn’t been running. The crap might wash off the fancy footwear eventually, but it’d be a bugger to
get the stains out of what looked like a brand-new Barbour. As for the smell... Lockwood smiled. Had there been cattle around, he’d swear it was bullshit.
     
4
    Travis was spouting Why does it always rain on me? Bev flicked off the CD with a finger and gave a heartfelt sigh. “You and me both, mate.” The downpour was now a deluge but she wasn’t talking weather;
she’d turned into the Wordsworth estate. She was chasing a wild goose on Balsall Heath’s Little Gorbals, where you washed your motor on the way out. Assuming it still had wheels.
    Way she saw it, the whole business was a non-starter. No one snatched babies on the Wordsworth. Girls popped them out like peas, swapped them for a pack of fags. With a bit of luck, she’d be back at Highgate within the hour.