Free Baby Love by Maureen Carter Page B

doing it brilliantly.”
    “I second that,” Byford said. “Ignore the rubbish in the media. They’re stirring. It’s what they do best.”
    He was referring to that morning’s coverage in the Sunday Post. The banner headline read ‘POLICE IN CRISIS ’ . Despite the journalistic device of sticking quotation marks around the words, it came across as hard fact, not
what it was: predictable prejudice from a rent-a-mouth Midlands MP.
    Josephine Kramer was third-hand cant on legs. The media loved her. Christ, she wasn’t even Natalie Beck’s honourable member, nor as far as Bev recalled did she represent any of the rape victims. Informed opinion was a concept Kramer had
yet to discover; ‘outraged of Edgbaston’ was more her mindset. The popular sport of cop-bashing was on the rise, and Kramer was in training for an Olympic gold.
    Fuck the impact on morale.
    “Talking about stirring.” DC Darren New took up the guv’s point. “Anyone hear the radio this morning?” Dazza listening to the wireless? Bet it wasn’t Radio Four.
    “Birmingham Sound. They were trailing a Martha Kemp special: WAR on the streets of Birmingham.”
    “The protest tomorrow?” Bev asked.
    Dazza nodded. “Kramer’s gonna be at the rape scene with the organisers and there’ll be a bunch of studio guests.”
    “Like who?”
    He ran through the usual pundits and pondlifes. “Kemp promised a special guest as well: a young rape victim. She teased it as ‘the most moving interview I’ve ever conducted, the most moving you’ll ever hear’.”
    Laura Kenyon? Would The Mouth use her own daughter to boost ratings and take a pop at the police?
    Talk about the stage and Mrs Worthington.
    Powell’s limp-wristed round of applause was presumably meant to be ironic. “Nice one, Morriss. Your patronising little pep talk in there?” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the incident room. “Pass me the
sick bag.”
    The DI was lounging casually against a corridor wall, ankles crossed, condescension incarnate. It hadn’t been her finest hour; neither had it been the shit he was making out. And if it came to that, his troop address hadn’t exactly
inspired any martyrs. She laid a concerned hand on his by-now-furrowed brow. “Must say, sir, you do look a bit peaky.” She peered closer. “Maybe you should stay in more.”
    Powell’s lips were so tight they looked glued.
    She leaned her head to the side, enquired politely, “Perhaps you could give me a few tips before you go?” He hadn’t a clue till she enlightened him. “People skills? Do share.”
    Powell sprang forward, invaded her space. “Just one tip, Morriss.” An admonitory finger headed her way but an industrial-strength glare forced it off course. “Don’t stick your nose in.” A pause. “If you have Street
Watch input, it’s me you talk to. Savvy?”
    How the fuck did he know about last night?
    “Carol Mansfield has the makings of a decent copper. I wouldn’t want her picking anything up off you. Back off.”
    Bev gave a huge mental sigh of relief. The DI was still in the dark about last night. Though he’d obviously cottoned on to the fact she and Carol had discussed lines of questioning both before and after the Laura Kenyon interview.
    “You’re not even on the case, Morriss. You’ll not undermine my authority again.”
    An evidence bag rustling against her skin begged to differ. She took it from a shirt pocket, handed it to Powell. He screwed his eyes as he held it to the light.
    “It’s an earring,” Bev said. “I found it last night at the Moseley rape scene. Nothing to do with me, of course, but I suggest you speak to Laura Kenyon again.”
    She turned at the end of the corridor. Powell was still standing open-mouthed.
    “As for undermining your authority .” She gave a mock salute. “I’d have to find it first.”
    “Don’t let him wind you up, sarge. It’s not worth it.” Oz was more interested in trying to find a space to slot the motor than