Bev closed her eyes. If she’d been there, Sadie would never have ventured out.
‘The ambulance people were ever so good,’ Emmy said. ‘And the police. I don’t know what I’d have done if…’
‘I should have been there, Mum. I’m so so sorry.’ After what seemed an age, Emmy took Bev’s face in her hands and held her gaze. ‘It’s not your fault, lovey. I should’ve kept a closer eye out. You mustn’t blame yourself.’
Bev broke down then; great heaving sobs coursed through her body, scalding tears seeped between her fingers as images played in her mind: Sadie, Byford, the babies she’d lost, the baby that never was.
Emmy held her close, gently stroked her hair until the sobs subsided. The hankie was damp but Emmy pressed it on her anyway. ‘Dry your eyes, sweetheart.’
Bev swallowed hard. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Always. It’s what mums do.’
She gave a token smile. If she lived to a hundred and birthed a dozen kids, she’d never be able to hold a candle to Emmy.
Dawn was just breaking when Bev walked out of the hospital. Standing outside, she lit a baccy cadged from one of the nurses, took a deep drag, and waited for the nicotine hit. She narrowed her eyes to look at the sun still emerging on the horizon, a huge yellow ball slowly rising through bands of vibrant oranges and golds. In the misty middle distance, she could just make out the ghostly grey silhouettes of the uni clock tower and a scattering of high-rise tower blocks. She took another drag, decided to walk a while, clear the fog from her head.
Sadie was barely recognizable under the bandages. Her tiny frame was bruised and bloodied and, when she came to, would undoubtedly be well bowed. Her gran had never completely recovered from a savage beating several years back. Bev sighed. Wondered what this would do to the old girl.
The registrar had let her and Emmy pop into the side ward to have a peep. Emmy had insisted on sticking round until Sadie woke from the general anaesthetic. Bev had been loath to leave but her mum had insisted on that, too. Truth to tell, Bev hated hospitals: couldn’t abide the smell, the heat, the hushed voices, haunted faces.
She took another drag, glad she’d decided to walk. The dawn chorus was in full flow; traffic hadn’t started building up yet, so no fumes, apart from the obvious. Which reminded her, she’d best get a pack. She’d pop into a newsagent get a drink and a Mars bar. How’d they used to market it? A Mars a day helps you work rest and play. She curled a lip. Better get a couple of boxes, then. Actually better yet, she’d call the nick first, tell whoever was on the graveyard shift to let Powell know she’d be late. Without a couple hours’ kip-eye, she’d be no good to man, beast or woman.
The ringtone sounded as she scrabbled in her bag for the phone. A glance at the screen showed Powell’s name and number. She frowned. Tad early for the blond, wasn’t it?
‘Gaffer?’
‘Morriss. Are you up?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Good. Get to the Rayne place quick as you like.
‘Look, gaff—’
‘Look nothing. The baby’s missing. Someone’s snatched her.’
24
The cab driver shaved the journey time to twelve minutes. As Bev waited for her change, she glanced at the time again: 06.15. Powell stood outside Rayne’s house, scanning the estate. The number of police vehicles parked on the drive and in the lane meant a search of the property and grounds would already be under way. En route, she’d clocked teams of detectives knocking neighbours’ doors, patrol cars cruising nearby roads. Textbook procedure. Acting DCI Powell wouldn’t want any cock-ups in a case like this, not if he wanted to do it for real.
He nodded as he walked to meet and greet her. Poor sod. The bruises on his face had come out in technicolour, the swollen lip looked tender.
‘What’ve we got, gaffer?’
‘She was snatched ninety minutes ago from the garden.’
‘Gar—?’
‘Just listen will you, Bev?’ He didn’t sound tetchy, just didn’t want any time-wasting. ‘Rayne was up with the baby anyway. She’d been awake for ages. He wheeled her out in the pram, thought the fresh air might send her off.’
Jesus Christ. It had done that all right. ‘Go on.’ Don’t say he’d left her out there on her own.
‘That’s about as far as I got before he broke down.’ Powell sighed, rolled his eyes. Not lack of sympathy, she could see the concern written on his face. When every second counted, Rayne’s collapse was eating into the minutes.
‘Oh yeah,’ Powell said. ‘He told the attending officers he likes to see the sunrise whenever he can. Watches it from the back of the house most mornings. Finds it … spiritually uplifting.’ Another eye-roll. Yeah, OK, Powell’s simpatico had limits. ‘Any road, he shouldn’t be long. He was in his dressing gown when I got here – reckons he’ll feel happier in his clothes.’
‘Fair enough.’ He must’ve been communing with nature even before the larks. ‘What did he say when you told him about Tempest?’
‘I didn’t.’ She frowned. Powell was supposed to have phoned Rayne last night, keep him abreast. ‘He didn’t pick up when I called and I didn’t get round to it later.’ She turned her mouth down. News that a man had been charged with his wife’s murder sure wouldn’t be giving Rayne unalloyed joy now. Powell stared at the ground, probably thinking much the same thing.
Bev stepped back a pace or two, ran her gaze over the house. Curtain twitch there? With the bedroom window wide open it could’ve been a draught. Not much breeze to speak of, though, and the sky was the sort of blue that sold holidays in Florida. What with the trees and the flowers and the dappled light, it was all pretty idyllic. Or had been.
‘Anyone else in at the time, gaffer?’
‘His mother. Dead to the world apparently.’ He shoved a hand in a trouser pocket. ‘Reckon she’ll offer a cup of tea.’ In your dreams. Powell would’ve had an early shout, too, but he’d have grabbed a darn sight more zeds than Bev.
‘How’d she seem?’ she asked.
‘Not too bad. Someone’s got to keep it together, haven’t they?’ Again according to the attending officers, Rayne’s yelling and banging about had woken Mrs Rayne. She’d looked out back and searched every room before making the triple-nine call.
Bev sniffed. Wondered how long that took. ‘I take it there was no note or anything?’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. Not.’
She’d asked for that.
There’d been no calls, he told her, no contact of any kind. Comms would set up a tap on the line within the hour. A family liaison officer had been assigned and should be with them any time soon.
‘Is Mac here?
‘Yeah, he’s around. But don’t go playing hide and seek. When Rayne gets his act together, I want you with me.’ Powell had sure changed his tune, not long since he’d not wanted her anywhere near an interview. ‘Actually, Morriss, Rayne mentioned you by name. He remembers you from your last visit. Must’ve made quite an impression.’ She was about to raise a modest palm when Powell added, ‘’Course, he might’ve had too much sun.’
Nathan Rayne stood with his back to the detectives and gazed out through vast sliding glass doors. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he murmured. ‘I just can’t believe it.’ What? The ‘Cops del Sol’ vista? The pram on the terrace getting the full works from a white-suited SOCO? Officers in blue overalls down on their knees finger tipping the lawns? Uniforms flitting through the tree-line at the bottom of the garden?
Or that his own nigh-on inexplicable behaviour had resulted in his daughter’s abduction? She watched him slowly shake his head several times.
‘I couldn’t have been gone more than a few seconds.’
Bev and Powell raised eyebrows in sync. He had to be talking bollocks, unless the invisible man or woman had branched out into the kidnap business.
Powell cleared his throat. ‘When you say a few, Mr Rayne?’
‘Thirty? Forty? I can’t remember.’ He flung h
is arms in the air, turned to face them. ‘All I know is I want her back. Where on God’s earth is she? Who the hell’s she with?’
‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down, Mr Rayne?’ Good on you, gaffer. Powell, like Bev, was keen to have a close-up of the guy. His wife’s murder might not have been a personal attack, but snatching a baby could hardly be anything else.
Rayne sighed, took the armchair opposite Bev and Powell’s settee. ‘I nipped inside to fetch her bottle.’
‘Made up, was it?’ Bev asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did it need heating?’
He held her gaze for a count of ten. ‘I had absolutely no reason to think she wouldn’t be safe in her own home … garden.’ She hadn’t seen a face crumple before, knew what the expression meant now. ‘First Lucy. Now the baby. I’m not sure I can take any more.’ He covered his mouth with a hand.
Bev noted the damp hair, the aftershave, the classy grey cords and matching linen shirt. Last thing she’d do with a child missing was spend time tarting herself up, not to mention play the woe-is-me card. Recriminations would come later, but clearly it took longer than forty seconds to prepare a bottle.
‘You noticed her missing immediately you went back?’ Powell.
He nodded then, eyes creased, stared ahead as if replaying the scene it in his head. ‘It took a while to sink in. I lifted the quilt, looked under the pillow. Stupid, I know. But I just couldn’t make sense of it. I even thought for a minute Mother might have come down, taken her inside, but she…’ He sighed, shook his head.
‘You didn’t see anyone, hear anything?’ Powell asked. ‘Engine, maybe? Footsteps. Rustling.’
‘I only wish I had.’
‘OK, what did you do then?’
Raced round the garden, he said, ran all over the house shouting Daisy’s name, calling his mother. ‘I was frantic. Desperate. Knew she’d gone. Knew it was useless.’
Knew she’d gone. Knew it was useless. Bev wondered if there were reasons his conviction was so strong.
‘You said there was no note?’ Bev asked. ‘No ransom demand?’
‘Ransom? You think it’s money they want?’ He looked nonplussed. But it had to be a strong possibility. Rayne wasn’t short of a bob or two, and the recent extensive media coverage of Lucy’s murder had undoubtedly boosted his already middling public profile.
A professional would have cased the place for days, weeks even, clocking and recording Rayne’s movements, habits, visitors coming and going. Bev pursed her lips. It was early days yet, but the tight time frame pointed to someone who knew what they were doing, someone watching, waiting, biding their time, who spotted an opening and grabbed it.
‘Had you taken Daisy out there before, Mr Rayne?’ she asked. ‘That early in the morning, I mean?’
‘She’s a poor sleeper.’ He licked his lips.
So, yes. ‘How often would you say?’
‘Once or twice.’
Probably more, then. To a certain extent it backed up Bev’s theory. She hoped it panned out that way. It was a damn sight better option than one or two of the other scenarios playing in her head.
‘How long were you out there before going back inside for the bottle?’ Powell again.
‘Five, ten minutes? Daisy had calmed down, seemed quite happy gazing up at the sky. I thought if I got her some milk …’ The voice cracked, he dropped his head again.
‘Can’t you see he’s had enough?
Bev and Powell’s heads shot round simultaneously. How long had Stella Rayne been in the audience? Arms folded, ankles crossed, the woman leaned against the back of a chair and going by the sneer on her face she didn’t think much of the show. Like Rayne, she’d taken care with her appearance: tailored taupe frock, subtle make-up, not a grey hair out of place.
‘If you’d done your job properly – we wouldn’t be in this mess.’
Bev frowned. How the hell did that work?
Pushing herself off the chair, Mrs Rayne talked as she headed towards them. ‘Rather than hounding my son, where was the police protection?’ She flung an arm in the direction of the glass doors. ‘There’s a sick individual out there somewhere.’ Bev clocked Powell’s matching frown. Mrs Rayne must’ve seen it too. ‘Surely it’s clear he’s being persecuted, someone is out to get him?’
It’s your granddaughter they’ve got, lady. Bev tightened her lips. The old bag might have a point, but establishing whether a link existed between Lucy’s murder and Daisy’s abduction wasn’t the priority. Not at this stage.
‘Finding Daisy’s my main concern right now, Mrs Rayne,’ Powell said evenly.
‘Really?’ she drawled. ‘Let’s hope you have better luck than finding my daughter-in-law’s killer.’
‘Mother.’ The voice held a warning.
She raised a hand. ‘How long’s it been now? Four weeks, five?’
‘Mother.’ A warning Stella Rayne couldn’t fail to hear.
‘And what have you got to show for it?’
Tell her, gaffer, come on.
‘He’s streets ahead of you. And now Daisy—’
‘For Christ’s sake, shut up.’
‘Nathan.’ She put a hand to her face as if he’d slapped it. ‘Darling, you’re upset, you can’t—’
‘Stop telling me what I am or am not. I’m not a child. Make yourself useful. I’d like some coffee, please. I’m sure the officers would, too.’
‘Three sugars, splash of milk, ta.’ Not quite a Mars bar but it would do.
‘Before you go, Mrs Rayne,’ Powell said. ‘Both of you should know we charged a man last night with Lucy’s murder.’
Rayne looked speechless.
Not so his mother. ‘Good for you. Let’s hope you’ve got the right man. Because it certainly wouldn’t be the first time the police had made a mistake, would it?’
Bev bit her tongue. She’d come across women like Stella Rayne before, they were never wrong, always had to have the last word. After her son’s slap-down, her parting remarks had also been a pretty patent attempt at face-saving.
‘Please excuse her,’ Rayne said. ‘She’s very protective.’
‘No shit.’ Bev cringed, raised an apologetic palm. Shame the maternal instinct hadn’t extended to her granddaughter.
‘No matter. Not when—’
They all turned at a tap on the glass. A sergeant in uniform. His face said there was news: the expression said it wasn’t good.
25
‘We’ve not touched it, sir. Obviously.’ Powell didn’t need telling, or Bev; they barely heard anyway. The detectives squatted alongside the sergeant, Garry Noon, and gazed down at a stretch of scummy water. Just out of reach, entangled in a clump of tall reeds, lay a pink bootee. The green stuff could’ve been bulrushes for all Bev knew, until now she’d not been aware Rayne had a pond. She’d glimpsed it as Noon led the way down a cinder track that snaked behind a fancy pergola smothered in roses, almost the same shade of pink. Little wonder Bev’s sinking feeling had grown.
‘How deep is it?’ she asked, trying to make out shifting shapes under the surface, praying not to see a tiny body in the murky depths.
Portly, mid-forties, Noon wiped his heavily-lined forehead with a hankie. ‘Coupla feet?’
Deep enough. She glanced at the cops standing round in waders and gauntlets waiting for a green light, almost wished she had the right gear herself. Standing, she shaded her eyes, working out what lay beyond the trees. Grass area, access road. Easy enough for someone to leave a motor there. The bootee could’ve just slipped off when they were carrying Daisy past. She voiced the thought to Powell.
‘Maybe.’ He rose to his feet, Noon followed suit and they all made way for the guys in waders. Bev held her breath as they stepped gingerly into the knee-high water, watched them gently part a carpet of lilies to a sound track of tiny splashes and birdsong. A wasp circled her head. She batted it away. Again and again. Then froze. Creased her eyes. She’d caught a glimpse. Just a flash. Something flesh-co
loured.
‘I saw something. There.’ She pointed, tried making it out again. ‘Near your foot.’ Well, near where his foot would be if she could see it through the film of algae.
‘There’s a few in there, sarge,’ Noon said. ‘I think they’re tench.’
‘Trench?’
‘Tench.’ Powell cut her a glance. ‘It’s a fish pond, Morriss.’
‘Sorry.’ She raised a sheepish hand, resumed viewing. The slow motion action looked almost balletic, all they needed was a bit of Swan Lake. Scrub that. Bev held her breath again as the younger man worked his way nearer the trapped bootee. He crouched down by the reeds, fumbled in a tunic pocket for an evidence bag.
‘For Christ’s sake, get your hands off me.’ The angry shout reached them seconds before Rayne, red-faced and gasping, made an entrance. ‘What’s going on? I insist—’ For several seconds he stood rooted to the spot. Bev followed his gaze to the officer who’d started gently disentangling the bootee.
‘Mother of God.’ Rayne sank to the ground, both palms pressed against his cheeks. ‘What have they done?’
Sunlight glared off glass when an upstairs window was flung open. Stella Rayne must’ve heard the commotion. Silhouetted in the frame she stared down, impassive, fingering the string of pearls.
‘Sir.’ Everyone refocused on the pond. The young cop waded towards them, holding the plastic bag aloft. ‘You need to take a look. There’s something in it.’
26
Don’t bother looking
Four hours on, and with the sun streaming through the glass, the chilling words still sent ice down Bev’s spine. Glancing round the deferred brief, she’d no doubt the feeling was shared by every detective in the room. Not that it was packed; most of the squad was out in the field. Task here was to try to get an overview, firm up strategies, work out who and what they were dealing with. One thing was certain: he or she was no happy amateur. Bev mentally censored the ‘she’: Powell had told everyone to stick to using male terms, for verbal brevity as much as anything.
Whoever. Dropping the bootee in the pond must have been planned in advance. The note slipped inside had been typed, the small folded square of unlined paper wrapped in cellophane. No fingerprints of course, but proof positive the snatch was no opportunistic spur-of-the-moment act of insanity. Bev tightened her lips. Make that cruelty. The kidnapper had come prepared, the crime was calculated, cold-blooded. Down to the finest detail, he knew what he was doing. Shame the same couldn’t be said about the inquiry. At the moment its brush strokes were pretty broad.
Grave Affairs Page 13
