It figured. Grief could go different ways. People ranted, raved, passed out; others couldn’t utter a word.
‘Worshipped Lucy, didn’t they?’ She took a bite of bourbon.
‘Ground she walked on,’ he said. ‘And the baby. Last link with their daughter. God knows what it’ll do to them if we don’t get the kid back in one piece.’
‘I got the impression they didn’t see a lot of her.’ The Fosters and Raynes being such bosom pals.
‘Where you going with this, boss?’
‘Not sure yet.’ Not ready to share either. Cops generally suspect their own grannies. But Daisy’s granny? Was it even remotely possible she’d gone in for a bit of ad hoc baby-sitting? Powell would probably laugh Bev out of court and even she found it almost inconceivable. ‘If I get there, I’ll let you know.’
She sneaked another biscuit from her stash, read a text from Carol: Tempest remanded. Big wow. Threw a wobbly in court – swears Rayne did it. Even bigger wow. Bev sniffed. First the scrote played the bent copper card, now he was pointing the finger at Nathan Rayne. He’d be slapping an injunction on the tooth fairy next.
‘Rayne sobered up pretty damn quick, didn’t he?’
She blew a crumb off the screen. ‘You thinking it was an act?’
‘Yeah, and a ham one at that.’ Mac flung his head back, swept a hand across his supposedly fevered brow. ‘All that pose-pose, toss-toss.’
‘I take it you mean his hair?’ She twitched a lip that morphed into a curl when she read Powell’s reply: he wanted her back for the news conference. Whoop-de-woo. And, no, the Fosters hadn’t featured on his priority list. Sarky sod.
But did it mean they were still in the dark about Daisy?
‘Look at that lot,’ Mac said.
She lifted her glance, clocked a posse of hacks cosying up to the uniform on the gates. They had less chance of worming their way to Rayne’s doorstep than she did getting hold of tickets for a Stones gig in thirty years’ time. They could certainly get to the Fosters’ front door, though. Bev glanced at her watch, had to rule out a quick detour. Powell would go bananas if she was late.
‘I still think it was all a bit OTT.’ Waiting on a green light, Mac lowered the window, rested his elbow on the sill.
Bev had to think for a minute. ‘The Rayne theatricals? Yeah, I guess. Not mommie dearest, though.’ Stella Rayne’s role had been little more than a walk-on. She’d seemed chastened to Bev. Like she’d been ticked off. And what was with the scarf? Bev had nearly melted in the heat.
‘He made up for it. Loves the limelight, don’t he?’
‘Do he?’ She sneaked another biscuit. ‘Sounds a tad harsh to me, mate.’
‘You know what I mean: all that ‘me, me, me”. I tell you this: if one of my kids went missing, last thing I’d do is get rat-arsed, then argue the toss with the cops. I’d be out on the streets, knocking doors, stopping people, doing whatever it takes. Where’d you get the biccie?’
‘Amy gave it me.’ Two for Bev, two for Mac: fair’s fair.
‘Any more where that came from?’
‘Nah, sorry, mate. Last one.’
‘Shit!’ Mac gasped, swerved, jammed the anchors on. Bev kept her head down, thought for a second he’d thrown a strop. ‘Bloody nutter. Did you see that, boss?’
She looked up. ‘What?’
‘That bleedin’ taxi. Driver runs a red then has the nerve to flick me the V.’
Bev masked a smile. Mac’s driving wasn’t exactly up there with Lewis Hamilton. Christine, maybe. She fumbled in the depths of her bag for her keys. ‘Must be late for a pick-up.’
‘Pull another stunt like that, he’ll be late, period.’
‘Let it go, mate. We need to get a move on.’ He was dropping her at the pub car park. What with the fraught night and early shout, collecting the Midget had gone by the board.
Not the only thing. And not just the Fosters. The kamikaze cabbie had just reminded her she still needed to call the cab company from last night. She wanted a word with the driver. Eyes narrowed, she voiced the thought.
Mac cut her a glance. ‘Thought you said let it go.’
‘What?’ She realized they’d got their wires crossed. ‘Nothing, mate. Take no notice.’
‘Like I do?’ He winked.
‘Right-oh. I was gonna give you the last one, Tyler, but …’ She shoved a whole biscuit in her mouth, spluttered something unintelligible.
‘Not making any sense, boss. Still, nothing new, eh?’
28
Powell took a quick peek through the gap in the double doors, turned his head and mouthed, ‘Christ on a bike. That’s what you call a lion’s den.’
Bev felt her skirt ride up as she peeped over his shoulder. No wonder the news conference had been moved to the more spacious boardroom. Stood to reason, really. A baby snatch was always going to be big news, and when the father was a media player, it meant mega-big with brass knobs on.
Hopping back, Bev tugged her skirt down with both hands. The last thing she wanted was to flash any flesh en route to the conference table. Not when it was going to feel like walking the plank anyway. ‘You make ’em sound like spawn of the devil.’
‘Aren’t they?’ Powell sniffed. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’ She had the sense not to voice the obvious. Besides, he knew as well as she did that cops needed the media as much as the media needed cops. And when it suited him, the blond had never been averse to getting into bed with the press. Literally, on at least two occasions to Bev’s certain knowledge. Well, virtually certain.
‘Come on, then. Here goes.’ He rolled his shoulders, swung open both doors and strode in, jacket flapping like pigeon wings. The noise level took a dive, the frisson spiked, body language sharpened. Bev tailed behind, wishing she had eyes in the back of her head. She parked her butt next to a rookie press officer who was already shuffling papers and looking shifty. The guy barely made eye contact. Mind, his predecessor Paul Curran couldn’t have been matier if he’d tried. And look where that had got them.
Reaching for a jug of water, Bev scanned faces and reckoned that the customary seen-it-all-before insouciance was feigned this time, forced at least. Underneath it all, they’d be gagging for the juicy bits, of course, but at the same time she was pretty sure there was genuine concern out there for one of their own. At Powell’s request, Nathan Rayne was hovering in the metaphorical wings before making his entrance. Knowing what little she did about the guy, Bev wouldn’t be surprised if he was still in make-up.
Powell had certainly dabbed on a touch of concealer, but the bruising round his nose hadn’t gone away. She sneaked another glance at the damage. It looked like a birthmark in the shape of Australia. He stood at her left shoulder, hand in pocket, dwarfed by the backdrop of a smiling Daisy; the now familiar photograph had been blown up for maximum impact. After running through the intros he thanked them for turning out, then: ‘You all know why we’re here. Time’s pressing, let’s get cracking.’
Bev clocked a few glances between more seasoned operators, sensed their shared cynicism towards cops and anticipated a concerted attack.
A hand went up on the front row. ‘Tell us what you want, DCI Powell. We’re here to help any way we can.’ The local telly reporter looked a bit like Andrew Marr. Bev knew the face, struggled with the name. Watson? Wilson? Waters? Either way, what did she know about imminent warfare? Hostilities might only be on hold, but they’d not broken out yet.
‘Appreciate it.’ Powell nodded, tightened his lips then stepped aside to give an unhindered view of the baby’s image. ‘Daisy Rayne has been missing for just over eight hours. We need to find her. Return her to her father. Unharmed.’ He paused partly to let the import sink in, partly because, with all eyes focused on the baby, he’d momentarily lost his audience.
Bev was surprisingly impressed with the blond’s authoritative air, measured pace, steady delivery. Even more so when she realized it was a front. She’d clocked his fingers trembling when he reached for
the press release on the table. Probably why he left the sheet of paper where it lay and shoved his hand back in his pocket. ‘OK, listen up. This is what we know: at approximately 05.30 this morning, a person or persons unknown entered the grounds of Nathan Rayne’s …’
Bev tuned out, knew the statement by heart. Short and so not sweet, it gave the when and where but was pitifully short on who and why. Reporters appeared to hang on every word, but Bev knew they’d be itching to widen out the session, fire off questions. She recognized several more journos, print and broadcast, but going on numbers, national newsrooms had sent their own people as well. She took a sip of water, reckoned Daisy’s kidnap was set to make a hell of a splash.
‘Obviously what we’re looking for is witnesses.’ Powell was talking off the cuff now – Bev’s cue to text Mac, tell him to bring in Rayne. She reached for her phone; the one-word message was ready to go.
‘I’m urging anyone in the area at the time to think back, mentally retrace their steps,’ Powell said. ‘It’s possible someone saw or heard something significant without even realizing. I want them to ask themselves questions: was anyone else around? Did I pass anyone on the street? Did I hear a baby crying? A vehicle taking off at speed?’
Sniffs and bum shuffles from the floor. It wasn’t what the pack was after. Even to Bev it sounded like Powell was straw-clutching, but with so little to go on, what else could he give them?
Marr’s lookalike raised his hand again. ‘Can you confirm the baby was taken from her pram in the garden?’
Where’d he got that? Bev masked a frown, sensed Powell tense. It was journo-speak, the translation being: what the bloody hell was she doing outside on her own at that time in the morning?
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Both.’ Powell held the hack’s gaze. ‘All that matters, Mr Watson, is where Daisy is now.’
The guy shrugged, but broke eye contact first. Another hand went up, a youngish woman, freckles, short red hair, skirt like a belt. ‘Has the kidnapper made any sort of contact?’
Powell shook his head. ‘No.’
Not as far as the media and the public were concerned anyway. Bev swallowed, pictured the pink bootee with its hidden message. Powell had already told the squad he intended withholding the information. It wouldn’t be shared at this stage, if at all. The strategy wasn’t unusual in police inquiries. Anything that could encourage loony tunes or copycats to come forward was held back: no mileage in muddying the waters. In this case, the kidnapper’s state of mind was another factor in Powell’s thinking. Even holding a news conference might rile the bastard; revealing his billet-not-so-doux risked further cage rattling.
The redhead pursed thin lips, crossed chunky thighs. ‘So at the moment you’ve no idea what the motive is?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Surely there has to be a link with her mother’s murder?’ Her incredulous eyebrow put Bev in mind of a caterpillar with cramp.
‘There’s no “surely” about it, Ms …?’
‘Randall. Davina. The Express. I can’t see how the two aren’t—’
Powell staved off the double negative by tapping his pen on the desk. ‘A man’s been charged with Lucy Rayne’s murder, Ms Randall. There’s nothing to suggest he’s in any way connected with Daisy’s disappearance.’
‘At least – “not yet” – to coin a phrase.’ The caterpillar went into spasm.
Powell clenched his fist at his side. ‘Rather than take cheap pops, love, why not make a few notes?’ He sounded a tad defensive to Bev but then she wasn’t on the receiving end of smart-arse barbs. She glanced round. Where the hell was Rayne? If he didn’t show soon, Mac would be in line for a right rollicking.
‘Happy to, when there’s something worth writing down …’ Randall pointedly folded her arms.
‘A baby’s been snatched from her home. I need help from the public. What more do you want?’
‘I was led to believe Nathan—’
A click to the left and the side door opened. Talk of the devil. Along with everyone else, Bev watched Mac help Rayne towards the table’s empty chair. The hush that descended seemed a blend of respectful, curious, expectant. Once seated, Rayne raised a hand gave an almost regal wave. Bev had been spot on about his whereabouts, reckoned the guy must have stakes in Max Factor. Not to mention a tidemark round his neck. And was that…? She turned her head slightly for a closer look. Yep. A hint of eye-liner.
Powell leaned down and whispered something to Rayne even bat-eared Bev couldn’t hear. The star of the show nodded and sat forward, fingers laced on the desk. Powell straightened his tie, tucked it into his waistband. ‘Mr Rayne will read a prepared statement. There’ll be no questions today. Please respect his wishes at this difficult time.’
His wishes? That was rich. It had taken the better part of twenty minutes to persuade Rayne not to grant interviews. Christ, if it was his call he’d be guesting on Jeremy Kyle, then moving on to Loose Women. Bev had penned the short appeal because one word out of line and who knew what the consequences could be? She’d made it non-judgemental, and come as close as she dared to addressing the kidnapper directly. Rayne held the paper in both hands and looked round before starting to read. He’d been given an advance copy, so should be well versed by now.
‘I don’t know why Daisy has been taken. Or who’s looking after her. If someone could just let me know she’s well and … unharmed. All I want is to have her home, safe and sound. Daisy has never hurt anyone in her short life. I’m begging anyone with information to contact the police. Please, help find my little baby.’
Bev couldn’t fault his delivery. The pained expression and faltering voice were pitch-perfect, brimming eyes cast down at all the right moments, pauses in all the right places. There was barely a dry eye in the house. Well done, that man.
‘I’ve lost my wife – I won’t lose our baby too.’ Bev frowned. That sure wasn’t in the script. Talk about going off-message. ‘I’ll do anything. And I mean anything,’ – including jumping up and banging his fist on the table – ‘to get her back.’
Cameras turned, shutters clicked, tapes rolled. ‘Stop filming now.’ Powell glared at the pack then softened his voice. ‘Mr Rayne, please. Enough.’
‘Nothing’s enough. Absolutely nothing. Not until I’m holding Daisy in my arms.’ He stared into the lens of the nearest camera. ‘As God’s my witness, if you harm one hair on her head, I’ll …’
His face did the crumple thing again. He flopped into the chair, sobbing. Powell cleared the room but not before warning salivating hacks not to use the footage. As to the exact nature of Rayne’s threat, the media was left to speculate.
Nothing new there then, either.
Powell, arms crossed, leaned on the wall next to the vending machine, watching Bev feed coins into the slot. ‘Think they’ll use it, Morriss?’
‘Rayne’s off-piste rant?’ She opted for black coffee, the least of several evils. ‘Does shit stink? ’Course they’ll use it. Good telly, innit?’ Tearful tirade from meeja big shot. Christ, she could bash out the copy herself.
‘Yeah, but I warned them what it could do. Airing the last bit.’ Inflame. Incite. Ignite. He’d warned Rayne beforehand, too. Like that had worked. ‘And fair’s fair, Morriss. There’s such a thing as journalistic ethics, you know.’
‘Epitome of an oxymoron, mate.’
‘A what?’
She flapped a hand. ‘If by some slim chance they don’t show it on the box, pound to a half pee it’ll end up online.’ In-your-Facebook. Twatter. Down-the-tube. Social media, they call it. Dead social.
‘For the baby’s sake, I hope the bastard kidnapper doesn’t see it.’ He sniffed, peeled himself off the wall, headed towards the squad room.
You and me both, mate. Still watching him, she took a slurp, shuddered and spat it out. ‘Sodding hell.’ It was only cowing Bovril.
Powell turned, called out. ‘What is it, Bev?’
; ‘No worries.’ She raised a palm. ‘Must’ve pressed the wrong tit.’
‘I do it all the time.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘We all make mistakes.’
Like failing to inform the Fosters about Daisy. Local radio had thoughtfully helped them out, though. Some dumb-ass reporter had broken the news, then asked Marie Foster how she felt. Such a probing question. Bev curled a lip. She’d hardly be feeling hunky-dory. The woman’s tearful appeal for Daisy’s safe return had even moved Bev. Thank God she’d not mooted her babysitting theory to Powell.
The interview had ended pretty badly, too. The reporter had excelled himself by asking Mrs Foster how she felt about the way she’d heard the news. Bev could hear the woman now. ‘I can’t believe they didn’t tell us in person!’ she’d cried, then hit out at cops in general, Powell in particular. Bev paraphrased mentally, but the drift was he’d treated them like shit on a shoe.
Maybe she should go round some time and apologize. See what’s what.
See whether the look on Marie Foster’s face was any less venomous than last night.
29
Nathan Rayne’s face was still plastered all over the shop. Bev had been spot on about the potentially inflammatory footage, not to mention explosive soundtrack. The clip had been aired everywhere all afternoon and even five hours on the story still led local and national TV and radio bulletins. Newspapers were in on the act too; some front pages carried bigger pics of Rayne’s scowl than Daisy’s smile. The Birmingham News on the MG’s passenger seat testified to that.
Bev sighed, glanced at the clock on the dash: just coming up to half five. Traffic on the Highgate Road was stop-start. She’d caught the tail-end of Friday evening’s not-so rush hour. Powell reckoned he was doing Bev a favour letting her knock off early. Fact she’d been on the go for twelve hours, and missed a night’s zeds, seemed to have passed him by. Though he’d only had to look. Peering in the mirror in the ladies’ loo had given her a right fright. Eyes like a lemur with a set of Louis Vuitton.
A lie-in was out the question too. She daren’t call off the early meet with Charlie Silver. If the old boy kicked up rough and refused to see her again, her best hope in the Baby Fay inquiry could go down the pan.
Grave Affairs Page 15
