Baby Love (24 page)

“No idea.” He overtook a well-preserved Morris 1000 convertible. “I can’t begin to imagine the pressure they’re under.”

She had an inkling; she’d witnessed the Becks’ ordeal. She closed her eyes, almost overwhelmed by the scale of the job ahead. Sweet Jesus, give us a break. Let the bastard be on security tapes.

“Talking of me, me, me,” Oz said, “what about the Beck girl?”

Natalie would be informed of the development, of course. And they’d need to establish pretty damn presto if anything linked the families. David and Veronica Carver had already scotched the suggestion. Now under sedation, Helen was in no position
to scotch or substantiate anything. As for Oz’s thinking that Natalie Beck knew more than she was letting on about Zoë’s disappearance, it looked like another theory blown out of the water.

Bev gave a dismissive sniff. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I still reckon it’s worth a word.” Cool voice but he gripped the wheel like a vice.

Given Jessica’s abduction, interrogating Natalie wasn’t top of Bev’s to-do list. Over the next few hours and days, hell breaking loose would look like a stroll in the park.

“I wouldn’t bust a gut on it, Oz.”

If one missing baby was big news, two were global.

None of Highgate’s conference rooms could accommodate the media turnout. The entire shooting match had decamped to premises up the road, a spartan hall used for yoga classes. The way it was going, Bev reckoned she’d be
signing up for meditation. A trestle table had been erected at the front; Byford and Bernie Flowers were behind it. Talk about sitting drakes. Bev leaned against a side wall, observing the action, trying to ignore the smell of stale bodies, cheesy socks
and cheap air freshener. Thankfully the news bureau had only ever needed to borrow the place three times: the night of the Birmingham pub bombings, the day a terrorist cell was discovered in Small Heath, and now.

“What are we dealing with here?” Nick Lockwood fired the first question as soon as the guv threw it open. Given the size of the story, Bev reckoned the Beeb would already be mobilising its bigger guns. London faces have more clout than
regional bods. Presumably the journalistic equivalent of calling in the Met. Bev glanced at the guv, wondered briefly what the journos’ reaction would be if just for once he gave it to them straight: no police-speak, no fudge, just a plain and
simple ‘fuck knows’?

Byford laid down his pen, linked his fingers. “It’s impossible to say at this stage.”

She lifted an eyebrow: posh version, then. Either way they didn’t have a clue. Common sense suggested a link between the abductions, the same perp responsible for both. But what if the second snatch was down to some nutter? Not so much carbon
copy as copycat?

Or maybe they should take another look at a possible medical connection. What if Oz had missed something first time round? She’d read a case only last week about foetuses and newborns being stolen for stem-cell research, organ supply. OK,
Birmingham wasn’t back-of-beyond, but even so... Way it stood, they couldn’t afford to discount anything. The guv was winding up the spiel along the same line.

“...as always, we have to keep an open mind.”

The bland statement elicited a collective groan, then a chorus of competing voices.

“Surely you’re linking...”

“You must have...”

“What about CC...”

“What’s the thinking on...?”

Byford quelled further queries by raising both hands. Vague mutterings and dark scowls suggested the horde wouldn’t be fobbed off this time by a bog-standard public appeal. Her thinking was right. Even before he’d finished, journalists
were on their feet, throwing pointed questions. One was louder. And sharper.

“Who’ll be taking over the inquiry, superintendent?”

Bev winced as Byford snapped a furious “What?”

“Standard procedure, surely. You’ve had a crack. Clearly a bigger whip’s needed.”

The lank hair was no longer tied back and the gold-framed specs were absent, but the breathtaking arrogance was all there. Bev put name to know-it-all face: Colin Squires, Sky News.

The newsman flicked a page in his notebook. “Are you aware the MP Josephine Kramer is tabling a question in the House? Police incompetence, public accountability...”

The WAR front had died down recently; the honourable member for predictability had found herself another wagon with a band. Bev tucked hands under armpits, out of harm’s way. The guv’s flush suggested he was struggling to keep a lid on it
as well. He gave Squires a scathing look, then rose, scraped back the chair. “I’ve got work to do. A baby’s missing out there.”

Whoops. Bad slip. Hopefully no one would...

“One baby, superintendent?” Squires drawled. “Maths not up to scratch either? What’s the line? To lose one is unfortunate, but two...”

Bev pushed away from the pillar. Far from exiting stage left, the guv stormed into the pack, heading for Squires. Fired up wasn’t in it. Spontaneous combustion threatened.

Byford grabbed the guy’s lapels, shoved his face close. “You supercilious piece of shit.”

Suspended animation. Not a sound. Not a flicker. Bev held her breath; reckoned she wasn’t alone. The guv wasn’t shouting but every word reached the cobwebs in the rafters.

“We’re talking tiny babies missing here, parents’ lives on hold. And you’re making cheap cracks. People are going through hell. Tell me, Mr Squires, where’s the humour in that?”

The newsman tried making light of it. “Chill, man. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Your kind never do,” Byford spat, releasing his grip.

“Truth hurts, does it?” Squires casually pulled the material back into shape, but his face was the colour of a dirty sheet.

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked you in the teeth.” The guv clenched a fist.

Bev darted in, grabbed the arm. “Come on, guv, he’s not worth it.”

Byford hesitated, aware presumably he’d already gone too far. The hacks still hung on every word; cameras captured every frame. The exchange was
so
not Byford. Even Bev would have thought twice with the media around.

“Scoring points off me, sonny, is pathetic. I’m doing everything in my power to find
two
missing babies. I don’t have time for games. Sod off and play with yourself.” He ignored the sniggers, jabbed a finger in
Squires’s chest. “You’re no longer welcome at my news conferences.”

“You can’t...”

“I have.”

Every glance followed as Byford stalked from the hall. It was a one-off performance and drew a unique response: tentative clapping from a handful of hacks swelled into a wave of applause. The pack had turned on one of its own. The guv might still get
a savaging in the press but for now he was getting a show of respect.

Bev hoisted her bag and followed in his wake. Miracles did happen. How about a couple more, Big Guy?

“Oh my God.” Natalie sprang up from a sagging sofa, flung a hand to her corrugated forehead. She’d been lying back watching the usual parade of losers on daytime TV: loud women with cellulite of the brain and ugly
geezers with ball-breaking beer bellies. Mostly they’d shagged family or their best friend’s wife/husband/Alsatian. Natalie couldn’t get enough of it. Normally she switched off mentally during the news but not this time. A picture of
Zoë had flashed on the screen. Then she’d looked closer.

“No fucking way.” Another baby. Gone.

Terry Roper wandered in, jaw-cracking yawn displaying back teeth and residual tiredness. Late morning, he was clad only in headphones and black boxers; it didn’t take a genius to detect where the iPod nestled. “Wassup?”

Natalie jabbed a finger at the box. The pictures, voiced by an unseen reporter, showed the news conference, then shots of the canal and Brindley Place, finally a split screen showing both Jessica and Zoë.

Roper snatched at the cans. “Fuck’s going on?”

Natalie darted round the room. “What’s it look like, moron?” She found the phone and furiously hit buttons. By the time the switchboard located Bev, Natalie had worked up enough steam to power The Rocket. “How’d you think
I feel seeing that on the telly?”

“Hold your horses,” Bev soothed.

“Sod off.”

Instant calm. Well done, Bev. The girl’s outrage was justified, though. Somewhere along the line, communication had broken down.

“I did send someone to have a word, love.” And they’d be getting it in the neck.

“Don’t
love
me. It’s a fucking disgrace.”

Her distress wasn’t all due to the way the news had been broken, Bev thought. Up to that point, Natalie probably still clung to the hope she’d get Zoë back. With the abduction of a second baby, she’d think the odds had
lengthened out of sight. She’d have shot either messenger, Bev or the media.

“I’m truly sorry.” What more could she say?

Wind. Sails. Natalie spluttered. “Yeah, OK...”

Roper, who’d had his arm round Natalie listening in, was not placated. He grabbed the phone. “What the hell’s going on?”

“You talking to me?”

“Sarky cow. Listen up...”

“Butt out. Put Natalie on. Now.”

Natalie staggered back as he thrust the phone in her face. She gave him the finger as he stamped out, heading upstairs. “Sorry, say again.”

“The other family, Natalie. The Carvers. Do you know them at all?”

“Yeah, sure, go to the same cocktail parties. ’Course I don’t fu...”

“Don’t mess about. I’m serious.”

The teenager paused this time but the answer boiled down to the same negative. “Name don’t mean a thing. And I only go to Brindley Place to get bladdered – not hobnob with the neighbours.”

“Did the news carry pictures of them? The parents?”

“Nah, don’t think so.”

“You might know them by sight. I’ll arrange a meet.” Bev scribbled a note.

Natalie jumped when the front door slammed. Roper passed the window, pulling on a leather jacket. She shook her head. Typical Tel. Guy does a runner just when she needed a bit of support. “Zoë’s never coming back now, is she?”
The voice was flat, the resignation heart-breaking.

Bev closed her eyes, wished she were there. What could she say? Chin up? It’ll all come out in the wash? Yeah, right. It’d be cruel to tell her what she was desperate to hear. The abduction of a second baby meant there was either a crazy
copycat criminal out there or the original kidnapper had upped an evil game. Either he wanted Jessica as a playmate for Zoë or he needed a replacement.

Angel was crying. For the first time in the baby’s life, no one came to console with soft words and soothing fingers. The mousy woman was in the same room, staring through the window, but light years away.

She hated television. Never watched. Was desperate for access now. She’d just heard the news on Radio Four, The World at One: a baby missing in Birmingham. It didn’t make sense.

Angel was screaming now, red-faced and squirming.

“Shut up!” The woman’s raised voice, as much as the rare tone, stilled the nerve-shattering wails momentarily. Then the baby’s cries increased in volume. The woman stroked her temples, her own eyes tearing, pulse pounding in
her ears.

Quiet, she needed peace and quiet. She needed to think, had to think clearly. She left Angel on the changing mat, hurried to the haven of the nursery, closed the door on the squalling baby.

No scenario she came up with explained what they’d said on the radio: baby snatched, parents distraught, police exploring a possible link with an earlier abduction in the city.

How could it be? What was happening? She forced herself to take slow deep breaths: in to a count of ten, hold for five, out to ten. By the time her heart rate had slowed and the dizziness faded, the mousy woman had arrived at a decision. She had to
know. There was only one way to find out.

Right now, though, the baby needed her. She inclined her head, listening. The house was quiet. Not a peep. Angel must have cried herself to sleep. For the first time, as she dashed from the room, she omitted her normal ritual. The rainbow swung anyway
in the draught from her wake.

Bev dunked a seriously flushed face into a nearly overflowing sink. The women’s loo at Highgate wasn’t the classiest venue in which to cool down, but it was all she had after hours spent orchestrating the search in and
around Brindley Place. She felt a tentative hand on her back, heard DC Carol Mansfield ask if she was OK. She nodded briefly, then raised her head, water cascading down cheeks and chin. Carol passed a handful of paper towels.

“Do-it-yourself christening.” Bev winked. “Fancied a new name.”

Carol didn’t need to know she’d been bawling her eyes out for the last five minutes. The enormity of the crimes, the scale of the task facing the squad, had crept up on her during the afternoon. Two tiny babies snatched while sleeping in
their own homes. It was evil, wicked beyond belief. And still not a lead in sight. Scalding tears had threatened and she’d slipped out of the incident room. Big boys don’t cry. Nor did Bev. Not in front of the hard men.

“Dunno ’bout christening,” Carol shouted from a cubicle. “More like baptism of fire. Has it been this mad since the off?” She was among fifteen officers temporarily assigned to the hunt for the babies. Byford’s
call.

“Bedlam now, Caz.” Everything was times two: non-stop phone calls, a million sightings, door-to-door inquiries, street interviews, exhaustive checks. Everywhere the public looked, Jessica Carver’s beautiful face appeared alongside
Zoë Beck’s. The images dominated news coverage and were posted at strategic points all over the Midlands.

“String the bastard up, I say.” Carol emerged with a scowl. She had a boy and a girl, both at primary school.

“By the balls,” Bev concurred. “When we’ve collared him.”

“Or her.”

They exchanged glances in the mirror. Bev tamped down a mental mug shot of Myra Hindley. Carol averted her gaze, washed her hands. “Doesn’t bear thinking about,” she said. “The Carver baby’s the spit of my Naomi when she
was born. It’s a lovely photo, consid...”

Bev lifted a finger. The call she’d been expecting. She scrabbled for the phone at the bottom of her bag, nodded a couple of times, felt the hairs rise on her nape, her pulse rate go up as well. “Be right there, mate.”