She pulled the ring on a can of Red Bull, glanced up at Operation Steel’s hastily-assembled whiteboard. The newly-assigned title had been scrawled in thick black marker by someone with dodgy writing. Hainsworth probably, he’d arranged the visuals. While sipping, Bev ran her gaze over the display: aerial shots of the locale, a street map with key locations arrowed and underlined, half a dozen ten-by-eight shots of the crime scene, a pic of Daisy’s smiling tiny face, and a copy of the kidnapper’s note writ large. Bev shivered again.
Don’t bother looking
Because you’re already too late?
‘I hope to God we get an early break, guys.’ Powell sounded knackered already. Bev knew adrenalin and caffeine were about the only things keeping her going. Apart from the sleepless night, she’d worn the same gear for over twenty-four hours and was conscious she needed a shower. Badly.
Powell looked in only slightly better shape. He stood side-on to the board, pointer tucked under an elbow. His hair was mussed, the lip leaked beads of blood. Not often she felt sorry for the blond, and the sympathy now had little to do with his appearance.
The pressure on cops to find a missing baby was massive, and as gaffer it was his job to deliver. She knew he’d worked kidnaps before, most of them had, but nothing quite like this. A case where they had just three words to go on. Powell tapped each one with the pointer. ‘Because whatever the bastard has in mind, I don’t like it.’
Nor did Bev. She glanced along the line at Mac, Carol, a few of the others she knew had kids. Their faces showed total focus, utter determination. Mind, you didn’t have to be a parent to feel the menace behind the message. But how the hell did you interpret it?
Rayne certainly hadn’t come up with anything useful before the sedatives kicked in. With Lucy’s murder, and now Daisy God knew where, the guy must be teetering on the edge of a complete collapse. Even Stella Rayne had appeared shocked, subdued, though Bev would be hard pushed to say who the woman felt most concern for, her son or the baby. The fact the matriarch had eventually agreed on having a family liaison officer berthed in the house spoke volumes, Bev reckoned. And Amy Harwood was probably the best FLO at Highgate.
‘“Don’t bother looking” doesn’t have to mean the worst, gaffer.’ Carol.
‘How’d you work that one out, Pembers?’
‘Could be they intend making contact soon with details of a drop. Once Rayne pays up, they reveal where she is.’
And they all lived happily ever after. Bev stifled a snort. Maybe she’d share the Pollyanna optimism if she was a mum.
‘Not doing it for you, Morriss?’ Powell slipped a hand in his trouser pocket.
‘Can’t say it is.’ The perp must know Rayne would call in the police, and as a pro he’d be well aware making contact of any kind would be fraught with risk of capture. They already had phones tapped, covert surveillance in place, as well as an increased and overt police presence both on the ground and in the air. Besides which, cops cracked most cases either by intelligence from witnesses or the criminal cocking up: so far they’d had diddly from the public and the abductor hadn’t put a foot wrong. Bev couldn’t see him stepping out of line any time soon.
‘If they’re only after cash,’ she said. ‘I reckon they’d have made that clear while they had the chance.’ In the note.
‘You keep saying “they”, Morriss?’
‘You know what I mean.’ She flapped a hand. It could just as easily be a joint operation, though. They’d assumed a lone wolf, but it didn’t necessarily follow. And not everyone had jumped to that conclusion. She pictured Nathan Rayne’s face when he saw the bootee, recalled what he said: What have they done?
‘Y’know, gaffer, we’d best not write off the chance there’s more than one person behind this.’ A lot depended on motive. If a big pay-off was the target, Daisy was probably worth more alive than dead. A sole operator would find it difficult to handle the crime’s drop and pick-up details and at the same time care for a six-month-old baby. As keeping balls in the air go, it was a big ask for one pair of hands.
‘Nothing’s ruled out. Open minds all round, OK? Either way, Morriss, you reckon a ransom would have been spelled out here?’ He tapped the note again.
She nodded, still thinking it through.
‘So what if it’s not cash they’re after?’ he asked.
Powell knew the alternatives as well as, if not better than, every cop in the building. Babies weren’t snatched for the good of their health.
‘Let’s hope I’m wrong, eh?’ She pressed the can against her throbbing forehead.
‘Cheers to that.’ Sighing, he checked the time on his watch. ‘OK. Half ten now. She’s been gone five hours. If nothing gives before midday, we get the media on board.’
Bev said nothing, probably didn’t need to. More often than not with ongoing kidnaps, cops asked the press to slap on a news blackout. Theory being that inaccurate and/or sensationalist reporting could jeopardize an inquiry and more importantly endanger lives, especially the victim’s. Once news desks got wind of Daisy Rayne’s abduction, they’d go apeshit. There’d be saturation coverage and in itself that was a double-edged sword.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Morriss.’ Powell reached for his jacket. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t see how there’s anything to lose.’
Don’t you? She took her gaze from the whiteboard, but still saw Daisy’s face.
27
Powell must’ve been mad to think they could keep it under wraps. The force helicopter wasn’t scrambled lightly and Moseley was currently crawling with cops. Plus some punters tip the wink to the press a damn sight more happily than they ring the police. Either way, hacks were on the sniff long before midday. Within minutes of the brief breaking up, Bev had to brave a pack of them milling round outside the station’s main entrance. Mac was parked up somewhere out front, idea being he’d run her home, she’d nip in for a shower and change then they’d head back to Rayne’s place.
Standing on tiptoe, Bev craned her neck this way and that, but trying to spot her lift through a battery of cameras and boom mics was easier said than done. A thickset guy barged in front of her wielding what looked like a dead ferret on a stick, and asked what she could give them.
‘Word in your ear.’ Smiling she beckoned him closer, lowered her voice to an almost seductive purr. ‘Shove that thing near my face again and it goes where the sun don’t shine. Savvy?’
His corresponding smile faded pretty quickly. ‘With a baby missing, I’m surprised you’ve got time to stand around making idle threats.’
‘Idle?’ She took a step closer, heard a horn beep, reckoned Mac must be getting restless. ‘Must be your lucky day, mate.’
‘Yeah,’ he called after her, ‘Let’s hope it’s yours too.’
Twenty minutes later Bev emerged from home smelling, if not of roses, a damn sight more fragrant than when she went in. Despite the blazing sun, she’d opted for the darkest shade that her exclusively blue wardrobe contained. She’d not worn the two-piece for a while, owing to Powell’s habit of calling it her meter-maid outfit. And she swore if he mentioned parking tickets just once more, he’d get a slapping. Actually, best not, Tempest had been there, done that. If the blond didn’t want to scare the viewers, he’d need more than a touch of pan stick for the news conference.
She spotted Mac leaning across to open the passenger door. He’d been listening in on the police radio. Just in case. ‘All set, boss?’
‘Sure am. Hit the road.’
‘Feel a bit better now, do we?’ During the drive over, he’d heard about her night on the hospital tiles. Nothing to do with Bev playing the sympathy card, more the need to make him aware she might be firing a cylinder or two short and he’d best sharpen his ball skills to compensate.
‘I’ll live, ta, mate.’ Looked like Sadie would too, thank God. Bev had managed a quick call to the hospital, learned that the old dear had come round OK from the anaesthetic and her condition was stable. She’d got a
condition check on Cathy Gates, too. She was showing a slight improvement, thank God.
‘Fancy a nibble?’ Bev flashed a bar of Frankie’s fruit and nut that she’d found stashed at the back of the fridge.
‘Yeah, why not?’
She handed him a square.
‘That it?’
Tutting, she snapped off another. ‘Breakfast, this is, mate.’ Elevenses too, and the way they were going probably lunch. She sensed Mac casting covetous glances as he drove. Tough. He could go whistle. After polishing off the last piece, she licked her fingers.
‘Y’know, boss, if you don’t mind me saying …’
Obviously she would, then. She rolled her eyes.
‘You’ve definitely looked better.’
‘Saying I look shit?’ Scowling, she pulled down the visor checked her face in the mirror. Yeah, OK. ‘Fair enough.’
Compared to Nathan Rayne, Bev looked a million bucks plus. The guy’s dark circles, deep lines and drawn features were doubtless down to a cocktail of trauma and tranquillizers. The finger of scotch he’d just poured wouldn’t help either. Cradling the glass, he now stood legs spread in front of the fireplace and knocked back a slug. From what Bev had picked up in a quick exchange with Amy in the hall, it wouldn’t be Rayne’s first nip of the day. Amy was now fixing coffee, strong and black as per Stella Rayne’s instructions.
‘Please sit down, Mr Rayne.’ Bev smoothed her skirt. Alongside her on the settee, Mac had a notebook open on his lap. Mrs Rayne sat opposite, straight-backed, straight-faced, fingers laced. She’d swapped the pearls for a fancy silk scarf, and it looked to Bev like she’d applied another layer of slap. ‘Mr Rayne, please, we need to talk.’
‘What good will that do?’ His words were a tad slurred and he stumbled a frac when he took a step nearer the detectives. His mother winced, tightened her lips. Seemed to Bev the woman’s disapproval wasn’t reserved exclusively for the police.
‘My colleague and I have a few questions.’ She glanced at Mac, whose gaze was fixed on Rayne. Just in case.
‘Questions, questions. You’re all talk, you lot.’ Whisky sloshed over the sides as he swung his arm in a wide arc. ‘Why aren’t you out there looking for my baby?’
‘Nathan, please.’ Stella Rayne shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sure they’re doing what they can.’
He pulled a face, mimed her words.
‘Your mother’s right, Mr Rayne.’ Bev talked them both through the steps already taken, how many officers were working the inquiry, how within a couple of hours the media would be on the case. She’d already spotted another news pack drooling at the gates of the estate. Talk about word getting round. Bev frowned, wondered if Rayne had given his media buddies a heads-up.
‘We intended calling them in anyway,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘But I’m guessing someone tipped them off.’
He didn’t bite. ‘Cops do job. Big effing news. I’ll get the bunting out, shall I? Throw in a fatted calf? What do you say, mama?’
‘I say you should sit down and try and stay calm, dear.’
‘When my baby’s out there at the mercy of strangers? Christ, she could be anywhere by now.’
Bev bit her lip. She felt sorry for the guy, but: ‘This isn’t helping, Mr Rayne. If the kidnapper makes contact you need to be in control.’ Sharp as a tack, not pissed as a fart. And if, as she suspected, he had it in mind to go on camera, appearing half-cut wouldn’t do a lot for his public persona.
‘In control, you say, sergeant?’ Rayne threw back a theatrical head, but the laughter was brittle and didn’t last long. ‘Can’t you see I’m in hell? I’ll do anything to get Daisy back. Anything. But I don’t know what they want.’
They, again? She opened her mouth to pick him up on it, but he dropped his head, sobbed into his chest. She nodded at Mac.
‘Let me take that, sir.’ He relieved Rayne of the glass, steered him sideways into an armchair. Stroking the scarf, Mrs Rayne kept her gaze on her son. Bev stifled a sigh, studied Lucy’s portrait again. Since her last visit, someone had tucked Daisy’s photo into the gilt frame. Like mother, like daughter; they had similar smiles. She hoped to God they wouldn’t share a similar fate.
Bev narrowed her eyes. Had the Fosters been told about their granddaughter? Why hadn’t it struck her before? Oh, let’s think. Diddly sleep, cylinder shortage, million things on her mind. Yes, but she’d recently had the dubious privilege of Marie Foster’s company. Even Mrs Bitter and Twisted had a right to know what was happening. Surely Powell would have tasked a squad member with breaking the news? She stiffened. Assuming it was news. What if …?
‘Don’t you think, sergeant?’ Rayne said.
‘Sorry?’ It took a second or two for her to refocus.
He nodded at the painting. ‘Beautiful, wasn’t she? Lucy. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose them both.’ He pulled a tissue from a box at his feet. ‘Until just now I assumed whoever killed Lucy must have snatched Daisy too, but with the murderer behind bars I guess the crimes can’t be connected.’
‘Why did you think the same person was responsible, Mr Rayne?’ Bev asked.
‘Come on, sergeant.’ He blew his nose. ‘How unlucky can a man get?’
She’d had the same thought but reckoned he had a way to go yet. ‘We always keep an open mind, but at the moment we’ve nothing to link the two.’
‘Nor rule it out?’
She shook her head, still trying to remember exactly what Marie Foster had said last night.
‘The man you’ve charged? What’s his name?’ Stella Rayne rose to clear a space on the table for Amy, who approached toting a tray.
Bev could do without the distraction of the question, never mind the coffee, but the Raynes were looking for enlightenment. Besides, Tempest was due before magistrates any time soon and the media would undoubtedly cover the story. She gave them a few details as Amy handed round the drinks.
‘Brian Tempest?’ Rayne’s eyebrows knotted. ‘The guy I gave cash to? Stinking lowlife bastard.’ He balled his fist, told them he’d known Tempest off and on for years, asked how anyone could be such a two-faced shit. Bev pointed out the man had yet to be convicted but Rayne didn’t appear to be listening. He sighed, ran both hands through his hair. ‘So I really am the unluckiest guy on the planet.’
The self-pity grated on Bev. ‘Let’s concentrate on getting Daisy back, yeah?’ She outlined the surveillance operation, the plumber’s van parked outside a neighbour’s with a team of detectives in the back, the increased police presence in the area – uniformed and plain clothes – the ongoing door-to-doors and street interviews. Bev wondered if Rayne realized that without leads, descriptions, witnesses, the police action amounted to little more than a row of beans.
‘Unless there’s anything else, sarge, I need to make a call.’ Amy tucked the tray under her arm. ‘Just so’s you know, I’ve been fielding a load of questions from reporters.’
‘I bet. You’re telling them there’s a news conference?’ The FLO nodded. ’Course she was. Blonde and well fit, she might look like a trolley dolly but there was a lot more to Amy than ferrying drinks.
‘I’d like to be there,’ Rayne said. ‘When you talk to the media.’ Why wasn’t Bev surprised?
‘No worries.’ She took a sip of coffee then casually asked whether they’d been in touch with Lucy’s parents, told them what was going on.
‘I haven’t.’ Rayne cut a glance at his mother.
Stella shook her head. ‘It never really occurred to me. I mean it’s not as if they can do anything, is it?’
Bev raised an eyebrow. At Stella’s flared nostril as much as anything. Mental notes made, she got the questioning back on track. Elicited Rayne’s movements over the last few days, where he’d been, who he’d met. Asked if he’d noticed anything out of the ordinary, anyone tailing him – his car being followed, maybe. It was just possible CCTV would’ve picked something up that could give them a lead. Detectives were already viewing footage from came
ras on the estate and environs. Mac, at risk of writer’s cramp, turned another page.
Rayne poured more coffee. ‘Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to get spotted?’
‘Why do you keep saying “they”?’ Bev parroted Powell’s words.
‘No reason. I just assume these people work in gangs.’
The answer was definitely quick off the mark. Too quick? But if he loved Daisy as much as he professed, why would he conceal information?
‘We’ll leave you to it in a min, Mr Rayne, but I have to ask again: do you have any idea – even an inkling – who might be holding your daughter?’
‘None.’ There’d been zero hesitation as well. She just hoped he’d already given it plenty of thought.
‘And Mrs Rayne? How about you?’ Bev reached down for her bag, caught an exchange of glances between mother and son.
‘None, I’m afraid.’
Given the note and the subsequent silence, Bev was afraid too. She knew damn well that until the kidnapper made contact – assuming he did – the squad could be playing catch-up in the too little, too late, last chance saloon.
‘Have you come across the Fosters, Mac?’ Head down, biscuit in one hand, Bev texted a query to Powell.
‘Just the once. Why?’ Backing out of the drive, he nodded at the uniform on the door who was recording comings and goings. Logo cop.
‘What you make of them?’ She was scrolling through new messages now. Not that she was into multitasking. Clearly.
‘I didn’t exactly see them at their best, boss.’ He told her he’d been there when Powell delivered the death knock. ‘Like zombies, they were.’
Grave Affairs Page 14