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.
She tapped the wheel. Maybe she should let it go anyway? At least for the time being. It wasn’t as if she was scratching round for work. Christ, she’d agreed to go in tomorrow lunchtime even though it was her day off. As for future leave, she reckoned it wouldn’t be long before Powell cancelled it for the foreseeable. Daisy was still out there, and that meant all hands on deck for the duration. However long it took.
An early night, then? She gave a wry smile. It’d mean cancelling Johnny Depp yet again. She couldn’t fit him in and a date with her gran. Emmy reckoned seeing Bev would do the old girl the world of good. A right tonic, she’d said. Knowing Sadie, Bev reckoned a bottle of Bailey’s wouldn’t go amiss either.
Bottle. Baby. Daisy. Bugger. Bev’s fingers tightened round the wheel. Where was the little mite and would her dad’s outburst provoke the bastard who’d snatched her? Driving on autopilot, Bev tried to work out how many times Rayne’s sound-bite had been broadcast that day. Given the plethora of outlets she soon gave it up as a bad job.
She wound the window down, flicked on the radio. As God’s my witness, if you harm one hair on her head, I’ll … And flicked it off. Not that it mattered. The news blared out from other motors in the queue. Talk about surround sound.
Bev shook her head. If the kidnapper hadn’t heard Rayne’s threat by now, she reckoned he’d either gone to ground or was stone deaf. One thing she’d no doubt of: neither the cops nor Rayne had heard a peep from the kidnapper.
No news is good news? She didn’t buy into that crap.
The exposure had certainly opened the sluice gates at the sewage works. The police hotlines had been deluged with calls from fruitcakes and nut jobs. Daisy had been sighted by Tom, Dick and Harriet, here, there and everywhere; mediums had left detailed accounts of visions; a couple of loopy-loos said they’d heard Daisy’s voice in their head. A six-month-old baby. Go figure.
Danger was, genuine nuggets could slip through with the faeces, so poor sods on the squad were even now wading through the lot with a bullshit detector. And praying they got it right.
Trouble was, like Powell said earlier, anyone can make a mistake.