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He’d made a mental note to check with the medical man. “Blood tests. Jot it down, would you, love?”
    Patronising prick. “Blood tests?”
    “Yeah. I was going to ask if she’d been drinking. Could be why she was out of it for so long. And how she ended up in it in the first place.”
    “How d’you mean?” As if she didn’t know.
    “Girls nowadays, go out of a night, get tanked up. Alcohol lowers the resistance. And a few other things, if you get my drift.”
    She was beginning to understand Bev’s deep antipathy for the guy. She bit her tongue.
    “I’m not saying they ask for it...” He checked his hair in the driving mirror.
    “That’s exactly what you’re saying. And it’s bollocks.” It just came out.
    The lack of a comeback suggested he suspected he’d gone too far; he was certainly taken aback. He cast a surreptitious glance: bloody woman was probably on the rag.
    The continuing silence was punctuated by the odd sniff. He switched the wipers off, wondering how long ago the downpour had ended. He sighed. The rain would’ve played havoc with the crime scene. It was a quagmire down there and only a slim
chance of lifting a decent cast. Fucking lethal as well. At least he had his boots with him this time. He glanced again at Carol, who was looking queasy – probably feeling a touch contrite.
    “Meant to mention it before, love.” He was good at people skills. “The earring? Good question. Joined-up thinking.”
    The eye-roll was hidden beneath a tissue. “It was Sergeant Morriss’s,” Mansfield offered. “She’s convinced he takes them as trophies.”
    “Word in the shell-like, love. Morriss isn’t exactly flavour of the month. I’d keep your distance if I were you. The lads call her...”
    Lonely. “I’m fully aware what a handful of wankers call her. And know what? It’s double bollocks. Can you open the window, sir?”
    “Sure thing.” Change the subject. “Need some fresh air.”
    “Yeah. The car stinks of shit. Did you step in something?”
     
7
    Few crimes are bigger than child kidnap. Child murder is one. While there was the slightest chance of finding Zoë Beck alive, every available body was out there hunting. Blake Way and adjoining streets were teeming with police
officers, dog handlers and squad cars. Off-duty uniforms and detectives, who’d offered their services, were swelling the ranks. Volunteers were being briefed and would be employed on non-specialist tasks. Every householder had to be interviewed;
every shed, outbuilding, garage and lock-up searched. If Baby Zoë wasn’t found quickly, leave would be cancelled and unlimited overtime up for grabs. It would be taken eagerly. Crimes against kids touched every copper. Those who committed them
were scum.
    Bev registered the action with a glance as she stepped out of number thirteen. The fresh air was welcome after the suffocating atmosphere inside. And it had stopped raining. Puddles still pooled and pavements glistened but a weak sun appeared,
determined to shine.
    At six-five, Superintendent Bill Byford was a head above most of his officers and head and shoulders above the press pack. Bev spotted him, standing out against a roiling sea of pushy hacks shoving mics and camera lenses in his face. The notebooks had
been shunted to the back.
    With half an ear and growing incredulity, she listened to a string of questions that at this stage no one could answer and at any stage no one should ask. It was a close call, but most crass was: how’s the mother feeling? The usually unflappable
Byford was riled. She saw it in the tightened jaw and raised palms. The journalists must be fully aware nothing further would be released before the one o’clock news conference. She checked the time: 12.15. Three hours since the baby was reported
missing. She closed her eyes, mouthed a silent prayer.
    Unless God now answered prayers via a mobile, someone else was trying to get through. She ferreted for her phone in the depths of a