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Sorry.” It was the only photograph around because it was the only one Maxine Beck had given away. Terry Roper – Mr Blue Moon – said he’d driven over with it the minute he
heard it was needed. Max had phoned and told him to look out for a woman cop in blue with a chin-length bob and a mouth on her.
    “She was right.” Roper winked. “’Bout the blue.”
    Bev arched an eyebrow Byford-fashion, didn’t return the cheeky grin. She had him down as Lovejoy meets Jack the lad: an alumnus of easy-charm school. His soft black curls looked just washed and striking slate-grey eyes glinted from a face that
could sell skin-care products. He was only five-six but every inch looked as if it visited health clubs. Daily. The leather coat was dark chocolate, the chinos and granddad shirt mocha and milk. Tasty.
    “Where were you last night?” Bev didn’t beat around bushes. Not when a baby could be hidden there.
    “I was with Max,” he said.
    Bev narrowed her eyes. So Max was telling porkies.
    “Till half-eleven.”
    Had she given Maxine’s lie away in her face? Roper’s was doing a poker. A diamond stud twinkled in his left earlobe.
    “And then?”
    He’d gassed the car and picked up a balti on the way home. Bev wrote times and names. “We’ll check. Naturally.”
    It should have taken the wind out of his overblown sails, but he only nodded. “I’ve probably got receipts in the motor if it’ll get me out of the frame.”
    “Watch The Bill , do you?” Bloody cops-on-the-box. Telly addicts knew as much police procedure as some of the uniforms.
    “I’m not thick, sergeant. Stands to reason you’ll look at anyone who knows the family. But do it quick. ’Cause some bastard out there’s got the baby. And if I get to him first, he’ll be lucky if he survives.”
Roper’s fists were clenched at his side. The tremor was detectable, as were the tears in his eyes.
    Easy words. Byford had heard it all before. “We’ll need to talk to you again, Mr Roper.”
    “You’ll find me at Max’s. I’m staying here till this thing’s sorted.”
    They watched him walk away, then headed for the motor. As Byford got in, he pointed skywards. A stunning double rainbow overarched the ugly sprawl of the Wordsworth estate.
    “Know what, guv?” Bev said. “I’d rather find the baby. You can stick the pot of gold.”
     
8
    Bernie Flowers, the head of the police news bureau, had commandeered Highgate’s biggest conference room. The vast space only just coped with the numbers. The media turnout here was almost on a par with that of the officers
flooding the Wordsworth estate.
    A baby-snatch wasn’t a filler at the bottom of an inside page. Zoë Beck’s tiny face would be splashed across every newspaper and television in the country, posters would soon be going up all over the Midlands and uniform would shortly
be swamping the city with thousands of leaflets. Within hours the baby’s image would be imprinted on the national psyche in the same way as that of James Bulger, Holly Wells, Jessica Chapman, Sarah Payne... The list was too long. To Bev’s way
of thinking, one child’s name was too many.
    She was uncomfortably hot and sweaty under the telly lights and she had to keep screwing her eyes against the glare coming off the table. It was distracting and something was bugging her; she couldn’t pin down the errant niggle. She itched to
get back to the action. Under the conference table’s highly polished mahogany her legs jiggled, desperate to get up and go. Sitting on her butt listening to stupid questions was a complete waste of time. Four hours and counting since that empty cot
was found.
    She glanced right. Though Byford was in the hot seat, Bernie was taking most of the flak. Not that he couldn’t handle it; a passing resemblance to John Major was misleading. Bernie was a grey suit but had one of the brightest brains in the nick,
not to mention a technicolor turn of phrase. He’d started in news on Fleet Street and