Baby Love by Maureen Carter Page A

but the voice was barely audible.
    There were tears in Bev’s eyes as she moved slowly across the room. Natalie was clearly on a knife-edge. Bev brushed at the dampness on her cheeks before kneeling. Natalie was still now, silently weeping. Bev took her into a tender embrace, then
gently removed the doll from her arms.
     
11
    Helen Carver dabbed a starched linen napkin at the stray croissant crumbs caught in her expertly applied Subtle Plum lip-gloss. Flecks of pastry fell on to Zoë Beck’s face, which covered most of the Mail on Sunday front page. “I see that baby’s still missing, darling.”
    Her husband didn’t respond. She glanced across. “Is there a problem?”
    David Carver was still standing, cradling the phone, a pensive expression on his brooding features. He appeared to be gazing at the waterscape through the window of their apartment, but if the pope had sailed past on a narrow boat Carver
wouldn’t have noticed. Neither was he listening. “Mmmm?”
    “The call?” Helen sipped espresso. “Anything wrong?” It was probably the college, she thought, or a pushy parent wanting extra tuition for little Johnnie or Joanna.
    Carver pushed a hand through thick black hair that was a shade too dark and a tad too long for a man clinging to middle age by short fingernails. “No. Just the police.”
    Helen’s hand jerked, sloshing coffee over the side of the porcelain cup. “Damn.” She dabbed her napkin at a spreading stain on the white damask. “Cloth’s ruined.”
    David either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He resumed his seat at the table and continued reading The Observer.
    Her hand was steadier now, if not her voice. “What’s it about this time?”
    “Oh, the usual... Blair’s-a-lying-bastard rubbish.”
    She exhaled sharply. “Don’t try to be funny. What do the police want?”
    “They want to talk to me. They’ll be here in an hour.” He shook the paper: end of subject.
    Not for Helen. “About the girl who was...?” She hated the very word. It contaminated her carefully created world where the garden was full of prize-winning roses, babies didn’t get snatched from their cots and teenage girls could
walk the streets unharmed.
    “A different one. There was another rape on Friday, apparently.” He reached a hand from behind the paper, drew it back clutching toast.
    Helen seethed. It was too bad. The police had a job to do, but... She treasured their Sunday breakfasts. On other days David was usually out of the apartment before she was out of the bedroom. Even with the baby, Helen rarely rose early – no
need with Veronica fussing around like a mother hen. Grandmother and child were out now, feeding the ducks. Helen’s dream of a peaceful idyll was shattered by the prospect of the police arriving, flat-footed and heavy-handed.
    She slung the napkin on the table. “I must say you’re taking it very calmly.”
    He lifted his glance from the newspaper. “There’s little point in us both having hysterics.”
    “But, David... We’re having people over. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow? I don’t see why they need to interrogate you anyway.”
    “ Talk , Helen.” He folded the paper precisely, lined it up with the edge of the table. “They want to talk to me. She’s a student of mine. They think I might be able to help.”
    “Help how?” She tugged compulsively at a sleeve.
    He shrugged. “Like before, I suppose, with the Quinn girl. They spoke to everyone in college who knows Kate. It’ll be the same this time with Laura Kenyon. And quite honestly, Helen, if something I say helps catch the sick bastard
who’s violating these poor girls, it’ll be a pleasure.”
    “Don’t swear. You know I hate it.” She shook the crumbs off her newspaper, the baby’s face now splotchy with grease. Helen used it to hide behind while she sneaked glances at her husband. She watched as he brushed a floppy
fringe from his eyes. It was a habitual gesture, like the way he flicked his