official line is that he's a nutter," Andy said.
"Pretty much. But we're treating it very seriously. A child's life is at stake here, I don't want irresponsible reporting sending this guy over the edge. Is that clear?"
"I'm on it. Talk to you later."
Lawson cursed under his breath then hurried toward the door. This was going to be the day from hell.
Weird asked the taxi driver to make a diversion to the retail park in Kirkcaldy. When they got there, he handed the driver a wad of notes. "Do me a favor, pal. You can see the state I'm in. Go and buy me a mobile phone. One of those pay-as-you-go jobs. And a couple of top-up cards. I need to be connected to the world."
Quarter of an hour later, they were back on the road. He fished out the sheet of paper on which he'd scribbled the mobile numbers for Alex and Lynn. He tried Alex again. Still no response. Where in the name of heaven was he?
Macfadyen stared at the baby in perplexity. It had started crying almost as soon as he'd brought it indoors, but he hadn't had time to deal with it then. He had e-mails to fire off, to tell the world what was going on. Everything was prepared. He only had to get online and, with a few mouse clicks, his message would go out to every news organization in the country and most of the Internet news sites. Now they'd have to pay attention.
He left the computers and returned to the living room, where he'd left the baby carrier on the floor. He knew he should stay with it to prevent the police separating them in an assault on the house, but its cries had driven him to distraction and he'd moved it so that he could concentrate. He'd drawn the curtains there, as he had in every other room in the house. He'd even nailed a blanket over the bathroom window, whose frosted glass was normally uncurtained. He knew how sieges worked; the less the cops knew about what was going on inside the house, the better for him.
The baby was still crying. Its wails had died away to a low grizzle, but as soon as he'd walked in, it had started screaming again. The sound went through his head like a drill, making it impossible to think. He had to shut it up. He lifted it up gingerly and held it to his chest. The cries intensified, to the point where he could feel them resonating in his chest. Maybe it had a dirty nappy, he thought. He laid it on the floor and unwrapped the blanket that swaddled it. Underneath was a fleece jacket. He undid that then opened the poppers that ran up the insides of its legs, then unfastened the vest underneath. How many layers did the fucking kid need? Maybe it was just too hot.
He fetched a roll of kitchen towel and knelt down. He unpeeled the tapes that held the nappy secure around the child's belly and recoiled. God, that was revolting. It was green, for Chris's sake. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he removed the dirty nappy and scrubbed away the remains from its bottom. Hastily, before anything fresh could erupt, he dumped the baby on a thick wad of kitchen towel.
All that, and it was still crying. Jesus Christ, what did it take to shut the little bastard up? He needed it alive, at least for a while yet, but this noise was driving him crazy. He slapped the scarlet face and earned a brief moment's respite. But as soon as the shocked child had filled its lungs again, the screams intensified.
Maybe he should feed it? He went back to the kitchen and tipped some milk into a cup. He sat down, cradling the baby awkwardly in the crook of his arm as he'd seen people do on TV. He poked a finger between its lips and tried to dribble some liquid in. Milk trickled down its chin and onto his sleeve. He tried again, and this time it struggled against him, the tiny hands fists, the legs kicking. How could the little bastard not know how to swallow? How come it acted like he was trying to poison it? "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouted. It went rigid in his arms, wailing even more.
He struggled for a while longer, without success. But all of a sudden, the crying stopped. The baby