Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

Sean headed for the door with Sally trailing in his wake, the crystal-clear air hitting him like a plunge into freezing water as soon as he opened the door, temporarily taking his breath away. He skipped down the stairs and headed for their car, then sat on the bonnet, breathing in as deeply as he could before blowing out great plumes of breath, trying to settle his spinning mind. But still he was left with only questions — questions to which he had no answers, just too many broken, ragged theories.

‘Family Liaison Officer?’ Sally asked. ‘Why are we wasting our time doing all that? Let’s stick a dog unit in there and find this kid.’

‘He’s not there,’ Sean answered. ‘If he was, the mother would have found him — I would have.’

‘So he’s got a secret hiding place nobody knows about. He can’t hide from a dog.’

‘I’m telling you, he’s gone,’ Sean insisted, the unintentional aggression in his voice silencing Sally.

She was silent for a moment, considering her next move.

‘Listen,’ she opened, ‘maybe the Keller case is messing with your head a bit? Believe me, when it comes to having your head messed with, I’m an expert.’

‘Meaning?’ Sean asked, prepared to consider anything.

‘Keller took his victims from their homes before he killed them,’ she explained. ‘Maybe that’s stuck in your head, making you see similarities here that don’t actually exist.’

‘The boy’s gone,’ Sean insisted, his voice sad and resigned. ‘But get a dog to check it over anyway. It might find something .’

Sally studied him for a moment, searching for things in him that not so long ago she’d seen in herself. ‘OK,’ she relented, ‘so the boy’s gone. Someone came in the middle of the night, somehow got in, took the boy and left, all without being seen, heard or leaving any signs of entry.’

‘Either they had a key,’ Sean told her, ‘or they picked the locks.’

‘Christ, Sean,’ she reminded him. ‘Lock-picking’s bloody rare.’

‘Good, then that helps us. But why lock the door after they’d left? Why would they do that?’

‘Because they’re insane.’

‘Or because they cared about the people they left in the house — didn’t want to leave them at risk. Exposed.’

‘You mean the father?’ Sally asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Why would the father want to abduct his own son?’

‘Why do some fathers slaughter their entire family at the first sign their wives might leave them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sally admitted. ‘You tell me, Sean. Why do some men do that?’

‘Better to destroy something you love rather than lose it.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No. No it doesn’t,’ he agreed. ‘Much like this case.’

‘So what you want to do?’

‘Keep an open mind.’

‘Easier for some than others,’ she mumbled.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘How’s your shoulder, by the way?’

‘Sore. And you?’

‘Better and better,’ she told him.

‘Is there something you want to ask me, Sally?’

‘No,’ she lied again. This was not the right moment.

‘Then we’re wasting time,’ he told her. ‘Time we don’t have.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Featherstone sat in his office at Shooter’s Hill Police Station looking at pictures of sailing yachts in the magazine he subscribed to and kept hidden inside a pink cardboard file marked Confidential . Owning a nice thirty-two-footer had long been his retirement dream, but constant pay-cuts, pay-freezes, allowance-scrapping and now attacks on the police pension were turning his dream into a fantasy. If he could make it to the rank of commander before he retired, the dream might still be alive — just. His mind drifted to Sean and the sort of results he seemed able to pull out of a hat. At the end of the day, he was Sean’s supervising officer and therefore in a position to bask warmly in the reflected glory of Sean’s successes — successes that might just get him over the line and promoted to commander before deadline-day struck. But only if things kept working out and Corrigan didn’t fuck up. He liked the man and watched his back better and with more fervour than most senior officers ever would, but he wasn’t about to put his head on the chopping block for anyone.

His daydreaming was interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone on his desk. He answered it slowly and without enthusiasm. ‘Hello, Detective Superintendent Featherstone speaking.’

‘Alan. Assistant Commissioner Addis here.’

Featherstone felt his heart drop and his bowels loosen slightly. ‘Sir.’

‘I’ve assigned that case we discussed to Inspector Corrigan,’ Addis told him.

‘That was fast,’ Featherstone replied.

‘I thought the sooner he got on with it the better. The quicker we act the more chance we have of finding the missing boy.’

‘If there’s been foul play, Corrigan’s the best man to lead the investigation. He won’t let anyone down.’

‘I hope not,’ Addis told him, making it sound like a threat. ‘Let’s hope your confidence in him isn’t misplaced.’

‘Like I told you in the beginning, sir, Corrigan has special qualities. In the field, he’s one of the best I’ve ever seen — and I’ve seen some good ones.’

‘Good,’ Addis replied. ‘Then once it’s confirmed the boy is actually missing I suggest we get the media in and tell them how confident we are of bringing the investigation to a swift conclusion. Some good publicity for the Metropolitan Police would be very useful right now.’

‘Publicity?’ Featherstone asked, his voice riddled with concern. ‘Don’t you think it’s too soon for publicity? Maybe we should give Corrigan and his team a little breathing space for-’

‘Breathing space?’ Addis asked mockingly. ‘That’s a luxury we don’t have in the Metropolitan Police. Not any more. This is a results-orientated business, and Corrigan has been brought here to deliver those results. He has until tomorrow, then I’m briefing the press.’

Featherstone heard the line go dead, leaving the echo of Addis’s words sinking into his consciousness. A results-orientated business . Is that what they were now — a business? He looked down at his magazine, open at a page showing a sleek thirty-two-footer, and his dreams of retirement and yachts faded as abruptly as his conversation with Addis had concluded.

‘For God’s sake, Sean,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘don’t fuck this one up or Addis will have both our heads mounted on his office wall — and it’s not like we’ll be the first either.’ Shaking the unpleasant thought from his head, he went back to reading his magazine.

Sally and Sean arrived back at Room 714 to the chaotic scene of a dozen or more detectives unpacking cardboard boxes containing everything from personal belongings to keyboards and phones they’d commandeered from their old office back at Peckham. The chaos they created was matched by the noise levels as they universally moaned and groaned about being moved, the size of their new office and the lack of power-points. At the centre of the discontent was Donnelly, conducting the orchestra of rebellion, his voice easily heard above the din as he searched for the strategically best placed desk. He wasted no time speaking his mind as soon as he saw Sally and Sean enter. ‘This place is worse than Peckham,’ he called to them. ‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here, and have you seen the size of the queue in the canteen? All I wanted was a cup of tea.’

‘Not out here,’ Sean told him, his eyes resting on the box Donnelly was holding. ‘You share the larger side office with Sally. The smaller one is mine.’