Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘Because he wants to,’ Sean explained. ‘They all want to — that’s half the reason they do what they do. He just needs a few more shoves in the right direction. I’m going to pop back to the Yard and see what’s happening. Get hold of the local superintendent and have them meet you here in the morning to sort out an extension of detention for McKenzie. I’ll meet you back here later tomorrow morning to interview him again. Once you’ve got it sorted, go home and get some rest while you can.’

‘And you?’ Sally asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact to hide her concerns.

‘I’ll get home later,’ he promised as he headed for the exit. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he called over his shoulder and was gone.

‘Here we go again,’ Sally told no one. ‘Here we go again.’

Donnelly stood on the doorstep of 9 Courthope Road, warrant card in hand, and waited for the door to be opened. He’d already visited the Bridgemans’ neighbours on the other side in number five. The Beiersdorfs — Simon and Emily − had given him more than a few interesting tit-bits about the Bridgemans, even if they hadn’t realized they were doing so: how they had no intention of moving their children from their current school some distance from home rather than send them to the excellent local private school. How they never really spoke to anyone or tried to socialize, keeping themselves very much to themselves and seemingly avoiding their new neighbours. And then there had been the occasional sound of heated voices raised in argument, the children being shouted at. They had been at pains to explain that they understood all couples and families argued from time to time, but the Bridgemans’ arguments happened little too often and were a little too disturbing.

Everything was turning out just how he thought it would.

The door was finally opened by yet another attractive woman, although she was slightly older than the norm for the street − she must have been in her early fifties. Nevertheless she had the same physical characteristics as the other women wealthy enough to live in this part of Hampstead: tall, slim, perfect skin and expertly dyed silver-blonde hair in a ponytail. She spoke in the same accent as everyone else too, almost a non-accent, but with just a hint of the aristocratic as she peered through the small gap the security chain allowed. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Howells?’ Donnelly asked, flipping his warrant card open for her to examine. ‘Detective Sergeant Donnelly from …’ he struggled to remember the name of his new team for a second … ‘Special Investigations Unit, New Scotland Yard.

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked, still scrutinizing his warrant card, her first reaction one of suspicion.

‘I’ve just been speaking with the Beiersdorfs from number 5. I took the liberty of asking them your name. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I assume this is about the little boy from next door?’

‘You heard then?’

‘Couldn’t help hearing with all the police walking up and down the street. Have you found him yet?’

‘No,’ Donnelly answered. ‘Sadly not.’

‘His poor mother,’ Mrs Howells said without feeling, ‘she must be besides herself with worry.’

‘She’s holding up. Sorry I didn’t catch your first name.’

‘Philippa,’ she told him.

‘Well, Philippa, I was wondering if I could come inside and speak with you a minute?’

‘It’s very late. I was expecting someone from the police to call here earlier. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?’

‘Better to get it out of the way now,’ Donnelly quickly told her, sensing she was about to close the door. ‘Anything that might help us find the little boy — right?’

‘Very well,’ she relented, flicking the chain off the hook and swinging the door open for him. ‘You’d better come inside.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Donnelly said as he skipped up the stairs. ‘Is Mr Howells also at home by any chance?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she answered curtly while closing the door, ‘he’s away on business.’

‘Pity,’ he told her. ‘Ideally I would have liked to speak to both of you.’

‘I don’t suppose my husband would know any more than I do,’ she explained, leading him through the house to the large kitchen diner — a common feature in the houses of the street. ‘We hardly know them − they only moved in a few weeks ago. But I suppose you already know that. Please, take a seat,’ she told him, indicating a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘And you popped round to introduce yourself?’ Donnelly asked, keen to speed things along.

‘Of course. This is a friendly street. We had a street party for the Jubilee and every Christmas we have a big party for all the kids at the local tennis club, that sort of thing.’

‘But the Bridgemans didn’t want to know?’

‘You could say that. She seemed keener than her husband, but not exactly over-friendly.’

‘So the husband seemed to be the one wanting them to keep their distance — is that fair?’

‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘I assumed they were just shy and preferred to keep themselves to themselves.’

‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly encouraged.

‘Exactly, but they’d only been here a few days when … well, quite frankly, the arguments started. Believe me, the walls of these houses are pretty solid, but you could still hear them — or rather him .’

‘So it was Mr Bridgeman doing the shouting?’

‘She joined in, but yes, mainly him.’

‘Could you hear what they were arguing about?’

‘Not really, although I did hear him calling her a lying bitch one time. I think at that point my husband and I vowed to have as little to do with them as possible and that’s the way it’s been.’

‘What about the kids? How did they seem?’

‘All right, considering.’

‘And the children’s behaviour?’

‘Fine. The little girl …’

‘Sophia.’

‘Yes, Sophia, seemed to have a lot to say for herself, but the little boy …’

‘George.’

‘Yes, sorry, George was a very quiet boy, from what I could tell. But like I said, we don’t really know them.’

‘But on the occasions you did see them,’ Donnelly pressed, ‘maybe in the back garden or out the front there, how did the parents seem towards the children?’ Donnelly’s chirping mobile broke the flow of questions and answers, making him curse under his breath. The caller ID told him it was Sean. He answered without excusing himself. ‘Guv’nor.’

‘Where are you?’ Sean asked.

‘Door-to-door, as assigned. Speaking to the Bridgemans’ neighbours, who are being very helpful,’ he added for the benefit of the listening Mrs Howells.

‘Good,’ Sean told him. ‘While you’re doing that you should bear in mind the house has now been searched properly and the boy hasn’t been found.’

Donnelly cursed inwardly twice: once for not being right about the boy’s body being found in the house and again for not making sure DC Goodwin tipped him off about the search before he told Sean. The news must have come through while he was in with the Beiersdorfs. Damn it. Not to worry. His theory still held water. After killing the boy the Bridgemans could have easily moved the body from the house — perhaps to a secure place while they waited for the heat to die down before getting rid of it permanently. Or maybe they had already disposed of it. ‘Is that so,’ he finally answered.

‘Yes, and the one we have in custody is shaping up nicely,’ Sean continued.

‘Has he admitted it yet?’ Donnelly asked, disappointment at the prospect of being proved wrong mingling with satisfaction that the person responsible was in custody. He had no problem swallowing his pride for the sake of getting a conviction on some sick bastard kiddie-fiddler.