Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘Has he ever asked for a paternity test?’

‘No. He’d never do that.’

‘But you thought that he might — one day?’

‘He’d never do that — he’s too proud.’ Too late she realized she’d said too much.

‘So he has his doubts about George being his son?’

‘You’d have to ask him about that. But I can assure you George is our son, and right now all I want is to get him back. Can’t you understand that?’ Tears exploded from her eyes and ran heavy and fast down her cheeks, dripping off her. ‘I just want my son back. Please, help me find my son.’

Donnelly moved forward, quickly and nimbly taking hold of her by her shoulders, sure she could take no more cross-examining for now. ‘Don’t worry,’ he comforted her, switching from interrogator to Samaritan. ‘We’ll get your boy back or we’ll die trying. You can be sure of that.’

Featherstone drove through heavy south-east London traffic heading towards Bexley Police Station where another one of the Murder Investigation Teams he oversaw had picked up a new case — a straightforward enough domestic murder, no kids involved. By all accounts the husband wasn’t denying caving his wife’s head in with a claw hammer and the detective inspector leading the investigation expected to have him charged with her murder by dinnertime. Featherstone was as pleased about the impending quick and tidy result as he was about the fact both victim and suspect were white. Since the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry, whenever a detective superintendent heard of a new murder on their patch the first question was always, What’s the colour of the victim? If they were black the next would always be, What’s the colour of the suspects? Many a superintendent had sighed with relief when the answer had confirmed the crime had no possible racial overtones.

The ringing of his hands-free system snapped him out of his happy little world. Caller ID told him it was Sean.

‘Sean — got some good news for me?’ he asked.

‘Still working on it.’

‘Then what you after?’

‘I haven’t got enough to charge McKenzie — our prime suspect.’

‘So let him go.’

‘I intend to, but I’m still convinced he could be our man. When the ACC does his press briefing I need him to name McKenzie and show a photograph of him, asking the public to help trace his movements over the last couple of days.’

‘Bloody hell, Sean. Why don’t we just take him to London Zoo and chuck him to the lions?’

‘He’ll survive, but we’ll need a surveillance team on him just in case — for his own protection, as required by R versus Brindle.’

‘Hold on a minute …’ Featherstone smiled to himself. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say this situation had been manufactured.’

‘Maybe, but can you sell it to the Assistant Commissioner?’

‘I’ll sell it,’ Featherstone confidently told him. ‘He’s doing the press briefing this evening. I’ll make sure he has the stuff about McKenzie.’

‘This evening?’ Sean asked, concerned Addis was moving too quickly without checking with him first. ‘He’s not hanging around.’

‘You’ll find Assistant Commissioner Addis is not a patient man,’ Featherstone warned him. ‘He’s doing his briefing this evening, but I can tell you now he wants to be back on Sky News within twenty-four hours with something positive to tell them. There’s a student union march through the West End next week and TSG are bound to kick someone’s head in, so the powers that be are desperate for a good news story before the inevitable happens.’

‘I can’t promise anything,’ Sean answered, ‘but with a surveillance team on McKenzie my chances will be better.’

‘I understand, but Addis won’t. I’ll get you the surveillance team anyway.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean prepared to sign off. ‘You never know — one day the brass at the Yard might realize it doesn’t matter what we do — the media’s always gonna beat us with whatever stick’s available. Why fight a war you can’t win? Wasting everybody’s time.’

‘They’re an optimistic bunch, the powers that be. For them, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.’

‘Call that optimism?’ Sean asked bitterly. ‘More like blind ignorance.’

‘Ours is not to wonder why …’ Featherstone reminded him. ‘You’ll have your surveillance team within a couple of hours. Where d’you want them?’

‘Kentish Town nick — they can pick McKenzie up when we bail him.’

‘Will he be looking for them?’

‘Probably.’

‘I’ll call you once it’s sorted,’ Featherstone told Sean and hung up. ‘R v Brindle my arse,’ he said aloud. You’re a sly one, Corrigan, I’ll give you that, but so is that snake-in-the-grass Addis. If we don’t get this one solved soon, he’ll have us both skinned and stuffed as a warning to others .

George Bridgeman sat on the floor of the room that had seemed strange and unfamiliar not so very long ago, but was now already beginning to feel like his home from home. He played with the toys that had been left in the room, presumably for him; strange toys that he wasn’t used to — not like the toys he had at home. At first, in his confusion he had pushed them to one side, but gradually they had begun to intrigue him, and unlike most of the toys he had at home he didn’t grow tired of them within a few minutes. As he played, his thoughts drifted from his home and family — at least for a time, but soon the rumbling of his empty stomach reminded him he hadn’t been fed yet today. All he’d had was a beaker of water from the night before to relieve his dry mouth and quell the emptiness in his belly for a little while. It was the first time in his young life that he’d ever felt real hunger or thirst.

As his blood sugar dropped to an uncomfortable level his concentration waned and he pushed the wooden puzzle he’d been working on to one side and thought about his family, how much he missed his mother, her soft, comforting words and the embrace that instantly made any situation better — any pain only fleeting. He thought of his sister, who teased him nearly all the time, but who could also be so kind and caring towards him, particularly when their parents weren’t watching — sharing her sweets with him and letting him join in her games. Anyone who was mean to him while she was about had better watch out.

And then there was his father, who none of them seemed to see much of, but especially him. He often tried to think of what he might have done that made Daddy so cross with him, but he just couldn’t think of anything — at least nothing he thought was terribly naughty. Every time Daddy shouted at him, his mummy would always tell him not to worry and say he’d done nothing wrong, although she’d always wait until Daddy had gone first. Sometimes he was so scared of making Daddy angry that he hardly dared move for fear of spilling a drink or dropping something on the floor. Yet when his sister did the same, Daddy said nothing. He always tried to be a good boy.

Sudden noises from the other side of the door pulled him away from his thoughts — more voices like the ones he’d heard before, of men and women talking. And children’s voices too, both excited and upset. But they only ever lasted a few minutes at most before they fell away, the sound of a door closing punctuating the silence that followed, until the next time the voices came. While most of the voices constantly seemed to change, as muffled as they were, there was always one voice that remained — monotone and constant — a man’s voice that he was sure he recognized.

Sean and Sally walked along the ground-floor corridor at Scotland Yard passing rank-less people in suits and the occasional uniformed senior officer with shoulders covered in what all other cops referred to as scrambled egg. Sean couldn’t help but wonder where they were heading and what they did, but was wholly unable to think of anything that they could be doing that could possibly be of use to him, with the exception of fronting the occasional press conference or giving the necessary level of authority to covert operations. Other than that he did his job in spite of them, not because of them. He answered his ringing, vibrating phone without breaking stride.