Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

Next she turned the television on for company, kicked her shoes off and padded across the floor to her small, neat kitchen where she grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard and cursed the fact she no longer smoked. She made her way to the freezer and yanked open the door. The bottle of vodka lying seductively on its side appeared to be almost calling to her, begging her for attention. It took all her strength to slam the door shut and reach for the already open bottle of chardonnay in the adjacent fridge instead, from which she poured herself a modest glass and sat at the small kitchen table. She searched her compact handbag and quickly found the tramadol. She popped two from the packet and threw them into her mouth, washing them down with a good swig of her wine and waited for their soothing effects to wash over her. No vodka and no tears , she thought to herself. Dr Anna Ravenni-Ceron would be very pleased with her.

Mid-morning and Sean had already been back behind his desk in his new office for several hours, enjoying the early peace before the main office grew crowded and noisy. His claustrophobic, uncomfortable office in New Scotland Yard was already beginning to feel like home, thoughts of Peckham now more like distant memories than recent events. His desk had been exactly as he’d left it the night before, right down to the half-read report about another paedophile local to the scene of George Bridgeman’s disappearance. The possible suspect had previous for snatching children, but Sean had already largely discounted him — he’d never committed a residential burglary and he’d never shown any lock-picking skills. He’d skimmed through the rest of the report and tossed it into the tray marked complete . Twisting the stiffness out of his neck, he closed his eyes for a second to consider McKenzie. God, he prayed he was stupid enough or scared enough to make a fatal mistake while he had the surveillance team up his arse. It had taken two hideous murders and three abductions before he’d been able to find and stop Thomas Keller — he couldn’t bear the same thing happening here. No , he reassured himself, he had his man, now all he needed was the evidence to prove it. For all McKenzie’s slyness and criminal cunning, he was still impulsive — Sean was sure of it. He saw the boy and the family and acted on an immediate, uncontrollable desire, leaving behind him the signature of his method that pointed to him as the guilty party just as surely as if he’d left his fingerprints all over the scene. McKenzie was caught and he knew it. Now all he could do was what so many other killers before him had done — face the police and the media and try and front it all out: portray himself as either a witness or an innocent man falsely accused. But the charade could never last long. All McKenzie’s provocation and snarling half denials would be nothing more than his twisted moment in the sun, his one chance to revel in his own infamy before being buried in the prison system, denied access to the trashy paperbacks that would no doubt be written about him. Sean ground his teeth in anticipation of the day when McKenzie’s tower of lies tumbled down.

A picture of Kate on his desk pulled him away from thoughts of McKenzie’s downfall and instantly saddened his heart. Much to his relief, she’d been asleep when he arrived home the previous night and remained so when he rose so early that outside it was still pitch-black and not a single bird was singing in the new day. He’d showered and dressed in the semi-darkness, using only the light from the night-lamp that burned all night for the sake of their children, leaving the bathroom door open just enough to let the light in. He’d tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he cleared the front door and walked along the cold, still road just as some of the neighbouring houses began to flicker into life. He’d comfortably beaten the worst of the traffic as he’d driven north through south-east London and over Lambeth Bridge, around Parliament Square and along Victoria Street before swinging right into Broadway and disappearing into the Yard’s underground car park. But he needed to break the chill with Kate sooner rather than later, before it turned into an Ice Age.

Donnelly striding into the main office caught his attention and he summoned him with a look. The sergeant changed direction like a bird in flight and sauntered into Sean’s office, where he remained standing to let Sean know he had no intention of staying long. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Sean answered, ‘just checking how you got on with the Bridgemans’ cars.’

‘They agreed to hand them over for forensic examination,’ Donnelly told him. ‘No problems.’

‘How did you swing that?’

‘Told them suspects sometimes liked to play games with us — leaving clues in unlikely places just to see how smart we are.’

‘And they went for it?’

‘A few grunts and growls from Mr Bridgeman, but they handed over the car keys — eventually. Both motors are under cover at Lambeth as we speak.’

‘Good. Make sure you keep the heat under the Forensic boys and girls. I want all things forensic to do with this case treated as a matter of priority. Understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ Donnelly replied. The phone ringing on Sean’s desk ended their conversation, but Donnelly stayed put.

‘Sean Corrigan,’ Sean spoke into the mouthpiece.

‘Morning,’ Featherstone answered without introducing himself.

‘Sir.’

‘Just phoning to see if you caught Addis’s media release last night?’

‘No,’ Sean admitted. ‘I was too busy here.’

‘Well, if he asks, you tell him that you did see it, OK?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Because that’s what he’d expect you to do.’

‘If you think it’s necessary.’

‘I do,’ Featherstone warned him. ‘As far as he’s concerned, he did it for you and your case — even added the little extras you wanted about being close to a breakthrough. He’ll have the right hump if he thinks you couldn’t even be bothered to watch it. Anyway, the genie’s out of the bottle now and the world is watching. A child taken from an upmarket family living in their upmarket house in their upmarket London enclave — the news boys are gonna be like a pit-bull with a dead cat on this one, at least until we can give them someone to feed on.’

‘You mean a suspect?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ Featherstone corrected him. ‘We’ve already given them a suspect — your man McKenzie, remember? What they really want is an accused .’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Then work fast,’ Featherstone advised him. ‘You as good as promised Addis a quick result, so you had better deliver. Don’t expect him to take any flak to save your skin. They don’t call him the Bramshill Assassin for nothing,’ he added, referring to the Senior Police Officer Training College that had a long and established reputation for back-stabbing and one-upmanship.

‘We’re doing our best,’ Sean protested.

‘Then let’s hope your best is good enough. Call me if anything changes.’

Sean listened to the line go dead and slowly replaced the receiver, his cheeks puffed out in exasperation. ‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Always,’ he answered.

‘Powers that be after a quick result, eh?’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Then why don’t we give them one and drag the parents in? Like I said, interview them under caution plus three — separately, before they start working as a team and concoct something plausible and difficult to prove a lie.’

‘Not yet,’ Sean argued. ‘Maybe if Forensics turn something up that implicates them, but not until then.’