Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

Again he waited for the splintering of wood and the yells of the police commanding him not to move or suffer the consequences. He stared at the door, muttering quietly to himself. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered under his breath, willing them to smash open the flimsy, scarred door; the hastily replaced lock from their last visit would be no match for a well-placed kick from a policeman’s boot. But the fireworks never came — only a firm knock. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, frozen to his chair, unable to answer the knocking that came again when he didn’t answer. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. He cleared it with a cough before repeating himself. ‘Who is it and what do you want?’

‘You know who it is and what we want,’ Corrigan told him, his tone overconfident and belittling — the conqueror coming to conquer. ‘I need to speak with you, Mark. Open the door.’

‘What about?’ he asked, still sitting in his chair staring at the thin door, imagining the smiling, self-congratulating cops on the other side, so sure they had the evidence to prove he took the boy.

‘You know what about.’ Corrigan’s tone didn’t waver. ‘This is not the sort of conversation you want to have in public.’

‘In public?’ he asked, momentarily confused, suspicious Corrigan had plans to try and conduct his investigation in the glare of the media spotlight, ensuring that anybody who listened knew the police had decided he was their prime suspect.

‘Your neighbours, Mark,’ the voice explained. ‘Walls have ears and all that.’

‘I see,’ he answered, weighing up his options, still hopeful they might grow impatient and kick the door open — more evidence of heavy-handed police intimidation. But the thought of his irate landlord having to provide yet more new locks forced him to a decision. The stinking flat wasn’t much, but it was a roof over his head — a roof he’d need for some time to come, no matter how things worked out. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he told them as he stood, gathering the maps and notebooks and quickly hiding them under the bed, slipping them through a slit he’d made in its underside before moving purposefully to the door and turning the single Yale lock. He peeped through the gap at the two detectives standing like terracotta soldiers with their arms by their sides — Corrigan and another one he didn’t recognize, thick-set with a prominent moustache, strong-looking. ‘I see,’ he told them. ‘You again. What d’you want now?’

‘Mark McKenzie,’ Sean began, pulling his warrant card from his coat pocket, holding it low at his side, showing it inconspicuously to him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly.’

‘I know who you are,’ he snapped, his glare turning to Donnelly, ‘or at least I know what you are.’

‘Mark, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the abduction of George Bridgeman.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ he argued. ‘I was only released last night.’ A sudden wave of nausea strangled his confidence as the fear and realization they may have discovered something that could undermine all his plans flashed in his mind before shrinking away again like a retreating wave on the beach. No. If they were rearresting him this quickly, everything was exactly as he wanted it.

‘As of now, you’re under caution — you do remember the caution, don’t you, Mark?’ Sean asked.

‘I remember it.’

Sean and Donnelly pushed their way into the small flat, carrying McKenzie back inside with the tide of their bodies and closing the door on the outside world. ‘Under Section 18 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act we have the power to search your flat for any evidence relating to the offence for which you’ve been arrested, and for evidence of any similar offences you may have committed — but I guess you already knew that too,’ Sean told him.

‘I did,’ McKenzie agreed. ‘I also know I that should have my solicitor here before you start searching.’

‘You can call your solicitor if you like, but we don’t have to wait for them to get here before searching.’ Sean began to circle the flat like a wolf circling a flock of sheep.

‘Why d’you need your solicitor here for a search?’ Donnelly asked. ‘Got something to hide, Mr McKenzie?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Let’s just say I’ve had bad experiences with the police in the past.’

‘I can’t think what you mean,’ Donnelly smirked, casually opening drawers and rifling through their contents.

‘Oh, you know,’ McKenzie told him. ‘Things found in my home that hadn’t been there before the police started searching.’

‘That’s a pretty serious allegation,’ Donnelly played with him. ‘Did you make a complaint?’

‘No,’ McKenzie admitted.

‘Aye, well, not much we can do about that now then, is there?’

‘Perhaps if you tell me what you’re looking for I could save you the bother of searching,’ McKenzie offered, ignoring Donnelly’s comment.

‘You know what we’re looking for,’ Sean accused him.

‘I have no idea.’

‘We’ll rip this place apart to find it if we have to,’ Sean threatened.

‘And that bothers me how?’ McKenzie asked, looking around his own home with distaste printed across his face, allowing his eyes to linger a little too long on the single bed pushed into a corner of the bedsit. He resisted the temptation to smile as he noticed Corrigan immediately seizing on his apparent mistake, striding across the room and unceremoniously pulling the soiled quilt back and tossing it on the floor.

Sean kicked the quilt and pillow around until he was satisfied they hid nothing, but still McKenzie’s face told him he was looking in the right place, something McKenzie confirmed by licking his drying lips.

Sean flicked the entire mattress up on its side to search the space under it, its cheapness and lightness making it easy to lift, but there was nothing to be found. Briefly he looked back at McKenzie. ‘I’ll find it,’ he warned him. ‘No matter where it is, I’ll find it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he lied.

‘Really?’ Sean asked sarcastically. ‘Well, I guess we’ll see about that.’

McKenzie’s eyes never left Sean as he dropped to his knees and peered under the bed before stretching an arm underneath and pulling out the items that lay hidden there: old newspapers and magazines, shoe-boxes full of photographs from a better time, postcards, letters and long irrelevant documents that provided a chronology of his life. None of it interested Sean, who pulled a small Maglite torch from his belt and clicked it on, shining it underneath the bed.

‘Got something?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Just an old trick I used to use when I was undercover — if I had something I really didn’t want anyone to stumble across.’

Donnelly and McKenzie watched in silence as Sean scanned the underside of the bed until he found what he was looking for: a six-inch slit in the nylon material. Sean checked the entrance to the slit for booby-traps before carefully sliding the torch into the darkness, using it to light the way and pull the opening wide apart, revealing the A to Z and the notebook. With his other hand he reached in and pinched the items between his fingers, pulling them free and carefully placing them on the bed-base above, mindful that he’d forgotten to wear gloves of any kind, something that he quickly remedied by snapping on a pair of forensic latex ones.

‘Found what you’re looking for?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No,’ Sean answered, ‘but I’ve found something.’

‘So you and Mark here share the same secret hiding place. Interesting,’ Donnelly added, drawing quick-fire glances from both Sean and McKenzie.