Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘You questioned him away from a police station and without legal representation?’ Addis demanded.

‘Like you said, sir, we still have a missing boy. I was within my rights to try and get him to tell us where the boy is.’

‘But he didn’t tell you?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Then there’s no need to make any note of the conversation,’ Addis told them. ‘No point handing his defence team a stick to beat us with if it was a waste of time anyway.’

‘Fair enough,’ Sean agreed without telling him he had no intention of officially mentioning the questioning of McKenzie in his own flat.

‘And I was told he had tools to break into houses and maps — including one showing the location of George Bridgeman’s home,’ Addis went on. ‘Sounds like pretty damning evidence. Do you really need forensics as well?’

‘Maybe not,’ Sean answered, ‘but if I can get it, I will. It’s worth delaying the interview for. If I can hit him in the interview with something definitive from Forensics then he might start talking. He might tell us where George is.’

‘Do you have enough PACE time left to play it this way?’ Addis asked. ‘He was in custody for quite a while last time you had him in.’

‘He was rearrested on new evidence,’ Sean explained. ‘The clock starts again.’

‘I see,’ Addis acknowledged. He may never have done a day’s honest coppering in his life, but he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the law and police procedure, borne of endless exams and courses at Bramshill Senior Police College. ‘Still, I don’t want this dragged out any longer than necessary,’ Addis warned them. ‘It may not seem like it to you, but this investigation is coming under the intense glare of our friends in the media. I can see them salivating at the thought of a child murderer on the loose amongst the rich and privileged of North London — something to fill their papers and evening news slots with − so let’s get this wrapped up as soon as possible, one way or the other. If you’re happy you’ve got your man, then get on and charge him. I shall expect some good news tomorrow. Until then, I’ll leave you in peace. I have to attend a dinner with the Mayor this evening, but I am contactable if something notable happens. Gentlemen.’ He dismissed them with a nod and glided from the office.

‘I have a very bad feeling about that man,’ Donnelly declared.

‘Best keep him close,’ Sean told him, ‘where I can control him.’

‘Fine, but he’s no Featherstone,’ Donnelly warned. ‘He’s an altogether more dangerous animal.’ Sean merely grunted and got to his feet, searching his desk drawer for his house keys. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Yeah — home. I, like our Assistant Commissioner, am contactable if anything changes. Everybody knows what they’re doing and I need some head-space. I can’t think here — not at the moment. I need to get away from all this admin crap and try to work out how I’m going to break down McKenzie in this interview. I like him for this one, but there’s something not quite right about it — something he’s hiding, aside from the boy’s whereabouts.’

‘Such as?’ Donnelly asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean admitted. ‘It might be nothing, but I can’t help feeling he wants us to come after him — wants us to pin this one on him.’

‘Maybe he does,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘He wouldn’t be the first wanting his fifteen minutes of fame.’

‘I know, but that’s not it. Something else is going on. I don’t know. Fuck it. Tomorrow we’ll interview him and he’ll probably spill his guts. Probably can’t wait to relive the experience in an interview — making sure we get all the nasty little details. God, I hope the boy is still alive.’

‘And d’you think he is?’

‘Truthfully — no. But that stays between us,’ Sean told him.

‘Fair enough.’

‘Right, I’m going home for a row. I’ll meet you back here first thing. We can go over to Kentish Town together. Until then, let’s just pray for George Bridgeman. Let’s just pray that I’m wrong.’

After a consultation with his solicitor lasting more than two hours, McKenzie was finally returned to his cell. He’d been suitably vague when answering her questions, treating her like she was another cop instead of his legal representative, much to her frustration and annoyance. Not that he cared — fuck her. Fuck them all. This was his game and his rules. It ended only when he said it ended, and he wasn’t ready to call time — not yet.

The thought of Corrigan brought a satisfied smile to his face. He had him running around just the way he wanted him — like a rat gorging itself on poisonous bait. The image of Corrigan twitching and convulsing in the throes of death only broadened his smile. For a moment he regretted not provoking him further when they were alone in his flat — just him, Corrigan and the fat one. If he’d pushed him hard enough, he was sure Corrigan would have given him a beating — a beating that would have left him bruised and cut, all of which would have only added to his ultimate cause. But then again, pain was never something he could tolerate. If Corrigan had inflicted too much, he might well have confessed too early and ruined everything. No, better to play it just as he had.

He could barely wait for the day when he finally brought Corrigan’s world crashing down — when the arrogant detective would be forced to stand in court and apologize for his incompetence. He only hoped he would be close enough to look into his eyes as he realized he’d been outmanoeuvred and out-thought by the man he’d treated like so much shit on the bottom of his shoe. Suddenly he felt a chill run along his spine as he remembered those startlingly blue eyes. Not the eyes of a cop — something else. Something much more dangerous — like the eyes he’d seen on a select few men he’d crossed during his prison time — men the other prisoners respected and feared. The sort of men who others knew would kill with only the slightest provocation and with no qualms. But how could a cop have such eyes? It didn’t make any sense. Feeling suddenly cold, he pulled the useless blue blanket over himself to try and stave off the chill, real or imagined.

He tried to improve his mood by thinking of the boy — the boy they were so desperate to find — picturing him locked in a room, shivering and terrified, waiting for his keeper to return. Ugly images of things being done to the boy played in his mind, producing the old familiar feelings in his body as his hand crept under the pathetic blanket and he gripped himself, his movements soon becoming frantic as the images of the boy grew increasingly vivid, until he felt the warm stickiness seeping into his hand and through his fingers. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, stifling his groans of pleasure as he waited for his body to relax, his taut muscles becoming less and less rigid until he could breathe normally again, listening for sounds outside his cell. But he heard nothing. His indulgence had gone unnoticed.

When he opened his eyes, he thought of Corrigan again and smiled. Soon he’d pay them back for ruining his life and branding him an outcast. Soon it would be Corrigan who was the outcast — an outcast from his own kind as they looked to distance themselves from his failure and humiliation. Now all he needed was a sign. A signal from the boy’s keeper that it was time.

As his freezing breath swirled away into the darkness outside, escaping from the light that spilled through the glass in the front door, Sean couldn’t help but look carefully at the keys in his hand before turning his attention to the locks at the entrance to his own home. They were adequate enough for everyday security, but no more so than those at the Bridgemans’ house. He unlocked the last one and pushed the door open, the sound of music playing softly in the kitchen telling him Kate was still awake and working instead of watching television and relaxing — all signs that did not bode well. He locked the door behind him and headed for the music and light without stopping to take off his coat and jacket.