Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘That might take some time,’ Nathan argued, overwhelmed by Sean’s demands, but desperate to help.

‘Make it your number one priority,’ Sean told him without sympathy, sure the shared facts of both families had to mean something crucial — had to be the route to whoever had taken the children. ‘Do you have any other children?’ he continued before anyone else could speak.

‘Yes,’ Jessica answered. ‘Two: Trisha and Jacob.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Trisha’s eight and Jake’s only two.’

‘Do you have a nanny or have you ever had a nanny?’

‘I’ve had help with the children,’ Jessica told him defensively, as if it was a sign of some maternal failing. ‘We have an au pair working for us now. She’s looking after Trish and Jake while this-’

‘I’ll need her name and that of anyone else you’ve used in the past — particularly since you had Bailey.’

‘OK,’ Jessica agreed. ‘I’ll get the names together for you as soon as I can.’

‘You think someone who worked for us — who we trusted to look after our kids − might have taken Bailey?’ Nathan Fellowes asked. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘I’m just considering every possibility at this moment, Mr Fellowes. We don’t know anything for sure yet.’

‘Then what do you know for sure?’ Nathan angrily demanded. Sean had seen it many times before — projected anger borne of frustration and fear. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous or tolerable.

‘I know I need you to get me those names,’ Sean told him, ‘right now, please.’

Nathan pushed himself away and up from the table, his red eyes glaring at the four detectives standing in his kitchen. Sean knew what he was thinking: should he launch himself at the police and force them to subdue him and take him away — away from this living hell? He wouldn’t have been the first to use violence as an escape.

‘Fine,’ Nathan finally agreed and strode out of the kitchen.

Sean turned to Jessica. ‘I need to ask you something. Something personal and unpleasant, but I need to know.’

‘Go on,’ she agreed guardedly.

‘Are any of your children from a previous … or another relationship either of you may have had?’

‘What?’

‘It’s not unusual,’ Sean explained, ‘not today, but I need to know if there’s an estranged father or perhaps mother out there who may feel they have a right to take Bailey.’

‘No,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘All our children are all ours.’

‘Fine,’ Sean believed her. ‘I had to ask.’ Again she didn’t reply. ‘I need to see Bailey’s bedroom.’

Jessica filled her lungs to capacity to steady herself before speaking. ‘I’ll show you,’ she agreed, half desperate to be back in the room that made her feel closer to her missing child and half terrified to stand in that room, looking at the empty, unmade bed — the scent of her baby heavy in the air.

‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I need to see it alone.’

She looked at him silently for a long time, occasionally glancing at Sally for unspoken clues as to Sean’s true intentions. Sally remained stone-faced. ‘You do what you gotta do,’ she finally told him. ‘It’s the room in the loft space. It’s the only one up there.’

‘Unusual for a five-year-old to want to … isolate themselves like that,’ Sean accidentally voiced what he was thinking.

‘Her choice,’ Jessica told him. ‘She thought it would be special — like it was her princess’s tower.’ Her fingers curled tightly around the photograph she was still clutching.

‘I see,’ Sean replied. ‘I won’t be long,’ he added and walked from the kitchen, aware of the eyes that followed him through the doorway, exhaling as quietly as he could through pursed lips once he’d escaped into the quiet, dimly lit hallway.

He took a few seconds to look around as he cleared his mind. Almost everything was tastefully and expensively decorated or arranged — almost everything . But the house was a reflection of its occupants: the occasional overly showy statue or figurine, painting or Persian rug, betraying their origins. Sean tried to think if it could somehow be relevant to Bailey’s disappearance, but nothing stirred in his instinct, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to trust that — the tool he had relied on for so long suddenly so blunt, unfit for purpose.

He began to climb the wide, carpeted staircase, thinking of his own house and how tiny it now seemed compared to a real family home — thoughts that made him stop halfway towards the first floor. Think , he told himself. Think. Forget home. Forget Addis and the others. Think — think like him . He began to climb again, the new carpet soft under his leather-soled shoes, completely masking the sound of his footsteps as he kept to the side of the stairs to avoid any invisible footprints the stealer of children might have left, even though he knew they’d probably already been trampled by frantic parents. You knew there was thick carpet on the staircase — you knew your footsteps wouldn’t be heard as you climbed these stairs, but how? How did you know that? And you knew there was an alarm, but that it wasn’t working yet. How did you know? Did you know it was due to be fixed today — is that why you came last night, because you had to, before the house was alarmed?

He thought about the possibility of the suspect being an alarm fitter and how perfect that cover could be, with access to everything he would need to know about the family, the inside of the house and the alarm system itself. The terrifying simplicity of it made him shudder. If they got a hit on the alarm company, if it was the same company for both houses, the same engineer, then he’d have his man. Look for the cross-overs , he reminded himself. Look for the thing that connects the two families — there has to be one and it has to be the answer, somehow .

He continued to climb the stairs, quickly peering into each room on each floor, increasingly convinced the man who stole Bailey away had not been into any of the rooms, not even looked inside — because he didn’t have to. You knew exactly which room was the girl’s — you came in and you went straight to her room, but how did you know? How could you know that unless you’ve been in this house before? Just as you’d been in the other house before you took the boy. So you know these families, you sick, twisted bastard — you know these families. But what are you? Some passing tradesman they hardly even noticed, even though you were watching them, learning everything you needed to know before shattering their lives? Or had the families taken you into the bosom of their homes, only for you to commit the ultimate betrayal of trust? Which one are you, damn it? I will find out and I will find you .

Before he knew it he was standing outside Bailey’s bedroom, the climb through the house something he couldn’t even remember. What did it feel like standing here? What did it feel like standing in the warm house, knowing the object of your every desire was sleeping on the other side of this open door? — dreaming of you coming for her, wanting you, but why do you want them? What are you taking them for? Again he considered the fact that no bodies had been found, his mind swimming with possibilities as to what that could mean, remembering that as a virtual rule the only killers who tried to ensure their victims were never found were those who have a strong connection to them — something so strong it would lead the police straight to their door: a husband who kills his wife, a business partner who wants it all, an organized criminal getting rid of a turf rival, a parent killing their own child. Strangers rarely went to the trouble of concealing their victims well enough to never be found — even those who were highly organized and motivated.