Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘Like I said, we’ll keep pulling in the evidence and cross-referencing until we find the link between the families.’

‘And if another child goes missing in the meantime, while you’re cross-referencing ?’

‘Then it’ll be easier to establish any links,’ Sean told him matter-of-factly. ‘It was always possible that more than one person would be linked to two affluent families living comparatively close to each other, but to be linked to three — that would almost certainly identify them as the prime suspect.’

‘But the only link between the two families was this Richmond person,’ Addis pointed out, ‘and you’ve already … eliminated her from your inquiries.’

‘No,’ Sean argued. ‘She was the only link we’ve identified so far . That doesn’t mean she’s the only link. There has to be someone else. There has to be someone linking the families. These children were selected — carefully chosen.’

‘Why?’ Addis jumped him.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean admitted, staring straight into Addis’ eyes. Neither man spoke for an unnaturally long time.

‘This isn’t very encouraging, Sean,’ Addis eventually broke the silence. ‘In the absence of anything new, I suggest we do another media appeal — this time flanked by both sets of parents. Perhaps we can somehow touch this animal’s sense of compassion — persuade him not to harm the children — if he hasn’t already.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Sean told him and meant it, ‘but the parents need to do most of the talking — more them and less us. And have the mothers do most of that: whoever’s taken the children will be more likely to feel sympathy for the mothers than the fathers — even if the abductor is a woman herself.’

‘I agree,’ Addis replied, as if he’d had the same idea. ‘And I want you to be present at the appeal — sitting next to me, in between the parents.’

Sean went cold inside. The thought of sitting in between the parents, their sadness and pain leaking out and seeping into him while Addis bleated on as the cameras pointed straight at them, searching them for signs of weakness, filled him with fear. ‘I wouldn’t advise that,’ he blurted out.

‘Really?’ Addis asked, nonplussed. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I’m still on SO10’s books,’ Sean remembered, desperate for an excuse to avoid the media show, ‘which means I’m still technically available for undercover deployment. They wouldn’t be very happy if I was to stick my face all over the telly and papers.’

‘You did a media appeal for the Gibran case,’ Addis reminded him, making Sean swear inwardly. ‘SO10 didn’t seem to mind then. Besides, SO10 come under my umbrella, so you won’t get any trouble from them. I can assure you of that.’

Sean kept thinking. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it for other reasons as well — reasons that relate to the offender’s state of mind.’

‘Such as?’ Addis demanded.

‘I believe they’ll respond to an authority figure better than someone who’s less visibly identifiable.’

‘You mean they’d rather see a uniform than a man in a suit?’ Addis took the bait.

‘Exactly,’ Sean answered, swimming in relief.

‘The uniform of a high-ranking police officer,’ Addis continued.

‘Precisely,’ Sean encouraged him. ‘If he sees you alongside a detective then we might lose his trust. We don’t want him to feel hunted.’

‘Very well,’ Addis relented, ‘but I need you to prepare me a full briefing of anything and everything you feel could be useful for the appeal — anything that might help us flush this bastard out — understand?’

‘I understand,’ Sean told him, already standing to leave, as happy as he could be with the outcome of the meeting. ‘I’ll have it for you before close of play.’

‘And, Sean,’ Addis stopped him. ‘Let’s make sure I don’t have to do another media briefing — with another family. That could put you in a very difficult position. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ he answered, never looking away from Addis’s dead eyes, like the black eyes of a shark. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Good. Because it would be a shame if this privileged position you’ve been given was to prove too much for you.’ Sean’s mouth opened slightly to answer, but Addis cut him off. ‘That will be all, Inspector. You may go.’ He looked down at the reports on his desk as if Sean wasn’t there — as if he’d never been there.

Early evening and the large, modernized pub close to New Scotland Yard was already growing busy with a mix of off-duty cops and workers from the surrounding offices, the two groups separated by the quality of their suits and the loudness of their voices. Any drinking establishment this close to Scotland Yard was automatically assumed to be police property by the cops who used it as their regular watering hole, but civilians were tolerated so long as they behaved and didn’t get in the way of the bar − although attractive women were always given special licence to behave more freely. Sally weaved her way through a group of almost exclusively male detectives who paid her little attention, having already identified her as one of their own. She tried not to spill the two overflowing drinks as she carried them across to a nearby table where Donnelly waited for her, cursing the day the smoking ban had come into effect and praying for the onset of spring when he could again take his pint outside and enjoy a smoke. Sally slid him his drink and sat next to him, backs to the wall, facing the entrance. Cops liked to see everyone as they arrived — just in case.

‘Cheers, Sal,’ Donnelly thanked her.

‘I don’t think we’ll be making this place our regular,’ she answered. ‘Costs an arm and a leg. Almost ten quid for a pint and a glass of house white.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Donnelly moaned, ‘I hate the bloody Yard and I hate paying West End prices for a pint when I’m in bloody Victoria. Look at this place,’ he told her, surveying the modern, minimalist surroundings with an expression of distaste, ‘what a dump. Give me the Bee Hive back in Peckham any day.’

‘You mean give you back free drinking,’ Sally teased.

Donnelly feigned indignity. ‘I paid my way. Never asked the landlord of that fine establishment for anything per gratis and never expected anything either.’

‘Doesn’t mean you didn’t accept the odd one,’ Sally said with a grin.

‘Careful, Sally,’ he warned her. ‘The walls of the pubs around here have ears. You never know when the rubber-soled brigade are listening,’ he continued, using the police slang for Internal Affairs.

‘I’d like to think they’ve got better things to worry about than your subsidized drinking,’ Sally told him.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Donnelly scoffed before taking a long draw on his pint, licking the froth from his moustache before speaking again. ‘Anyway, more importantly, how’s the guv’nor doing? Shared any secrets with you lately?’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as who’s taking these wee kiddies?’

‘No,’ Sally answered honestly. ‘He thought Hannah Richmond was a real go, until it blew up.’

‘As he did with Mark McKenzie,’ Donnelly added. ‘Also a … mistake.’

‘Whereas you wanted to haul George Bridgeman’s parents over the cobbles,’ Sally reminded him.

‘Ah well,’ he replied with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

‘Indeed they’re not,’ Sally agreed in the tone of a strict school teacher before taking a sip of her wine.

‘Well,’ Donnelly continued with a shake of his head, pint held only inches from his lips, ‘he’s not the man he used to be — I’ll tell you that for nothing.’