Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘What about Roddis’s team?’ Donnelly asked.

‘I haven’t sorted that yet,’ Sean told him, ‘and I don’t have time now. We’ll have to go with the one for this area. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Get the body removed directly to the mortuary. I’ll make sure Dr Canning knows it’s on its way.’

‘You want it taken to Guy’s? That’s out of this area’s jurisdiction,’ Donnelly reminded him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s still within the Metropolitan borders. If there’s a problem I’ll have Assistant Commissioner Addis sort it out.’

‘If you say so,’ Donnelly submitted.

Sean was already searching his mobile for the number. After six rings he heard the familiar voice at the other end.

‘Hello, Dr Canning speaking. How can I help?’

Douglas Allen knelt in front of the old, inexpensive sideboard in his first-floor living room. It looked more like a shrine than a piece of furniture — a shrine to his dead wife and the God he believed she’d gone to the side of. Old photographs of his one and only love were neatly arranged on the tabletop, mostly of her alone, her eyes increasingly lifeless as age and then cancer took its toll — her inability to have children weighing her down, dragging her deeper into unhappiness. He only appeared in two of the pictures — a fading colour photograph of their wedding day, standing outside the church with the vicar, and a small gathering of mostly family and one or two like-minded friends, all dead or moved on now. But the centre of the table was reserved for something else: an ancient and almost worn-out postcard-sized print of Da Vinci’s painting of the Head of Christ, the once vivid colours and tones now mere shadows of what they had been. Above the picture, hanging from the wall, the same Christ was displayed nailed to the cross on which he died to save mankind — to save Douglas Allen, so that he in turn could save others.

Allen whispered his prayers, his voice fast and intense, eyes squeezed tightly shut, palms pressed together, his lips barely parting. The pain in his head beat fiercely to the rhythm of his muttered words. ‘Dear Lord, help me understand why the boy had to die. Why did you take the life of an innocent? Help me understand, Lord. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me . But why the boy? I thought I was supposed to save him — isn’t that what you wanted? The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want . I’ve tried, dear God, tried to understand why you took the boy, but I … I … He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake . Help me. Help me find the right path and do what is right.’

But he heard no reply, no answers to his questions. ‘Iris,’ he whispered his dead wife’s name. ‘The Lord has forsaken me in my darkest hour. I need to know what to do. I need you to tell me what to do.’ The pain in his head was beginning to make him feel nauseous and weak, close to passing out, until suddenly he heard her voice, soft and comforting, as if she was kneeling next to him, an arm around his shoulders, guiding his prayers. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen . ‘Iris? What should I do, Iris? I killed a child, Iris.’ It was an accident , his dead wife reassured him. You were trying to do the right thing. You were doing God’s work . ‘But I killed a child — an innocent child.’ You were trying to save the child . ‘And now he’s dead, by my hand.’ Not your hand. You are but a vessel — a tool to be wielded by the hand of the Lord . ‘But why? Why did he have to take the boy?’ Ours is not to question his will. Ours is not to doubt his grand design . ‘But they’ll call me a murderer or worse.’ Because they don’t understand you are doing God’s work . ‘Why don’t they understand?’ Because they serve another Lord. They have wandered from the flock and can’t find their way back . ‘Are they my enemies? Should I fear them?’ Thou prepare a table for me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over . ‘Then I shouldn’t fear them?’ The Lord will protect you and I will always be here, watching over you . ‘What should I do now?’ You must carry on with the work God has given you, blessed you with . ‘More children? I don’t know if I can.’ You must. The Lord has chosen you to save them; Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever .

Tears flowed down his face and dripped on to his hands, tightly clenched in prayer under his chin. The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not be in want . ‘Guide me, dear Father. Tell me what to do and it shall be done.’ A sudden presence behind him made him spin around. George Bridgeman stood staring at him still dressed in his pyjamas, his tired eyes trying to blink away his sleepiness.

‘Why are you crying?’ he asked Allen matter-of-factly, as if the answer didn’t really matter.

‘Because,’ Allen replied, ‘because I’m so happy.’

‘Why are you crying if you’re happy?’

‘Because I’m sad too.’

‘Why are you sad?’

‘Because something bad happened — something terrible.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing you need to know about,’ Allen told him, drying the last of the tears with a crumpled tissue he’d pulled from his trouser pocket. ‘Something the Lord will forgive me for. Now, come to the kitchen and have some breakfast.’

‘Why aren’t we allowed downstairs?’ little George asked.

‘But you are downstairs. Your bedroom is above us, is it not?’

‘I meant down the other stairs — to the place where we can hear the voices coming from. Where we can hear you talking to other people.’

‘Because it’s not safe for you down there,’ Allen warned him, his tone more serious and foreboding now. ‘When I’m not here you must stay in your bedrooms. When I’m here you may come down here, but never try and go all the way downstairs. Never . Do you understand me, George?’ The little boy nodded slowly, fear surging through his slight body as he imagined the terrible things that waited downstairs. ‘Now — breakfast.’

‘When can I go home?’ George suddenly asked, unable to stop the question tumbling from his lips.

Allen looked at him with genuine puzzlement. ‘But you are home, George, and we are your family now. You must forget the others, as if they never existed. It is God’s will, George. It is God’s will.’

Sean and Donnelly entered their new office in New Scotland Yard together having already made dozens of phone calls each on their way back from the scene in Highgate Cemetery. It seemed everyone in the world needed to know about the murder of Samuel Hargrave. Their job now was as much about coordination as investigation and it continued to weigh Sean down like a lead jacket, choking his instinct and insight. But as devastating as the recovery of the boy’s body was, at least it had given him his first close look at the man he hunted — finally a chance to try and understand his motivation. To understand his mind.

He stopped in the middle of the office and threw his raincoat over a chair. Donnelly understood what was happening and did the same.

‘All right. Listen up,’ Sean barked above the sounds of conversation and typing, allowing the room to drift into silence before continuing. ‘As most of you have probably heard by now, we have another victim, Samuel Hargrave, abducted last night from his home in Primrose Hill. The parents disturbed the intruder, but he managed to get away with the boy. Several hours later the boy’s body was found in Highgate Cemetery, left where it would be easily found — on the grave of Robert Grant, who coincidentally was a Metropolitan Police Officer about a hundred and fifty years ago. He’d also won the Victoria Cross.’