Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘No, sir,’ Featherstone agreed before continuing, eager to move the conversation on. ‘Did you get Corrigan’s brief for the press conference?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘And it is entirely adequate.’ High praise coming from Addis, and Featherstone knew it. ‘A few interesting ideas,’ Addis admitted before breaking back into his stride along the corridor, speaking over his shoulder at Featherstone who once more struggled to keep up. ‘But I need more than interesting ideas for a press conference: I need this bastard caught, and quickly. I’d have been speaking to Corrigan myself this morning if I hadn’t been so busy, but there’s only so long he can go on dodging bullets. Some of my contacts in the media have already given fair warning that it won’t be long before they turn on us. A bungled police investigation always makes for profitable headlines and those cunts at the BBC won’t miss a chance to stick the knife in, especially after recent events. It’s only a matter of time, Alan, mark my words — it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Corrigan will bring home the bacon soon enough,’ Featherstone tried to assure him.

‘I hope you’re right. But if you’re not, someone needs to take the fall — for all of us.’

‘Corrigan?’

Addis came to another sudden stop. ‘Maybe I − we − over estimated Corrigan’s … talents . Perhaps he’s not as insightful as I was lead to believe.’

‘He’s not a fortune-teller,’ Featherstone tried to remind him. ‘He’s not a psychic. He just needs a little more time.’

‘There are plenty of other competent DIs out there, Alan — more reliable ones — ones who respect the system, and the hierarchy of rank.’

‘There are no others like Corrigan out there,’ Featherstone argued, digging his heels in to protect his man, risking more than he wanted to.

‘Maybe,’ Addis conceded, ‘but what’s the point in having an attack dog if it can’t be controlled?’ Addis’s lips spread into a thin, venomous smile. ‘Do you know what a sheep farmer does with a dog they no longer trust, no matter how loyal it may have been in the past?’

‘No,’ Featherstone replied, although he feared he knew the answer.

‘They shoot it. They take it out into the woods or the hills and they shoot it in the head. They kill it before it ever gets a chance to bite them. We do understand each other, don’t we, Alan?’

Featherstone said nothing as Addis’s grin grew ever broader before disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. Then the Assistant Commissioner turned abruptly and set off at pace along the corridors of the Yard. Featherstone had half expected him to click his heels together and give a Nazi salute before marching away, but if Addis was any sort of a joke then he was a killing joke. It was no secret he had his eye on becoming the next Commissioner of the metropolis and he couldn’t afford any skeletons in his closet, not in this day and age. A failed high-profile murder investigation would be exactly that. Corrigan needed to pull something out of his hat, and soon, or heads would roll.

‘Just a few more months to retirement,’ Featherstone whispered to himself. ‘Just a few more months.’

Sean sat in his office trying to concentrate on the ever-rising piles of paper and cardboard folders that grew like model skyscrapers on his desk, not to mention the hundreds of unopened emails he knew waited for him on the Met’s internal system. But try as he might to conscientiously read through the reports and files he kept drifting back to the photographs that lurked in his phone — photographs of Samuel Hargrave lying on the cold stone in the cemetery. Sean scrolled to one showing the boy’s face and enlarged it as much as he could without losing what detail there was — his pale blue lips indicating cause of death was asphyxiation, probably due to smothering, but possibly by strangulation. Or maybe he’d even died through simple hypothermia. No matter what had killed him, the photographs were haunting and distressing.

Sean tried to pull his eyes from the unreal-looking photographs on the small screen, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t look away, his brain kept desperately trying to see something in the pictures — something that could put him right next to the man he hunted.

‘You don’t want me to find you, do you?’ he softly spoke to himself. ‘You want me to believe you’re not a killer, but you don’t want me to find you. Why not?’ He held the phone in one hand, using the index finger of the other to press his upper lip into his teeth, as if pain would help bring the answers. ‘So many killers want to be caught, so why don’t you? They want to be caught because in their souls they know they are wrong. They don’t … they don’t believe in what they’re doing. It’s all about belief, isn’t it? You believe in what you’re doing. You believe what you’re doing is right.’

A knock on his already open door made him jump and he looked up to see Sally staring at him from the doorway. He dropped the phone on his desk and pretended to casually push it away as if he hadn’t been looking at anything important. Sally gave him a few seconds before speaking, knowing exactly what he’d been looking at and why.

‘Press conference is about to start,’ she warned him. ‘We’ve got it on the telly in the main office if you want to watch.’

‘Yeah, I suppose I should,’ Sean answered, pushing himself to his feet without enthusiasm, the thought of watching the parents of the missing children going through their private torture less than appealing. ‘See if they can all stick to the script.’

They made their way to the crowd of detectives surrounding the small TV, Sean waving away offers of a seat as he instead chose to stand and look over their heads and shoulders, more comfortable knowing his reactions to the parents’ agony would not be observed.

He watched as the incessant flashing of cameras began to subside and the two sets of parents took their seats, the familiar shadow of Addis coming into view, sitting between the two couples, indicating it was time for the baying journalists to settle down before the conference began. Sally leaned close to Sean and spoke quietly. ‘Word has it he’s a shoo-in as a future commissioner — sooner rather than later too. You wouldn’t want to be in his bad books.’ Sean said nothing, concentrating on the spectacle unfolding in front of him as Addis gave a recap of the disappearances of George Bridgeman and Bailey Fellowes, explaining the purpose of the press conference, that it was an appeal to the public for help in catching the man who’d been taking the children of the wealthy and privileged of North London. Sean couldn’t help wondering whether the parents’ riches would generate or reduce sympathy with the general public.

He was pleased to see Addis sticking to the brief he’d provided him, handing over as quickly as possible to the parents: a high-ranking police officer wasn’t going to create empathy with anyone. He wanted whoever had taken the children to see the result of his actions. He wanted them to see the parents’ suffering and pain — wanted them to be overwhelmed with so much remorse that they might possibly release them unharmed. But he’d prepared the briefing before the body of Samuel Hargrave had been found — before the kidnapper had killed. Before they had crossed the ultimate line from which no one could return.

Samuel’s death had changed everything — making the press conference as much of a risk as it was an effort to save the missing children. The media appeal might make him panic and kill the other children. One death, two deaths, three deaths — it made no difference, not once the line had been crossed. Better to get rid of any witnesses — bury the bodies where they’d never be found. Sean knew the risks, but had chosen to keep them to himself, the opportunity to finally put some pressure back on the man who’d snatched these children from their own homes too tempting to resist. If he panicked, he’d start making mistakes and Sean would be close by, ready to bring his fantasy world crashing down to reality. He only prayed he was right about Samuel, that his death had been an accident. Whether it was murder or manslaughter, the man he hunted was still dangerous — dangerous and irrational. Anything could set him off at any time as he grew more and more unstable with each passing day — each passing hour. Sean didn’t have time to play safe. He had to take the risks and be prepared to live with the consequences — the guilt, the regrets, the nightmares.