Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

The Bridgemans spoke first, keeping dutifully to the script he’d prepared for them, speaking directly into the cameras, explaining how much they loved and missed George — how much his sister missed him, that she was heartbroken without her little brother. Showing the gathered media photographs of the two playing together, telling the world what a wonderful and special child George was. ‘Good,’ Sean barely whispered. ‘Keep it personal — show George’s life with his family. Make George a person, not just a thing.’

Next they spoke about how they understood mistakes could happen — how someone might think they were doing the right thing taking a child, but that George was loved by his family, and that they as a family forgave each other their mistakes, they were forgiving people, they never dwelled on accidents or cried over spilt milk — all coded messages to the man who’d taken George that they would forgive him and forget, if he would just let George go, even if in reality no such thing could ever happen.

After they’d finished, Addis introduced Bailey Fellowes’ parents. They followed the same tack, only it was Mrs Fellowes who did nearly all the talking while her husband tried to control his sobbing. She stuttered and faltered as she tried to control her own emotions, almost crushing the family photographs she was supposed to show the cameras in her hand. ‘Talk,’ Sean whispered again. ‘Talk to him, damn it — talk to the man who has your child.’ Sally looked at him out of the corner of her eye, straining to hear what he was saying as Jessica Fellowes struggled onwards, her words barely audible through her sobs. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean said loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘You have to be stronger than this. He won’t let your child go out of pity. You have to prove yourself to him. You have to show him you’re worth a second chance.’

‘I just want my baby back,’ Jessica cried into the cameras, the intensity of the flashbulbs reaching new levels. They had what they came for — the picture that would make all of tomorrow’s front pages.

‘Fuck it,’ Sean cursed. ‘You’d think they didn’t want to see their child again.’ He felt fingers curl around his forearm and give a slight squeeze. He looked at the hand first, his eyes rising to see it belonged to Sally.

‘They’re doing their best,’ she told him with sadly. ‘They don’t understand, Sean. They don’t understand like you do — not many people do.’

He tried to think of a reply, but she was already walking back to her office. He waited a few minutes, watching the end of the press conference without listening, waiting for his anger and frustration to fade before heading after Sally to offer something akin to an apology. But when he reached her office she was sitting at her desk with her back towards the door, something no cop would ever do willingly. It was enough to tell Sean something was wrong.

‘You all right, Sally?’ he asked gingerly.

‘No,’ she answered without looking at him. ‘No I’m not.’ Her voice was shaking and he could tell she was crying. He crossed the small office and rested a hand on one shoulder while looking over the other. He felt her recoil slightly from his touch − the ghost of Sebastian Gibran still haunted her more than she allowed people to know.

‘Why did it have to be children?’ she asked.

‘We don’t get to pick and choose,’ Sean reminded her gently.

‘Christ, those poor parents. What must they be thinking?’

‘We can get the children back. We’ll find them.’

‘Do you really believe that? I mean really?’

‘I have to.’

‘But not Samuel Hargrave,’ Sally told him, her words like a knife in his chest. ‘We can’t bring him back.’

‘No,’ he agreed sadly. ‘No, we can’t do that.’

‘I thought I was ready,’ Sally admitted, ‘thought I was ready for just about anything, but I was wrong. I never thought we’d get something involving children. I don’t know why — it just never crossed my mind.’

‘You’re not feeling anything everybody else isn’t. This has nothing to do with what happened to you in the past. You’ll be fine.’

‘What about you?’ Sally asked. ‘It doesn’t seem to have affected you.’

Sean breathed in a chestful of air before answering. ‘I don’t always react in … in …’ He struggled to find the words.

‘In the same way as everybody else?’ Sally asked.

‘I was going to say in the most appropriate way,’ Sean told her. ‘I can get obsessive at times — forget how the people around me might be feeling, how the victims’ families might be feeling. I see only the offender, the person I have to find and stop. I guess I can be a bit of a bull in a china shop.’

‘You don’t say,’ Sally said, a rueful laugh cutting through her tears.

‘That’s why I need you: to give me the occasional kick up the arse and keep me from getting myself into trouble.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she agreed, drying her eyes, her stuttering laughter replacing the crying.

‘Good, because I’m going to have to piss a few more people off before I catch this one. I don’t have time to tread softly if I’m going to catch him quickly. And that’s what I have to do, because this one is beginning to really worry me. He’s no Sebastian Gibran or Thomas Keller, but he’s just as dangerous. He’s living in some sort of fantasy world, and the moment that world starts to collapse around him, God only knows what he’ll do.’

Donnelly watched the end of the press conference and then headed for the exit. He stepped between a couple of detectives who were blocking the way. ‘Must visit the little boys room and point the python at Percy.’ He walked the rest of the way along the corridor to the toilet, whistling all the way, swinging the door to the bathroom open as if he was entering a saloon. He kept the whistling going until he was sure the room was empty, then entered a cubicle and silently locked it behind him, sitting his considerable frame on the toilet with the seat still down. He was fighting hard to push the images of the parents during the press conference away, but even as their anguished faces faded slightly, the face of Samuel Hargrave in the cemetery continued to haunt him, the boy’s image burnt on to his mind. He pulled his warrant card from his jacket pocket and slipped a small photograph he carried of his family from inside. It had been taken a few years ago when the twins were only eight and his youngest, Joshua, only three. He tried to picture him alive, playing at home with his brothers and sisters, but the image of his son lying on the stone in the cemetery wouldn’t leave his consciousness — his own boy’s lips blue and his skin pale.

He felt his throat constricting with grief and squeezed a large palm tightly over his own mouth to stem any betraying noise as his vision became blurred by the gathering tears — tears that somehow he managed to stop from flooding his eyes. Dabbing at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, he struggled to bring his breathing under control, filling his lungs and holding his breath until the involuntary convulsions began to fade. He kissed the photograph of his family and carefully tucked it back into his warrant card before slipping it back into his jacket. He sniffed the mucus from his nose and cleared his throat before standing. If anyone asked about his red eyes, he’d say what he always said: ‘Work hard, play hard. Life’s not a bloody dress rehearsal.’ It was what people expected from him and he saw no reason to challenge the image they were comfortable with. He flicked the cubicle lock open and stepped into the empty toilet, checking himself in the mirror before heading back to the main office, straightening his tie and smoothing his moustache. ‘Kids. Why did it have to be bloody kids?’