Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘Mr and Mrs Bridgeman,’ Robinson said, ‘these officers are from the Special Investigations Unit, Scotland Yard. I believe they’ll be taking over the investigation now.’

‘Why?’ Celia Bridgeman asked before Sean or Sally could speak, panic lighting her eyes. ‘Has something happened? Have you found him?’

Sally could tell she was about to lose it completely. ‘No, Mrs Bridgeman. Nothing’s changed. We’re just here to try and help find George as quickly as we can. Everything’s going to be fine, but we’ll have to ask you both some questions if we’re going to do that.’

‘More questions?’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted. ‘We’ve already answered all the questions. Now you need to get out there and find our son.’

‘Almost every officer in the borough is out there searching for George,’ Robinson tried to reassure him, ‘including dogs. Even the police helicopter’s up and looking.’

Sean eyed Bridgeman for a while before considering his response. He felt an instant dislike for the man — his carefully groomed hair, golden tan and athletic build, and above all his arrogance, which more than matched his wealth. ‘I can understand your frustration.’ He managed to sound businesslike. ‘But we really do need to ask you some more questions.

‘Of course,’ Celia took over, ‘anything.’ She wiped the tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘I believe you were the one who discovered George was apparently missing, Mrs Bridgeman?’ Sean asked.

‘Not apparently,’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted again, ‘ is missing. Who did you say you were?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Jones from the Special Investigations Unit.’

‘Special Investigations?’ Bridgeman asked, distaste etched into his face. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Stuart,’ his wife stopped him. ‘You’re wasting time.’

Bridgeman grudgingly backed down. ‘Ask your questions, Inspector.’

‘When you couldn’t find George, what did you do?’

‘I looked everywhere,’ she told him, shaking as she spoke, involuntarily closing her eyes as she remembered the panic and fear, the feeling of sickness overtaking her body, ‘but I couldn’t find him.’

‘Then what?’

‘I checked the windows and doors.’

‘And?’

‘They were all closed and locked — all of them.’

‘Even the front door?’

‘Yes, and the front door.’

‘All four locks?’

‘No. Just the top lock.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Caroline had already arrived for work before I discovered George was missing.’

‘Caroline being yourself,’ he said looking over at the nodding nanny.

‘I always put the top lock on,’ she told him, ‘so that the kids can’t get out through the front door. It’s the only lock they can’t reach.’

‘And that’s how you found it?’ he asked, turning back to look at Celia Bridgeman.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Sean considered the nanny for a moment. Had she forgotten to put the top lock on when she’d arrived, fastening it later once she’d realized her mistake? Was it already too late by then — George had slipped out into the street and wandered off, or been taken away? The nanny looked relaxed and calm enough under the circumstances — he sensed no guilt or fear in her, even if it was the most logical explanation. But he was picking up on something else — a presentiment of foul play that made him consider the entire family for a second. It was impossible to look at them and not be struck by their wealth and privilege and even more so by their beauty. All of them beautiful, including both children. Had that been the flame that had drawn the moth to them?

Stuart Bridgeman’s voice cut through his thoughts.

‘This is all we need — a wannabe Sherlock bloody Holmes on the case. These stupid questions are a waste of time. You need to stop hiding in the warm and get out on those streets and find our son.’

Ignoring Bridgeman’s rant, Sean directed the next question at him. ‘You weren’t here last night, Mr Bridgeman, is that right?’

‘I was away on business. You know — earning money for my family. I work in the private sector. I have to earn my money, unlike some.’

Again Sean let it pass. ‘So, where were you last night?’

‘Why? Am I a suspect in my own son’s disappearance?’

‘No. I just need to know where you were.’

‘Fine. I was in Oxford.’

‘You got back quickly,’ Sean prodded.

‘I came straight back as soon as I heard. Wouldn’t you — if your child had gone missing?’

‘What time did you hear?’

‘I don’t remember … some time before nine.’

‘And when did you get back here?’

‘A little while ago — why?’

‘It was ten thirty,’ Robinson told Sean. ‘It’s in the crime-scene log.’

‘That was fast,’ Sean accused him, ‘through rush-hour traffic.’

‘So I broke a few speed limits — what the fuck do I care?’

‘Stuart, please,’ Celia appealed to him. ‘You’re not helping.’

‘Here we go,’ Stuart Bridgeman said, shaking his head. ‘I wondered how long it would be before this all became my fault.’

Sean didn’t have time to referee a domestic. ‘Where did you stay? In Oxford — where did you stay?’

Bridgeman took several calming breaths before answering. ‘The Old Parsonage Hotel — just outside the city centre. They’ll be able to confirm I was there last night.’

Sean studied him, in no hurry to fill the uncomfortable silence. Bridgeman could have comfortably booked into his hotel but then come back in the night and taken the boy before returning to Oxford to await his wife’s distressed phone call. But why would he want to abduct his own son? He decided not to push that line of questioning — not yet.

‘I’m sure we won’t be needing to check with the hotel, Mr Bridgeman,’ he lied. ‘But one thing’s bothering me.’

‘And what would that be?’ Bridgeman asked, not attempting to disguise his frustration.

‘I saw an alarm panel as I came through the hallway. I assume it’s for an intruder alarm.’

‘So?’ Bridgeman asked.

‘So, if someone did manage to break into the house, why didn’t the alarm go off? Wasn’t it set last night?’

‘No,’ Bridgeman told him, ‘nor any other night since we’ve been here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s the old alarm left here by the previous owners. They cancelled their subscription to the alarm company when we bought the house and I haven’t got round to having it reactivated yet.’

‘So the house wasn’t alarmed?’ Sean clarified.

‘No,’ Bridgeman admitted. ‘But there’s an alarm box on the front of the house. You would think that would deter most people from trying to break in.’

‘So you haven’t been here long then?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ Celia Bridgeman answered, never taking her accusing eyes off her husband. ‘A little less than three weeks.’

‘Where did you move from?’ Sally continued.

‘Primrose Hill.’

‘Any reason for the move?’ Sean asked.

‘Camden seemed to be getting closer and closer,’ Bridgeman explained, ‘and Primrose Hill’s full of very dull Russian bankers.’

‘Did you change the locks when you moved in?’ Sean questioned.

‘No,’ Bridgeman replied. ‘Who changes the locks when they move into a new house? This is Hampstead, not Peckham.’ Sean and Sally looked at each other, Sally failing to stop a small grin forming on her lips. ‘The people we bought it off were decent people. In fact, the husband works not far from me in the City. They’re hardly likely to come back and burgle us, are they?’