Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘Thank God,’ Sean murmured, then gave a start as his mobile rang. It took him a moment to disentangle it from his inside coat pocket and answer.

‘Guv’nor, it’s DS Noble. It’s my forensic team that’s been examining the scene at 10 Hawtrey Road.’ The voice went quiet while he waited for some recognition. Eventually Sean realized he was talking about the home of the dead boy lying only inches away.

‘Of course,’ he managed to say as if he’d never been in doubt. ‘What d’you have for me?’

‘Not much, but enough. A couple of fibres and a couple of hairs from the boy’s bedroom that are probably the suspect’s. No fingerprints, so I’m thinking he wore gloves. The lab can work the hairs up for DNA. They’ll convict him once we have him, but if he doesn’t have previous convictions then they’re not going to help us find him.’

‘Make sure the lab compare your samples to any from the other two scenes. At least they might be able to confirm we’re only looking for one man.’

‘I’ll make sure it’s done,’ Noble assured him.

‘Let me know if you find anything else,’ Sean told him, ‘anything at all.’ He hung up before Noble could answer.

‘Everything all right?’ Canning asked.

‘No,’ Sean answered, once more looking down on the broken little body. ‘This man’s crossed the line now — broken his last taboo. Next time it’ll be easier for him to kill, and it’ll take less to provoke him. It’s always goes the same way.’

‘I thought you said this was in all likelihood an accident,’ Canning queried.

‘It was,’ Sean explained, ‘but next time won’t be. He takes children from their own homes in the middle of the night. Does that strike you as normal or rational behaviour? No matter how many promises he’s made to himself that he won’t hurt another child, he will — if they try and escape, or they talk back too much, or they don’t meet whatever twisted standards he thinks they should, or when he gets bored of them. He’ll kill again, he won’t be able to stop himself, no matter what he may think.’ The thought of standing in the mortuary a second longer suddenly made Sean feel sick. ‘I need to be somewhere else,’ he told Canning. ‘Call me if anything changes. In fact, call me even if it doesn’t.’ He quickly turned and headed for the exit — Canning’s eyes silently following him all the way until he could see him no more.

Assistant Commissioner Addis sat in the back of an unmarked jet-black police Range Rover furiously tapping away on his private high-spec laptop. He’d soon tired of the cheap rubbish the police had provided him with and had decided the personal expense for something decent was worth it to give him the edge on his competitors. His out-and-about bodyguard sat in the front with his regular driver, neither of whom could stand Addis, but both of whom liked the relatively cushy number that looking after him provided. Most senior officers of his rank would be permanently shadowed by an inspector or chief inspector who would be referred to as his bag-carrier, but Addis worked alone, too organized and efficient to admit he could possibly need a personal aide. He barely needed a secretary, and besides, as far as he was concerned the less people who knew his business the better. The mobile phone that lay on the table next to the laptop began to ring and he answered it without looking, his right hand still frantically typing some new guidelines he’d be expecting the Anti-Terrorist Team to follow without divergence.

‘Robert,’ a familiar and intimidating voice replied. ‘It’s been a while. Just thought I’d give you a ring and see how everything is going.’

‘Everything?’ Addis choked a little. ‘If this is about the conduct of some of our Anti-Terrorist officers overseas, then I can assure you that the situation will be addressed in the very near future.’

‘Who cares if the Anti-Terrorist boys have been getting a little too pally with the Pakistani Intelligence Service? You know as well as I do that torture gets results, and what the public don’t know won’t hurt them. No, my more pressing concern is this Special Investigations Unit of yours.’

‘In particular?’

‘In particular, DI Corrigan. You told me this unit could be relied upon for the occasional bit of good news — good news that would reflect well on the government. But that doesn’t seem to be happening, and now we’ve got the TV and papers all over it in their usual fucking way. Word has it it’s only a matter of time before they start asking the Home Secretary what she thinks about it — maybe even the PM himself, for Christ’s sake. These missing kids aren’t being snatched from teenage single mothers living on some shithole estate in Birmingham, Robert. These families have influence, and the people they work for have even more influence. Their gripes go up the food chain and eventually they reach me, and it’s my job to deal with them. We understand each other, don’t we, Robert?’

Addis cleared his throat before answering. ‘We do.’

‘Excellent,’ the voice told him, then softened into a conciliatory tone: ‘Look, Robert — we in the government all agree that what London needs is a mayor who’s strong on law and order. Free bikes and a decent firework show at New Year’s are all well and good, but they’re hardly vote winners. People want to feel safe in their houses, and they don’t want to be tripping over beggars and vagrants every time they go to a West End theatre. London needs a Giuliani. Your public profile has been much enhanced over the last year or two, Robert, but if this investigation drags on much longer it could be irreparably damaged, along with it any political ambitions you may harbour. I just thought you should know.’

Realizing that the caller had hung up, Addis tossed the phone on to the seat next to him, rubbing his chin pensively.

He’d be damned if Corrigan was going to drag him down with him. It had been a mistake to trust a career detective — he should have given the job to a Bramshill flyer, someone he could control. Who cared if they’d never actually investigated anything more serious than shoplifting, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about having the wool pulled over his eyes at every turn. But he quickly reminded himself why he’d chosen to use Corrigan instead of a flyer — because Corrigan wouldn’t be looking to make a name for himself. He’d get the job done and move on to the next one. A flyer would be looking to take all the credit and steal all the headlines, and he couldn’t have that. All the same, he couldn’t afford to give Corrigan more than another forty-eight hours, if that. If the right man wasn’t in custody by then, he’d have to go.

Sean strode into the main office at the Yard still feeling displaced and nauseous after witnessing the preliminary stages of Samuel Hargrave’s post-mortem. He needed to launch himself back into the investigation to chase the images and memories away.

Having seen him arrive, Donnelly tailed him to his office, waiting until they were inside before speaking.

‘How did the post-mortem go?’

‘I didn’t stay for the whole thing,’ Sean admitted. ‘Just long enough to all but confirm what happened.’

‘Which is?’

‘He was suffocated, not strangled. No other injuries to the body and no outward signs of sexual assault.’

‘So all the usual things are missing,’ Donnelly stated flatly. Receiving no answer, he continued: ‘In which case, the question remains: why is he taking them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sean confessed. ‘But whatever his motivation is, it isn’t sexual.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure of that?’ Donnelly checked, unhappy about letting something as straightforward as a sexual predator fall away as a possibility.