The Toy Taker Read online

  ‘Sure. Endless flow of idiots who’ve set themselves on fire.’ Sean failed to stifle a little laugh. ‘It’s not so funny when they’re children,’ Kate reprimanded him.

  ‘No,’ Sean agreed, instantly serious.

  ‘Speaking of children,’ she continued, ‘how’s your case going?’

  ‘All right – I think.’

  ‘You think? That’s not like you.’

  ‘I have suspect in custody who looks good for it.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  ‘Still missing. Haven’t you been watching the news?’ Kate rolled her eyes at him. ‘I guess not then,’ Sean finished.

  ‘Won’t he tell you where the boy is?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not asking the right questions.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because my mind’s fucked,’ he told her. ‘This move to the Yard, senior officers sticking their noses into my business twenty-four hours a day – I can’t breathe, let alone think. Never thought I’d see the day I missed Peckham.’

  ‘So that’s the reason you’re home before the early hours,’ Kate suddenly accused him, but without venom. ‘To try and get your head straight before you interview whoever it is you’ve got locked up. Your body’s here, but your mind’s still at work, yes?’

  ‘I’ve got to get this one solved quickly,’ he appealed to her. ‘If I don’t, then you and the girls won’t be seeing me at all. And to solve it I need a confession or …’

  ‘Or what?’ Kate encouraged him.

  ‘Or a body,’ he answered.

  ‘Jesus, Sean,’ she told him. ‘That’s a bit cold.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Bodies provide evidence and evidence solves cases and convicts bad people.’

  ‘Well, on that cheery note,’ Kate declared, closing the lid of her laptop, ‘I’ll bid you goodnight. You’re not the only one around here with an early start and a long day ahead of them.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I am,’ Sean acknowledged, trying to sound sympathetic, but in truth he was just disinterested, too absorbed by his own obsessions to care.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Kate asked as she stood.

  ‘Not just yet,’ he answered.

  ‘Sorry. I forgot you need a little time to get your head together.’

  ‘Yes,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ Her voice sounded resigned as she allowed her hand to trail across his shoulders as she passed him on her way to the stairs and bed.

  He sat still and silent while he waited for the house to settle, the music swallowed by the closing of the laptop. Once he was satisfied he wouldn’t be disturbed, he closed his eyes and waited for images and thoughts to race into his mind, but the first thing to enter his consciousness was Anna Ravenni-Ceron, her long curly black hair allowed to escape from the unruly bunch it was usually kept in on top of her head – strands hanging in front of her face and obscuring one of her deep brown eyes as she smiled at him. He imagined her slender neck and naked shoulders, although he’d never actually seen her that way. He had no idea why she danced in front of his mind’s eye, just that he liked it. He allowed the image to grow, revealing more of her nakedness as she turned her back on him, looking over her shoulder and smiling seductively – teasing him. But her image was suddenly chased away with a jolt – her twirling beauty replaced by the face of George Bridgeman, pale and lifeless. Sean’s physical desires faded to nothing as George Bridgeman stared at him accusingly with his startling green eyes, demanding to know why Sean hadn’t saved him. Why he’d forsaken him?

  The sudden sense of panic almost made him grab his coat and jacket and head straight back to the Yard or even to Kentish Town to drag McKenzie from his cell and do whatever he had to do to get the truth from him. But if he hadn’t talked in his flat, then he wouldn’t talk now – not without some new leverage to prise the truth from him.

  Sean eased himself back into his chair and considered his next move. The first thing that came to mind was putting in a call to Dr Canning, the pathologist he preferred to use for murder investigations, warning him to expect a body sooner rather than later – the body of a child, probably at an outside scene, somewhere secluded. He was about to reach for his phone when he remembered the last time he’d called Canning and warned him to expect a body. When his hunch had proved correct, it had left him feeling somehow complicit in the murder of the woman whose body they found the very next day, as if by acting on the premonition he had made it come to pass. His hand moved away from the phone lying on the table, unwilling to damn George Bridgeman to the same fate.

  He tried to shake the haunting images out of his mind – to bring back the dancing Anna, but the boy’s pleading face wouldn’t go away. Desperate to break the spell, he jumped from his chair and headed for the cupboard where his bourbon and solitary glass tumbler lived. He poured a decent-sized shot and swallowed it in two gulps before refilling it and heading back to his chair, enjoying the abrasive feel of the thick liquid as it slid towards his stomach. His eyes flickered shut and he allowed the images of the boy and McKenzie to completely flood his mind, but try as he might he couldn’t bring the two together – he couldn’t see McKenzie’s face on the silhouette climbing the stairs towards the boy. He thumped the table in frustration and disappointment; robbed of a sense he had come to rely on, he felt like a hunter who’d forgotten how to track its prey, impotent and useless. ‘It’ll all make sense soon,’ he promised himself. ‘I just hope it won’t be too late.’

  6

  The quiet Victorian Street that gently snaked between Highgate Hill and Archway Road was at its widest halfway along where a wide triangular clearing at the junction with Winchester Place gave it the appearance of being a cul-de-sac. The sky was almost completely hidden by a thick canopy of trees whose golden leaves made the gentle breeze sound more like a storm, and the street lamps were spread too far apart to provide much light.

  The man pulled the collar of his thick jacket up around his neck to keep out the bitter cold of the night and crouched down in the porch of the tall red-brick, three-storey house, unconcerned by the pale light of the doorway shining above him. He could have gone next door where other children slept, where there was no porch light, but he wouldn’t. This was the only house he was interested in. Without a hint of panic or fear he knelt next to the bag he’d placed on the ground and unzipped it – the sound drowned out by the soughing of the wind in the leaves as he removed the head-torch from inside, turning it on and slipping it over his head, adjusting it until he was satisfied it was fit for purpose, its cylindrical beam of white light moving in the semi-darkness as if it was a part of him. Next he rubbed his hands vigorously and blew his hot breath into them for warmth, making sure they were flexible and full of feeling before sliding them into thin, warm gloves, holding them up in front of his face and examining them, like a surgeon before operating. Next he took the rolled-up suede case from the bag and unfurled it as carefully as if it contained diamonds.

  The heads of the delicate, shiny tools poking from their pockets stared back at him, his head-torch making them sparkle like jewels as he scanned the contents before selecting one that looked like a long, thin, metal toothpick. He dropped gently on to his knees and bent towards the bottom deadlock, the effort pushing the breath from his lungs so that it swirled around his head like a mist before disappearing. He inserted the tool into the lock, ever so gently manoeuvring it until it seemed to have been gripped by some unseen force inside. Satisfied, he returned the beam of light to the suede case and selected two further tools – the first with a small hook on one end and the other with a tiny diamond-shaped head. He placed the hook into the lock upside down, as if he was trying to prise open its jaws, while he slid the diamond-headed tool smoothly into the waiting keyhole, moving it forwards and backwards with almost no grip, the entire action making only a tiny scratching noise – inaudible to anyone outside or inside,
unless they were incredibly close to the source of the sound, which he knew at this time of night they would not be.

  After no more than thirty seconds he felt the lock open, the soft click lost in the wind. He felt no sense of euphoria, no excitement or anticipation, just satisfaction. Reclaiming his tools, he stood to reach the top deadlock, relieved to stretch the stiffness from his knees before repeating the procedure with the same effect. He took a minute or so to look about the street, watching the fallen leaves racing along the gutters, tumbling over each other before forming piles, trapped in corners, held captive by turbulence.

  He took another moment to consider his actions. He had been told to come. He had been told to take the child away. His instructions had been clear. He must draw strength from the fact he was not alone, for who was he to question the cause for which he had been ordained? He must save the children. His doubts quickly faded into the night like his breath as he returned to his tool kit, exchanging the diamond-head and toothpick instruments for what looked like a miniature knife welded on to a long metal handle. He inserted the hooked tool into the central Yale lock, its opening little more than a jagged slit, impenetrable to all but the most skilled hand. But his were such hands and within seconds he again felt the lock click open. Now all that stood between him and the inside of the house was a turn of the handle.

  Wasting no time, he quickly and carefully packed his tools and torch in the sports bag and eased the front door open, the warmth and smell from inside rushing out at him, overwhelming his senses, momentarily making it impossible to swim against the tide and push himself into the house. But push himself he did, slowly and painstakingly closing the door behind him, aware that this was the most dangerous time – the time when it was most likely that someone inside would sense the change in the atmosphere his entrance had caused.

  His thick jacket made him feel instantly too warm as the house’s central heating wrapped around him. Soon he would feel the sweat running down his spine. But he didn’t have time to take it off, and besides he would soon need its protection again when he left the house with the chosen child.

  He didn’t dwell on the comforting normality and order of the house – didn’t search through the downstairs rooms for things of value or trophies to fuel the fantasies he didn’t have. No: he was here for one purpose and one purpose only – to save the child with the vulgar name, given to her by vulgar parents who knew no better and deserved even less. How could they have been blessed with a child when he and his love had been deprived of such a gift from God?

  He walked along the downstairs hallway, lit only with the faint glow coming from the kitchen, no doubt left on to guide any thirsty night-time wanderers and now guiding him to the foot of the staircase. A gloved hand rested on the bannister as he began to climb, slowly and without a sound, grateful for the thick, new carpet he once again felt underfoot, nevertheless careful to avoid the stairs that he knew would creak and betray his presence. He arrived at the first floor where the parents slept in the darkness of their room, but with the door open in case their two-year-old needed them in the middle of the night. The only illumination was the pale blue light from the floors above where the other children slept. He floated past the bedrooms and continued his ascent to the summit of the house where he knew the little girl slept. But first he had to pass the bedroom on the second floor occupied by her older sister. She would have learned enough of the world to be frightened of it and would not be as easily and quickly placated as her younger sibling. She might scream and raise the alarm.

  With the utmost care he tiptoed past the older child’s bedroom and began the final climb towards the one he had come for – the one he’d been guided to take.

  By now the sweat was running down his back and a light sheen coated his face, but he was oblivious to it as he stepped on to the landing of the top floor. There was only one room up here, converted from the old attic – a strange place for a young child to sleep when there were other bedrooms closer to her family she could have used. Another sign of her parents’ neglect and lack of love, he decided. Clearly his actions were justified.

  Before entering the bedroom he placed his bag carefully on the floor and searched inside for the special thing he’d brought with him – the thing that would instantly buy her trust and her silent cooperation. He pulled it free from the bag, the sight of it in the dim light making him almost smile as he imagined the little girl’s face when she saw what he had brought for her.

  Leaving his bag on the landing, he slowly pushed the door to her room open, the faint illumination emanating from her night-lamp enough for him to see her lying in her bed underneath a blue-and-white patchwork quilt, her face slightly obscured by her shoulder-length blonde hair. Her breathing was heavy enough to be audible as she stirred slightly, reacting to the presence in her room, but not waking fully as her toys and dolls looked on – dozens of silent witnesses with unseeing eyes, unable to testify to what was happening in the room with slanted ceilings and walls decorated with pictures of ponies.

  He began to cross the room towards her, stepping as softly as he could until he reached her bedside, dropping to his knees and trying to speak, holding the precious thing close to his own face so it would be the first thing she saw when her eyes flickered open. But his voice deserted him, the words lost in his sudden confusion and fear. Taking children from their homes in the middle of the night – how could this be right? Soon enough, though, he remembered who had told him he must and why, fortifying his belief and giving him courage. He swallowed painfully and licked his lips before they parted.

  ‘Bailey …’ he whispered her name through trembling lips and waited. She stirred under her quilt, but still didn’t wake. ‘Bailey,’ he repeated, forcing himself to utter the name so distasteful it made him recoil from his own words. ‘It’s time to wake up now, Bailey.’

  The little girl’s pupils moved under her still-closed eyelids, as if she was having a bad dream, until at last they began to slowly open, before closing again. As her mind processed the glimpse of information, her eyes suddenly opened wide in delighted surprise, her hands reaching out for the precious thing, the presence of the man almost unnoticed, so deep was her joy and excitement. He saw her chest fill with air as she prepared to call out the name, and quickly put his finger to his lips and released a long, quiet ‘Ssssssh.’ Finally Bailey registered that she and the precious thing were not alone her bedroom and her expression became more concerned. He smiled a friendly, warm smile, his eyes glinting with kindness. ‘It’s time to go now, Bailey,’ he whispered, ‘to a special, magical place where only the best children are allowed. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Are you a friend of my mummy?’ Bailey asked, imitating his whispering.

  ‘No,’ he answered, his face becoming instantly more serious, ‘not a friend of your mummy. I’m someone who loves you. Someone who loves you more than your mummy ever will.’

  Sean entered the office a little after seven a.m. feeling even more tired than he had the night before. The coldness between him and Kate and his feelings for Anna only added to the confusion of his cluttered mind as he tried to prepare mentally for the interview with McKenzie later that morning. He decided to wait until at least eight before he hassled the forensic team for some information he could use. His usual lab liaison sergeant, DS Roddis, might be a bit of a cold fish, but he was one of the best in the business and he tolerated Sean’s constant meddling and harassment for updates. On this case, however, he’d be dealing with the team covering north-west London; so far as Sean was concerned they were an unknown quantity, which meant he’d have to be more restrained in his dealings with them. He made a note to speak to Addis about having Roddis and his crew attached to the Special Investigations Unit on a permanent basis. The Assistant Commissioner was bound to refuse, but he might then offer a compromise and hand Roddis over, perhaps even allow him to put together a small team for Sean’s exclusive use.

  No sooner had Sean hung up his coat and j
acket than he saw Sally entering the office looking a lot more sprightly than he felt, carrying a tray of coffees and a brown paper bag that was beginning to show grease marks. He watched her drop off a couple of takeaway cups to some of the other early arrivers before heading his way. She entered his office just as he sat down.

  ‘Morning, guv’nor,’ she announced cheerfully, holding up the greasy bag. ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘but if that’s coffee you can pass one over here.’

  ‘Naturally,’ she told him, placing a cardboard cup in front of him. ‘Black, no sugar.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, tossing the plastic lid into the metal bin that lived by the side of his new desk.

  ‘Pain-au-chocolat?’ she asked, waving the greasy bag in the air.

  ‘Christ, no.’ He grimaced, leaning away from the offending article. ‘God save me from pain-au-chocolat. Anyway, what you so happy about?’

  ‘Better than being miserable,’ she told him. He didn’t answer. ‘I hear you’re interviewing McKenzie this morning – again.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Need someone to sit in on it with you?’

  ‘I think Dave has that honour, although if he doesn’t show up soon you’re more than welcome to join me.’

  ‘Any idea what you’re going to ask him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And the boy – do you think he could still be alive?’

  Before he could answer, Addis burst into the main office and marched across to them, a manilla file clutched in his hand. He took one step into Sean’s office and came to a halt as they stared at him, waiting for him to speak, years of dealing with senior officers telling them he had something he very much wanted to say.

  ‘So,’ he began, ‘this suspect of yours, Mark McKenzie, tell me again how sure you are he’s responsible for the abduction of George Bridgeman.’