The Toy Taker Page 7

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you – whoever you are.’

  ‘I already told you who I am, Mark. You need to pay a little more attention and you need to answer my questions and you need to answer them now. Do you know what happens to child murderers inside, Mark? Look at you – you wouldn’t last a week before someone stuck a sharpened screwdriver into your liver. You already know all about living Rule 43 inside, don’t you, Mark – but a child murderer? How long before the screws accidentally leave your cell unlocked, eh?’

  ‘You finished yet?’ McKenzie asked, his smirk turning to a full-blown smile.

  ‘Fuck you, am I finished!’ Sean told him as he pushed his face into the computer screen, releasing him at the same time and stepping back before he did something he knew he’d regret. ‘I’m just getting started, you disgusting piece of shit. Trust me, McKenzie, when I’m finished you’ll know.’

  Donnelly sat alone, surveying the interior of the café he’d found off Hampstead High Street, sipping the coffee he’d just bought, the price of which had made his eyes water. He regretted not opting for one of the many big-chain coffee shops and saving himself a few pounds, even though he couldn’t stand the places. It had been a few years since he’d attended any training courses at the nearby Peel Centre Police College, but even in that time many of the independent cafés and restaurants had disappeared, overtaken by the ever-spreading international franchises. He sighed as he took a bite from his extortionate bacon sandwich and sipped the coffee that cost as much as a pint of bitter in his favourite pub. As his mind drifted back to the case in hand and his appointed task of organizing the door-to-door inquiries, he couldn’t suppress a snort of disgust at the way his talents were being wasted. Not that he had any intention of actually knocking on endless doors himself, speaking to the disinterested and the over-keen alike − though he had reserved a couple of addresses for his special attention: the immediate neighbours of the Bridgemans.

  He had quickly come to the conclusion that they were looking for some spectre who didn’t actually exist. During his long service he’d seen a lot of strange things, but when a child went missing and there was no sign of a forced entry there was no need to look further than the parents. The boy was almost certainly dead already and probably still hidden somewhere in the house – a suitcase or holdall. Once the search team or dog unit found the body, they could crack on with the murder investigation, by which time he planned to be one or two steps ahead. Interviewing the neighbours would be the first of those steps.

  Donnelly hadn’t even met the missing boy’s parents yet, but just sitting in this café in the middle of Hampstead told him the sort of people they would be: smug and self-important. God, he loved putting the squeeze on types like that. They always thought they were so clever – so much cleverer than a dumb copper. Which was just how he liked it, because they invariably thought they were smart enough to talk their way out of any situation. In reality, they always ended up digging themselves great big holes to neatly fall headfirst into. If they really were as clever as they thought, they’d say nothing – just like the everyday feral criminal from any housing estate in London would. How I love hubris, he told himself with a smile, the image of tearing their alibis to pieces across an interview table cheering him considerably. The cold, hard truth was that all he had to do was bide his time and wait for the body to turn up.

  Kentish Town Police Station sat on the corner of Kentish Town Road and Holmes Road, blending in perfectly with its bleak surroundings, its Victorian architecture oppressive and forbidding, a relic from the past that seemed to hold the entire area back, despite its proximity to some of the wealthiest and most sought-after areas of London. From outside the building almost no signs of life could be seen within, just as the Victorians had wanted: small windows with thick, dimpled glass kept the secrets of its business from the public outside. That suited Sean just fine as he and Sally sat in the small office they’d borrowed from the resident DI, preparing to interview Mark McKenzie – who was currently languishing in the dingy, threatening cells that lay in the bowels of the building.

  ‘So, how much d’you like McKenzie for our yet-to-be-established abduction?’ Sally asked, breaking minutes of silence. Sean looked up from McKenzie’s intelligence file, his expression telling her he hadn’t heard her question.

  ‘What?’

  ‘McKenzie? D’you think he could be our man – if it’s confirmed the boy has actually been taken?’

  ‘The boy’s been taken,’ he assured her, ‘and yes, he could be our man. His previous is perfect – especially his record of night-time residential burglaries while the families were at home, sleeping. He’s a creeper, and that makes him a dangerous individual. You and I both know that. People don’t do night-time burglaries while the residents are at home for profit alone – it gives them something else – a buzz, some perverted satisfaction. It makes them feel powerful and in control, even if half of them do end up fouling themselves with fear.’

  ‘But not McKenzie,’ Sally added. ‘There’s nothing in his records to say he ever defecated at the scenes of his burglaries.’

  ‘Which means either he wasn’t afraid or he’s learned to control his fear, both of which make him all the more dangerous. Add to that the fact he has previous for sexual assaults on children, and has used lock-picking as a way of gaining entry … yes, I like him for this – a lot. But I could do with something a bit more concrete before we interview him. Which reminds me …’ He grabbed his mobile from the desk and searched its memory for one of the newest members of his team, then hit speed-dial and waited.

  ‘Guv’nor,’ Goodwin answered.

  ‘How you getting on with that search team and dog unit?’

  ‘I’m gonna meet them at the house in a couple of hours, guv.’

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ Sean asked impatiently.

  ‘Anti-Terrorist, guv. They’ve had them all tied up for days now. I had to be a little economical with the truth to pull them away for a few hours, so if you get an irate call from any brass, I’m afraid that’ll be down to me.’

  ‘If I do, I’ll deal with it,’ Sean assured him. ‘You got a team and that’s all that matters. Anyone gives you a hard time, you tell them I made the call on that one – understand?’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’

  ‘As soon as you get a result, let me know,’ Sean told him and hung up.

  ‘Problem?’ Sally asked.

  ‘The house hasn’t been searched yet,’ Sean told her, ‘and won’t be for a few hours.’

  ‘Shall we delay the interview?’

  ‘No. We’ll do it anyway. We’ve got a missing four-year-old, we can’t afford to wait around.’

  ‘So,’ Sally began, her eyebrows raised in exaggerated concern, ‘we’ll be interviewing a possible suspect who we have no evidence against about a crime we can’t even prove has happened. This’ll be interesting.’

  ‘The crime’s happened,’ Sean almost snapped at her, ‘and McKenzie’s a good suspect. We go with what we’ve got. If the search teams or Forensics come up with anything else, we can always re-interview him.’

  ‘If you think he fits the bill, that’s good enough for me,’ Sally told him.

  Sean closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, allowing the images of McKenzie crouched by the front door of the Bridgemans’ house to flow into his mind, the dark figure quickly and smoothly working the locks as his breath condensed in the cold night air, before slipping inside the house and moving silently towards the stairs that would lead him to the boy he knew was sleeping upstairs. ‘How did you know?’ He spoke aloud without knowing it.

  ‘Know what?’ Sally asked, making him open his eyes.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he assured her, ‘or at least nothing that’s going to take us forward. Christ, my head’s so full of crap at the moment I can barely think.’

  ‘Then use your experience instead,’ Sally encouraged him. ‘You’ve dealt with paedophiles before. What about that undercover
case you were on?’

  ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘These particular leopards never change their spots.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘So what was the job?’

  ‘To infiltrate a paedophile ring calling itself the Network.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Sally sniffed sarcastically.

  ‘The Internet was just beginning to spread and typically the baddies were on to it before we were – grooming kids online before getting them to … to perform – sometimes with each other, sometimes with the men who’d groomed then. They’d film the abuse and post it on the Internet.’

  ‘Why?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Because they were proud of what they did.’

  ‘Sick,’ Sally judged.

  ‘Maybe, or maybe that was just the way nature intended them. Anyway, I infiltrated their top man in prison first, then on the outside we continued our relationship until eventually he let me into the heart of their organization, something they called the Sanctum, made up of the members who actually did the abusing and oversaw distribution of the pictures.’

  ‘And you took them out?’ Sally asked.

  ‘We did. But the whole time I was with them, the head of the snake knew I was a cop – from the very first time he met me.’

  ‘He was bullshitting you.’

  ‘No,’ Sean said without hesitation. ‘He knew. John Conway knew.’

  ‘Then why did he take you in?’

  ‘Because he thought he could turn me,’ Sean admitted.

  ‘Thought he could turn you into a paedophile?’ Sally asked, confused.

  ‘What else?’ he answered, the question lingering unanswered between them. He steered the conversation back to the present. ‘But the Network groomed their victims, luring them to places where they could safely meet them. And the victims were older – all between nine and thirteen. Not like this one. Our guy goes into the house and takes them – and he takes them when they’re still very young.’

  ‘Them?’ Sally asked. ‘He’s only taken one, if that.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ Sean lied. ‘Anyway, there’s a damn good chance we have our man banged up downstairs. So, if you’re ready …’ He stood, gathering up the piles of reports he’d been reading in preparation for the interview.

  ‘Ready when you are, Mr McKenzie,’ Sally said. ‘Ready when you are.’

  DC Maggie O’Neil looked out of the fifteenth-floor hotel-room window at the view of Swiss Cottage and Maida Vale, the streets below twinkling and sparkling in the headlights, the crowded pavements bathed in the yellow light that leaked from the shop-fronts. The traffic was in gridlock, the sounds of which drifted up to the fifteenth floor and through the double-glazing. She’d offered the Bridgemans the use of a police safe house but they had unceremoniously turned her offer down, instead opting to find and pay for their own temporary accommodation, hence the three-bedroom apartment in the hotel in Swiss Cottage. Mr and Mrs Bridgeman took the largest room, while the nanny and Sophia shared the twin room. Maggie could use the small single room if she felt it was necessary for her to spend the night with the family, and so far she did.

  She drew the curtains on the city below and turned to study the family, wishing she was tucked up at home in her small flat in Beckenham with her partner, who worked on the Mounted Division out of Wandsworth. She’d recently turned thirty and still hadn’t told her parents and family back in Birmingham she was gay, although she suspected her older sister had worked it out by now – the lack of boyfriends, no marriage talk, no baby talk. But for the rest, their conservative Irish background seemed to mean they’d rather not know the truth than have to deal with it. Besides, her brothers and sisters had already produced four grandchildren with the promise of plenty more to come, so it wasn’t as if she was leaving her parents with no little brats to bounce on their knees at Christmas.

  She watched the nanny chasing six-year-old Sophia around the living area, her excitement at staying in a London hotel on a school night making her even more difficult to deal with – all thoughts of her missing brother seemingly forgotten. How cruel and selfish young children can be, she thought to herself as Sophia’s noisy protests against bedtime drowned out the urgent whispers from the small kitchen next door where Mr and Mrs Bridgeman had retreated in search of privacy.

  ‘Do you need any help there, Caroline?’ she asked the nanny, who continued to chase the six-year-old.

  ‘No thanks,’ she replied, ‘I’m used to it. Come on, Sophia – it’s time for bed.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ Sophia unhelpfully answered. ‘You’re not my mother.’

  ‘Don’t talk yourself into trouble, Sophia,’ Caroline warned, prompting the six-year-old to turn her back on them and reluctantly head towards the bathroom, calling back without looking:

  ‘Whatever.’

  Caroline rolled her eyes in Maggie’s direction before whispering, ‘Proper little madam, that one.’

  ‘What about her brother?’ Maggie asked quietly. ‘What’s George like?’

  ‘Not like this one. He’s a really sweet boy,’ Caroline managed to answer before her voice failed and her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I wasn’t expecting to have to speak about him.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Maggie reassured her. ‘In situations like this our emotions can sometimes ambush us. One second you think you’re fine, then the next …’

  ‘Poor George. Dear God, poor George. What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Maggie told her. ‘We’ll find him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Caroline asked. ‘I mean, how do you know that for sure?’

  It was a question Maggie knew she had to avoid answering. ‘How’s Mrs Bridgeman coping?’

  ‘She’s doing a decent job of hiding it, but I can tell she’s scared – really scared. This is killing her inside.’ The sound of Mr Bridgeman’s raised voice in the kitchen made them both freeze for a second, their eyes locked, neither speaking until the sounds from the kitchen returned to faint murmuring.

  ‘And Mr Bridgeman,’ Maggie asked, her voice hushed, ‘how’s he doing?’

  Caroline suddenly looked uncomfortable, like a child being asked to divulge a playground secret to a parent. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘It’s difficult to say. Sometimes men hide their fear behind anger – especially men like Mr Bridgeman.’

  ‘Like Mr Bridgeman?’

  ‘You know – powerful men – men who are used to being in control.’

  ‘So who’s he angry with?’

  ‘With … I didn’t say he was angry with anyone in particular, just that he was angry at what’s happened. He’s upset, you know.’

  Maggie ignored her explanation, sensing there was more for her to find. ‘Mrs Bridgeman? Is he angry with her? Or maybe he’s angry with George about something.’

  ‘Listen,’ Caroline tried to backtrack, ‘I don’t really know what’s going on. I’m just the nanny. I look after the children – that’s all.’ She walked from the room in search of Sophia, leaving Maggie alone with her thoughts and doubts. She’d been Family Liaison Officer on plenty of cases in the past. Until a body was found, family members would never wander too far from the phone or each other, but after the body was found and confirmed as their missing loved one, family members would frequently seek solitude for their grief. She’d seen murders destroy families more often than she’d seen them bring them together – the parents of victims often divorcing in the aftermath of murder − but she’d never seen or felt a reaction quite like she was seeing in the Bridgemans: a devastated mother and an angry father who seemed to be doing everything they could to avoid being in the same room as her. The usual non-stop flow of questions from the terrified parents was absent; instead she could hear the constant murmur of their hushed, urgent voices coming from the kitchen. She reminded herself that she’d never dealt with victims like the Bridgemans before – w
ealthy and privileged. The families she’d worked with had all been comfortable at best, poor beyond most people’s understanding at worst. Maybe this was simply how rich people dealt with things – she just didn’t know. But something in her still-developing detective’s instinct told her all was not as it should be, as if they resented her presence. It wasn’t the first time she had encountered hostility as a Family Liaison Officer, but that had been from criminal families whose hatred of the police wouldn’t be softened by the mere death of a family member. That wasn’t the case with the Bridgemans – so what was wrong?

  The loud buzzing noise filled the small interview room where Sean and Sally sat opposite Mark McKenzie and his state-appointed duty solicitor. Sarah Jackson was a fifty-six-year-old veteran of North London’s police stations. Her plain, loose-fitting clothes covered a bulky five-foot-two frame and her round face was surrounded by short, curly hair. Ancient spectacles finished her look. Within minutes of meeting and talking to her prior to introducing her to McKenzie, Sean could tell she knew her business and would not be walked over, although he also sensed she was a straight player and wasn’t here to do McKenzie any special favours. If he admitted to her he’d taken the boy then Sean would back Jackson to get him to admit it to them – for his own sake and the boy’s. Sean’s eyes never left McKenzie, who squirmed in his rickety chair and waited for the buzzing to fall silent. When it did Sean spoke first.

  ‘The time is approximately eight fifteen p.m. This interview is being conducted in an interview room at Kentish Town Police Station. I am Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and the other officer present is …’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Sally Jones,’ she introduced herself without needing to be prompted.

  ‘I am interviewing – could you state your name clearly for the tape, please?’

  ‘Mark McKenzie,’ he answered curtly with a thin smile.

  Sean continued to speak without having to think about the words, his mind already considering the questions he would ask – the small, ball-hammer taps he would keep making, attacking the veneer until finally McKenzie’s protective shell shattered.