The Toy Taker (18 page)

A picture of Kate on his desk pulled him away from thoughts of McKenzie’s downfall and instantly saddened his heart. Much to his relief, she’d been asleep when he arrived home the previous night and remained so when he rose so early that outside it was still pitch-black and not a single bird was singing in the new day. He’d showered and dressed in the semi-darkness, using only the light from the night-lamp that burned all night for the sake of their children, leaving the bathroom door open just enough to let the light in. He’d tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he cleared the front door and walked along the cold, still road just as some of the neighbouring houses began to flicker into life. He’d comfortably beaten the worst of the traffic as he’d driven north through south-east London and over Lambeth Bridge, around Parliament Square and along Victoria Street before swinging right into Broadway and disappearing into the Yard’s underground car park. But he needed to break the chill with Kate sooner rather than later, before it turned into an Ice Age.

Donnelly striding into the main office caught his attention and he summoned him with a look. The sergeant changed direction like a bird in flight and sauntered into Sean’s office, where he remained standing to let Sean know he had no intention of staying long. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Sean answered, ‘just checking how you got on with the Bridgemans’ cars.’

‘They agreed to hand them over for forensic examination,’ Donnelly told him. ‘No problems.’

‘How did you swing that?’

‘Told them suspects sometimes liked to play games with us – leaving clues in unlikely places just to see how smart we are.’

‘And they went for it?’

‘A few grunts and growls from Mr Bridgeman, but they handed over the car keys – eventually. Both motors are under cover at Lambeth as we speak.’

‘Good. Make sure you keep the heat under the Forensic boys and girls. I want all things forensic to do with this case treated as a matter of priority. Understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ Donnelly replied. The phone ringing on Sean’s desk ended their conversation, but Donnelly stayed put.

‘Sean Corrigan,’ Sean spoke into the mouthpiece.

‘Morning,’ Featherstone answered without introducing himself.

‘Sir.’

‘Just phoning to see if you caught Addis’s media release last night?’

‘No,’ Sean admitted. ‘I was too busy here.’

‘Well, if he asks, you tell him that you did see it, OK?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Because that’s what he’d expect you to do.’

‘If you think it’s necessary.’

‘I do,’ Featherstone warned him. ‘As far as he’s concerned, he did it for you and your case – even added the little extras you wanted about being close to a breakthrough. He’ll have the right hump if he thinks you couldn’t even be bothered to watch it. Anyway, the genie’s out of the bottle now and the world is watching. A child taken from an upmarket family living in their upmarket house in their upmarket London enclave – the news boys are gonna be like a pit-bull with a dead cat on this one, at least until we can give them someone to feed on.’

‘You mean a suspect?’ Sean asked.

‘No,’ Featherstone corrected him. ‘We’ve already given them a suspect – your man McKenzie, remember? What they really want is an
accused
.’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Then work fast,’ Featherstone advised him. ‘You as good as promised Addis a quick result, so you had better deliver. Don’t expect him to take any flak to save your skin. They don’t call him the Bramshill Assassin for nothing,’ he added, referring to the Senior Police Officer Training College that had a long and established reputation for back-stabbing and one-upmanship.

‘We’re doing our best,’ Sean protested.

‘Then let’s hope your best is good enough. Call me if anything changes.’

Sean listened to the line go dead and slowly replaced the receiver, his cheeks puffed out in exasperation. ‘Problem?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Always,’ he answered.

‘Powers that be after a quick result, eh?’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Then why don’t we give them one and drag the parents in? Like I said, interview them under caution plus three – separately, before they start working as a team and concoct something plausible and difficult to prove a lie.’

‘Not yet,’ Sean argued. ‘Maybe if Forensics turn something up that implicates them, but not until then.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’ll undermine McKenzie as a suspect. Think of the disclosure down the line,’ Sean pointed out. ‘Hardly looks as though we truly believe he’s our prime suspect if we’re interviewing the Bridgemans at the same time we’re following him.’

‘Disclosure’s irrelevant until we have someone charged, and apparently we’re a long way from that.’

Sean’s mobile rang, halting their discussion again. Sean raised his hand to silence Donnelly.

‘Morning, guv’nor, DS Handy here. Thought you’d want a morning update on the surveillance.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘After he got bailed he went straight home and stayed indoors for a couple of hours before changing his clothes and showing himself again. He headed to a local takeaway − kebab, chips, side of hummus and a can of Coke, if you’re interested – then home and indoors for the rest of the night. First show today was just after eight thirty a.m.; made his way to a local café this time – egg, bacon, chips, toast and tea – took his time over it too, then jumped on a bus to the Archway Road.’

‘Archway?’ Sean queried. ‘Did he go anywhere specific?’

‘Only a hardware shop, Asian-owned: Archway DIY—’

‘Imaginative,’ Sean chipped in.

‘Does what is says on the tin. Full address is 173 Archway Road. He was in there for a good fifteen minutes. I put one of my people in the shop with him, but they couldn’t hang around that long without showing out – it’s not exactly Homebase in there.’

‘Did they see what he bought?’

‘Sorry. Couldn’t get close enough and couldn’t stay long enough.’

‘Bollocks,’ Sean snarled. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Got back on the bus and headed home. Been there ever since, which isn’t long. Problem?’

‘No. No problem. Was he carrying anything he could have bought in the shop?’

‘When he came out he tucked something into his jacket pocket, but we don’t know what. Do you want me to send one of my team into the shop to ask what, if anything, he bought?’

‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘I don’t want to burn any of your team. You stay with the target and I’ll check the shop out.’

‘Understood.’

‘Something up?’ Donnelly asked as Sean put the phone down.

‘Could be.’ Sean was on his feet, reaching for his jacket. ‘Grab your coat – you’re coming with me.’

‘Oh aye. Where to?’

‘Archway Road, to visit a hardware shop.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need a new screwdriver,’ Sean quipped.

‘What?’ Donnelly screwed his face up in disapproval.

‘Never mind,’ Sean told him. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

Stuart Bridgeman sat alone in his office in the family home in Hampstead with the door closed and his modern jazz music playing just loudly enough to drown out any sounds of life coming from the rest of the house. Nothing he tried seemed capable of distracting his racing mind from the situation he was trying not to face. Having to see his wife was bad enough, but having the female cop hanging around the house all hours was pushing him closer and closer to the edge of he didn’t know what. His wife, the cop, even the nanny must think he was a fool if they imagined he hadn’t noticed the endless whispered conversations. He knew exactly what – who − they were talking about. The more they conspired against him, the more isolated and bitter he felt towards all of them. Had he not continued to provide for them all, given them everything they could ask for – despite the rumours and betrayal? He’d always done what was necessary for the family, even taking care of George, despite knowing the truth, despite feeling no love towards the boy – despite being reminded of his wife’s betrayal every time he had to look at him. Could anyone really blame him for losing his temper, even if he was honest and admitted the boy himself had done no wrong? When a new male lion takes over a pride from the old patriarch, the first thing they do is kill the lion cubs that aren’t genetically theirs – not out of cruelty, but out of an overpowering urge to ensure their own genes will dominate and survive. And now George was gone and he didn’t know how he felt about that. All he knew was that the eyes of suspicion had fallen upon him. At least, no matter what happened, he’d always have Sophia. Regardless what truths bubbled to the surface.

A gentle, nervous knock at the door chased away the thoughts that he knew would be back again and again. He considered telling whoever it was to go away, but remembered the cop lurking in his home. ‘Come in,’ he called out, like a headmaster summoning a naughty child. The door opened slowly and only enough to allow his wife to slip into the room. She closed the door softly before speaking.

‘I was going to make something to eat – do you want anything?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he told her, his eyes falling away from her and back to the dossier on his desk he’d been pretending to read.

‘You should eat,’ she persisted. ‘You don’t want to make yourself ill. We could do without that right now.’

‘I said no,’ he scolded, staring without raising his head making his eyes appear demonic. She backed off for a few seconds until his eyes returned to the dossier.

‘Stuart,’ she tried once more to reach him. ‘We need to stick together on this. No matter what happened in the past – we need to stick together now.’

‘Or what?’ he growled. ‘Worried what people might start to say about us? About you? You never seemed to care about that before.’

‘Do we have to talk about that now?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it at all.’

‘Damn it, Stuart, this isn’t about us! This is about George. This is about my son.’

‘
Your
son,’ he seized on her slip. ‘That about says it all, doesn’t it?
Your
son – not our son, but your son.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she tried to recover.

‘Then what did you mean?’

‘I just want my boy back,’ she told him, her voice weak now as the tears glazed over her eyes. ‘Dear God, what’s happened to him? Where’s my son?’

‘Why don’t you ask that cop out there what’s happened to
your son
? They’re supposed to have all the answers, aren’t they? And while you’re asking her, why don’t you ask her why the police took our cars?’

‘But they told us why they needed our cars, why would I—’

‘You stupid bitch! Did you really believe all that bollocks about suspects leaving clues hidden around the place? They took our cars because they think
I
took George. Don’t you understand? Maybe they even think we
killed him.’

‘That’s absurd,’ she argued. ‘Why would they think that?’

‘Why? Because they know your dirty little secret.’

‘How could they?’

‘Oh, come on. Haven’t they already been asking you about it? Insinuating?’ The puzzled look of recognition on her face told him what he already knew in his heart. ‘Of course they have. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me, but it won’t help them find George. It won’t help them get you your little boy back.’

‘Why are you being so cruel?’ she demanded. ‘He’s your son too, damn you. Why did you say that?’

‘Why did I say what?’ he asked, a look of disgust on his face.

‘That I won’t get George back. Why would you say a thing like that?’

‘I’m just telling you what the police think,’ he insisted, only less confident now – less sure of himself and not so confrontational.

‘God help me,’ she hissed, moving a few steps closer, pointing at him accusingly, ‘if I ever find out that you’ve done anything to hurt George, I swear I’ll kill you myself.’

Stuart Bridgeman went pale as he struggled to find an answer, but he was spared by another gentle rat-a-tat-tat at the door.

‘Everything all right in there?’ DC Maggie O’Neil asked.

‘Yes,’ Celia Bridgeman lied through the door. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine.’

They abandoned their unmarked car by the side of the road on double yellow lines with the vehicle’s log-book tossed unceremoniously on the dashboard to identify it as a CID car to any passing traffic wardens − not that the ones from the local council would take any notice. Sean led the way as they strode across the pavement, already tugging his warrant card free from his inside jacket pocket. Donnelly was close behind, but nowhere near as enthusiastic. As they entered, a loud, electronic buzzing noise filled the hardware shop, replacing what would once upon a time have been a bell. The Indian shopkeeper, somewhere in his sixties, short and slim with an immaculate grey beard and complete with turban, appeared from behind the counter where he’d been crouched while rearranging the fine display of nuts and bolts. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he immediately asked in his thick Indian accent.

‘Police,’ Sean told him unceremoniously, holding his warrant card out in front of him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Donnelly. I need to ask you a few questions about a customer who came to your shop earlier this morning.’

‘Of course. No problem,’ the shopkeeper answered without any nervousness or hesitation. ‘I was a police officer myself many years ago,’ he added, ‘so please, anything that you want, just ask.’

‘Was that back in India?’ Donnelly asked.

‘It was, sir. In Bombay. My father was also a police officer and so was my grandfather, but it was easier to be a police officer there than here I think. Trust me, everyone I ever questioned soon admitted their guilt. Not so many rules back then.’

Sean was already tired of the police-club chat. ‘I’m sure,’ he interrupted. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name …?’

‘My name is Mr Nashua. I moved to this country with my family—’

Sean cut him short. ‘Mr Nashua, a man came into your shop earlier …’ He rummaged in his jacket pocket for the photograph of McKenzie. ‘This man,’ he said, carefully placing it on the counter. ‘I need to know what he wanted.’