The Toy Taker (17 page)

‘I’ve no fucking idea what you’re talking about,’ the sergeant answered truthfully.

‘No,’ McKenzie told him as he neatly folded his bail papers and slipped them in his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

Sean’s eyes and shoulders ached in equal measure as he piled the latest of dozens of reports he’d read on to the growing mountain marked
complete
and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head and yawning widely before allowing them to fall heavily back on to his desk. None of the reports had contained anything of even the slightest interest – no potential witness saying they could have seen someone matching McKenzie’s description in the relevant location at the material time; no grainy snap shot from the tube station’s CCTV that could be him; no stop-and-search forms filled out by a local uniform cop that could be him. Nothing. Sean rubbed his already closed eyes, the image of McKenzie immediately filling the blackness, before melting into the face of someone else – John Conway, the ghost from Sean’s past − before that too warped and shifted until it became the face of his own father, causing him to snap his eyes open as if a loud noise had disturbed him while he slept.

The image left him feeling numb for a while, until he was able to force his mind to move on, to think solely of George Bridgeman and what could have happened to him. ‘Where are you George?’ he asked the room. ‘What the fuck’s happened to you? Who took you from your bedroom while you slept, feeling safe and warm?’ But the questions had no answers – no snapshots of the man he hunted flashed in his mind. For almost the first time in his entire career he sensed nothing. ‘Come on, George,’ he pleaded, ‘help me help you. Help me find you.’ But still nothing.

His mind was so cluttered with everyday concerns and chores he was beginning to feel like an everyday, average cop relying on nothing more than tangible evidence, gathered by methods that had been tried and tested for over a hundred years combined with the advances in forensic science. But he’d relied on his vivid imagination and insights for so long he now felt lost and impotent without them. The fear of no longer being able to think like his quarry, to stay one step ahead of them and the other cops overpowered the fear he had of seeing his father in his mind’s eye. He forced his eyes to close and breathed in slowly and deeply, over and over, until he could feel his body begin to relax, the stresses and strains of moving office, of having Addis looming over him, the fight with Kate, all slipping away into the abyss as he concentrated solely on little George. The boy’s face took shape behind his closed eyelids, burning into Sean’s mind, the face becoming the child’s entire body, curled under his duvet as he peacefully slept – the picture of the sleeping boy growing smaller, disappearing into the distance as his imaginings left the room, always looking back where he’d come from, through the doorway and along the corridor, down the stairs, past the mother’s room and then more stairs, passing through the closed front door like a ghost where he immediately saw the figure again, still crouching, working away at the locks.

He hardly dared breathe as the picture grew clearer in his mind: the calm, unhurried image of the man jiggling the tools that penetrated the middle lock until it finally clicked open, the man carefully packing his fine tools away before standing and easing the door open, stepping inside from the bitter cold to the warm, inviting scent of the house. ‘How did it feel,’ Sean asked the faceless man in his mind, ‘entering the house of the family in the middle of the night? Did you go straight to the boy, or did you stand for a while, breathing them in, becoming whatever it is you dream of becoming?’ He superimposed the face of McKenzie on to the face of the man now moving towards the stairs and liked the fit. ‘Is this how it felt in those early days – those special early days when you first started breaking into other people’s homes? Did it feel so good because they gave you something you’d never had? And what was that – was it love and acceptance? Had your own family rejected you? Were your tastes too much for them to stomach? So they threw you out, but here, in the houses of others you were finally part of a family again, even if they didn’t know you were there.’

The more he thought, the more he imagined, the more McKenzie’s face fitted the man he watched slowly climbing the stairs in the Bridgemans’ house. ‘But taking trophies isn’t enough any more, is it? You need more.’ Sean opened his eyes, the seeds of an idea floating in his mind like so many pieces of a broken mirror until they all came together to form an answer that was another question. ‘You took things belonging to the children, didn’t you? Before you started taking things to sell, you just took things belonging to the children. Only we never found out. Or we did, but we missed the relevance – we didn’t understand its importance. And now that’s not enough. Now the only trophy that helps you relive your fantasies is the children themselves, isn’t it? The children are your trophies. Only …’

The phone ringing on his desk crushed his hypnotic concentration, an iron curtain crashing down in his mind, derailing his train of thought at the most critical time. ‘Fuck it,’ he shouted, loud enough to be heard in the adjoining main office. He snatched the phone, furious at yet another pointless interruption. ‘What the hell is it now?’ he almost screamed into the mouthpiece.

‘Happy New Year to you too,’ Featherstone replied, unfazed by Sean’s telephone manner. ‘Just thought I’d let you know the Assistant Commissioner is about to start briefing the media down in the conference room, in case you wanted to join him.’

‘No thanks,’ Sean answered, calmer now, but unapologetic.

‘Any last-minute updates you want me to get through to him – any sign of an imminent break through?’

‘Isn’t the arrest of McKenzie a
breakthrough
?’

‘Only if you’re close to charging him.’

‘I don’t have enough to charge him yet, hence the surveillance.’

‘I know, but are you close?’

‘That’s hard to say. You know how these things are – one minute you have nothing and the next everything falls into place,’ Sean explained.

‘So what does your gut tell you?’

Sean took a breath before answering. ‘It tells me I’m close,’ he lied, knowing that in truth he had little or nothing on McKenzie. But he needed to use the press briefing to his advantage, to pile the pressure on McKenzie and try and panic him into making a mistake that would lead to George Bridgeman – dead or alive. It had happened before; the killer had successfully disposed of the body in an effective hiding place where it would rot away for all eternity, only to then panic and move it to another, less considered, less remote location. With the surveillance team following McKenzie, Sean knew now was the time to try to make him panic into returning to the boy or his body. ‘You can tell the Assistant Commissioner I’m very close. You can tell him we have very reliable information on the boy’s whereabouts that we’re looking into as a matter of priority.’

‘I can tell Addis that?’

‘It’s important he gets it in time for the briefing.’

Featherstone sighed loudly into the phone. ‘Are you sure this is how you want to roll the dice?’

‘I have no choice,’ Sean answered and waited nervously for Featherstone’s answer.

‘OK. I’ll tell him, but a word to the wise, Sean – if you tell him it is so, then it had better be so.’

‘I understand,’ Sean told him, his belly tight with anticipation and anxiety.

‘Try and watch the briefing if you can,’ Featherstone told him. ‘Addis will expect it.’

Sean listened as the phone went dead, his mind once more cluttered with the barriers – barriers that stopped him thinking how he needed to. Barriers that stood in the way of ever finding George Bridgeman alive.

Heavy raindrops bounced off the windscreen, the wipers failing to cope with the downpour on the outside while the heaters failed to prevent it misting on the inside. Sally leaned forward, the seatbelt pressing uncomfortably against her chest, which still ached when anything dug into her, and wiped the obscured windscreen with her gloved hand. Light spilled down on her from the street lights above making, refracting and intensifying as it travelled through the raindrops, each ray turning into hundreds that dazzled her eyes and made the road little more than a blur of coloured lights.

To her relief she found a space just big enough to park her car not too far from the front door of the converted Victorian house that contained her top-floor flat. The flat’s poor state when she’d bought it had made it just about affordable despite its location in Putney, south-west London. Of all the properties she’d viewed after abandoning the flat where she’d been attacked, it seemed comfortably to be the worst. But many of its supposed drawbacks were the very things that drew her to it. It was small, having been constructed in the loft, with many of its ceilings sloping so low half the room was unusable, and the windows were small, too small for a person to slip through, most of the natural light being provided by heavy framed skylights that she kept shut and locked; it was accessed by three steep flights of stairs; and the neighbours were easily heard through the thin partition walls. These were all the attributes she’d hunted for – the things that comforted her after the attack, that helped make her feel safe in her own home. Once she’d checked the outside of the building to make sure there were no drainpipes running anywhere near any of the windows she made an offer at the full asking price straight away. The estate agent didn’t argue and the deal was done.

After checking the road in front and behind, she jumped from her car, checked twice she’d secured it properly and jogged along the pavement with her thin raincoat over her head and her mid-height heels clicking against the soaked pavement until she was safely under the cover of the front porch. She searched in her small, uncluttered handbag, another of the many deliberate changes she’d made since Sebastian Gibran entered her life, and pulled her keys from the internal zip-pocket, smoothly and quickly opening the front door. She searched the road for signs of danger before pushing the door open just wide enough to slide through the gap, closing it firmly behind her and standing in the darkness inside. She waited, listening for any sounds that shouldn’t be there, but also to prove to herself that she could – that she could stand in the greyness without fear overtaking her. To her relief, her breathing and heart rate remained reasonably calm and steady. After a few moments more she pushed the light timer switch and gave herself about thirty seconds of light to reach the next landing. She heaved herself away from the front door and climbed the stairs one at a time, the sounds of her neighbours still awake and living their normal lives comforting her all the way to the first-floor landing where she found the next light switch and continued her ascent until she reached her own front door, the keys for which she already held in her hand. As she slid the first key into the lock she paused for a second or two, looking back down the staircase, listening hard, just in case. Satisfied, she unlocked the three locks and pushed the door open, the light from inside flooding into the hallway just as the timer plunged it back into darkness.

Sally stepped inside her sanctuary, closing the door behind her without locking it and moving deeper into the front room, glad she had left the light on all day so she wouldn’t have to step into a dark flat, but disappointed that she still felt it necessary. At least she’d made it to the point where she could bear to leave the rest of the flat in semi-darkness, though it had taken her months to get there.

She moved quickly, going from room to room turning the lights on – but only lamps, not the overhead ones. Another step forward in her
recovery
. For months, the mere act of touching a lamp had filled her with so much anxiety it would almost instantly bring on a panic attack as the memories flooded back: turning the lamp on
that night
, the red light flooding her flat and the sense of
him
standing right behind her. The lamp had been the last thing she’d touched before … Sally shook her head to stop herself thinking too much about the attack and continued switching on a lamp in every room, searching every dark corner – just in case. Having confirmed that she was alone, she returned to the living room and secured the front door.

Next she turned the television on for company, kicked her shoes off and padded across the floor to her small, neat kitchen where she grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard and cursed the fact she no longer smoked. She made her way to the freezer and yanked open the door. The bottle of vodka lying seductively on its side appeared to be almost calling to her, begging her for attention. It took all her strength to slam the door shut and reach for the already open bottle of chardonnay in the adjacent fridge instead, from which she poured herself a modest glass and sat at the small kitchen table. She searched her compact handbag and quickly found the tramadol. She popped two from the packet and threw them into her mouth, washing them down with a good swig of her wine and waited for their soothing effects to wash over her.
No vodka and no tears
, she thought to herself. Dr Anna Ravenni-Ceron would be very pleased with her.

Mid-morning and Sean had already been back behind his desk in his new office for several hours, enjoying the early peace before the main office grew crowded and noisy. His claustrophobic, uncomfortable office in New Scotland Yard was already beginning to feel like home, thoughts of Peckham now more like distant memories than recent events. His desk had been exactly as he’d left it the night before, right down to the half-read report about another paedophile local to the scene of George Bridgeman’s disappearance. The possible suspect had previous for snatching children, but Sean had already largely discounted him – he’d never committed a residential burglary and he’d never shown any lock-picking skills. He’d skimmed through the rest of the report and tossed it into the tray marked
complete
. Twisting the stiffness out of his neck, he closed his eyes for a second to consider McKenzie. God, he prayed he was stupid enough or scared enough to make a fatal mistake while he had the surveillance team up his arse. It had taken two hideous murders and three abductions before he’d been able to find and stop Thomas Keller – he couldn’t bear the same thing happening here.
No
, he reassured himself, he had his man, now all he needed was the evidence to prove it. For all McKenzie’s slyness and criminal cunning, he was still impulsive – Sean was sure of it. He saw the boy and the family and acted on an immediate, uncontrollable desire, leaving behind him the signature of his method that pointed to him as the guilty party just as surely as if he’d left his fingerprints all over the scene. McKenzie was caught and he knew it. Now all he could do was what so many other killers before him had done – face the police and the media and try and front it all out: portray himself as either a witness or an innocent man falsely accused. But the charade could never last long. All McKenzie’s provocation and snarling half denials would be nothing more than his twisted moment in the sun, his one chance to revel in his own infamy before being buried in the prison system, denied access to the trashy paperbacks that would no doubt be written about him. Sean ground his teeth in anticipation of the day when McKenzie’s tower of lies tumbled down.