The Toy Taker

‘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 – wealthy 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.

‘And the other person present is …?’

Jackson answered without looking up from the notes she was busy scribbling. ‘Sarah Jackson, solicitor here to represent Mr McKenzie.’

Sean was glad to note the lack of a self-important speech about rights, hypothetical questions and fairness. She’d stated her business and it was enough.

‘Mark,’ Sean continued, ‘you are still under caution, which means you don’t have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court it may harm your defence. Do you understand?’ McKenzie just shrugged.

‘I’ve explained all this to Mr McKenzie,’ said his solicitor, keen to move on.

‘And anything you do say can be used in evidence,’ Sean finished. McKenzie said nothing. ‘I’ll assume that’s also been explained.’

Jackson briefly looked up and over the top of her spectacles. ‘It has,’ she told him, leaving Sean a little unsure who she disliked most – him or McKenzie. Had she already done his job for him and browbeaten McKenzie into making a confession? He decided there wasn’t enough excitement in the room for that.

‘Mark, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of having abducted a four-year-old boy, George Bridgeman, from his home in Hampstead last night. Is there anything you want to tell me about that?’

‘No comment,’ McKenzie answered, looking Sean square in the face while his solicitor seemed to raise her eyebrows as she stared down at her increasing notes. Was McKenzie going against her advice? And if so why?

‘Anything at all?’

‘No comment,’ McKenzie continued, already beginning to sound irritated.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sean quickly changed tack, ‘are my questions annoying you in some way?’ Jackson gave him a warning glance.

‘No comment.’

‘You live in Kentish Town – right?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Pretty close to Hampstead, isn’t it?’

‘So what?’

‘The boy went missing from Hampstead, from Courthope Road. Have you ever been to Courthope Road, Mark?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you go there last night?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you go there because you knew the boy would be there?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you take the boy, Mark – a simple yes or no?’

‘No comment.’

Sean leaned back silently for a few seconds before continuing, trying to read the man in front of him – trying to crawl inside his mind and see what he saw, feel what he felt − but nothing came to him. Keep asking the questions – keep asking until the light begins to spill through a chink in his armour. ‘Funny how you answer some questions no problem, but then when it’s about the missing boy you answer no comment.’

‘That’s his right, Inspector,’ Jackson was obliged to interrupt.

‘Of course,’ Sean insincerely apologized, ‘just an observation – that was all. So you’ve never been to Courthope Road in Hampstead?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ McKenzie corrected him.

‘So you have been there before?’

‘I didn’t say that either.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you stuck to answering no comment,’ Jackson advised him.

‘And I’ll ask you again,’ Sean kept up, ‘have you ever been to Courthope Road or not?’

‘Like my solicitor says, no comment.’

‘Mark, we’re investigating the disappearance of a very young boy. If you’re involved in it then you really need to start answering my questions.’

‘Disappeared? Sure of that, are you?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Sean asked, caught slightly off guard by McKenzie’s question.

‘I mean, have you searched the house properly yet? I know how you police do things – slow and steady, step by step, always afraid of missing something.’

‘It’s being done as we speak,’ Sean told him bluntly. ‘But I’m sure the boy is missing.’

‘Then maybe his parents did him in and got rid of the body before they called you lot, knowing you’d come after someone like me to blame for it.’

‘Is that how you see yourself – as a victim?’

McKenzie ignored him and shrugged his shoulders, the thin smile still fixed on his face. ‘Or you’re right. Someone went into the house and took him – took him away right under your nose.’

‘Right under my nose?’ Sean asked.

‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you? You’re supposed to stop things like this from happening.’

Was that McKenzie’s motivation – some kind of twisted intellectual vanity? A misguided sense of needing revenge on the police and justice system for all that had happened to him? Take the boy to prove he could get away with murder? ‘I suppose so,’ Sean played along, ‘but whoever took the boy was obviously extremely smart. They got in and out without leaving a single piece of evidence.’ McKenzie’s smile grew a little wider as his eyes grew narrower. ‘Is that why someone took the boy – to show us how clever they are?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And is that someone you?’

‘Ha,’ McKenzie laughed, ‘you’ll have to do better than that.’

‘This is not a game, Mark. Do you know what your life will be like if anything happens to the boy? Nowhere will be safe for you ever again.’

‘Is that a threat?’ McKenzie pushed back, making his solicitor look up like a teacher surveying a class of trouble-makers.

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘It’s a warning.’

‘Don’t patronize me. I know what it’s like to survive behind bars once they call you a sex offender. You bastards have put me away before, remember? But I survived all right, and I will again if I have to.’

‘But this time it’ll be child-abduction,’ Sean warned him. ‘You’ll be the scalp everyone’s looking to take.’

‘Only if you can prove it,’ McKenzie mocked, stopping Sean dead for a while.

‘OK,’ Sean continued after a few seconds, ‘let’s move on to something I can prove, and maybe we’ll come back to the missing boy. Earlier today when you were arrested in your flat there was something on your laptop – care to tell me what it was?’

‘You know what it was. But I told you – I just bought it second-hand. The stuff you saw was already on it.’

‘Come on, Mark,’ Sean gently encouraged, ‘we’ve already had a look at it and it’s clear the obscene images – the obscene images of children, Mark − were only downloaded seconds before we entered your flat. And seeing as how you were the only person there, it kind of means you had to be the one who downloaded them – doesn’t it?’

‘Must have been a glitch, or maybe someone downloaded it remotely from somewhere else.’

‘On to your laptop?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Not with your previous it’s not,’ Sean told him. ‘Are you aware of Bad Character Evidence? Have you discussed it with your solicitor?’ McKenzie shrugged while Jackson briefly looked up to shake her head. ‘It means if you rely on a story like that then we can tell the jury all about your previous convictions for downloading other, similar pornography, not to mention your convictions for sexually assaulting children. I really don’t think that’s going to help your cause.’

‘You can’t prove anything.’

‘By the time the specialists at our computer laboratory have examined that laptop, I’ll be able to prove plenty.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You’re going back inside, Mark.’

‘I don’t think so.’

McKenzie’s misplaced confidence was beginning to irritate him. ‘Well at least we’ve established one thing – that you’re a liar. A liar who, even when faced with the truth, still can’t be honest.’ McKenzie squirmed a little in his chair. ‘Everybody in this room knows you downloaded the child pornography yourself and everybody here knows you took the boy.’ Sally and Jackson now also shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs.

‘Like I said,’ McKenzie goaded him, ‘you can’t prove anything and you can’t save the boy. You’re too late.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sean asked, as calmly as he could. ‘What do you mean, I’m too late?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘If you know something, you need to tell me.’

McKenzie’s foot tapped fast and repeatedly as his excitement grew. ‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

Sean’s heart burnt with anger at McKenzie and fear for the missing boy, but he wouldn’t play McKenzie’s game any more – it was too easy for him to come up with sound-bite answers that might mean something or nothing. ‘Did it feel good?’ he began, ‘being alone in the street in the middle of the night? Quiet and cold, nothing but the sound of the leaves in the wind.’ McKenzie stopped tapping his foot and looked Sean in the eyes for almost the first time. ‘You’re good with locks, but it still must have taken a while to get the door open – were you scared someone would hear or see you, kneeling outside by the front door? It must have been difficult, working with gloves on, using those fine, small tools, but you had to wear them, because it was cold that night and you needed to stop your fingers from going numb, didn’t you?’ McKenzie squinted and frowned, his thin smile all but gone. ‘And when you finally stepped inside the house, the warmth hitting you in the face, the smell of the family must have been almost more than you could bear – did it make you feel dizzy, like you were having a dream?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ McKenzie interrupted.

‘What did it feel like, Mark, climbing those stairs towards the boy’s room – walking past his mother’s bedroom while she slept – knowing you were going to take her baby?’ Jackson glanced at him, her face betraying that she had children herself, no matter how grown-up they may be now – her mother’s instinct stopping her from intervening even when she should. ‘Did it make you feel special, Mark? Special like you never feel in everyday life? Did it make you feel powerful?’

‘Guessing, guessing, guessing,’ McKenzie hissed. ‘All you’re doing is guessing.’

‘But why didn’t you touch the mother? Is it because you’re a coward? Because you were afraid of her – afraid to rape a grown woman in case she fought back?’

‘This is going too far, Inspector,’ Jackson finally interjected.

‘Which is why it has to be children for you, doesn’t it?’ Sean ignored her, his voice louder than before. ‘But why not the little girl? Is it only little boys that do it for you, Mark?’

‘I think that’s enough, Inspector,’ Jackson insisted, her voice matching his until McKenzie spoke over the top of both of them.

‘You think you’re so clever – the police,’ he spat at them. ‘Fuck the police. I have the power here – no one else. I say what happens. We play by my rules – no one else’s.’

‘You have the power, Mark? Your rules? You seem to be forgetting something.’

‘Yeah? And what would that be?

‘That we’ve already caught you.’

McKenzie looked shocked for a moment, but then his blank expression began to grow into a smile and the smile into a barely audible laugh. His laughter grew until it was as loud as it was mocking and all the time he stared into Sean’s eyes.

Sean was close to leaping across the interview table when his vibrating phone distracted him. ‘Fuck,’ he swore too loudly before remembering his every word was being recorded. He snatched the phone from his belt and examined the caller ID. ‘Sorry, but I need to take this. For the recording, DI Corrigan is leaving the room for a short while.’ He made sure the door was shut behind him before he answered. ‘Ashley, what you got?’

‘The Special Search Team and the dog have both been through the house,’ DC Goodwin told him.

‘And?’ Sean asked impatiently.

‘Nothing. The boy’s definitely not still in the house.’

‘They absolutely sure?’

‘Sorry, guv, but the boy’s gone, no doubt about it.’

‘Christ,’ Sean blasphemed. For all that he’d been convinced the boy had been taken, it was still a deeply disturbing jolt to have it confirmed. ‘What about a scent? Did the dog pick up on any scent?’

‘Sorry,’ Goodwin explained. ‘Too many people have been through the house too many times, including the boy. The dog followed his scent to the front door, but once in the street it didn’t know which way to turn.’

‘OK, Ash – and thanks. You might as well get the forensic team in now – see what they can find.’ He hung up, returned to the interview room and sat down heavily. ‘DI Corrigan re-entering the interview room.’

‘Everything all right?’ Sally asked.

‘Fine,’ Sean lied. ‘I’d just like to clear a few things up before we take a break.’

‘Such as?’ McKenzie asked, suspicious of Sean’s surprise exit and re-entry. He’d been interviewed enough times to know the police weren’t above an underhand trick or two to get a confession – especially from a convicted paedophile.

‘The house George Bridgeman was reported missing from has now been thoroughly searched.’ He paused for a second to give himself time to read McKenzie’s face. ‘There’s no sign of him.’ McKenzie’s foot immediately started tapping uncontrollably again. ‘A full forensic search of the house will be starting almost immediately – looking for any tiny traces of whoever went to the boy’s room and took him. We’ve taken your clothes and body samples already: how long before we put you at the scene, Mark? How long?’

‘Too long,’ McKenzie grinned. ‘Too long to save the boy.’

‘We’ll see,’ Sean answered.

‘You’re too late,’ McKenzie almost sang. ‘You’re too late. You’re too late,’ over and over again.

‘This interview is concluded,’ Sean told him, pushing the stop button that made a heavy click followed by a slight whirring sound, the noise reverberating around the room as Sean gathered his sparse interview notes and headed for the door as quickly as he could before McKenzie’s mocking chants pushed him beyond control. Sally followed him out of the room, leaving McKenzie alone with his solicitor. They walked a few steps away from the door before speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

‘What d’you think?’ Sally asked.

‘He couldn’t look more like our man if he tried,’ Sean answered.

‘Well, we know the boy’s definitely missing now – so it’s McKenzie or the parents.’

‘In all likelihood,’ Sean agreed. ‘But what game is he playing? He neither denies taking the boy nor admits it. He seems to want to float somewhere in the middle. But why? If I could just get inside—’

‘Inside what?’ Sally jumped on him. ‘Inside his head? Last time you did that, it didn’t work out too well, did it?’

‘We got our man,’ Sean argued, ‘and probably saved at least one life.’

‘Yeah, and Keller almost took yours – remember? Maybe this time we can just do things normally. You know, follow the evidence, wait for back-up – that sort of thing.’

‘Is that what you think George Bridgeman wants us to do – sit around waiting for the evidence to come to us? Is that what his parents want?’

‘I guess that depends on whether they were involved or not. I’m beginning to think you’re not even considering them as suspects.’

‘I’m considering everything. Right now, I’m considering everything.’

‘But you like McKenzie for it more than the other options?’

‘Don’t you? His previous. His lock-picking skills. The way he’s behaving in interview. I have to like him for it.’

‘Fair enough,’ Sally agreed. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘Lock him up till the morning and then interview him again. Perhaps by that time we’ll have something from Forensics to rattle his cage with.’

‘And if we don’t?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll think of something … something to knock him out of his stride, with or without more evidence. He’ll talk – eventually.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Sally asked.

‘Because he wants to,’ Sean explained. ‘They all want to – that’s half the reason they do what they do. He just needs a few more shoves in the right direction. I’m going to pop back to the Yard and see what’s happening. Get hold of the local superintendent and have them meet you here in the morning to sort out an extension of detention for McKenzie. I’ll meet you back here later tomorrow morning to interview him again. Once you’ve got it sorted, go home and get some rest while you can.’

‘And you?’ Sally asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact to hide her concerns.

‘I’ll get home later,’ he promised as he headed for the exit. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he called over his shoulder and was gone.

‘Here we go again,’ Sally told no one. ‘Here we go again.’

Donnelly stood on the doorstep of 9 Courthope Road, warrant card in hand, and waited for the door to be opened. He’d already visited the Bridgemans’ neighbours on the other side in number five. The Beiersdorfs – Simon and Emily − had given him more than a few interesting tit-bits about the Bridgemans, even if they hadn’t realized they were doing so: how they had no intention of moving their children from their current school some distance from home rather than send them to the excellent local private school. How they never really spoke to anyone or tried to socialize, keeping themselves very much to themselves and seemingly avoiding their new neighbours. And then there had been the occasional sound of heated voices raised in argument, the children being shouted at. They had been at pains to explain that they understood all couples and families argued from time to time, but the Bridgemans’ arguments happened a little too often and were a little too disturbing.

Everything was turning out just how he thought it would.

The door was finally opened by yet another attractive woman, although she was slightly older than the norm for the street − she must have been in her early fifties. Nevertheless she had the same physical characteristics as the other women wealthy enough to live in this part of Hampstead: tall, slim, perfect skin and expertly dyed silver-blonde hair in a ponytail. She spoke in the same accent as everyone else too, almost a non-accent, but with just a hint of the aristocratic as she peered through the small gap the security chain allowed. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Howells?’ Donnelly asked, flipping his warrant card open for her to examine. ‘Detective Sergeant Donnelly from …’ he struggled to remember the name of his new team for a second … ‘Special Investigations Unit, New Scotland Yard.’

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked, still scrutinizing his warrant card, her first reaction one of suspicion.