Читать книгу The Toy Taker - Luke Delaney - Страница 7

Sean staggered along the seventh-floor corridor carrying a brown cardboard box that was heavy enough to make him sweat. The heating at the Yard was turned up high to please the ageing computers housed within. He checked the doors as he passed them – store rooms, empty rooms; occasionally a room with no sign, just a number and a few wary-looking people inside, silently raising their heads from their desks as he passed, disturbing their expectations of another day without change. He didn’t bother to introduce himself but just kept walking down the unpleasantly narrow corridor that was no different to all the other corridors at New Scotland Yard, with the same polystyrene ceiling tiles and walls no thicker than plasterboard, all painted a shade of light brown that blended into the worn, slightly darker brown carpet. ‘At least the floors don’t squeak,’ he whispered to himself, remembering the awful rubber floors back at Peckham as he arrived at Room 714 and its closed door.

He half-expected the door to be locked in a final gesture of defiance from the now disbanded Arts and Antiques Squad – a show of two fingers to Assistant Commissioner Addis, who Sean ironically always pictured living in a house surrounded by arts and antiques. Maybe one day Addis would get burgled and have to hastily re-form the squad in an effort to recover his own stolen treasures.

Sean balanced the heavy box on his raised thigh and tried the door handle, which to his surprise turned and opened, the door itself swinging aside in response to a good kick, allowing him to enter his new home from home.

Sean peered inside as best he could before stepping over the threshold. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed as he walked deeper into the office, which was about half the size of the one they’d just left and looked like a hand-grenade had gone off in it. Clearly the Arts and Antiques boys and girls had been moved out in a hurry, leaving very little but rubbish and broken computers behind. He congratulated himself on the decision to tell his own team to ransack the Peckham office as part of the move. He dumped the box on an abandoned desk and crossed the office to the still-closed blinds – cheap, grey plastic venetians. He tugged the string, expecting the blind to neatly, if noisily, roll up to the ceiling, but the entire thing came crashing to the floor, the reverberating sound appearing to go on for ever as it bounced back and forth off the empty walls. Sean stood frozen, his face a grimace, long after the sound had faded. He turned back towards the door, anticipating a flurry of concerned people coming to investigate, but no one came, although he thought he heard laughter from further down the hallway. He moved along the line of blinds and gingerly pulled the strings until all were open and he was able to look down on the streets of St James’s Park below, the traffic little more than a distant murmur.

Turning his back on the windows, he surveyed the office in the daylight and didn’t like what he saw any better than before. It was going to be a real squeeze and arguments would abound as to who was entitled to a desk of their own, but at least there were two offices at one end of the main room, partitioned off with the usual polystyrene boards and sheets of Perspex, all held together by strips of aluminium. He made his way to the larger office and stepped inside, deciding it was about as big as his last one. He decided he’d give it to Sally and Donnelly to share while he took the smaller one. At the very least it might placate the unhappy Donnelly.

Leaving the office, he retrieved the heavy cardboard box that contained his most precious policing tools and entered the smaller office, dumping the box on the standard-sized desk that would soon be covered in keyboards, computer screens, phones and files. Under the desk he found the usual cheap three-drawer cabinet and miraculously the previous owner had left the keys in the top lock. Only someone leaving the force for good would abandon such a prized possession. Sean felt a twang of jealousy as he imagined the previous owner skipping out of the office after their last day at work, knowing they would never be returning. He shook the thought away and looked around for a chair, finding a swivel one pushed into the corner of the room, foam peeking from the rip in the seat cover. Never mind – it would have to do.

Before sitting he began to unpack the contents of the box – the few personal things first, placed on top of everything else where they were least likely to be damaged: a photograph of his wife, Kate, and of his smiling daughters, Mandy and Louise, and finally a small silver cross on a thin silver chain, given to him by his mother when he was just a boy. She’d told him it would protect him. It hadn’t, but still he’d kept it without knowing why. He hung it over the corner of the frame that held Kate’s picture and remembered being dragged to church as a child, never to return as an adult, despite his mother’s frequent encouragement.

He continued to unpack his things: his Detective’s Training Course Manual – otherwise known as The Bible, a copy of Butterworths Criminal Law and the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, old files kept for reference, stationery and even the landline phone he’d commandeered from his old office back at Peckham. Every so often he glanced up from arranging his new desk to look exactly like his old one and stared into the empty main office – imagining, almost seeing how it would soon look – the characters who he so strongly associated with Peckham transported to this strange new environment, working away at computers, phones clamped between ears and shoulders as they hurriedly scribbled notes, the constant chatter and noise bringing the place to life. He blinked the imaginary detectives away, returning the office to its eerie emptiness and leaving him feeling strangely lonely. It wasn’t something he felt often, not since his childhood when being alone generally meant being safe. He shook his head and continued to empty the box, but a voice close by broke the silence and made him jump a little, leaving him surprised that he hadn’t felt the other person approaching as he usually would have.

‘Settling in all right I trust, Inspector?’ Assistant Commissioner Addis asked from the doorway.

‘More moving in than settling in,’ Sean answered.

‘Indeed,’ Addis agreed, a thin, unpleasant grin fixed on his face, his eyes sparkling with cunning and intelligence. ‘The office is on the small side, I know, but I’m sure it will serve its purpose.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Sean told him without enthusiasm, returning to the task of unpacking.

‘Good,’ Addis said, walking deeper into the room. ‘It’s fortunate you’ve arrived early,’ he added, making Sean look up.

‘Really?’ Sean asked, already concerned about what was coming next. ‘How so?’

‘Gives us time to chat – in private.’ Addis looked around at the emptiness as if to make the point.

‘About what?’ Sean asked without trying to veil the suspicion in his voice.

‘Your new position, of course – here at the Yard. I’m assuming Superintendent Featherstone briefed you?’

‘He did – more or less.’

‘You should thank me,’ Addis told him without a hint of irony. ‘You’re free now. Free of all those tedious investigations a trained chimp could solve: husband strangles wife to death; drug dealer shoots other drug dealer; teenage gang member stabs other teenage gang member. I think we can leave the mundane to the less gifted to solve, don’t you?’

Sean shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Suppose so?’ Addis asked. ‘You know so I think. Yes?’ Sean said nothing. ‘You know one of the things we do really badly in the police, Sean? We waste talent. But I don’t waste talent when I see it, Sean – I use it, in whatever way I think best.’

‘And that’s why I’m here?’ Sean asked. ‘To be used?’

Addis gave a short, shallow laugh before pulling a thin manilla file from under his armpit that Sean hadn’t registered he was carrying until now. Addis flopped it on the desk, some of the documents inside spilling out, including a photograph of a radiant, beautiful child. ‘Your first case,’ Addis told him without emotion. ‘A four-year-old child has gone missing in suspicious circumstances from his home in Hampstead.’

‘Hampstead?’ Sean asked, remembering the area or at least several of its pubs that were frequently used by detectives attending residential courses at the Metropolitan Police Training Centre in nearby Hendon.

‘The boy apparently went missing overnight while his mother and sister were asleep. No signs of forced entry anywhere in the house, so it appears the boy has vanished into thin air. Quite the mystery. Right up your street – don’t you think?’

‘And the father?’ Sean asked.

‘Away on business, I believe. The local CID are at the address with the family eagerly awaiting your arrival.’

‘Has the house been searched yet?’ Sean enquired. ‘Sounds like the kid’s probably still in there somewhere, hiding.’

‘The house’s been searched by the mother, the local uniform officers and the local CID. No trace of the boy, which is why I’ve decided to assign the investigation to you.’

‘I see,’ Sean said, realizing that nothing he could say would deter Addis.

‘If you find the boy hiding somewhere the others failed to look then all well and good,’ Addis told him. ‘But if you don’t …’ He let it hang for a while before speaking again. ‘I understand you had some success a few years ago working undercover to infiltrate a paedophile ring known as the Network?’

‘I did,’ Sean admitted, slightly fazed that Addis had taken the time to research him so thoroughly.

‘Then you’ll have good understanding of how these people work.’

‘And you think a paedophile is involved here?’

‘That would be my guess,’ Addis answered. ‘And these people aren’t council estate scum, Sean – before you start accusing the parents of being involved.’

‘I was only thinking it’s a little too soon to make any assumptions. If the family are wealthy there may be a ransom demand.’

‘Well,’ Addis said, allowing Sean his moment of contradiction, ‘I’ll leave that for you to discover. All the details I have are in the file.’ Addis’s eyes indicated the folder on the desk. ‘Oh, and while I have you, I’ve decided your team needs a new name – to help you stand out from the crowd. As of now you will be known as the Special Investigations Unit. Should keep your troops happy: there’s nothing detectives seem to like more than a bit of elitism – or at least that’s what I’ve always found. Predominantly you’ll still be investigating murders, but every now and then something else may come along.’ Sean didn’t reply, his eyes never leaving Addis. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it. A quick result would be much appreciated: we could do with some positive press. If you need anything just pop in and see me – I’m never far away, just a few floors above. Report to me when you find anything, or Superintendent Featherstone if I’m not around. Until later, then.’ Addis turned to leave.

‘Mr Addis,’ Sean called after him, making the Assistant Commissioner stop and turn, his face slightly perplexed, as if having his progress interrupted was a novel and unwelcome experience.

‘Something wrong, Inspector?’

‘No. It’s just that I was brought up on a council estate,’ Sean told him. ‘I thought you should know.’

Addis grinned and nodded, impossible to read as he turned his back on Sean and headed for the exit, almost colliding with Sally as she barrelled into the room, unable to see where she was going due to the size of the box she was carrying. Addis jumped out of the way and cleared his throat to make her aware of his presence.

Sally peeped over the top of her box at the sullen-faced Assistant Commissioner and groaned inwardly. ‘Shit,’ she spurted, immediately realizing her mistake and hurrying to correct it: ‘I mean, fuck … Sorry, sir … sorry.’

Addis glared at her and exited quickly into the corridor, leaving the bemused Sally scanning the room for Sean, eventually spotting him still standing in his new office. She dumped her box on the nearest desk and made for Sean who was already heading towards her, the file on the missing boy in his hand.

‘Pompous twat,’ she offered, with a jerk of the head towards the door Addis had just departed through. Registering that Sean was advancing in that direction, she added, ‘Going somewhere, guv’nor?’

‘Yes,’ Sean told her. ‘And so are you.’

Donnelly sat in the passenger seat while DC Paulo Zukov drove them through the increasingly dense traffic around Parliament Square, Donnelly shaking his head at the thought of having to use public transport to beat the traffic. ‘The Yard,’ he moaned out loud. ‘Why did it have to be the Yard? They’re selling the damn thing as soon as they can find a buyer. We’ll no sooner get sorted than they’ll have us on the move again. Bloody waste of time. Where to next, for Christ’s sake – Belgravia?’

‘Look on the bright side,’ Zukov told him, ‘we can tell everyone we’re detectives from New Scotland Yard now. Better than saying you’re from Peckham. And the traffic’s not that bad – considering. You’ve just got to get used to it.’

Donnelly looked him up and down with unveiled contempt. ‘Why don’t you just drive the car, son. Let me do the talking and the thinking, eh. “You’ve just got to get used to it” – sometimes I wonder how you ever got into the CID. Let anyone in these days, I suppose. I’ll tell you this for nothing – after a few weeks at the Yard you’ll be wishing you were back at Peckham. Where do you live – Purley, isn’t it? How you gonna get in from there every day?’

‘Train,’ Zukov answered precisely, too suspicious of Donnelly’s reason for asking to say more.

‘Oh well, let me know how that works out for you – hanging around on a freezing platform before being squeezed into a carriage with standing-room only, rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed every morning and evening. And how you gonna get home when we don’t finish until three in the morning? There’s no local uniform units to bum a lift from at the Yard.’

‘I’ll take a job car.’

‘Oh aye. You and everyone else. Only one problem – we have a lot more people than we have cars. Better get used to sleeping on the floor, son.’

‘I’ll figure something out,’ Zukov replied, promising himself he wouldn’t speak again.

‘You will, will you?’ Donnelly condescended. ‘Well, I’ll look forward to seeing that. And while we’re about it, remember to watch your back at all times. You make the same sort of mistake you made on the Gibran case and I won’t be able to cover your arse, not at the Yard. Everything’s changed for us now: senior management have got us right where they want us – under their noses. And I’m pretty sure why.’

The ensuing silence and air of mystery was too much for Zukov. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do they want us right under their noses?’

‘That, son, is for me to know and for you not to find out,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Now get us out of this traffic and to the Yard. I’m bursting for a piss.’

Sean and Sally pulled up outside 7 Courthope Road on the edges of Hampstead Heath and headed for the smart four-storey Georgian house that four-year-old George Bridgeman had apparently gone missing from, although Sean would assume nothing until he proved it was so. The house reminded him of other houses he’d visited, other investigations. Other victims whose faces flashed through his mind like images from a rapid-fire projector. He forced the distraction away, needing to concentrate on the job in front of him, his mind already clouded with thoughts of moving the office and all the admin and logistical headaches that would bring, as well as recurring day-and-night dreams about Thomas Keller and the women he’d killed. If he was to think the way he needed to think he had to clear his mind.

He paused at the foot of the steps just as Sally was about to ring the doorbell, making her hesitate while he looked up and down the street. He watched the last of the leaves falling from the trees and floating to the ground, some briefly resting on the two lines of cars parked on either side of the road before the bitter breeze blew them away, all the time waiting to see something in his mind’s eye. But nothing came – no hint of what had happened, no feeling about what sort of person might have taken the boy, if anyone even had. He cursed Addis for putting thoughts of paedophiles and the Network in his mind – pre-wiring his train of thought before he had a chance to look around the scene. He gazed up and down the road once more, but still he saw nothing.

‘Something wrong?’ Sally asked. Sean didn’t answer. She repeated the question a little louder.

‘What? No,’ he replied. ‘I was just thinking it must have been freezing outside last night.’

‘So?’

‘Nothing,’ he answered, moving next to her, stretching then crouching as he examined the four locks on the front door, all of which appeared high quality and well fitted. ‘The report said all four locks were still on when the nanny arrived in the morning and that the mother checked all the windows on the house and the back door – again, all locked and secure. So how the hell did someone get in, grab the boy and get out, leaving the place all locked up, without being heard or seen?’

‘He didn’t,’ Sally explained. ‘That’s not possible. The boy must be hiding in the house somewhere, too afraid to come out now his joke’s gone too far. We’ll have a good look around, find him, talk his parents into not killing him and then get back to our unpacking.’

‘But he’s only four,’ Sean argued.

‘So?’

‘When my kids were four they wouldn’t have stayed hidden this long. They might now, but not back then. It’s too long.’

‘So you do think someone has taken him?’

Sean stepped back from the door, looking the house up and down before once again peering in both directions along the affluent, leafy road. ‘I don’t know,’ he eventually confessed, ‘but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

‘Don’t tell me that,’ Sally almost begged him, rolling her eyes back into her skull. ‘Every time you say that we end up in it up to our necks. We haven’t even got the office up and running – the last thing we need now is a child abduction – or worse. A few days from now we’ll be ready and willing, but not yet.’

‘Too late,’ Sean told her. ‘For better or worse, this one’s ours.’ He flicked his eyes towards the doorbell.

With a shake of her head, Sally pressed the button, stepping back to be at Sean’s side – a united front for when the door was opened, warrant cards open in their hands.

They heard the rattle of the central lock before the door was opened by a plain woman in her mid-thirties, brown hair tied back in a ponytail like Sally’s, her inexpensive grey suit and white blouse the virtual uniform for female detectives. Neither Sean nor Sally had to ask whether she was the mother or the local CID’s representative and she in turn knew what they were and why they were there, but they showed her their warrant cards and introduced themselves anyway.

‘Morning. DI Sean Corrigan and this is DS Sally Jones – Special Investigations Unit,’ Sean told her, drawing a sideways glance from Sally, who was hearing their new name for the first time.

‘Special Investigations Unit?’ the detective asked. ‘That’s a new one on me.’

‘Me too,’ Sally added, making the other detective narrow her eyes.

‘We’re based at the Yard,’ Sean explained. ‘It’s a new thing that’s being trialled – rapid response to potentially high-profile crimes – that sort of thing.’

The detective nodded suspiciously before responding. ‘DC Kimberly Robinson, Hampstead CID.’

‘Can we see the parents?’ Sean asked.

‘Of course,’ Robinson answered, but instead of opening the door for them to enter she stepped outside and shut the door to behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. ‘But before you do there’s one thing bothering me,’ she told them in a near whisper. ‘Why has this case been handed over to you? Why has this case been handed over to anyone? Something like this would usually stay with the local CID until we get a ransom demand or …’ she checked the door behind her before continuing ‘… until a body turns up. So why are you here so soon?’

‘You know how it is,’ Sean explained. ‘Your boss gets to hear about something a little different and he tells his boss who tells his boss who tells my boss, whose interest is piqued and before you know it the case lands on my desk and here we are.’

Robinson studied him for a while before answering. ‘Fine,’ she eventually said, easing the door open and stepping inside. ‘You’re welcome to it. Parents are in the kitchen.’

‘D’you have any background on the parents yet?’ Sean asked quietly.

‘He’s thirty-eight, works in the City – a broker for Britbank, apparently,’ she said in a lowered voice, before lowering it even further. ‘She’s a few years younger, a full-time mum, although round here that isn’t exactly what it sounds like, if you know what I mean.’

Sally and Sean glanced at each other before following Robinson through the hallway, Sally closing the door behind them. She quickly and discreetly swept slightly envious eyes over the hall’s contents: large, original oil paintings, Tiffany lampshades and polished oak floorboards. Sean also noticed a control panel for an intruder alarm attached to the wall.

As soon as they entered the large contemporary kitchen Sean was making mental notes of what he saw: Mrs Bridgeman pacing around the work area, her husband leaning on the kitchen island watching her but not speaking, while the nanny sat with their young daughter, trying to keep the crying child distracted with small talk and a drink.

‘Mr and Mrs Bridgeman,’ Robinson said, ‘these officers are from the Special Investigations Unit, Scotland Yard. I believe they’ll be taking over the investigation now.’

‘Why?’ Celia Bridgeman asked before Sean or Sally could speak, panic lighting her eyes. ‘Has something happened? Have you found him?’

Sally could tell she was about to lose it completely. ‘No, Mrs Bridgeman. Nothing’s changed. We’re just here to try and help find George as quickly as we can. Everything’s going to be fine, but we’ll have to ask you both some questions if we’re going to do that.’

‘More questions?’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted. ‘We’ve already answered all the questions. Now you need to get out there and find our son.’

‘Almost every officer in the borough is out there searching for George,’ Robinson tried to reassure him, ‘including dogs. Even the police helicopter’s up and looking.’

Sean eyed Bridgeman for a while before considering his response. He felt an instant dislike for the man – his carefully groomed hair, golden tan and athletic build, and above all his arrogance, which more than matched his wealth. ‘I can understand your frustration.’ He managed to sound businesslike. ‘But we really do need to ask you some more questions.

‘Of course,’ Celia took over, ‘anything.’ She wiped the tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘I believe you were the one who discovered George was apparently missing, Mrs Bridgeman?’ Sean asked.

‘Not apparently,’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted again, ‘is missing. Who did you say you were?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Jones from the Special Investigations Unit.’

‘Special Investigations?’ Bridgeman asked, distaste etched into his face. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Stuart,’ his wife stopped him. ‘You’re wasting time.’

Bridgeman grudgingly backed down. ‘Ask your questions, Inspector.’

‘When you couldn’t find George, what did you do?’

‘I looked everywhere,’ she told him, shaking as she spoke, involuntarily closing her eyes as she remembered the panic and fear, the feeling of sickness overtaking her body, ‘but I couldn’t find him.’

‘Then what?’

‘I checked the windows and doors.’

‘And?’

‘They were all closed and locked – all of them.’

‘Even the front door?’

‘Yes, and the front door.’

‘All four locks?’

‘No. Just the top lock.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Caroline had already arrived for work before I discovered George was missing.’

‘Caroline being yourself,’ he said looking over at the nodding nanny.

‘I always put the top lock on,’ she told him, ‘so that the kids can’t get out through the front door. It’s the only lock they can’t reach.’

‘And that’s how you found it?’ he asked, turning back to look at Celia Bridgeman.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Sean considered the nanny for a moment. Had she forgotten to put the top lock on when she’d arrived, fastening it later once she’d realized her mistake? Was it already too late by then – George had slipped out into the street and wandered off, or been taken away? The nanny looked relaxed and calm enough under the circumstances – he sensed no guilt or fear in her, even if it was the most logical explanation. But he was picking up on something else – a presentiment of foul play that made him consider the entire family for a second. It was impossible to look at them and not be struck by their wealth and privilege and even more so by their beauty. All of them beautiful, including both children. Had that been the flame that had drawn the moth to them?

Stuart Bridgeman’s voice cut through his thoughts.

‘This is all we need – a wannabe Sherlock bloody Holmes on the case. These stupid questions are a waste of time. You need to stop hiding in the warm and get out on those streets and find our son.’

Ignoring Bridgeman’s rant, Sean directed the next question at him. ‘You weren’t here last night, Mr Bridgeman, is that right?’

‘I was away on business. You know – earning money for my family. I work in the private sector. I have to earn my money, unlike some.’

Again Sean let it pass. ‘So, where were you last night?’

‘Why? Am I a suspect in my own son’s disappearance?’

‘No. I just need to know where you were.’

‘Fine. I was in Oxford.’

‘You got back quickly,’ Sean prodded.

‘I came straight back as soon as I heard. Wouldn’t you – if your child had gone missing?’

‘What time did you hear?’

‘I don’t remember … some time before nine.’

‘And when did you get back here?’

‘A little while ago – why?’

‘It was ten thirty,’ Robinson told Sean. ‘It’s in the crime-scene log.’

‘That was fast,’ Sean accused him, ‘through rush-hour traffic.’

‘So I broke a few speed limits – what the fuck do I care?’

‘Stuart, please,’ Celia appealed to him. ‘You’re not helping.’

‘Here we go,’ Stuart Bridgeman said, shaking his head. ‘I wondered how long it would be before this all became my fault.’

Sean didn’t have time to referee a domestic. ‘Where did you stay? In Oxford – where did you stay?’

Bridgeman took several calming breaths before answering. ‘The Old Parsonage Hotel – just outside the city centre. They’ll be able to confirm I was there last night.’

Sean studied him, in no hurry to fill the uncomfortable silence. Bridgeman could have comfortably booked into his hotel but then come back in the night and taken the boy before returning to Oxford to await his wife’s distressed phone call. But why would he want to abduct his own son? He decided not to push that line of questioning – not yet.

‘I’m sure we won’t be needing to check with the hotel, Mr Bridgeman,’ he lied. ‘But one thing’s bothering me.’

‘And what would that be?’ Bridgeman asked, not attempting to disguise his frustration.

‘I saw an alarm panel as I came through the hallway. I assume it’s for an intruder alarm.’

‘So?’ Bridgeman asked.

‘So, if someone did manage to break into the house, why didn’t the alarm go off? Wasn’t it set last night?’

‘No,’ Bridgeman told him, ‘nor any other night since we’ve been here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s the old alarm left here by the previous owners. They cancelled their subscription to the alarm company when we bought the house and I haven’t got round to having it reactivated yet.’

‘So the house wasn’t alarmed?’ Sean clarified.

‘No,’ Bridgeman admitted. ‘But there’s an alarm box on the front of the house. You would think that would deter most people from trying to break in.’

‘So you haven’t been here long then?’ Sally asked.

‘No,’ Celia Bridgeman answered, never taking her accusing eyes off her husband. ‘A little less than three weeks.’

‘Where did you move from?’ Sally continued.

‘Primrose Hill.’

‘Any reason for the move?’ Sean asked.

‘Camden seemed to be getting closer and closer,’ Bridgeman explained, ‘and Primrose Hill’s full of very dull Russian bankers.’

‘Did you change the locks when you moved in?’ Sean questioned.

‘No,’ Bridgeman replied. ‘Who changes the locks when they move into a new house? This is Hampstead, not Peckham.’ Sean and Sally looked at each other, Sally failing to stop a small grin forming on her lips. ‘The people we bought it off were decent people. In fact, the husband works not far from me in the City. They’re hardly likely to come back and burgle us, are they?’

‘But there are keys out there you can’t account for?’ Sean asked. ‘In all likelihood there’ll be keys for this house in the hands of others?’

‘I suppose so,’ Bridgeman agreed.

‘Then we’ll need a list of anyone who might have keys to the house: the estate agent you used, the previous owners, the removal company you hired – anyone who has access to the house.’

‘Fine,’ Bridgeman reluctantly agreed, ‘but that’ll take time. What are you going to do to find our son now?’

Sean nodded his head slightly, looking around at the faces watching him expectantly. ‘I need to see the boy’s bedroom. I need to see it alone.’

‘It’s upstairs,’ Celia Bridgeman told him without hesitation, her pale lips trembling. ‘On the second floor. Along the hallway on the right.’

‘Thank you,’ Sean replied and headed for the exit. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ he told them, although he was mainly talking to Sally. The relief of being on his own, away from the parents’ torment, guilt and anger felt immediately liberating as he headed for the stairs, stopping for a while to look around him, his eyes drifting towards the front door the nanny had sworn she’d locked. He believed her, but the front door somehow wouldn’t let him look away, as if it held answers to the questions firing inside his head. But the answers wouldn’t come. His mind was awhirl with distractions: the office move, Assistant Commissioner Addis, Thomas Keller still awaiting sentencing … The mental clutter was robbing him of the very thing that set him apart.

Work through the evidence, he told himself, looking at the windows he could see and noting they were all in good condition with security locks fitted and in place. The door, he told himself. Someone came in through that door, in through it in the middle of the night and took the boy away. But how, who and why? Still nothing particular stirred in his subconscious, no early ideas of who or what he could be about to hunt. He felt a rising panic at the thought of no longer being able to see or feel what the people he had to find and stop had seen or felt.

There was an alarm, but it wasn’t working – did you know that? A man lives in the house, but he was away – did you know that? Have you been watching the family – and if so, for how long? He waited for answers or ideas, some coldness in the pit of his stomach that would tell him the darkness within him was beginning to stir – the malevolence that could lead him straight to the front door of whoever took the little boy. You don’t even know for sure he’s been taken yet, he reminded himself as he began to climb the stairs, careful not to touch the mahogany bannister that clearly hadn’t been polished for a day or so. Did you touch this bannister? In your excitement to reach the boy, did you forget yourself and touch the bannister? Did you leave me your fingerprints here, hiding amongst the prints of the family, the nanny, the cleaner? What did it feel like to be inside this warm house with its comforting sounds and smells – so different from the cold, empty street outside?

‘Shit,’ he whispered as still nothing happened – no flash of inspiration or horror of realization, just blackness. ‘If you’re hiding somewhere, George,’ he said, a little louder than a whisper, ‘now would be a really good time to show yourself.’

As he stepped on to the first floor landing his eyes again swept over his surroundings: more oil paintings and Tiffany lamps, good quality carpet under his feet deadening the sound of his footsteps, stretching out in front of him and seemingly spreading into three of the four rooms he could see, the fourth of which he assumed would be a bathroom, the carpet giving way to floor tiles. He began to walk along the landing towards the staircase that continued its way upwards at the other end, but the scent of the mother leaking from the first room he passed made him stop and look around, checking he was still alone. Did the carpet feel good under your feet – silencing your footsteps? Did it reassure you? He moved to the bedroom where he knew the mother slept and moved slowly inside, breathing her in as he studied the room – her clothes tossed on the chaise longue for someone else to tidy and the bed only slept in on one side. Stuart Bridgeman had been away the previous night, but Sean felt only a fading presence of the father in the room, as if he’d stopped sleeping here days or weeks ago. Maybe he never had, just using it to store his clothes for appearances’ sake – to keep the sad truth from the children? Did you come in here? Did you stand where I am now and watch her while she slept – watching her chest rise and fall – hypnotized by her beauty? But you didn’t come for her, did you? Again the answers evaded him. He scratched his forehead and left the room, passing what was indeed a bathroom, a room used as an office and another made up as a spare bedroom, but almost overly tidy and sterile. Was this where Stuart Bridgeman spent his nights – making the bed immaculately every morning before the children, nanny or cleaner could discover it had been used – quickly moving his used clothes into the master bedroom to complete the illusion? Probably, Sean decided, but what did it mean? What, if anything, did it have to do with George’s disappearance?

He left the room behind and climbed to the second floor and the children’s bedrooms, his foot finding a loose floorboard and making it creak loudly. Did you step on the creaking stair? Did it make you freeze with panic or fear? Or did you know it was there and avoid it? But how could you know it was there? He could feel the ideas, even possible answers straining to break free, but the weeds of his everyday responsibilities and life kept strangling his newly flowering strands of thought. Finally he lifted his foot, the returning floorboard making the same loud creaking that would have been magnified ten-fold in the dead of the night. No one came in here in the middle of the night and stole the boy, he almost chastised himself as he strode up the final few stairs and along the hallway. I’m letting things from the past fuck with my head. There’s no mystery here – just a little boy whose joke’s gone too far. The doors and windows are locked. No one came in here and the boy couldn’t have left, so he’s here – somewhere inside this house. He reached George’s room and unceremoniously pushed the door wide open, the sense of excitement that they would soon find the boy hiding instantly replaced by a deep sense of coldness. He felt as if he was stepping into a murder scene where the shattered soul of the victim still lingered, only there was no body, just an awful feeling of emptiness, as if the boy had never been there in the first place and the room was little more than a mock-up of a child’s room: the silhouettes of clouds printed on the powder-blue wallpaper, the train mobile above the bed with its matching bedclothes. The duvet remained on the floor where the mother had thrown it, along with a dozen or so teddy bears and other soft toys. More toys were neatly stacked on the shelving units and play table. But none of it seemed real any more – it felt surreal, just like so many other crime scenes he’d seen. And although the answers to his questions failed to come, the sickness in his stomach told him something had happened to the little boy. But what?

He crouched down and picked up a small brown bear similar to one his youngest daughter Mandy kept in her bed and tried not to think of how he’d feel if anything ever happened to either of his daughters. Sadness and rage swelled inside him at the mere possibility, but a sudden feeling of another presence in the room made him spin around and forget his fearful imaginings. Celia Bridgeman stood in the doorway, both hands clasped over her heart, her eyes red and her skin pale as her lips opened and closed as if she was trying to speak but couldn’t. ‘You all right?’ Sean asked and regretted it.

‘No,’ she answered faintly. ‘I don’t feel very well.’ She staggered a little into the room, Sean catching her by the elbow and forearm as he led her to the bed to sit, cringing at the possible forensic evidence he may be complicit in destroying. He watched her trying to catch her breath, breathing in and out a little erratically, but it was enough to put a little colour back into her lips and face. He gave her some time and space. ‘It’s like a dream,’ she told him, ‘or I should say a nightmare – like it’s not really happening. It can’t be happening, can it? He must be here somewhere,’ she continued, panic sweeping over her again as she tried to get to her feet.

Sean placed a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from standing. ‘I need to look for him,’ she pleaded, her red eyes swelling with fear and tears. ‘I have to keep looking.’

‘We’ll all look for him,’ Sean promised, ‘but you need to help me help you.’

‘I feel sick,’ she told him, jumping to her feet and rushing from the room. A few seconds later he heard the sound of her retching in a nearby bathroom, retching that seemed to go on for a long time, before he heard the sound of a toilet lid closing and the flushing of water. She returned to the bedroom looking like a ghost, walking past him and sitting on the bed without speaking, lifting a floppy-eared rabbit from the floor and holding it tight to her chest while she stared at the wall opposite.

‘Feel a little better?’ Sean asked, keen to get her talking before she went catatonic on him.

‘Not really,’ she responded.

‘I have some difficult questions that need answers,’ he warned her. ‘They’re best asked when your husband’s not here.’

‘Stuart?’ she asked in a conciliatory tone. ‘Don’t worry about Stuart – he’s just scared and angry. He always reacts like that when he feels something is beyond his control.’

‘I understand,’ Sean assured her.

‘You said you had questions.’

‘Keys,’ he began. ‘Is there anyone no one’s mentioned who could have keys to the house?’

‘Not that I know of,’ she answered.

‘Anyone who shouldn’t have keys to the house but does?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I need to know if both your children are yours and your husband’s – genetically?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, confusion etched into her face. ‘Why?’

‘Most children who are abducted are abducted by their estranged fathers,’ he told her. ‘If there was one and he had keys to the house, then …’

‘There isn’t,’ she stopped him. ‘How could you even think that? I’m his mother and Stuart’s his father,’ she insisted, but Sean sensed some doubt in her voice – and her eyes.

‘Any problems with your marriage?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she muttered, her eyes avoiding his.

‘Could Stuart be seeing anyone else?’

‘God no.’

‘And you?’ Sean ambushed her.

‘No,’ she swore, ‘nothing like that. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that to my children.’

‘My children?’ Sean questioned. ‘Not our children, but my children?’

‘Stuart’s not around much,’ she explained. ‘He works hard for us – that’s all I meant.’

Sean watched her silently for a moment as she continued to hug the toy rabbit – watching her eyes and hands, her feet that stayed flat and still on the carpeted floor – judging her. He believed most of what she was saying, but there were doubts and untruths hiding in her grief.

The longer he stood in the boy’s room, the more sure he was that George had been taken. But why and by whom? His mind searched back for memories – going back more than ten years to when he was still a detective sergeant, deployed by SO10 on an undercover operation to infiltrate the Network, a paedophile gang who’d been grooming children during the early days of the Internet and then sexually abusing them, filming their exploits and circulating them to other paedophiles. He forced the face of the gang’s leader, John Conway, into his mind, remembering the way he talked and moved, recalling his mindset – what excited him and motivated him. But Conway and his cronies groomed older children and always met the children a safe distance from their houses and schools, whereas whoever had taken George had risked coming into the house in the dead of night. And George was only four, too young to be groomed from a distance. From a distance, but what about by someone close? Conway’s face melted into that of Sean’s own father. But there had never been anything subtle about the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his father. The face faded away, replaced by the things that continued to plague his mind: There’s an alarm, but you knew it wasn’t working. A man lives in the house, but you knew he wasn’t there. The floorboard creaks, but you didn’t step on it. You knew all this because you know this house. You have to know this house – but how? Who are you and what do you want? John Conway’s face flashed back into his mind. Slow down, he warned himself. You’re making assumptions. You don’t know he knew about the alarm, the husband being away, the damn floorboard. All you know for sure is that the boy is gone. Someone came to the house, entered without breaking in, took the boy and left, locking the house after them. Was Addis right? Could it have been a paedophile, acting alone or with others, going to the next level that the Network never reached – taking children from their own homes, the danger of the game making the moment of triumph all the sweeter.

‘You will find him, won’t you?’ Celia Bridgeman asked, making his attempt to build a mental picture of what could have happened tumble like a house of cards. He gave his mind a few seconds to recall and understand what she had asked before answering.

‘Of course,’ he answered, telling her the only thing he could. ‘Cases like this can come together pretty quickly,’ he added truthfully, although he already had his doubts this one would. ‘You should all move out, just while we have the house searched by a dog team. And our forensic people always appreciate an empty scene. We need to do everything possible to give us the best chance of finding your son quickly.’

‘Where should we go?’ she asked, her voice forlorn and sad, as if moving out was giving up on the boy.

‘Family, friends,’ Sean suggested. ‘Just for a couple of days while we do what we need to do with the house. In the meantime, try not to touch anything. We’ll need a set of fingerprints from everyone who’s been in the house since you moved in. Are you OK with that?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘if it’ll help.’

‘Good,’ Sean told her, taking a last look around the room. ‘I have to go now. Do you need some help getting downstairs?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’d like to stay here for a while – if that’s all right?’

‘Of course.’ Sean slowly headed to the door, almost unable to take his eyes off the mother, her sadness and longing dragging at him like a magnet as he managed to pull himself from the room and into the hallway where he rested with his back to the wall for a few seconds before walking quietly to the staircase.

‘All right?’ Sally asked as he joined the others in the kitchen. Sean nodded.

‘Mr Bridgeman,’ he turned to the father, ‘I was just telling your wife you’ll need to move out for a couple of days’ – Bridgeman tried to interrupt, but Sean talked over him – ‘and I’ll need those names: the estate agent, the removal firm, anyone who’s been in the house since you’ve been here.’ He took something from his warrant-card wallet and dropped it on the kitchen island. ‘That’s my card – ignore the landline number, it’s old, but the mobile and email address are good. Call me if you think of anything.’ He quickly turned to Robinson. ‘I need you to wait here until my own Family Liaison Officer gets here. They won’t be long.’ Robinson just shrugged. He understood her keenness to escape. ‘I have to go back and brief my team, Mr Bridgeman. You may not see me for a while, but rest assured I’ll be working full-time to find your son.’

Sean headed for the door with Sally trailing in his wake, the crystal-clear air hitting him like a plunge into freezing water as soon as he opened the door, temporarily taking his breath away. He skipped down the stairs and headed for their car, then sat on the bonnet, breathing in as deeply as he could before blowing out great plumes of breath, trying to settle his spinning mind. But still he was left with only questions – questions to which he had no answers, just too many broken, ragged theories.

‘Family Liaison Officer?’ Sally asked. ‘Why are we wasting our time doing all that? Let’s stick a dog unit in there and find this kid.’

‘He’s not there,’ Sean answered. ‘If he was, the mother would have found him – I would have.’

‘So he’s got a secret hiding place nobody knows about. He can’t hide from a dog.’

‘I’m telling you, he’s gone,’ Sean insisted, the unintentional aggression in his voice silencing Sally.

She was silent for a moment, considering her next move.

‘Listen,’ she opened, ‘maybe the Keller case is messing with your head a bit? Believe me, when it comes to having your head messed with, I’m an expert.’

‘Meaning?’ Sean asked, prepared to consider anything.

‘Keller took his victims from their homes before he killed them,’ she explained. ‘Maybe that’s stuck in your head, making you see similarities here that don’t actually exist.’

‘The boy’s gone,’ Sean insisted, his voice sad and resigned. ‘But get a dog to check it over anyway. It might find something.’

Sally studied him for a moment, searching for things in him that not so long ago she’d seen in herself. ‘OK,’ she relented, ‘so the boy’s gone. Someone came in the middle of the night, somehow got in, took the boy and left, all without being seen, heard or leaving any signs of entry.’

‘Either they had a key,’ Sean told her, ‘or they picked the locks.’

‘Christ, Sean,’ she reminded him. ‘Lock-picking’s bloody rare.’

‘Good, then that helps us. But why lock the door after they’d left? Why would they do that?’

‘Because they’re insane.’

‘Or because they cared about the people they left in the house – didn’t want to leave them at risk. Exposed.’

‘You mean the father?’ Sally asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Why would the father want to abduct his own son?’

‘Why do some fathers slaughter their entire family at the first sign their wives might leave them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sally admitted. ‘You tell me, Sean. Why do some men do that?’

‘Better to destroy something you love rather than lose it.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No. No it doesn’t,’ he agreed. ‘Much like this case.’

‘So what you want to do?’

‘Keep an open mind.’

‘Easier for some than others,’ she mumbled.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘How’s your shoulder, by the way?’

‘Sore. And you?’

‘Better and better,’ she told him.

‘Is there something you want to ask me, Sally?’

‘No,’ she lied again. This was not the right moment.

‘Then we’re wasting time,’ he told her. ‘Time we don’t have.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Featherstone sat in his office at Shooter’s Hill Police Station looking at pictures of sailing yachts in the magazine he subscribed to and kept hidden inside a pink cardboard file marked Confidential. Owning a nice thirty-two-footer had long been his retirement dream, but constant pay-cuts, pay-freezes, allowance-scrapping and now attacks on the police pension were turning his dream into a fantasy. If he could make it to the rank of commander before he retired, the dream might still be alive – just. His mind drifted to Sean and the sort of results he seemed able to pull out of a hat. At the end of the day, he was Sean’s supervising officer and therefore in a position to bask warmly in the reflected glory of Sean’s successes – successes that might just get him over the line and promoted to commander before deadline-day struck. But only if things kept working out and Corrigan didn’t fuck up. He liked the man and watched his back better and with more fervour than most senior officers ever would, but he wasn’t about to put his head on the chopping block for anyone.

His daydreaming was interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone on his desk. He answered it slowly and without enthusiasm. ‘Hello, Detective Superintendent Featherstone speaking.’

‘Alan. Assistant Commissioner Addis here.’

Featherstone felt his heart drop and his bowels loosen slightly. ‘Sir.’

‘I’ve assigned that case we discussed to Inspector Corrigan,’ Addis told him.

‘That was fast,’ Featherstone replied.

‘I thought the sooner he got on with it the better. The quicker we act the more chance we have of finding the missing boy.’

‘If there’s been foul play, Corrigan’s the best man to lead the investigation. He won’t let anyone down.’

‘I hope not,’ Addis told him, making it sound like a threat. ‘Let’s hope your confidence in him isn’t misplaced.’

‘Like I told you in the beginning, sir, Corrigan has special qualities. In the field, he’s one of the best I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen some good ones.’

‘Good,’ Addis replied. ‘Then once it’s confirmed the boy is actually missing I suggest we get the media in and tell them how confident we are of bringing the investigation to a swift conclusion. Some good publicity for the Metropolitan Police would be very useful right now.’

‘Publicity?’ Featherstone asked, his voice riddled with concern. ‘Don’t you think it’s too soon for publicity? Maybe we should give Corrigan and his team a little breathing space for—’

‘Breathing space?’ Addis asked mockingly. ‘That’s a luxury we don’t have in the Metropolitan Police. Not any more. This is a results-orientated business, and Corrigan has been brought here to deliver those results. He has until tomorrow, then I’m briefing the press.’

Featherstone heard the line go dead, leaving the echo of Addis’s words sinking into his consciousness. A results-orientated business. Is that what they were now – a business? He looked down at his magazine, open at a page showing a sleek thirty-two-footer, and his dreams of retirement and yachts faded as abruptly as his conversation with Addis had concluded.

‘For God’s sake, Sean,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘don’t fuck this one up or Addis will have both our heads mounted on his office wall – and it’s not like we’ll be the first either.’ Shaking the unpleasant thought from his head, he went back to reading his magazine.

Sally and Sean arrived back at Room 714 to the chaotic scene of a dozen or more detectives unpacking cardboard boxes containing everything from personal belongings to keyboards and phones they’d commandeered from their old office back at Peckham. The chaos they created was matched by the noise levels as they universally moaned and groaned about being moved, the size of their new office and the lack of power-points. At the centre of the discontent was Donnelly, conducting the orchestra of rebellion, his voice easily heard above the din as he searched for the strategically best placed desk. He wasted no time speaking his mind as soon as he saw Sally and Sean enter. ‘This place is worse than Peckham,’ he called to them. ‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here, and have you seen the size of the queue in the canteen? All I wanted was a cup of tea.’

‘Not out here,’ Sean told him, his eyes resting on the box Donnelly was holding. ‘You share the larger side office with Sally. The smaller one is mine.’

‘Excuse me?’ he asked. ‘I need to be out here, keeping an eye on this lot. You may be the circus ringmaster, guv’nor, but I’m the lion tamer round here.’

‘You said it yourself,’ Sean reminded him. ‘There’s not enough room out here for everyone – so you get to share with Sally.’ Donnelly was about to continue the argument when Sean silenced him and everyone else in the shambolic room. ‘Listen up,’ he shouted. His voice seem to freeze everyone where they stood, the sound of the guv’nor shouting rare enough to draw their immediate attention. ‘I know this isn’t ideal and we’d all like a few days to get sorted and settled, but that’s not going to be the case, I’m afraid.’

‘Meaning what?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Meaning we’ve just been given a new case.’

‘You must be joking!’ Donnelly said above the rising murmurs of disbelief. ‘We can’t take on a new case – we’re in it up to our necks with this bloody move. There’s not even a single computer up and running. We can’t deal with a new murder investigation yet.’

‘It’s not a murder,’ Sean told them, ‘it’s a missing person.’

‘Not again,’ Donnelly complained.

‘It didn’t take long for our last missing person case to turn into a murder investigation, remember? We have a four-year-old boy disappeared overnight from his home in Hampstead. His mother discovered he was missing earlier this morning. No signs of forced entry, but he’s definitely gone.’

‘Has the house been checked by a Special Search Team yet?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No,’ Sean admitted.

‘Well then, the boy’s not gone anywhere. He’s got himself a secret hiding place, that’s all. Special Search Team will find him soon enough.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Sean locked eyes with him. ‘However, you’re right – the house needs to be searched properly. We have to be absolutely sure.’ He looked across to DC Ashley Goodwin, a tall, fit, black detective in his late twenties. ‘Ashley, sort out a search team and a dog unit and get the house checked. If the boy’s alive and hiding, great. If his body’s been hidden in the house then I want it found.’

‘No problem,’ Goodwin answered, plugging in the phone he was holding and immediately starting to make calls.

‘Dave,’ Sean turned to Donnelly, ‘take Paulo and whoever else you need and get started on the door-to-door, but keep it local and as quiet as you can – we don’t want to start a parental panic across North London.’ Donnelly didn’t reply; resigned to his fate, he simply reached for his jacket and indicated for Paulo to do the same. ‘Alan, find out which Forensic Support Team cover Hampstead for Major Inquiries and get them to examine the house.’ DC Alan Jesson, tall and slim, nodded as he scribbled notes. ‘Maggie, I need you to go Family Liaison on this one.’

‘Not again, guv’nor,’ DC Maggie O’Neil pleaded in her Birmingham accent.

‘Sorry, but I need someone with experience to keep an eye on the family and report anything out of the ordinary.’

Donnelly’s ears pricked up. ‘Are the family suspects?’

‘Too early to say yes – too early to say no,’ Sean answered, ‘but if it turns out they aren’t involved then someone came to their house, got in and took the boy all without breaking a single door or window. And what’s more, they locked up behind themselves.’

‘Then they must have had keys,’ Goodwin deduced.

‘Possibly.’ Sean frowned, picturing the front door and its four locks. ‘But if they didn’t, then they must have somehow come through the locked door and secured it behind them when they left.’

‘Why not a window?’ DC Fiona Cahill asked.

‘Because I checked the windows,’ Sean answered. ‘There’s no way they can be shut properly and locked from the outside, leaving only the front door as a possibility.’

‘What about the back door – if there is one?’ Cahill continued, undaunted.

‘There is,’ Sean explained, ‘but it was secured with old-fashioned bolts, top and bottom. You can’t do those up from outside.’

The office fell silent as the detectives pondered the puzzle.

‘So what does this mean?’ Donnelly finally asked. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘We discount nothing yet,’ Sean warned them, ‘but if he was taken by a stranger then it’s safe to assume he could have been taken by a known sex offender or someone who’s gravitating towards it.’

‘Then why not just snatch a child off the street?’ O’Neil asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sean admitted. ‘Perhaps because they thought it was too dangerous.’

‘More dangerous than breaking into someone’s house in the middle of the night?’ Zukov queried, disbelief evident in his voice.

‘We’re just exploring possibilities here,’ Sean reminded them, ‘but if someone did go through the front door then it’s possible they picked the locks.’

‘Picked the locks?’ Donnelly asked disbelievingly. ‘Criminals smart enough to pick locks are about as rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘And that’s exactly what I’m banking on,’ Sean told him. ‘That’s our advantage. Sally, have the surrounding stations search their intelligence records for anyone with previous for using lock-picking to commit residential burglaries. If by some miracle you get more than a few, look for those who also have previous for sexual assault – ideally on children, but any type of sexual assault makes them a suspect. If you get no joy then check the local Sex Offenders Registers and see if anything takes your fancy.’

‘No problem,’ Sally assured him.

‘OK, good,’ Sean told his assembled team. ‘Now you all know what you need to be getting on with, so let’s get this show on the road. Dave—’

‘Aye, guv’nor?’

‘Get HOLMES up and running ASAP – make it a priority. We’re gonna have a lot of names and information coming our way soon. Without the database we can’t cross-reference a damn thing, and that’s when we’ll miss things – important things.’

‘It will be done,’ Donnelly promised.

‘As soon as anyone has anything, let me know – I’ll be in my office for the next few hours making the usual endless phone calls and God knows what else, so dust off the cobwebs, people, and let’s get on with it. Remember, a four-year-old boy is apparently missing and if we don’t find him – no one will.’