Читать книгу The Toy Taker - Luke Delaney - Страница 8

George Bridgeman sat on the bed in the room where he’d woken up cuddling his teddy – a floppy grey and pink elephant he called Ellie that had been his constant companion since the day he was born. He looked around the strange room the man had brought him to in the middle of the night, his wonderment at the myriad of toys that surrounded him only matched by his fear at being seemingly alone in an unfamiliar house. On the opposite side of the room he could see another child’s bed, but the covers remained unruffled and pristine, the stuffed toys untouched.

George dropped his bare feet carefully over the side of the bed, fearful of what might be hiding underneath, and padded towards the empty bed, still clad in the pyjamas his mother had dressed him in only the night before. As he drew closer to the tempting toys, he was distracted by sounds coming from somewhere deeper in the house – voices, a man and a woman talking – deep, muffled voices he couldn’t understand. Instinctively he looked for a window, but the only source of natural light came from the two skylights high in the ceiling, impossible to reach even if he wanted to, and escape wasn’t yet on his mind. Why would he want to escape from the things the man had promised?

He moved towards the door to better hear the sounds coming from the other side: gentle music leaking through the wooden panels, mixing with the unfamiliar voices, making him swallow hard as his tiny hand reached for the door handle and began to turn it, first one way and then the other. But the door wouldn’t open – he was locked in. He pressed his ear to the door and listened harder, trying to focus on the voices. The sudden scream of a distant child made him recoil from the door, his eyes wide and pupils dilated with sudden, unexpected terror. The woman’s voice was raised now as the man’s faded to nothing, then silence for a few seconds before they started talking again, quieter than before, barely audible. The sound of what he believed was a door closing heavily made him run back to the bed and jump under the covers, waiting – waiting for the voices to start coming upstairs towards him, ready – ready to scream like he’d heard the other child scream, his frail little body beginning to shake. He pulled Ellie close to his chest and cuddled her tightly – tighter than he’d ever held anything in his short life.

Sean sat in his office alone, his ear warm and sore from having the phone pressed to it too long and too hard, his eyes aching from staring at his newly connected computer screen. One minute he’d be thinking about the missing boy, his house and family, and the next he’d be on the phone to the stores trying to beg, steal or borrow the basics for the office and his team: paper, pens, more chairs and the forms of all kinds they needed for daily policework and to run an investigation. A loud double knock at his open door made him jump and look up as a smiling Featherstone entered without being asked and sat heavily in the one spare chair in the office. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘What?’ Sean replied. ‘The investigation or the move?’

‘The investigation,’ Featherstone clarified. ‘You found the missing kid yet?’

‘No,’ Sean told him.

‘Shame,’ Featherstone continued. ‘Would have made life a lot easier if you had.’

‘Why are you here, sir? You’re a long way from Shooter’s Hill.’

‘ACC wants an update,’ he admitted. ‘Wants to know how you’re getting on.’

‘We’ve only just started looking.’

‘I appreciate that, Sean, but you know what assistant commissioners can be like – updates, updates, updates.’

‘Then why didn’t he just come down here and ask me himself?’

‘Mr Addis likes a chain of command, when it suits him. A buffer-zone, if you know what I mean. It would appear I am that buffer-zone – so try not to drop me in it.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Sean assured him without conviction just as Sally hurried from her office and into Sean’s, her body language making him sit bolt upright in anticipation. ‘What you got?’

‘Mark McKenzie,’ Sally began without ceremony, ‘male, IC1, twenty-three years old, last known address in Kentish Town where he’s also a fully paid-up member of their Sex Offenders Register. He has previous for residential burglary, some of which he committed at night while the occupants were inside sleeping. And if that wasn’t enough, he also has previous for sexual assault on minors.’

Sean felt his heart rate suddenly increasing as a picture of McKenzie began to form in his mind – climbing the stairs to little George’s bedroom, moving silently past the room where his mother peacefully slept. ‘And …?’ he hurried Sally.

‘And,’ she continued, ‘he’s previously used lock-picking as a method of entry.’

‘Jesus,’ Sean said. ‘How far’s Kentish Town from Hampstead?’

‘Not my neck of the woods,’ Sally answered, ‘but I think it’s close.’

‘It is,’ Featherstone joined in. ‘No more than a couple of miles.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Sean said. ‘Does he come gift-wrapped as well?’

‘Think he’s your man?’ Featherstone asked.

‘He couldn’t fit the profile more if he tried,’ Sean answered.

‘If the boy has been taken,’ Sally warned them. ‘Taken by a stranger.’

‘You’re right,’ Sean admitted. ‘You’re right. We should keep an open mind, but he looks good – he looks really good. Has he been keeping his appointments to sign the Sex Offender Register?’

‘As far as I know,’ Sally answered.

‘That doesn’t mean he’s not your man,’ Featherstone cautioned.

‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘it does not. No amount of reporting to police stations could stop him entering a house in the middle of the night.’

‘Then I can tell the Assistant Commissioner you’re close to getting your man?’

Sean had seen Featherstone acting impulsively and impatiently before, but never to this degree. Clearly something or someone had given him an added sense of urgency. ‘I wouldn’t tell the Assistant Commissioner anything just yet,’ he warned Featherstone. ‘If he asks, just give him the generic bullshit and tell him we’re following a few lines of inquiry.’

‘But this McKenzie character looks good and Addis has been explicit about wanting a quick result. He doesn’t strike me as being a good man to fuck with.’

‘I’ll do the best I can, but you need to keep him at arm’s length – even if it’s just for a few days.’

‘A few days – I don’t know about that. Twenty-four hours maybe, but a few days—’

‘Fine,’ Sean told him. ‘I’ll take it, but I’ll need surveillance on McKenzie up and running within a couple of hours. I want to know where he’s going, what he’s doing, who’s he seeing—’

‘Surveillance?’ Featherstone stopped him. ‘No chance.’

‘Why?’ Sean snapped. ‘I need this bastard followed.’

‘Sorry, Sean,’ Featherstone explained, ‘but there’ve been too many cases in the media lately of the police acting too slowly – following people around while the suspect remains at large and the victims remain missing, only to turn up dead a few days later in the places we should have just charged into and searched from the off. So let’s not fuck about here. If you have a viable suspect – and you do – let’s get in there and nick the bastard, spin his gaff and anywhere else he’s known to have been. Our priority is to get the boy back – alive, preferably.’

‘But if we can follow him for a while, I’ll know,’ Sean argued. ‘I’ll know for sure before we even make a move.’

‘There’s nothing to be gained from surveillance,’ Featherstone reiterated. ‘Act decisively – that’s the way forward here. Now, you get on with what you’ve got to do while I go and see the Assistant Commissioner and spin him along for a bit. Hopefully the next time I see him I’ll be able to give him the good news, yes?’

‘Maybe,’ Sean answered sullenly.

‘Fine. Until then—’ Featherstone was already springing out of his chair and striding from the office. No one spoke until he disappeared into the corridor.

‘What’s got him so rattled?’ Sally asked.

‘Eighteen months from retirement with Assistant Commissioner Addis all over his back – you’d be rattled too,’ Sean told her. ‘Now, get hold of Stan and Tony and let’s pay McKenzie a visit.’

A few drops of sweat formed on Mark McKenzie’s forehead as he searched his newly acquired, second-hand laptop for pornography that suited his particular taste. Hard-core child pornography was hard to find on the Internet unless you’d had a tip-off from a like-minded friend, but his well-practised fingers danced across the keyboard entering the words that experience had taught him were the quickest way to find what he was after. He wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand and considered turning the heating down in the small, squalid flat he rented above a fried chicken takeaway franchise. But once he found what he was looking for it would be better to be warm for what he had in mind. He felt the old familiar excitement beginning to spread through his body as his testicles coiled and swelled, constant licking making his thin lips appear red and full, as if stained by wine. He lit another cigarette and tried not to let thoughts of the police and what would happen to him if he was caught downloading child pornography spoil his magical moment as he drew ever nearer to his prize.

The very thought of the police, the entire criminal justice system, made him almost laugh out loud as he blew plumes of thick grey smoke at the computer’s screen. They thought themselves so clever, but so long as he kept signing their pathetic register on time and turning up for their pointless interviews they’d leave him alone – alone to do whatever he wanted. Thoughts of the police faded to nothing as he finally found what he was looking for and amateur pictures of young, naked bodies began to fill his screen. This one even had half-decent sound. He took one last, hurried drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out and loosening the belt around his grubby trousers.

Just as he was about to take hold of his penis, the flimsy door to his flat exploded inwards, sending splinters of wood flying almost the full length of the living room. He jumped off his chair in shock, taking temporary refuge under the flimsy table. As soon as he saw the people in raincoats and suits bursting through the hole where the door used to be, he knew they were police and not the local vigilantes – even before they started calling into the flat, ‘Police! Police! Stay where you are and stand still.’ In a millisecond he remembered the laptop sitting on the table above his head and the damning evidence it contained. The fear of it being discovered turned his legs to springs as he rolled from under the table, stood and reached for the computer – but before his fingers could touch a single key one of the bastard policemen had crossed the room and knocked him back to the floor with a two-handed push to the chest. By the time he recovered his breath and his senses, the cop was standing over him, holding a warrant card in his face.

‘DI Corrigan, you little prick. Consider yourself under arrest.’

McKenzie coughed violently before speaking, to the point where he almost vomited. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he pleaded, almost out of habit.

‘Really,’ Sean snarled. ‘Then what the fuck is this?’ He grabbed McKenzie by the back of his head and pushed his face close to the screen.

‘I don’t know how that got there,’ McKenzie stammered, feigning amazement. ‘Swear to God.’

‘Don’t lie to me, you miserable little shit. You lie to me, it’ll only get worse for you.’

‘I’m telling the truth,’ McKenzie lied again. ‘It’s a second-hand computer – the download was already on it – I just found it when I was clearing its memory.’

‘Liar,’ Sean told him, his voice threatening as his hand slipped behind McKenzie’s neck and began to squeeze hard, the pain opening his mouth and making him whimper in pain. ‘You’re off to a bad start, McKenzie. Now it’s time to start telling the truth.’

The sweat on his brow made the thin, brown hair of his long fringe stick to his forehead as his thin fingers tried to prise Sean’s iron grip from the back of his neck, his dirty, broken fingernails scratching and drawing lines of blood on the back of Sean’s hand. ‘I’m not saying anything until I speak to a solicitor,’ he managed to say between deep swallows. ‘I know my rights.’

‘Fuck your rights,’ Sean hissed. ‘The children you were convicted of assaulting – where were their rights when you were abusing them?’ He thrust McKenzie’s face closer to the laptop’s screen. ‘Where are their rights?’

‘Maybe you should take it a little easy, guv’nor?’ Keeping her voice low, Sally laid a hand on Sean’s arm. This was no game of good cop, bad cop – she’d seen Sean like this before and knew it could mean trouble – trouble for them all.

‘Anyone wants to leave, they can leave,’ Sean told Sally and the other two detectives. ‘Mark and I wouldn’t mind being left alone, would we, Mark? We could have a private chat – get a few things straightened out.’

Sally sighed inwardly, but said nothing.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ McKenzie sneered through his pain, the fear leaving him as his mind began to spin with the possibilities of his situation.

‘Wrong,’ Sean shouted in his ear. ‘Time to talk, McKenzie. Now, where’s the boy? Where are you keeping him?’

McKenzie shook his head, trying to assess the situation and play it to his own advantage – to turn the tables on the police at last, especially the one who held him by the neck as if he was nothing more than an unruly dog. He couldn’t stand any police, but this one was especially easy to hate. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he answered. A sickening smirk twisted across his face as he fed off Sean’s dark anger, sensing that he was the one in control, no matter how hard Sean squeezed his neck; no matter how much he might beat him or try to humiliate him. He held the power – for now.

‘The boy?’ Sean repeated. ‘You snatched him from his bedroom in Hampstead last night, but where is he now? What have you done with him? For your sake, Mark, I hope he’s all right.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What?’

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

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

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

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

‘Guv’nor,’ Goodwin answered.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thanks, guv.’

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

‘Problem?’ Sally asked.

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

‘Shall we delay the interview?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘That was years ago.’

‘These particular leopards never change their spots.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, they don’t.’

‘So what was the job?’

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

‘Sounds like fun,’ Sally sniffed sarcastically.

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

‘Why?’ Sally asked.

‘Because they were proud of what they did.’

‘Sick,’ Sally judged.

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

‘And you took them out?’ Sally asked.

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

‘He was bullshitting you.’

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

‘Then why did he take you in?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whatever.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Like Mr Bridgeman?’

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

‘So who’s he angry with?’

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

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

‘Listen,’ Caroline tried to backtrack, ‘I don’t really know what’s going on. I’m just the nanny. I look after the children – that’s all.’ She walked from the room in search of Sophia, leaving Maggie alone with her thoughts and doubts. She’d been Family Liaison Officer on plenty of cases in the past. Until a body was found, family members would never wander too far from the phone or each other, but after the body was found and confirmed as their missing loved one, family members would frequently seek solitude for their grief. She’d seen murders destroy families more often than she’d seen them bring them together – the parents of victims often divorcing in the aftermath of murder − but she’d never seen or felt a reaction quite like she was seeing in the Bridgemans: a devastated mother and an angry father who seemed to be doing everything they could to avoid being in the same room as her. The usual non-stop flow of questions from the terrified parents was absent; instead she could hear the constant murmur of their hushed, urgent voices coming from the kitchen. She reminded herself that she’d never dealt with victims like the Bridgemans before – 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.

‘I’ve just been speaking with the Beiersdorfs from number 5. I took the liberty of asking them your name. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I assume this is about the little boy from next door?’

‘You heard then?’

‘Couldn’t help hearing with all the police walking up and down the street. Have you found him yet?’

‘No,’ Donnelly answered. ‘Sadly not.’

‘His poor mother,’ Mrs Howells said without feeling, ‘she must be besides herself with worry.’

‘She’s holding up. Sorry I didn’t catch your first name.’

‘Philippa,’ she told him.

‘Well, Philippa, I was wondering if I could come inside and speak with you a minute?’

‘It’s very late. I was expecting someone from the police to call here earlier. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?’

‘Better to get it out of the way now,’ Donnelly quickly told her, sensing she was about to close the door. ‘Anything that might help us find the little boy – right?’

‘Very well,’ she relented, flicking the chain off the hook and swinging the door open for him. ‘You’d better come inside.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Donnelly said as he skipped up the stairs. ‘Is Mr Howells also at home by any chance?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she answered curtly while closing the door, ‘he’s away on business.’

‘Pity,’ he told her. ‘Ideally I would have liked to speak to both of you.’

‘I don’t suppose my husband would know any more than I do,’ she explained, leading him through the house to the large kitchen diner – a common feature in the houses of the street. ‘We hardly know them − they only moved in a few weeks ago. But I suppose you already know that. Please, take a seat,’ she told him, indicating a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘And you popped round to introduce yourself?’ Donnelly asked, keen to speed things along.

‘Of course. This is a friendly street. We had a street party for the Jubilee and every Christmas we have a big party for all the kids at the local tennis club, that sort of thing.’

‘But the Bridgemans didn’t want to know?’

‘You could say that. She seemed keener than her husband, but not exactly over-friendly.’

‘So the husband seemed to be the one wanting them to keep their distance – is that fair?’

‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘I assumed they were just shy and preferred to keep themselves to themselves.’

‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly encouraged.

‘Exactly, but they’d only been here a few days when … well, quite frankly, the arguments started. Believe me, the walls of these houses are pretty solid, but you could still hear them – or rather him.’

‘So it was Mr Bridgeman doing the shouting?’

‘She joined in, but yes, mainly him.’

‘Could you hear what they were arguing about?’

‘Not really, although I did hear him calling her a lying bitch one time. I think at that point my husband and I vowed to have as little to do with them as possible and that’s the way it’s been.’

‘What about the kids? How did they seem?’

‘All right, considering.’

‘And the children’s behaviour?’

‘Fine. The little girl …’

‘Sophia.’

‘Yes, Sophia, seemed to have a lot to say for herself, but the little boy …’

‘George.’

‘Yes, sorry, George was a very quiet boy, from what I could tell. But like I said, we don’t really know them.’

‘But on the occasions you did see them,’ Donnelly pressed, ‘maybe in the back garden or out the front there, how did the parents seem towards the children?’ Donnelly’s chirping mobile broke the flow of questions and answers, making him curse under his breath. The caller ID told him it was Sean. He answered without excusing himself. ‘Guv’nor.’

‘Where are you?’ Sean asked.

‘Door-to-door, as assigned. Speaking to the Bridgemans’ neighbours, who are being very helpful,’ he added for the benefit of the listening Mrs Howells.

‘Good,’ Sean told him. ‘While you’re doing that you should bear in mind the house has now been searched properly and the boy hasn’t been found.’

Donnelly cursed inwardly twice: once for not being right about the boy’s body being found in the house and again for not making sure DC Goodwin tipped him off about the search before he told Sean. The news must have come through while he was in with the Beiersdorfs. Damn it. Not to worry. His theory still held water. After killing the boy the Bridgemans could have easily moved the body from the house – perhaps to a secure place while they waited for the heat to die down before getting rid of it permanently. Or maybe they had already disposed of it. ‘Is that so,’ he finally answered.

‘Yes, and the one we have in custody is shaping up nicely,’ Sean continued.

‘Has he admitted it yet?’ Donnelly asked, disappointment at the prospect of being proved wrong mingling with satisfaction that the person responsible was in custody. He had no problem swallowing his pride for the sake of getting a conviction on some sick bastard kiddie-fiddler.

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘But he hasn’t denied it either, and you have to ask yourself why he wouldn’t deny it if he wasn’t involved.’

‘Because he’s insane?’ Donnelly offered.

‘Not this one,’ Sean explained. ‘He’s wired wrong, but he’s not insane. Seems to want to play games too.’

‘With us?’

‘Apparently. Finish up where you are and try and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be an early start and a late finish, as is every day until we find George – one way or the other.’ Donnelly heard the connection go dead.

‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’ Donnelly asked Mrs Howells.

‘The Bridgeman children,’ she reminded him.

‘Aye, indeed. From what you could see, how did the parents behave towards their children?’

‘OK,’ she answered. ‘Although …’

‘Although what?’ Donnelly seized on it.

‘From the bits and pieces I’ve seen, they were fine towards Sophia, but …’

‘But …?’ he pushed her.

‘Not Celia, but Mr Bridgeman always seemed a little … well, a little cold towards George.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘As I said, I barely know them. I’m just telling you what struck me from the little I’ve observed.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ Donnelly told her. ‘But he’s fine towards Sophia?’

‘Kisses and cuddles on the doorstep when he comes home – plays with her in the garden at the weekends.’

‘Nothing unusual about a daddy’s girl. I have a few kids of my own and my ten-year-old only has eyes for her old dad – much to the annoyance of her mother.’

‘It’s getting very late now,’ Mrs Howells said with a polite smile Donnelly had seen a thousand times before. ‘I really ought to check on the children.’

‘Have you ever seen him, maybe, hit the boy?’ Donnelly ignored her hints.

‘No. No. Of course not.’

‘Ever see him touch George in an inappropriate way?’

‘I really don’t think I should say any more.’

‘Anything you tell me will be treated as confidential, Mrs Howells.’

‘I’ve told you all I know. I never saw him abuse George in any way. It’s just … he was …’

‘Cold towards him,’ Donnelly reminded her.

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘And your mother’s instinct told you something was wrong?’ Donnelly tried to seduce her with praise.

‘Yes – I mean no. I’m not sure, really I’m not. It’s late, detective. I must …’

Donnelly tapped the top of the breakfast bar before standing and fastening his overcoat against the cold that waited for him outside. ‘Of course,’ he told her. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘I just hope I haven’t misled you,’ she told him.

‘Oh, I don’t think you’ve done that, Mrs Howells. I don’t think you’ve done that at all.’

Sean cursed his nine-to-five neighbours as he searched and failed to find a parking spot anywhere close to the front door of his modest three-bedroom terraced house in East Dulwich, bought just before the wealth spread into the area from Dulwich Village and Blackheath. Maybe Kate was right – they should cash in while it was worth as much as it was and flee to New Zealand; perhaps then he would be able to afford somewhere with off-street parking instead of going through this nightly ritual of imagining his neighbours smugly tucked up in their beds while they thought of him having to park a couple of streets away. At least it wasn’t raining. Finally he parked up and trudged back towards his house, passing cars that he knew would still be parked in the same places as he headed back to his own the next morning. Last home and first to leave – same as usual.

His head was still buzzing with the day’s events: the office move, the new case, meeting the missing boy’s parents, and most of all the interview with McKenzie and all the questions he’d thought of on the way home that he’d forgotten to ask during the interview. He had only a few hours before it would be time to head back to work and pick up where he left off, and experience told him that if he was to get any rest at all he needed to unwind; sit alone and watch something on the TV unrelated to any type of policework while he consumed as much bourbon as he dared to slow his racing mind without leaving him groggy in the morning. To his disappointment, as he entered the house he sensed Kate was still up, a sinking feeling in his belly making him feel guilty for seeking solitude. He eased the door shut behind him and headed for the kitchen where he knew she would be waiting.

‘You’re late,’ she said, unconfrontationally. ‘Or at least, later than you’ve been for a while.’

‘They finally gave us a new case,’ he told her, trying not to show his excitement and relief at once again being gainfully employed, once again leading the hunt.

‘Oh,’ she responded, not hiding her disappointment.

‘They weren’t going to leave me alone for ever.’ He gave an apologetic shrug.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I realize that. It’s just, I was getting used to having you around a bit more than usual, and so were the girls.’

‘We’ve had a good run, perhaps we should just be grateful for that.’

‘Grateful!’ Kate snapped, then immediately softened her tone: ‘You were shot, Sean. I think you earned some time off.’

‘Maybe,’ he answered, desperately wishing he could just be alone as he pulled a glass and a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard the kids couldn’t reach and poured two fingers before emptying his pockets on the kitchen table and slumping into a chair on the other side to his wife.

‘Haven’t seen you do that in a while,’ she told him, her eyes accusing the drink in his hand.

‘I need to sleep tonight and this’ll help.’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look pretty pleased with yourself,’ she told him.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Sitting there, drink in hand, hardly speaking, holier-than-thou look on your face.’ He couldn’t help but grin a little. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was enjoying being back in the same old shit. ‘Yeah, that smile says it all.’

‘Don’t be so pissed off,’ he told her. ‘I’m a detective. They pay me to solve cases, catch the bad guys, save the day, remember?’

‘I’m pissed off because I was worried, Sean. I called you, several times, and left messages, but you didn’t call back – not even a text.’

He lifted his mobile from the table and checked for missed calls. Sure enough she’d called him several times. ‘Sorry,’ he told her. ‘I must have been in the middle of an interview.’

‘I don’t know, Sean – it feels like we’re heading back to the bad old days: me here alone with the kids while you run around trying to get yourself … We can do better than this, can’t we?’

‘It’s only been one night,’ he reminded her.

‘You said it’s a new case, so we all know what that means.’ Sean didn’t respond as a silence fell between them that only increased his yearning to be alone. ‘So what is it?’

‘What’s what?’ he asked unnecessarily.

‘The new case.’

‘A four-year-old boy gone missing from his home in Hampstead,’ he answered, immediately regretting mentioning Hampstead.

‘Hampstead?’ Kate seized on it. ‘Why are you investigating something that happened in Hampstead?’

He took a gulp of the bourbon before answering. ‘They’ve moved us to the Yard.’

‘Why would they do that?’ she asked, her voice heavy with suspicion.

He swallowed the liquid he’d been holding in his mouth and waited for the burning in his throat to cease before answering. ‘They’ve changed my brief,’ he told her. ‘We’re to investigate murders and crimes of special interest across the whole of London, not just the south-east.’

‘Have they centralized all the Murder Teams?’ she asked, her voice tightening with concern.

‘No. Just mine.’

Kate took a few seconds to comprehend what it could mean. ‘So now they can dump anything from anywhere on you? That’s just fucking great, Sean. I mean that’s really just fucking great.’

‘What d’you want me to do?’ he asked. ‘I had no choice.’

‘Don’t be so damn weak,’ she chastised him. ‘You could have said no.’

‘That’s not how it works – you know that.’

‘Sean, it doesn’t work at all. God, it was bad enough before and now it’s going to be even worse, if that’s at all possible. Everything we’ve planned for the next few weeks I might as well just scrap – just chuck it in the bin?’

The frustration at not being alone finally snapped him. ‘I’m sorry if I’m fucking up your social calendar. I thought it was a bit more important to find this four-year-old boy before some paedophile bastard rapes and murders him. I’ll tell his parents I can’t help them any more because my wife’s made dinner reservations – will that make you happy?’

‘Fuck you, Sean, and your self-important, arrogant bullshit. I’m going to bed.’ She sprang to her feet, almost knocking the chair over, then looked across the table accusingly. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking when you’ll next be home at a reasonable time?’

‘That’s not really up to me, is it? That’s up to whoever took—’

‘I’ve had enough of this crap,’ she told him and turned her back on him as she headed for the stairs. He considered calling after her, trying to make the peace before it was too late, but that would mean more sitting and talking, lessening any chance he’d have of calming his mind enough to think as he needed, to think about who could have taken George Bridgeman. But the damage had already been done and the fight with Kate had only added more turmoil to the mix. Now he wouldn’t be able to think or sleep.

‘Fuck it,’ he swore at the room and drained his glass. ‘Why do I always have to be such a prick?’