The Toy Taker

by Delaney, Luke

  ‘Please do,’ Anna answered, sensing it was time to move forward. ‘Now – how have things been at work? Still unusually quiet?’

  ‘They were, but we’ve picked up a new case – a four-year-old boy’s gone missing from his home. We have a pretty decent suspect.’

  ‘And how have you felt, being involved in a live investigation?’

  ‘Fine. Glad to be busy again, although the break did me no harm – gave me a chance to move forward with my life without too many distractions getting in the way.’

  ‘I agree,’ Anna told her. ‘It’s easy to bury your head in work and pretend everything’s all right, but ultimately it means you’re never addressing things that need to be addressed.’

  ‘Well, I feel much better now.’

  ‘And the drinking?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In that I’m drinking less. I’m off the vodka completely.’

  ‘Excellent. Are you drinking less now than after the attack or less now than before it?’

  ‘Less than even before it, and I’m still off the smokes too. If I keep going, I’ll be completely vice-less.’

  ‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’ Anna smiled.

  ‘Not bad, just boring.’

  ‘No harm in the occasional glass of wine, just remember to keep track of what you’re drinking.’

  ‘Sounds like the office Christmas party’s off limits, then?’

  ‘Go, just don’t drink.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Sally laughed. ‘If I do that everyone’ll think I’m pregnant. I’d rather they thought I was mad.’

  ‘Clinically depressed is the term I think you meant to use.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Of course.’

  ‘And the drugs – the painkillers?’

  ‘Under control: ibuprofen and the occasional tramadol.’

  ‘Do you really need them any more? Have you seen your doctor about taking them?’

  ‘I can still feel the pain in my chest from time to time.’

  ‘Do you think the pain is possibly more psychological – in your mind?’

  ‘Well, when I feel it, it’s in my chest and it bloody hurts.’

  Anna backed off. ‘Perhaps you could try dropping the tramadol and just using ibuprofen?’

  ‘I like the tramadol,’ Sally admitted. ‘It helps me sleep.’

  ‘You still have trouble sleeping?’

  ‘A bit. I struggle to get to sleep and then things wake me up and I need the tramadol to get me back to sleep.’

  ‘You mean your nightmares wake you up. Nightmares about the night you were attacked.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sally answered abruptly, as if lingering on the subject would induce the nightmares she still feared more than anything.

  ‘Tell me about them,’ Anna encouraged.

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Tell me again. The more we talk about them, the better chance we have of stopping them.’

  Sally breathed deeply and closed her eyes, reluctantly allowing the vivid memories to rush to the front of her mind, her hands suddenly tensing as her fingers curled and gripped the arms of her chair. ‘They’re always the same,’ she began, ‘always exactly the same.’

  ‘Go on,’ Anna softly encouraged. ‘Nothing can hurt you here.’

  ‘I’m in a strange place – a house – a big house, but there’s nothing in it – no furniture or anything, but everywhere is lit by a red light. Everywhere is red. I start walking from room to room – I think I’m trying to find a way out, but I can’t be sure. Each room just leads to another and another and I can’t find a way outside, there are no doors or windows, just doorways that lead to the next room and the next and …’ Sally stalled, her lips pale and dry, a slight sheen of sweat forming across her forehead and above her lip.

  ‘Keep going,’ Anna tried to help her.

  ‘I’m scared and I start to panic – I run from room to room, crashing into walls and tripping over things I can’t see and then I hear something, someone close behind me and I look over my shoulder but keep running and then I feel it …’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The pain, the unbelievable pain in my chest …’

  ‘What do you do next?’

  ‘I look down at my chest and see it …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The knife – the handle of a knife buried to the hilt in my chest. I’m not wearing any clothes and can see where the blade’s … I’m sorry I can’t …’

  ‘Try to go a little deeper, Sally. We have to get through this to get better. The dreams are your mind’s way of trying to deal with what happened, to help you be able to talk about what actually happened.’

  Sally breathed deeply again before speaking. ‘I can see the blood running from my split skin and when I look up from the wound I see him, standing smiling in front of me, the red light making his teeth and eyes look blood red.’

  ‘Who do you see, Sally?’

  ‘It’s him – Sebastian Gibran, always him. And then he stretches out his hand and takes hold of the knife handle and … and he slowly pulls it out of me … and I just stand there and let him. I can’t feel any pain any more, just a feeling of uselessness. Once the knife’s out, he licks the blood off it and he says … he says – It’s time to kill the little pet. And then he puts the point of the blade on my chest, directly in line with my heart, and slowly pushes it through my skin and I feel it scraping past my ribs and piercing my heart and then … and then I wake up. My sheets are soaked. The pain and fear gradually fade, until I’m sure it was just a dream, and I take some drugs. It only ever comes once a night, so usually I can get back to sleep and be OK for work in the morning, more or less.’

  ‘OK, Sally, you did really well,’ Anna stopped her. ‘I think we should leave it there for the day and pick up where we left off next week if you can make it.’

  ‘Sure.’ Sally took a deep breath and opened her eyes for the first time since she started reliving the night when Gibran tried to kill her. ‘There’s just one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why did he say, It’s time to kill the little pet? What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Anna lied. She knew exactly what Gibran had meant – that he considered her to be nothing more than Sean’s pet. It would do Sally’s recovery no good to know it – not yet. ‘It’s probably just something he said during one of his interviews that subconsciously you remembered.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sally sounded confused. ‘It’s just I never listened to his interviews. I never wanted to.’

  ‘Something else then,’ Anna suggested.

  ‘Of course,’ Sally pretended to agree. ‘Probably nothing. Probably nothing at all.’

  As Sean and Donnelly strode across the main office at New Scotland Yard, Sean noticed Sally was nowhere to be seen. He grabbed DC McGowan as they crossed paths. ‘Stan – you seen Sally?’

  ‘Not for a couple of hours,’ McGowan told him.

  ‘Does she know McKenzie’s been re-arrested?’

  ‘Yeah,’ McGowan answered. ‘As does everyone else.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Sean made for his office with Donnelly in tow. No sooner had they entered and sat without removing their outdoor coats, peeling the lids off their takeaway coffees, than the main office was plunged into deathly silence by the arrival of Assistant Commissioner Addis. The decorative symbols of his senior rank twinkled from his epaulettes and he smiled like a politician as he paused at the desks of detectives he didn’t know to peer over their shoulders at their tasks, nodding sagely as if he understood what each of them was doing. Meanwhile he inched ever closer to Sean’s office.

  ‘Heads up,’ Donnelly whispered. ‘Scrambled egg heading our way.’

  ‘This is all I need,’ Sean muttered in reply as they resumed their silent vigil until Addis finally reached the office and entered without asking. He looked around for a spare seat and found none – neither Sean nor Donnelly showed an
y sign of offering to give up theirs.

  ‘I hear your prime suspect is back in custody,’ he told them.

  ‘You’ve been told already?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Good news travels fast,’ Addis answered.

  ‘Bad news travels even faster,’ Donnelly chipped in, showing his usual disregard for senior uniformed officers of all types. They couldn’t sack him for being disrespectful and his total lack of desire to go any further than the rank of detective sergeant gave him all the protection he needed. Addis ignored him and directed his questions towards Sean.

  ‘You must be very confident he’s our man to have arrested him again so soon after releasing him – not to mention after the press conference I did.’

  ‘I am,’ Sean told him.

  ‘Then I’m confused as to why you’re here instead of at Kentish Town, interviewing him.’

  ‘We booked him in and called his brief, but she can’t get to him for a couple of hours. Then she’ll want a lengthy consultation, by which time it’ll be getting too late to interview him. Besides, this way we give Forensics a few more hours to try and find something to bury him with.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how late it gets,’ Addis argued, ‘we still have a missing four-year-old boy. We can interview him in the middle of the night if we need to.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Sean answered, ‘but he’s not talking. Trust me, if he was going to spill the whereabouts of the Bridgeman boy he would have done it at his flat – when he was alone and scared.’

  ‘You questioned him away from a police station and without legal representation?’ Addis demanded.

  ‘Like you said, sir, we still have a missing boy. I was within my rights to try and get him to tell us where the boy is.’

  ‘But he didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Then there’s no need to make any note of the conversation,’ Addis told them. ‘No point handing his defence team a stick to beat us with if it was a waste of time anyway.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Sean agreed without telling him he had no intention of officially mentioning the questioning of McKenzie in his own flat.

  ‘And I was told he had tools to break into houses and maps – including one showing the location of George Bridgeman’s home,’ Addis went on. ‘Sounds like pretty damning evidence. Do you really need forensics as well?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Sean answered, ‘but if I can get it, I will. It’s worth delaying the interview for. If I can hit him in the interview with something definitive from Forensics then he might start talking. He might tell us where George is.’

  ‘Do you have enough PACE time left to play it this way?’ Addis asked. ‘He was in custody for quite a while last time you had him in.’

  ‘He was rearrested on new evidence,’ Sean explained. ‘The clock starts again.’

  ‘I see,’ Addis acknowledged. He may never have done a day’s honest coppering in his life, but he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the law and police procedure, borne of endless exams and courses at Bramshill Senior Police College. ‘Still, I don’t want this dragged out any longer than necessary,’ Addis warned them. ‘It may not seem like it to you, but this investigation is coming under the intense glare of our friends in the media. I can see them salivating at the thought of a child murderer on the loose amongst the rich and privileged of North London – something to fill their papers and evening news slots with − so let’s get this wrapped up as soon as possible, one way or the other. If you’re happy you’ve got your man, then get on and charge him. I shall expect some good news tomorrow. Until then, I’ll leave you in peace. I have to attend a dinner with the Mayor this evening, but I am contactable if something notable happens. Gentlemen.’ He dismissed them with a nod and glided from the office.

  ‘I have a very bad feeling about that man,’ Donnelly declared.

  ‘Best keep him close,’ Sean told him, ‘where I can control him.’

  ‘Fine, but he’s no Featherstone,’ Donnelly warned. ‘He’s an altogether more dangerous animal.’ Sean merely grunted and got to his feet, searching his desk drawer for his house keys. ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah – home. I, like our Assistant Commissioner, am contactable if anything changes. Everybody knows what they’re doing and I need some head-space. I can’t think here – not at the moment. I need to get away from all this admin crap and try to work out how I’m going to break down McKenzie in this interview. I like him for this one, but there’s something not quite right about it – something he’s hiding, aside from the boy’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Such as?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sean admitted. ‘It might be nothing, but I can’t help feeling he wants us to come after him – wants us to pin this one on him.’

  ‘Maybe he does,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘He wouldn’t be the first wanting his fifteen minutes of fame.’

  ‘I know, but that’s not it. Something else is going on. I don’t know. Fuck it. Tomorrow we’ll interview him and he’ll probably spill his guts. Probably can’t wait to relive the experience in an interview – making sure we get all the nasty little details. God, I hope the boy is still alive.’

  ‘And d’you think he is?’

  ‘Truthfully – no. But that stays between us,’ Sean told him.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Right, I’m going home for a row. I’ll meet you back here first thing. We can go over to Kentish Town together. Until then, let’s just pray for George Bridgeman. Let’s just pray that I’m wrong.’

  After a consultation with his solicitor lasting more than two hours, McKenzie was finally returned to his cell. He’d been suitably vague when answering her questions, treating her like she was another cop instead of his legal representative, much to her frustration and annoyance. Not that he cared – fuck her. Fuck them all. This was his game and his rules. It ended only when he said it ended, and he wasn’t ready to call time – not yet.

  The thought of Corrigan brought a satisfied smile to his face. He had him running around just the way he wanted him – like a rat gorging itself on poisonous bait. The image of Corrigan twitching and convulsing in the throes of death only broadened his smile. For a moment he regretted not provoking him further when they were alone in his flat – just him, Corrigan and the fat one. If he’d pushed him hard enough, he was sure Corrigan would have given him a beating – a beating that would have left him bruised and cut, all of which would have only added to his ultimate cause. But then again, pain was never something he could tolerate. If Corrigan had inflicted too much, he might well have confessed too early and ruined everything. No, better to play it just as he had.

  He could barely wait for the day when he finally brought Corrigan’s world crashing down – when the arrogant detective would be forced to stand in court and apologize for his incompetence. He only hoped he would be close enough to look into his eyes as he realized he’d been outmanoeuvred and out-thought by the man he’d treated like so much shit on the bottom of his shoe. Suddenly he felt a chill run along his spine as he remembered those startlingly blue eyes. Not the eyes of a cop – something else. Something much more dangerous – like the eyes he’d seen on a select few men he’d crossed during his prison time – men the other prisoners respected and feared. The sort of men who others knew would kill with only the slightest provocation and with no qualms. But how could a cop have such eyes? It didn’t make any sense. Feeling suddenly cold, he pulled the useless blue blanket over himself to try and stave off the chill, real or imagined.

  He tried to improve his mood by thinking of the boy – the boy they were so desperate to find – picturing him locked in a room, shivering and terrified, waiting for his keeper to return. Ugly images of things being done to the boy played in his mind, producing the old familiar feelings in his body as his hand crept under the pathetic blanket and he gripped himself, his movements soon becoming frantic as the images of the boy grew increasingly vivid, until he felt the warm stickiness se
eping into his hand and through his fingers. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, stifling his groans of pleasure as he waited for his body to relax, his taut muscles becoming less and less rigid until he could breathe normally again, listening for sounds outside his cell. But he heard nothing. His indulgence had gone unnoticed.

  When he opened his eyes, he thought of Corrigan again and smiled. Soon he’d pay them back for ruining his life and branding him an outcast. Soon it would be Corrigan who was the outcast – an outcast from his own kind as they looked to distance themselves from his failure and humiliation. Now all he needed was a sign. A signal from the boy’s keeper that it was time.

  As his freezing breath swirled away into the darkness outside, escaping from the light that spilled through the glass in the front door, Sean couldn’t help but look carefully at the keys in his hand before turning his attention to the locks at the entrance to his own home. They were adequate enough for everyday security, but no more so than those at the Bridgemans’ house. He unlocked the last one and pushed the door open, the sound of music playing softly in the kitchen telling him Kate was still awake and working instead of watching television and relaxing – all signs that did not bode well. He locked the door behind him and headed for the music and light without stopping to take off his coat and jacket.

  ‘You’re home early,’ Kate said without sarcasm, despite the fact it was almost nine p.m.

  ‘Hardly early,’ Sean answered.

  ‘It is for you.’

  ‘I suppose so. Thought I’d come home and see my wife before things go completely crazy. I’m sorry about the other night.’

  ‘I am too,’ she replied without looking or sounding as if she meant it.

  ‘You could be a little bit more forgiving.’

  ‘Sean,’ she answered, exasperated, ‘I’ve been at work all day, then I came home to look after the kids, and since they’ve been in bed I’ve been catching up on the paperwork I didn’t have time to do because the A and E department was a bloody madhouse today. And I’ve still got bonfire night in south-east London to look forward to, so I’m sorry if I can’t be a doting wife right now.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Sean didn’t argue, keen to avoid more harsh words, trying to think of something to say to end the silence. ‘Bonfire night sounds like fun.’