‘Mummy, Mummy, I want to win the dolly,’ the little girl chirped excitedly.
‘Wait. Wait,’ the mother told her. ‘Fine. How do we enter? What do I have to do?’
‘Just fill in this form.’ Allen held out a piece of paper, but the mother stopped him.
‘I really don’t have time to start filling in forms. I’ve kind of got my hands full here.’
‘Of course. Then please allow me to fill it in for you,’ he offered, hurrying behind the counter to retrieve a pen. He looked at Sean for the first time since he’d entered the shop. ‘I’ll be with you in one moment, sir.’
Sean nodded turning away to examine the Lego, allowing Allen to focus on the mother.
‘Now, if I could just take your name, Mrs …?’
She barely paused before answering. ‘Mrs Orwin – Carine Orwin.’
‘And the names of your children?’
‘This is Anarra,’ she told him, pointing to the older girl. ‘She’s almost six. And this is Lucy. She’s still only three.’
‘And your address?’
‘Nassington Road, next to the Heath.’
‘A beautiful street,’ he added. ‘Your husband must have a wonderful job?’
Her pride overcame her suspicions. ‘He works in the City.’
‘A banker?’
‘No,’ she answered, keen to avoid the stigma of being associated with that profession. ‘He’s a trader.’
‘I never can work out the difference,’ Allen admitted with a smile before moving on. ‘And your telephone number? Home number will be fine.’
‘Sure – it’s 0207 151 3728. Do you want the email address too?’
‘No. No. I’m not much of a one for email. I’m sure I’ll be able to get hold of you if you win. Nassington Road’s so close I could always drop it in to you.’
‘Always best to call first,’ the mother told him. ‘We’re out and about a lot.’
‘I’m sure you are, although I’ve never seen you in here before – are you new to the area?’
‘No,’ she answered casually. ‘We’ve lived here for a few years now.’
‘And what a wonderful place to live,’ Allen replied, ‘although one always has to guard against break-ins in an area like this.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’ the mother began, a little confused.
‘A wealthy area such as this will always attract an unsavoury element, I’m afraid. It pays to have a good security system, don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose so. My husband takes care of all that. He’s very security conscious – state-of-the–art this, state-of-the–art-that. I can hardly step out of the bedroom without setting something off.’
‘I see,’ he told her. ‘Well, has anything caught your eye today?’
‘Er, we’ll have a think about it and maybe pop back later,’ the mother told him, ignoring the five-year-old tugging at her coat, trying to pull her in the direction of the Parisian doll.
‘Of course,’ he replied with a forced smile, opening the door for the tangled jumble of legs and arms that left the shop looking like a single, multi-limbed creature. ‘Have a nice day,’ he told them, closing the door on the mother’s struggle and instantly turning to Sean. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular, sir?’
Sean looked long and hard into his eyes for the first time – the eyes of Samuel Hargrave’s killer, and the abductor of at least three other young children. He made the effort to swallow his loathing and sorrow for the man, but he couldn’t manage a smile as he looked into Allen’s dead eyes – like the glass eyes of the dolls and figures that stared lifelessly down on their impending duel. He desperately wanted to arrest him without waiting another second – handcuff him to a radiator and run through the house looking for the missing children. But he needed to speak to Allen first, to be absolutely sure that this was the man he’d been searching for – to wash away any last lingering doubts at the end of an investigation that had been plagued by so many.
‘Not really,’ Sean told him. ‘I was just looking for something for the kids.’
‘Boys or girls, sir?’
‘Two girls,’ Sean answered, instantly regretting bringing any truth about himself into the charade. ‘Six and three.’
‘Is it a special occasion?’
‘No. We’ve just moved into the area and I was hoping to buy them a little house-warming present, you know.’
‘Of course. Maybe you could tell me what sort of things they like?’
‘Just normal girls’ stuff – dolls and dresses.’
‘Perhaps these then,’ Allen suggested, sweeping his hand to take in the porcelain-faced dolls. ‘I’m sure they would look quite at home in your girls’ new bedrooms.’
‘Maybe.’ Sean could tell Allen was trying hard to conceal his contempt at his lack of appreciation for the beautiful dolls. If this had been any other toyshop on any other day he’d have bought his girls the dolls in a heartbeat.
‘What road did you say you’d moved into?’ Allen changed the subject.
‘Cannon Place,’ Sean volunteered, using the name he’d memorized on the way from Mornington Crescent.
‘A beautiful street,’ Allen told him. ‘Very expensive nowadays, I would imagine.’
‘I got a good bonus,’ Sean lied.
‘Ahh. Another banker.’ Sean just shrugged. ‘Seems the whole area’s been overtaken by bankers and traders, whatever that is. Eastern European, most of them.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’ Sean asked.
‘No. Except it drives the house prices to levels that no normal people, no normal families can afford.’
‘Good for you,’ Sean told him, looking around the shop as if he was admiring its potential value, taking in the door behind the counter that he assumed would lead upstairs to the rest of the house, ‘if you own this place.’
‘I do,’ Allen almost snapped at him. ‘I’ve lived here for years.’
‘Then you know the area well?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what about Highgate and Primrose Hill? Mornington Crescent?’
‘Well,’ Allen staggered a little, his lifeless eyes narrowing with fear and suspicion, ‘I know them a little, but Hampstead is my home.’
Sean let the oppression hang in the air before speaking again. ‘Well, I’d better get going – give the nanny a break from the kids.’
‘The nanny?’
‘Yeah,’ Sean told him casually. ‘My wife’s at the gym and then lunch with her friends, then no doubt a bit of shopping. You know how women are.’
‘Quite,’ Allen lied.
‘I’ve got the guy from the alarm company coming sometime this afternoon, so I might as well give the nanny a couple of hours off before her late shift.’
‘Alarm?’ Allen asked, his eyes opening wider.
‘Yeah. New house – old alarm system. I’m getting it upgraded. Can’t be too careful. Like I heard you telling that woman who was just in here – areas like Hampstead can be targets. Should be sorted in a few days.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So, anyway – I was wondering if you have any electronic games – computer games, that sort of thing? Something to keep the kids busy, and not to mention quiet?’
‘Computer games?’
‘Yeah. Anything, so long as it means I don’t have to play with them.’
Allen cleared his throat before speaking. ‘No. No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have anything like that. Perhaps you’d like to bring your girls to the shop, so they can choose for themselves? It’s always a pleasure to meet young children. You could bring them this afternoon, after your alarm man’s been. I’ll still be open.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And while you’re here, perhaps you’d like to enter our competition?’
‘What do I win?’
‘I would let your children choose the prize for themselves.’
‘Which children?’
‘I … your children, of course.’
‘But what about … the other children? Don’t they get to choose?’
‘I … I don’t understand. If you’re referring to the other children who enter the competition, then of course, they get to …’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Sean stopped him, slipping his warrant card from his coat pocket and letting it fall open for Allen to see. ‘Detective Inspector Corrigan – Special— Metropolitan Police.’
‘I … I don’t understand. You said you were a banker.’
‘You understand, Mr Allen – Douglas Allen. That is your name, isn’t it?’ Sean watched as Allen took a couple of steps backwards. ‘There’s nowhere to go, Douglas. It’s over. I know you took them.’
‘No, I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s not true, Douglas. We both know that’s not true. I need to make sure the children are all right. I need to see if you’ve hurt them.’
‘I … I would never hurt them,’ Allen told him, glancing from side to side, as if an escape route might suddenly open up for him. ‘I wanted to protect them – to give them a better life. It’s God’s will.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean accused him. ‘You did this because you thought God told you to? You did this in the name of God?’
‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,’ he breathlessly tried to explain, ‘for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’
Sean realized Allen was slipping away from him. Slipping away from any grasp on reality. The killer and taker of children – the man who great swathes of the population would now want executed – the man the media would accuse of being a paedophile – the man whose fellow prison inmates would go to great lengths to try to maim and kill − was nothing more than a broken-down, lonely, ageing man who thought he’d heard the voice of God.
‘Where are they?’ Sean demanded, not expecting an answer, his eyes drifting towards the door behind the counter. ‘They’re here, aren’t they? Through that door.’
Allen’s downcast eyes, the utter defeat in his posture, told Sean everything he needed to know. He moved to the door, his heart rate beginning to rise with expectation and the sense of victory, when suddenly the shop door flew open, the frame filled by a familiar sight.
‘Everything all right in here?’ Donnelly asked.
Sean looked from Donnelly to the broken figure standing by the counter. ‘Stay with him.’
‘And the children?’
‘Upstairs,’ Sean told him.
‘Are they all right?’ Donnelly asked, trying to work out what could have happened between the two men before he arrived.
‘I don’t know,’ Sean answered without emotion, confusing Donnelly all the more.
‘D’you want me to check it out?’
‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I’ll go.’ He walked past Allen, who was sliding to the floor, eyes staring straight ahead, fixed on the rows of porcelain-faced dolls, as the tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Arrest him, for abduction and murder.’
‘One thing,’ Allen suddenly blurted out. ‘Just one thing – how did you find me? How did you know it was me?’
‘God brought me here,’ Sean told him without really knowing why. ‘Your God brought me here.’ For a moment he thought he saw a burning light of hatred in Allen’s eyes as he hurried past him and behind the counter to the door. He turned the large metal key and the door opened outwards, the scent of the house beyond unexpectedly rushing him, making him step backwards before he caught himself and pushed forward, through the porthole into the other part of Allen’s life.
Sean could see there was a door immediately on his right and a short flight of stairs with another door at the top. He turned the handle on the door to his right and pushed it wide open, the small windows inside providing enough light for him to see clearly as he stepped just inside the doorway.
‘Anything?’ Donnelly called after him.
‘Looks like an office,’ Sean answered. as he unknowingly surveyed the desk where only days ago Allen had laid out the body of Samuel Hargrave. ‘We’ll search it properly later, but right now I need to find these children. Wait here.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Donnelly told him as Sean leapt up the stairs to the other door. Images of Samuel Hargrave, in the cemetery and the mortuary, filled Sean’s mind and mingled with the memories of other scenes he’d witnessed where children had been the victims. Was that what waited for him on the other side of the door? He forced the fear deep inside himself and moved on, turning the key and pushing the door open. The atmosphere beyond was starkly different to the quaint charm of the shop below. Here he could smell fear, anxiety and desperation, and not just Allen’s or the children’s. He sensed an oppression that seemed to have been consuming the house and all who lived in it for years. Some deep sadness from which Allen had been trying to escape. Only for him there had been no escape, and there never would be.
Sean moved steadily along the corridor, pausing for a few seconds to draw his telescopic metal baton, palming it in his hand without extending it, its weight and coldness reassuring him as he ventured deeper into the house. He imagined the three tiny bodies neatly lined up, lying on their beds, each wrapped tightly in a tartan blanket, crucifix in hand and their special toys clutched to their non-breathing chests – their non-seeing eyes waiting to fall upon him when he finally entered the room where they silently waited. He could feel the coldness and texture of their skin as he saw himself pushing his fingers into their throats, searching fruitlessly for their pulses, only admitting it was too late once it was utterly pointless to pretend otherwise. He thought of Kate, the times she’d come home from work visibly upset, and he knew without asking that she’d had to deal with an infant death – not just having to face the lifeless body of a child, but having to tell the parents that their child was gone – gone for ever.
There were five doors leading to what he assumed were five separate rooms on the first floor. He hurried along the corridor and entered the first room on the left. Quickly he scanned the corners of the room for any signs of danger, but saw nothing. Now that he’d confronted Allen, looked into his sad eyes, Sean was increasingly sure he’d worked alone. Wasn’t that ultimately the point of his crimes – so he didn’t have to be alone? But instinct made Sean check for danger before proceeding to the next floor.
As he looked around the unnaturally ordered room, his eyes fell on the small dressing table pushed up against the wall and the things laid out on it – photographs and pictures, a shrine. A place where Allen could worship the woman who appeared in all the photographs and the God whose son hung on the crucifix nailed to the wall. Even from the doorway he could see the optimism in the faces of the young couple in the photographs, fading as they aged until pictures of Mrs Allen showed her suffering from the ravages of illness, leaving him in little doubt she was gone now and had been for some time. He wondered whether she was buried in Highgate Cemetery. Sean sighed deeply, feeling he understood Allen more and more.
Leaving the altar, he headed back into the hallway, comforted by the sound of Donnelly’s voice coming from downstairs as he spoke to the silent Allen. But he knew soon there would be other voices downstairs – Sally’s and Zukov’s, and then there’d be heavy footsteps on the stairs as they ran to join him. He needed to be in the house alone, needed to find the children alone, no matter how Allen had left them– to bring a suitable end to what had increasingly felt like a lonely journey back to himself, back to the gifts that he knew separated him from most other detectives. Gifts he’d feared had been lost, until the moment Helen Varndell told him that the toy she held wasn’t little Victoria’s favourite.
He hurried across the hallway and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. It looked as if it had been frozen in time, a reminder of the kitchen his mother had seemed to permanently inhabit in the council house he grew up in, only this was far more ordered. At least that’s how Allen had tried to keep it, but there were signs he was struggling to maintain the illusion: the
tea-towels were neatly folded and hanging from the oven, but Sean could see that they were filthy; glasses had been placed back on the shelves, but looked stained and greasy, and the fruit that filled the bowl in the centre of the kitchen table was beginning to rot. Clearly Allen had been descending into a world of denial and fantasy for some time. In the sink Sean could see the evidence of more than one meal having been prepared and eaten – dirty plates piled up with cups, pots, pans and even used glasses. The last meals of the children? In Allen’s collapsing mind, had he felt it was the kind thing to do – feed them before he killed them? Prepared to end their lives, but not prepared to see them suffer in life?
Sean feared the worst as he walked back into the hall without having set foot the kitchen. He didn’t have time to dwell. As much as his dark instinct wanted to move slowly through the house, examining every aspect of Allen’s life, absorbing his very existence, he couldn’t – not while the children were still to be found. He checked the other first-floor rooms as quickly as he could. Allen’s bedroom was next. The curtains were drawn and the stale smell told him the windows hadn’t been opened in a while.
He entered the room and opened the curtains, but the light revealed no tiny bodies. Sean exhaled with relief before glancing around one last time and heading back into the hallway and across to the bathroom. The towels were folded neatly, but foul smelling, the laundry basket overflowing. He noticed something else too: next to the bath, almost hidden amongst the things an adult would need, he saw children’s bath soaps and lotion, flannels and sponges. The thought of Allen washing the children, even just watching them bathe, made him shudder. His eyes moved to the sink, instantly finding what he was looking for – three little coloured toothbrushes nestling in a filthy glass along with toothpaste for milk-teeth. There was no doubting it – the children had at the very least been kept here. But where were they now? Still he hadn’t heard any sound coming from the rooms he searched or from above. The dead made no noise. Leaving the bathroom behind, he headed for the last of the first-floor rooms, his pace increasing.
As soon as he entered the final room on the floor he knew it was evidentially the most important. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered as his eyes came to rest on a large desk that was being used as a workbench. He took in the assorted half-assembled clocks, watches and mechanical toys, the fine tools needed for Allen’s trade spread amongst them and abandoned where they’d last been used. Without entering he scanned every surface until he found what he was looking for, all but hidden under the clockwork toys: disembodied locks, three or four of them, dissected as if they’d undergone a mechanical autopsy. ‘Jesus Christ. What was going through your mind?’
The Toy Taker Page 41
