The Toy Taker (38 page)

‘What about Roddis’s team?’ Donnelly asked.

‘I haven’t sorted that yet,’ Sean told him, ‘and I don’t have time now. We’ll have to go with the one for this area. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Get the body removed directly to the mortuary. I’ll make sure Dr Canning knows it’s on its way.’

‘You want it taken to Guy’s? That’s out of this area’s jurisdiction,’ Donnelly reminded him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sean told him. ‘It’s still within the Metropolitan borders. If there’s a problem I’ll have Assistant Commissioner Addis sort it out.’

‘If you say so,’ Donnelly submitted.

Sean was already searching his mobile for the number. After six rings he heard the familiar voice at the other end.

‘Hello, Dr Canning speaking. How can I help?’

Douglas Allen knelt in front of the old, inexpensive sideboard in his first-floor living room. It looked more like a shrine than a piece of furniture – a shrine to his dead wife and the God he believed she’d gone to the side of. Old photographs of his one and only love were neatly arranged on the tabletop, mostly of her alone, her eyes increasingly lifeless as age and then cancer took its toll – her inability to have children weighing her down, dragging her deeper into unhappiness. He only appeared in two of the pictures – a fading colour photograph of their wedding day, standing outside the church with the vicar, and a small gathering of mostly family and one or two like-minded friends, all dead or moved on now. But the centre of the table was reserved for something else: an ancient and almost worn-out postcard-sized print of Da Vinci’s painting of the Head of Christ, the once vivid colours and tones now mere shadows of what they had been. Above the picture, hanging from the wall, the same Christ was displayed nailed to the cross on which he died to save mankind – to save Douglas Allen, so that he in turn could save others.

Allen whispered his prayers, his voice fast and intense, eyes squeezed tightly shut, palms pressed together, his lips barely parting. The pain in his head beat fiercely to the rhythm of his muttered words. ‘Dear Lord, help me understand why the boy had to die. Why did you take the life of an innocent? Help me understand, Lord.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me
. But why the boy? I thought I was supposed to save him – isn’t that what you wanted?
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want
. I’ve tried, dear God, tried to understand why you took the boy, but I … I …
He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake
. Help me. Help me find the right path and do what is right.’

But he heard no reply, no answers to his questions. ‘Iris,’ he whispered his dead wife’s name. ‘The Lord has forsaken me in my darkest hour. I need to know what to do. I need you to tell me what to do.’ The pain in his head was beginning to make him feel nauseous and weak, close to passing out, until suddenly he heard her voice, soft and comforting, as if she was kneeling next to him, an arm around his shoulders, guiding his prayers.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen
. ‘Iris? What should I do, Iris? I killed a child, Iris.’
It was an accident
, his dead wife reassured him.
You were trying to do the right thing. You were doing God’s work
. ‘But I killed a child – an innocent child.’
You were trying to save the child
. ‘And now he’s dead, by my hand.’
Not your hand. You are but a vessel – a tool to be wielded by the hand of the Lord
. ‘But why? Why did he have to take the boy?’
Ours is not to question his will. Ours is not to doubt his grand design
. ‘But they’ll call me a murderer or worse.’
Because they don’t understand you are doing God’s work
. ‘Why don’t they understand?’
Because they serve another Lord. They have wandered from the flock and can’t find their way back
. ‘Are they my enemies? Should I fear them?’
Thou prepare a table for me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over
. ‘Then I shouldn’t fear them?’
The Lord will protect you and I will always be here, watching over you
. ‘What should I do now?’
You must carry on with the work God has given you, blessed you with
. ‘More children? I don’t know if I can.’
You must. The Lord has chosen you to save them; Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever
.

Tears flowed down his face and dripped on to his hands, tightly clenched in prayer under his chin.
The
Lord is my shepherd and I shall not be in want
. ‘Guide me, dear Father. Tell me what to do and it shall be done.’ A sudden presence behind him made him spin around. George Bridgeman stood staring at him still dressed in his pyjamas, his tired eyes trying to blink away his sleepiness.

‘Why are you crying?’ he asked Allen matter-of-factly, as if the answer didn’t really matter.

‘Because,’ Allen replied, ‘because I’m so happy.’

‘Why are you crying if you’re happy?’

‘Because I’m sad too.’

‘Why are you sad?’

‘Because something bad happened – something terrible.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing you need to know about,’ Allen told him, drying the last of the tears with a crumpled tissue he’d pulled from his trouser pocket. ‘Something the Lord will forgive me for. Now, come to the kitchen and have some breakfast.’

‘Why aren’t we allowed downstairs?’ little George asked.

‘But you are downstairs. Your bedroom is above us, is it not?’

‘I meant down the other stairs – to the place where we can hear the voices coming from. Where we can hear you talking to other people.’

‘Because it’s not safe for you down there,’ Allen warned him, his tone more serious and foreboding now. ‘When I’m not here you must stay in your bedrooms. When I’m here you may come down here, but never try and go all the way downstairs.
Never
. Do you understand me, George?’ The little boy nodded slowly, fear surging through his slight body as he imagined the terrible things that waited downstairs. ‘Now – breakfast.’

‘When can I go home?’ George suddenly asked, unable to stop the question tumbling from his lips.

Allen looked at him with genuine puzzlement. ‘But you are home, George, and we are your family now. You must forget the others, as if they never existed. It is God’s will, George. It is God’s will.’

Sean and Donnelly entered their new office in New Scotland Yard together having already made dozens of phone calls each on their way back from the scene in Highgate Cemetery. It seemed everyone in the world needed to know about the murder of Samuel Hargrave. Their job now was as much about coordination as investigation and it continued to weigh Sean down like a lead jacket, choking his instinct and insight. But as devastating as the recovery of the boy’s body was, at least it had given him his first close look at the man he hunted – finally a chance to try and understand his motivation. To understand his mind.

He stopped in the middle of the office and threw his raincoat over a chair. Donnelly understood what was happening and did the same.

‘All right. Listen up,’ Sean barked above the sounds of conversation and typing, allowing the room to drift into silence before continuing. ‘As most of you have probably heard by now, we have another victim, Samuel Hargrave, abducted last night from his home in Primrose Hill. The parents disturbed the intruder, but he managed to get away with the boy. Several hours later the boy’s body was found in Highgate Cemetery, left where it would be easily found – on the grave of Robert Grant, who coincidentally was a Metropolitan Police Officer about a hundred and fifty years ago. He’d also won the Victoria Cross.’

‘What does that mean?’ DC Jesson asked. ‘This is his third victim, but the first we’ve found. Is he getting sloppy about how he disposes of the bodies?’

Sean looked around the room before answering. His team looked tired and demoralized. So far they’d only been confronted with photographs of the victims smiling, happy and alive, but now they knew they’d soon be seeing cold, livid pictures of the body at the recovery location and, worse still, from the post-mortem. It was always so much worse when the victim was a child, especially for the detectives who had children of their own. It dragged everyone into melancholy and darkness, while at the same time stiffening their resolve to keep going, to leave nothing undone until they could finally stop the human monster, march him into the custody area handcuffed and defeated – not a thing to be feared any more – not even a man – just a broken wretch, promising to tell them anything they wanted to know in exchange for protection from the baying mob and some hope of clemency.

‘No,’ Sean finally answered Jesson’s question. ‘I don’t think he’s getting sloppy. The body was very deliberately left there for us to find. He wasn’t trying to conceal it. He wanted us to find it.’

‘Why?’ Carlisle asked in her Geordie accent. ‘Why would he want us to find this victim, but not the others?’

‘Because the other victims are still alive,’ Sean told her with a trace of confusion in his voice, a little surprised she hadn’t worked it out herself yet.’

‘So why did he kill this victim, but not the others?’ Carlisle continued, the expressions of the faces of the rest of the team telling Sean he was running ahead of them.

‘Because it was an accident,’ he told them. ‘Because he didn’t mean to.’

‘Then manslaughter, not murder,’ Jesson added.

‘We treat it as murder until we know any different,’ Sean reminded them. ‘Assume nothing. Murder or manslaughter – that’s the CPS’s decision.’

‘More’s the pity,’ Donnelly mumbled.

‘We still have two missing children out there who I believe are still alive, so what do we know? What have we found out?’ Sean asked the room.

‘We’ve checked out the estate agents for both families, the removal companies, alarm companies, all workmen who’ve been through both houses and any other possible link they could have, but we’re not finding anything,’ Sally updated them.

‘Then we’re missing something,’ Sean insisted. ‘Go back and have all the people we’ve spoken to spoken to again. Somebody, somewhere missed something.’

‘We’ve already done that,’ Sally argued.

‘Then do it again, and let’s speed up the new inquiries, checking with their GPs, after-school clubs, holiday clubs, anything that could link them.’

‘But—’ Sally began before Sean cut her down.

‘Have you got a better idea?’

Sally looked at the floor and swallowed her rising anger, Sean’s rebuttal stinging her. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Sean added cruelly. ‘And now we have another family to cross-reference with the other two Maybe now the link between all the families will show up.’

‘What if we’re wrong?’ Carlisle asked. ‘What if there is no link? What if the suspect’s victim selection is totally random and we’re wasting our time looking for a link that isn’t there?’

Sean felt the colour draining from his face, his empty stomach tightening and twisting, his usual certainty weakening in the face of Carlisle’s questions.
Why was he so sure?
Was he wasting their time, looking for things that didn’t exist?
No
, he told himself.
The evidence was there to be seen
. ‘We’re not wrong,’ he assured the room. ‘Don’t forget what we already know: whoever’s taken the children knew too much about them for it to be random: Where they lived. That their alarms weren’t working. That there were no dogs in the houses, and God knows what else. These weren’t random – they were planned, and he had insider knowledge of all three families and their homes. He couldn’t have done it if he didn’t.’ He looked at the faces of the detectives who stared back at him, relieved to see them largely nodding in agreement, seemingly convinced by hard, cold facts. ‘So let’s find out everything we can about the latest family and see if we can’t hunt down this link. The link is the key.’

‘What about the press conference?’ Sally asked.

‘It goes ahead as planned, but we make no mention of the third victim.’

‘We won’t be able to keep it a secret for long,’ Donnelly told him.

‘Long enough to get the conference out the way. Any more questions?’

‘Why’s he taking them?’ Sally asked, her voice slightly raised, silencing the growing murmur in the room, her eyes fixed on Sean.

He hesitated a moment, his eyes flicking to Donnelly, remembering the reaction of the other detectives in the cemetery when he revealed his theory. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he lied, relieved to see that Donnelly didn’t react.

‘What about the victim’s body?’ Sally continued. ‘Were there any signs of injury or anything else?’

‘The body was wrapped in a blanket. It was impossible to tell. I’m guessing the cause of death was asphyxiation, but we’ll know more after the post-mortem.’

‘You didn’t examine the body at the scene?’

‘No. Best to do it under lab conditions.’

Sally flicked her eyebrows, surprised that Sean had been able to resist at least an initial examination.

‘I took some photographs at the scene, on my phone. I’ll email them to everybody, with a brief report of what we know so far. Chase down everything – all leads, witnesses, information reports, door-to-door, anything you can, no matter how seemingly unimportant. We need to stop this one, because he will take more. Why he’s doing it I don’t know, but I’m certain he’ll take more. Whatever’s driving him won’t just stop, and neither will he.’

It was late morning when Featherstone entered the office of Assistant Commissioner Addis, who was already standing behind his desk stuffing a selection of coloured files into his black briefcase. Featherstone knocked on the doorframe to attract his attention, not willing to step further across the threshold without permission. Addis looked up with an expression of distaste on his face. ‘Ah. It’s you,’ he said.

‘You wanted to see me, sir.’

‘Yes, but I haven’t got time to sit and chat. You’ll have to walk with me.’ Addis quickly closed and locked his briefcase before unceremoniously striding past Featherstone and into the corridors of power, walking at a pace Featherstone struggled to keep up with, talking as he went, fluently and without any signs of breathing hard despite the relentless pace, occasionally glancing at his watch. ‘Clearly you know that a third victim has been found?’