The Toy Taker (39 page)

‘Yes, sir,’ Featherstone answered. ‘Corrigan sent me an email with some photos and a covering brief.’

‘You mean he didn’t bother to contact you in person?’

Featherstone reminded himself that talking to Addis was like walking through a minefield. ‘I imagine he’s been too busy with this new one.’

‘Yes,’ Addis sneered. ‘The new one – only this one’s not like the others, is it?’

‘How so?’

‘Because this one’s dead, Superintendent.’

‘Yes, sir. I know.’ A degree of insolence leaked into Featherstone’s tone. Addis stopped in his tracks and turned to face the older, junior man.

‘Do you know where I’m on my way to now, Superintendent? I’m on my way to do the press conference with the parents of the other two missing children, and after that I’m going to have to tell them that a third child has been taken, and then I’m going to have to tell them that that child was murdered. That’s not going to be a very pleasant thing to have to do, is it?’

‘No, sir,’ Featherstone agreed before continuing, eager to move the conversation on. ‘Did you get Corrigan’s brief for the press conference?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘And it is entirely adequate.’ High praise coming from Addis, and Featherstone knew it. ‘A few interesting ideas,’ Addis admitted before breaking back into his stride along the corridor, speaking over his shoulder at Featherstone who once more struggled to keep up. ‘But I need more than interesting ideas for a press conference: I need this bastard caught, and quickly. I’d have been speaking to Corrigan myself this morning if I hadn’t been so busy, but there’s only so long he can go on dodging bullets. Some of my contacts in the media have already given fair warning that it won’t be long before they turn on us. A bungled police investigation always makes for profitable headlines and those cunts at the BBC won’t miss a chance to stick the knife in, especially after recent events. It’s only a matter of time, Alan, mark my words – it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Corrigan will bring home the bacon soon enough,’ Featherstone tried to assure him.

‘I hope you’re right. But if you’re not, someone needs to take the fall – for all of us.’

‘Corrigan?’

Addis came to another sudden stop. ‘Maybe I −
we
− over estimated Corrigan’s …
talents
. Perhaps he’s not as
insightful
as I was lead to believe.’

‘He’s not a fortune-teller,’ Featherstone tried to remind him. ‘He’s not a psychic. He just needs a little more time.’

‘There are plenty of other competent DIs out there, Alan – more reliable ones – ones who respect the system, and the hierarchy of rank.’

‘There are no others like Corrigan out there,’ Featherstone argued, digging his heels in to protect his man, risking more than he wanted to.

‘Maybe,’ Addis conceded, ‘but what’s the point in having an attack dog if it can’t be controlled?’ Addis’s lips spread into a thin, venomous smile. ‘Do you know what a sheep farmer does with a dog they no longer trust, no matter how loyal it may have been in the past?’

‘No,’ Featherstone replied, although he feared he knew the answer.

‘They shoot it. They take it out into the woods or the hills and they shoot it in the head. They kill it before it ever gets a chance to bite them. We do understand each other, don’t we, Alan?’

Featherstone said nothing as Addis’s grin grew ever broader before disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. Then the Assistant Commissioner turned abruptly and set off at pace along the corridors of the Yard. Featherstone had half expected him to click his heels together and give a Nazi salute before marching away, but if Addis was any sort of a joke then he was a killing joke. It was no secret he had his eye on becoming the next Commissioner of the metropolis and he couldn’t afford any skeletons in his closet, not in this day and age. A failed high-profile murder investigation would be exactly that. Corrigan needed to pull something out of his hat, and soon, or heads would roll.

‘Just a few more months to retirement,’ Featherstone whispered to himself. ‘Just a few more months.’

Sean sat in his office trying to concentrate on the ever-rising piles of paper and cardboard folders that grew like model skyscrapers on his desk, not to mention the hundreds of unopened emails he knew waited for him on the Met’s internal system. But try as he might to conscientiously read through the reports and files he kept drifting back to the photographs that lurked in his phone – photographs of Samuel Hargrave lying on the cold stone in the cemetery. Sean scrolled to one showing the boy’s face and enlarged it as much as he could without losing what detail there was – his pale blue lips indicating cause of death was asphyxiation, probably due to smothering, but possibly by strangulation. Or maybe he’d even died through simple hypothermia. No matter what had killed him, the photographs were haunting and distressing.

Sean tried to pull his eyes from the unreal-looking photographs on the small screen, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t look away, his brain kept desperately trying to see something in the pictures – something that could put him right next to the man he hunted.

‘You don’t want me to find you, do you?’ he softly spoke to himself. ‘You want me to believe you’re not a killer, but you don’t want me to find you. Why not?’ He held the phone in one hand, using the index finger of the other to press his upper lip into his teeth, as if pain would help bring the answers. ‘So many killers want to be caught, so why don’t you? They want to be caught because in their souls they know they are wrong. They don’t … they don’t believe in what they’re doing. It’s all about belief, isn’t it? You believe in what you’re doing. You believe what you’re doing is right.’

A knock on his already open door made him jump and he looked up to see Sally staring at him from the doorway. He dropped the phone on his desk and pretended to casually push it away as if he hadn’t been looking at anything important. Sally gave him a few seconds before speaking, knowing exactly what he’d been looking at and why.

‘Press conference is about to start,’ she warned him. ‘We’ve got it on the telly in the main office if you want to watch.’

‘Yeah, I suppose I should,’ Sean answered, pushing himself to his feet without enthusiasm, the thought of watching the parents of the missing children going through their private torture less than appealing. ‘See if they can all stick to the script.’

They made their way to the crowd of detectives surrounding the small TV, Sean waving away offers of a seat as he instead chose to stand and look over their heads and shoulders, more comfortable knowing his reactions to the parents’ agony would not be observed.

He watched as the incessant flashing of cameras began to subside and the two sets of parents took their seats, the familiar shadow of Addis coming into view, sitting between the two couples, indicating it was time for the baying journalists to settle down before the conference began. Sally leaned close to Sean and spoke quietly. ‘Word has it he’s a shoo-in as a future commissioner – sooner rather than later too. You wouldn’t want to be in his bad books.’ Sean said nothing, concentrating on the spectacle unfolding in front of him as Addis gave a recap of the disappearances of George Bridgeman and Bailey Fellowes, explaining the purpose of the press conference, that it was an appeal to the public for help in catching the man who’d been taking the children of the wealthy and privileged of North London. Sean couldn’t help wondering whether the parents’ riches would generate or reduce sympathy with the general public.

He was pleased to see Addis sticking to the brief he’d provided him, handing over as quickly as possible to the parents: a high-ranking police officer wasn’t going to create empathy with anyone. He wanted whoever had taken the children to see the result of his actions. He wanted them to see the parents’ suffering and pain – wanted them to be overwhelmed with so much remorse that they might possibly release them unharmed. But he’d prepared the briefing before the body of Samuel Hargrave had been found – before the kidnapper had killed. Before they had crossed the ultimate line from which no one could return.

Samuel’s death had changed everything – making the press conference as much of a risk as it was an effort to save the missing children. The media appeal might make him panic and kill the other children. One death, two deaths, three deaths – it made no difference, not once the line had been crossed. Better to get rid of any witnesses – bury the bodies where they’d never be found. Sean knew the risks, but had chosen to keep them to himself, the opportunity to finally put some pressure back on the man who’d snatched these children from their own homes too tempting to resist. If he panicked, he’d start making mistakes and Sean would be close by, ready to bring his fantasy world crashing down to reality. He only prayed he was right about Samuel, that his death had been an accident. Whether it was murder or manslaughter, the man he hunted was still dangerous – dangerous and irrational. Anything could set him off at any time as he grew more and more unstable with each passing day – each passing hour. Sean didn’t have time to play safe. He had to take the risks and be prepared to live with the consequences – the guilt, the regrets, the nightmares.

The Bridgemans spoke first, keeping dutifully to the script he’d prepared for them, speaking directly into the cameras, explaining how much they loved and missed George – how much his sister missed him, that she was heartbroken without her little brother. Showing the gathered media photographs of the two playing together, telling the world what a wonderful and special child George was. ‘Good,’ Sean barely whispered. ‘Keep it personal – show George’s life with his family. Make George a person, not just a thing.’

Next they spoke about how they understood mistakes could happen – how someone
might
think they were doing the right thing taking a child, but that George was loved by his family, and that they as a family forgave each other their mistakes, they were forgiving people, they never dwelled on accidents or cried over spilt milk – all coded messages to the man who’d taken George that they would forgive him and forget, if he would just let George go, even if in reality no such thing could ever happen.

After they’d finished, Addis introduced Bailey Fellowes’ parents. They followed the same tack, only it was Mrs Fellowes who did nearly all the talking while her husband tried to control his sobbing. She stuttered and faltered as she tried to control her own emotions, almost crushing the family photographs she was supposed to show the cameras in her hand. ‘Talk,’ Sean whispered again. ‘Talk to him, damn it – talk to the man who has your child.’ Sally looked at him out of the corner of her eye, straining to hear what he was saying as Jessica Fellowes struggled onwards, her words barely audible through her sobs. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Sean said loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘You have to be stronger than this. He won’t let your child go out of pity. You have to prove yourself to him. You have to show him you’re worth a second chance.’

‘I just want my baby back,’ Jessica cried into the cameras, the intensity of the flashbulbs reaching new levels. They had what they came for – the picture that would make all of tomorrow’s front pages.

‘Fuck it,’ Sean cursed. ‘You’d think they didn’t want to see their child again.’ He felt fingers curl around his forearm and give a slight squeeze. He looked at the hand first, his eyes rising to see it belonged to Sally.

‘They’re doing their best,’ she told him with sadly. ‘They don’t understand, Sean. They don’t understand like you do – not many people do.’

He tried to think of a reply, but she was already walking back to her office. He waited a few minutes, watching the end of the press conference without listening, waiting for his anger and frustration to fade before heading after Sally to offer something akin to an apology. But when he reached her office she was sitting at her desk with her back towards the door, something no cop would ever do willingly. It was enough to tell Sean something was wrong.

‘You all right, Sally?’ he asked gingerly.

‘No,’ she answered without looking at him. ‘No I’m not.’ Her voice was shaking and he could tell she was crying. He crossed the small office and rested a hand on one shoulder while looking over the other. He felt her recoil slightly from his touch − the ghost of Sebastian Gibran still haunted her more than she allowed people to know.

‘Why did it have to be children?’ she asked.

‘We don’t get to pick and choose,’ Sean reminded her gently.

‘Christ, those poor parents. What must they be thinking?’

‘We can get the children back. We’ll find them.’

‘Do you really believe that? I mean really?’

‘I have to.’

‘But not Samuel Hargrave,’ Sally told him, her words like a knife in his chest. ‘We can’t bring him back.’

‘No,’ he agreed sadly. ‘No, we can’t do that.’

‘I thought I was ready,’ Sally admitted, ‘thought I was ready for just about anything, but I was wrong. I never thought we’d get something involving children. I don’t know why – it just never crossed my mind.’

‘You’re not feeling anything everybody else isn’t. This has nothing to do with what happened to you in the past. You’ll be fine.’

‘What about you?’ Sally asked. ‘It doesn’t seem to have affected you.’

Sean breathed in a chestful of air before answering. ‘I don’t always react in … in …’ He struggled to find the words.

‘In the same way as everybody else?’ Sally asked.

‘I was going to say in the most appropriate way,’ Sean told her. ‘I can get obsessive at times – forget how the people around me might be feeling, how the victims’ families might be feeling. I see only the offender, the person I have to find and stop. I guess I can be a bit of a bull in a china shop.’

‘You don’t say,’ Sally said, a rueful laugh cutting through her tears.

‘That’s why I need you: to give me the occasional kick up the arse and keep me from getting myself into trouble.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she agreed, drying her eyes, her stuttering laughter replacing the crying.

‘Good, because I’m going to have to piss a few more people off before I catch this one. I don’t have time to tread softly if I’m going to catch him quickly. And that’s what I have to do, because this one is beginning to really worry me. He’s no Sebastian Gibran or Thomas Keller, but he’s just as dangerous. He’s living in some sort of fantasy world, and the moment that world starts to collapse around him, God only knows what he’ll do.’