The Toy Taker. Luke Delaney
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still on when the nanny arrived in the morning and that the mother checked all the windows on the house and the back door – again, all locked and secure. So how the hell did someone get in, grab the boy and get out, leaving the place all locked up, without being heard or seen?’
‘He didn’t,’ Sally explained. ‘That’s not possible. The boy must be hiding in the house somewhere, too afraid to come out now his joke’s gone too far. We’ll have a good look around, find him, talk his parents into not killing him and then get back to our unpacking.’
‘But he’s only four,’ Sean argued.
‘So?’
‘When my kids were four they wouldn’t have stayed hidden this long. They might now, but not back then. It’s too long.’
‘So you do think someone has taken him?’
Sean stepped back from the door, looking the house up and down before once again peering in both directions along the affluent, leafy road. ‘I don’t know,’ he eventually confessed, ‘but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
‘Don’t tell me that,’ Sally almost begged him, rolling her eyes back into her skull. ‘Every time you say that we end up in it up to our necks. We haven’t even got the office up and running – the last thing we need now is a child abduction – or worse. A few days from now we’ll be ready and willing, but not yet.’
‘Too late,’ Sean told her. ‘For better or worse, this one’s ours.’ He flicked his eyes towards the doorbell.
With a shake of her head, Sally pressed the button, stepping back to be at Sean’s side – a united front for when the door was opened, warrant cards open in their hands.
They heard the rattle of the central lock before the door was opened by a plain woman in her mid-thirties, brown hair tied back in a ponytail like Sally’s, her inexpensive grey suit and white blouse the virtual uniform for female detectives. Neither Sean nor Sally had to ask whether she was the mother or the local CID’s representative and she in turn knew what they were and why they were there, but they showed her their warrant cards and introduced themselves anyway.
‘Morning. DI Sean Corrigan and this is DS Sally Jones – Special Investigations Unit,’ Sean told her, drawing a sideways glance from Sally, who was hearing their new name for the first time.
‘Special Investigations Unit?’ the detective asked. ‘That’s a new one on me.’
‘Me too,’ Sally added, making the other detective narrow her eyes.
‘We’re based at the Yard,’ Sean explained. ‘It’s a new thing that’s being trialled – rapid response to potentially high-profile crimes – that sort of thing.’
The detective nodded suspiciously before responding. ‘DC Kimberly Robinson, Hampstead CID.’
‘Can we see the parents?’ Sean asked.
‘Of course,’ Robinson answered, but instead of opening the door for them to enter she stepped outside and shut the door to behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. ‘But before you do there’s one thing bothering me,’ she told them in a near whisper. ‘Why has this case been handed over to you? Why has this case been handed over to anyone? Something like this would usually stay with the local CID until we get a ransom demand or …’ she checked the door behind her before continuing ‘… until a body turns up. So why are you here so soon?’
‘You know how it is,’ Sean explained. ‘Your boss gets to hear about something a little different and he tells his boss who tells his boss who tells my boss, whose interest is piqued and before you know it the case lands on my desk and here we are.’
Robinson studied him for a while before answering. ‘Fine,’ she eventually said, easing the door open and stepping inside. ‘You’re welcome to it. Parents are in the kitchen.’
‘D’you have any background on the parents yet?’ Sean asked quietly.
‘He’s thirty-eight, works in the City – a broker for Britbank, apparently,’ she said in a lowered voice, before lowering it even further. ‘She’s a few years younger, a full-time mum, although round here that isn’t exactly what it sounds like, if you know what I mean.’
Sally and Sean glanced at each other before following Robinson through the hallway, Sally closing the door behind them. She quickly and discreetly swept slightly envious eyes over the hall’s contents: large, original oil paintings, Tiffany lampshades and polished oak floorboards. Sean also noticed a control panel for an intruder alarm attached to the wall.
As soon as they entered the large contemporary kitchen Sean was making mental notes of what he saw: Mrs Bridgeman pacing around the work area, her husband leaning on the kitchen island watching her but not speaking, while the nanny sat with their young daughter, trying to keep the crying child distracted with small talk and a drink.
‘Mr and Mrs Bridgeman,’ Robinson said, ‘these officers are from the Special Investigations Unit, Scotland Yard. I believe they’ll be taking over the investigation now.’
‘Why?’ Celia Bridgeman asked before Sean or Sally could speak, panic lighting her eyes. ‘Has something happened? Have you found him?’
Sally could tell she was about to lose it completely. ‘No, Mrs Bridgeman. Nothing’s changed. We’re just here to try and help find George as quickly as we can. Everything’s going to be fine, but we’ll have to ask you both some questions if we’re going to do that.’
‘More questions?’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted. ‘We’ve already answered all the questions. Now you need to get out there and find our son.’
‘Almost every officer in the borough is out there searching for George,’ Robinson tried to reassure him, ‘including dogs. Even the police helicopter’s up and looking.’
Sean eyed Bridgeman for a while before considering his response. He felt an instant dislike for the man – his carefully groomed hair, golden tan and athletic build, and above all his arrogance, which more than matched his wealth. ‘I can understand your frustration.’ He managed to sound businesslike. ‘But we really do need to ask you some more questions.
‘Of course,’ Celia took over, ‘anything.’ She wiped the tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘I believe you were the one who discovered George was apparently missing, Mrs Bridgeman?’ Sean asked.
‘Not apparently,’ Stuart Bridgeman interrupted again, ‘is missing. Who did you say you were?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Jones from the Special Investigations Unit.’
‘Special Investigations?’ Bridgeman asked, distaste etched into his face. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Stuart,’ his wife stopped him. ‘You’re wasting time.’
Bridgeman grudgingly backed down. ‘Ask your questions, Inspector.’
‘When you couldn’t find George, what did you do?’
‘I looked everywhere,’ she told him, shaking as she spoke, involuntarily closing her eyes as she remembered the panic and fear, the feeling of sickness overtaking her body, ‘but I couldn’t find him.’
‘Then what?’
‘I checked the windows and doors.’
‘And?’
‘They were all closed and locked – all of them.’
‘Even the front door?’
‘Yes, and the front door.’
‘All four locks?’
‘No. Just the top lock.’
‘How come?’
‘Because Caroline