‘Archway?’ Sean queried. ‘Did he go anywhere specific?’
‘Only a hardware shop, Asian-owned: Archway DIY—’
‘Imaginative,’ Sean chipped in.
‘Does what is says on the tin. Full address is 173 Archway Road. He was in there for a good fifteen minutes. I put one of my people in the shop with him, but they couldn’t hang around that long without showing out – it’s not exactly Homebase in there.’
‘Did they see what he bought?’
‘Sorry. Couldn’t get close enough and couldn’t stay long enough.’
‘Bollocks,’ Sean snarled. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Got back on the bus and headed home. Been there ever since, which isn’t long. Problem?’
‘No. No problem. Was he carrying anything he could have bought in the shop?’
‘When he came out he tucked something into his jacket pocket, but we don’t know what. Do you want me to send one of my team into the shop to ask what, if anything, he bought?’
‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘I don’t want to burn any of your team. You stay with the target and I’ll check the shop out.’
‘Understood.’
‘Something up?’ Donnelly asked as Sean put the phone down.
‘Could be.’ Sean was on his feet, reaching for his jacket. ‘Grab your coat – you’re coming with me.’
‘Oh aye. Where to?’
‘Archway Road, to visit a hardware shop.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I need a new screwdriver,’ Sean quipped.
‘What?’ Donnelly screwed his face up in disapproval.
‘Never mind,’ Sean told him. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’
Stuart Bridgeman sat alone in his office in the family home in Hampstead with the door closed and his modern jazz music playing just loudly enough to drown out any sounds of life coming from the rest of the house. Nothing he tried seemed capable of distracting his racing mind from the situation he was trying not to face. Having to see his wife was bad enough, but having the female cop hanging around the house all hours was pushing him closer and closer to the edge of he didn’t know what. His wife, the cop, even the nanny must think he was a fool if they imagined he hadn’t noticed the endless whispered conversations. He knew exactly what – who − they were talking about. The more they conspired against him, the more isolated and bitter he felt towards all of them. Had he not continued to provide for them all, given them everything they could ask for – despite the rumours and betrayal? He’d always done what was necessary for the family, even taking care of George, despite knowing the truth, despite feeling no love towards the boy – despite being reminded of his wife’s betrayal every time he had to look at him. Could anyone really blame him for losing his temper, even if he was honest and admitted the boy himself had done no wrong? When a new male lion takes over a pride from the old patriarch, the first thing they do is kill the lion cubs that aren’t genetically theirs – not out of cruelty, but out of an overpowering urge to ensure their own genes will dominate and survive. And now George was gone and he didn’t know how he felt about that. All he knew was that the eyes of suspicion had fallen upon him. At least, no matter what happened, he’d always have Sophia. Regardless what truths bubbled to the surface.
A gentle, nervous knock at the door chased away the thoughts that he knew would be back again and again. He considered telling whoever it was to go away, but remembered the cop lurking in his home. ‘Come in,’ he called out, like a headmaster summoning a naughty child. The door opened slowly and only enough to allow his wife to slip into the room. She closed the door softly before speaking.
‘I was going to make something to eat – do you want anything?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he told her, his eyes falling away from her and back to the dossier on his desk he’d been pretending to read.
‘You should eat,’ she persisted. ‘You don’t want to make yourself ill. We could do without that right now.’
‘I said no,’ he scolded, staring without raising his head making his eyes appear demonic. She backed off for a few seconds until his eyes returned to the dossier.
‘Stuart,’ she tried once more to reach him. ‘We need to stick together on this. No matter what happened in the past – we need to stick together now.’
‘Or what?’ he growled. ‘Worried what people might start to say about us? About you? You never seemed to care about that before.’
‘Do we have to talk about that now?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it at all.’
‘Damn it, Stuart, this isn’t about us! This is about George. This is about my son.’
‘Your son,’ he seized on her slip. ‘That about says it all, doesn’t it? Your son – not our son, but your son.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she tried to recover.
‘Then what did you mean?’
‘I just want my boy back,’ she told him, her voice weak now as the tears glazed over her eyes. ‘Dear God, what’s happened to him? Where’s my son?’
‘Why don’t you ask that cop out there what’s happened to your son? They’re supposed to have all the answers, aren’t they? And while you’re asking her, why don’t you ask her why the police took our cars?’
‘But they told us why they needed our cars, why would I—’
‘You stupid bitch! Did you really believe all that bollocks about suspects leaving clues hidden around the place? They took our cars because they think I took George. Don’t you understand? Maybe they even think we killed him.’
‘That’s absurd,’ she argued. ‘Why would they think that?’
‘Why? Because they know your dirty little secret.’
‘How could they?’
‘Oh, come on. Haven’t they already been asking you about it? Insinuating?’ The puzzled look of recognition on her face told him what he already knew in his heart. ‘Of course they have. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me, but it won’t help them find George. It won’t help them get you your little boy back.’
‘Why are you being so cruel?’ she demanded. ‘He’s your son too, damn you. Why did you say that?’
‘Why did I say what?’ he asked, a look of disgust on his face.
‘That I won’t get George back. Why would you say a thing like that?’
‘I’m just telling you what the police think,’ he insisted, only less confident now – less sure of himself and not so confrontational.
‘God help me,’ she hissed, moving a few steps closer, pointing at him accusingly, ‘if I ever find out that you’ve done anything to hurt George, I swear I’ll kill you myself.’
Stuart Bridgeman went pale as he struggled to find an answer, but he was spared by another gentle rat-a-tat-tat at the door.
‘Everything all right in there?’ DC Maggie O’Neil asked.
‘Yes,’ Celia Bridgeman lied through the door. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine.’
They abandoned their unmarked car by the side of the road on double yellow lines with the vehicle’s log-book tossed unceremoniously on the dashboard to identify it as a CID car to any passing traffic wardens − not that the ones from the local council would take any notice. Sean led the way as they strode across the pavement, already tugging his warrant card free from his inside jacket pocket. Donnelly was close behind, but nowhere near as enthusiastic. As they entered, a loud, electronic buzzing noise filled the hardware shop, replacing what would once upon a time have been a bell. The Indian shopkeeper, somewhere in his sixties, short and slim with an immaculate grey beard and complete with turban, appeared from behind the counter where he’d been crouched while rearranging the fine display of nuts and bolts. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he immediately asked in his thick Indian accent.
‘Police,’ Sean told him unceremoniously, holding his warrant card out in front of him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Donnelly. I need to ask you a few questions about a customer who came to your sh
op earlier this morning.’
‘Of course. No problem,’ the shopkeeper answered without any nervousness or hesitation. ‘I was a police officer myself many years ago,’ he added, ‘so please, anything that you want, just ask.’
‘Was that back in India?’ Donnelly asked.
‘It was, sir. In Bombay. My father was also a police officer and so was my grandfather, but it was easier to be a police officer there than here I think. Trust me, everyone I ever questioned soon admitted their guilt. Not so many rules back then.’
Sean was already tired of the police-club chat. ‘I’m sure,’ he interrupted. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name …?’
‘My name is Mr Nashua. I moved to this country with my family—’
Sean cut him short. ‘Mr Nashua, a man came into your shop earlier …’ He rummaged in his jacket pocket for the photograph of McKenzie. ‘This man,’ he said, carefully placing it on the counter. ‘I need to know what he wanted.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Nashua acknowledged, ‘I remember him. He was here not long ago.’
‘Yes, but what did he want?’ Sean hurried him. ‘Did he buy anything?’
‘He looked around for a bit. I was a bit suspicious at first – he seemed to be looking out the window, checking outside, as if he was waiting for someone to join him in my shop. I can always spot a thief who has only come to steal from me, but this one seemed more interested in what was going on outside the shop rather than the things inside.’
‘Mr Nashua, please,’ Sean appealed. ‘Did he buy anything?’
‘Oh yes – eventually. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted.’
‘And what was that?’ Sean persisted.
‘He bought an MLPX,’ Nashua told them. ‘A very good one too. It cost almost one hundred pounds.’
‘A what?’ Donnelly asked.
‘An MLPX,’ Nashua repeated. ‘A master lock-picking kit. In the right hands, a set like that could open pretty much any standard lock in the world – and this man who bought it seemed very much to know his business. He asked me about the quality and size of the picks, hooks, wrenches, diamonds – everything. I thought this man must be a qualified locksmith – yes?’
‘You could say that,’ Sean answered, still looking at Donnelly. ‘What say we pay our locksmith friend a surprise visit?’
‘I don’t see we have any choice,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘Only …’
‘Only what?’ Sean pressed.
‘I don’t recall anyone mentioning we’d seized any lock-picking tools when he was first arrested.’
‘That’s because we didn’t.’
‘So why does he need a new set?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Because tools leave distinctive marks. Once the lab open up the locks from the Bridgemans’ house they should find tool marks – some may match the tools he used to open them, the rest will fit with the keys normally used to unlock them.’
‘You had Forensics take the locks from the front door?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s a hell of a long shot.’
‘It is, but McKenzie probably knows it’s possible.’
‘So he ditched the tools he used at the Bridgemans?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Then we need to find them,’ said Donnelly.
‘Would be useful,’ Sean agreed. ‘Have Zukov make sure all the search teams are aware we’re looking for tools used for lock-picking. He may have dumped them not too far from the scene. Tell him to download some pictures from the Internet so people can see what he’s talking about or it’ll mean nothing to most of them.’
‘No problem,’ Donnelly assured him. ‘It will be done.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Mr Nashua asked, aware that the detectives had forgotten he was there.
‘No,’ Sean told him with a wry smile. ‘No problem at all.’
A smile of self-satisfaction fixed itself to his face as he looked out of his first-floor window at the people of all creeds and colours scurrying along Kentish Town Road below. Every few minutes the sight of a child electrified his body with an excitement he couldn’t control and tightened his belly and groin as he licked his dry lips and waited – waited for the inevitable.
As soon as the car came into view crawling along in the rest of the traffic some criminal instinct told him it was them, but he felt no panic or fear – no need to scramble around his tiny, sparse flat to find and destroy any incriminating evidence before they found it. He felt calm and in control, as if everything he’d been planning was coming together better than he could have expected. Corrigan had been a gift – a gift that must have been sent from a greater power – the conduit of all his planned revenge. They had thought him beaten and humiliated. Now it would be him who would teach them the true meaning of defeat and public humiliation.
He drew the stained net curtains to better conceal himself while still keeping watch on the approaching car. It stopped and squeezed itself into the tightest of parking spaces, holding up the traffic and provoking a cacophony of horn blasts. He knew the occupants wouldn’t give a damn about the inconvenience they caused, such was their all-consuming arrogance and ignorance. As he watched them climb from the car he realized he was grinding his teeth in anticipation and hatred, eager to continue the game he knew he couldn’t lose. They crossed the pavement and became impossible to see once they were directly below him – at the communal entrance that ultimately led to his front door.
Slowly he moved away from the window and sat shaking a little at the only table in the flat, wishing he still had a laptop to log on to so that he could download incriminating items to tantalize Detective Inspector Corrigan with – sending him on yet more wild-goose chases, leading him further and further away from the boy and himself closer and closer to final victory.
He listened for the sound of splintering wood – the sound of Corrigan’s career beginning to shatter, but was disappointed to hear instead one of his neighbours’ intercoms buzzing. He immediately knew what Corrigan was up to – threatening or cajoling one of the other occupants of the filth-infested flats to open the communal door so they could sneak up the stairs like sewer rats.
Quickly he gathered the items he had laid out on the table in front him: an A to Z of London with the missing boy’s street circled in red pen, other houses also circled in red, along with a few local schools and − his crowning glory – areas of nearby woodland. He’d enjoyed himself that morning, chuckling to himself as he marked the map and scribbled the apparent ramblings of a dangerous madman across the pages of a notebook that he now placed on top of the A to Z. He sat back, trying not to grin as he heard the footsteps climbing the stairs – neither running nor tiptoeing, just steadily walking – not as he’d expected them to come. The departure from how he’d expected things to happen caused a rare moment of panic, a fluttering in his chest like a hummingbird’s wings.
Again he waited for the splintering of wood and the yells of the police commanding him not to move or suffer the consequences. He stared at the door, muttering quietly to himself. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered under his breath, willing them to smash open the flimsy, scarred door; the hastily replaced lock from their last visit would be no match for a well-placed kick from a policeman’s boot. But the fireworks never came – only a firm knock. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, frozen to his chair, unable to answer the knocking that came again when he didn’t answer. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. He cleared it with a cough before repeating himself. ‘Who is it and what do you want?’
‘You know who it is and what we want,’ Corrigan told him, his tone overconfident and belittling – the conqueror coming to conquer. ‘I need to speak with you, Mark. Open the door.’
‘What about?’ he asked, still sitting in his chair staring at the thin door, imagining the smiling, self-congratulating cops on the other side, so sure they had the evidence to prove he took the boy.
‘You know what about.’ Corrigan’s tone didn’t waver. ‘This is not
the sort of conversation you want to have in public.’
‘In public?’ he asked, momentarily confused, suspicious Corrigan had plans to try and conduct his investigation in the glare of the media spotlight, ensuring that anybody who listened knew the police had decided he was their prime suspect.
‘Your neighbours, Mark,’ the voice explained. ‘Walls have ears and all that.’
‘I see,’ he answered, weighing up his options, still hopeful they might grow impatient and kick the door open – more evidence of heavy-handed police intimidation. But the thought of his irate landlord having to provide yet more new locks forced him to a decision. The stinking flat wasn’t much, but it was a roof over his head – a roof he’d need for some time to come, no matter how things worked out. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he told them as he stood, gathering the maps and notebooks and quickly hiding them under the bed, slipping them through a slit he’d made in its underside before moving purposefully to the door and turning the single Yale lock. He peeped through the gap at the two detectives standing like terracotta soldiers with their arms by their sides – Corrigan and another one he didn’t recognize, thick-set with a prominent moustache, strong-looking. ‘I see,’ he told them. ‘You again. What d’you want now?’
‘Mark McKenzie,’ Sean began, pulling his warrant card from his coat pocket, holding it low at his side, showing it inconspicuously to him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly.’
‘I know who you are,’ he snapped, his glare turning to Donnelly, ‘or at least I know what you are.’
‘Mark, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the abduction of George Bridgeman.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ he argued. ‘I was only released last night.’ A sudden wave of nausea strangled his confidence as the fear and realization they may have discovered something that could undermine all his plans flashed in his mind before shrinking away again like a retreating wave on the beach. No. If they were rearresting him this quickly, everything was exactly as he wanted it.
The Toy Taker Page 15