The Toy Taker (15 page)

‘So she had help before you started here?’

‘Yes, another nanny from the same agency – a friend of mine, actually.’

‘And who would that be?’

‘Tessa – Tessa Daniels.’

‘How long did she work for the Bridgemans?’

‘She started a few weeks before Sophia was born and stayed on until George was about two.’

‘Which is when you started?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were there problems between Mrs Bridgeman and Tessa?’

‘No. None that I know of.’

‘Then why change her?’

‘That’s what these people do.’

‘Why?’ Donnelly asked, genuinely confused.

‘To stop you getting over-familiar with the children, or sometimes the husband. The likes of Mrs Bridgeman won’t tolerate competition – real or imagined. Anyway, like I said, they all do it.’

‘And was she?’ Donnelly asked, sniffing a route in.

‘Was who what?’ Caroline frowned, impatient.

‘Was Tessa getting over-familiar with the children – with Mr Bridgeman?’

‘No,’ she told him. ‘Tessa knew better than to get mixed up in anything like that, and Mr Bridgeman’s hardly the sleeping-with-the-nanny type.’

‘There’s a type?’

‘Yes, and he’s not it.’

Donnelly reluctantly gave up the line of questioning. ‘But there seems to be a lot of tension between them, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s just the situation.’

‘No,’ Caroline let her guard slip, ‘that was there even before poor little George went missing.’

‘But there’s no suggestion Mr Bridgeman was having an affair with anyone?’

‘No,’ Caroline answered less confidentially, as if Donnelly was wrong, but getting closer to the truth. Donnelly seized on it immediately.

‘So Mr Bridgeman wasn’t playing away from home, but what about … what about Mrs Bridgeman?’

‘All I know is that, since I’ve been here, Mrs Bridgeman hasn’t been seeing anyone else,’ she told him, holding both hands out towards him, palms turned upwards.

‘How do you know?’

‘Trust me,’ she told him, ‘I’d know.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’m sure you would. But then why all the hostility between them, and why the coldness towards George from Mr Bridgeman?’

‘Listen,’ she whispered conspiratorially, ‘you didn’t hear this from me, and if anyone finds out I told you I’ll lose my job – but if it helps find George then I suppose you need to know.’

‘Need to know what?’ he asked, managing to hide his rising excitement.

‘Tessa told me that while she was working for the Bridgemans there was a suspicion that Mrs Bridgeman was seeing another man. Apparently Mr Bridgeman found out about it and they’ve never been the same towards each other since.’

‘If it spoiled things between them so irreversibly then why didn’t they get divorced?’

‘I don’t know – you’d have to ask them that. Maybe they did it for the children – maybe they did it for appearances’ sake. These people aren’t like the rest of us.’

‘So when was this supposed affair?’

‘Before George was born,’ she answered, but something in her demeanour told Donnelly she wanted him to ask her more.

‘How long before?’

‘Shall we say about … nine months.’

Donnelly paused to take in the implication. ‘I see,’ he eventually told her. ‘That can’t have been easy for Mr Bridgeman – these last few years?’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t suppose it has.’

‘I think I need to speak with Mrs Bridgeman,’ he told her. ‘Alone.’

‘You won’t tell her I said anything, will you?’ Caroline pleaded.

‘You can be sure of my confidentiality …’ Donnelly put on his most reassuring tone, inwardly adding the proviso, …
until we use the information to bury the Bridgemans, that is
. ‘I’ll be very discreet. Best you stay out of the way until I’ve had a chance to speak with her.’

‘Fine,’ she agreed, already regretting letting Donnelly into the dark little family secret.

‘And thanks for your help,’ he added as he squeezed past her and headed back down to the kitchen where Mrs Bridgeman stood in the same spot he’d left her, still staring at the floor, lost in her own excruciating nightmare.

‘How you doing?’ Donnelly asked, to get her attention more than out of genuine concern.

She looked up slowly, staring at him in a state of confusion, as if she could hear him, but not see him. After a few seconds she shook her head quickly and answered. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I doubt you’re that,’ he told her.

‘I meant under the circumstances.’

‘Of course. Would you like to sit down?’

‘No. I’d rather stand.’

‘Can I fix you a cup of tea or anything?’

‘No,’ she snapped, then added in a softer tone, ‘I said I’m fine.’

‘No problem,’ he backed up before beginning to lay his groundwork. ‘Kids – little sods, eh? Drive you mad when you’re with them, then you miss them like hell when they’re not around.’ She didn’t respond. ‘I’ve got five, myself.’ She looked up, an almost puzzled expression on her face. ‘Ten-year-old twins,’ he told her, ‘a couple of teenagers and a wee nipper who’s only four.’

‘That’s a lot of children,’ she finally joined in.

‘Aye. A real handful. The wife’s a saint though – keeps them all on the straight and narrow and somehow juggles the accounts to keep the bills paid, or at least most of them.’

‘Can’t be easy.’

‘You mean on a cop’s wage?’

‘That’s not what I meant. I just meant with five of them.’

‘It’s OK – you’re right – it is bloody difficult on a cop’s wage, but the overtime helps. No such worries for you though, eh?’ he asked, looking around the state-of-the-art kitchen his wife could only dream about.’

‘Money isn’t everything,’ she said as she watched him.

‘Oh, I agree. In fact I’m always telling the wife the exact same thing: money isn’t everything. The most important thing is to stick together when times are tough – just like you and your husband are now.’ She momentarily glared at him, just as he’d wanted her to, her eyes answering questions her lips would never respond to. ‘Although in situations as stressful as this, sometimes the parents can take out their frustrations on each other – it’s neither unusual nor unreasonable. My advice would be, don’t be too hard on yourselves if you have the odd cross word.’

‘Thank you,’ she told him, her eyes still burning with mistrust.

‘Still, I’m a wee bit surprised he’s gone to work today. Would he not rather be here with you – in case we find something?’

‘He had to go to work. He had no choice.’

‘There’s always a choice,’ Donnelly gently tried to provoke her into saying more. ‘Still, if you want a house like this, in a bit of London like this, private school, nanny, top-of-the-range kitchen then I suppose work has to come first, eh?’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ she couldn’t help telling him, regretting it as soon as she had.

‘Indeed they can.’ He bided his time. ‘Are you sure I can’t make you that cup of tea?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Not much a cup of tea can’t fix.’

‘Will it help find George?’ she demanded.

‘No, Mrs Bridgeman, alas it can’t do that.’

‘Then perhaps you’d have a better chance of finding him if you were elsewhere?’

‘Everything’s covered,’ he assured her, pretending to misunderstand the inference. ‘We’ve got every man, woman and dog looking for him. Right now I’ll best serve George by being here – with you.’

‘How so?’

‘Oh, you know – the more we chat the more I may discover.’

‘How can talking about me help you find George?’

‘Not just about you, but about George as well … and your husband. You may remember some little thing that could turn out to be important.’

‘Such as?’

‘Something from your past, maybe? Something you haven’t told us yet. Something you may have forgotten.’

‘Like what?’ she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

‘Like, are either of your children from another marriage, either yours or your husband’s?’

‘No.’

‘If not a marriage – perhaps a previous relationship?’

‘No. This is ridiculous.’

‘Then perhaps an affair?’

She smiled in disbelief and looked through the ceiling at the nanny who remained two floors above them. ‘Has someone been talking out of school, Sergeant?’

‘Call it my detective’s instinct,’ he lied.

‘And what does your instinct tell you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know – that George is your son, but not Mr Bridgeman’s.’

‘Well then your instinct would be wrong.’

‘And your husband’s instinct – is that wrong too?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Has he ever asked for a paternity test?’

‘No. He’d never do that.’

‘But you thought that he might – one day?’

‘He’d never do that – he’s too proud.’ Too late she realized she’d said too much.

‘So he has his doubts about George being his son?’

‘You’d have to ask him about that. But I can assure you George is
our
son, and right now all I want is to get him back. Can’t you understand that?’ Tears exploded from her eyes and ran heavy and fast down her cheeks, dripping off her. ‘I just want my son back. Please, help me find my son.’

Donnelly moved forward, quickly and nimbly taking hold of her by her shoulders, sure she could take no more cross-examining for now. ‘Don’t worry,’ he comforted her, switching from interrogator to Samaritan. ‘We’ll get your boy back or we’ll die trying. You can be sure of that.’

Featherstone drove through heavy south-east London traffic heading towards Bexley Police Station where another one of the Murder Investigation Teams he oversaw had picked up a new case – a straightforward enough domestic murder, no kids involved. By all accounts the husband wasn’t denying caving his wife’s head in with a claw hammer and the detective inspector leading the investigation expected to have him charged with her murder by dinnertime. Featherstone was as pleased about the impending quick and tidy result as he was about the fact both victim and suspect were white. Since the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry, whenever a detective superintendent heard of a new murder on their patch the first question was always,
What’s the colour of the victim?
If they were black the next would always be,
What’s the colour of the suspects?
Many a superintendent had sighed with relief when the answer had confirmed the crime had no possible racial overtones.

The ringing of his hands-free system snapped him out of his happy little world. Caller ID told him it was Sean.

‘Sean – got some good news for me?’ he asked.

‘Still working on it.’

‘Then what you after?’

‘I haven’t got enough to charge McKenzie – our prime suspect.’

‘So let him go.’

‘I intend to, but I’m still convinced he could be our man. When the ACC does his press briefing I need him to name McKenzie and show a photograph of him, asking the public to help trace his movements over the last couple of days.’

‘Bloody hell, Sean. Why don’t we just take him to London Zoo and chuck him to the lions?’

‘He’ll survive, but we’ll need a surveillance team on him just in case – for his own protection, as required by R versus Brindle.’

‘Hold on a minute …’ Featherstone smiled to himself. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say this situation had been manufactured.’

‘Maybe, but can you sell it to the Assistant Commissioner?’

‘I’ll sell it,’ Featherstone confidently told him. ‘He’s doing the press briefing this evening. I’ll make sure he has the stuff about McKenzie.’

‘This evening?’ Sean asked, concerned Addis was moving too quickly without checking with him first. ‘He’s not hanging around.’

‘You’ll find Assistant Commissioner Addis is not a patient man,’ Featherstone warned him. ‘He’s doing his briefing this evening, but I can tell you now he wants to be back on Sky News within twenty-four hours with something
positive
to tell them. There’s a student union march through the West End next week and TSG are bound to kick someone’s head in, so the powers that be are desperate for a good news story before the inevitable happens.’

‘I can’t promise anything,’ Sean answered, ‘but with a surveillance team on McKenzie my chances will be better.’

‘I understand, but Addis won’t. I’ll get you the surveillance team anyway.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean prepared to sign off. ‘You never know – one day the brass at the Yard might realize it doesn’t matter what we do – the media’s always gonna beat us with whatever stick’s available. Why fight a war you can’t win? Wasting everybody’s time.’

‘They’re an optimistic bunch, the powers that be. For them, there’s no such thing as a lost cause.’

‘Call that optimism?’ Sean asked bitterly. ‘More like blind ignorance.’

‘Ours is not to wonder why …’ Featherstone reminded him. ‘You’ll have your surveillance team within a couple of hours. Where d’you want them?’

‘Kentish Town nick – they can pick McKenzie up when we bail him.’

‘Will he be looking for them?’

‘Probably.’

‘I’ll call you once it’s sorted,’ Featherstone told Sean and hung up. ‘R v Brindle my arse,’ he said aloud.
You’re a sly one, Corrigan, I’ll give you that, but so is that snake-in-the-grass Addis. If we don’t get this one solved soon, he’ll have us both skinned and stuffed as a warning to others
.

George Bridgeman sat on the floor of the room that had seemed strange and unfamiliar not so very long ago, but was now already beginning to feel like his home from home. He played with the toys that had been left in the room, presumably for him; strange toys that he wasn’t used to – not like the toys he had at home. At first, in his confusion he had pushed them to one side, but gradually they had begun to intrigue him, and unlike most of the toys he had at home he didn’t grow tired of them within a few minutes. As he played, his thoughts drifted from his home and family – at least for a time, but soon the rumbling of his empty stomach reminded him he hadn’t been fed yet today. All he’d had was a beaker of water from the night before to relieve his dry mouth and quell the emptiness in his belly for a little while. It was the first time in his young life that he’d ever felt real hunger or thirst.