Parliament Square, Donnelly shaking his head at the thought of having to use public transport to beat the traffic. ‘The Yard,’ he moaned out loud. ‘Why did it have to be the Yard? They’re selling the damn thing as soon as they can find a buyer. We’ll no sooner get sorted than they’ll have us on the move again. Bloody waste of time. Where to next, for Christ’s sake – Belgravia?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ Zukov told him, ‘we can tell everyone we’re detectives from New Scotland Yard now. Better than saying you’re from Peckham. And the traffic’s not that bad – considering. You’ve just got to get used to it.’
Donnelly looked him up and down with unveiled contempt. ‘Why don’t you just drive the car, son. Let me do the talking and the thinking, eh. “You’ve just got to get used to it” – sometimes I wonder how you ever got into the CID. Let anyone in these days, I suppose. I’ll tell you this for nothing – after a few weeks at the Yard you’ll be wishing you were back at Peckham. Where do you live – Purley, isn’t it? How you gonna get in from there every day?’
‘Train,’ Zukov answered precisely, too suspicious of Donnelly’s reason for asking to say more.
‘Oh well, let me know how that works out for you – hanging around on a freezing platform before being squeezed into a carriage with standing-room only, rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed every morning and evening. And how you gonna get home when we don’t finish until three in the morning? There’s no local uniform units to bum a lift from at the Yard.’
‘I’ll take a job car.’
‘Oh aye. You and everyone else. Only one problem – we have a lot more people than we have cars. Better get used to sleeping on the floor, son.’
‘I’ll figure something out,’ Zukov replied, promising himself he wouldn’t speak again.
‘You will, will you?’ Donnelly condescended. ‘Well, I’ll look forward to seeing that. And while we’re about it, remember to watch your back at all times. You make the same sort of mistake you made on the Gibran case and I won’t be able to cover your arse, not at the Yard. Everything’s changed for us now: senior management have got us right where they want us – under their noses. And I’m pretty sure why.’
The ensuing silence and air of mystery was too much for Zukov. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do they want us right under their noses?’
‘That, son, is for me to know and for you not to find out,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Now get us out of this traffic and to the Yard. I’m bursting for a piss.’
Sean and Sally pulled up outside 7 Courthope Road on the edges of Hampstead Heath and headed for the smart four-storey Georgian house that four-year-old George Bridgeman had apparently gone missing from, although Sean would assume nothing until he proved it was so. The house reminded him of other houses he’d visited, other investigations. Other victims whose faces flashed through his mind like images from a rapid-fire projector. He forced the distraction away, needing to concentrate on the job in front of him, his mind already clouded with thoughts of moving the office and all the admin and logistical headaches that would bring, as well as recurring day-and-night dreams about Thomas Keller and the women he’d killed. If he was to think the way he needed to think he had to clear his mind.
He paused at the foot of the steps just as Sally was about to ring the doorbell, making her hesitate while he looked up and down the street. He watched the last of the leaves falling from the trees and floating to the ground, some briefly resting on the two lines of cars parked on either side of the road before the bitter breeze blew them away, all the time waiting to see something in his mind’s eye. But nothing came – no hint of what had happened, no feeling about what sort of person might have taken the boy, if anyone even had. He cursed Addis for putting thoughts of paedophiles and the Network in his mind – pre-wiring his train of thought before he had a chance to look around the scene. He gazed up and down the road once more, but still he saw nothing.
‘Something wrong?’ Sally asked. Sean didn’t answer. She repeated the question a little louder.
‘What? No,’ he replied. ‘I was just thinking it must have been freezing outside last night.’
‘So?’
‘Nothing,’ he answered, moving next to her, stretching then crouching as he examined the four locks on the front door, all of which appeared high quality and well fitted. ‘The report said all four locks were 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.
