‘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 had already arrived for work before I discovered George was missing.’
‘Caroline being yourself,’ he said looking over at the nodding nanny.
‘I always put the top lock on,’ she told him, ‘so that the kids can’t get out through the front door. It’s the only lock they can’t reach.’
‘And that’s how you found it?’ he asked, turning back to look at Celia Bridgeman.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
Sean considered the nanny for a moment. Had she forgotten to put the top lock on when she’d arrived, fastening it later once she’d realized her mistake? Was it already too late by then – George had slipped out into the street and wandered off, or been taken away? The nanny looked relaxed and calm enough under the circumstances – he sensed no guilt or fear in her, even if it was the most logical explanation. But he was picking up on something else – a presentiment of foul play that made him consider the entire family for a second. It was impossible to look at them and not be struck by their wealth and privilege and even more so by their beauty. All of them beautiful, including both children. Had that been the flame that had drawn the moth to them?
Stuart Bridgeman’s voice cut through his thoughts.
‘This is all we need – a wannabe Sherlock bloody Holmes on the case. These stupid questions are a waste of time. You need to stop hiding in the warm and get out on those streets and find our son.’
Ignoring Bridgeman’s rant, Sean directed the next question at him. ‘You weren’t here last night, Mr Bridgeman, is that right?’
‘I was away on business. You know – earning money for my family. I work in the private sector. I have to earn my money, unlike some.’
Again Sean let it pass. ‘So, where were you last night?’
‘Why? Am I a suspect in my own son’s disappearance?’
‘No. I just need to know where you were.’
‘Fine. I was in Oxford.’
‘You got back quickly,’ Sean prodded.
‘I came straight back as soon as I heard. Wouldn’t you – if your child had gone missing?’
‘What
