‘Like Mr Bridgeman?’
‘You know – powerful men – men who are used to being in control.’
‘So who’s he angry with?’
‘With … I didn’t say he was angry with anyone in particular, just that he was angry at what’s happened. He’s upset, you know.’
Maggie ignored her explanation, sensing there was more for her to find. ‘Mrs Bridgeman? Is he angry with her? Or maybe he’s angry with George about something.’
‘Listen,’ Caroline tried to backtrack, ‘I don’t really know what’s going on. I’m just the nanny. I look after the children – that’s all.’ She walked from the room in search of Sophia, leaving Maggie alone with her thoughts and doubts. She’d been Family Liaison Officer on plenty of cases in the past. Until a body was found, family members would never wander too far from the phone or each other, but after the body was found and confirmed as their missing loved one, family members would frequently seek solitude for their grief. She’d seen murders destroy families more often than she’d seen them bring them together – the parents of victims often divorcing in the aftermath of murder − but she’d never seen or felt a reaction quite like she was seeing in the Bridgemans: a devastated mother and an angry father who seemed to be doing everything they could to avoid being in the same room as her. The usual non-stop flow of questions from the terrified parents was absent; instead she could hear the constant murmur of their hushed, urgent voices coming from the kitchen. She reminded herself that she’d never dealt with victims like the Bridgemans before – wealthy and privileged. The families she’d worked with had all been comfortable at best, poor beyond most people’s understanding at worst. Maybe this was simply how rich people dealt with things – she just didn’t know. But something in her still-developing detective’s instinct told her all was not as it should be, as if they resented her presence. It wasn’t the first time she had encountered hostility as a Family Liaison Officer, but that had been from criminal families whose hatred of the police wouldn’t be softened by the mere death of a family member. That wasn’t the case with the Bridgemans – so what was wrong?
The loud buzzing noise filled the small interview room where Sean and Sally sat opposite Mark McKenzie and his state-appointed duty solicitor. Sarah Jackson was a fifty-six-year-old veteran of North London’s police stations. Her plain, loose-fitting clothes covered a bulky five-foot-two frame and her round face was surrounded by short, curly hair. Ancient spectacles finished her look. Within minutes of meeting and talking to her prior to introducing her to McKenzie, Sean could tell she knew her business and would not be walked over, although he also sensed she was a straight player and wasn’t here to do McKenzie any special favours. If he admitted to her he’d taken the boy then Sean would back Jackson to get him to admit it to them – for his own sake and the boy’s. Sean’s eyes never left McKenzie, who squirmed in his rickety chair and waited for the buzzing to fall silent. When it did Sean spoke first.
‘The time is approximately eight fifteen p.m. This interview is being conducted in an interview room at Kentish Town Police Station. I am Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and the other officer present is …’
‘Detective Sergeant Sally Jones,’ she introduced herself without needing to be prompted.
‘I am interviewing – could you state your name clearly for the tape, please?’
‘Mark McKenzie,’ he answered curtly with a thin smile.
Sean continued to speak without having to think about the words, his mind already considering the questions he would ask – the small, ball-hammer taps he would keep making, attacking the veneer until finally McKenzie’s protective shell shattered.
‘And the other person present is …?’
Jackson answered without looking up from the notes she was busy scribbling. ‘Sarah Jackson, solicitor here to represent Mr McKenzie.’
Sean was glad to note the lack of a self-important speech about rights, hypothetical questions and fairness. She’d stated her business and it was enough.
‘Mark,’ Sean continued, ‘you are still under caution, which means you don’t have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court it may harm your defence. Do you understand?’ McKenzie just shrugged.
‘I’ve explained all this to Mr McKenzie,’ said his solicitor, keen to move on.
‘And anything you do say can be used in evidence,’ Sean finished. McKenzie said nothing. ‘I’ll assume that’s also been explained.’
Jackson briefly looked up and over the top of her spectacles. ‘It has,’ she told him, leaving Sean a little unsure who she disliked most – him or McKenzie. Had she already done his job for him and browbeaten McKenzie into making a confession? He decided there wasn’t enough excitement in the room for that.
‘Mark, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of having abducted a four-year-old boy, George Bridgeman, from his home in Hampstead last night. Is there anything you want to tell me about that?’
‘No comment,’ McKenzie answered, looking Sean square in the face while his solicitor seemed to raise her eyebrows as she stared down at her increasing notes. Was McKenzie going against her advice? And if so why?
‘Anything at all?’
‘No comment,’ McKenzie continued, already beginning to sound irritated.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sean quickly changed tack, ‘are my questions annoying you in some way?’ Jackson gave him a warning glance.
‘No comment.’
‘You live in Kentish Town – right?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Pretty close to Hampstead, isn’t it?’
‘So what?’
‘The boy went missing from Hampstead, from Courthope Road. Have you ever been to Courthope Road, Mark?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you go there last night?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you go there because you knew the boy would be there?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you take the boy, Mark – a simple yes or no?’
‘No comment.’
Sean leaned back silently for a few seconds before continuing, trying to read the man in front of him – trying to crawl inside his mind and see what he saw, feel what he felt − but nothing came to him. Keep asking the questions – keep asking until the light begins to spill through a chink in his armour. ‘Funny how you answer some questions no problem, but then when it’s about the missing boy you answer no comment.’
‘That’s his right, Inspector,’ Jackson was obliged to interrupt.
‘Of course,’ Sean insincerely apologized, ‘just an observation – that was all. So you’ve never been to Courthope Road in Hampstead?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ McKenzie corrected him.
‘So you have been there before?’
‘I didn’t say that either.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘Perhaps it would be better if you stuck to answering no comment,’ Jackson advised him.
‘And I’ll ask you again,’ Sean kept up, ‘have you ever been to Courthope Road or not?’
‘Like my solicitor says, no comment.’