What She Saw (12 page)

The woman radiated maternal love, lost in her son's every action.

‘Sit down, Mr Rosen. I won't offer you a coffee because I've got to keep it brief. I'm off to work soon.'

He perched on the edge of an armchair and she positioned herself at the side of the high chair so she could see him.

‘What's your name?' asked Rosen.

‘Chelsea Booth.'

‘Thanks for coming forward, Chelsea.'

‘I ignored the knock on my door this morning because I wasn't sure I was going to say anything. But I can't stop thinking about that boy.' She looked at her own son.

Rosen glanced around for signs of a man, but it seemed the toddler was the only male presence in the flat.

‘Yesterday, I was on Bannerman Square round twenty past three in the afternoon. We were coming back from a mother and toddler group.'

She wiped her son's face with a flannel.

‘Were you the only people on Bannerman Square?' asked Rosen.

‘At first we were,' she replied. ‘It's always empty, more or less, round that time because the kids are still in school. Three to three thirty it's like a ghost town. Then I saw a hoody come around the corner from the back of the builder's yard, where the CCTV camera is mounted on that wall, right? You learn not to stare round here. I just carried on, turned the buggy so my back was to him. Then I heard a noise. It was like a pair of hands clapping twice.' She clapped twice to demonstrate. ‘Then this double clank. When I got to the door of the block, I saw the hoody running back around the corner. End of.'

‘How long between the sound of the double clap and clank and you getting to the door of Claude House?' asked Rosen.

‘Fifteen, twenty seconds. The rain started hammering down again.'

So he had time
, thought Rosen,
to pick up the shells and then the bloody rain co-operated by washing away the gunpowder residue
.

‘Can you tell me anything at all about the hoody?'

‘Like I said, I didn't stare. But he was head to foot in black.'

‘What was your impression? Height? Age? Anything?'

She fed her child and wiped his face again. ‘I'm sorry for that kid, for Thomas. Everyone's saying the CCTV was bashed by the ones who tried to kill him. But I'm scared for Luke, my kid. I'm scared they'll find out I came forward and they'll come and get Luke. You understand how cracked up the whole thing's making me feel?'

‘I understand perfectly. You have my word, this is confidential.'

‘All done?' She addressed Luke, lifting him out of the high chair and holding him to herself. ‘OK, Mr Rosen, this is my impression of him. He moved like a bloke in his late teens, early twenties. There was an arrogant air about him, he didn't appear nervous, the kind who loves himself and no one else very much. I'd put him at five eleven. . .'

‘All that from a glance?'

‘I'm good at reading men, close up and from a distance.' She shrugged. ‘Gang kid with a gun but Mummy still washes his clothes every night.'

There was a knock at her front door, insistent. It stopped and started again, louder, sharper, increasingly impatient.

Chelsea carried Luke out of the room and Rosen stood at the door, straining to hear the voice outside. But all he heard was Chelsea, saying, ‘Yeah, not now. . . Later on, as usual, same time. . . I'm not ready to leave yet. . .' The inaudible voice outside spoke at length and finally Chelsea said, ‘Don't worry about me, I'll be fine, won't we, Luke?'

The front door closed and Chelsea returned. ‘Just a neighbour, nothing to worry about.'

Rosen reached for his phone and thought,
Call Tracey Leung again
.

‘Thank you, Chelsea.'

He took in Luke's face, the blueness of his eyes, the clean, well-groomed mop of blond hair, the contentment of a much-loved and well-cared-for little boy.

As Chelsea's front door closed behind him, Rosen heard a door swing shut down the landing and, taking out his phone, walked quickly to that place. He opened the door onto a grey concrete staircase and stepped into the stairwell. Rosen looked up a floor where another door closed. As he dialled Tracey Leung, he felt the coldness of an inexplicable fear.

After three rings, she answered.

‘Hi, Tracey, it's David Rosen.'

‘David, sorry, I've been in Liverpool picking up a pair of fifteen-year-old dope-dealers. I've just got back.'

‘How fast can you get to Isaac Street?'

‘Thomas Glass?'

‘You got it.'

‘Now. What do you want me to bring?'

‘Anything on gang members with access to a gun.'

‘Loads. I'll be there as soon as poss.'

Reaching the top of the stairwell, he started the descent. As he did so, his phone registered an incoming text with two sharp notes.

BELLWOOD the screen said.

The ground-floor staircase door opened and he heard someone coming up as he was going down. He turned the corner and a good-looking, shaven-headed boy passed him on the stairs, brown eyes staring ahead.

‘Got the time, mate?' asked Rosen, but the boy carried on in complete silence, up the stairs. His eyes reminded Rosen of someone recent in his memory but he couldn't make the connection.

In the fresh air outside, he opened Bellwood's text.

David, get back to Isaac Street. We think we've come up with something interesting in Glass's contact lists. Carol

27

8.03 P.M.

T
here were many officers still slogging away in the incident room at Isaac Street Police Station, but the only sound to be heard was the creaky air conditioning and the buzz of the overhead lights. Sheer graft showed in all their faces.

Gold looked up from the CCTV footage that he was sifting through with Feldman and half waved at Rosen. Feldman stayed glued to the images of last night's traffic coming into Lewisham as it flickered on their laptop screens.

On the other side of the room, Corrigan was weighing in with Bellwood, her desk flooded with paper. The rimless glasses on Corrigan's nose softened the toughness of his face.

‘What's up?' asked Rosen. He took in the state of Bellwood's desk and acknowledged their labour with an appreciative nod of the head.

‘Nothing out of the personal contacts. We've narrowed down a couple of oddities in the business list, and one that strikes painfully close to home if your home's called Lewisham,' replied Bellwood.

She handed Rosen a thin brown card file inside which were a handful of A4 sheets. Rosen sat on the edge of her desk and slid the papers into his hand.

‘Give me the overall picture,' he said.

Corrigan began: ‘John Glass borrows money from big financial institutions and lends that money to people who the big institutions wouldn't touch with a barge pole, because of county court judgements against them and the like. Scumbag.' Corrigan was becoming vexed, louder, and Gold and Feldman glanced over from the CCTV hunt. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. ‘He insures the loans with Lloyds of London but also secures them against the borrower's assets, their homes for example. It's win-win all the way for Mr Glass and pretty much bite-it-and-like-it for the borrowers.'

‘Carol?' Rosen drew Bellwood in.

‘Of the four-hundred-plus business contacts, twenty-seven are within the Greater London area. This includes Barclays and several other big institutions. The DCs' next job is going to be going behind the door of the banks and exploring the question: “Who knows John Glass well enough within these companies that they could have met his son?” OK, the two interesting finds are' – she indicated the papers in Rosen's hands and he looked at the top sheet – ‘Fingertips Escort Agency.' Rosen hurried past a flier of a blonde in expensive lingerie. ‘He could have a financial interest in the agency or it could just be where he gets his nasties off. Backburner that one for now.'

Rosen read the next sheet. ‘Outlook. What's Outlook?'

Outlook

[email protected]

www.outlook.org

02085151115

‘It's the only charity on his contact list. It was based in Deptford—'

‘Was?' queried Rosen.

‘Yes, was. . . within spitting distance of Lewisham. The idea was to train up and get young, unemployed kids off the scrapheap. The Prince's Trust, but without that clout. I got those details from the Charity
Commission office because Outlook's website's folded, as has Outlook itself. What do you reckon?' asked Bellwood.

‘If you wanted to commit suicide, John Glass wouldn't give you a push off the bridge for free. So, what's he doing with a charity on his associates list? I don't get it,' said Rosen.

‘Nor do we,' said Corrigan

‘How far have you gone with this?' asked Rosen

‘Outlook. Fingertips. We think they're linked, but we don't know how.'

The door of the incident room opened. Rosen looked across and he smiled. ‘Boy, am I pleased to see you,' he said. ‘Come in, Tracey.'

28

8.10 P.M.

T
racey Leung, long dark hair and mid-thirties, walked in briskly, casting around the room and making eye contact with Rosen. She was a good-looking Chinese woman, and had perfected a gloss that made her look like she'd just won an arm-wrestling match with Satan.

Rosen waved Gold and Feldman over to his desk. As they gathered around it, he noticed the green tip of a serpent's tail, a tattoo on Leung's left forearm, peeping out from the edge of her sleeve. It appeared the story was true: when she'd been working deep undercover infiltrating the Wo 51 C Triad, she'd had the gang's totemic logo tattooed onto her skin to foster trust.

‘So how're the gangs of south London treating you, Tracey?' asked Rosen.

‘The death threats are becoming less courteous, but I guess that's a sign of the times.' DS Leung cut to the main business. ‘Gang members with access to guns? I've got some names and faces to share with you,' she said. ‘The Bannerman Square gun incident, right?' Leung sat down on Rosen's seat and asked, ‘What's your take on it, David?'

Rosen met all present eye to eye. ‘It's possible Thomas was taken by a cult of some sort.'

Leung let out a low, thin whistle.

Rosen flicked open his notebook and showed the symbols from Bannerman Square. ‘I found these on the wall behind that painted eye. Any ideas?'

Silence from Gold and Feldman, and a short head shake from Corrigan.

‘We missed them?' Bellwood was vexed.

‘Could be that what happened to Thomas was some sort of public human sacrifice. I'm guessing,' said Rosen.

‘And where do my parishioners fit in on that scenario?' asked Leung.

‘I've got a description of the gunman from the mum with the buggy, the one we saw on CCTV. Head to foot a street-gang member. Probably. So the person who took out the CCTV camera was a gun for hire.'

‘That figures, totally,' said Leung.

She took out a lean folder and passed it to Rosen. ‘There are seven names in here. These are people who have access to guns. Four of them are locked up. The other three are within a one-mile radius of Bannerman Square: Patrick Ruskin, Jay Trent, Oliver Jones. Ruskin and Jones are Brockley Tribe – they're still a unit, but it's embarrassing for them at their age, hanging with thirteen year olds. Trent's nineteen years old, the last member of the Stockton Squad, burned out and in a gang of one. His former buddies are either in YOIs or have split town to get away from him. Ruskin and Jones have only been convicted of minor offences; Trent, we've never been able to pin anything on. When his mates were being packed away by the courts, none of them said a word about him.'

‘How'd he manage that, Tracey?'

‘Terror and a twisted cult of personality. When Trent was fourteen, he and another Squad member were cornered by three older rivals from another gang. They were armed with chains and metal bars. Trent's mate did a runner.'

‘How badly did he get mauled?' asked Rosen.

‘He didn't. He hospitalized the three of them, got their weapons from them and laid into them. When he caught up with the runner, he put him in a coma and went straight to the top of the heap. His capacity for vengeance is matched by his skill in close up and personal violence. They were all scared to death of him. Look at their pictures. Do they ring any bells?'

Rosen pointed at the middle of three mug shots that Leung had spread out on the desk. The youth had cropped black hair with carefully shaved parallel zigzag patterns on the side of his head. He looked directly at the camera as if he wanted to kill the photographer but, beneath his nose, he pouted like a petulant child.

‘The lovely Jay Trent,' confirmed Leung. ‘Eighteen months back,' she prompted, ‘by the cricket ground on Hilly Fields. . .'

‘I know,' said Gold. ‘Hate crime – beat a gay teenager to within an inch of his life. This was on the front of the
Evening Standard
when he was charged.'

It came flooding back to Rosen. ‘The victim pulled out of giving evidence the day before the trial, said he'd been mistaken in fingering Trent. Motive for this attack, Tracey?' he asked.

‘Trent told his victim, whilst kicking him in the head and body forty-eight times, that he, quote' – Leung was reading from a file – ‘“. . . fucking hates queers, I'd fucking round you all up, castrate the lot of yah, stick your stinking balls down your fucking throats, then I'd herd you into cattle wagons and send you to a concentration camp, starve yah and gas yah, you fucking perverts.” Shall I go on?'

‘I get the picture. Does he have Nazi sympathies?' asked Rosen.

‘No political ideology whatsoever. Just a load of hate and aggression.'

‘Who's employed him to use his gun in the past?'

‘Loan sharks, drug dealers – the sight of a gun usually scares people into paying up or backing off. He hasn't got the capital or the infrastructure to loan shark himself, and he's too smart to deal drugs.' She looked at Rosen. ‘What kind of gun was it? What kind of
bullets were used on the CCTV camera?'