What She Saw (23 page)

At a quarter past nine, the three groups converged at the head of the narrow corridor.

Ruskin saw Trent and his face tightened as Trent stared coldly at him. Jones arrived. Ruskin threw a thumb jab in Trent's direction as Trent walked down the corridor. Jones called, ‘Faggot!' Trent looked back, shook his head and calmly responded, ‘Hear what he called you, Ruskin?'

‘You are so fucking dead, Trent!' responded Ruskin.

‘Maggot dick!' Jones heckled Trent.

Rosen closed the door of Interview Suite 1, insults still flying in Trent's direction through the fabric of the walls.

There was a glow on Trent's cheeks, a slight but distinct blush. Rosen gestured to the seats on one side of the table as he and Leung set up for battle on the other side.

Trent placed the flats of his hands on the surface of the table as Rosen formally opened the interview.

‘What were you doing three days ago, on the afternoon of April the twenty-eighth?'

Trent tilted his head, looked doe-eyed at his solicitor, Mrs Cairns. She nodded.

‘I'm still not sure what this is all about,' replied Trent, innocent, injured by suspicion. ‘OK, what was I doing three days ago. . . in the afternoon. . .?' He rolled his eyes left and right,
recalling
for his audience. ‘I got out of bed at two o'clock and had a shower. I got dressed and ate a bowl of Frosties in the kitchen. Then I went into the front room and put on a music channel called MTV and I played on my Nintendo DS. At a quarter to four or thereabouts, a taxi arrived dropping my little brother off from school.'

‘OK,' said Rosen. ‘Were you in or around Bannerman Square at all during the afternoon of Wednesday, twenty-eighth of April?'

‘I don't go to Bannerman Square if I can help it, it's too rough.'

There was a knock at the door. Rosen walked across and opened it. In his hand, Corrigan had a brown envelope. His eyes shone and, behind the door, he pointed in Trent's direction and raised a thumb. In the corner of the envelope, the logo CC4U.

‘Thanks for that, DS Corrigan,' said Rosen, evenly.

As he settled back next to Leung, Trent asked, ‘Why? What happened in Bannerman Square, three days ago?'

Rosen blanked him as he carefully slid out the contents of the envelope.

There was a digital photograph and a covering note.

Keeping the blank side in Trent's direction, Rosen and Leung examined the enhanced CCTV image of the driver of the Megane. The picture was clear. Trent in the driver's seat; Thomas in the back with Trent's hand on his head. One of Thomas's eyes looked inflamed, and there was something in his hand.

They read the covering note from CC4U:

DCI Rosen – an initial digital forensic comparison of the faces of the driver of the Renault Megane and the mug shot show this is one and the same character. More-detailed report to follow, along with close-ups of driver and child in rear of vehicle.

Rosen and Leung looked at each other and then at Trent.

‘Mr Trent,' said Rosen. ‘Do you own a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap?'

‘That's so last year, that's so not me.'

Rosen leaned into Leung and whispered, ‘Duty magistrate, we need a search warrant, quick as can be issued.'

Leung left the room.

‘What about the night of Wednesday, twenty-eighth of April?' asked Rosen.

‘What about it?'

Slowly, Rosen turned the CCTV image towards Trent, watching his eyes as the picture became apparent. He stared dead-eyed at it, unflinching.

Rosen clocked the solicitor's face, the barely concealed surprise in her face.

‘Do you know the little boy in the back seat?'

The solicitor scribbled a note, showed it to Trent.

‘No comment,' said Trent.

‘The little boy on whose head your left hand is resting?'

‘No comment.'

‘Do you recognize the driver?'

‘No comment.'

Rosen leaned back, looked at the solicitor, then at Trent.

Mrs Cairns spoke up. ‘I'd like to request a break, please, so I can advise Mr Trent.'

‘Absolutely not,' said Rosen, sliding the note from CC4U across the table. As his solicitor read it, Trent looked away. She nodded and tried very hard not to look like a woman who'd walked into the opening blast of a fire-storm.

‘This ain't the first time I've been maliciously harassed by police.' Trent spoke to the space between Rosen's eyes. Fear had kicked in hard, and its shadow, anger, was animating his features.

Rosen said nothing, just drilled his eyes into Trent's.

Trent turned to his solicitor. ‘This is shit. They've paid to have this picture manufactured to set me up. Just like the celebrity magazines use computer software to make fat bitches look skinny.' Trent turned his head and smiled at Rosen.

‘As in,
The eye is the believer. The eye is the deceiver
?' Rosen curved the question, but Trent looked completely baffled.

‘What are you talking about, Rosen?'

‘Thinking out loud.'

‘Anyway! Anyway, I've got an alibi.'

‘Go on.'

‘Wednesday I was in all night, babysitting my little brother.'

‘We'll talk to him then.'

‘You do that,' said Trent, as if granting permission.

‘I'm about to notify the custody sergeant that I'm suspending this interview and that you, our prime suspect, will shortly need to return to your cell. We'll talk to your brother, after we've searched your house.'

‘Whatever.'

Rosen rang the desk. Silence. Neither Trent nor his solicitor looked in his direction.

A knock on the door. The custody sergeant entered, his face heavy. ‘DCI Rosen? A word please.'

Rosen walked across and closed the door after himself. He looked at the sergeant and knew bad news was imminent.

‘We've just had a call from Lewisham Hospital. Thomas Glass is dead.'

‘Thank you for telling me.'

The blunt pain Rosen carried at all times sharpened into the most utter sorrow. He closed his eyes for a moment of respect. ‘Poor little boy.' Rosen opened his eyes. ‘Sergeant, release Ruskin and Jones immediately. Stick Trent in the cells.'

Walking to the car park, Rosen thought about the image of Thomas Glass in the envelope in his hand.

He was sure of one thing and certain about another.

In the enhanced picture, Thomas looked like he had a wounded eye. In his hand, he held his Nokia mobile phone. It was through this phone that Rosen was increasingly convinced his death sentence had been served.

The sound of a passing train drifted on the wind, its rhythm sparking off a chain of words inside Rosen's head.
See we is many. See I are one; See we is many. See I are one
. . . over and over.

54

9.38 P.M.

O
n the ground floor of Lewisham Hospital, Bellwood waited outside the Bereavement Office and noticed the absence of sound behind the closed door where John and Emily Glass were talking to a bereavement counsellor. She'd been told when she arrived ten minutes earlier that they'd been in with the counsellor for over an hour.

In all her time as a police officer, she had never got used to dealing with the parents of dead children. It didn't get easier and she hoped it never would.

She listened. A slow and rising tide of blurred and interchanging voices coming closer to the door indicated that the meeting was coming to a close. When the handle turned and the door opened, an elderly woman with a kind face smiled at Bellwood and asked, ‘Yes?'

Bellwood showed her warrant card. She looked across the woman's shoulder and saw John and Emily Glass standing behind her, washed out, silent, not touching.

‘Mr and Mrs Glass,' said Bellwood.

‘I don't think they're up to questioning,' objected the counsellor.

‘I've come to offer my condolences,' replied Bellwood, directly to Mrs Glass and, turning to her husband, ‘and to give you an update.'

John Glass turned back and sat down on the nearest chair. The counsellor whispered in Emily's ear and she shook her head.

‘I'm taking Emily with me for a coffee,' said the counsellor.

‘Of course,' said Bellwood. ‘Thank you.' She closed the door and faced John Glass.

‘DCI Rosen apologizes for not coming in person, but we have a suspect in custody at present and he's conducting a search of the suspect's home.'

Glass was quick to respond. ‘What's his name?'

‘I can't tell you that. He's been questioned. He hasn't been charged. Yet.'

‘How was he involved in what happened to my son?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out.'

‘Is he young, old, middle-aged?'

‘He's a young unemployed man from south London. Thomas indicated to the boy who tried to help him that he knew his abductor. Do you know if Thomas knew any young unemployed men from south London?'

‘As if.'

‘Or if he knew of him through you?'

‘What are you driving at, Bellwood?'

‘I'm waiting on information from the Charity Commission office. We're pursuing a line of enquiry that our suspect was linked to a now-defunct charity.'

‘What charity?'

‘Outlook.'

‘Outlook?' John Glass looked blank.

‘The name Outlook doesn't ring any bells for you?' asked Bellwood.

He looked beyond her and gave the impression he was digging deep. ‘Never heard of Outlook.'

Bellwood counted to five in silence. ‘It was listed in your contacts details.'

‘Well, I've never heard of it.'

‘OK, but our suspect. . .'

‘Why don't we cut the crap and you just tell me the name and I'll tell you whether I know him or not?'

‘Our suspect entirely fits the bill for the remit of that failed charity. Outlook existed to help get young unemployed people from south London back into education or into a job.'

‘Why would I support a charity like that?'

‘I've no idea,' replied Bellwood.

‘I don't do charity,' said Glass, contempt for such a pursuit marbled through his tone.

‘That's absolutely your prerogative, Mr Glass.'

‘Wait a minute.'

‘Yes?'

‘Do you know how many begging letters I receive every week? Hundreds. I get begging letters from individuals who think the world owes them a living and I get begging letters from people in charities acting like Jesus-on-a-stick. And they all come through my company. We have a policy that I imposed. Record all incoming mail and send the begging letters straight to the shredder. It's obvious what's happened here: there's been a clerical error. Some idiot's sent Outlook's details through to my database.'

‘OK.'

‘I'm out there to make money, plain and simple.'

Bellwood considered Fingertips, the escort agency on Glass's list.

‘So, do you invest in other companies, other businesses?'

‘Such as?'

‘Restaurants? Leisure pursuits?'

‘Too risky. I lend money. Money I know I'll get back one way or another. End of.'

So you're a client of Fingertips
, thought Bellwood.
Or did that just slip accidentally from one database to another?

Even through the rawness of his grief, there was a defensiveness about Glass that manifested itself as an aggressive veneer. He looked away from Bellwood's face and she was conflicted between sympathy for a grieving father, and cast-iron suspicion of a man she felt convinced was lying to her.

‘I'm deeply sorry about your loss, Mr Glass. I'll leave you now. DCI Rosen asked me to tell you that he'll visit you personally at the earliest opportunity.'

‘Tell him not to bother. Tell him to spend his time and energy catching the sick fuck who did this to my son. My son's dead now, so my dealings with you cowboys are over. Tell your boss. Tell him I don't want to see him ever again.'

Bellwood opened the door. Down the corridor, she could see Emily Glass sitting, head in hands, next to the counsellor, on a double seat screwed to the wall.

She realized that she didn't know whether John and Emily Glass had been in an information-free bubble since their son's admission to hospital. She tried one last appeal. ‘Mr Glass, do you know what happened to the boy who tried to save your son?'

‘Yes, my PA told me, and I'm sorry for him and his family.'

‘As soon as we have anything concrete, we'll be in touch.'

Bellwood glanced back as she closed the door and was amazed by what she saw in that brief moment. As she was leaving the room, it seemed John Glass had been eyeing up her backside.

55

10.38 P.M.

‘
M
ake sure you get a full three-hundred-and-sixty degree sweep of the room, and when we get to lift the floorboards, I want a single tight shot of that action,' said Rosen to DC Blake, the officer responsible for filming the search of Jay Trent's bedroom.

Rosen folded back the duvet and, seeing the dried oval crust of a semen stain, lay it back down. He turned to the doorway, to Sylvia Trent, her arms folded tightly and narrow mouth clamped shut. She looked away from Rosen.

‘When was the last time you did the bedding?' The stale, masculine odour in the room was rank. ‘A week?' asked Rosen.

He beckoned Corrigan over and whispered, ‘Bag the bedding and get it out of here, ASAP. I want a list of every substance that comes up from the fabric and a DNA check on the sperm stain. I want it in three days, not six weeks. They can do it. Insist.'

Naked to the waist down, pumped-up muscles decked in outsized jewellery, 50 Cent peered at Rosen from the wall directly facing Jay Trent's bed. The glossy poster was the centrepiece of a shrine to toughness and machismo: Tyson was there knocking six bells out of Michael Spinks; Jason Statham pointed a gun, his gaze fixed on the viewer.
Eyes
.