What She Saw (27 page)

She made no physical or verbal response.

‘Open the bloody door, woman!' Rosen felt as if his head was going to explode.

‘Did you get my letter, Ms Conner?' asked Bellwood.

She squinted at Bellwood, wiped her lips with the back of her hand and responded, ‘Letter? What letter?'

‘Open the door and let us in,' snapped Bellwood.

The door was shoved shut, the chain rattled and then the door opened sufficiently for Bellwood and Rosen to enter.

As they did, the stair door to the landing opened and two pairs of footsteps followed. Henshaw called, ‘Social worker's here.'

‘Fucking social worker?' Macy's mother suddenly sounded wide awake. ‘What's going on here?'

In the narrow hallway of the flat, she made a physical gesture with her whole body, as if to block Rosen's path.

‘Don't bother, Ms Conner!'

‘You caught the two men who attacked her yet?'

‘Show me where she is,' said Rosen. ‘Show me where she's sleeping.'

‘Why should I?'

A tall, thin woman stepped between Rosen and Macy's mother.

‘I suggest you follow DCI Rosen's instruction,' said the social worker.

‘And who the hell are you?' Macy's mother asked.

The social worker raised the ID badge hanging from her neck.

‘Where is she?' asked Rosen.

He followed Macy's mother, noticing the whiff of expensive perfume
drifting from her body, the good quality of her nightdress completely at odds with the squalor of the flat.

The living room was like a shell. A single sofa that looked like it belonged in the 1970s faced a primitive digital TV, which was standing on a worn carpet that didn't stretch to the skirting boards. The walls were grey; the window, overlooking Bannerman Square, had no curtains or blinds and the energy-efficient light bulb above their heads had no shade.

Rosen recalled how his mother had alleviated the bareness of their flat in Walthamstow with colourful paper flowers, could hear her voice, always cheerful:
It's not where you live, it's how you live that matters
.

Macy's mother knocked on a heavily dented door that looked as if someone had punched it hard, over and over.

‘Macy, Rosen and Bellwood're here to see you.'

Silence.

Rosen looked beyond the open door of the kitchen. A two-burner cooker, a fridge, a table with three odd chairs and a sink full of unwashed dishes. A cockroach walked across the threshold.

Bellwood glanced at Rosen as Macy's mother banged harder on the door.

‘Macy, wake up, the police're here!'

She opened the door, appeared a little surprised but not alarmed.

‘Oh. She's not here.'

Panic seized Rosen.

‘She's not here,' said Rosen, his voice rising with the mounting anxiety inside him, ‘because she's been abducted.'

64

6.04 A.M.

‘
A
bducted!' Macy's mother laughed. ‘What time is it?' she asked.

‘It's just gone six in the morning,' replied Rosen.

‘She often wakes up with the birds and goes for a walk.'

Rosen looked around the flat. There was nothing for Macy to do, nothing to comfort her, and he understood why she would walk the streets at dawn.

Rosen held Macy's mother's gaze.

She appeared not to notice. ‘She's usually down the library, filling her head with all kinds of shit. But the library's not open at this hour.' She paused, light dawning. ‘I know where she'll be. She babysits for a neighbour, sleeps over some nights.'

‘Name?'

‘Chelsea.'

‘Booth?'

‘You know her?'

‘4E, next floor down. Check it out, Carol.'

‘Oh, you know her.' The woman mocked Rosen. ‘You one of her clients?'

As Bellwood rushed from the living room to the front door, Rosen
positioned himself to see the interior of Macy's room. A single bed, one pillow with a single blanket and a small stack of clothes on the floor. It was more like a monastic cell than a young girl's bedroom.

‘What did you buy her for Christmas?' asked Rosen.

‘Sorry?' replied Macy's mother.

‘You heard.'

‘OK, OK!' The social worker touched Rosen's arm.

‘Open the doors of the other rooms.'

‘Have you got a search warrant?'

‘Your daughter's not in her bed, and it's just gone six on a Saturday morning. Open the other doors, Ms Conner.'

‘She's not like other kids, she don't even like toys. I tried to get her into them, cuddly toys and dolls and the like, but all she said was, “They ain't real.” So, no, I didn't buy her a Christmas present. I give her the money instead, all right!'

Rosen gazed into the poverty of Macy's room. He had seen brighter cells in Brixton Prison.

‘Open that door!' Rosen pointed at a door adjacent to Macy's room.

‘I gave her money and she bought sweets if you must know.'

‘I said, open that door!'

Reluctantly, she pushed the door open.

The bathroom. Rosen's scalp tingled. A dripping tap on a corroded sink, a bath full of cold dirty water, the end of a bar of soap on the side, a solitary towel wet and bunched on the floor, a toilet with a broken seat.

Two more doors directly faced the cell that was Macy's room. Rosen was struck by an unbalanced equation: Paul. Mother. Grandmother.

‘Open that door, Ms Conner.' Rosen pointed to the right-hand door opposite Macy's.

As she opened the door, Rosen was hit first by the smell of cheap cologne and then by the vivid artwork on the wall, each square centimetre of space painted lovingly with graffiti art. The name ‘Macy'
dominated each wall. Images of the girl – baby, toddler, infant, child – covered the walls.

Rosen stepped inside and made a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, stopping mid-way when he saw an eye identical to the one aerosoled on the wall in Bannerman Square.

Rosen looked at Macy's mother and indicated the elaborate artwork on the walls.

She touched the side of her head and said contemptuously, ‘Paul? He was obsessed with her from when she was a baby. I think he was seven or eight when she came along. He did everything for her. So I let him, the little crank. Saved me a job.'

‘Where's Paul?' asked Rosen. ‘Where is Macy's brother, Paul?'

‘I don't know. He comes and goes.'

Rosen walked out and to the next door.

‘I'm assuming this is your room. Open the door, Ms Conner.'

‘Well, I know for a fact she ain't in there, because I've just come out of there when you woke me up at this hour. So I don't need to open that door, do I?'

‘Open the door, Ms Conner – she may have gone into your room when you were opening the front door to let us in.'

‘She's not in there; I'm telling you.' Rosen stared hard at her. ‘It's private. It's my room and if you want to see my room, you'd better get a fucking search warrant.'

‘Your daughter's missing—'

‘She'll be with that slag, Chelsea—'

‘And what if she's not?' asked Rosen.

‘And what if she is?'

‘Open the door!'

‘Open it yer fucking self.'

He turned the handle and pushed the door wide open.

An elegant and tastefully decorated bedroom: an antique brass double bed, Laura Ashley wardrobes, a Brinton fitted carpet, a plasma
TV mounted on the wall facing the bed, a box of chocolates on the bedside, on the dressing table designer perfumes, a hairdryer and GHD straighteners, an open bottle of wine, an iPad.

Rosen turned to her. She looked back nonchalantly.

‘Where does Macy's grandmother sleep?'

She appeared not to hear but then, quietly, said, ‘Grandmother?'

‘Macy said her grandma was seriously ill, that she was living here with you and couldn't be left alone.'

Her face became twisted and perplexed. ‘Sorry?'

‘Macy's grandmother?' questioned Rosen.

‘She doesn't have a grandmother. I was taken away from my mother when I was born. So I don't even remember her. Macy's father walked out when I was seven months pregnant. His mother was dead according to him, the bastard. What's she been saying? What's she been saying about a sick grandmother?'

‘That her grandmother was terminally ill and was here with you.'

Macy's mother laughed, a harsh, almost mechanical laugh that seemed to go on for ever.

‘Calm down,' said Rosen.

‘You're the one that needs to fucking calm down, Rosen.'

She lit a cigarette and let out a long, thin stream of smoke. ‘She's been taking the piss out of you, Rosen. But that's Macy for you. She's a piss-taking little bitch. A liar. She gets these fantastic ideas in her head and spins a yarn like you wouldn't believe. Acts out these little plays in her bedroom, with all these funny voices. I wouldn't believe a word she says if I was you. I don't.'

‘Such as the two men running away from Bannerman Square, the two men who hit her and stole her money?' asked Rosen.

‘No! That happened,' she insisted. ‘You saw the bruises. She had to go to Accident and Emergency with Paul.'

In the background, Rosen recognized Bellwood's footsteps, hurrying back towards the flat.

Rosen looked once more into the spartan space that was Macy's room and the self-indulgent elegance of her mother's room and caught the eyes of Bellwood and the social worker.

The social worker started dialling on her mobile.

‘Who you calling?' asked Macy's mother.

Bellwood did a double-take at the contrast of luxury and poverty within the same living space. ‘I spoke to Chelsea,' she said. ‘Macy left there in the early hours to see to her grandmother.'

Macy's mother snorted with laughter. ‘She is such a good liar. There you go, you've all been fucking had.'

‘Have you any idea where Macy might be right now?' asked Rosen, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled.

‘I've said already. Try the library when it opens. Maybe she's visiting her sick grandmother.' Macy's mother followed Rosen to the door. ‘Don't be making any judgements about me. Don't be trying to make me feel bad, because I don't. She fucks off in the middle of the night, but she's old enough to know better. See what I mean?'

At the door, Rosen turned on her, the anger and volume in his voice stunning and sudden. ‘Who hit her?'

‘It wasn't me!'

‘Who caused those bruises and cuts to her face?'

‘If you believe her, it was two men with hoodies.'

‘Who attacked her?'

She blew out a thin line of smoke.

‘Have you got a photograph of Macy?'

Without hesitation, she said flatly, ‘No.'

‘I'll be back.'

And he rushed to the door of the stairs.

Corrigan was on his way up, his hardened features made heavy by lack of sleep. Rosen called down to him, ‘We need it circulating to every station manager – we've got two missing children on the street. Macy
Conner, ten. Chester Adler, ten. They're connected. Classmates. I've got a picture of the girl on my phone. Get the boy's mother to supply an image. We need their faces on the street and on TV within the next half-hour. At this point, I believe they've been abducted by the people who took Thomas Glass and murdered Stevie Jensen.'

Rosen hit the fresh air and was filled with a disturbing certainty. Whoever was responsible for taking the children had insight into his head and heart.

He paused at his car, supporting his weight with his two hands pressed on the roof as the thought process came to its conclusion.

Children? My Achilles heel. The children are bait
, thought Rosen,
but I am the real target
.
Tonight I will burn alive
.

65

6.15 A.M.

T
rent's nine o'clock interview had been brought forward to six thirty, by which time digital images of Macy Conner and Chester Adler's faces had arrived at BBC News 24, ITN and the Sky news desks, with the urgent request to broadcast them as missing persons.

As the entire murder investigation team assembled in the incident room, Rosen refocused on the photograph of the hair found in Thomas Glass's mouth and made the futile wish that it didn't take two to three days working flat out for the DNA database to match the hair to any individual on their records.

Corrigan intercepted Bellwood and Leung as they approached Rosen, and handed them a plastic dry cleaners bag.

‘They opened up shop in the early hours for us. It's a little present for Jay Trent. Do you know what it is?'

Bellwood and Leung looked inside the bag and smiled at each other. Bellwood said, ‘Sure do.'

‘Tell him not to worry about the bill,' said Corrigan. ‘Cleaning bills are gonna be past tense for Trentie.'

They turned to Rosen and he handed each of them an envelope.

‘Trent. Enhanced CCTV and pictures of the boyfriend.'

‘I haven't seen these yet,' said Bellwood.

‘Prepare yourself.' Rosen glanced at his watch. ‘Not pleasant.'

She slid the photographs out of the envelope and flicked through them, with a face that was both depressed and disappointed.

After a few moments of silence, Leung asked Bellwood, ‘What is it?'

‘These were found under the floorboards of Trent's room?'

‘Yes,' said Rosen.

‘I know who the boy in the school uniform is,' said Bellwood. ‘Come on, Tracey. Jay Trent – let's get him.'

66

6.41 A.M.

J
ust beneath the polished apathy of Jay Trent's face, there was a burgeoning uncertainty. As he'd entered Interview Suite 1, Leung had whispered to Bellwood, ‘He hasn't slept a wink.'