What She Saw (28 page)

Stone-faced, Trent's solicitor sat down next to him.

Looking directly at Trent, Bellwood formally opened the interview and placed the picture of him in the Renault Megane under his nose.

‘Do you still maintain this isn't you, Jay?'

‘Where's Rosen?'

‘He's busy. Something else has cropped up.'

‘So I'm not public enemy number one now. That's good.'

‘Jay, your present situation is lots of things. Good isn't one of them.' Bellwood reality-checked him.

‘Here you go, Jay,' said Leung. She placed the dry cleaners bag on the table. He made no effort to look at it or touch it.

Leung slid the lime-green Adidas jacket out of the bag and held it up for Trent and his solicitor to see.

‘This is the jacket you're wearing in that photograph. We found the dry cleaning ticket when we searched your room.'

‘No comment.'

Leung folded the jacket slowly, and carefully placed it back into the bag, which she left on the table.

‘OK,' said Bellwood. ‘We're still not sure about the age of the model in your indecent images because we don't know when they were taken. Maybe he's now seventeen or eighteen years of age, just, but it's not beyond the realms of possibility that the photographs were taken well over two years ago.'

She took the top photo: fully clothed, smiling, against a wall.

‘His name's Paul Conner and he lives in Claude House on Bannerman Square.'

Trent glanced up from the pictures but didn't look at either Bellwood or Leung.

‘How do you know that?

‘He was in the back of my car, yesterday.'

‘Bullshit. . .'

‘The day Stevie's body was discovered. His little sister, Macy, was in the front with me.'

‘Bull
shit
!'

‘I was giving her a lift home from school. Paul had come to collect her. When we were on Lewisham High Street we were behind the mortuary van taking Stevie Jensen's body away from Loampit Vale. Are you currently in a relationship with Paul Conner?'

‘No comment.' A muscle twitched in Trent's cheek. He drew in breath and blinked at the wall between Bellwood and Leung.

‘Well, that is progress towards the truth,' observed Bellwood. ‘You're not confirming but you're not denying any knowledge of a relationship with Paul Conner. Paul Conner's your boyfriend, isn't he, Jay? You'll feel better when you get it off your chest.'

‘My client's sexuality isn't the issue here,' said his solicitor.

‘Stop!' Leung held a hand in the air and leaned in the direction of Trent's solicitor. ‘He's a prime suspect in the murder of one child, and that murder is very probably linked to another murder. He has a
relationship with the brother of a key witness in this investigation. His own brother and that little girl have both gone missing. I suggest that his sexuality and the exact nature of his relationship with that little girl's older brother is very much the issue here. Do you understand that, Mrs Cairns?'

Bellwood stared at Trent across the table. In a matter of moments, he looked older and smaller.

‘He's got lovely hair.' Bellwood took the photograph back, made a show of inspecting it, caught Trent watching her over the top of the picture, dipped her eyes back. ‘I have to say, he's really good-looking. It's a shame he shaved his head.'

‘When'd he get his head shaved?' asked Leung.

‘The other day,' said Trent. His face wrinkled. ‘I don't know.'

Between them, the women nurtured the silence and, in that quiet, Bellwood had a moment of inspiration.

‘We're within a day or so of the result coming back from the DNA database, but we're fairly sure that one of Paul's hairs has turned up in Thomas Glass's mouth.'

Trent looked at Bellwood.

‘His hair in the boy's mouth; you at the wheel of the Megane on CCTV. You're in this together, you and your friend, Paul Conner. I think the time to stop denying the truth is now.'

Bellwood threw him a lifeline of machismo. ‘Let's go back a few steps, Jay. You gunned the CCTV on Bannerman Square, didn't you?' She faked grudging admiration. ‘Broad daylight, that took some nerve.'

‘Did you find a gun when you searched my place?'

‘No, but as soon as we find Paul Conner – he's not like you, is he? – he's going to sing the whole song his way. If I were you, I'd want to get my version of things over before he does.'

Silence, long and dense. And out of that silence came words that were little more than the clearing of a congested throat.

Bellwood waited for Trent's eyes to rise from a scratch on the table.

‘I'm sorry, Jay. I didn't quite catch that.'

‘It was his idea.'

‘Who?'

‘Conner.'

‘Paul?'

‘Yes, Paul.'

‘What was his idea?'

‘The fucking photographs, all right, the fucking photographs! He loves himself, thinks he's got a great future as a model or something, I only did it for a laugh, like to humour him, all right!'

‘So you are friends with Paul Conner?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Boyfriend, partner perhaps?'

‘He's not my boyfriend. I just. . . have sex with him.' Trent looked astonished. ‘That's not true! I don't know why I said that, you tricked me into saying it, yeah. . . that's it. . . You made, like – my sexuality's not the issue here. . . You made me say something false!'

‘I'm interested in this, Jay.' Bellwood pointed at the CCTV photograph. ‘We know this is you. We're waiting for a more detailed CGI analysis of your face and, nowadays, a face is as good as a fingerprint – better even.'

For a moment, Trent looked like he was going to start crying.

‘I'm not gay,' he said. To whom, it was unclear.

‘OK, let's try this. I'll give you a choice. We can talk about you and Paul Conner or we talk about you and Thomas Glass.'

He started beating the edge of the table with his fingertips, hammering out the rhythm of his speech as he said, ‘In the afternoon, I gunned the CCTV camera on Bannerman Square. I had no idea what was behind it or what was to follow, I swear to God, I didn't.'

He stopped beating the table.

‘Where did you pick Thomas Glass up from?'

‘I didn't.'

‘You've been caught on camera,' said Leung. ‘Every piece of action you've been involved in, you've wriggled your way out of. Time's up, Jay. You're not getting out of this one.'

‘Why did you gun the camera?'

His head sank and he looked completely ashamed.

‘Did you do it for money?'

He shook his head.

‘Who told you to do it?'

Silence.

‘Did you do it for Paul, because you love him?'

‘No. . . no. . . comment.'

‘The cricket ground, Hilly Fields,' said Leung. ‘
I'd fucking round you all up, castrate the lot of yah, stick your stinking balls down your fucking throats
. Is that why you beat up that young homosexual male?' Leung threw a grenade. ‘Was he cutting in on your action with Paul?'

‘I fucking warned the pair of them—' He made a noise in his chest. ‘Shut up your questions, you bitches!'

He whispered with his solicitor for close to half a minute.

‘My client feels unable to speak any further as he finds himself becoming emotionally more and more distressed. He requests respectfully that you give him a pen and paper and he'll make a written account of his involvement in this case in his cell. He categorically denies all involvement in murder.'

‘Pen and paper?' said Leung.

‘No problem,' said Bellwood. ‘But here's our condition. We have two missing children out there and no time to spare. You can write your account but you've got half an hour to do that. Do you understand me, Jay? Jay? I'm not closing the interview until you tell me you understand. Half an hour. Do you understand?'

He drew air through his nostrils and muttered, ‘Yeah.'

‘Thirty minutes. Get writing, I'm waiting.'

67

6.45 A.M.

A
fter a sleepless night in what felt like endless purgatory, Emily Glass lay still on Thomas's bed, her head pounding, and wished she was dead. She looked around the walls at the space collage, the one he'd designed himself and the one she'd commissioned the artist to paint. She looked at the rocket spewing flames from its tail, the moon silver and ethereal on the opposite wall, the sun burning with nuclear explosions, the planets arranged around it in perfect position.

How happy Thomas had been as he'd watched the artist realize his vision; how he'd stayed and watched, a normally shy child asking question after question.

Emily heard the doorbell ring downstairs but didn't care who it was or what they wanted. She lifted her head from the pillow and the pain was fierce. Slowly, she raised the rest of herself from the bed and walked to her son's bedroom door, each step an agony. Grief was not abstract; it was physical and overwhelming.

In the bathroom, she emptied an entire bottle of co-codamol into the sink and poured a glass of water. She looked at herself in the mirror and decided in that moment to take her own life, to join her son in death. For this she would need privacy and space. She moved to the
door to lock it, and heard her husband's voice downstairs, shouting behind a closed door.

The shouting grew louder: ‘Did you check the fucking lists before you emailed them, dickhead?'

Astonishment crept into her haze of misery. How could he get so worked up and passionate about work at a time like this? She heard a muffled answer and recognized the voice as Julian Parker, her husband's PA.

‘Yeah, well, I had the police asking me about that one. And dropping big hints.'

His voice dropped.

Without thinking or having intended to, Emily found herself halfway down the stairs.

‘I go through the database every week to make sure we've updated what matters and delete what isn't relevant. Your instructions, John!' She heard Julian try to defend himself now.

‘You're either lying or stupid.'

Her husband's ranting dropped in volume but grew more intense. She imagined he was poking his finger in Julian's face. Julian? She'd insisted on John employing a male PA given his track record with the others, the women PAs: women, woman, any woman.

Julian fought back. ‘John, I'm telling you to stop this right now.' But it only stirred the hornets' nest.

Emily was at the door.

‘I don't have to put up with this. I'll email you my resignation.' Julian opened the door; looked into her eyes.

‘Emily? Emily, I'm so sorry about Thomas. I – I have to go. I'm sorry.'

‘Stay,' her voice was little more than a whisper. She looked at her husband. ‘What have you been up to now?'

‘Nothing.'

She pointed at the papers in her husband's hand.

‘What's that?' she asked.

‘John's databases,' replied Julian.

‘Shut up!' said John.

‘Give it to me,' demanded Emily.

‘Look, this isn't the right time—'

‘Give it to me!' she raged. ‘Give it to me!' Her voice rose. ‘
Give it to me!
' She screamed at her husband.

In the silence that followed, she held out her hand but he replied, ‘No.'

‘OK,' she responded, quietly. ‘OK.'

She followed Julian to the front door, opened it for him and followed him outside.

‘Emily, get back in now!'

‘I'd be grateful,' she said to Julian, ‘if you would give me a lift into London. You are going into London, aren't you?'

She followed Julian to his car. He opened the passenger door.

‘Get in here now, Emily! Get back here now!'

She got into the car, closed her eyes tightly and, as Julian pulled away, she stuck her fingers in her ears to block her husband's voice.

‘Whereabouts in London do you want to go to?' asked Julian, the electronic gates of the walled-in Glass house opening.

As he pulled away, she opened her eyes, took her fingers from her ears and replied, ‘Isaac Street. Isaac Street Police Station.'

68

6.50 A.M.

C
helsea Booth was woken up by thirst. She struggled to open her eyes and, when she managed it, wished she'd taken her make-up off before she'd gone to bed. The pillow slip was covered in mascara and looked like Luke had been scribbling on it.

Feet on the floor, she made her way towards the kitchen, the silence in her flat appeasing the throb in her head. As she turned the tap and poured herself a cup of cold water, she recalled the visit from a police officer in the early hours and wondered if she'd dreamt it. Just as she wondered if she'd imagined the drunken stag party from Glasgow throwing money at her as if they were allergic to it.

She drank the water in one take. No, both things were for real. Police officer asking for Macy. Drunken Scotsmen handing over £200 for a five-minute pole dance.

Chelsea placed the mug in the sink and wandered over to Luke's bedroom door. It was so unlike him to sleep in and, judging by the stillness of his form, without fidgeting. She looked into her room at the alluring bed but decided instead she'd check on the baby.

He was completely covered by the duvet, his shape picked out by the indentations of the cover. She picked up a corner and lifted it slowly and carefully so as not to disturb him.

What she saw caused a sensation like a knife cutting the wires that held her together inside. She threw the duvet back.

In a tide of blood, her little boy's cat, Sparky, lay on the mattress with his throat slashed.

She recoiled and then pulled the duvet away completely.

Luke was gone.

69

7.05 A.M.

R
osen stood at the door of Trent's cell and raised the spy-hole cover. Trent sat on the floor, paper in one hand, pen in the other, head down; a young man at the edge of a void.