What She Saw (3 page)

As Rosen joined him, Stevie's mother entered the room with two teas. Stevie paused in his scrolling.

‘I'm sorry, Mum. Not now. Please. OK?'

Without a word, she left.

‘I don't want my mum to see this. It's too. . . upsetting. Soon as I'd called the ambulance, I did this on me phone. You ready?'

Rosen nodded. ‘I'm ready, Stevie.'

Stevie pressed ‘play'.

On the screen in front of him, Rosen saw Thomas Glass on the pavement in Bannerman Square, his body wet, steaming and shaking, his face a blackened mask.

Rosen felt something clutching at his scalp, something sharp and metallic as his mind spiralled back for a moment to a time when he'd seen his first murder victim, a young woman with her head almost completely hacked off. Rosen clenched his fists at his sides, then focused on the screen again.

‘I asked him questions. I wanted to get whatever evidence I could.'

‘Good thinking, Stevie.'

Stevie had zoomed in on Thomas's face. His voice came through clearly: ‘Can you hear me? Nod if you can, OK.'

Thomas had nodded, sodium streetlight picking out his charred face. He had no eyelids, just red raw whites, one blacked at the centre.

‘Is your name Thomas Glass?' The boy nodded. ‘Were you snatched?' A pause and then Thomas nodded again. ‘Do you know who abducted you?' This time the boy had nodded as if he wanted to shout
Yes!
‘Was it a woman what snatched you?' He shook his head slowly. ‘A man snatched you?' The sound of an approaching siren, an ambulance, grew louder and louder. ‘Was it a man?' Stevie pushed and, distressed, Thomas nodded again. Then he had begun to scream and the film had stopped.

‘I couldn't take any more. I had to turn my back,' said Stevie. ‘I feel bad, like, turning away from him.'

‘Don't. You've been brilliant.'

Stevie looked at Rosen, uncertain.

‘I mean it, Stevie. You've been brave and shown presence of mind under duress. Your mother has every reason to be proud of you.'

Stevie nodded, digested Rosen's words. ‘Send it to my phone, Stevie.' Rosen gave him his number and, within a few moments, received the sequence on his iPhone.

‘You want me to delete it, Mr Rosen?'

When Rosen saw that the film had arrived safely to his phone, he said, ‘Yes, please. When you came onto the square, you didn't see anyone near the car, or running away from the car?'

‘Not a soul. I got back from a run around half seven, the Renault wasn't there then. Half eightish, I was revising, no car. About an hour later, there it was. On fire.'

‘Anything else, Stevie?' asked Rosen, gently.

Stevie shook his head and Rosen knew that, had he spoken, the boy would have dissolved into tears. Quickly, Stevie stood up and left the room.

His mother came back in, carrying the tea.

‘I have a son, Ms Jensen, a baby. I hope he grows up to be as decent as your boy,' said Rosen.

She beamed with pride. ‘Thank you, Mr Rosen.'

‘I apologize. I can't stay for tea.' Rosen smiled and left in a hurry.

5

11.01 P.M.

O
n Bannerman Square, the burned-out wreck of the Renault Megane rose into the air, lifted by a claw attached to the back of a large Ford pick-up. It was the start of its journey for forensic examination at Clerkwell Road Garage. Rosen reckoned it could still yield useful evidence.

Bellwood was staring at the wall next to which the car had burned.

Rosen approached on her blind side, asking, ‘What is it, Carol?'

‘I'm not sure.'

She pointed a beam of torchlight at the wall. It showed a piece of graffiti that, at first glance, looked like the scrawl on the nearby DLR station.

Rosen crouched for a better view.

It was the painted eye he'd glimpsed from the back of Gold's car. The low wall on which the eye had been painted was all that remained of a 1960s flowerbed. The quality of the artwork was impressive.

He broke it down into its component parts. The oval outline, top and bottom, was a thick band of black. Within the outline, the white of the eye was dappled with dark pinpoints that created a cast of grey within the white, a shadow effect that suggested the passage of light and made the eye seem alive.

‘Well?' said Bellwood.

Rosen glanced up at her.

‘I
think
it's good,' he said, ‘but you're the art buff. What do you think?'

Off duty, Bellwood spent a lot of time in London's galleries, and had strong opinions that were focused and knowledgeable. Rosen seized on her enthusiasm.

‘Graffiti art,' she said. ‘It grabbed me as I was passing it by.'

He turned his attention back to the eye and listened.

‘It's full of shadows. And they're well executed. You get this kind of detail, this kind of play of light in the work of top-drawer artists. This isn't just some snot-nosed kid looking for their fifteen minutes of fame in the neighbourhood. This work shows an understanding of technique and perspective.'

Rosen counted. From the iris to the oval outline there were fifteen lines that created the effect of the spokes of a wheel, narrow at the pupil and thickening as they progressed to the outline. She was right. In each line, the perspective was perfect.

Rosen heard Bellwood shiver on an in-breath and he wondered if it was because of the cold night and her damp gym clothes, or the image on the wall. She stooped beside him and gathered her coat together at her throat.

‘Look at the centre of the white – there's a perfect circle, the pupil with a dash of white dead centre, the suggestion of light caught amidst the passing shadows.'

Rosen took his iPhone from his pocket and started snapping the eye. In spite of his ingrained dislike of anything linked to graffiti, he said, ‘You're right, Carol, this is quality work.'

‘It's going to be an uphill slog with the locals,' said Bellwood. ‘I've heard there were over a hundred people at the tape at one point, and nobody saw the car being driven onto the square, nobody saw the driver get away from the vehicle, nobody saw the car being torched. Several
people saw the car burning – the same people who saw Stevie carrying Thomas to safety.'

Rosen looked at Claude House and did a quick calculation. ‘There must be a hundred-plus potential witnesses in there. Eight in the morning, we start door-to-dooring.'

‘David!' The sound of a no-nonsense Liverpudlian accent drew Rosen's attention to DS Corrigan, who was approaching quickly.

‘What's up?'

Corrigan, the rock at the heart of Rosen's murder investigation team, was agitated. Dark blond and with a hardened face that matched his track record in hand-to-hand violent confrontations, he stopped in front of Rosen with a look like he wanted to kill.

‘Fucking bad news. Check it out, David.' Corrigan pointed at a wall behind him, a wall overlooking the scene. ‘Premeditated. Bastards. That's what's up.'

6

11.11 P.M.

A
long plume of vapour streamed from Corrigan's nostrils. He was calming slowly but was still livid. Rosen gazed at the source of his trusted colleague's anger and immediately shared in his frustration.

On the back wall of a warehouse yard was a rectangular metal cage. Inside was a CCTV camera positioned to look directly over Bannerman Square. The cage and camera were mangled. Rosen felt his heart begin to race.

‘I just phoned CCTV central control,' said Corrigan, sourly. ‘The camera went down this afternoon. Nice timing eh, David?'

Deep down, Rosen smiled for the briefest moment. It never failed to amaze or amuse him how Corrigan, a detective with twenty years on the darkest streets of Liverpool and London, still took every criminal's spoilers so personally. As Bellwood was to calm, Corrigan was to passion; it was a good combination.

‘You're right,' said Rosen, shrugging, drawing in Corrigan. ‘It's no coincidence. Come and have a look at this.'

Rosen led Corrigan to the painted eye and flicked on a light.

‘We're going to have to get Tracey Leung from the Gangs Unit on board,' said Rosen.

‘How come?' asked Bellwood.

‘Yeah,' said Corrigan. ‘Why?'

‘She knows the streets. Vandalized CCTV. Graffiti. We need to know who could've spray-painted this masterpiece,' said Rosen. ‘I'll call her now.'

Rosen took out his phone, seeing the turning wheels of Bellwood's mind expressed on her face.

‘Tracey Leung?' Bellwood pressed him. Rosen found her on speed dial.

‘I heard a story she got her arm tattooed on an undercover op,' said Corrigan.

‘Yeah, I heard that,' replied Bellwood. ‘I reckon it's just a story.'

Rosen was through to Tracey Leung's voicemail.

‘You've reached Tracey Leung. Leave a message. I'll get back to you.'

After the beep, he said, ‘Tracey, it's David Rosen. Ring me as soon as you pick up this message. I need your help.'

Rosen observed Corrigan and Bellwood examining the eye like a couple in a gallery.

‘This is bad shit and I don't like it,' said Corrigan, as he glanced back at the trashed CCTV.

‘Like you say, bad shit,' responded Bellwood. ‘But all the same, very well made.'

7

2.28 A.M.

F
or a moment, Rosen stayed at the window, observing the scene in the resuscitation unit. John and Emily Glass sat side by side, their backs to the door, gazing at their bandaged son as horrific reality dawned fast.

On the other side of the bed, a tall, grey-haired man, with a patrician air, spoke to them. Emily collapsed into tears. Rosen considered backing off but remembered the words Thomas had said to Stevie Jensen: ‘They're going to do it again.' And he had known his abductor.

They were a well-dressed couple, good-looking and wealthy. Rosen knew his company was a successful one: Glass Equity, lending money to people who saw his adverts in the commercial breaks on daytime TV.

With no ransom demand and the recent turn of events on Bannerman Square, a financial motive to the kidnapping was dead in the water.

John Glass glanced over his shoulder and his eyes met Rosen's. The tempest of competing emotions on his face consolidated into hard-boiled antagonism, and Rosen knew that he was the cause of this reaction. The relationship between senior investigating officer and father of the missing boy – now victim – had been bad from the word go, and with each passing day of Thomas's disappearance, John
Glass had grown more entrenched in the personal blame he laid at Rosen's feet.

Glass mouthed something and turned his face away.

Rosen nodded at the sombre-looking CO19 officer at the door, his Heckler & Koch in both hands held diagonally across his bulletproofed torso.

As the tall man came out of the resuscitation unit, Rosen clocked his name badge.
MR CAMPBELL, PLASTICS CONSULTANT
.

He shut the door and asked Rosen, ‘Who are you?', his voice like an old-fashioned TV newsreader.

Rosen showed Mr Campbell his warrant card and went for a second opinion. ‘How do you think he'll do, Mr Campbell?'

‘The odds are stacked against him. The initial assessment was flawed. He's got seventy per cent burns, a twenty per cent chance of living. That's what I've just had to tell his parents.' The specialist nodded to him and walked away.

Emily Glass's forehead was on her knees, her hands linked around the back of her skull. Her husband put a hand on her shoulder. She lifted her hand and threw him off sharply.

In the eye of the crisis
, Rosen observed to himself,
an unhappily married couple
.

He knocked on the door and John Glass stood up.

As Glass moved from his son's bedside, Rosen recalled how, after Thomas had been absent from home for two days, the case of a missing child had converted into a potential murder enquiry, and the ball had passed to him.

Glass closed the door and eyeballed Rosen. ‘Happy now?'

‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Glass?'

‘At least he's turned up. That's progressed your investigation, hasn't it?'

‘No, Mr Glass. At this moment in time, I'm feeling many things, and happy certainly isn't one of them.'

‘You in charge, DCI Rosen?' His name and rank spoken like an obscenity. ‘You see, I'm in charge of over a thousand-plus people and when I issue an order that order is followed; when I issue an instruction it gets followed and results happen fast. So, you're either not issuing the right orders to the
handful
of coppers in your team, which makes you incompetent; or the people beneath you either aren't listening to you or aren't capable of doing their jobs—'

‘Mr Glass!'

‘I haven't finished. The end result being' – Glass pointed at his son – ‘and I blame you.'

Rosen waited, watched Glass breathing hard.