What She Saw (30 page)

Rosen flicked back to the index. H. Human Sacrifice. Page 42.

The page was creased and made grey with over-use.

When the Romans came to Britain they were shocked to discover that the Celts practised the rite known as human sacrifice. Writing from the time tells us that the Celts used to burn convicted criminals, sometimes in huge cages called Wicker Men, as a sacrifice to the gods.

There was an illustration of a druid leading a young male towards a stake, where another druid held a burning torch to ignite the wooden
logs at the base of the stake. In the sky above, the sun was pictured as an eye, burning, an all-seeing witness to the human acts that honoured the gods. Under this was another illustration of a Wicker Man stuffed with men, cattle and other living beings.

She had underlined one line with pencil and then rubbed it out, but the indentation on the page was clear to see:

The Celts believed this rite would ensure the fertility of crops and the renewal of life.

Human sacrifice was most common in the Highlands of Scotland in the rite known as Beltaine Fires. Beltaine Night was celebrated on May Day, 1 May, each year.

Beneath the remorseless clock on the wall, Rosen read the day's date: Saturday, 1 May.

Tonight. Half past eight. Tonight. Five to eleven. Tonight
.

‘Did she ever talk about this book?' asked Rosen now.

‘No.'

‘I need to take it away with me.'

‘Do you have your library card? I'm joking. . .'

Patches of light formed in Rosen's mind, connections. The UV graffiti on Stevie Jensen's leg shot through his memory.

‘OK, we're going to plant an officer here today, Tim. Are you here all day?'

‘Till we close at five.'

Rosen handed Tim his card. ‘If she shows up, call me immediately on this number. If she shows, keep her talking, keep her here.'

*

A
S
R
OSEN SAT
in the passenger seat of Bellwood's car and she fired up the engine, he said, ‘Macy sat where I am?'

She pulled away, then answered, ‘And we're going to head past Stevie's scene of crime. Just like I did with Macy next to me.'

‘Quick 24,' said Rosen. ‘Carol, “See we is many. See I are one” – it's an anagram, it must be.'

73

9.15 A.M.

I
n the incident room, as she began calling round the team on her mobile, notifying them of the 6.45 P.M. meeting, Bellwood received a call on her landline from the front desk downstairs.

‘Thomas Glass's mother's in reception and she wants to speak to Rosen,' explained WPC Church.

‘He's just gone down to interview Jay Trent. What's happening?'

Church's tone dropped to confidential. ‘She's with a guy. It's not her husband. They've got information. Regarding the contacts in her husband's business database.'

Bellwood instructed WPC Church to escort Emily Glass and the man accompanying her to Interview Suite 2.

As she walked down the stairs to meet them, she called up John Glass's business database on her open laptop

She walked into the interview suite and heard the man speaking softly to Emily. She recognized his voice from a phone call they'd had. It was Glass's PA, Julian Parker.

Bellwood placed her laptop on the table between them. ‘I'm very, very sorry, Mrs Glass. We all are.'

Emily Glass took it on board and simply answered, ‘Yeah.'

Bellwood looked at Julian Parker. Julian turned to Emily and
said, ‘Ready?'

‘On the way over here, we've had a very. . . frank. . . discussion,' said Emily Glass. ‘About my husband. I've just found out. . . where he found the artist.'

‘The artist?' Bellwood coaxed.

‘He should've said, shouldn't he?' replied Emily. Her hands knitted tightly on her lap. ‘It was close, wasn't it? It was a link. Did he forget? I don't know.'

Bellwood looked at Emily Glass and the expression
It is the end of the world
ran through her mind.

Emily looked back at Bellwood and said, ‘I didn't know exactly where the boy came from? It was just London.'

‘London?' Bellwood tried to focus her. ‘London's a big place.'

‘Lewisham. Where Thomas was found. You'd have thought my husband would have remembered. I mean, it was only months ago that he came and painted the mural on Thomas's bedroom wall. I didn't know which part of London he came from; I didn't even know if it was north or south of the river.'

Bellwood cast her mind back to the phase of the investigation when Thomas Glass was a missing person and she had seen the intricate space paintings on the boy's walls. She resisted now the reflex to take out her phone on which she had photographed the planets suspended around the sun, the rocket, the Milky Way. Jagged panic curved deep within her.

‘Who came to paint the mural on Thomas's wall, Mrs Glass?'

‘All of a sudden, John,
John
' – she shook her head, articulating her chain of thought rather than answering Bellwood's question – ‘who couldn't give a damn whether the rest of the world lived or died, suddenly became this big philanthropist. Started talking about social responsibility, stopping the rot in London's rotten heart.'

Emily Glass covered her face with her hands. Bellwood focused on Parker.

‘You have the database on screen,' said Julian. ‘Scroll down and you'll find a defunct charity, Outlook. When Thomas asked for his room to be painted with a space mural, rather than commissioning a professional artist' – Julian glanced at Emily whose face and eyes were still covered. He made a quick gesture rubbing his thumb and fingers together, signifying money – ‘John decided he'd go socially responsible and support a young people's charity. Outlook. That's where he found his young unemployed artist.'

Emily dropped the mask of her hands.

‘Thomas loved him, couldn't keep away from him in the three days he was at the house painting the mural on his wall,' said Emily. ‘I think it was the happiest I'd ever seen him.'

The recollection of her son, alive and happy, pressed down on her and fresh tears ran down her face.

‘What was the name of the artist who painted the mural on Thomas's wall?'

Through tears, Emily was unable to speak.

‘Pee-Cee – I guess that was his street tag, his nickname,' replied Julian. ‘I personally handled the payment. His name's Paul Conner.'

As the name tripped into the air, Bellwood formed the name silently on her own lips.

‘Does that connect anything?'

‘Very much so. Thank you. That figures.'

‘Do you think. . . I can't bear to say it. . . do you think. . . Paul seemed so nice, so gentle and kind. . . do you think he might. . . have abducted. . . Thomas. . . and. . .' Words finally failed Emily as she struggled to address such an horrific idea; she covered her face with her hands again and wept into that shield of privacy.

Bellwood held Julian Parker's gaze.

‘DS Bellwood, I'm no longer John Glass's PA. If there's anything I can do to assist with your investigation, then I'll happily do just that.'

‘I'll be in touch,' said Bellwood.

She touched Emily's arm and spoke gently. ‘Do you have anything else to tell me?'

Emily shook her head and leaned forward, as if trying to find a hole in the air to swallow her alive. Julian folded an arm across her back.

Bellwood held a hand up.
Wait
. Parker sat back and Bellwood scrolled up so that the names of two organizations were visible on screen at the same time. Outlook and Fingertips. Bellwood pointed at each name in turn and looked at Parker.

‘Not now,' said Parker, barely audibly, indicating Emily.

As Bellwood escorted Emily Glass and Julian Parker to the door of the interview suite, she said, ‘I'll escort you to the front door. Can I just ask you one last thing? Did John Glass have direct contact with Paul Conner, face to face?'

‘Not that I know of,' said Emily. ‘But what do I know about him?'

‘No, as I said, I dealt with the payment for the work in Thomas's bedroom,' said Parker. ‘I'll be in touch, DS Bellwood.'

74

9.25 A.M.

R
osen sat alone at the table in Interview Suite 1, his phone in hand, listening to Bellwood's account of the meeting with Emily Glass and Julian Parker.

‘Tell Corrigan to go and track down John Glass and pick up the little bag of shit for questioning.'

The door opened as he closed the call down. The custody sergeant escorted Trent back from the toilet. His solicitor followed, her frustration barely contained beneath the surface.

Trent sat down opposite Rosen, and the custody sergeant asked, ‘Do you want me to wait with you, DCI Rosen?'

‘If you'd wait outside, please, Sergeant Morgan,' replied Rosen. ‘This isn't going to take a great deal of time because we simply don't have it to spare.'

As the sergeant closed the door, Rosen focussed on Trent. ‘Me
again
. Just for your information, we've just made a direct link between Thomas Glass and Paul Conner. As in
he knew his abductor
. Are you shielding Paul Conner?'

‘I'm not gay.'

Through almost gritted teeth, Rosen said, ‘I'm not interested in your sexuality.' He took a breath. ‘There are three children missing
now.' He took in both reactions in one glance: Trent deadpan; his solicitor looking away from Rosen. ‘Your brother, your
brother
, Jay. And a toddler called Luke Booth, and Macy Conner. You go off to your cell to pour your heart out with the written word and what do you come up with?' Rosen showed Trent the piece of paper and read aloud, ‘“Macy Conner.”'

‘She's an evil little bitch and she's not scared of no one.'

‘Oh, so you do know her?'

‘Yes. I reckon she planted those photographs under my bed when she came calling for Chester.'

‘Forget the photographs. Macy Conner? As in she's an evil little bitch and she's not scared of
me
?'

‘She'd better be.'

‘Scared of you?'

‘Scared of me, yeah fucking right.'

‘Mr Trent, calm down,' said his solicitor. ‘I'd like to request a break for my client.'

‘No,' said Rosen, thinking,
She isn't scared of you, Trent
, and asking, ‘Why are you scared of a ten-year-old girl?'

Trent stood up, picked up his chair and turned it round. He sat down and faced the wall, his back turned to Rosen. He, who had terrified others – grown men, gang members and hard cases into silence – had met his nemesis in a ten-year-old girl. If the whole situation hadn't been so dangerous, fraught and urgent, the moment would have been sweet and hilarious.

‘Well, we're getting there—' said Rosen.

‘No comment,' snapped Trent.

‘—bit by painful bit.'

‘No comment.'

‘Let's just hope—' Rosen raised his voice.

‘No comment.'

‘—we can get there—'

‘No comment.'

‘—before another person—'

‘No comment.'

‘—or before people get burned to death.' Rosen looked towards the door. ‘Sarge! Sergeant Morgan.' He stood as the door opened. ‘Before Mr Trent returns to his cell, I think his solicitor would like an opportunity to talk to her client. And, Mr Trent, I'm coming back for you.'

75

10.20 A.M.

R
osen inspected the hastily assembled missing-persons stand in the north wing of the Lewisham Centre. Blown-up images of Macy, Chester and Luke looked down on passing shoppers but, on their faces, recognition was absent. He thanked the constable and community officers manning the stand and walked away, his spirit dense with fear and the passage of time.

In the ground-floor toilet of the centre, Rosen splashed water onto his face to lighten the heaviness that dogged him. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on the wall and recognized the uneasy cast around his eyes: fear, naked and rampant. Words carouselled around his head. The rhythm of the graffiti,
See we is many. See I are one
gripped Rosen. A warmth erupted in his stomach and a lightness drifted around his being. The words seemed to echo from the walls.

He picked up a plastic bag from the sink next to him, his purchase from Toyland, and headed for the door.

See we is many. See I are one
. Each syllable like a fat drop of water in an endless rite of Chinese torture, each sound smacking the bone of his forehead.

‘See we is many. See I are one,' whispered Rosen, as he hurried past shoppers walking blithely through the mall.

In his bag there was a box. Scrabble. Plastic letters clattered and clashed inside the box just as the words of the anagram bounced around Rosen's brain.

See, are, I, see, I, see, are, many, we, see, are, is, are, one, see
.

As he hurried back to his car, the noise in his head grew louder than the thunder of traffic and the babel of human voices.

76

12 NOON

I
n Interview Suite 1, there was a new face across the table from Rosen and Bellwood. Instead of Mrs Cairns, Trent had a new solicitor, a young man who introduced himself as Mr McNulty. Trent sat stone-faced, his lips clamped.

Rosen addressed Bellwood. ‘Do you know why Mr Trent has a new solicitor?'

‘No.'

‘In the interests of fair play, Mr Trent, would you like to give your version of this morning's events?'

‘No comment.'

‘Then I'll explain to you as well, Mr McNulty. Last chance, Jay.'

‘No comment.'

Bellwood placed two envelopes on the table, the first with the enhanced CCTV image. CC4U had motored with their work, and the second contained specific close-ups of Trent.

‘OK,' said Rosen. ‘After our interview with Mr Trent this morning, Mrs Cairns had a discussion with him in which she stated her prerogative to resign from the case if she was of the conviction that her client was not being one hundred per cent truthful with her about his involvement in the crime we're investigating. Mrs Cairns
resigned. Because she knows you're lying through your teeth; as do we, as do you.'