Authors: Mark Roberts
‘The proximity between numbers 22 and 24 could be a coincidence. What do you think, David?’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. We know Herod was in 24 Brantwood Road recently. We know there was a murder there eighteen months ago. We know he abducted a woman from number 22 in
the last few days. Running parallel with this is a medical background. He knew which ribs to break, he knows how to perform a Caesarean section. That’s the only certain link.’
Rosen hung on to Flint’s connection to Alessio Capaneus, sticking to hard facts.
‘As a link it’s a useful one,’ said Bellwood. ‘But as a line of inquiry it’s going to be hard to progress.’
‘Granted.’ Rosen considered for a moment. ‘You know what we need to do, Carol?’
He went back in his mind’s eye to Mrs Swift’s bedroom, stopped at the dresser and scanned the surface, settling on one item.
‘We need to meet the children in the golden locket, the little boy and the teenage girl. And the girl whose bedroom was a museum.’
‘But the girl in the locket was the girl in the bedroom—’
‘No,’ said Rosen. ‘Two different girls. There was a picture of the girl in her bedroom. The girl in the locket had dark hair. The bedroom girl was blonde. We’ll go there
now. And, Carol, as soon as we’re done at Brantwood Road, I need you to dig out contact details for the Roman Catholic diocese of Southwark.’
‘Sure,’ she replied, with a mild twist of bewilderment.
As they walked, Bellwood’s phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text, which she opened without breaking her stride.
‘What is it?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s good timing. Text message from Parker and Willis at the Catons’ house. They want us to get over there now. Good news and bad.’
‘Tell them we’re on our way.’
‘Y
ou wanna see some dirty pictures?’ asked Parker, leading Rosen and Bellwood into Julia and Phillip Caton’s brand-new fitted
kitchen.
Sitting on a black marble-effect work surface was a laptop computer, turned on and casting a blue light onto the polished surface.
‘Where’s Willis?’ asked Bellwood. Parker pointed at Willis who was seated on the floor, back against the cooker, head slumped and asleep, hands folded in her lap.
‘We worked through the night,’ explained Parker.
Bellwood tapped Willis on the shoulder and she got to her feet instantly.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ asked Parker.
‘The bad,’ said Rosen.
‘The bricks that he handled in the loft,’ said Parker. ‘Not a single fingerprint on any of them. OK, disappointing to say the least, but have a look at this.’
Parker indicated the laptop. Onscreen, there was an image of a square wooden frame. ‘What’s this?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s the frame around the loft entrance,’ said Willis. ‘Watch closely.’ She moved on to the next image, a close-up of a section of the frame. ‘He’s
left us a present.’
‘Yes!’ Rosen saw a small, wet-looking stain on the wood.
‘What is it?’ Bellwood peered at the image, her view distorted by standing at an oblique angle to the screen.
‘It’s a fresh ear print. It’s the outside edge of his right ear. When he’s been doing his peeping Tom thing through the hole in the loft door, he’s printed his ear
onto the wooden frame.’ Willis moved on to the next image, a large close-up of the print. She drew her finger over the shape. It was an almost perfect outline.
Rosen picked up the laptop and held it close to his face, his eyes digging into the shell-like image of the place where all sound entered Herod’s head, the sounds made by the mothers,
their breathing, their pleas, their screams.
‘He’s a Satanist.’ Rosen dropped the statement casually. The power in the fridge’s motor shifted up a gear, its steady hum higher pitched.
‘Hang on, David,’ responded Bellwood. ‘We’ve had several forensic psychologists, some paid, some offering their advice gratis, but they all came to the same conclusion.
This is not an occult thing
. None of the usual supernatural gibberish – you told me this yourself when I joined the team last month.’
‘Let’s assume he’s a Satanist,’ Rosen repeated, slightly more quietly. ‘OK. There’s no Satanic graffiti on the victims; we’ve taken expert advice and
there’s no ritualistic precedent; there’s no significance in the murder dates and try as we might we can’t detect a pattern in the body drop-offs.’
‘Satanism’s got something in common with Christianity, David,’ replied Bellwood. ‘It’s a social activity. The sheer lack of forensic evidence shouts out that this
is the work of one man, not the collective action of a gang of counter-culture weirdos.’
Rosen suddenly heard Harrison’s voice in another room, coming closer.
‘Bear with me. Put the occult idea on the back burner. What have we got here and now?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘About the potential of this ear print,’ said Bellwood. ‘It’s clearly the most significant clue he’s left—’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Willis. She handed a small evidence bag to Parker, one he clearly hadn’t seen before. ‘I just went up for one more look; I had a feeling, you
know.’ Parker looked back at Willis, perplexed. ‘I fell asleep while I was waiting for you to tell you about it.’
It was short and black and looked greasy, almost wet.
‘Where’d you find it?’
‘It was jammed between the loft entrance and the flooring, right above the Catons’ bathroom. Near the ear print on the frame. He lost a hair in the process of spying on
them.’
Rosen gazed at the hair, transfixed. The ear print was one thing but the sight of Herod’s hair sent a surge of electricity through his body.
‘It was hard to get hold of the hair with the tweezers, as there was just a small piece poking out through the join between the entrance and the flooring. It felt coated in oil. To be
honest, even though I went over and over the loft entrance, I nearly missed it. What are we going to do with it?’ Willis asked.
Rosen knew exactly what he was going to do.
‘You remember that guy John Mason, the forensic artist who reconstructed the head and face of the first victim in the Black Box case? He had just one section of skull to work
from.’
‘Yes,’ said Bellwood. ‘Mason Forensic Images.’
‘Fingers crossed he’s available. Every constabulary in the country queues up for his help. We’ll copy him in on the hair and ear print. He did the Black Box job in twenty-four
hours.’
Rosen noticed that Harrison, who had now joined them in the kitchen, was positioning himself just out of his eyeline.
‘Any news, Robert?’ asked Rosen. ‘On the door to door?’
‘Yeah, actually. The old lady at number 35, she hasn’t answered her door. Until now. Says she’s got something to tell us.’
‘What did she say exactly, Robert?’ Rosen turned his head to look Harrison in the eye.
‘She said,
I want to speak to the nice young woman.
She’s been watching the comings and goings and she described you, Carol. She wants to talk to you,
the black
girl
, she said.’
‘OK, Robert,’ said Rosen. ‘Thanks for that. Now I’ve got a job for you.’ Rosen handed him a piece of paper on which Harrison silently read the words, ‘Alessio
Capaneus’.
‘Internet search. Go back to Isaac Street and find out as much as you can about this guy. There won’t be much but just keep going. Go as far as two hundred pages. Print off every
page. Show me you’ve been there. Go into any sites that throw up a meaningful match, print those sites off.’
‘Who is Alessio Capaneus?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out. While you’re looking, I want you to focus on any reference at all to a book or a pamphlet this Capaneus may possibly have
written.’
Rosen recalled the one detail that stood out from Harrison’s skills profile. He could speak Italian. He’d followed Sebastian’s pronunciation of the surname but Harrison had
turned ‘Cap-a-nay-us’ into ‘Cap-a-knee-us’.
‘And make a note of this name. Father Sebastian. I want you to get in touch with the Vatican and find out what his working history was in Rome. Was he or was he not a papal adviser, mid to
late nineties?’
Harrison reiterated, ‘Father Sebastian? The Vatican?’
‘Two tasks, Robert. Try to come up with the goods as quickly as you can.’
Harrison shrugged as he walked out of the kitchen into the adjoining room. As Rosen followed him, Harrison stopped, turned.
‘Yes?’
‘If you see Baxter, tell him I’m coming in to see him.’
‘Sure.’
Rosen stared at Harrison. Harrison looked away.
‘When you’ve finished on the internet and with the Vatican, leave everything you find on my desk.’ Satisfied that Harrison was aware that he was on to him, Rosen said,
‘OK, Robert, off you go.’
Harrison left and Rosen returned to the kitchen, bringing back the sour aura of the exchange in the other room.
Rosen smiled but said nothing. He could feel a cold twitch between his shoulder blades, a tender place for a long knife.
‘Where did you get this Capaneus thing?’ Parker said.
‘A Roman Catholic priest called Father Sebastian.’
‘Who’s this Capaneus? I’ve never heard of him,’ said Bellwood.
‘He’s pretty obscure. A thirteenth-century necromancer, who abducted and murdered six pregnant women, and cut them up for the foetuses.’
There was a dense silence in the kitchen.
‘I know what you’re all thinking,’ said Rosen. ‘That this is desperate. I don’t care if it makes me look stupid.’
He turned to Parker and Willis. ‘Call Gold or Feldman. If they can, get them to bring John Mason here to look at the hair and the print, but don’t let the originals go. If they
can’t get him, we’ll have to cast around for other forensic artists.’ He smiled at Bellwood. ‘OK, Carol, let’s go and see the old lady at number 35.’
A
t 35 Brantwood Road, Rosen positioned himself just out of the old lady’s line of vision and pressed record on his dictaphone.
‘Well, I was her best friend as far as neighbours go but that was a long time ago and it was all very tragic and, well . . . it was heartbreaking.’
In the brief journey from the front door to the living room, Rosen had learned, though Bellwood had not asked for the information, that the old lady was ninety-seven years old and that for forty
years she had been a primary-school teacher.
Bellwood, on a low sofa, looked up and smiled at Mrs Nicholas seated on the high armchair opposite as she folded her arthritic hands in her lap, cleared her throat with a genteel cough and fixed
her attention on her.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Mrs Nicholas. ‘If you have any questions could you please save them until the end.’
‘Of course.’
And put your hand up first
, thought Rosen, with the faintest yet clearest sensation that their luck was turning.
‘Isobel Swift was the kind of neighbour anyone in their right mind would wish for. Nothing was too much trouble for her. She kept herself to herself but when you needed a helping hand she
had an uncanny knack of being there in the right place, at the right time. She was married to Harold and they had one daughter whom they simply doted on, Gwen . . .’ She paused in her
delivery and sighed under the weight of memory.
‘I’ll come to that later on. Isobel wasn’t just a woman who had an eye to help those immediately around her, oh no, she had a much broader social conscience than that. After
she had Gwen, she found she couldn’t have any more children because something went wrong at the birth. I don’t know the details, we didn’t dwell on such matters in those days, but
I suspect she had a hysterectomy. But after she’d had Gwen, Isobel and Harold – he was a lovely man, a true gentleman – decided they were going to foster abandoned children from
London orphanages. I kept count. Twelve long-term foster-children . . .’
Rosen made a mental note to pull the Social Services records. Twelve long-term foster-children, and yet Isobel Swift had lain dead and undiscovered in her bed for eighteen months. His focus
returned to the old lady.
‘. . . and my goodness, they were so good to those children, so good that the council used to send them short-term emergency cases, so many I couldn’t possibly keep count. Taxis used
to roll up at all hours with social workers carrying little bundles of life to Isobel’s door. You know, if a single mum got ill and had to go to hospital or a parent was arrested, it was
always the children who suffered.’
Mrs Nicholas took a couple of puffs on an inhaler. Rosen guessed her days, like her weeks, were largely silent and so talking was akin to vigorous exercise.
‘But their suffering was alleviated by Isobel.’ The old lady fell silent, long enough to warrant a question in spite of the retired teacher’s terms and conditions.
‘All those foster-children, Mrs Nicholas, and yet no one ever visited her? Why did she lie undisturbed all that time?’ Rosen asked, as if speaking a thought out loud.
‘It was 1973 or 1974. Everything changed then. Gwen was murdered just before Christmas, on her way home from school in the dark, a dreadful, dreadful time. December, it was 1973, yes.
Harold never got over it, of course. He ended up, you know, in a hospital.’ She indicated her left temple. ‘As for Isobel, she changed overnight. The big light inside her went out. She
had three foster-children with her at the time, one long term, two short termers. The last time I was over there, January 1974, just after New Year it was, three foster-children were lined up in
the kitchen and she was screaming at them,
Why couldn’t it have been you? Why are you still alive? Why aren’t you in the ground?
The children were crying, hysterical. I tried
to calm things down but she turned on me then, and slapped me in the face, called me an interfering – well, I can’t repeat it. They were lovely children. They were forever in and out of
here, passing a message for Isobel or seeing if they could earn a little pocket money by doing jobs for me. I even helped the ones that, you know, were a bit slow; I gave them help with their
reading.’
Mrs Nicholas leaned forward, staring at a point in space as if eyeballing the past. She came back to Bellwood. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,’ she said.