What She Saw (19 page)

‘What about the little girl, Macy Conner?'

‘She's an intelligent and truthful child, and we've taken measures to keep her protected.' He turned to Baxter. ‘Thank you for that, Tom.'

‘If anything happens to her,' said Baxter, ‘we're all going to look really bad.'

There were no more questions. Rosen closed the meeting as Baxter extended a folded copy of the
Evening Standard
towards him.

Rosen approached, took the newspaper from Baxter and unfolded it.

The front page. A photograph of John Glass. An image of
Bannerman Square and a headline:
INCOMPETENT
. Subheading:

Victim's father blasts police
.

Rosen handed the paper back and said, ‘There's a technical term for John Glass. Arsehole.'

Before he returned to the arches, Rosen had another place he had to visit. He looked at the clock on the wall and, at a pace that left him a little breathless, Rosen hurried out of the incident room.

44

6.40 P.M.

S
ergeant Valerie McGuinness, of Victim Liaison, opened the door of the two-bedroom flat that was once Stevie's home. There was no need for Rosen to ask how things were: he could hear two women weeping bitterly somewhere inside the flat.

‘His mother's with her sister, and WPC Jane Reid, in the bedroom. There's a family friend called Kaye Webb in the living room.'

‘How's Kaye holding up?'

‘Rattled as hell.'

‘Any chance she'll talk?'

McGuinness considered and said, ‘Maybe, yeah.'

‘I need some daylight on Stevie's last movements.'

Rosen entered and McGuinness indicated the door to the living room. The layout was almost a replica of the flat he'd grown up in, back in Walthamstow. He glimpsed the compact kitchen at the end of the corridor. These were his people.

McGuinness opened the living room door and ushered Rosen inside. Kaye, elbows on knees, face in hands, looked up. She looked as if she'd been crying for weeks.

McGuinness sat next to her and said, ‘This is DCI Rosen. Do you think you could answer a few questions?'

Kaye whispered through her tears and Rosen focused on the window that looked directly onto Bannerman Square. On the table by the window were Stevie's GCSE textbooks and exercise books, not touched since he'd last used them. Rosen wondered if they would ever be moved again.

‘DCI Rosen? Kaye is willing to try a few questions.'

Rosen sat down opposite the women. Kaye held McGuinness's hand tightly.

‘I was fortunate enough to meet Stevie the night before last,' Rosen started. ‘He was an exceptional young man and I can't tell you how sorry I am.'

Kaye nodded. ‘The sergeant at Isaac Street . . .' She took a cigarette from a packet on her lap and lit it with a disposable lighter. ‘When Marie, Stevie's mum, called at midnight, the sergeant said he couldn't record Stevie as missing. But he was missing. Stevie's the most reliable kid you could meet. Regular as clockwork.'

As McGuinness explained missing persons procedures, Rosen once again took in the trophies in the room, and recalled Stevie's words. His coach had said he was good enough to try out for the nationals. A bitter taste filled Rosen's mouth.

‘Kaye,' said Rosen, firmly but kindly. ‘I know Stevie left the house after six-fifteen to go running. Did he do the same every night?'

‘He didn't like the TV news and his mum does, so as soon as the news started, he'd get ready for his run, warm up in his room. Six-fifteen, six-twenty, he used to go for his ten-mile run. He used to do the same route every night because he promised his mum he'd stick to well-lit and busy main roads.' She took a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘Lewisham to Catford, round the back of Blackheath, Shooter's Hill up to Deptford, Old Kent Road, New Cross back to Lewisham. Back by seven twenty, tops. We walked it three times last night into the dawn, me, his mum and Jan, his auntie, looking for him. Went past him at Loampit Vale three times, maybe fifteen, twenty metres away down that alley where . . . his body was.'

Rosen worked out the distance from Bannerman Square to Loampit Vale: a mile; and the speed at which Stevie ran, average time: sixminute miles.

‘He never varied the route? Are you sure he wouldn't get bored and change the route, maybe go round the other way for variety?'

‘If he was going to change, he'd have told his mum. He was very safety-conscious. It was a safe route, he knew the traffic, he knew the crossings – he wouldn't even wear an iPod. “My ears are for hearing traffic,” he always said.'

Time of murder? Six minutes, seven or eight, even, to Loampit Vale. He was attacked before half past six.

‘Kaye,' said Rosen. He waited until she focused on him, through a stream of cigarette smoke. ‘To the best of your knowledge, does anyone round here know the route he took?'

‘Yes. People used to ask him where do you go? They were impressed. Mostly. People who weren't sure of his name used to call him The Runner.'

She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the sofa's arm and started crying again, assailed once more by what had happened to Stevie.

Rosen stood up. ‘Thank you, Kaye, I know how difficult this must be for you.'

‘What about his poor mother? How will she live?'

One slow and agonizing moment at a time
, thought Rosen, recalling Hannah, and the mind-warping grief her absence had caused him and Sarah.

‘Kaye, I need to go and check something, based on what you've told me.'

Absently, she nodded and Rosen walked to the door.

‘Thank you, Kaye.'

As he let himself out, Rosen was pierced by the forlorn words of Stevie's mother, drifting from the bedroom.

‘Why wasn't. . . it. . .
me
?'

Because you didn't help Thomas
, thought Rosen.
You didn't make yourself a target. Like Stevie
.

Once outside, he hurried towards his car.

A target. Like me
.

45

6.58 P.M.

‘
D
CI David Rosen, six fifty-eight pm,' he said to the constable now guarding the crime scene and running the log. He dipped under the tape and looked through the first of the three open arches, Silk Mills Path, at the pavement ahead, as far as Stevie went on his final run. With the possible exception of the killers, Rosen wondered if he was the last person Stevie had spoken to.

He looked to his left – two more open arches – and beyond that, the boarded-up arches that were the rear elevation of a car mechanic's workshop. Deeper in, the narrowing alleyway in which Stevie had been murdered.

‘What got you,' asked Rosen, softly, ‘from here to there?'

The same compulsion
, he thought,
that made you help Thomas Glass
. He recalled the rising emotion in Stevie's voice, the way the experience had impacted on the boy.

Slowly, Rosen retraced Stevie's final journey from open pavement to the hidden alley.

Was it a scream? The word, ‘Help', even?
wondered Rosen,
that stopped you in your stride and lured you to your death?
He walked past the back of the mechanic's shop, the sharp turn into a dead end. Bang! The place
where he was hit. The place he fell and was doused with petrol, the killers taking no chances this time.

Rosen stooped to look at the charred ground. He looked around the corner at the open arches.
They set fire to your eyes
. He felt a sudden dip in the temperature. Voices carried on the wind from the nearby street with its cafés and shops.

How neatly the abnormal and cruel tucked itself in next to the everyday humdrum.

His phone rang and he answered it.

‘Hi, David, it's Jeff Corrigan. Doctor Sweeney's just about finished his autopsy. You'd better get to the mortuary ASAP. There's been a development.'

‘Good or bad?' asked Rosen.

‘Weird,' replied Corrigan.

As he walked swiftly to his car, Rosen made a call.

‘James Henshaw,' replied the profiler.

‘James, it's David Rosen. I'm going to the Dale Street mortuary, the second body—'

‘I can be there in twenty minutes.'

46

7.15 P.M.

F
or the third time in the space of a minute, Bellwood knocked on the door of Macy Conner's flat. After the second time of knocking, she had heard movement inside, and had no intention of leaving with the door unanswered.

‘Hello?' she announced, in a slightly raised voice. ‘It's Detective Sergeant Carol Bellwood.' Then another knock, louder, signalling a louder voice to come.

A bolt slid back and the door opened a little, the chain still on. A gap between door and frame housed a band of darkness and into that place, half of Macy's face, her visible eye looking up at Bellwood.

‘Hello, Macy.' Bellwood was heavily relieved to see her.

‘Hi, Miss Bellwood, hello.' She sounded lost.

‘Can I come in, Macy?'

Macy shook her head. ‘This isn't a good time.' A single tear rolled down the girl's face.

‘What's wrong, Macy?'

‘My grandma, she's really sick. She went the hospital with Mum and. . .'

‘Is your mum in?'

‘Yes.'

‘Could she come to the door for a little minute?'

‘She's in a bad state.'

Macy's hand reached out from the darkness and touched the back of Bellwood's hand. Bellwood folded her fingers around Macy's for a moment, and then she let go. The little girl's tears fell fast and silent, her face wracked with sorrow.

‘Please don't be angry with me, but I can't let you in.'

Having anticipated this possibility, or Macy's mother's absence from the flat, Bellwood reached into her bag and produced a sealed envelope inside which was a brief note outlining what she'd told Paul Conner earlier that day.

Macy glanced at the name on the envelope.
Ms Conner
.

‘Could you give this to your mother, Macy? It's important she reads it.'

‘Am I in trouble?'

‘Of course not. DCI Rosen wants to make sure that
all
the children on the estate are safe. We just want to make your mother aware of that. Will you pass the letter on to her?'

Macy took the envelope. ‘OK. I'll pass the letter on. Promise.' She looked down and slowly, without another word, shut the door.

Bellwood walked heavily towards the door to the stairs and, staying on the landing, opened the door and let it slam shut. Then she took off her shoes and crept back to the door of Macy's flat, listening for voices.

All she heard was the silence that wreathes a home awaiting death.

She waited a bit longer, and then walked back to the stairs. Putting on her shoes, she hurried past the community officers drafted in to patrol the stairway of Claude House.

47

7.21 P.M.

M
acy sat on the edge of Grandma's bed. The old lady's eyes were closed but she was awake. She opened her eyes, her left eye nearly fully open, her right eyelid slipping down to cover all but a crescent of white.

‘Who was at the door, Macy?'

‘The policewoman I told you about, Miss Bellwood. She gave me a letter to give to. . .' She looked at the name on the envelope. ‘It's addressed to you, Grandma. Ms Conner. Shall I read it to you, Grandma?'

On the pillow, she nodded. Macy tore open the envelope with eager fingers.

‘“Dear Ms Conner, Given recent events in your neighbourhood. . .”'

Macy fell silent, read ahead to herself.

‘Macy, read the letter to me.'

‘“DCI Rosen and I strongly urge you to make sure that Macy is not left alone at any time. We have put extra police officers immediately in the vicinity of your home. We suggest that
Macy
is not to be allowed out on her own and is
accompanied at all times by an adult
. If you have any questions regarding this issue, please contact either myself or DCI Rosen on the numbers on the cards enclosed with this letter. Yours sincerely, DS Carol Bellwood.”'

Macy saw that Bellwood had underlined the words ‘Macy' and ‘accompanied at all times by an adult' in red pen. She peeped inside the envelope and there were two small white contact cards, one for Bellwood, one for Rosen.

The letter was typed and was set on Metropolitan Police letter-headed paper. Her fingers trembled as she refolded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope. She heard the blood pumping in her ears and, welling up with tears, covered her face with her hands.

After painful moments behind this mask, she spread her fingers and, through a veil of tears, saw that Grandma was dozing, snoring.

She put the letter in her pocket and stood up carefully. As she left the candle-lit room, Mum's hairdryer sounded like a roaring beast and she, for whom feeling alone and afraid was almost a permanent state of being, felt the strength in her body sapped by the depth of just how alone and afraid she truly was.

They're coming to get me! They're coming to get me!
The words span inside her brain.
They're coming. To get. Me
.

48

7.25 P.M.

E
very time he visited the mortuary, it was somehow harder than the previous visit. Everything about the place alienated Rosen, made him want to turn on his heel, delegate, walk out and drink in the London air outside.

Instead, he stood his ground and breathed the chill, chemical air of the windowless room where Stevie Jensen's body lay beneath a white sheet on a metal trolley.

The whiteness of the cloth concealing the body sent Rosen hurtling back in time to the seventh day after Hannah's death, the morning of her funeral. He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

He saw again the paleness of Sarah's hand as it lay on Hannah's tiny white coffin. His own hand had rested next to Sarah's, and he had heard his wife say quietly, ‘Don't go.'