What She Saw (22 page)

Rosen lifted his hand from shoulder height to conceal the exposed profile of his face. ‘Hiding behind it. What about the third shot?'

‘Then we're onto Lewisham High Street, around about the station, where we should've had shots galore, but the traffic was so dense all we got on those different CCTV angles were double-decker buses, lorries – anything except the Megane.'

‘So he played dodge 'em with the cameras, using traffic as a shield,' observed Rosen.

Feldman nodded. ‘OK, this is where he comes into view, right now, the corner of Portnall Road and the high street. He has to slow to a stop and wait for a gap to cut across the oncoming traffic heading towards the station, and here he turns.'

The moving image froze to an image of the people in the car, the last working CCTV camera between that place and Bannerman Square. Thomas sat up almost straight, recognizable from the pictures supplied by his parents. The driver glanced to his right, his face turned for a moment and, using his left hand, pressed down on Thomas's head, his mouth open, talking.

‘He's telling Thomas Glass to get down,' said Rosen.

‘Zoom in,' said Leung.

‘On the driver?' Feldman questioned.

‘Yes, the driver,' she replied.

Feldman produced a whole-screen image of the driver's face, mid-flow in an outpouring of anger.

‘I've been waiting for a chance like this for so long,' said Leung.

All eyes focused on her.

‘You know who the driver is?'

‘His baseball cap's not a common one. It's a Pittsburgh Pirates cap, dark-blue hat, yellow P against the hat and a matching yellow peak.' She shuffled through a folder and took out a photograph that she held up for all to see. It was a picture taken on a sunny day with a single individual photographed walking out of the north entrance of the Lewisham Centre. The cap looked the same as that worn by the driver of the Megane.

‘This is a surveillance photograph taken last summer. It's Jay Trent.' She pointed at the image on-screen. ‘That is Jay Trent.'

Rosen looked at the surveillance picture and the CCTV picture. It was a good likeness, but by no means unassailably so.

‘When did CC4U say they'd have the enhancements back?' asked Rosen, his heartbeat rising.

‘We pressed all the
time is short
buttons. Within hours, they promised.'

Rosen weighed it up. Trent could easily fit Chelsea Booth's description of the Bannerman Square gunman, but so could Ruskin or Jones.

‘We'll pull in Trent, Ruskin and Jones purely on the pretext of questioning them about the CCTV camera on the square. It'll buy us time until the enhancements come back. Tracey, any angle we can use to our advantage?'

She smiled. ‘Yeah, co-ordinate it so the three of them see each other being taken in for questioning. Is that possible?'

‘That's no problem,' replied Rosen. ‘Why, though?'

‘They absolutely hate each other. It'll rattle them going into the interview.'

Rosen headed for the door. ‘Come on, all hands. Tracey and I'll pick up Trent.'

Downstairs, Rosen placed Gold and Corrigan on the other two jobs, in case matters turned physical. ‘Bellwood and Gold bring in Ruskin. Corrigan and Feldman, Jones.'

Tracey Leung clapped her hands as she chanted out their addresses, known by heart.

‘Got you, Trent, after all this time,' said Leung. ‘River Road, here we come.'

51

8.34 P.M.

A
s they approached River Road, Rosen asked, ‘I take it Trent's not your favourite guy?'

‘I don't know how he found out, but you know that restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue, The Beijing Star?'

‘Sure do.' It was the scene of many a joyful banquet for Rosen, and the very mention made him crave Chinese food.

‘My mum and dad own it. Trent sent his mates round to try and intimidate my parents and the staff. When I say staff, I mean my brothers and sisters. The little bastard.'

‘You the only cop in your family?' asked Rosen.

‘I'm the only person in my family who doesn't work in the restaurant. I've been in the Met for fifteen years now. Mum still thinks I'm going through a phase, that I'll quit and come into the business.' She laughed but, as Rosen turned into River Road, her face set to professional severity.

The council houses in River Road were a combination of houseproud and couldn't-care-less. Jay Trent lived at number 16, the neat-and-tidy set: as Rosen and Leung arrived at the front door, he noted the small manicured lawn, the immaculate blue paintwork on the door that screamed ‘respectable'.

Rosen pressed the bell.

‘He lives with his mother and kid brother,' Leung explained.

‘Hopefully, not for much longer.'

Within moments, the door opened wide and Trent stood there, staring impassively at Rosen and then at Leung.

Trent's brow creased as he looked at her.

‘Yes?' he asked, smirking.

Leung didn't reply and Trent shifted his gaze to Rosen.

‘What do you want?' asked Trent.

Rosen showed his warrant card. ‘Jay Trent?' he said.

‘Yes?' Trent leaned forward to examine Rosen's warrant card, making a show of the whole process. He looked at Leung, half shrugged, held out the palm of his hand.

She showed him her warrant card.

‘If you want a coat, go and get it now. I'm taking you in for questioning to Isaac Street Police Station, regarding an act of vandalism to public property.'

‘What's going on?' A woman's voice followed rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. The woman was middle-aged, wearing the uniform of a McDonald's manager. ‘What's happening?' She directed the question at Rosen with menace.

Rosen stared at Trent and, as he did so, his confidence grew that this was the driver of the Megane.

Trent's mother stood shoulder to shoulder with him. The name on her badge read
SYLVIA
.

Trent sighed. ‘It's OK, Mum. The police officers want to take me to Isaac Street to question me about some vandalism to public property.'

‘What public property? What vandalism?' asked his mother. ‘You can't do this.'

‘Yes, we can,' said Rosen. ‘Jay, coat. Quickly.'

‘What's he meant to have done?' She jabbed a finger in the air between herself, Rosen and Leung.

Trent slid on a red-and-white baseball jacket. ‘When are you people going to stop harassing me?' he asked, as if he was addressing two small, dull-witted children.

Rosen pointed at the car.

‘See you later, Mum.' Trent glanced at what looked like a very expensive watch: thick gold, crystal. ‘Say, ten thirtyish. Put MTV on the planner for me, nine o'clock onwards. Documentary. Eminem.'

Leung walked to the left and at the front of Trent, Rosen behind and to the right, in case Trent did a sudden runner between the front door and the car.

‘You're a disgrace!' Sylvia Trent poured contempt from the doorstep.

Leung opened the back door. ‘Mind your head, Jay,' she said, as he ducked onto the back seat.

Rosen climbed into the driver's seat. Sylvia Trent was already on her mobile, mouth motoring at a hundred miles an hour.

As Leung got into the passenger seat, Rosen checked his phone. One missed message from Bellwood. He checked the message, then showed it to Leung.

Ruskin and Jones on way back to IS. Start simultaneous interviews at 9.15 as per your plan?

Trent's eyes in the rearview mirror.
The eye is the believer
, thought Rosen.
The eye is the deceiver
.

As he texted back, the words,
See we is many. See I are one
rolled around his head.

He texted one word.

Perfect

52

8.37 P.M.

M
acy could smell Chelsea's perfume from the other side of her neighbour's front door. It smelled expensive and came in a bottle that was green and gold and looked like it belonged in some fairy story. Although Chelsea lived only one floor down and one door away, her tall, pretty neighbour seemed to live in a completely different world to hers.

Macy knocked on the door softly because Chelsea had asked her nicely not to ring the bell as it may wake little Luke. Most nights, though, he'd be awake for at least an hour after his mother left for work, demanding that Macy play with him and his latest expensive toy.

She raised her knuckle to tap again but before she could, the door opened. Macy drew in a deep breath at Chelsea's face: she wore blood-red lipstick and her eyes were bright beneath the coal-black eyelids and long, curving eyelashes. Chelsea looked more beautiful than Macy had ever seen her. She felt something strange, a turning inside her, in her stomach, where butterflies flapped when she was nervous.

Chelsea smiled and asked, ‘You all right, Mace?'

‘I'm fine,' she replied.

‘Come in, honey. He's fast asleep.' Chelsea turned and went back inside, leaving the door open for Macy to follow.

Shutting the door, Macy listened to the music of Chelsea's high heels on the laminate floor. By force of habit, she switched off the light and, remembering she wasn't at home, switched it straight back on again.

A fleeting thought about Luke's absent father crossed her mind.

Sparky, Luke's cat, walked over from his basket and started circling Macy, his soft side against her shins and around her calves. The cat looked directly up at her, and her eyes connected with the pale green of his.

Chelsea approached behind her, laughing.

‘What's funny?' asked Macy.

‘You're funny,' said Chelsea. ‘OK, the usual drill. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge, watch as much TV as you like but keep the volume down, and if there's a problem you're not sure of, knock next door for Prue.'

Chelsea produced a £10 note and offered it to Macy.

‘Give the money straight to Mum. You know she insists.'

‘I'll do that, Macy, but I'm giving this to you, for you.'

Macy took the money from Chelsea's hand. She folded her arms around Chelsea's waist and sank herself into her.

‘Thank you,' whispered Macy. She pulled back a little and smiled up at Chelsea.

‘What did you do with the last tenner I gave you, last Tuesday?' asked Chelsea, whispering confidentially.

‘I put it somewhere safe,' replied Macy.

Chelsea laughed. ‘So serious, and such a funny, deep voice for such a pretty little girl. Talking to the cat like it's human.'

‘Is that what made you laugh? Was I talking to the cat?'

Outside, a car horn sounded.

‘That'll be my cab.'

Chelsea kissed Macy on the cheek and focused briefly on the fading bruise on her face. Then she made swiftly for the bedroom door but
stopped when Macy asked, ‘Chelsea, is it OK with you if I have a friend over?'

‘You haven't got a sly bone in your body, have you?'

‘This is your home. I respect that.'

‘This friend isn't noisy, wouldn't disturb Luke?'

‘If they were like that I wouldn't let them in. I wouldn't let anyone do anything to disturb little Luke.'

‘Night, night, sweetheart.' Macy heard Chelsea kiss her son and she pushed down a wave of jealousy. Grandma had been clear. It wasn't right to be jealous of a two-year-old boy.

After Chelsea had left, Macy drank in the last of the lingering traces of her perfume. Watching Sparky walking from kitchen to living room, she asked, ‘Did I just speak to you, Sparky?'

She followed the cat and perched on the edge of the deep black leather armchair facing the 42-inch plasma TV. Not for the first time, Macy wondered how Chelsea could afford such expensive things when she worked as a barmaid in a West End pub? She'd looked up barmaids' wages on the internet in the library. They simply weren't that good.

Sparky made eye contact with Macy, and the pale green shine made her recall her absent-mindedly spoken words. Thinking of Luke's dad she whispered, ‘He must've been mad to leave you, Chelsea. . .'

She made her way to the doorway of Luke's bedroom, lit up by a blue night-light. Inside the little boy's room, Macy stopped when she could see his profile: a puckered mouth and eyes closed, soft blond hair made turquoise by the cast of the light.

‘He must've been mad to leave you.' Macy stretched out her left hand, her fingers drifting through the dreamy light towards Luke's face.

Tap, tap, tap
.

She froze and withdrew her hand

A gentle rapping on the front door.

‘If I was your father. . . She wouldn't have to go to work each night. . . If I was your father. . . If I. . . If. . . I. . .'

Sharper, louder, knocking on the door.

She turned away from the little boy, headed for the door and opened it.

‘Come in if you're coming in, if not just go away.'

‘It's cold, cold outside. I saw her leave in her cab. She looks like a model.'

Macy stood aside and felt the soft pressure of the cat against her legs again. She returned to the door of Luke's bedroom and watched his sleeping form, a bundle of warmth and comfort in a little boy's bed.

The front door closed.

‘I'm starving.'

‘Food's in the fridge,' she said, not taking her eyes off Luke. ‘You can have two cheese triangles and two slices of bread from the bread bin, with one glass of milk. That is all.'

53

9.15 P.M.

B
ehind the door leading to the reception desk at Isaac Street Police Station there was a narrow, windowless corridor on which Interview Suites 1, 2 and 3 were situated.

At fourteen minutes past nine, three separate journeys began towards the interview suites. Bellwood and Gold escorted Ruskin; Rosen and Leung had Trent; and Corrigan and Feldman were in charge of Jones. Each suspect walked ahead of the duty solicitor they'd picked from the list.