What She Saw (5 page)

‘It's a king-sized pain in the arse. But all right.'

‘Thanks, Meryl, you're a star.'

10

5.30 A.M.

A
t five-thirty in the morning, Rosen arrived home with the intention of grabbing a few hours' sleep. When he entered the hall, he heard the sound of the television playing in the living room and caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror. Just over nine hours earlier, he'd left the house looking reasonably dressed; now, he looked like he'd been on a drinking binge: his shirt was out on the left, top three buttons undone, tie skewed to the right and knotted way below his collarbone. When he'd become a policeman, it was the first chance he'd had to afford or wear decent clothes. But he had the knack of making the smartest threads look like charity shop rejects.

His wife, Sarah, walked out from the kitchen. ‘David?'

‘Hi, Sarah.'

She kissed him on the cheek and turned on the wall light. The smile crashed from her face. He had worked for eighteen of the previous twenty-four hours and it showed.

‘You look exhausted. Here.'

She took the small Tupperware box from him, the one she'd sent him out with the previous morning. Rice salad, the fourth week of the diet she'd insisted he go on.

‘How's the baby?' he asked, his hope that Joe would be awake disappearing fast.

Sarah pushed him gently into the living room, where he flopped onto the nearest armchair. There wasn't a piece of him that didn't ache.

‘He had a
slightly
high temperature last night—' started Sarah.

‘He's got a temperature?' Rosen sat up, anxious, his instinct to go to his son sharp.

‘Just before eleven last night, he woke up crying. I had to strip him off and sponge him down. . .'

‘Meningitis?'

Sarah laughed, ‘God, you're so dramatic, David. No, it's teething. You know, those little white things we chew with?'

‘OK, OK, I take your point.' Rosen felt himself smiling, relieved after the flash of parental panic.

‘I've just fed him. He's asleep, he's great.'

In the corner of the room, Bannerman Square came onto the BBC News 24 channel. Rosen's attention locked on to the TV. A series of now all-too-familiar images played out as the reporter narrated the background story. Pictures of Thomas in school uniform, the school he attended, the palatial house he lived in, his parents, his father's TV adverts, replicas of the clothes he'd worn and the phones he'd taken on the day he went missing, came up one by one on screen.

‘The disappearance of Thomas Glass,' said the reporter, ‘was initially thought to be a kidnap for ransom plot. When no ransom demand came, his multi-millionaire father's connections with the Conservative Party provoked speculation that the abduction was politically motivated and that terrorists were responsible.'

Library footage played of a press conference in which Emily Glass wept and pleaded: ‘Please, he's the only child we have, we'll ever have. We went through IVF.' John Glass, at her side, had looked uncomfortable at the release of such personal information.

Rosen sighed and turned off the television with the remote. He had hardly seen Sarah for days, and could have kicked himself for being hooked to the TV now.

‘It's been all over the news about Thomas,' said Sarah.

‘What's the media making of it?'

‘A big deal. You remember the scene near the end of
Frankenstein
?'

' David sighed. ‘The torch-wielding mob?'

‘That's the one, love. I heard a phone-in on Capital Radio. People are demanding the return of the death penalty. The consensus is it's a paedophile gang.'

‘Well,' said David. ‘They're not going to get the death penalty, and the consensus is wrong. Whoever's done this has just broken every protocol in the paedophile handbook: do not leave the body in a public place; do not do anything to attract attention; if not inclined to kill within twenty-four hours, do not give the child a chance of surviving. . . I could go on.'

‘Have you seen his parents?'

‘It was terrible. I told his father Thomas knew the person who took him.'

The painted eye flashed through his mind.

‘How's his mother?' asked Sarah.

‘Distraught.' He recalled how she'd thrown her husband's hand away.

‘David, you're in the room but you're miles away. What's up?'

‘I'm dead tired.'
They're going to do it again
. The idea rolled around his mind and his eyes closed. Darkness invaded his senses. Sarah tapped him on the shoulder and his eyes flew open.

‘Have you eaten?'

‘I've got no appetite.' For once in his life it was true. ‘I'm just exhausted.'

‘Well, come on then, David, bed.'

He walked up the stairs with Sarah right behind him. ‘What time's the alarm clock set for?' he asked.

‘Eight.'

He stopped at Joe's bedroom door and went straight to the Moses basket where his son slept. A soft glow from his night-light played on his skin and his little mouth pouted and smacked in the contentment of sleep. Love rose up inside David and, with that love, renewed determination. He kissed his son's forehead. The touch and the smell of a happy, healthy baby soothed the jaggedness inside him. Quietly, he said, ‘I'm sorry I didn't see you awake yesterday. Or the day before.' He hadn't had waking contact with his son since Tuesday. It was now Thursday.

‘I've missed you, little one,' said David. He felt the weight of Sarah's hand on his back.

As Rosen undressed, he pictured the sinister eye on the wall and was moved once again by the need for urgency. He picked up the clock at his bedside and reset the alarm clock for seven thirty.

11

6.45 A.M.

S
arah Rosen was woken by the absence of her husband. She rolled into the space where he should have been sleeping and the sheets were cold. Stepping out of bed quietly, she knew where he would be.

The door to Joe's room was half-open. Rising daylight filtered in through sky-blue curtains, and David stood motionless over his sleeping son.

‘How long have you been here?' she asked.

‘I'm not sure. I fell asleep straight away, woke up, nodded back off, then was wide awake.'

She was at his back now, her arms around his waist.

‘This diet doesn't seem to be working.' She squeezed his stomach with her forearms. When she looked properly at him, she saw a rawness around his eyes that could have been caused by lack of sleep or a bout of tears. ‘You OK?'

‘Yeah.' He sounded fine but he was good at disguising his emotions.

‘It's me you're talking to now.'

He sat on the chair next to Joe's basket and Sarah sat on his knee.

‘I thought about Hannah a few times today.'

Silence.

‘When?'

‘When I saw Thomas in the hospital.'

He looked at Joe and felt the moment in all its painful intensity, the memory powerful and alive inside him.

‘And how are you now?' she asked.

‘Scared. Scared that something bad's going to happen to him.'

‘That's natural. But don't trust those feelings and try not to hang on to them. Look at his hands.' Joe's fingers clenched and unclenched. ‘He's waking up.'

‘Can we move his basket into our room?'

‘No. We're next door. We have an intercom. We have a smoke alarm. We have a burglar alarm. The windows are double-glazed. The walls are solid. This is his room. He's fine and he'll be fine.'

‘You can't guarantee that, Sarah.'

‘No, but I can guarantee that if you don't come back to bed and grab half an hour's sleep, your day's going to be ten times harder than it'll be if you stay up worrying.'

She slid off his knee and held out a hand. He took it and followed her back to bed.

Within a minute, David Rosen was asleep and Sarah was wide awake, worrying about her husband and their son.

12

8.30 A.M.

W
hen Rosen walked into the open-plan office at Isaac Street Police Station that was doubling up as the Thomas Glass incident room, heads turned and tired faces looked quizzically at their SIO.

He placed a grease-smeared cardboard box down on his desk and looked around. All present. He gestured the officers towards him. As he did so, the door of Chief Superintendant Baxter's office opened.

Tom Baxter stood watching, leaning against the doorframe, and Rosen wondered was it psychic ability or an extra keen sense of smell that had drawn him out of his office?

Rosen met Baxter's eyes and read his face:
What are you up to now, David?

‘So, David.' It was Corrigan's pronounced Scouse accent that broke the silence. ‘I can smell food.' Corrigan's hardened features softened with a smile.

‘How many people here got four hours sleep or more?' No one made a sound. ‘How many got three or less?' He heard the nodding and affirmative noises of consensus. ‘I thought as much. How many people skipped breakfast because they wanted ten extra minutes in bed?'

‘I didn't,' said the prematurely white-haired Prof Feldman. The group focused on the Prof. ‘Two eggs with toast soldiers.' His deadpan face drew silence and puzzled looks and then laughter rolled round the room.

Rosen and Feldman caught each other's eye.
They think you're joking
, thought Rosen, who knew more about Feldman's background and home life than anyone else present.

‘I've got some footage to show you. I'll transfer it from my phone to the laptop and show it on the SmartBoard in the next hour. But for now, I've been to McDonalds,' said Rosen. He opened the box. ‘I know what you all order so here it is. Tea and porridge, Carol Bellwood.'

‘Thanks, David.'

He took out a coffee and an egg McMuffin.

‘The rest of you cave dwellers, sausage and egg McMuffins and coffee. Dive into the box. The cola's for you, Professor Feldman.'

Coffee and egg McMuffin in hand, Rosen wandered over to Baxter.

‘I didn't forget you, Tom.' He handed the food and drink over to his senior.

‘What are you having?'

‘Sarah's got me on a diet.'

Baxter glanced at Rosen's stomach.

‘She's got a good point.' Never one to give away a compliment easily, Baxter unwrapped the food skilfully with one hand and picked his words. ‘That was. . . erm. . . decent of you, David.'

With a nod, Baxter indicated the shared breakfast in the incident room.

‘They're going to be doing eighteen- to twenty-hour days for the foreseeable. It's the very least I can do.'

Baxter looked at the fast food as if was something new to him, but Rosen wasn't fooled. Despite his occasional tales of his wife's dinner parties and fine dining, Baxter was a fast foodie through and through.

‘What's the footage of?' asked Baxter.

‘Eat your breakfast first and then come and watch.'

‘Why not show it now?'

‘I need to set it up, but I also need time to test out an idea in my head – see if I think it's strong enough to throw into the mix.'

Baxter raised the muffin to his mouth but then stopped and said, ‘They're banging the war drums at New Scotland Yard.'

‘Because?'

‘Not sure, David. But it's to do with your current case. I've been summoned this morning by ACCs Telfer and Cotton. Thanks for the breakfast. I'll eat in the office. Wish me well.'

As Baxter shut the door, Rosen wandered back to his desk wondering what the morning ahead had in store. At his desk, there was one sausage McMuffin left and a medium Coke.

He picked out DC Feldman from the crowd and said, ‘Hey, Mike Feldman.'

Shyly, Feldman walked across and Rosen handed him the box. ‘Breakfast is served.'

‘But I've already eaten.'

‘Yes, I know you have.'
Because your mother's a tyrant
, thought Rosen. ‘Do
me
a favour, Prof.'
Blend in for once
, he thought.

Feldman said, ‘Thank you, boss.' On the way back to his desk, Feldman took a noisy slurp of cola with the finesse of an eleven-year-old boy.

Rosen sat at his desk and fired up his laptop. He opened his emails, and one jumped right out at him. Looking around the room, he saw Bellwood and called, ‘Carol, over here please, quickly.'

13

8.35 A.M.

A
n email had arrived on Rosen's computer, timed 8.32. Contacts sent to yr email.

At his desk, he opened the email sent by John Glass's PA. Bellwood was at his shoulder. Rosen looked across the room where Feldman and Gold, eating, were hunched over footage taken from Bannerman Square's CCTV camera before it was trashed.

He pointed to the email from Glass's PA.

‘I'll send it to you. Make a start please, Carol. Do you want support?'

‘I'll see how I get on by myself to begin with.' And she was away, alert and energized by the challenge ahead.

Carol sat at her desk and opened the attachment containing personal contacts. Scrolling down quickly, she made an initial estimate and then looked to Rosen's desk, but he was on the other side of the incident
room, his phone pressed to his ear, getting the low-down from Feldman on the CCTV footage.

‘There are over a hundred contacts in the personal list,' she called to Rosen.

Feldman stared at his screen with absolute concentration, his hands supporting the sides of his face and the tips of his index fingers pressing down on the flesh of his ears to block off his hearing. Gold fidgeted, his face animated as he watched the screen.

Bellwood fixed her attention on the screen in front of her, clapped her hands together and thought,
Let's smoke you out, you vicious bastard
. The memory of Thomas Glass on a hospital bed had caused her to cry herself to sleep in the early hours of that morning but now she felt something different beneath her calm exterior. She was raw with anger.