What She Saw by Mark Roberts

periods of sleep, the painted eye had crept into his dreams: it had been the last picture in his mind before falling asleep and the first there when he woke up. ‘Yes, the eye,’ he said, heading away to call the hospital for a progress report on Thomas Glass. ‘OK,’ said Rosen. ‘Let’s go!’

17
    12.29 P.M.
    B y noon, the Portakabin that Rosen had requested, the mobile incident room at Bannerman Square, was fully operational. He sat at a desk to open a text from DS Riley on surveillance at Lewisham’s A & E.
    DCI Rosen: Every 1 thru the doors genuine reason to be here thomas still highly critical 3rd change of guard at his door from CO19 Riley
    Rosen called a number on his speed dial and was connected seconds later.
    â€˜Lewisham Hospital, A and E reception.’
    â€˜DCI Rosen. I need a list of all people present at the time of Thomas Glass’s admission last night at approximately 9.40 P.M. and all those admitted within a two-hour time window either side.’
    â€˜No problem. I have your contact details right here.’
    Rosen thanked the receptionist, closed down the call and, noticing the empty Tupperware box on his desk, wished he hadn’t eaten his three-bean salad at eleven o’clock.
    It was twelve thirty.
They’ll do it again
.
    â€˜If you come this way.’
    Rosen was surprised to hear Bellwood’s kindly voice beyond the closed door of the chilly MIR.
    He polished off the dregs of a coffee. He’d lost count of how many he’d had since waking, and the grim rumbling in his chest told him to cut the caffeine and switch to water.
    The door opened and Bellwood indicated to a short, white woman – her face lined from sun beds or cigarettes but relatively young and attractive – that she could enter.
    She held back a moment, consumed with anxiety.
    â€˜Good afternoon, madam.’ Rosen smiled at her and turned the piece of paper he had been writing on face-down on the table to hide his memo to self:
    Who wants to screw up John Glass? = A living form of death
    He flashed Bellwood a look.
What are you doing here
?
    â€˜Lunchtime,’ she said. ‘I needed a change of scenery.’
    As the young woman climbed the metal steps into the Portakabin, a small girl, ten or eleven years of age, followed her. Beneath the girl’s black padded coat, she wore a green cardigan and tie, a clean but well-worn school uniform. From one arm of her coat, her cardigan cuff poked out, the edge unravelling.
    The girl’s face was bruised, her lip bearing a fresh cut, both her eyes purple and swollen. She hovered at the entrance, fear playing out beneath the wounds.
    Rosen smothered the deep concern the girl’s face provoked in him and smiled. ‘Come in and sit down.’
    The woman grabbed the girl by the hand and said, ‘Don’t keep the police officer waiting, Macy. Tell him what you saw last night, what happened.’
    â€˜You’re Macy’s mum?’ asked Rosen.
    She nodded and said, ‘Ms Conner.’
    Macy came in and sat on the chair Rosen set out for her. She sat on her hands, looking around the Portakabin, glancing at Rosen.
    Rosen looked directly at her and said, ‘My name’s David Rosen, what’s—’
    â€˜Her name’s Macy Conner and this is what two big brave men did to her for the sake of a tenner.’ The woman had a Scottish accent; Rosen placed it as Glaswegian.
    â€˜Hello, Macy,’ said Rosen, stooping to be at eye level with her.
    â€˜Hello, Mr Rosen. I’m going to be late for school.’ On each syllable, her voice dithered with fear. Her accent was pure south London and his first impression was strong: she was a good kid.
    As he sat facing her, Macy settled her gaze on Rosen’s smiling face.
    â€˜What happened to your face, Macy?’ Sympathy flooded from him.
    â€˜I slept in this morning because I didn’t get to sleep ’till five o’clock