by Mark Roberts
The wardrobe was bubble wrapped and removed, then the bedside cabinet.
The bedding – each of the two sheets and one blanket and pillow separately wrapped – had been stripped from the bed.
Everything and anything, except the two things Rosen hoped they’d find: a laptop and an old, diabolical book.
Parker positioned himself at the foot of the single bed and Willis at the head. Together they pulled it out from the wall on the count of three, stopping when the bed had been moved a metre.
‘Is it heavy?’ asked Bellwood. Rosen started at hearing her voice, having almost forgotten that he had not come alone.
‘Nothing we can’t manage,’ said Parker.
Now that the bed was clear of the wall, something was visible on the plaster, something that had hitherto been concealed.
Willis peered into the gap and pulled a face. ‘That’s sick, that. It’s only a drawing on the wall, but that’s macabre. Come on, come on, Craig. Let’s get the bed away. One, two, three . . .’
They lifted the bed clean away from the wall.
Rosen peered at the drawing that had been revealed. After a wretched silence, he tilted his head towards Bellwood and said, ‘Carol, go and ask Cardinal McPhee to come here, please. He may be able to shed some light on this. Explain about the position of the Fra Angelico. Make sure Aidan remains in the kitchen.’
Parker pulled the bed further into the middle of the room.
Rosen stared at the drawing on the wall and murmured, ‘Jesus.’
Willis’s camera whirred, its flash exploding and dying as she photographed the scene depicted there.
Within minutes, Rosen heard Cardinal McPhee’s footsteps approaching, his big frame weighed down further by a heavy heart.
As the prelate stopped in the doorway and stared at the drawing, Rosen took stock of him. His clothes, though clean, were less than brand new. Rosen was struck with the intuition that he was seeing the private, humble individual who, at public masses and official church events, hid behind the elaborate purple robes of ecclesiastical office.
Rosen spoke. ‘What does this mean, Cardinal?’
‘It’s an imitation, a line drawing, based on Hans Holbein’s portrait of the Dead Christ.’
A thin man, bearded, tortured, eyes open and staring up, slack jaw, mouth open, lying on a slab.
‘He’s shaded this in with infinite care and – is there a print of this in the room?’
‘No.’
‘If he’s done this from memory, it’s – it’s incredible. It’s a remarkable forgery.’ McPhee scrutinized the wall drawing, squinting.
‘What do you think it means?’ Rosen asked.
‘This is Christ in the tomb, crucified, not risen. I can only speculate about Sebastian’s individual pathology.’
‘He has slept next to this each night and lay on the bed, no doubt for hours, during the day, thinking, dreaming.’ Rosen paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. ‘I’ve heard a story about Kenya. Of Sebastian in Kenya.’
‘Yes, he was beaten to a pulp. We know this because after he was rescued, we spent a year fixing his wounds as best we could.’
‘We?’ probed Rosen.
‘We, the Catholic Church. The brutal assault, our recovery of him afterwards, are the only facts of the case. The rest, the exorcisms, is simply unproven.’
‘Are you Scottish, Cardinal McPhee?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you a lawyer by trade?’
‘I studied at St Andrew’s University.’
‘What did you say the stories were?’
‘Unproven.’
McPhee’s shoulders sank. The lifelong marksman had managed to shoot himself in the foot.
‘An interesting verdict.’
‘In Scottish law—’
‘I know about Scottish law, Cardinal McPhee. Guilty, not guilty . . . and unproven. Not enough evidence to convict, not enough lack of doubt to acquit. Thank you. There were murder allegations against Father Sebastian, no?’
‘Yes, but he was never charged by the Kenyan police.’
Rosen gave Cardinal McPhee a long, hard look.
‘We’re ready to shift the bed back,’ said Parker.
——
IN THE KITCHEN of St Mark’s, Rosen recalled Father Sebastian’s masterful performance as the IT virgin, his other-worldly awe and wonder at the marvels of the internet, and was glad that the people presently assembled had not been there to see him so completely gulled.
‘Where else did Sebastian go, apart from here and his room?’
‘Two places. The chapel.’
Rosen caught Parker’s eye. A small, clearly defined space, easy to examine. That was good.
‘And the grounds. He used to spend ages running round the grounds.’
The two police officers calculated the cost in time and labour to forensically comb such a huge space. They exchanged a blank stare that, articulated, would have been spelled out in obscenities.
‘Let’s start with the chapel. Lead the way, Brother Aidan.’
——
AS WILLIS DUSTED the surface of the altar, Parker bagged the chalice and communion plate, saying, ‘We’ll treat these vessels with the greatest respect.’
‘When can we have them back?’ asked Aidan.
‘They’ll have to keep them for some time, I would imagine,’ said Cardinal McPhee, his temper evidently fraying. ‘You have replacements, Aidan.’
‘Flint said mass here every day?’ asked Rosen.
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ever preach?’
‘No. He just went through the motions of the service itself.’
‘Oh, Craig . . .’ Willis, dusting away at the window of the chapel, stopped and spoke over her shoulder to Parker to get his attention, then picked up her camera. Click click click.
‘Yes, Eleanor?’ Parker squinted from the altar, then moved to take a closer look. Rosen followed him over to the window, where something had been exposed by the fingerprint powder.
Click click click clickclickclick.
Rosen gazed at the pattern on the glass. It was a word, a single word, drawn by a single finger.
He read two syllables, ‘Sa’ and ‘an’, with a one-digit gap between and, on the final ‘n’, the merest trace of an ascender turning ‘n’ into a possible ‘h’.
Rosen felt suddenly as though his knees might give way.
He turned to Brother Aidan.
‘Do you know who wrote this?’ he asked, as he headed out of the chapel.
‘No. Where are you going in such a hurry, Rosen?’ asked Aidan. ‘I’m going to make a call.’
Rosen walked down the stone corridor, looking at the time on his mobile phone display. It was two-thirty-four. She’d be teaching.
‘The mobile phone you’ve called is currently unavailable. Please try again later.’ It was strange she hadn’t called that day, left a message or a voicemail.
He called the school office, listened for an eternity of keypad options and finally got one of the administrative officers.
‘It’s David Rosen, Sarah Rosen’s husband.’
‘Oh, yes, I know who you are.’ The intention was clearly friendly but it made him feel exposed and vulnerable.
‘Could you ask Sarah to ring me, right now?’
‘I can’t do that, she’s in class, teaching.’
‘Well, as soon as she comes out of class. This is an urgent matter.’
‘I’ll pass your message on. Will that be all?’
‘Please make sure she gets this message.’
The line went dead.
41
Harrison had two sets of keys, his most expensive set and his second most expensive set. Under the brightness of a full moon, he took out the second most expensive set – for the Ford Mondeo he’d been forced to compromise on because of the most expensive set, which was for the flat he rented in Brixton – and wondered for the umpteenth time about the wisdom of transferring to
the Met. If I was still in Southampton, he thought, turning the key in the door, I’d be driving a car that truly reflected who I am, what I am . . .
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
The voice, coming out of nowhere, shocked Harrison. He hadn’t seen a soul in the car park on his way to the car. The speaker was right behind him and he turned to face him. Harrison took a second to match the voice to the man before him, the same one who’d been at the scene-of-crime tape at Albert Bridge Road that morning.
‘I said, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Depends what you’re thinking,’ said Harrison.
‘Is this a fucking murder investigation going on here or what? My name’s Daniel Taylor. I’m from the Professional Standards Unit, Greater Manchester Constabulary.’
Harrison felt a reflexive urge to vanish into thin air at the bald announcement that in front of him stood an officer whose function was to police other policemen. He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and tried to match Taylor’s tone.
‘So what the fuck do you want with me, Taylor?’
Taylor half smiled and half shrugged as he held out his hand. Harrison shook it with as much cold indifference as he could muster, given the buzz of intrigue that ran up and down his spine.
‘All right, Robert, I know it’s little consolation, the way you keep getting the shitty jobs to do; jobs that are not commensurate with your talent. A big indicator of the mismanagement of this case . . .’
‘Rosen,’ said Harrison.
And Taylor echoed, ‘Rosen . . .’
A light went on inside Harrison, setting off others. There were rumours about the PSU’s covert tactics. There were always rumours in the police, but as the case dragged on, rumours solidified, taking on substance.
‘Why are you in London?’ asked Harrison, a thrill running through him.
‘I’ve been drafted in from Manchester to conduct a covert investigation into the management of this case. Your Commissioner directly contacted our chief. How tight can you keep it, Robert?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well . . .’ Taylor was still, a silence seeming to emanate from him that made Harrison feel as if he was shrinking with each passing moment. ‘What is going on here?’
‘Superintendent Baxter,’ Harrison blurted out.
‘Rosen’s superior officer?’
‘I’ve been giving Baxter information on a daily basis . . .’
‘Yeah, I know that, Robert. But what the fuck’s been done with your information?’
‘Baxter’s called a peer review.’
‘So what? Baxter has let you down as well, Robert. Listen, even he doesn’t know about me because, frankly, Baxter’s messed up as well. He should’ve called a peer review two dead bodies ago, but he didn’t. Because of his personal beef against Rosen, he held out to give Rosen time and space to really hang himself. You’re the only one on the team who’s got a balanced view of Rosen’s failures. I’ll be blunt. I need your help. We’re looking at the safety of women and children, right?’
‘Why should I trust you?’
Taylor smiled. ‘I’ve been digging around on every single member of Rosen’s team. That’s why I came looking for you, Robert, because I trust you. You will trust me because I’ll earn that trust. This is too big, too fucking serious, life and death, and no time. Mistrust your doubts, not me. Help me, Robert.’
Harrison stared into the blueness of Taylor’s eyes, which seemed to draw the moonlight.
‘Can I ask you a question, Robert, about the consequences of your not cooperating with me? said Taylor.
‘Go on.’
‘Suppose this farce of an investigation throws up another mother and baby abduction and you haven’t helped me. How are you going to feel for the rest of your life?’
Although Harrison hadn’t invested any personal feelings in the case so far, he said nothing.
‘Or, put it another way, how shit are you going to look? I’m not asking you because I care one way or the other; I’m asking because you’re the right man. But I’m not begging you, right? Don’t sabotage your career, Robert. You’re either in this with me or you’re not.’
‘I’m in with you,’ said Harrison.
‘You’ve just made a good decision.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘What have you got on Rosen? Anything? You know the drill, no detail too small.’
‘I’ve got something.’
‘Yeah?’
‘His wife’s expecting a kid. From the bits and pieces I’ve heard, she had a kid but that kid died.’
‘A kid?’
‘A baby . . .’
‘Called?’
‘Hannah. It was a cot death, I heard. Turned her into a whack job. She’s well enough nowadays to be working as a schoolteacher. She’s pregnant again, at her age. I get the feeling it’s all top secret, this pregnancy.’
‘Who knows about it?’
‘As far as I know, no one. I haven’t even told Baxter. Yet.’
‘Well done. Don’t tell him. How do you know about this?’
‘I intercepted a voicemail message on Rosen’s phone. He went out and left it on his desk. He went out on business related to the case and left his fucking mobile behind – sums it up.’
Taylor laughed and Harrison joined in.
‘This ties in with a whole load of other shit.’
‘I thought it might,’ Harrison bluffed.
‘What did she say on the phone, Mrs Rosen?’
‘She said she’d got an antenatal clinic appointment.’
‘Where and when?’
‘St Thomas’s, ten in the morning tomorrow. Explains why Rosen keeps pissing off every five minutes.’
‘Well, I guess their secret is our secret. Ten o’clock, St Thomas’s. You got Mrs Rosen’s number?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give me your mobile number and hers.’
Harrison reeled off the numbers and Taylor fled them on his phone.
‘No, Robert,’ he anticipated before Harrison spoke. ‘You don’t need mine yet. You’re on the way up. Well done. But you’re back on Planet Rosen, right now. You’re my eyes and ears. I’ll be in touch with instructions but, for now, just keep watching and listening.’
They could hear two sets of footsteps approaching in the darkness beyond the car park.
‘I’ll be in touch, Robert. As of now, you’re working for me, right?’
‘Right.’
Taylor turned and walked away. As Harrison watched, it took an effort of will not to trail after him and ask question after question.
Harrison dialled 118 118 as his gaze followed Taylor turning the corner.
‘I’d like the general switchboard, Greater Manchester Police. Get the number and put me straight through.’
The moon slipped behind a bank of cloud as the blueness of Taylor’s eyes sank into Harrison’s memory, while his future flowed before him like a river.
He got the switchboard and asked to be connected to Taylor’s line in the PSU. The phone rang and the answering machine kicked in.
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Chief Superintendent Daniel Taylor.’ Harrison recognized his voice. ‘I’m out of the office on holiday until the eighth of April. If it’s urgent, contact Superintendent—’
Harrison ended the call and made a mental note of the date. It was 24 March. He noted the date because he was filled with an inner certainty that this was the day his life turned around.
42
It was after ten o’clock at night when Rosen finally got home. On entering the house, he could tell from the whole feel of the place that his wife was already in bed. The downstairs felt empty and he wondered, as he headed quietly upstairs, whether Sarah was already asleep.
The bedroom was in almost complete darkness but he could discern her shape in the bed from stray light on the landing
‘Sarah?’ He spoke softly, so that if she was awake she would he
ar him but if she was asleep he wouldn’t disturb her. She didn’t respond.
Rosen went to the bathroom and took off his jacket, catching his reflection in the mirror and wondering at what point in his life he’d started looking quite so ancient.
He turned on the bath taps and closed the door so the sound would not wake her. When he lifted his head again, he found Sarah standing in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry I’m back so late,’ he said, reminding himself that, of all the detectives’ wives or husbands he knew – the ones who were married to civilians – Sarah was a paragon of patience over the chronic hours kept by her spouse. And yet, tonight, there could be no doubt, from her body language and the look on her face, that she was angry.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, and turned off the tap.
‘You could have called me back.’
‘I could have called you back, Sarah, had you called me in the first place.’
She looked past him and returned to the bedroom.
He followed her there and turned on the light. She sat on the edge of the bed.
‘When did you call?’ he said.
‘This afternoon.’
He took his mobile phone from his pocket and scrolled through calls received and new voicemails.
‘Nothing there, Sarah.’
‘I left a voicemail message, for God’s sake.’
‘I’ve had five voicemails today, but none from you.’
He sat next to her.
‘Do you want to see my phone?’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. If you say you didn’t get a call on your phone, I’m not going to turn this into an investigation. I honestly know I called you and left a voicemail message. But I know you wouldn’t lie about such a thing.’
There was enough of a chink in her annoyance for him to place a hand over hers.
‘I left a message for you at school,’ he said.
‘I didn’t get it.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. Probably turn up as a slip in your pigeon hole sometime towards the end of next week. And I’m sorry I didn’t call here but things have just . . . escalated today. I’ve worked like a dog, end of story. What did you call me to say?’
‘I’ve got an appointment with the consultant in the morning.’