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Authors: Mark Roberts
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parallel with this is a medical background. He knew which ribs to break, he knows how to perform a Caesarean section. That’s the only certain link.’
Rosen hung on to Flint’s connection to Alessio Capaneus, sticking to hard facts.
‘As a link it’s a useful one,’ said Bellwood. ‘But as a line of inquiry it’s going to be hard to progress.’
‘Granted.’ Rosen considered for a moment. ‘You know what we need to do, Carol?’
He went back in his mind’s eye to Mrs Swift’s bedroom, stopped at the dresser and scanned the surface, settling on one item.
‘We need to meet the children in the golden locket, the little boy and the teenage girl. And the girl whose bedroom was a museum.’
‘But the girl in the locket was the girl in the bedroom—’
‘No,’ said Rosen. ‘Two different girls. There was a picture of the girl in her bedroom. The girl in the locket had dark hair. The bedroom girl was blonde. We’ll go there
now. And, Carol, as soon as we’re done at Brantwood Road, I need you to dig out contact details for the Roman Catholic diocese of Southwark.’
‘Sure,’ she replied, with a mild twist of bewilderment.
As they walked, Bellwood’s phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text, which she opened without breaking her stride.
‘What is it?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s good timing. Text message from Parker and Willis at the Catons’ house. They want us to get over there now. Good news and bad.’
‘Tell them we’re on our way.’
14
‘Y ou wanna see some dirty pictures?’ asked Parker, leading Rosen and Bellwood into Julia and Phillip Caton’s brand-new fitted
kitchen.
Sitting on a black marble-effect work surface was a laptop computer, turned on and casting a blue light onto the polished surface.
‘Where’s Willis?’ asked Bellwood. Parker pointed at Willis who was seated on the floor, back against the cooker, head slumped and asleep, hands folded in her lap.
‘We worked through the night,’ explained Parker.
Bellwood tapped Willis on the shoulder and she got to her feet instantly.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ asked Parker.
‘The bad,’ said Rosen.
‘The bricks that he handled in the loft,’ said Parker. ‘Not a single fingerprint on any of them. OK, disappointing to say the least, but have a look at this.’
Parker indicated the laptop. Onscreen, there was an image of a square wooden frame. ‘What’s this?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s the frame around the loft entrance,’ said Willis. ‘Watch closely.’ She moved on to the next image, a close-up of a section of the frame. ‘He’s
left us a present.’
‘Yes!’ Rosen saw a small, wet-looking stain on the wood.
‘What is it?’ Bellwood peered at the image, her view distorted by standing at an oblique angle to the screen.
‘It’s a fresh ear print. It’s the outside edge of his right ear. When he’s been doing his peeping Tom thing through the hole in the loft door, he’s printed his ear
onto the wooden frame.’ Willis moved on to the next image, a large close-up of the print. She drew her finger over the shape. It was an almost perfect outline.
Rosen picked up the laptop and held it close to his face, his eyes digging into the shell-like image of the place where all sound entered Herod’s head, the sounds made by the mothers,
their breathing, their pleas, their screams.
‘He’s a Satanist.’ Rosen dropped the statement casually. The power in the fridge’s motor shifted up a gear, its steady hum higher pitched.
‘Hang on, David,’ responded Bellwood. ‘We’ve had several forensic psychologists, some paid, some offering their advice gratis, but they all came to the same conclusion.
This is not an occult thing
. None of the usual supernatural gibberish – you told me this yourself when I joined the team last month.’
‘Let’s assume he’s a Satanist,’ Rosen repeated, slightly more quietly. ‘OK. There’s no Satanic graffiti on the victims; we’ve taken
Rosen hung on to Flint’s connection to Alessio Capaneus, sticking to hard facts.
‘As a link it’s a useful one,’ said Bellwood. ‘But as a line of inquiry it’s going to be hard to progress.’
‘Granted.’ Rosen considered for a moment. ‘You know what we need to do, Carol?’
He went back in his mind’s eye to Mrs Swift’s bedroom, stopped at the dresser and scanned the surface, settling on one item.
‘We need to meet the children in the golden locket, the little boy and the teenage girl. And the girl whose bedroom was a museum.’
‘But the girl in the locket was the girl in the bedroom—’
‘No,’ said Rosen. ‘Two different girls. There was a picture of the girl in her bedroom. The girl in the locket had dark hair. The bedroom girl was blonde. We’ll go there
now. And, Carol, as soon as we’re done at Brantwood Road, I need you to dig out contact details for the Roman Catholic diocese of Southwark.’
‘Sure,’ she replied, with a mild twist of bewilderment.
As they walked, Bellwood’s phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text, which she opened without breaking her stride.
‘What is it?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s good timing. Text message from Parker and Willis at the Catons’ house. They want us to get over there now. Good news and bad.’
‘Tell them we’re on our way.’
14
‘Y ou wanna see some dirty pictures?’ asked Parker, leading Rosen and Bellwood into Julia and Phillip Caton’s brand-new fitted
kitchen.
Sitting on a black marble-effect work surface was a laptop computer, turned on and casting a blue light onto the polished surface.
‘Where’s Willis?’ asked Bellwood. Parker pointed at Willis who was seated on the floor, back against the cooker, head slumped and asleep, hands folded in her lap.
‘We worked through the night,’ explained Parker.
Bellwood tapped Willis on the shoulder and she got to her feet instantly.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ asked Parker.
‘The bad,’ said Rosen.
‘The bricks that he handled in the loft,’ said Parker. ‘Not a single fingerprint on any of them. OK, disappointing to say the least, but have a look at this.’
Parker indicated the laptop. Onscreen, there was an image of a square wooden frame. ‘What’s this?’ asked Rosen.
‘It’s the frame around the loft entrance,’ said Willis. ‘Watch closely.’ She moved on to the next image, a close-up of a section of the frame. ‘He’s
left us a present.’
‘Yes!’ Rosen saw a small, wet-looking stain on the wood.
‘What is it?’ Bellwood peered at the image, her view distorted by standing at an oblique angle to the screen.
‘It’s a fresh ear print. It’s the outside edge of his right ear. When he’s been doing his peeping Tom thing through the hole in the loft door, he’s printed his ear
onto the wooden frame.’ Willis moved on to the next image, a large close-up of the print. She drew her finger over the shape. It was an almost perfect outline.
Rosen picked up the laptop and held it close to his face, his eyes digging into the shell-like image of the place where all sound entered Herod’s head, the sounds made by the mothers,
their breathing, their pleas, their screams.
‘He’s a Satanist.’ Rosen dropped the statement casually. The power in the fridge’s motor shifted up a gear, its steady hum higher pitched.
‘Hang on, David,’ responded Bellwood. ‘We’ve had several forensic psychologists, some paid, some offering their advice gratis, but they all came to the same conclusion.
This is not an occult thing
. None of the usual supernatural gibberish – you told me this yourself when I joined the team last month.’
‘Let’s assume he’s a Satanist,’ Rosen repeated, slightly more quietly. ‘OK. There’s no Satanic graffiti on the victims; we’ve taken
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