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the CCTV footage.
    â€˜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.
    Rosen summoned the attention of everyone in the room. ‘Early warning. All present and correct here around nine thirty. Film to watch on the SmartBoard.’

14
    8.37 A.M.
    E mily Glass didn’t turn or acknowledge her husband’s return to Thomas’s hospital bed. Instead, she carried on doing what she’d done since shortly before midnight: she talked to Thomas, her voice slowed by sedation.
    â€˜Thomas, I want to talk to you about your bedroom.’
    Behind her back, John Glass concealed a sigh at the futility of his wife’s endless chatter.
    â€˜Thomas, I’m opening the door of your bedroom at home. Thomas, look, look at the wonderful painted murals on all four walls. Space, outer space, your favourite subject. Look at the wall by your bed. Look at the Apollo moon rocket racing through the. . . star-spangled night, flames pouring from its tail. Look at the wall behind your bed. Look at the solar system and how all the planets turn around the sun. Look at the Milky Way. What a fabulous artist. All your. . . ideas, mind. Look at. . . the last. . . wall. Look at the purple. . . cloud. . . the birth. . . of. . . a. . . star.’ She yawned, a long, slow, exhausted sound. ‘Thomas, I might have to go to sleep soon. I’m finding it hard. . . to keep my eyes open. I want you to know, I’m still here, even if you can’t hear my voice, I’m right. . .’ She fell asleep but woke in a beat. ‘I’m right here. . . and when I wake up, I’ll tell you. . . about. . .’
    John Glass put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and she stiffened.
    â€˜How long are you going to keep this up? Emily? This not talking to me? Emily, we’ve got to talk.’
    â€˜Are you deaf?’ At her words, he lifted his hand away. ‘I need to sleep. Talk to him. Let him know you’re here. God knows you weren’t around him much up until. . . this!’
    John Glass decided to humour his wife. ‘Hello, Thomas. Hello, son.’ And wondered what to say next. ‘It’s me. It’s your dad.’ Football. His son watched football on TV, kicked a ball around the expanse of walled garden around their house.
    â€˜Remember when I bought you that Arsenal shirt, signed by all the players? Hey? Remember that?’
    Emily sank back in her chair, her breathing slowing and, within a minute, a woman who had slept for only twelve hours in the previous eight days was out.
    Her husband fell silent. He stared at the bandages around his son’s face and head and wondered if he could pay for plastic surgery to minimize the damage. He could pay for the best doctor. Then he wondered if his son was going to survive.
    Looking at the bandages, he tried to picture the pitch darkness and complete silence that reigned in Thomas’s brain.

15
    8.38 A.M.
    H is dad’s voice gurgled like he was talking into a tube with one end beneath the water in a fish bowl. And then it went quiet. The darkness surrounding Thomas Glass was as absolute as the silence.
    Something in Thomas’s mind shifted. He remembered where he was and what he must do to avoid punishment.
    The wind blew outside and rattled the door, and the metallic din filled him with horror. It felt as if