A Face in the Crowd

7

After seeing Mrs. Fagunwa off, Oswalde went back up to the Incident Room and sat at his desk. It was twenty past four. He should have been famished, having missed lunch, existing since breakfast on cups of coffee and a chocolate bar, but he wasn’t hungry. It was the hours spent with the dead girl’s mother, he reckoned, and seeing her grief, that had killed his appetite. Not good. After nearly nine years on the Force he ought to be able to shut his own emotions away, not get personally involved. You had to be cold and dispassionate or you couldn’t do the job. Doctors and nurses and paramedics and firemen had to handle it, deal unflinchingly with things that would have turned most people’s stomachs, and then go home and sleep nights. He wished he could do it too, learn the trick. Cultivate a heart like a swinging brick, as one of the tutors in training college was fond of saying.

Get your brain back on the case, Oswalde advised himself, that was the best way. He looked around. “Did the Allens have keys to Harvey’s place?” he asked of no one in particular. “I suppose they must have. Where did Tony Allen go to school?”

Lillie chucked a file over. Oswalde spent a few minutes going through it until Rosper wandered over and interrupted him.

“Have you seen this?” Rosper asked, parking himself on the corner of the desk. He was holding a video tape.

“Is that the tape of Joanne?”

“You should watch it, Bob.” Rosper made a flicking motion with his tongue. “I think I’m in love.”

Haskons had sent over a PC to relieve her. He came in and removed his helmet, holding it under his arm.

Tennison stood up and stretched. She bent over to peer closely at Harvey, his face lined and gray in the shaded light above the bed. He was out for the count, asleep or unconscious, it was hard to tell. She put on her coat, tucked in her scarf, and picked up her briefcase.

“Call me if he comes around.”

“I will.”

Mr. Dugdale taught history, which possibly explained why he had such a good memory for dates. He wasn’t bad on names either, and had no problem whatsoever with Tony Allen, as soon as Oswalde mentioned him.

“I was his adviser of year. I remember it very well.” They were walking towards Dugdale’s office, the corridor deserted except for a cleaner with a bucket and squeegee mop. Oswalde had turned up on the off chance that some of the teachers might have stayed behind to mark papers or something, and had struck lucky.

“He was a bright lad, had done very well in school, good results, going on to A levels, sights set on college.” Dugdale shook his head of shaggy, graying hair, depositing more flakes of dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. “Then when he came back in September he’d changed. He was surly, introverted, a loner.”

They arrived at his office and Dugdale went straight to the filing cabinet and started delving. Oswalde looked at the timetables pinned to the bulletin board, at the silver trophies gathering dust on the shelf next to the wilting potted plant, but he was taking in every word.

“I spoke to him, the headmistress spoke to him. I got Dad up here. Nothing seemed to work.” Dugdale slipped on his glasses and opened the buff folder. “There, you see… September eighty-six. I’m usually right. Educational psychologist’s report. Help yourself.”

Oswalde scanned through it and made a few notes while Dugdale fussed around.

“I see Tony played in a band…”

“Did he? I didn’t know that. We did our best but there was really no point in him staying on. The only person he seemed to relate to was his Sarah. He was gone by Christmas. I see him in the supermarket from time to time,” Dugdale said absently, polishing his glasses with the end of his tie. “Waste really, he was a bright lad.”

Tennison was on her knees, scrubbing the bathtub, when the intercom buzzer sounded. She dried her hands on her loose cotton top and went to answer it, frowning as she lifted the receiver from its wall cradle. She hadn’t a clue who it could be; she wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Hello?”

“Jane?”

A man’s voice, deep and resonant, one she couldn’t put a name to. “Who’s this?” she asked guardedly.

“Bob Oswalde.”

She leaned her outstretched arm against the door frame, wondering what the hell was going on, and more specifically just what game he thought he was playing.

“Jane…? Look, I know this is a bit, er, unexpected… but I really do need to talk to you.”

“Well, can’t it wait? I’m waiting for a call from the hospital.”

“No.”

Sighing, she pressed the button to release the street door and dropped the receiver back in its cradle. She started towards the living room, only just realizing in the nick of time that she was practically on display, wearing only the loose top with nothing underneath. She nipped back into the bathroom and pulled on a floppy sweater, then walked through the living room, brushing her fingers through her hair.

Oswalde knocked and she opened the door. He was carrying a video tape. She said crisply, “This’d better be good,” already walking off, leaving him to close the door.

She stood with her arms folded, watching him insert the video into the machine and turn on the set. He sat down on the sofa, still in his raincoat, and operated the remote. The image flickered and steadied: a reggae group blowing up a storm, a host of black faces smiling in the sunshine, women swaying to and fro in their multicolored robes and turbans.

Tennison knelt on the carpet in front of the TV, chin propped on her fist. “I’ve seen this,” she told him in a voice flat as a pancake.

Oswalde suddenly leaned forward and touched the screen, indicating a tiny figure on the far right. “There.”

“Your finger, very interesting.”

“There’s a better shot in a moment,” he said, on the defensive, hurt by her flippancy. The camera cut to a close-up of the bass player. Oswalde pressed the pause button and jabbed at the screen. “There!”

Squinting, Tennison slowly leaned forward. “Is that Tony Allen?”

Oswalde gave a grim smile. “Tony Allen. He’s concealed the fact that he was playing at the Sunsplash concert and evidently knew Joanne.”

“Jesus!”

“The Allens had keys to the house. I’ve been to the school-”

“Yes. Okay.” Tennison cut him short with a raised hand. She sat back on her heels. “Let’s think this through. Just because he was on the bandstand with her doesn’t mean-” Her beeper went off. “Shit, this could be it.” She dived for her shoulder bag, found the beeper and killed it. “I’m waiting for Harvey to come around,” she told him, already reaching for the phone and dialing.

Oswalde discovered he’d been sitting on a plate of half-eaten congealed food. He removed it, mouth curling in distaste. “What’s this?”

“Last night’s dinner-one of those frozen chili con carne things.”

“What have you got for tonight?”

Snapping her fingers impatiently, waiting for the connection to be made, she glanced over at him. “One of those frozen chili con carne things… DCI Tennison,” she said into the phone.

Oswalde draped his raincoat over the back of the sofa, picked up the disgusting plate between outstretched fingertips, and wandered off with it. Tennison was momentarily distracted.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Then she was nodding, talking fast. “Right. Did she leave a number? A pay phone?” She scribbled it down. “Okay… right… thanks.” She hung up and started to redial. Oswalde had disappeared. “It’s not the hospital,” she called out to him. “It’s an informer of mine trying to get through to me.”

“Right…” Oswalde’s voice floated in from the kitchen.

“What are you up to?” she wondered aloud. “Rachel? It’s me, Jane Tennison, darling. What’ve you got for me, darling?”

When she came through into the kitchen there was water on the boil, a package of pasta waiting to go in. Bob Oswalde had raided her meager shelves and come up with canned tomatoes, a can of tuna, one onion, and a few dried herbs, the last in the jar. He’d found a clean pan and had made a start on the sauce. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he was standing at the countertop, expertly chopping garlic and crushing it into a saucer.

Tennison leaned in the doorway, watching him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Oswalde wiped his hands and opened the refrigerator door. He rooted inside and picked something up. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up what appeared to be a moldy brown tennis ball.

“It’s lettuce,” Tennison said. “Well, it was once.”

Oswalde chucked it in the trash, tut-tutting. “You need to eat some decent food. What was the call about? Anything interesting?”

“No, not really,” she said, deciding to humor him, and besides, the smell was making her ravenous. “Apparently it seems the girl that was at Number fifteen sacked it in afterward and went legit. No one seems to know where she is now, but they’re all sure she’s not on the game.”

“Right,” Oswalde said, busy now forking tuna into a bowl. “I took a look at Tony’s school record. Everything was fine until 1986. When Tony came back from the summer vacation, he was a different person.” He glanced around at her, eyebrows raised. “Educational psychologist’s report talks of depression, anxiety attacks, low self-esteem.”

Tennison studied him for a moment, lips pursed. “What is it with you?”

“What?” Oswalde said, blinking.

“What are you trying to prove?”

He emptied the tomatoes and stirred them in with a wooden spoon. “Do you have any tomato puree?”

“No.”

“How can I work in these conditions?” he complained to the cupboard door, his brow furrowed.

“It’s as if you’re taking some kind of test all the time…”

“You should know,” he retorted, and that made her stand up straight. “I watched you on the course. You know they’re all lined up, wanting to see you fall flat on your face. Thorndike, all the Senior Shits. You always want to be the best, come out on top.”

This was straight from the shoulder, and Tennison wasn’t sure she liked it. She certainly wasn’t used to be spoken to so directly, least of all by a subordinate.

“I’m the same as you,” Oswalde went on imperturbably. He tasted the sauce, added black pepper. “Which is why-when I calmed down and thought about it-I understood why you’d been treating me like the office boy.”

He was one cool customer, had it all down.

“And why you’ve gone off and done a number on your own?” Tennison accused him sharply. He had the gall to laugh-a confident, unforced laugh at that. “I mean it, Bob. You are a member of a team,” she reminded him.

“Am I?” Oswalde said, instantly serious, his stern dark eyes coming around to meet hers.

“Well,” Tennison said, wishing to high heaven he wasn’t such a big, broad-shouldered, handsome bastard. “From now on you are.”

“Okay,” Oswalde said, back to his cheery self. He tipped the pasta into the boiling water and ladled the tuna into the sauce. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink?”

That she had, and she went off to open a bottle of Bulgarian red.

Tennison was confused, and annoyed with herself for letting him get the upper hand. Was Bob Oswalde taking liberties or just trying to be friendly? She knew she was paying the penalty for that one hour of passion in the hotel room. The demarcation lines had been blurred; no other officer under her command would have waltzed into her flat and made himself at home by cooking dinner, without so much as a by-your-leave. Damn Kernan for drafting him onto her team! It was all his bloody fault! But she was as angry with herself for getting herself into this pickle in the first place. Being ruled by her libido instead of her brain. Cunthead.

They ate off the coffee table in the living room. Tasting freshly prepared food and drinking three glasses of wine worked a minor miracle. It took the sting out of her anger and made her almost mellow. It even crossed her mind to wonder what might happen later, and instantly slammed the door shut on that speculation. Hadn’t she made enough of a fool of herself already, for Chrissakes?

They didn’t talk about work until the end of the meal, when Oswalde again brought up the subject of Tony Allen. He seemed to have almost a personal vendetta against the boy. Tennison was wary, not wanting to rush their fences. Oswalde couldn’t see why. The fact that he’d known Joanne Fagunwa was sufficient in itself to have him picked up.

Tennison drained her glass and set it down. “Not yet.”

“The boy was involved in that murder,” Oswalde insisted. “I’m sure of it…”

“We have no evidence of that.”

“You didn’t see his response to the clay head,” Oswalde told her bluntly.

“All we know is that he was on the same bandstand as Joanne-”

“So he’s been lying.”

“-and we’ll question him about that at the right time.”

“What does that mean?” asked Oswalde rudely, his face becoming stiff and surly. He detested all this fooling around. Get in there and get it done with.

“It means not yet.” Tennison’s voice was firm. Three glasses of wine didn’t make her a pushover. She held up a finger. “I can crack Harvey. He holds the key-except the bastard might croak on us any minute. I’ll talk to Tony when we’ve got more on him.”

“More?” Oswalde was both pained and puzzled. “I thought you’d really go for this.”

“Look, Bob, I don’t want to argue about it.” In other words, the Chief Inspector was saying, subject closed.

Oswalde got the message, or thought he did. He stared across at Jane Tennison, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “But the real point,” he said stonily, “is that I shouldn’t have come here, should I?”

“No, you shouldn’t have-we said that in the hotel room. But that’s not the point, actually. Look, all I’m trying to say is…”

“Don’t bother.”

Ten seconds later he was gone, raincoat over his shoulder, door slammed. Tennison piled the dirty dishes in the sink and went to bed.

The Incident Room was quiet when she arrived the next morning, shortly after eight twenty. She went to her office to catch up on some paperwork before the rush started.

WPC Havers eventually turned up, looking a bit worse for wear, and Tennison sent her off to the cafeteria to get a coffee and bring one back for her. She was sipping this and fighting the desperate urge for a cigarette when word came from the hospital. Tennison slurped the rest of her coffee, spilt some on her best chiffon blouse, and made the air blue and Maureen Havers’s ears turn red as she grabbed her coat from the coatrack and hurried out.

“Hello, Guv,” she greeted Kernan, who was about to enter his office, and kept on going.

“Yes, it went very well since you ask.”

Tennison halted. “Sorry?”

“My interview.”

“Oh good… right…”

“Any news on Harvey?”

“He’s regained consciousness. I’m going down there to see him right now.”

Kernan nodded, gave her a look. “Well, gently does it, Jane.”

“Yes, I…”

“Get him everything he wants-lawyers, nurses, doctors, geisha girls-anything. Just so long as his lawyer can’t say you got a statement from him unfairly.”

Tennison tightened her belt, knuckles showing white. “Of course.” What did he think her intention was-throttle the truth out of a dying man?

Lillie emerged from the Incident Room, looking for her. “Excuse me, Guv. Apparently Harvey’s wife died in October eighty-five. Not August.”

“So his sister’s been telling fibs.”

“So it would seem.”

“Well, let’s see what Harvey’s got to say about that.”

Lillie went off, and Tennison was about to leave, when Kernan said, apropos of nothing, “By-election today.”

Then she twigged it. Jonathan Phelps, Labour’s firebrand, was up for election. There was a chance, a slim chance, that he might get in, and if he did there could be one or two repercussions. Phelps was riding on the ticket of community policing in black areas, on newsworthy items such as the case of Derrick Cameron. And now Tennison was investigating a murder in the Honeyford Road area involving a girl of black-white parentage. A highly-sensitive, highly-potent mixture. Like most policemen, Kernan was a staunch Tory, and the last thing he desired was to give the opposition the ammunition to fire a broadside.

With a ghost of a smile, Tennison said, “Well, why aren’t you wearing your blue rosette?”

It wasn’t a joke to Kernan; it was deadly serious.

“Senior policemen are politicians first and foremost, Jane. Remember that if you’re up for Super.”

It was bad enough that he believed it, Tennison thought, even worse to realize that he was right.

The teenager in the black leather jacket, baseball cap worn back to front, stood at the counter of Esme’s cafe, dithering. He pointed to a large bowl of mashed yams with cinnamon and nutmeg, topped with grated orange rind.

“How much is that?”

“One seventy-five,” Esme said.

“How much?” the boy said, goggling.

Esme switched her attention to the tall, good-looking man waiting patiently to be served. From her bright smile and cheerful, “Yes, dear?” Oswalde knew that she hadn’t recognized him.

“Let me have a medium fried chicken, rice, and peas.”

While she dished it up, the boy in the baseball cap continued moaning. He obviously had a sweet tooth, because he next pointed to a portion of plantain fritters, fried in butter and apple sauce. “How much is that?”

“Seventy-five pee.”

“You’re jokin’, man… yeah, all right, then.”

Esme served him and he slouched off, the flaps of his sneakers protruding like white tongues. She handed Oswalde his meal in a polystyrene tray and gave him change from a fiver. Oswalde ate it at the counter, watching Esme ice a large cake; Tony’s wedding cake, Oswalde thought, the wedding a week from Saturday.

“How is it?” Esme asked him.

“Very good. It’s been a long time.”

“Your mother doesn’t cook for you?”

“No.”

She flashed him her bright smile. “Then you come to Esme’s. I’ll cook for you.”

Oswalde moved along the counter, nearer to where she was working. “You don’t recognize me, Esme?” She straightened up, frowning, a slight shake of the head. “I’m a police officer. I’m investigating the murder of Joanne Fagunwa. That was her name, Esme. The girl who was buried in Harvey’s garden…”

Esme stared at him, surprise and shock mingled on her face. But she was in for an even bigger shock when Oswalde said softly, “Did you know that she was a member of Tony’s band? That she was with Tony on the day she died?”

“No,” Esme said in a whisper. No longer smiling, her eyes were scared now.

Oswalde pushed the chicken aside, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Are you sure Tony was there that night when you arrived home?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“He couldn’t have been with Joanne?”

“No.”

Oswalde was convinced she was telling the truth-as much of the truth as she knew, anyway. He said, “Why did you think he changed so much that summer, Esme? He’s never been the same since, has he? What happened to change him like that?”

She didn’t answer, though from her expression Oswalde knew he had scored a bull’s-eye.

Muddyman was waiting for her outside Harvey’s room. “Are we in?” Tennison asked tersely.

“Dr. Lim is still a bit jumpy, but yeah, I think so.”

At that moment Dr. Lim arrived. As they were about to enter, she held up a cautioning hand. “I don’t want him upset. Any extra pressure on his heart could be fatal.”

No more fatal than what happened to Joanne Fagunwa, Tennison reckoned, though she merely nodded, following the small, round-shouldered doctor inside.

Harvey’s breathing filled the room. He was looking up at the ceiling with his dull, bleary eyes. Tennison eased the chair up to the bed and leaned over, her mouth close to his ear. She held his hand.

“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to talk to me, David?” she said very softly. “Get it off your chest?”

Harvey’s tongue came out to lick his dry lips. He stared straight up, his voice a horrible croak. “What…?”

“David, we know that Joanne-that was her name-we found that Joanne was killed in your home. A fragment of her tooth was found inside the house.”

Harvey swallowed. “Doesn’t mean I killed her,” he gasped.

Tennison went on steadily, “Your wife didn’t die in August, did she, David? Jeanie died in October 1985. What’s the point of lying, David? Carrying all that guilt?” From the corner of her eye she saw a blur of white coat as Dr. Lim, concerned for her patient, moved nearer, but Tennison kept on.

“You’re a very ill man. If you do tell me, nothing will happen to you-it’ll never come to that. We’ll be able to clear all this up and…” She paused. “Most important of all, you’ll feel so much better.”

Harvey closed his eyes and then opened them again, as if he might be thinking about it. Tennison waited, the hoarse, ragged breathing loud in her ears, the smell of it foul in her nostrils.

Oswalde stalked his prey, biding his time until Tony Allen had moved on from chatting to one of the checkout girls, and then he closed in behind him, reaching inside his jacket pocket for the color photograph of Joanne Fagunwa.

“Hello, Tony.”

Tony Allen jumped. “Sorry?”

“You don’t remember me? Detective Sergeant Oswalde. I was just doing a bit of shopping.” Tony Allen retreated a pace as Oswalde loomed over him. “While I’m here, perhaps you could have a look at this. Recognize her?”

Tony barely glanced at the photograph. “Why don’t you people leave me alone?” he said, a tremor in his voice.

“Because you’re telling us lies. You knew Joanne.”

“No…”

“You were both at the Sunsplash together. Better than that,” Oswalde said, quiet and lethal, “you played in the same band.”

Tony’s mouth dropped open. He wasn’t expecting that. Another bull’s-eye.

“Remember her African costume… her bracelets?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do.”

“I don’t.” Tony backed into a freezer cabinet. “I don’t.”

Oswalde watched him scoot off. There was no need to pursue him. Tony Allen wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m a Catholic, too, David, and it’s been a long time since my last confession, but one thing I do remember is that feeling of relief. That weight being lifted off your shoulders.” Harvey’s drab eyes stared up, and Tennison wasn’t sure how much of this was getting through. But she kept at it, soft and remorseless.

“I think we all want to have faith in something, don’t we? We’d like to think we can repent and it’ll be all right… if only we could turn the clock back, make it all right. You’re dying, David. Best get it off your chest. Tell me what happened, David. No more lies. It’s too late for lies.”

Harvey blinked, and tears ran down from the corners of his eyes into his gray hair. Tennison leaned nearer, stroking his hand, her voice like velvet.

“You can talk to me…”

“Can I?” Harvey croaked.

“Of course you can. You can have a doctor present, a lawyer, your sister, Jason, anyone.”

Harvey’s chin quivered. He said huskily, “You know, I’m only fifty-five years old. It’s a fucking joke.”

“I’m sure the doctors will do all they can,” Tennison said.

“I’m so frightened,” Harvey said. His face suddenly crumpled, and he wept.

The streetlights were just flickering into life as Tony Allen came out of the supermarket and walked to his car. He unlocked the door and was about to climb in when he noticed a tall figure leaning against the hood of a black Ford Sierra three cars away.

“Yo, Tony,” Oswalde greeted him. “All right?”

Fists bunched, Tony stormed around his car and went up to him. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you doing this to me?”

Oswalde spread his hands, eyebrows raised. “Hey, doin’ what, man? I’ve been shopping, that’s all…”

“Leave me alone,” Tony ground out, his eyes bulging furiously. “Just leave me alone!”

Oswalde grinned at him. Tony swung around and marched back to his car. In his haste and rage he nearly smashed into the car behind by going into reverse, then shot out across the parking lot and into the street. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, and every time he looked the black Sierra was there, openly, blatantly, following him.

Tony gripped the wheel so tightly his arms ached. Over and over, almost choking on the words, he kept repeating, “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone…”

Tennison and Muddyman were having a quiet confab outside Harvey’s room when his nephew arrived. The young, fair-haired man came up to them, slightly out of breath, and asked straight out, “How is he?”

“He’s a little better,” Tennison replied, aware that she was being economical with the truth. Looking into the pale blue eyes, and seeing in them a family resemblance, she said quietly, “Jason, your uncle wants to talk to me.”

“Yeah, so I was told.”

“And he’s asked for you to be there.”

Jason nodded. “Right.”

“But I would just ask for you to remain quiet, not to interrupt while I’m talking to him.”

“Right,” Jason said again, as if mentally preparing himself for an ordeal, which indeed it would be.

Tennison glanced at Muddyman and gave a slight nod. He opened the door and the three of them went in.

Oswalde rang the bell of the second-floor flat. From within he heard the murmur of voices, and a moment later the door was opened by Esta, Tony’s wife-to-be. She glared up at him, chewing her lip.

“Is Tony in?”

Before she could answer, Tony appeared in the narrow hallway. He grabbed the edge of the door. “You know I am, you followed me home.”

“Can I come in, Tony?”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Oswalde said.

“You heard him, he said no,” Esta snapped.

Tony pointed a finger, which was quivering with pent-up rage. He said hoarsely, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Who told you that?” Oswalde said. His face wore a twisted grin. “Sarah the Law Student?”

Cleo, dressed in her pajamas, holding a teddy bear by its ears, was standing in the living room doorway. Esta waved to her distractedly. “Go back inside, love…”

Pumping himself up, convinced he was in the right, Tony was jabbing his finger in Oswalde’s chest. “She says you either arrest me or stop harassing me.”

That did it. If Oswalde’s mind hadn’t been made up already, that made it up for him. He lunged forward and grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him through the door onto the landing. “Tony Allen, I am arresting you for the murder of Joanne Fagunwa.”

“No!” Esta shouted. But she was too late. Oswalde had Tony in an armlock and was frog-marching him to the stairs.

“You can’t…” Esta wailed. “Where are you…”

Bent double, Tony yelled back, “Esta, phone my dad… phone my dad!”

Oswalde bundled him down the stairs. Seeing her father snatched away in front of her eyes, Cleo had burst into tears; but the child’s crying didn’t deter DS Oswalde, who knew what had to be done, and did it.

Harvey had been miked up. Tennison sat close to the bed, leaning over, while Muddyman kept an eye on the tape recorder’s winking red light. Jason stood behind Muddyman, his face and cap of blond hair a shadowy blur.

“Do you wish to consult an attorney or have an attorney present during the interview?”

“No.” The lost, bleary eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Water.”

Tennison poured water into a glass and helped him to a couple of sips. Her entire job, it seemed, consisted of waiting, and she waited now, very patiently, for Harvey to compose himself.

Custody Sergeant Calder and an Asian PC were having one hell of a struggle, trying to get Tony Allen from the charge room into the cells. The boy was close to hysteria, his eyes wide and terrified in his sweating face. He was babbling, “No, don’t lock me up, don’t lock me up, please don’t lock me up…”

Eventually, after much straining and heaving, they managed to get him inside cell 7 and slammed the door. Calder walked back to the charge room, wiping his bald head, and tugging his uniform straight. He was an experienced officer and he didn’t like the look of it; the kid was half-demented, and even now his moaning voice echoed down the corridor, pleading, “Let me out… don’t leave me alone, please… please let me out!”

Calder entered the charge room, shaking his head worriedly. “I’d better get the doctor to take a look at him. I don’t think he’s fit to be detained.”

Oswalde thought this was overdoing it. “He’s all right,” he said dismissively. “Just let him stew for a bit…”

“Look, I’m the Custody Sergeant,” Calder blazed at him. “Don’t try to tell me my job. Right?”

Oswalde gave him a look. Then he shrugged and went out. Calder reached for the phone but he didn’t pick it up. He stood there for a moment, undecided, cracking his knuckles, and then barked, “Yes?” at the Asian PC, who was holding out a docket to be signed. Calder scrawled his signature, which reminded him he had a mountain of paperwork to process.

He made a noise that was half snort, half sigh. That’s all they were these days, a legion of bloody pencil pushers.

When he was ready, she began:

“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, David?”

“Yes.” His breathing rasped in his throat. Slowly he turned his head on the pillow and looked straight at her.