A Face in the Crowd

8

Tennison had to steel herself not to show repugnance as his breath wafted over her. It seemed to her she had been sitting by his bedside for an eternity, breathing in the foul miasma of death. She herself felt soiled by it, as if it had entered her pores, and she had to use every ounce of willpower to repress the shudder at the touch of his cold, damp hand.

Her face betrayed none of this. And her voice stayed quiet and calm, almost soothing.

“All right, David… let me take you back to what you said originally. That you were with your sister in Margate on Sunday and Monday, and not at Honeyford Road.”

“Lies,” Harvey said drably. “I didn’t stay the night. I came back Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Not Monday like I said.”

“So-did you ask Eileen to provide you with an alibi?”

Harvey shook his head weakly. “No. She knows nothing of this…”

Tennison frowned. “But she must, David, because she confirmed your story. She said that weekend was the anniversary of your wife’s death. It wasn’t. She said you spent it with her. You didn’t.”

“I don’t want my sister dragged into this,” Harvey insisted, his voice thickening. He was staring at Tennison, blinking rapidly.

“I’m afraid she already is, David…”

“Leave her out of it.” Suddenly angry, he levered himself up on one elbow, the effort making him gasp. His eyes were wild, rolling. “I’ll tell you nothing if you drag her into it!”

Tennison put her hand on his shoulder, and he slowly subsided, flecks of spittle on his mustache. He lay flat, his chest heaving. The vehemence of his reaction puzzled her. She had seen real fear in his eyes… but fear of what? Involving his sister? His emotion had been too fierce and panic-stricken for that alone, Tennison thought. Unless he was trying to shield Eileen, divert suspicion from her possible complicity in what had taken place that weekend.

Harvey went on, almost in a drone, as if talking to himself. “I hated it down there anyway. Godforsaken cold bastard of a place. Thought I might as well go home-do something useful, get some work done in the garden…”

“So what time did you get back to London?” Tennison asked.

“About five. I did some more work, then I went inside. I was watching the TV in the front room when I saw her.”

Tennison leaned forward, her eyes narrowing a fraction. “Who did you see, David?”

“I saw the girl. Joanne.” Harvey stared into the shadows, as if seeing her now. “She was standing at a bus stop. Waiting for a bus that didn’t run on a Sunday.”

“What time was this?”

“ ’Bout half past eight, nine. It was just getting dark. I watched her…” His voice took on a dreamy, faraway tone. “She stood with one leg behind the other, sort of swinging herself. I thought I’d better tell her. I went out to her. I told her the bus didn’t run. I said she should phone for a taxi. Told her she could use my phone.

He paused, his dry lips parted. “She came into the house,” he said in his drab, dreamy voice, and then, as if the recollection had exhausted him, he closed his eyes.

DI Burkin wasn’t at all happy about this. Calder, the Custody Sergeant, had already voiced his doubts to him, and Burkin could see why. The kid was practically gibbering with fear. Sweat was trickling from the roots of his short black hair, making his face a shiny, petrified mask. Oswalde didn’t seem to notice-or if he did, didn’t appear to care.

Arms folded, Burkin leaned against the wall of the interview room, watching with hooded eyes as Oswalde set up the tape recorder. He didn’t know what grounds Oswalde had for arresting Tony Allen, but they’d better be bloody good, or there’d be hell to pay.

Oswalde placed the mike on the table in front of Tony Allen, who stared at it like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Oswalde stretched out and pressed the record button. Still standing, he began: “This interview is being tape recorded. I am Detective Sergeant Robert Oswalde, attached to Southampton Row. The other officer present is…”

“Detective Inspector Frank Burkin,” Burkin said.

Oswalde sat down opposite Tony Allen. “You are?”

Nothing. Not a flicker. The young man looked to be in some sort of trance. Oswalde leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “State your full name and date of birth.”

Tony’s lips moved. In a mumble that was almost inaudible, he said, “Anthony Allen. Fifth of May…”

“Louder for the tape, please.”

The command galvanized Tony into life. His head came up, eyes bulging, and he started gabbling like somebody on speed, “Anthony Allen. Anthony Allen. Fifth of May. Nineteen sixty-nine. Nineteen sixty. . . ”

Burkin gloomily rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. A jungle bunny off his trolley; that’s all they fucking needed.

Vernon Allen and his wife had been in the waiting room over an hour. Esme was frantic, out of her mind with worry, and it was all he could do to pacify her. The call from Esta, telling them that Tony had been arrested, had left them both shocked and scared. Vernon kept telling himself that it was a mistake, it would soon be straightened out, but as the minutes dragged by and they were told nothing, a hollow feeling of sick apprehension rose up inside, nearly choking him. But he had to keep a grip, not let it show, otherwise Esme would go completely to pieces.

She was back on her feet again, unable to sit still for more than a minute. The Asian PC behind the reception desk could only shrug and offer a bland, “I’m sorry,” as Esme leaned against the counter, fists clenched, her eyes large and moist.

“We must be allowed to see our son!” she demanded for the umpteenth time.

“The officer in charge will be out to see you shortly, madam.”

Esme turned away, shaking her head, not knowing where to put herself. In a small, lost voice she said faintly, “I don’t believe this is happening…”

“Well it is,” Vernon said. He sighed and gave a weary gesture. “Now come and sit down.”

“The officer won’t be long,” the PC assured them.

Esme slumped down on the bench beside her husband. What was happening to her boy, her Tony? Why wouldn’t they let them see him? What were they doing to him in there?

“I tried to touch her,” Harvey said, his voice harsh and rasping. “Touch her tits.”

He returned Tennison’s calm gaze with a challenging stare, as if hoping she might be offended by his crudity. But he was disappointed; she wasn’t.

“Do you remember what she was wearing, David?” Tennison asked in the same quiet, even tone.

“No.”

“Was she wearing a bra?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Harvey said after a slight hesitation.

Tennison paused a moment to consider this before asking, “Then what happened?”

Harvey turned his head away. Under the shaded light on the wall above the bed his lined face and sunken cheeks had the appearance of a death’s-head. “I hit her,” he said.

He was going to break him; it was just a matter of going at him, unrelentingly, until he tripped himself up. But it wasn’t quite working out that way. The more Oswalde pressed him, the angrier and more defiant Tony became. Burkin was surprised by the guy’s guts. He’d have laid odds that Tony Allen was the type to crumple as soon as the heat was turned on. It gave him a sly sense of amusement to watch Oswalde banging away and getting nowhere fast. Teach the cocky bastard a lesson.

“What did I just say?” Tony threw up his hands. “… I admit it, I admit I knew her!”

“She was your girlfriend, Tony,” Oswalde repeated for the third time, making it sound like a statement of established fact.

“No, she wasn’t. I told you. She was going out with the lead singer. I asked her out but she said no-”

Oswalde pounced. “So how come she ended up back at Honeyford Road with you?”

Tony closed his eyes and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. He sighed and said wearily, “I had some tapes there she wanted. Songs for her to learn.” He looked up at the man sitting opposite him, as taut and intense as a coiled spring. “She came in after my dad went to work. Stayed for an hour or so, that’s all.”

“And then you took her into Harvey’s house.”

“No.”

“Because you knew he was away for the weekend. Used your father’s keys and went next door with her.” More statements of fact, according to Oswalde. “What happened then, Tony?”

Tony Allen shook his head. He went on shaking it as he said, slowly and distinctly, “I-didn’t-kill-her.”

Oswalde knew in his bones that the boy was lying through his teeth, but Burkin wasn’t so sure.

“I tied her up. Hands behind her back.”

“What with?”

“I don’t remember. I gagged her. Had sex with her. Afterwards I left her lying there.”

“Where was this?”

Harvey frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Which room were you in?”

“The kitchen.” His eyelids flickered. “A belt. I tied her with my belt…”

Without moving her head, Tennison turned her eyes to meet Muddyman’s. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, a frown of concentration on his face. Behind him, in the darkened corner of the room, Jason was nothing more than a vague blur, his black T-shirt and dark Windbreaker merging into the background. Tennison turned her attention back to Harvey, to the drab, droning voice.

“… I left her lying there. Went and watched the TV. I don’t know why. It was like a dream. As if it hadn’t happened.”

Tennison pursed her lips, remained silent.

Tony twisted his lips in disgust. “What kind of a brother are you?” he demanded contemptuously. “To say things like that to me?”

“I’m not your brother, I’m a police officer,” Oswalde said stolidly. The guy was trying to play the black power card, and he wasn’t having any. Burkin would just love that, all dem black folks jess one big happy family crap. Well stuff that.

With utter loathing in his voice, Tony practically spat in his face, “Because you want to be white! You hate your black brothers and sisters. You’re black!”

Oswalde was getting more irritated by the second. But he wasn’t going to be drawn down that road. No chance. To show how calm he was, unaffected by Tony’s outburst, he studied his fingernails and asked casually, “Why did you give up playing the bass after that concert, Tony?”

“You’re a sellout, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Tony’s whole face seemed to be moving, as if he was trying to say something he didn’t know how to express. There was a strange light in his eyes. Then it burst out of him in a flood.

“Bass notes are the pulse, they come up at you through the soles of your feet… they sound inside you, here. They beat with your heart. From beneath. A heartbeat. From beneath the earth.” He was like a mechanical doll, the words jerking out of him. His eyes suddenly focused on Oswalde, his voice filled with scathing contempt. “You see, you don’t understand. I couldn’t play anymore… how could I play anymore?” Head straining forward, he yelled in Oswalde’s impassive face, “Why ask questions when you don’t understand?”

Burkin was staring at Tony, fascinated. Maybe Oswalde didn’t understand, but he sure did; the kid was a loony tune. End of story.

The feel of the clammy hand clutching hers made Tennison feel nauseous. She swallowed hard, telling herself it would soon be over. Harvey was tiring fast, his voice becoming weaker, the gasping pauses more prolonged; but she nearly had it all now, down on tape, in his own words. The repulsion she felt was a small price to pay.

“… she must have choked on the gag. There was vomit all around her mouth, her nose… I didn’t mean to kill her.”

The door opened and a nurse came in bearing a small tray. Standing at the foot of the bed, she said quietly. “I must give Mr. Harvey his medication.”

Tennison nodded. She indicated to Muddyman and Jason that they should leave, then turned back to Harvey.

“I’ll be back soon, David.” For the benefit of the tape, she said, “I am concluding this interview. The time is eight ten.”

Muddyman was standing with Jason in the corridor. The young man’s hands hung limply by his sides, and the ordeal he was going through showed plainly on his face.

Tennison squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, this must be awful for you.”

Jason was staring at the floor, ashen to the lips. “I’ve known him all my life,” he said in a stunned whisper. “And I don’t… I don’t know him at all.”

“Will you be all right to go back in?” Tennison asked gently, and received a brief nod.

Muddyman stirred himself. “I’ll get us a coffee,” he said, and went off to find a machine.

Tennison felt soiled and grubby. What she really wanted was a hot cleansing shower and a large brandy. Wash away the stink from her body and deaden the memory of that gaunt, wasted face gasping out its last confession.

“If I had buried her,” Tony Allen told Oswalde, his eyes dangerously bright, “I’d have buried her so deep you’d never have found her again. She’d never have come back…”

“Has she come back?” Oswalde asked, watching him closely.

Tony gave a pitying half-smile, the smile of someone trying to communicate an ultimate truth to an ignoramus. “She’s inside you,” he hissed. “I can see her looking at me. Looking at me through your eyes. Reaching out to me.” He tapped his chest. “I’m her friend. She wants to get away from you. You’re a coffin. You suffocate her. You’re her coffin. Your eyes are little windows. I can see inside you. Through your eyes. See Joanne. She hates you…”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When it came away he was grinning at Oswalde with a strange mixture of triumph and the deepest loathing.

Harvey seemed to have regained a little strength. The pill, or injection-whatever it was-had brought him back into the world, banished for a short while the shades closing in around him.

Tennison pressed on, anxious to get it over and done with. “What did you do with Joanne’s body?”

“I kept it in the cupboard under the stairs. Till the following night. I dug a hole. I put the earth in bags. I had a lot of plastic sheeting. I wrapped her in the sheeting.” His voice broke. He stared sightlessly upwards. “Buried her.”

Muddyman leaned forward into Tennison’s eye line, stroking his chin. She nodded slowly. Harvey was coming out with crucial details-the belt, the plastic sheeting-that hadn’t been released to the media. Harvey couldn’t possibly have known about them unless he was personally involved with the disposal of Joanne’s body. It was the kind of clinching evidence they required to make the case stand up in court.

She was about to ask a further question when Harvey suddenly, and with great effort, raised himself up. His eyes probed the darkness, his slack mouth working desperately.

“I’m sorry, Jason, I’m sorry you have to hear all this. I just needed you to be here…” Exhausted, he fell back, and Tennison waited for calm.

“Did you bury anything else with her, David?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A plastic bag.”

That hadn’t been mentioned in the press either.

“What did it contain?”

Tennison had to crane forward to catch his mumbled. “I don’t know,” and it seemed to her that, having confessed to the murder, he was losing interest in the more mundane details of the crime.

Again she glanced towards Muddyman, who was looking like the cat that got the cream. Harvey was a goner, in more senses than one. He’d given them chapter and bloody verse on the whole sordid saga, committed it to tape, with three witnesses in attendance. Game, set, and match.

Harvey continued to mumble. Tennison strained to hear, hoping the tape was picking it up.

“… I banged the earth flat. Laid the rest of the slabs, cemented them in. There was a smell. The darkie next door complained. I told him it was… the drains…”

His eyes closed.

The wheezing breath fluttered from his lips, emphasizing the silence.

Tennison straightened her shoulders, sat back in her chair. “Thank you, David,” she said, and indicated to Muddyman that he could turn off the machine. Thank God that was over. Her flesh crawled at the memory of his clammy grip.

They went out into the corridor. Muddyman sealed the tape and asked Jason to countersign and date it. The young man did so, the pen shaking in his hand. He was still deathly pale, and looked sick to his stomach.

“Would you like a car to take you home?” Tennison asked, concerned about him.

“It’s all right, thanks.” He raised his head and took a deep breath. “I’d rather walk.”

They watched him trail off down the corridor, looking lost and aimless, but he turned the corner heading for reception, so that seemed okay. Muddyman stuffed the tape in his raincoat pocket and turned to Tennison with a fat grin.

“Well done! Nailed the bastard’s balls to the floor.”

“You think so?”

Muddyman lit up and hungrily sucked in smoke. “Know so.”

Tennison nodded, as if in agreement. She’d have given a month’s pay for Muddyman’s complete, unwavering certainty, but she couldn’t make it jell. Something nagged at her. Some of the details Harvey had spilled she kept returning to, worrying at like a loose tooth.

But it had been a long, grueling pig of a day and she was exhausted. And somehow depressed on top of it. All her mind could focus on right this minute were the hot shower and the large brandy.

As they went down the stairs to the parking lot, Tennison said dully, “God, hospitals depress me.”

Having finally got someone to babysit for her, Esta flew down to Southampton Row and barged into the waiting room. “Have you seen him?” she asked them, huddled there on the bench. “Have you seen him?”

Esme shook her head tearfully. “They won’t… let me see my boy,” she wailed. “My Tony…”

Esta stormed up to the counter. She banged on it with both fists. Through the glass panel she could see two or three uniformed officers sitting at desks in the back room. Beating on the counter, she yelled at them, “I want to see somebody now! I want to see the person in charge! Come here-where is he!”

Vernon waved to her. “They say somebody is just coming.”

Esta banged again, harder, louder.

“Come and sit down,” Vernon pleaded. “Take it easy…”

Esta ignored him. She had no intention of taking it easy.

Tony was leaning his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. His voice was muffled.

“I’m a black bastard. I deserve all I get… I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get…”

Standing opposite him, Oswalde thumped the table. “Tony, just stop it, man!”

“I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get… I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get…”

“Tony, stop it! Just stop it, man…”

“That’s enough,” Burkin said curtly. He strode to the door. “Can I have a word with you, Sergeant Oswalde?”

“In a minute.”

“Now, Sergeant Oswalde!” Burkin went out.

Oswalde looked at his watch. “I’m concluding this interview at eleven-twenty-five p.m.” He switched off the machine and followed Burkin out.

Tony’s hands came away from his face and clenched into fists.

“No, don’t leave me alone! Don’t leave me alone in here!”

In the corridor Burkin faced Oswalde. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Tony Allen’s terrified, near-hysterical cries.

“What’s all this about?”

“What?” Oswalde said. He was an inch or two taller than DI Burkin, and he stared into his eyes, knowing the man for the racist he was.

Burkin held up a warning finger. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two…”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Burkin’s eyes bulged. He jerked his thumb at the pitiful, wavering sobs coming from the room-“Don’t leave me alone. . . please don’t leave me alone, please . . .”

“He’s off his head!”

Oswalde looked down his nose at Burkin with narrowed eyes. “That’s your considered psychological opinion, is it?” he sneered.

“You’re one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

Oswalde dropped his voice to a low growl. “Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You’ve been wanting to have a go at me ever since I arrived at this poxy station.” He squared up, flexing his shoulders. “Well, go on then,” he challenged.

Eyeball to eyeball, the two men glowered at one another. Both well over six feet tall, both strongly built, both fired up with mutual hatred: Burkin the area boxing champion, Oswalde top of his class in unarmed combat, they could have knocked seven kinds of shit out of one another. Both of them on a hair trigger, ready and raring to have a go.

“What the hell’s going on?” Alerted by Tony’s racket, Custody Sergeant Calder bustled into the corridor from the charge room, on his way to investigate.

“Butt out, Mike,” Oswalde said, tight lipped.

Calder sized up the situation and acted at once to defuse it. He pushed the two men apart. “I’m in charge of this area. Prisoners are my responsibility, right?”

Burkin turned his fury on him. “So where’s his lawyer?” he demanded.

“He said he didn’t want one.”

“Look,” Burkin exploded, pointing his finger. “That boy’s climbing the fucking walls in there! Has he been seen by the doc?”

“Not yet,” Calder said defensively. He cleared his throat. “It’s all under control…”

Burkin shot a fierce look at Oswalde. He said disparagingly, “The arresting officer hasn’t even got credible evidence.”

Calder was nettled. “Look, don’t tell me my job-”

“How do you know, anyway?” Oswalde said, glaring at Burkin.

“You’ve got nothing from him that would stick in court. He should go back into the cells until the boss has been informed.”

Calder tried to peer past them to the half-open door. “Have you left him alone in there?”

Oswalde was really riled up now. He knew what Burkin’s game was, and he told him straight. “Hands off, Frank, this is my kill. You’re just pissed off because the token black is going to have this case signed, sealed, and on the guv’nor’s desk by morning!”

Burkin said quietly, “Bollocks you are.” And went striding off down the corridor to phone Tennison.

Oswalde returned to the interview room and slammed the door.

Calder, gnawing his thumbnail, was left standing. Knowing he should have done as Burkin said and called the doc. He’d better do it. Right now.

Tennison, freshly-showered and talced, wearing silk pajamas, was on her way to bed when the phone rang. Passing by the little table, through sheer force of habit, she reached out to answer it. Her hand hovered, and then the answering machine clicked on. That’s what answering machines were for, she reminded herself. For when you were out or too bloody tired or not in the mood to answer it. Score two out of three.

A voice was burbling. She turned the sound right down, switched off the lamp, and went through into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Whatever anger, whatever defiance, had been in Tony, it had left him as swiftly as the air leaves a punctured balloon. He sat with head bowed, shoulders hunched, his hands resting limply in his lap. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He made hardly any sound, just sat there weeping softly. Behind him, Oswalde paced, turned about, paced again, turned about. Burkin had got through to him, right to the quick. He’d nearly lost his temper, blown it completely. When above everything else he prided himself on his control, on not giving in to provocation. That close, and saved by the bell-or rather by Calder.

Oswalde saw it all too clearly. Burkin couldn’t stomach an outside officer-a black one at that-coming in and solving the case and taking the credit. That’s what this was about. That’s why he’d blown a fuse. Well, sunshine, you were going to have to like it or lump it, Oswalde thought with grim satisfaction. He alone had collared Tony Allen and he intended to sweat it out of him. He didn’t care if it took all night. From the minute he saw Tony’s reaction to the clay head, he knew the boy was implicated in the girl’s murder. All he had to do now was prove it.

Oswalde gripped the back of the chair and leaned over him.

“This is a waste of time. You’re just wasting my time. Come on, Tony. You’re as guilty as hell. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you.” He dug his fingers into Tony’s hunched shoulder and hauled him back. “Your guilty secret is written all over your face.”

Tony nodded feebly, his cheeks wet with tears. “I’m guilty…”

Oswalde quickly moved around and bent down, his face close to the boy’s. “Then tell me what happened that night.”

“We’re all guilty…” Tony opened his mouth wide, fighting for breath. He clutched his throat. “I’m choking…”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m choking,” he gasped, clawing at his open-necked shirt with both hands.

“No, you’re not,” Oswalde barked at him. He turned away, fists clenching with frustration as Tony’s face crumpled, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. This was bloody hopeless. They’d been here for hours and he was getting nowhere. He had to make the boy crack. Had to.

He shook his head in disgust. “All you’ve done is cry like a baby. Well, I’m sick of listening to you. You’re pathetic. A bloody mummy’s boy. Come on.” Oswalde waggled his thumb. “You’re going back in the cells.”

“No… I can’t breathe in there,” Tony pleaded, gazing up at Oswalde with his pitiful, tear-streaked face. “Don’t please…”

He half-rose out of the chair, tugging at Oswalde’s sleeve. Oswalde shook him off. “Fuck you. You tell me how Joanne met her death or you go back in the bin and you sweat.”

Tony’s head wobbled. “No… no…”

Enough was enough. Oswalde turned away. He didn’t see the change come over Tony’s face. The eyes go suddenly wide and mad. The lips draw back in a snarl of rage. Tony leapt out of the chair. He went for Oswalde’s throat, charging into him so that Oswalde was sent crashing against the wall. He was a head taller than Tony and over forty pounds heavier, but what a moment ago had been a pathetic cringing wreck was now transformed into a raving maniac with blood lust in his eyes, attempting to throttle the life out of him.

Winded, Oswalde struggled to get a grip on the boy’s wrists. He grabbed hold of the left, pivoted on one foot, and wrenched Tony’s arm halfway up his back. He caught the other one and pinned both Tony’s hands behind his back and slammed him head first against the wall.

Calder was yelling, “Number seven, right in, right in!” as the five officers ran with Tony Allen spread-eagled horizontally between them along the corridor and into the cell block. He was kicking and screaming bloody murder. They got him inside, facedown on the floor, arms pinioned behind him, ankles trapped under two heavy boots.

“Out!” Calder yelled. “Out! Out!”

He was the last to leave, heaving the door shut and turning the key. Tony was up on his feet, battering the steel door with his fists. His terrified screams pierced the air. Calder wiped his face and blew out a sigh. That bloody racket was enough to wake the dead. He slid back the bolt and dropped the metal trap, peering in through the bars at the sweating black face and crazy rolling eyes.

“I’ll leave the flap open-all right!”

Tony’s screams sank to a whimpering moan. Calder turned away. Thank Christ for that. He jerked his head around at a drunken voice shouting from the cell next door. It was the drunk they’d picked up on disorderly conduct charges. “Fascist pigs!” the slurred voice raved on. “Fucking police brutality! Kicking the shit out of innocent victims!”

Calder banged on the door, told him to shut it, and went off to find Burkin. He was in the corridor outside the charge room, waiting by the wall phone for Tennison to return his call.

“Tony Allen is back in his cell,” Calder reported. Burkin nodded, looking decidedly uneasy. He moved aside as Calder unhooked the phone, fretting, “What’s happened to that doctor? I’ll give him another call.”

“Right.” Burkin moodily watched him dial. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Allen still in reception?” he asked.

“They won’t budge.” Calder gave him a look. “You should have gone hours ago.” He nodded back towards the cells. “Let the guy sleep it off. Tennison can deal with it in the morning.”

Burkin was about to say something, and gave it up as a bad job. He slouched off. Calder listened to the ringing tone, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “Come on… come on…!”

Oswalde took the elevator up to the cafeteria. It was almost empty at this late hour, a few small groups dotted about, officers taking a break during night patrols. He didn’t know any of the faces, and he was glad about that; he wanted to be alone. In the far corner a TV was burbling to itself, the sound turned low.

Oswalde carried his black coffee to an empty table and sat down. His official duty shift had finished three hours ago. He should have been home in bed now, getting a reasonably early night, because he was due on again at eight-thirty the next morning. He was in a curious mood, couldn’t unwind. He felt tired and yet jumpy and keyed up at the same time; his mind was racing, and he knew he was keeping alert on nervous energy alone.

The late-night news roundup was showing voters coming out of a polling station. It was the by-election, Oswalde remembered. Though not much interested, he switched his mind over to what the announcer was saying. Anything to sidetrack his thoughts away from Tony Allen’s wild, staring eyes and slobbering mouth.

“… pollsters keeping a record at the door suggest that Conservative Ken Bagnall may have held his seat but with a greatly reduced majority. There were angry scenes earlier when members of the Free Derrick Cameron Campaign clashed with Bagnall, who is a self-confessed supporter of capital punishment. Labour’s candidate, Jonathan Phelps, has issued a statement…”

Whatever the statement was, Oswalde never learned. Somebody got up to switch channels, and boxing took its place. Oswalde sipped his coffee and watched with dull eyes as two black middleweights slugged it out.

Three floors below, in cell Number 7, Tony Allen had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He was standing at the door, staring out through the square grille. Slowly and very methodically he was tearing his shirt into strips. In the cell next door the drunk was snoring off his skinful. The two prisoners in adjoining cells were sleeping more quietly. Tony stared out, tearing at the cloth, and he didn’t stop until the shirt had been ripped apart.