A Face in the Crowd

9

Calder looked up at the wall clock. He took a last drag, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and heaved himself up from the desk. On his way out he lifted the heavy bunch of keys from the hook and walked along the corridor, humming under his breath.

Sliding back the greased bolt, he lowered the flap and took a peek at the old guy in Number 5. Sleeping it off. Chances were they’d let him go in the morning with a caution. Silly old bugger, taking a piss in the street. Calder checked on the drunk in 6. A disgusting spectacle of matted hair, earrings, and tattoos. The smell of booze and stale sweat coming through the grille made Calder step back, waving the air. He slammed it shut, operated the bolt.

The next flap was open, as Calder had left it. He took a pace forward and then froze. Something was very wrong. A rope of white cloth was looped around one of the bars, hanging down inside. Calder’s heart dropped into his bowels. Whatever the worst was, he feared it had happened. Breathing hard, he jammed his head against the bars and squinted down. At first he saw only a heap of clothing, a pair of brown shoes. He strained farther, his heart trip-hammering in his chest, and made out the top of Tony’s head, a few inches below the open flap.

“Shit!” Calder dived for the panic button and the alarm bell drilled through the cell block. “Dave, John,” he bellowed, “get here quick!”

Back at the cell door, he fumbled for the right key, cursing through gritted teeth. Boots pounded along the corridor. Suddenly there were four or five uniformed bodies crowding around the cell door as Calder turned the key in the lock. The door was pulled open, dragging Tony’s body with it, bare legs splayed out. It was very ingenious and very simple. He’d made a rope out of the torn strips of his shirt, looped it around the bars, and hung himself from a sitting position. His bloodshot eyes bulged out, his tongue lolled between blue lips. Calder had seen his share of dead people, and he was looking at one now.

“Get me a knife,” he said, and kneeling down, took the clasp knife and cut through the rope of knotted shirt strips. The others grabbed Tony’s body as it slumped forward, a dead weight, and laid it on the floor of the cell. Calder stood up, his hands shaking, a mist of sweat on his bald head.

“Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty!” Oswalde arrived, pushing through the men crowding in the doorway. He dropped to his knees at Tony’s side. He cupped the boy’s slack jaw in his hand, bringing the head back, preparing to give mouth-to-mouth. “Get a mask.”

Calder shook his head weakly. “It’s too late…”

“Now.”

“Mask!” Calder snapped.

Oswalde was leaning over, both hands spread flat on Tony’s chest, using his weight to massage his heart. A hand thrust a resuscitation mask at him. Making sure the bloated tongue was clear, Oswalde fitted the mask over Tony’s mouth. He filled his lungs and blew into the plastic mouthpiece. It whooshed back at him, forced out under the pressure of the surrounding air. He did it again, and again, and he was still doing it, watched in silence by the men in the doorway, when Burkin shouldered his way through.

He glanced at Calder, who shook his head. Then he watched Oswalde straighten up and thump Tony’s chest with the heels of his palms, do a silent count, and thump it again. Everyone knew it was hopeless, a lost cause, everyone but him.

Burkin had seen enough. He said gently, “Bob, it’s no good…”

Oswalde thumped, did a silent count, thumped.

“It’s no good, Bob…”

Thump, count, thump.

Burkin couldn’t stand it. He leaped in, pulling Oswalde away. “Listen to me. Look at me!”

Oswalde went stiff. He stopped counting. He felt Burkin’s firm grip on his shoulder and heard Burkin’s voice, quiet, in his ear.

“The boy’s dead… he’s dead.”

Oswalde slowly sat back on his heels, his arms flopping to his sides. Tony lay on the floor of the cell, the mask around his mouth, staring sightlessly up. Silence. Nobody said anything. There was nothing to say.

Tennison switched on the bedside lamp. Blinking painfully against the light, she reached for the ringing phone, a wave of blond hair falling over her eyes. “Oh shit,” she mumbled, and then into the receiver, “Yes?” and listened with her eyes half-shut to Burkin’s voice. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

Burkin told her it couldn’t and told her why.

Tennison said faintly, “What was he doing in the cells?” Burkin told her. “Jesus Christ. I’m on my way.”

She hung up, but for a minute she didn’t move. The horror of what Burkin had told her was still sinking in. It still hadn’t fully sunk in as she padded through into the living room. She switched on the lamp and pressed the playback button on the answering machine. Burkin’s message to her earlier that evening came on. She turned up the volume and his voice filled the room.

“Ma’m, it’s DI Burkin. I’m a bit worried… well, not exactly worried, but, well… the thing is, Oswalde’s arrested Tony Allen on suspicion of murder. He’s got him in the interview room now, and, well, the kid’s climbing the walls. I mean freaking out, and I’m… worried. Could you call me back?”

The line clicked off. Supporting herself on the table’s edge, Tennison stared into space. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up in a minute. It had to be a dream. A fucking nightmare.

Superintendent Kernan had been hauled out of a rugby club bash. Wearing his blazer and club tie, wreathed in whisky fumes, he arrived at Southampton Row and stumped inside with the ferocious look of a drunken man sobering up fast to an ugly reality.

Calder, puffing on a surreptitious cigarette behind the duty desk, was the first to get Kernan’s glowering stare as he marched through like a thundercloud. Calder gazed hopelessly at the ceiling, as if seeking divine deliverance or a swift and painless death.

The thundercloud passed on through the station.

Oswalde was sitting in one of the interview rooms, trying to compose himself, when the door was shoved open and Kernan glared in at him. Then the door was slammed shut, leaving Oswalde alone like a penitent monk in a cell, with only purgatory to look forward to.

Kernan moved on. The Allens were still in reception, patiently waiting for news of their son, but Kernan couldn’t bring himself to face them. Going up in the elevator to his office, exhaling Johnnie Walker Black Label, he had only one thing in mind. The mirage of Chief Superintendent Kernan fading farther and farther away in the distance. By God, he’d have someone’s balls for this. And if Tennison was in any way to blame, he’d have her balls too.

The police photographer had just finished taking shots when Tennison entered the cell block. She had taken some time, and a few pains, to make herself smart and presentable, even at this ungodly hour. Freshly made-up, wearing a dark red suit with a flared jacket, she came in and took a long look at Tony Allen’s body on the floor of cell Number 7. The resuscitation mask had been removed. The boy’s face still bore the expression of frozen terror that had been his last emotion. Tennison turned away. Through tight lips she said to Burkin, “Cover him up, Frank.”

She stood aside as two uniformed officers escorted the drunk from the cells. They were hustling him along, trying to prevent him getting even a glance of what had happened in the cell next door. The drunk knew though-or had guessed from all the commotion-and nobody was going to shut him up.

“You’ve killed him, you bastards!” he started shouting, straining his unshaven face around to get a look. He kept it up, his angry voice floating back as they dragged him out into the corridor, “You bastards have killed him, you bastards…”

Tennison brushed a hand through her hair. “Oh brilliant,” she said.

Ten yards away from his office, Tennison could plainly hear Kernan’s bellowing voice giving somebody a raking over. She came up to the door, wincing a little. She felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end, whether they deserved it or not.

“It’s just not good enough, not bloody good enough!” Kernan raged. “The prisoner is your sole responsibility!”

It was Calder, the Custody Sergeant, Tennison realized. She listened to the quiet, abject mumble of his reply, which was cut short by Kernan’s “Don’t tell me-put it in your report! Now!”

Calder emerged, looking white and shaken, and walked straight past without acknowledging her. He was close to tears. Tennison went in. She was glad she’d put a dab of perfume on because the office reeked of whisky. Kernan’s tie was loose and his shirt collar was crumpled. He looked a bit of a mess, his eyes more heavily-lidded than usual, and his hands were none too steady as he lit a cigarette.

“Well, that’s my promotion down the toilet,” was how he greeted her, blowing out smoke in a disgruntled sigh.

Tennison was shocked. “A boy’s lying dead in the cells and you’re worried about your promotion?” she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval.

“Just don’t start, all right?” Kernan said, flapping his hand. He gave her a baleful look. “The Custody Sergeant told me Burkin was trying to call you, worried by what Oswalde was up to…”

The knives were out already, Tennison thought. But she wasn’t about to be dumped on from a great height. She said with venom, “Burkin’s supposed to be a Detective Inspector, not a limp dick. He should have straightened it out. Calder should have straightened it out.” And to think that two minutes ago she’d felt sorry for the man!

“But they bloody didn’t, did they?” Kernan said, a veiled accusation in his voice.

Tennison paced in front of the desk, clenching her fists. “Christ Almighty, do I have to do everything myself?”

Kernan said wearily, “All right, all right…”

“I mean, what’s Burkin being paid to do? For Christ’s sake-”

“All right! I hear you.”

Tennison ceased pacing but she was still fuming. If Kernan wanted a scapegoat, he could damn well look elsewhere. She glared at him and he shifted his eyes. He said, “How did it go with Harvey?”

“He confessed to murder.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Kernan said, relieved.

No point in hanging back; she was an experienced officer, paid to exercise her judgment. She said evenly, “But I’ve got my doubts about it…”

“What?” Kernan goggled at her. “We’re being handed it gift-wrapped and you have your doubts?”

“Yes, I do. And I have good reason.” Tennison appealed to him, “Look, Guv, right now I need to know what went on in that interview room. I mean-what made Tony kill himself, for chrissake…?”

Kernan stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “All hell’s gonna break loose when this gets out,” he said gloomily. “Riots, the lot.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Tennison said shortly.

Kernan slowly turned his head and gave her a hard stare. “You remember who you’re talking to.”

Now it was Tennison’s turn to look away. She lifted her chin and said stiffly, “I’ll listen to those interviews and report back as soon as I can. Sir.”

“You do that.”

The cigarette was still smoldering in the ashtray. What with that and the whisky fumes, the place smelled like a saloon bar. “By the way,” Tennison said, “you know Tony’s mum and dad are still in reception, don’t you?”

“Well, they can’t be told.” Kernan rubbed the side of his face and stifled a yawn. “Not until we’ve got things arranged.”

“What?” Tennison said, aghast.

“Send them home. Tell them tomorrow.” It was starting, he could feel it now, a beaut of a headache working its way up from the back of his neck to the base of his skull. Terrific. “For their own sakes it’ll be better to be told in the morning,” he said.

“We can’t do that.”

“Yes, we can,” Kernan said irritably.

Tennison blinked rapidly. “How would we explain that in court? It’d reek of a cover-up… besides, think of the way they’d feel.”

“I’ve made my decision.”

“Yes, and it’s a bad one.”

“Well, that’s what I’m paid for!” Kernan snapped at her. His patience, threadbare at the best of times, was wearing dangerously thin. When he was in this frame of mind he sometimes blurted out things better left unsaid. And the icing on the cake was that his headache had just shifted up into second gear.

But the bloody woman wouldn’t let it rest. She said tartly, “You’re paid to make bad decisions, are you?”

To stop himself from landing one on her, Kernan went over to the little bar and picked up the whisky bottle. “You know what I mean,” he growled under his breath.

Tennison watched him pour, at least three fingers’ worth. She said quietly, “Mike, how much have you had to drink?”

Kernan shot a fierce glance over his shoulder. “Now you bloody watch it,” he warned her, mottled patches appearing in his cheeks. “None of this would have happened if you’d kept Oswalde on a tighter rein…”

That was rich, and Tennison flared up. “You brought him in, not me,” she reminded the superintendent. “I didn’t ask for him. He’s a loner, a one-man-band, he’s not my type.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

There was dead silence. Tennison wasn’t sure he’d said what she’d heard, and then with a sickly feeling she knew that he had. She controlled the sudden panic fluttering in her chest and said coolly, “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Kernan said. He took a gulp.

“No,” Tennison said, and her cool tone now had icicles hanging from it. “You explain that comment.”

Kernan came back to the desk, swirling his whisky. “I’m merely suggesting that you might have let your personal feelings for him cloud your judgment.”

“My personal feelings?” Tennison said carefully, and regretted saying it before the words were out of her mouth. She was right to, because Kernan put his glass down, and placing both hands flat on the desk, leaned towards her, looking her squarely in the face.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He paused. “You had an affair on that course! There. Now. I didn’t want to mention it. But…” He shrugged and picked up his glass.

Tennison stared him out. “Nothing happened on that course,” she said, her face stiff as a wooden mask.

“You will bloody argue, won’t you?” Kernan closed his eyes, unutterably weary and pissed-off with the woman.

“You’ve been misinformed…”

“I hope so,” Kernan said with a small sigh. “For your sake.”

Tennison left the room. She needed to go to the lavatory, quick.

Downstairs, on the main floor, Tennison stopped a WPC in the corridor. “Show Mr. and Mrs. Allen up to my office, will you, please? Not a word about what’s happened, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Oswalde came through the swing doors, on his way to the elevator, summoned by Kernan. Tennison glanced around, making sure the corridor was deserted. “Bob…”

He stared past her with dull eyes. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it right now,” he muttered. “I’ve got to see Kernan.”

From the set of his mouth she could tell he was holding himself as tight as a coiled spring. But she couldn’t let him step into the lion’s den without warning him. As he moved to go around her, she said, “Kernan knows about us at the course.”

Oswalde halted. Now he did look at her, his handsome face creasing in a bewildered frown. “I don’t know what…” he started to mumble.

“Listen.” Tennison cut him short. She was holding judgment on whether she ought to be absolutely furious or not. She said, “If you’ve been bragging about laying the Guv’nor…”

“What do you take me for?” Oswalde was plainly hurt by this. “Do you think I’d say anything? You think I’d…” He swallowed and looked away.

Tennison kneaded her palms anxiously. “Well, all I can think about right now is I’ve got to tell that boy’s parents that their son is dead.”

“And that boy is dead because of me…” Oswalde choked on the words. He was very near the edge. He said emptily, “Do you really think it matters that Kernan knows about us…”

Tennison’s look was stony. “Yes, it matters,” she said, and turned on her heel, leaving him to face Kernan’s music.

The Allens were sitting in her office. Tennison would rather have walked barefoot on white-hot coals than go through with this, but that was the price she paid for being in charge of a murder investigation: the shitty end of the stick.

Ever the gentleman, Vernon Allen rose to his feet as she came in. “About time, Chief Inspector. We’ve been waiting out there for an eternity.” Even so, he sounded more reproachful than angry, blinking at her through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The man had the patience of a saint, Tennison thought; she quailed at the duty before her, almost turned and fled.

“Please… can you give my son this?”

Esme had risen and was holding out a thick wool sweater, neatly folded. Tennison accepted it. She didn’t know what else to do.

Esme wore a strained smile, her eyes large and moist. “Esta said he didn’t even have time to get a coat. I hate to think of him spending the night in a cell. I don’t want him to catch cold…”

Tennison placed the sweater on the corner of the desk, next to Vernon’s hat. She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I have some bad news for you.”

“I just want my son!” Esme blurted out plaintively. Vernon patted her shoulder. The three of them were still standing. Tennison went around the desk, turned and faced them. “Esme-Esme, please sit down.”

She waited then, hands clasped in front of her, until they were seated. She raised her eyes and looked at them. “I’m afraid that after Tony was returned to his cell, after questioning, he took his own life.”

Vernon leaned forward slightly. He seemed puzzled. “Is he hurt?”

Tennison said quietly, “Vernon, your son is dead. I’m very sorry.”

The Allens just sat and looked at her with blank expressions. Was any of this getting through? “Do you understand?” she asked them. She hesitated, then said wretchedly, “I’m so sorry…”

Vernon had removed his glasses. In slow motion he reached out and put them on top of his hat. He looked up at Tennison, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “How?”

“He used strips of his own clothes to…”

Esme came up out of her chair. Her eyes gleamed. Spitting and scratching, she launched herself at Tennison, screeching at the top of her voice, “You killed him! You killed my boy! You killed him! You killed him! You killed him…!”

Making no attempt to retaliate, defending herself as best she could by holding up her arms, Tennison retreated into a corner. She felt the bony fists and sharp nails striking at her head and face. There was a panic button under her desk. She could have tried to get to it and summon help, but she didn’t. She huddled in the corner, arms crossed to ward off the blows Esme was raining down on her with berserk, mindless rage.

“You killed him, killed my boy, killed him, you killed him . . .”

When finally Vernon managed to pull her off, Esme turned her fury on him, lashing out in a frenzy and pounding her fists into his chest. Vernon held her shoulders, taking the blows, letting her punch herself out. Esme sagged against him, sobbing into his chest, and the sight of this pitiful, distraught woman took from Tennison a lot of willpower to hold on to herself. She felt so helpless in the face of this naked human pain and misery that she felt like sobbing too.

Vernon’s arms were wrapped around his wife, holding and comforting her; without their support she would have collapsed.

Over her head, and calling upon some deep reserve of calmness and dignity, he said to Tennison, “How did it happen?”

“He hanged himself.”

“When?” It seemed very important. “I mean when exactly?”

Tennison pushed back her tangled hair. Her left cheek was stinging, and she touched it lightly with her fingertips, feeling a bruise starting to form. “Between midnight and twelve-thirty,” she said.

Vernon stared at her, his wife huddled against him; muffled, broken sobs shuddered out of her. It was all Tennison could manage not to look away. “While we were waiting in reception?” Vernon said.

“Yes.”

Vernon closed his eyes, his throat working above his collar and tie. He opened his eyes, and a spasm passed over his face. He said huskily, “Lady. May you rot in hell for that.”

With a stiff, jerky movement he turned away, and half carrying her, steered his wife to the door. Tennison came forward, holding his hat and glasses. He slipped the glasses into his overcoat pocket and took his hat. “Thank you,” he said politely.

Tennison stood in the doorway watching as they wandered off aimlessly, two lost souls numb with anguish.

“Where are they going?” Burkin asked, appearing at Tennison’s side.

“I don’t think they know. Arrange a car for them,” she said. “I think Mrs. Allen may well need to see a doctor. Probably they both do.”

Burkin nodded, about to do her bidding, when he noticed her face. “Are you okay, Guv?”

“Right away, please, Frank.”

Burkin went after them, leading them out.

Tennison leaned weakly in the doorway for a moment. She felt nauseated, as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. She went back into her office.

Kernan had taken off his jacket and shoes and was lying on the leather sofa in his office, listening on the phone to Commander Trayner. He’d crunched three aspirin and swilled the mush down with neat whisky. He shaded his eyes, waiting for it to take effect, as he half-watched the television picture, the sound turned low. The by-election count was still going on. It was going to be a close one.

At one time, Kernan reflected, in the dim and distant past, he’d been a copper on the beat. A real policeman. Doing real police work. Now he was trapped and tangled up in bleeding internal politics and PR and career moves, like a fly in a sticky web. On top of which he had a murder investigation that threatened to go off the rails, a dead black boy in the cells, and a rowdy DCI who’d been caught fucking a junior officer. He shut his eyes, and through the dull pounding in his head, tried to concentrate on what the commander was saying.

“Has the family been informed? Good…”

Immaculate in a dark-blue suit, pale cream shirt, and polka-dot tie, Trayner stood in the hallway, keeping one eye on the TV in the living room. He’d invited the Thorndikes around to dinner, and they were sitting with his wife Dorothy, lingering over brandies and Harrods’ mint crisp wafers, while they watched the election result.

“What about MS15?” Trayner asked. “Well, get onto them right away.” He passed a pink, plump hand over his smooth glossy hair, graying at the temples. “David Thorndike should lead the investigation, which is good news for us,” he said glibly.

At the mention of his name, Thorndike swivelled around in his chair, sharp nose in the air, all ears. Trayner winked and favored him with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Absolutely.” Trayner was nodding, agreeing with Kernan. “A complete bastard-but a complete bastard who is the most likely candidate to take over from you if you get the move upstairs.” He added silkily, “And that will surely depend on how you handle this business from now on…”

Dorothy had turned the sound up, and Trayner said, “One moment,” leaning towards the living room door as the party official stepped up to the microphone.

“Kenneth Trevor Bagnall, Conservative… thirteen thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven.”

“Not enough,” Trayner muttered tersely, shaking his head.

“Jonathan Phelps, Labour… sixteen thousand, four hundred…”

The rest was drowned in a storm of cheering from the Labour supporters in the hall. Phelps, smiling broadly, had both fists raised in the air. Trayner turned his back on it.

“Did you hear that?” he said into the phone. “It’s in David’s best interests to stop Southampton Row being dragged through the mire. Keep me informed.”

He hung up. Thorndike came through, buttoning his jacket. “Well, we’d better be going.” The two men looked at one another. Things might work out after all. The MS15 investigation, with Thorndike in charge, couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment, everything considered. If nothing else, it would cast a cloud over Tennison’s promotion prospects. And if Thorndike could perform a damage limitation exercise on the Met’s reputation, impressing the powers-that-be, he’d come out of it smelling of roses.

Trayner patted him on the shoulder, and Thorndike responded with his thin-lipped watery smile. “Looks like I’ve got an early start in the morning,” he said.

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

“Stop that!”

Tennison sat at her desk, her elbow on the blotter, her head propped in one hand. She tapped the ash off her cigarette and put it to her lips. She inhaled deeply and breathed out, the smoke pluming from her nostrils. The tape reel slowly turned, semaphoring plastic gleams under the lamplight with each revolution.

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

“Tony, just stop it, man!”

Tennison closed her eyes and took another long drag.

This was worse than she had feared. Much worse. What in heaven’s name had possessed Oswalde? Why had he allowed it to go on? Pushing and pressuring the boy when it was obvious that he was stricken with hysterical panic, teetering on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown? What the hell was he trying to prove? That black coppers were superior to white ones? Or that he had nothing to learn from the Gestapo?

The procedures laid down under PACE were quite explicit, and this interview was a case-book study on how to disregard every one of them. Whoever was appointed from MS15 was going to have a field day.

“That’s enough. Can I have a word with you, Sergeant Oswalde.” Burkin’s voice.

“In a minute.”

“Now, Sergeant Oswalde!”

Tennison mashed her cigarette next to the five stubs and switched off the tape.