A Face in the Crowd

10

Tennison had the nine a.m. briefing put back to nine fifteen. First she wanted Burkin in, and she told DS Haskons to send him along as soon as he arrived. He came in, pale and hollow-eyed, a shaving nick on his chin, and stayed standing and silent while she tore into him. The second time in under two weeks; it was getting to be a bad habit.

“I’m not talking about Oswalde’s part in this,” Tennison stormed at him. She stayed on her feet, pacing, because if she sat down she’d have had the cigarette packet out. “You and Mike Calder had the authority to stop those interviews. Instead, you let them continue-no, better still, you let Oswalde interview the boy on his own while you sat by the telephone waiting for me to do your job for you-”

She broke away to answer the door. It was Haskons.

“Ready when you are, Guv.”

“Right.” She closed the door and walked around Burkin to the desk. He was looking carefully at nothing in particular, as long as it wasn’t her. She didn’t care what he was feeling, or what he thought of her; this was a professional matter; she was expected to do her job, and she expected him to do his.

“The rank of inspector is supposed to mean something, Frank. It carries responsibility. It’s supposed to denote a certain authority.” She stared up at him, hands clasped at her waist. “You won’t make excuses. You’ll face the music like a man. That’ll be all.”

Burkin turned and left the office.

He went directly to the Incident Room, where Muddyman was perched on the corner of a desk, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. The other members of the team were lounging about, and Muddyman was saying, “I don’t understand it-we’re at Harvey’s bedside getting a confession and meanwhile Oswalde’s off chasing Tony. It doesn’t make sense.”

“His ass is grass,” said Rosper, the jive slang specialist, with a shrug.

Haskons was more sympathetic. “It’s a dreadful thing to have happened. You carry that around with you for the rest of your life,” he said.

Still smarting from his encounter with Tennison, Burkin didn’t see why anyone else should be let off the hook. “The spade should be suspended. I mean, why was he brought here in the first place?”

“You know why,” Muddyman said.

“To talk to his people,” Jones said.

“Yeah… and now one of them’s dead and it’s down to him,” Burkin growled. He looked around the circle of faces, aware that not all of them were convinced. “Look, I’m not exaggerating or nothing,” he told them stridently. “That boy was really weird, I mean climbing the walls, screaming and shouting, like mental or something. And believe me, I tried to tell him…”

“Yeah, course you did, Frank,” Haskons said, nodding, as if Burkin was insisting that Santa Claus really did exist.

The discussion dried up as Oswalde entered the room. No one greeted or looked at him, and he didn’t seem to care either way, going straight to his desk and sitting down. He was a stranger in a strange land, no use seeking sympathy or comradeship around here.

A moment later Tennison arrived. The men gathered around. The mood wasn’t one of sweetness and light.

“Morning everyone.” Her gaze swept over them-Burkin, Muddyman, Lillie, Rosper, Haskons, Jones-and last of all Oswalde, who was standing on the edge of the circle.

“I expect you’ve all heard about the events of last night. Just to clarify. Tony Allen hanged himself in cell Number seven-using strips of his own clothes. I informed his parents shortly afterwards. Now, obviously we can expect some adverse publicity. I’m told we can also expect an internal inquiry led by DCI Thorndike to begin almost immediately.”

There were dark looks and a few suppressed groans. Those who knew Thorndike didn’t like him. Those that didn’t know him were well aware of his reputation as a cold-blooded bastard, a career policeman who’d never collared so much as a shoplifter.

“Needless to say, I regret what has happened, but Operation Nadine continues…”

Lillie raised a hand. “But surely, ma’am, if Harvey’s confessed-I mean, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Quite frankly, I’m not convinced by David Harvey’s version of events.”

This was news to Muddyman. He said, “Admittedly, there are some inconsistencies, Guv…”

“Inconsistencies?” Tennison raised an eyebrow. “He said she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was. He said he put a gag on her-there was no trace of a gag.”

“He could have removed it,” Muddyman pointed out. “It could have rotted away.”

“Yes, it could have,” Tennison conceded. With the possible exception of Oswalde, she was aware that she was in a minority of one. The rest of the team agreed with Muddyman: the case was signed, sealed, and as good as delivered. She went on, “Harvey said he killed her in the kitchen, but the fragment of tooth was found in the front room.”

Muddyman had an answer for that too. “Perhaps there was violence in the front room-he said he hit her-before the murder took place. Perhaps he moved the body after…” He spread his hands. “I mean, he did say he hit her.”

“ ‘Perhaps.’ ” Tennison said doubtfully. “ ‘Perhaps’ won’t stand up in court. I’m not sure the confession of a dying man will stand up in court either.”

“He knew her hands had been tied with a belt.”

“Yes-and he said ‘my’ belt.” That was something that had nagged at her. Tennison appealed to them. “Does the belt we found look like something Harvey might wear?”

Muddyman patiently went through it, counting off on his fingers. “She was wrapped in polyethylene sheeting. And there was a plastic bag buried with her. And he said the body remained above ground-which ties up the maggots and that… none of those details were mentioned in the press!”

By now most of the team was nodding. It was an open-and-shut case. The evidence was overwhelming, whatever inconsistencies there might be. Murder was a sloppy business, not a scientific theorem.

“Look,” Tennison granted them, “I’m as certain as you are that Harvey was involved. Most probably in the disposal of the body. But I’m not sure he killed her. We need to go over Harvey’s statement with a fine-tooth comb. We need to examine what Tony Allen said-”

“You won’t get much there, Guv,” Burkin interrupted. “I know, I was there.”

“You may have been there,” Oswalde said derisively. “You obviously weren’t listening.”

“… Sir.”

Oswalde glowered at him. “Sir.”

“Frank,” Tennison said with a touch of asperity, “don’t you think it’s a bit late to be pulling rank?” She faced them. “Now listen. We messed up. Very badly. Which means we’ve got to work twice as hard from now on. Why, if he wasn’t involved in the actual murder of Joanne, would Harvey involve himself in the burial of the body? Can we connect Tony Allen with David Harvey? A connection strong enough for Harvey to confess to a murder he didn’t commit.”

She gave each and every one of them a hard searching look.

“I want to go back to Eileen Reynolds. I want evidence. I want corroboration. I want to solve the case.”

And with that, ignoring their muttered grumbles, she dismissed them.

Thorndike got out of the Rover, briefcase in hand, and waited while his driver locked the car. Together they strode briskly to the main entrance of Southampton Row. One of Esme Allen’s customers, the middle-aged woman with silvery hair, was in the act of placing a small bunch of flowers on the steps. She straightened up, tears streaming down her face, and turned to go. The two MS15 officers exchanged a look and went inside.

“DCI Thorndike, DS Posner to see Superintendent Kernan,” Thorndike informed the young PC behind the duty desk. “We’re expected.”

The PC pressed the buzzer, releasing the glass-paneled door reinforced with steel mesh, and they passed inside.

Barely three hours’ sleep made Tennison edgy and fractious; and what she didn’t need right now was Thorndike’s oily, unctuous presence and smarmy twitterings. God, how she despised the man. Closer acquaintance had only increased her dislike. Sitting opposite him in the interview room, watching him fuss with his papers, she really had to control herself, fight the impulse to burst out and tell him what an officious prick she thought him.

“Southampton Row’s reputation precedes it, Jane,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. He gave her a frank, accusing look. “If you come in the front, you’re likely to go out the back with blood on your face.”

“Is this on the record, David?” Tennison asked politely.

“Of course not,” Thorndike said, smiling his tepid smile. “We’re just talking…”

“Good,” Tennison said. “Because that’s bullshit.” With satisfaction she saw his smile drain away. “If it was ever true, it’s not anymore. I’ve never seen excessive force used in this station. Oswalde’s certainly not like that.”

“What with the Cameron case…”

She could see his game. He was trying to dredge up the past, the Derrick Cameron saga recently revived by Phelps, and use it as smear tactics. But she wasn’t about to let it happen.

“Look,” she told him, “you’re here to investigate a death in custody.”

“I know why I’m here, Jane.”

“Well then, let’s concentrate on the case in hand.”

“I intend to, don’t worry.” He was flustered, and started fussing through the documents spread out in front of him. He had thin, bony hands that gave her the creeps. “I think it’s important for you to know I take this job seriously,” he said, putting on the stern voice of authority. “I’m not prepared to do a whitewash.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“It’s my belief that when one of the foot soldiers messes up it comes down to the officer in charge.”

“I accept that.”

“I don’t know…” Thorndike gave her his fishy-eyed stare. “Perhaps you let your personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

Tennison went cold. The same words, or very close, to the ones Mike Kernan had used. Suddenly she understood. What an idiot that it had taken her till now to realize that it was Thorndike who had done the blabbing. This was the slimy toad who had spread the rumors about her and Oswalde.

“I beg your pardon?” she said frostily.

“It’ll keep.” His eyes slid down to his papers. “Can you ask the Custody Sergeant…” He pretended to search for the name.

“Mike Calder.”

“… yes, to step into my office, please?”

“One more thing, David.” Tennison was simmering. With a great effort she kept her voice level and cool. “If I’m to be interviewed I’d like to speak to an officer senior in rank to me.”

Thorndike looked up. He said blandly, “Well, that may not be possible.”

Well, Tennison thought, it had better not be you, or you can go screw yourself.

There was a chill drizzle just starting to fall as Tennison drove into the hospital parking lot. It was a few minutes after midday, and she had arranged to be there when Vernon Allen came to make the formal identification of his son. Although not strictly necessary, she felt an obligation, as a gesture of regret and condolence, to put in an appearance on behalf of the police authority. She was deeply sorry for what had happened, and felt it was the least she could do.

She locked the Sierra, and was about to start for the main entrance when Sarah Allen came through the rows of parked cars. She must have driven her father to the hospital, and was waiting for him in her car when she spotted Tennison. She made a beeline across the lot, her attractive face twisted in a terrible grimace, her large brown eyes wild with hate and loathing.

“How could you have him arrested for murder? If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened!”

Tennison stepped back a pace, afraid for a moment that the distraught girl was going to attack her. She tried to console her, but Sarah went on in a hoarse, broken voice. “Tony wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone tie them up, rape them…”

“Wait a minute… Sarah…”

“What’s his daughter going to do now?”

Tennison had gone still. It had hit her what Sarah had just said.

“How did you know that she was tied up?” she asked. She tried to grab Sarah’s arm, hoping to calm her. “How did you know she was raped?”

Sarah wrenched herself away. “That’s another life you’ve ruined,” she almost snarled.

Tennison still wanted an answer. “Who told you that?” she demanded.

“He was going to be married this weekend…” Sarah broke down, sobbing. Tennison reached out, and the girl backed away. “Just leave us alone!” She turned her tear-stained face away and did a staggering run back to her car.

When Tennison got there, she had locked herself inside. Tennison tapped on the window. “Who told you that she was tied up?”

But she soon saw that it was useless. Sarah was gripping the wheel with both hands, her head resting between them, her shoulders heaving as she wept uncontrollably. For the time being, at any rate, the question would have to remain unanswered.

The door opened and the mortuary attendant stood there. “Would you like to come this way, sir?”

Vernon Allen rose heavily from the bench and followed him through. Tennison was sitting in the corridor outside. She stood up as Vernon passed, but said nothing and made no move as he went through the white door into the mortuary itself. She sat down again.

Tony Allen was lying on a metal table, covered to the waist by a sheet. His eyes were closed, and but for the puckered purplish circle round his neck, he might have been asleep. Vernon gazed down at him. His eyes were dry. A tiny muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. Very slowly, he bent forward and kissed his son on the lips.

Tennison stood up as Vernon emerged from the mortuary. He walked past her, looking straight ahead, his face empty of all expression, and went outside into the gray drizzle sweeping down from a dark sky.

When Tennison rang his office she was told that the super was having lunch in the cafeteria. She went up in the elevator, and having no appetite, got herself a cup of black coffee and carried it across to his table. She might grab a sandwich later on, if she felt like it.

Kernan was finishing off apple crumble and custard, watching the lunchtime news. She told him about her visit to the mortuary, and of what Sarah had said. He licked his spoon and held it up to quiet her as a photograph of Tony Allen appeared on the screen.

The announcer was saying, “Tony Allen, who was to have been married this weekend, leaves a fiancée and a three-year-old daughter…”

Kernan dropped his spoon in the bowl and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “You can’t pull Sarah Allen in. Not with all this going on.”

He gestured at the television, which was showing “all this,” in the person of Jonathan Phelps. Together they watched the newly elected Labour MP being interviewed outside the House of Commons.

“… today should have been a day of celebration for me and my supporters. Instead, it has turned into a wake as another black man dies in police custody.”

Turning away, Tennison leaned towards Kernan. “I just want to talk to her off the premises,” she said reasonably.

It wasn’t reason enough. Kernan shook his head. “Too soon. Go back to Harvey.”

“He can’t talk at the moment. I don’t know whether he’ll be able to again.”

“Well, then, see where other lines of inquiry lead you. We’ll review the situation in a few days.” He crumpled the napkin and tossed it down, giving Tennison a critical scrutiny. Her makeup couldn’t disguise the lines of tiredness at the corners of her mouth and the slight puffiness under her eyes. “Go home and get some sleep, Jane.”

“Yeah…”

“And leave Sarah Allen out of it,” Kernan ordered. “For the moment.”

He departed, leaving Tennison gazing listlessly at the TV screen, where Phelps was saying, “With all due respect, a system where police officers investigate their fellow officers cannot be sufficiently objective. All too often a blanket of silence falls on the case…”

A shape moved behind the panes of colored glass in the vestibule; the light came on and Tennison saw that it was Vernon Allen. He opened the inner door and peered out, trying to see who had rung the bell.

Tennison tapped on the glass panel at the outer door and pressed her face closer. “Vernon, I have to speak to Sarah…”

He flinched, as if someone had spat in his face. “How dare you come here! How dare you…”

“Vernon, it’s really important that I speak to Sarah.”

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” He was trembling, the outrage in his voice strained and pitiful. “Just leave us alone-”

“But I have to speak to Sarah!” Tennison insisted. She tapped again, urgently, seeing him about to close the door.

“My wife is…” Vernon Allen choked, overcome at the thought of Esme’s grief. The huge man seemed to be physically shrinking. He bowed his head in anguish. “My wife…”

Sarah appeared beside him. “Go inside, Pop. Let me handle this. Go on.”

He shambled off. Sarah stepped forward, tight-lipped, and stared coldly at Tennison through the glass panel, making no move to open the door. Tennison knew she had only a few seconds. She said quickly, “Sarah, were you there that night?”

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

“-or has Jason Reynolds spoken to you?”

“I don’t know any Jason Reynolds,” Sarah snapped. “Now leave us alone! I’m closing the door-”

“Sarah, please,” Tennison said, “for Tony’s sake-”

“I’m closing the door.”

She did. The light went out. And that was that.

At first Tennison couldn’t figure out what the screeching noise was, or where it was coming from.

Nearly ten thirty, the station was quiet, and she was on the point of leaving when she heard it. Puzzled, she walked down the empty corridor and pushed through the doors into the Incident Room. All alone, Oswalde was crouched in a chair in front of the TV, the remote control in his hand. The screeching was speeded-up reggae as he fast-forwarded the tape of the Sunsplash concert. He paused it, leaning forward with a fixed, obsessive stare, his eyes glued to Joanne and Tony on the stage.

Tennison moved quietly toward him, frowning to herself. He pressed the rewind and played the same sequence over again, and she could see the tension in the hunched shoulders and the hand gripping the remote.

“Bob,” Tennison said, making an effort to sound casual. “Give yourself a break.”

Oswalde flicked a glance at her and went back to the screen. “You can talk.”

She watched him for a moment longer, then unslung her shoulder bag. She found her Filofax, and scribbled something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Call this number. It’s a friend of mine. She helped someone who was at Broadwater Farm. She’s good.”

“A shrink…?” Oswalde was bitterly amused.

“Sort of,” Tennison said. “Listen, there’s no shame in that. Other people make mistakes at work and the firm loses a few grand. We make a mistake and someone loses their life.” It was an argument she used on herself, whenever she screwed up or was feeling depressed.

Oswalde had zapped back and was studying the same sequence all over again, just as intensely as before. Tennison hitched her bag onto her shoulder and turned to go. He was a big boy, and she wasn’t a wet nurse. She stopped as a thought occurred to her.

“Did Mrs. Fagunwa recognize that belt?”

“No.”

Tennison nodded, on her way to the door. “Go home, Bob,” she said, and went out.

The house where Eileen Reynolds lived was a stone’s throw from the tower blocks of the Lloyd George Estate. In fact, Tennison thought, as she knocked on the door, if you threw a stone from Harvey’s balcony it would break one of his sister’s windows.

Eileen opened the door, her arms filled with sheets and pillow slips ready for the wash.

Tennison smiled. “Hello, Eileen.”

Eileen didn’t return the smile. In the clear light of day her face had a hard, pinched look, that of a woman who had lived through a few trials and tribulations in her time, and survived to tell the tale. Her short, bleached hair was showing brown and gray at the roots.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, and went inside, leaving Tennison to shut the door.

“I wasn’t lying. He was there with me that weekend. He came down a lot in those days. He had a trailer there. Sometimes he’d stay with me, sometimes at the van.” Eileen stuffed the last of the washing in the machine, straightened up wearily, and banged the door to with her knee.

Tennison said, “So why did you say it was the anniversary of his wife’s death?”

“Makes no difference.” Eileen folded her arms and gave a contemptuous shrug. “I’ve spoken to a lawyer and he tells me that confession is not worth the paper it’s written on. It was ‘obtained under duress,’ ” she enunciated, her Scottish accent coming to the fore. “And if my brother did it, why has that blackie killed himself?”

“Did you know Tony Allen?” Tennison asked, quietly curious.

“No, I seen it on the TV.” Eileen leaned forward, thrusting her face, eyes screwed tight, at Tennison. “Because he did it-that’s why!”

“Then why did your brother confess?”

She had a sharp-tongued Glaswegian answer to everything. “To get you lot off his back.”

“Eileen, you’re not helping your brother by lying…”

“I’m not lying!”

Tennison leaned against the sink, watching as Eileen heaved a basket of clean washing onto the kitchen table. She was a small, almost scrawny woman, yet tough as old boots, and Tennison wouldn’t have fancied her own chances in a scrap, even with the tricks she’d learned from the Met’s karate instructors.

She said, “You don’t have to stop loving him, you don’t have to stop supporting him. But you do have to stop lying for him.”

“You know something?” Eileen swung around, blazing. “You’re a pious cow! I’ve done everything for that bloody man since he’s been ill. I work my fingers to the bone to support him…”

“I know.” Tennison nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. I know you support him. I know that must be a struggle. Like taking on that loan-”

“You all think you know everything!”

“-for him. Five grand’s a lot of money.” She paused. “How could you afford to do that, Eileen?”

“My son helps out.” She glared across the kitchen. “All right?”

Tennison reflected. “What does Jason do for a living?”

“You leave that boy out of this!”

“It’s a simple question,” Tennison said placidly.

Eileen sniffed. “He has a sort of… photography business.”

“What does that mean?”

“In the summer he works on the beach. I don’t really know. I don’t pry like you do,” she said with something like a sneer.

“You mean he’s a beach photographer?” Tennison said, and a tiny surge of excitement, like electricity, ran through her. She didn’t quite know why, but then something clicked in her brain.

Eileen was busy sorting out the stuff that needed ironing. “Yeah-he used to keep a bloody monkey here at one time, okay?”

Tennison left her car parked at the end of the street and walked along the flagged pathway that led to the flats. She entered Dwyfor House and began to climb the smelly staircase. She wanted to have another look around Harvey’s flat, and in particular at the photographs on the glass-fronted bureau. The ones taken by Jason Reynolds, professional photographer.

On the thirteenth floor, in flat Number 136, Jason Reynolds was on his knees, searching in the cupboard under the sink. He found what he was after, a black plastic bag, and padded through into the living room. The place was in a bit of a shambles, coffee table on its side, ashtray and loose cigarettes spilled over the floor, nothing tidied up since they’d carted his uncle off to the hospital.

He shook the bag open and went around the sofa to the bureau. He reached for the nearest framed photograph and suddenly went still. He tilted his head, listening. There was someone outside the front door. Silently he skirted the sofa and crept into the hallway, his sneakers making no sound. Somebody was fumbling with the mailbox flap. Fingers poked through and fished for the string, and started to pull it up, the key attached to the end. Jason watched as the key was drawn through the mailbox.

He looked around, instantly in a sweat. As the key went into the lock he dashed sideways into the kitchen and closed the door a bare crack, putting his eye to it. He held his breath, white-faced and tense, and through the crack saw Tennison pass along the hallway to the living room. He felt sure she must hear his heart.

Tennison moved slowly around the sofa to the bureau. Along with Muddyman she’d merely glanced at the photographs in their cheap Woolworth’s frames. Now she examined each in turn closely. The one she had looked at before, of Harvey and his wife. The sunset over the sea. Harvey and Eileen together. A smaller print of Eileen on her own. And one of Harvey and Jason, in a back garden, smiling, Harvey’s arm around his nephew’s shoulder. Tennison touched the glass. Her finger traced Jason’s check shirt down to the Indian Chief’s head on the belt looped through his jeans.

The surge of electricity was now a jolt, stiffening her spine.

She turned her head, feeling a cool waft of air on her cheek. Putting the photograph back, she went through into the hallway. The front door was open. Had she closed it? She was positive she had. She looked out onto the landing. She listened for a moment, heard nothing, and went back inside, making sure the door was locked.

In the living room she took the photograph down, turned it over, and flicked up the plastic tabs, intending to take just the print itself. As the cardboard backing came away, Tennison froze. Concealed there, behind the print, were half a dozen polaroids. She spread them out on the back of the frame, her mouth dry, struggling a little to catch her breath. They were of Joanne Fagunwa and Sarah Allen, fully clothed yet posing rather suggestively, their hands squeezing their breasts. They looked to be in a kitchen. And there was a close-up of Joanne and Sarah, giggling into the camera, with Tony Allen between them, pulling a funny face.

Tennison shut her eyes. This was it. What they’d been seeking all along. The link-Joanne-Sarah-Tony-and whoever had taken the polaroids. All together. And whoever had taken the polaroids was the wearer of the Indian Chief’s head belt.

She went to the phone and dialed Southampton Row, and asked for DS Oswalde. When he came on the line she said, “Bob, it’s Jane. I’m at Harvey’s. I’ve found something interesting.”