A Face in the Crowd

12

“Would you say that the interview was carried out in accordance with PACE regulations?” Mrs. Duhra asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You made no attempt to bully or pressurize Tony Allen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sergeant Oswalde, do you hold a Higher National Diploma in Psychology?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Passed with Distinction?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door at the rear of the court opened and a uniformed figure slipped in. Kernan hadn’t noticed, but Tennison had. She nudged him, and they both stared in dismay as Commander Trayner slid into a seat. What the hell was the top brass doing here? Come to decide which heads were to roll?

Oswalde was standing up well to the questioning. He was keeping his answers short and to the point, not laying himself open to misinterpretation. He was an imposing figure on the witness stand, very tall and very handsome, with a natural quiet dignity. He was immaculately turned out, in a well-cut dark suit, his shirt a crisp dazzling white against his dark skin.

“It is my intention to call an expert witness in a moment,” Mrs. Duhra continued. “A professor of forensic psychology. But before I do so, I’d like to read you some of Tony Allen’s last recorded words-before you had him returned to his cell-and ask for your assessment.”

Oswalde’s face was a closed book. This was the part he’d been dreading, and he had to keep telling himself to stay cool, don’t give her an opening, keep it short and sweet.

Mrs. Duhra began reading from the transcript, holding it up in her left hand so that her face was visible to the jury and her voice carried across the crowded courtroom.

“Tony: ‘I’m choking.’

You: ‘No you’re not.’

Tony: ‘I’m choking. I can’t breathe.’

You: ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

Tony: ‘I’m dirt. I’m dirt in everyone’s mouth. Choking them. My life is dirt.’

You: ‘This is pointless. I’m putting you back in the cells.’

Tony: ‘My life’s a cell. I’m trapped. So much earth, and mud. Earth to earth. Dust to dust.’ ”

Mrs. Duhra put the transcript down. She folded her arms and looked at Oswalde, tilting her head in that characteristic, faintly mocking way of hers. “In the cold light of day, Sergeant, how would you assess Tony’s mental state?”

“From that I’d say he was hysterical.”

“Obsessed with death?”

“Yes.”

“In despair?”

Oswalde hesitated. “Yes.”

“Suffering from claustrophobia?” Mrs. Duhra said, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized his impassive face, searching for a chink of weakness, of doubt, she could exploit.

“Possibly,” Oswalde said, realizing that she was trying to drive him into a corner, and refusing to be driven.

He could feel the eyes of the entire court upon him. The coroner on his high bench was leaning on one elbow, his chin cupped in his hand. In the well of the court, the Allen family, seated in a row, were as if carved from stone. Vernon Allen’s large hands were clasped tightly to his chest, in an attitude of prayer. Beside him, Esme gazed dully into space. Sarah’s eyes were filled with a cold, implacable hatred.

Mrs. Duhra’s voice went on, quietly, lethally, “Yet you had him returned to his cell. His ten-foot-by-six-foot cell. You had an exemplary record, Sergeant. Could it be, that in some subtle way, you were being tougher… harder… on this black suspect because you too are black?”

There were murmurs and a few muffled shouts from the public gallery. Somebody yelled angrily, “Coconut!”

“I’m afraid your question is too subtle for me,” Oswalde said evenly.

Mrs. Duhra permitted herself a tiny smile. His reply, however cleverly evasive, hardly mattered. She had made her point. She said, “Turning then to the attack that Tony is alleged to have made on your person…”

“Do you intend to question Sergeant Oswalde for much longer, Mrs. Duhra?” the coroner asked.

“Well, that rather depends on his replies, sir,” Mrs. Duhra said.

“Then I should like to adjourn for the day. The court will resume at ten tomorrow morning.” He gathered his papers together. The court official’s voice rang out, “All rise!”

There was a small but vociferous group of antiracist demonstrators on the steps outside, waving placards and chanting slogans. As she came out with Kernan, and they crossed the road together, Tennison heard shouts of “Bounty bar” and “coconut,” being directed at Oswalde, who pushed his way through, grim-faced.

Kernan unlocked the door of his car. He looked to be in a foul temper. “What the bloody hell was the commander doing there?” he asked angrily.

Tennison, walking on to her own car, turned around. “Mike-the verdict has to be suicide,” she reassured him. “Any other is unthinkable.”

Kernan scowled. “Meanwhile my station is portrayed by Duhra as a hotbed of racism and brutality. Well, I can kiss my promotion good-bye. Thanks to two black bastards…”

Tennison stared at him, genuinely shocked. “I beg your pardon!”

“Well… you know what I mean,” Kernan muttered, giving her a shifty look.

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” he said wearily, and with a heavy sigh he got in the car and slammed the door.

For once, Tennison was having a relaxing evening at home. There was paperwork in her briefcase, waiting to be looked at, but she thought, to hell with it. She wasn’t in the mood to settle down to anything. The inquest was preoccupying her mind. Until it was over and done with, the verdict in, she couldn’t fully focus her concentration.

After a long soothing shower she put on pajamas and her luxurious Chinese silk dressing gown, a special present to herself. She wasn’t the kind of woman to pamper herself, but just occasionally she felt the need to splurge on something extravagant, and damn the expense.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all Bob Oswalde. She let him in, wondering if this was a wise thing to do, but the instant she saw the despondent look on his face, her heart went out to him. He was wearing a long overcoat, and underneath it the dark, conservative suit he had worn in court. He was polite and apologetic, but tightly bottled up, she could tell from the way he stood in the center of the room, glancing around with jerky, distracted movements, kneading his palms together.

“I’m sorry just to show up like this. I had to talk to someone.”

She gave him a searching, quizzical look. “Someone?”

He looked at her, biting his lip. “You.”

She indicated the armchair, and he sat down, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet. “I just don’t know what happened to me that night. When she read that stuff back to me today, it was”-he swallowed, his brows knitting together-“so obvious that Tony Allen was at risk, and that I’d been bullying him. Why…?”

His face was stricken. He looked to be in pain. She went to the bar tray on the small ornate table and poured two good measures of Glenlivet, carried them back and gave him his.

Oswalde held the glass, not drinking. “Perhaps they’re right,” he said after an age. “Perhaps I am a coconut.”

Tennison sat down on the sofa, smoothing her dressing gown over her knee. “Yes, I heard them shouting that. What does that mean?”

“Coconut. A Bounty bar. Brown on the outside, white on the inside.” His voice was bitter.

“I should have thought it was a bit more complex than that, Bob.”

He raised his head. “Do you think I was responsible for his death?”

He looked so forlorn that she had to resist the urge to go to him and put her arms around him and comfort him. Instead, she said firmly, and truthfully, “No, I don’t. But it’s what you think that matters.”

The pain in his eyes was mingled with fear. He said huskily, “I think I as good as killed him.” Abruptly, he put the glass down on the carpet and stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

Tennison stood up. “You can stay if you want.”

“No. I’d better go.”

She saw him out, and walked with him along the hall to the street door. On the step, hugging herself against the chill, Tennison said, “Call me if you need to talk.”

“Thanks.”

Feeling somehow that she had let him down, not helped him at all, she reached up and, pulling his head forward, kissed him lightly on the lips. “Take care.”

She watched him walk off down the dark street, shoulders hunched, his overcoat flapping around his long legs. In the shadow of a tree, directly opposite, Jason kept his finger on the button, thinking he might as well use up all thirty-six frames because he was going to get the film processed first thing in the morning anyway.

“And at eleven twenty p.m. you interrupted Sergeant Oswalde and asked to have a word with him.” Mrs. Duhra looked up from the notes she was consulting to DI Frank Burkin in the witness box. “Because you were concerned about the way Sergeant Oswalde was conducting the interview?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You weren’t concerned for Tony Allen’s safety or well-being?” Mrs. Duhra asked, a suggestion of surprise, incredulity even, creeping into her voice.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why the need for ‘a word’?”

“I thought a particular line of questioning was proving fruitless,” Burkin said in a steady monotone, as if he’d rehearsed his reply, which of course he had. “I wanted to suggest another approach to Sergeant Oswalde.”

“I see.” Mrs. Duhra glanced towards the jury, making clear her total skepticism of that, and turned once more to Burkin. “So nothing in Tony Allen’s behavior gave you cause for concern?”

Burkin’s face was immobile, his eyes opaque. “No. Nothing at all, ma’am. What happened was a complete surprise to me. And a shock.”

The transformation, Tennison thought, was truly incredible. Not a trace of the tattoos, the earrings, the matted hair, and the five-day growth of beard. In their place, standing there in the witness box, a presentable young man with a short haircut, wearing a neat dark suit, pale green shirt, and navy-blue tie. The former drunk had been smartened up so that he wouldn’t have known who it was if he passed himself in the street.

Mrs. Duhra had a friendly witness, and she treated him accordingly.

“Mr. Peters, you were in the cell next door to Tony Allen on the night he died…”

“Yes, miss.”

Polite too, Tennison thought. Such a well-mannered boy wouldn’t dream of screaming Fucking Fascist Bastard Pigs.

“Did you see or hear anything that is relevant to this inquest?”

The reformed crusty wormed his finger inside his collar, tugging his top button open. “I saw the body. They didn’t want me to. They were trying to move me but I saw it lying on the cell floor.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Yes, miss. I heard the prisoner sobbing. Trying to tell the police he couldn’t breathe. I heard some policemen kicking at his cell door, shouting at him, telling him to shut up. Then I heard him threaten them.”

He paused there, as if, a cynic might have supposed, he had been told to, and Mrs. Duhra picked it up.

“Threaten them? What exactly did he threaten them with?”

“Killing himself. If they didn’t let him out of the cell he…”

His words were drowned in the commotion from the public gallery. The court official was on his feet, calling for quiet, and the noise subsided.

“He threatened to kill himself,” Mrs. Duhra said. “Go on.”

“I heard a police officer-I’m not sure which one-shouting at him.”

“What did the police officer shout?”

Probably enjoying this part, the crusty said in a loud voice, “ ‘Go on, then, nigger, hang yourself.’ ” The public gallery burst into an uproar. People were standing and waving their fists. Through it all, the crusty went on, “They were all shouting, ‘Do it. Do it. Do it.’ ”

“Quiet!” The court official was back on his feet. “Quiet!”

It subsided again, but this time an angry rumbling murmur continued, like distant yet ominous thunder. Sarah Allen had half-risen to her feet, her father pulling at her arm. Her head on one side, Esme was weeping silently, huge tears trickling down her face.

The coroner became impatient, having to wait several moments until he could be heard.

“Sydney Peters, can you tell the members of the jury how you came to be occupying the cell next to Anthony Allen on the night he died?”

“I had been arrested, sir,” said the crusty meekly. “For being drunk, sir.”

“Mr. Peters, is it true that you are a member of Narcotics Anonymous?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you could tell the members of the jury why that is.”

The crusty blinked, and gave the jury an ingratiating smile. “Because, ladies and gentlemen, I used to be addicted to various narcotic substances.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peters,” the coroner said icily.

The coroner’s heavy-handed attempt to discredit her witness brought a fleeting sardonic smile to Mrs. Duhra’s face. His testimony had been heard, that’s what mattered, and what had been said couldn’t be unsaid.

Tennison, in her bra and slip, was rooting in the closet for a clean blouse when the phone rang at twenty past eight the following morning. She flopped down on the bed and reached out to answer it. She listened and then said sharply, “Who is this? And why should I want to read that rag?”

Jason was in a phone booth on the shore. It was a gorgeous day down here, a clear blue sky above, the sun sparkling on the waves and making dazzling white triangles of the sails of the yachts setting out for a morning sail around the bay.

He said silkily, “I think you’ll find something in it to amuse you. Now promise me you’ll buy it.”

“Who is this?”

Jason hung up. He didn’t really want to, because he liked the sound of her voice, but it could have been dangerous, staying on the line. She had a sexy voice. She was sexy-looking too. Nice figure, big tits. As a rule he liked them young, the younger the better, because they were innocent and impressionable. But he would have made an exception in her case. Give her a few drinks, get her down to bra and panties, load up the Pentax and shoot off a roll. And after that, well, who knows? Could be her lucky day, a bit of throbbing young meat. They said the older ones really appreciated a good, strong hammering.

Jason came out of the phone booth onto the sunny promenade. He was breathing quite heavily and his erection was chafing inside the tight crotch of his jeans.

He set off at an amble, his black T-shirt under his open Windbreaker damply clinging to him, and went looking for amusement, diversion, thrills.

Sarah Allen was on her way to the kitchen when she heard the mail drop through the mailbox. Upstairs, her nine-year-old brother David was complaining that he couldn’t find his shoes and that Miss Hoggard would make him stay behind if he was late again. From the bathroom, muffled by the sound of running water, came the bass rumble of Vernon’s reply.

Sarah leafed through the bills and advertising junk to see if there was anything for her. There was. She ripped open the large manila envelope and took out a sheaf of ten-by-eight glossy photographs. At first, and rather stupidly, it only registered that they were of a young and slender naked black woman, a towel wrapped around her head. Then she gasped when she realized it was she. Staring in horror and total disbelief, she looked at the grainy images of herself in the privacy of her own bedroom, taken with a powerful zoom lens.

There was some writing on the back of one of them. In such a state of shock, Sarah had to read it twice before the words sank in. Her legs turned to water. Trembling and sick with fear, she stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and pushed it under her sweater as Esme came downstairs.

Gorgeously sunny at the seaside it might have been, but in London it was pissing down. Tennison came out of the newsagent’s and made a dash to her car through the downpour. She slid behind the wheel, shaking cold rainwater from her hair. She unfolded the tabloid newspaper and quickly turned the pages. She didn’t have to look very far. There it was, spread across page five, bold headline that smacked her between the eyes. “TOP COP’S DARK SECRET.”

Underneath it, three muddy photographs that nevertheless clearly identified the two figures kissing on a doorstep as Bob Oswalde and herself; and as if that weren’t bad enough, she was in pajamas and that bloody Chinese silk dressing gown.

Tennison slumped back in the seat. The inside of her head was like a snowstorm, thoughts swirling around. It took her a couple of minutes to get a grip, steady herself. When she had, she knew what she had to do. There was a phone booth on the corner. She ran to it and called Mike Kernan at home, hoping to catch him before he left. Thank God he hadn’t. He listened to her, but didn’t seem to get the full drift of it right off.

Boiling with rage and frustration, Tennison explained angrily, “It’s a threat. From Jason-he’s the photographer.” She nodded vigorously, showering raindrops everywhere. “Yes, of course I’m going to court! I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Someone needs to warn Oswalde…”

At that moment Oswalde was sitting in a cafe, down a side street nearly opposite the Coroner’s Court, polishing off bacon and eggs. He was just finishing his coffee when Burkin strode in, a snide, knowing grin on his face. He was loving this; about time that stuck-up, holier-than-thou bitch got what was coming to her.

Hardly stopping on his way to the counter, he rudely waved a folded newspaper in Oswalde’s face and slapped it on the table.

“What-?”

“Page five.”

“What?” Oswalde said again.

“Fried egg, bacon, and beans, two of toast, cuppa tea with, please, love.” Burkin brought his tea to the table and squeezed in next to Oswalde. “Page five.” He said with a smirk, “That explains it-why the boss was so keen to take your side when Tony killed himself.”

Oswalde had found the item. He read the headline and stared blankly at the picture, too shell-shocked to feel anything.

Burkin stirred his tea. “So tell me, is she good? Does she do tricks?” He leered at Oswalde, gave him a sly nudge. “I bet she likes it on top, doesn’t she?”

Oswalde stood up fast, in the process catching Burkin’s elbow and upsetting his cup. Hot tea spilled into Burkin’s lap, and he stood up fast too, grinding out, “Shit!” When he looked up, tight-lipped, the door was swinging shut behind Oswalde’s departure.

It was the final day of the inquest, and there was an air of nervous expectation as the court quickly filled up. Tennison took her seat next to Kernan, who gave her a fishy-eyed stare; by now he’d seen the tabloid splash, another nail in the coffin of his promotion prospects. He didn’t know that he could ever forgive her for this, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

Both of them watched the Allen family filing in. Tennison wasn’t keen on catching their eye, because up until today it had been plain, unadulterated anger and hatred directed at the benches occupied by the police, especially from Sarah. Now Sarah was looking directly at her with an expression Tennison couldn’t fathom. Almost as if she sympathized, or at least understood, what Tennison must be going through after the seedy revelations in that morning’s paper. It was baffling. Sarah should be reveling in her discomfiture-positively gloating over it-Tennison thought, and yet she wasn’t, and wondered why.

Everyone rose as the coroner entered, and settled down again. The public gallery was packed with black faces. Total silence fell like a shroud as the coroner began his summing up.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The time has come for you to withdraw and consider your verdict. But before you do I should like to offer you some advice. There are a number of possible verdicts, but I think under the circumstances you should focus your attention on just three.”

He paused and stated them, separately and distinctly, so that there should be no confusion.

“Unlawful killing. Misadventure. Suicide.”

There were murmurs from the public gallery. Three possible verdicts, but only one would satisfy them, and convince them that justice had been done.

During the recess, while the jury was out, Tennison went for a smoke in the white-tiled basement which served as a waiting room. She sat apart from all the others, needing to be alone. Besides, the Allen family was down there, surrounded by friends and well-wishers from the public gallery. Therefore it came as a surprise when Sarah came up, and after a slight hesitation, sat down beside her.

She looked at Tennison with the same sort of understanding as when she had entered the courtroom, as if they shared some secret sorrow.

“I’m sorry about that tabloid shit.”

“So am I,” Tennison said with feeling, puffing on her cigarette.

“I received these this morning.” Sarah glanced around, and shielding it with her body, took a brown envelope from her bag and handed it over. “From the same source, I’d say. No-look at them in private,” she said quickly, as Tennison lifted the flap. Then she got up and returned to sit with her family.

In the ladies’ lavatory Tennison took the photographs from the envelope and looked at them. Jason’s handiwork, no question. He and his phallic zoom lens, poking it where it wasn’t wanted.

Now she knew why Sarah’s attitude towards her had changed so dramatically. They were sisters in this, two female victims of the same ugly, sick masculine mind.

She read the message scrawled in green felt-tip.

“DON’T EVEN THINK OF TALKING TO THAT FUCK TENNISON. I’M WATCHING YOU.”

Tennison felt her fury mounting to white-heat. Not because of what he had written about her, she didn’t waste a second worrying about that. It was his sheer egotistical arrogance that incensed her. The swaggering bully who’ll stoop to the lowest, meanest, most cowardly tricks and thinks he can get away with it. Up to and including rape, buggery, and murder.

God, she was going to nail that little shit if it was the last thing she did.

The court official waited for complete silence. “And have you reached a verdict?” he asked.

The jury foreman rose to his feet. “We have. The verdict is suicide.”

The crowd of reporters, photographers, and TV crews was in danger of becoming a riot, fighting to get near Vernon and Esme Allen as they came down the steps of the courthouse. Esme was weeping openly, in the protective circle of her husband’s arm as he shouldered his way through to the waiting cab. Behind them, spilling through the doors, came their friends and supporters from the public gallery, still angry, still booing at the verdict. The antiracist demonstrators joined in. Chants of “coconut” and “Bounty bar” went up as Oswalde appeared. He struggled down the steps, being jostled and pushed on all sides.

Tennison and Kernan were largely ignored. They managed to slip through as the media pack surged after the family, wanting shots of Esta and the little girl, who were being helped by Sarah.

Vernon was doing his best to get Esme into the cab. She was hysterical, swaying and shaking her head like somebody drunk. “He wouldn’t kill himself, never,” she wailed. “He had no reason. He was to be married this weekend…”

The photographers closed in, flashes going off.

“He loved his daughter, his family, he was always a happy boy… he would never kill himself!”

Sarah, handing Cleo into Esta’s arms in the cab parked farther along the street, straightened up and looked through the crowd to where Tennison was standing. The eyes of the two women locked and held. Both of them knew that Esme, the grieving mother, was deluding herself. Far from being a happy boy, Tony had been eaten away inside by some dreadful knowledge, a secret he carried with him to the grave.

Watching Sarah climb into the cab, Tennison wondered how much of that secret she shared with her brother. How much both of them really knew about the cause and circumstances of Joanne Fagunwa’s brutal murder.

Tennison drove down Chancery Lane, turned left onto Fleet Street, heading for Ludgate Circus. She’d decided that the station could do without her for a couple of hours. It was just after midday; she’d take an extended lunch break and maybe stock up with frozen dinners at Sainsbury’s.

The rain was still drumming down as she waited for the lights at the intersection with Shoe Lane. Gazing through the windshield, her eyes drifted down to the envelope Sarah had given her, lying on top of the dashboard behind the steering wheel. Tennison leaned forward, frowning. There was a postmark. Of course there was a postmark, cretin, if the bloody thing had been posted! She snatched it up. The postmark said “CLACTON” with yesterday’s date.

Instead of turning right, Tennison swung into the left-hand lane, getting a few looks for her pains, gave them the finger in return, and drove up Farrington Street, back towards Southampton Row.

She barged into the Incident Room, unwinding her long scarf, already halfway out of her raincoat. Copies of the offending tabloid were swiftly stowed away. She didn’t show that she noticed, and if she noticed she didn’t care.

“Richard.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Start again with the trailer parks. Start with Clacton and any others that come within the postal district. And then work out along the Essex coast from there. Fast, please.”

Haskons jumped to it, organizing the team to begin the search.

Jason had been studying her for a good five minutes before he made his move. She was wearing an anorak over a white blouse and a pleated gray skirt, white ankle socks, and Adidas sneakers. Cutting school, he could spot ’em a mile off. Feeding her lunch money into a slot machine. This was the fourth one she’d tried in the shore arcade, and at this rate she’d be out of cash in no time flat.

He circled around, closing in. Fourteen, he guessed, maybe just turned fifteen. Ripe as a peach waiting to be plucked. Firm pair of titties sprouting under that starched blouse. Nice arse on it too. He liked a nice tight arse.

He breezed up, and leaning nonchalantly against the machine she was working, started reading aloud from the tabloid he was holding, spread open at the page three pinup.

“ ‘Lovely Donna, from Clacton. Thirty-six, twenty-two, thirty-four.’ It’s you, innit?”

“What?” the girl said, chewing gum. She had small, very white teeth and a soft downy complexion. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a severe, straggling bunch, but it couldn’t hide how pretty she was.

“In the paper.” Jason swiveled around to show her the picture of the girl arching her back and bending over slightly so that her breasts hung down, nipples teased erect. “You’re Donna.”

The girl shot him a glance from under her eyelashes. “Dirty creek,” she said, but she was laughing when she said it.