A Face in the Crowd

14

With a groan, Oswalde rocked himself forward and swung his feet to the floor. He wriggled his toes inside his Reeboks and arched his back, stretching. He must have been sitting in that same semi-crouched position for over an hour, and had possibly, without realizing it, dozed off. His buttocks tingled as the circulation got going.

Light was filtering through the curtains. From the floor of the caravan came a bass-baritone duet of snores; both C.I.D. men were well away in the land of nod.

Oswalde twitched the curtain aside and looked out at a new day. Over the sea, the sky was a clear tranquil blue, as if it had been washed clean overnight. It was very early, not yet six thirty. Oswalde stared dismally out, wondering what the fuck had happened to Jason Reynolds. Had he got wind of them? Or just been delayed somewhere and would show up later? The thought of having to spend all day cooped up in here with the phantom farter made Oswalde profoundly depressed.

He went outside and gratefully sucked in some of the chill morning air. He’d better give Tennison a call, he thought, rolling his head around to loosen up his cramped neck muscles. She’d want to be brought up to date on what was happening, or rather not happening.

Oswalde’s head stopped in mid-roll. Below him, on the lower level, a Cavalier hatchback was parked outside one of the trailers. It hadn’t been there last night. How the hell had it got onto the site without the man at the gate noticing it?

Thoughtfully, Oswalde zipped up his jacket. Stepping lightly, he moved down the grassy slope and skirted around to approach the trailer end on, because he could see a curtain was drawn across the large picture window, blanking out the view. Arms spread to keep his balance, he tiptoed over the grass and pressed his face close to the glass, hoping there might be a chink in the curtains. No luck. He moved around to the door, pausing at another window, but that too was curtained off.

Oswalde edged up to the door and gripped the handle. In one swift smooth movement he had it open and was ducking through the doorway, eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloomy interior.

Lying on the bed of crumpled satin, Sandra’s eyes rounded with terror as the tall, athletic black man burst in. She was wearing a school uniform-blouse, gray pleated skirt, white ankle socks-and was manacled and chained up for a Jason special: schoolgirl bondage. Oswalde moved towards her. Sandra pressed back into a corner and screamed, loud and piercing, and kept on screaming even when he raised both hands in an effort to calm and reassure her.

“It’s all right, I’m a police officer! I’m a police officer!”

Oswalde knelt down, trying to make the girl understand that it was okay, she was safe now. Behind him, Jason crept through the narrow doorway from the kitchen area. He was gripping the empty Scotch bottle by the neck. His lips drew back in a silent snarl. His pale blue eyes with their fringe of blond lashes were wide and murderous. He swung the bottle and brought it down on the back of Oswalde’s head. Oswalde went sprawling, a cascade of stars and flashing sparks filling his universe. He pushed himself back up onto his knees, groggily shaking his head. It took another ten seconds to stagger to his feet. When he looked round, squinting painfully towards the door, Jason had gone.

Oswalde stumbled outside. He touched the back of his neck. Blood was trickling down through the roots of his hair. He staggered forward a few paces, shaking his head to clear it, and looked wildly around. The bastard couldn’t have got far. Then he spotted the blob of blond hair, just disappearing through the waving tufts of coarse grass that grew along the edge of the sand dunes. He was heading for the beach.

Oswalde went after him. Elbows pumping like pistons, he ran towards the broken lip of the cliff top, where it crumbled and fell away to the flat open expanse of wet sand. The blond head vanished as Jason hurtled down the steep sandy slope. Oswalde ran through the coarse grass, feeling it whipping against his legs. He reached the same spot and plunged down, arms cartwheeling as he sought to maintain his balance. He landed with a jarring thud on the hard wet sand and then he was sprinting, long legs at full stretch, the running figure in his sights, the blond head wobbling as Jason started to tire.

Got you, you bastard!

Gaining on him with every stride, Oswalde rapidly closed the distance between them. He could hear Jason’s labored breathing as he reached the shallows of the retreating tide. Jason splashed through them, staggering and sending up curtains of flying spray. He was just recovering when Oswalde launched himself. He hit Jason like an express train. Down they both went into the water. Oswalde got an iron grip on Jason’s wrist and twisted his arm halfway up his back. With his other hand he grabbed Jason by the scruff of the neck, forcing his head down into the water.

Jason came up, coughing and spluttering. He twisted around, a face filled with hate. “Coon, black bastard, jungle bunny, nigger…”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, spewing seawater, snarling, “Rastus, sambo, fucking wog!”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, coughing and gasping. “That’s right, you fucking coon, kill me as well!”

Oswalde could have done it, easily, there and then, he knew it. And there was nothing in the world he’d have liked better than to drown the little shit. Rid the world of that perverted scum.

Instead, with an icy, purposeful deliberation, Oswalde gave him handcuffs and slapped them on. Fighting for breath, Oswalde gave him the full caution, as per the book. “Jason Reynolds, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Joanne Fagunwa…”

The two C.I.D. men splashed through the shallows. Oswalde continued: “You do not have to say anything, but if you do it may be given in evidence.”

Jason raised his head and spat in Oswalde’s face. Hauled to his feet by the C.I.D. men, he was dragged away, still screaming, “Coon, nigger, wog, fucking black bastard…!”

Oswalde sat in the water. He closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the early sun on his face. It felt very good.

Tennison was waiting in the rear yard of Southampton Row when Jason arrived. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing for herself the little shit being brought in and formally charged. Handcuffed and pinioned between two officers, Jason was led inside. As he passed Tennison, he thrust his blond head towards her, leering into her face.

“Thanks for the show the other night. Just your scene, eh? Nice bit of beef… nice black tubesteak up your stank!”

Then he was bundled through, snorting and sniggering to himself. Tennison turned away. She’d seen what she wanted to see. She didn’t believe in the death penalty, but she was always open to persuasion.

The morning was damp and misty. Oswalde came along the neat gravel path, dressed for a funeral he hadn’t attended; that had been yesterday, only he knew that his presence wouldn’t have been welcomed, that it would have upset the Allen family.

Tony’s grave was smothered in wreaths and flowers wrapped in cellophane. Oswalde carried a small bunch of flowers, but there was no card attached. He stood for a moment, looking at the headstone, then laid the flowers at the foot of the grave.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, he crouched down and bowed his head. Jane had said he wasn’t to blame. She had said that when other people made a mistake, it was only money involved. When the police made a mistake, sometimes a human life was put in jeopardy. And sometimes a human life was lost. He had tried to believe her, to convince himself that she was right, but it had a hollow ring, and the pain refused to go away. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life, a corrosive acid eating away at his soul.

He stood up and walked slowly back through the headstones to the gravel path, a tall dark figure that was gradually swallowed up in the morning mist.

Commander Trayner and DCI Thorndike were drinking sherry with Kernan in his office. There was an air of subdued yet distinct jubilation. Kernan detested sherry, but the occasion seemed to demand it, so he clinked glasses and forced the stuff down, hiding his grimace.

Thorndike was at his most overbearingly pompous. His voice was a pedantic drone, the corner of his thin mouth curling up in a tiny smug smile.

“This is not official, you understand, but under the circumstances it seems appropriate to give you a little preview. My recommendation is that disciplinary papers are served on Calder, DI Burkin, and DS Oswalde. I am critical of the way the station was run.” He cast a glance at Kernan, who blinked and took another sip of the disgusting muck. “Procedures need to be tightened up,” Thorndike went on primly. “Too many canteen cowboys. But I find no one to blame for the death of Tony Allen.”

Kernan breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Commander Trayner was nodding, well-pleased. “Clearly, David, you’re the right man to sort this station out.” He turned to Kernan, smiling. “And of course, congratulations to you too, Mike. Nailing Jason Reynolds and getting the move upstairs. I shall have to give you the name of my tailor. He’s particularly adroit at disguising any tendency towards the middle-age spread…”

“Thank you, sir.” Kernan refilled the commander’s glass. “Do you intend to do anything about the press story, sir?”

Trayner considered a moment, and then shook his head. “Let it blow over. Oswalde is back at West End Lane.”

“Yes, sir,” Kernan said, again relieved. He said reflectively, “Besides, Tennison is a bloody good detective.”

“Perhaps,” Commander Trayner said, acknowledging the fact in rather a grudging tone. “But one who has displayed a considerable lack of judgment… I think you know what I mean?”

The debriefing in the Incident Room was also a subdued affair. The team had done its job well, had every reason to feel proud, but the death of Tony Allen in police custody cast a long, gloomy shadow.

Tennison had assembled all her detectives who had worked on the case; all but one. Bob Oswalde was absent, and she felt an obscure pang of guilt that he wasn’t here today, even if the mood was far from celebratory. He deserved better than to have been sent packing, back to his old post, without so much as a word, some small gesture from the super. But that was Mike Kernan for you. More damn interested in his reputation, his bloody promotion prospects.

Despite what she feeling, she put on a bright face.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt that Jason Reynolds is going away for a very long time. The CPS has informed me that they are not going to press charges against anyone else.”

The men exchanged looks. There was some justice after all. It would have been unnecessarily cruel for the Crown Prosecution Service to have implicated Sarah Allen in the murder.

“Now I don’t know about the rest of you,” Tennison said, clapping her hands lightly, “but I’m off to the pub-where I’d very much like to buy each and every one of you a large drink…”

“That won’t be necessary, Jane.”

Everyone turned. Commander Trayner had entered. There were a few puzzled frowns as Kernan and Thorndike followed him in. Not the usual thing for all the top brass to put in an appearance, even at the successful conclusion to a case.

Trayner said, with a faint smile, “Perhaps I can take this opportunity to make an announcement. Mr. Kernan here, will-from now on-be known to you all as ‘Chief Superintendent’ Kernan…”

Mock groans from the men, a few caustic cheers, and a scattering of applause. Kernan scowled self-consciously.

“I’m also very pleased to be able to introduce his successor here at Southampton Row. ‘Superintendent’ Thorndike.”

A solitary cough from somewhere emphasized the deafening silence. The men were looking anywhere but at Tennison. As Kernan’s senior detective, she should rightfully have been next in line for his job.

Tennison felt the blood draining away from her face. It would have been the same if Trayner, instead of mentioning Thorndike’s name, had walked up and punched her in the stomach. She stared across the room at Mike Kernan, who quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere. She didn’t feel angry, not yet; she just felt numb.

Thorndike stepped forward, rubbing his palms together. “Thank you, Commander. I realize I may have made a few enemies carrying out the investigation on behalf of MS15.” He gave a little cough, accompanied by a watery apology for a smile. “The best thing is to clear the air straightaway. If anyone thinks that’s going to be a problem for them-get in the way of the smooth running of the station-then they should apply for a transfer immediately. Now, since we’re all about to go off duty, and just to prove I have a lighter side, I’ve arranged for us to have a drink to mark the occasion.”

Most of the team brightened up considerably as two uniformed PCs came in carrying several six-packs of Tennants Export and a case of Budweiser. The formal atmosphere vanished, and within moments there was the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter, as the men drank. Thorndike mingled, even accepting a can, which he sipped as if it were a glass of sherry. Somebody offered Tennison a drink, which she refused. She was standing slightly apart, very pale, holding herself erect as if the effort cost her a great deal of willpower. She pushed her way through, and approached Kernan.

“So I didn’t even merit an interview,” she said stiffly.

Kernan squirmed a little. “Jane…”

But she’d already moved on to Thorndike. She said, politely and formally, “May I have a word with you, sir?”

“Official or unofficial?” Thorndike said.

“Official.”

Kernan tried to intervene, his expression pained. “Jane, it can wait, surely…”

“No, it can’t wait.”

Thorndike looked at her, flat-eyed. “You’d better come to my office.”

Thorndike sat behind the desk, occupying what had been Mike Kernan’s chair and was now his. He’d already acquired the approved manner of pressing his fingertips together and pursing his lips while he waited for Tennison, standing in front of the deak, to speak.

She said quietly, “You’ll have my formal request for a transfer first thing in the morning.”

“Very well,” Thorndike said, without a pause or the slightest hesitation. He sat, unmoving, and gazed at her.

Tennison stood. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, unless it was perhaps some small expression of regret at her decision. Even of sadness at her departure. Or that she might like to sleep on it. Or to say that all her hard work at Southampton Row had been much appreciated. Or to say what a good officer she was and that they’d miss her. Or simply to say thanks, and good luck.

In the event she received nothing.

Fuck all.

She turned and went out.

Tennison went straight to her office, put her coat on and collected her briefcase. They were still carousing in the Incident Room when she walked past, a lot of raucous laughter and a babble of animated chatter. Always a good feeling when a case was over. Relax, loosen up, let it all hang out.

Tennison turned right at the end of the corridor. She walked on through reception, down the steps, and into the street.