A Face in the Crowd

5

A hospital porter pointed the way to the medical artist’s studio. Tennison walked along the echoing, white-tiled corridor and found the door with a piece of white card taped to it, “STUDIO” scrawled on the card in green felt-tip. It looked to her like a shoestring operation; this guy had better be good for the money they were shelling out.

Upon entering, Tennison saw that it wasn’t a studio at all, but more a medical science laboratory. There were human organs immersed in fluid in giant test tubes, which she didn’t examine too closely in case they turned out to be real. A tall young man in a black polo-necked sweater and a gray apron was working on the far side of the room, next to a wide-slanting window to gain the maximum natural daylight. Tennison threaded through the exhibits, keeping her eyes to the front. She’d seen real human beings in gruesome conditions, and the sight of blood didn’t bother her, but these mummified floating bits of internal plumbing gave her the creeps.

“I’m DCI Tennison. I think you’re making a clay head for us?”

It was the clay head he was actually working on. He stood back, wiping brown clay onto his apron, allowing her to get a good look.

“It may not look like much at the moment, but I have high hopes.” He had a drawling, dreamlike voice, as if he spent much of his time on another plane of existence. Probably did, Tennison thought.

She moved closer. A plaster cast had been taken of Nadine’s skull into which he had hammered dozens of steel pins. These formed the scaffolding for the features he was building up in clay. At the moment the underlying structure could be seen, exposed muscles and ligatures, and the effect was macabre, a face stripped down to its component parts.

“She had the most beautiful skull I’ve ever seen,” the young man said.

“Really?”

“Yes. See this…” He used a stainless steel scalpel as a pointer. “The orbicularis oris. The muscle originates on the maxilla and mandible, near the midline, on the eminences due to the incisor and canine teeth. Its fibers surround the oral aperture. Function-closing of the mouth and pursing of lips. You see, I’m a scientist,” he added, giving her his shy, dreamy smile. “Otherwise I’d have said it’s the muscle that allows you to kiss someone.”

“When will she be ready?”

“By the end of the week.”

As office manager, Haskons was doing a bit of reorganizing-much to Ken Lillie’s displeasure, because he was the one being reorganized.

“But why?” Lillie asked, his arms piled up with document files.

“I’m moving you.”

“Why me?”

“Bob needs a desk.”

“No, no, that’s not an answer… why me?”

Haskons plunked a cardboard box of miscellaneous stuff on top of the pile, so that Lillie had to raise his head to peer over it.

“Because you’re only ever at your desk to drink coffee.”

“Yeah,” Lillie agreed vehemently. “Normally I’m out there making sure the streets are safe to walk.”

Hoots of derision from all corners of the room. Catcalls and shouts of “SuperLillie Strikes Again,” and “Batman and Lillie.”

Oswalde was studying the photographs of Nadine on the big bulletin board, keeping well out of it. He was edgy enough as it was, nervously watching the door for Tennison’s arrival. Kernan had arranged his transfer without consulting her, which put Oswalde in a spot he knew he shouldn’t be in. Especially after what had occurred at the conference. Had he been paranoid, Oswalde reflected, he might have suspected that Kernan had deliberately thrown the two of them together, part of a gleeful, devious plot so he could sit back and watch the pair of them squirm.

No, Kernan would never stoop to that. Would he?

Oswalde had other eyes on him. Burkin was slumped in his chair, long legs splayed out, chewing a matchstick. He muttered to Rosper at the next desk, “It’s bad enough having to police the buggers, let alone work with them.”

“You’re only saying that ’cos he’s taller than you,” Rosper quipped, always the easygoing one.

Burkin was stung. “No he ain’t.”

The door swung open and Tennison breezed in, raincoat flapping around her. Halfway to her desk she caught sight of Oswalde and stopped dead in her tracks. Oswalde was attempting the impossible, hoping not to draw attention to them both by not looking at her, at the same time trying to convey to her by some mysterious telepathic process that he was as blameless as she was, just another innocent pawn in the game.

“Tony. Can I have a word, please?”

Tennison turned about-face and went out.

Muddyman left his desk and went into the corridor, where he found her pacing up and down, hands deep in her raincoat pockets.

“Guv?”

“What’s Bob Oswalde doing here?”

“You know him?”

“Answer the question, Tony.”

“He’s part of the team. Kernan brought him in.”

“Thank you.”

With that she marched off to Kernan’s office, leaving Muddyman standing there, wondering what the fuck this was all about.

Kernan was dictating letters to a clerk when Tennison walked in. He seemed very pleased with himself about something, leaning back with a smug grin on his pouchy, pockmarked face. Tennison’s mind was racing ten to the dozen. It was all a jumble; she wasn’t sure which emotion came first, nor which one to trust. She knew she had to be careful how she handled this.

“Jane?” Kernan said, which showed he was in a good mood, because normally he would have said with a sigh, Well, what is it?

“I want a word with you, Guv. Now.”

“Thank you, Sharon.”

Immediately after the WPC had gone and the door had closed, Tennison said, “Why did you co-opt someone onto my team without telling me?” She was holding herself in check, her voice reasonably calm, her temper under control-for the moment.

Kernan lit a cigarette. “It seemed to me that a black officer would be a-how can I put it?-a useful addition.”

“Why didn’t you consult with me?”

“Actually, I consulted the Community Liaison Officer, who thought it was an excellent idea.” Kernan gestured with the cigarette. “A black face prominent in this inquiry. An antidote to the Burkins of this world. You’re saying you can’t use an extra man?”

“No.”

“Well, what are you saying?”

“You’ve called in this officer as backup,” Tennison said questioningly, making sure she understood, “because he’s black?”

Now Kernan did sigh, and rolled his eyes a little. “Jane, I’m not looking for a political argument…”

“It would have been different if he’d been part of the team from the beginning, but now every time I ask him to do something, it’s open to misinterpretation.”

Kernan gazed blankly up at her. “I don’t understand.”

Tennison came nearer the desk, her hands clutching the air. “It smacks of tokenism. It’s political maneuvering.”

Kernan didn’t want to listen to this claptrap, and didn’t see why he should. But Tennison had pumped herself up and wasn’t about to stop. She said heatedly, “You should have asked me first. Pulling rank just undermines me.”

It was Kernan’s turn to get annoyed. “I wasn’t pulling rank. I was trying to help you out…”

“Oh, bollocks,” Tennison said. Then added, “Sir.”

What could he do with the bloody woman? Against all the odds she’d made it to Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Force, in charge of a murder squad-which was what she’d always wanted-and still she wasn’t happy. He never had this problem with his male colleagues. If only she wasn’t so good at her job, he’d have dumped her double-quick. On yer bike, sunshine.

Kernan rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips, feeling the ulcer start to nag. “You can’t work with the man?” he asked finally, doing his level best to get to the root of her objection.

“Yes, I can work with him.”

“Because all my sources reckon he’s a good officer.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Kernan spread his hands, appealing to her. “Then what have you got against him?”

“Nothing,” Tennison said, tight-lipped. “Well…” She gave a halfshrug. “We didn’t hit it off particularly well on the course, but…”

“I don’t want you to marry the man, for Chrissake!” Kernan practically shouted, squashing his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

Tennison’s tangle of emotions nearly got the better of her. She almost blurted out the real reason why she objected to Bob Oswalde joining the squad-how could she possibly work with a man she was strongly attracted to, who had been her lover? It would set up all kinds of impossible conflicts, make normal, everyday working relations a knife-edge balancing act. And what if it came out? She’d become a laughingstock. Her credibility would pop like a toy balloon, her reputation plummet to zilch, lower than a snake’s belly.

But in the end, sanity prevailed. She didn’t make a fool of herself, and she didn’t blurt anything out. She simply stated, as forcefully as she could, that she didn’t want him on the team.

Kernan’s patience had been worn to a fine point, and finally it snapped. “He’s on the team already. I’ve made my decision and I’m not going back on it. Get the man briefed and put him to work. We’ll review the situation at the end of the week. I’ll be watching the progress of this case very carefully from now on.”

Tennison left the office.

Ten minutes later, on the pretext of officially welcoming DS Oswalde to Southampton Row, Tennison summoned him to her office. She was still pent up and dying for a smoke. She stood in front of her desk, arms folded, looking up at him, accusation in her eyes.

“Are you expecting me to believe this is a complete coincidence?”

Oswalde regarded her placidly. “I don’t know about coincidence-how many black detectives did he have to choose from? What I’m saying is that it had nothing to do with me. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t ask to be the token black on your team.”

He seemed quite sanguine about it.

Tennison said sharply, “Just don’t think that what happened on the course gives you any special privileges.”

“I don’t.”

“And don’t you dare tell anyone.”

“Jane, please… what do you take me for?”

“And don’t call me Jane.”

Oswalde wore a pained expression. “Look, give me some credit. What happened, happened. It’s gone, long since forgotten about. Let’s not give it another thought…”

“Yes. Right.” Tennison waved her hand, dismissing him. “Go back to the Incident Room. I’ll be along in a minute.”

When he’d gone she stared at the door for a long moment, then stuck a Nicorette in her mouth and chewed the hell out of it.

All the team was there, assembled for the four o’clock briefing. There was an odd, strained atmosphere, Tennison snapping out instructions, and the men uneasy. They guessed it had something to do with Kernan and Oswalde, but beyond that they were completely in the dark.

Tennison stood in front of the board, her eyes raking over them. “We could have the clay head by tomorrow with any luck. By the end of the week at the latest. After talking to Harvey, our best bet is to concentrate on Sunday, August the thirty-first, 1986.”

“Has Harvey got an alibi?” Burkin asked.

Tennison nodded. “His sister, Eileen. I’m going to talk to her soon. We need a name. We need to build up Nadine’s life story, then we might be able to connect her to Harvey.”

“I’ve been wading through these statements,” Haskons said, sitting on the edge of his desk and indicating a pile of papers. “One or two people talk about a young girl staying in the basement of Number fifteen.”

“Really?” Tennison said.

“Conflicting reports, but it could have been eighty-six.”

“Brilliant. I’d like to make a start on missing persons. Bob, perhaps you could handle that.”

Oswalde straightened up, his face stiffening, and then gave an abrupt nod. Some of the others exchanged looks. “Mispers” wasn’t normally a job for a Detective Sergeant, especially one as experienced as Oswalde.

“Tony, can you go and see if you can have a word with Harvey’s doctor, make sure he’s not just a bloody good actor.”

“If he is, he should win an Oscar,” Muddyman said.

“Right. That’s all for now.”

As she went out, Burkin turned to Haskons with a grin, muttering, “Glad to see the boss is keeping our colored friend in his place.” Haskons didn’t agree, and he was less than happy with Tennison’s duty allocation. He followed and caught up with her in the corridor.

“Guv… can I put someone else on Mispers?”

“Why?”

“With respect, ma’am, it’s ridiculous having a man of his experience…”

“No.” Tennison was already striding off. “He might pick up on something a more junior man might miss. Don’t call me ma’am.”

Haskons watched her go, shaking his head. Of all the crap excuses…

Eileen Reynolds was a younger, much tougher version of her brother David Harvey. A hard-bitten Glaswegian woman with a shrewd, sharp-nosed face under a silvery cap of bleached hair, she sat in Tennison’s office wearing a powder blue coat and a tartan scarf that clashed badly with everything. Her son Jason sat meekly by her side, as if cowed by her domineering presence.

Tennison was trying to establish the pattern of Harvey’s visits to his sister, and whether he had been there on the weekend in question.

“I’m sure, of course I’m sure! Every year since his Jeanie died. He wouldn’t have left till the Monday morning.” Eileen Reynolds suddenly bent forward, her work-worn hands clutching the shiny black handbag in her lap. “What you lot’ve got to remember is that he’s a sick man. You shouldn’t be hounding him.”

“Mum.” Jason tugged at her sleeve. He seemed embarrassed. “They’ve got their job to do.”

“He’s waiting for an operation you know? You’ll be the bloody death of him…”

“We’re not hounding him, Mrs. Reynolds. We’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries.”

Leaning forward again, beady eyes glittering, the woman said hoarsely, “You wouldn’t be hounding him like this if he was a black man.”

“Mum…!”

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Tennison said patiently, “I’ve questioned your brother once, that’s all. Which is not surprising given that the body of a young girl was found buried in his garden.”

Eileen Reynolds snorted. “Well, that’s a lot of rubbish. Simone Cameron this, Simone Cameron that. Was it Simone?”

“No.”

“Exactly. It’s my brother you should be concerned about. He’s the one that’s dying.”

“Is that all for now?” Jason asked, standing up.

“Yes. Thank you very much for coming.”

“Come on, Mum…”

“Don’t pull me about!” At the door she turned her sharp, angry face towards Tennison for a parting shot. “He’s at the hospital tomorrow thanks to you.”

“Come on,” Jason said, steering her out into the corridor.

Tennison went to the door and indicated to a passing WPC that she should see them to reception. With his arm around the back of the powder blue coat, Jason guided his mother after the WPC, the dutiful, attentive son.

Tennison looked at her watch, debated for a moment, and grabbed her coat from the hook. If she hurried she’d just be in time to catch Vernon Allen before he left his office.

He wasn’t as friendly and cooperative this time. Perhaps it was because he was in his management role, sitting at a mahogany desk, his broad frame inside a well-cut suit and matching waistcoat. Or perhaps he was just fed up with Tennison retreading the same questions he thought he’d already answered.

Aware that he was fretting, impatient to get away, Tennison said, “Just one last thing, Vernon. You said that you and Mr. Harvey fell out because he wouldn’t move.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“What? No.”

“But didn’t he sublet the basement? To a girl?”

“That had nothing to do with me.”

“What had nothing to do with you?”

“Whatever she was doing.”

“What was she doing?”

“Look-I don’t know. It was none of my business.”

Vernon Allen sniffed and turned his head away, gazing through the venetian blinds at the London skyline in the gathering dusk. Far below, the rush-hour traffic was clogging up the Euston underpass.

“It was if she was a prostitute, Vernon,” Tennison said.

“Why?”

“Because as the landlord you could have been charged with running a brothel.”

He was offended. “How dare you use the word ‘brothel.’ ”

“What word would you use?”

He looked at her through his heavy, dark-framed glasses, a hint of uncertainty there, as if he wasn’t sure of his ground anymore. With a weary motion he pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and said, “I was at work all hours, Esme was too. A neighbor told us men were calling there. I spoke to Harvey right away but I had no proof. Then suddenly the… the girl… seemed to have gone.”

Tennison leaned forward. “But did you see her?”

Vernon Allen gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.”

“Was it the girl whose remains we’ve found? Is that why you won’t cooperate?”

“Listen. My family is very upset.” He was making a great effort to speak slowly, holding his emotions in check. “It’s an important time for us. A wedding should be a time of joy. I have cooperated with you in every way so far…”

“Then please answer the question. Did she answer the description I’ve given you?”

“No.” He stared straight back. “She was a white girl.”

“Not just light-skinned?”

“No. White.”

Tennison leaned back, pressing her lips together. “Can you describe her, please?”

Vernon Allen thought for a moment. “Small, perhaps five foot two. A tiny thing, really. Blond hair-bleached, I would say.” Tennison nodded, making notes. “Young, but not the girl you described.”

Tennison looked up from her pad. “Did you have sexual relations with this girl?”

She saw in his eyes how disturbed he was by this question.

“I did not,” Vernon Allen replied gravely.

“What was the relationship between Harvey and this girl?”

“God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

“And when did all this happen, Vernon?”

He stared down at the desk, evading Tennison’s gaze, but she was quite content to wait. He cleared his throat and swallowed, and reluctantly admitted, “It could have been the summer you’re talking about.”

Tennison replaced the cap on her pen and screwed it tight.

The medical artist had promised it by the end of the week, and the next day, shortly after three in the afternoon, he delivered the goods.

On her way back from the ladies’ room, Tennison nipped up to Kernan’s office and invited him to come along to the Incident Room and take a gander at it. She thought it was the least she could do, seeing as how Kernan had been burdened with finding the money from his budget to pay for it.

“The Viswandhas’ lawyer has been bending my ear,” Kernan grumbled to her as they walked along the corridor. “He tells me Forensic are still there, poking around inside the house, lifting carpets, floorboards, the lot.”

“So?”

“Let’s get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kernan pushed open the door of the Incident Room, waving her to go first, and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Let’s see it then.”

There was an air of expectancy. All the team had gathered for the grand unveiling. Richards, the police photographer, had set up his tripod and lights. Tennison nodded to Haskons, who stepped forward and whisked off the cloth. There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a kind of collective gasp. The medical artist had been too modest, Tennison thought. He was as much artist as he was scientist, without doubt.

Modeled in brown clay, the head was astonishingly lifelike. The girl was young and very beautiful, rather proud-looking, with braided hair swept back from a wide forehead. The artist had caught exactly the mixed-race cast of her features, high cheekbones had a generous mouth, and it reminded Tennison strongly of the sculpted head of an ancient goddess.

Everyone, even the hardened longtime pros who thought they’d seen everything, were impressed…

Everyone except Kernan, cynical old bugger, who was seeing a hole in his budget rather than an expertly crafted clay head.

His only comment was a surly, “Very nice,” and then the swing door was wafting the air as he disappeared through it.

Richards was popping off photographs, moving his camera around to cover all the angles. Tennison turned to the men.

“Right… I want these photographs to appear everywhere they can, local and national press. From now on you’ll show them to anyone who might be able to help. Let’s get the Allens in to see this…” She gestured towards the head. “Vernon Allen has confirmed that there was a hooker working from the basement of Number fifteen that summer. From his description it wasn’t Nadine but it’s possible that Nadine was a tom as well… perhaps Harvey was a small-time pimp? Harvey is at the hospital all day tomorrow,” she added, “so I won’t be able to see him till the evening to tackle him about it.”

“She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” DC Lillie said.

“Start asking around anyway.” Tennison moved to the board. “Vernon Allen has accounted for his family’s whereabouts on the thirty-first. For the last ten years there’s been a Reggae Sunsplash concert in Honeyford Park on the last Sunday in August. Vernon says Esme was at that concert-she’s there every year running a stall selling West Indian food.”

The men were silent, paying close attention. Glancing down at her notes now and then to refresh her memory, Tennison continued.

“Apparently Tony, the son, attended the concert, which is an all-day affair-ten to ten. Vernon says he spent the day at home with Sarah and David. Tony returned at about nine p.m. to look after his brother and sister so Vernon could go to work. I’ve checked Vernon’s work record. He did a double shift through Sunday night and late into Monday. By the time Esme had packed up, returned things to the cafe and got back home, it was about ten forty-five p.m. She says by then all three children were asleep in bed. Obviously, wherever possible, I’d like these accounts verified.”

She looked around, and was about to call the briefing over when Oswalde, leaning back nonchalantly against a desk, arms folded, said casually, “Perhaps that’s the link between Nadine and Honeyford Road.”

“What?”

“The Reggae Sunsplash.”

Tennison’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Harvey could have met her there, or Tony Allen. Perhaps the victim’s bag of African cloth was a costume of some sort. She might even have been performing at the concert.”

Nobody said anything. Oswalde’s first contribution, after being on the team less than twenty-four hours, was a good one, and everybody knew it.

Tennison looked away from him, tapping her fingers on the desk. “It’s an interesting thought. Worth following up. Frank, Gary, I’d like you to visit the Sunsplash organizers first thing tomorrow-see if they can point you toward any bands using back up singers or musicians in African dress.”

Oswalde slowly unfolded his arms. He couldn’t believe this. He’d just single-handedly come up with a promising lead and she’d tossed the juicy bone to someone else. Knowing what he must be feeling, the rest of the team couldn’t meet his dark, angry eyes. Something was going down here, but they were damned if they knew what it was.

“Anything else?” said Tennison briskly. “Right. That’s it for now.” She strode out.

Oswalde went after her. He caught up with her in the corridor and made her stop. “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.

“What?”

“Treating me like the office boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tennison said, braving it out. Her eyes shifted away; people were passing, and it was a bit public for this exchange.

“Why didn’t you send me to see the concert organizers?”

“You’re busy already,” Tennison said, another convenient crap excuse. “Besides, I thought that you didn’t want to be given special tasks because of the color of your skin.”

“I don’t,” Oswalde said curtly. “I want to be given a task commensurate with my abilities and experience.”

He was right to be pissed-off, and right to make this request, they both knew it. Tennison was anxious to end this public confrontation lest tongues started to wag. She said, “I want you to carry on overseeing Mispers…” Oswalde was about to protest, and she cut him short. “But I’d also like you to arrange for the Allens to see the clay head. Watch their reactions.”

“Thank you,” Oswalde said stiffly, and went back to work.

While he was still sore at Tennison, Oswalde was glad to be more centrally involved in the investigation; combing through the endless Missing Persons files on the computer was brain-numbing, soul-destroying work. He’d done his stint at it as a young DC, and had thought those days were behind him.

He contacted the Allens and arranged for Vernon and Esme, and their son Tony, to come into Southampton Row to view the clay head. He went down to reception to meet them, and before taking them through to the interview room, explained to the three of them what was involved. They were being asked to say if they recognized the girl, and if possible, to identify her.

As they filed in, Oswalde kept a close eye on them, noting their reactions at the first sight of the head on the small wooden plinth. They studied it in silence. Oswalde glanced at Vernon Allen, who shook his head.

“Are you sure, Vernon?”

“Absolutely.”

“Esme?”

“Yes?” Her brows were drawn forward, gazing at the head with a harrowed expression. “No, dear. I’d remember if I had.” She let out a pitiful sigh. “What a beautiful child…”

There was a strange gasping, choking sound. Oswalde swung around to find Tony Allen on the verge of collapse. The boy was shuddering violently and clutching his throat, the awful noises issuing from his quivering mouth. He seemed unable to properly draw a breath.

“Tony-what’s wrong?” Oswalde said, alarmed.

Esme took charge. “Come, Tony, sit down.” She led the boy to a chair and sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “Now don’t make a fuss, you’re all right,” his mother comforted him. “It’s very hot in here. He suffers from asthma,” she explained to Oswalde.

“I see.”

Oswalde watched him. He seemed calmer now, though there was a mist of sweat on his forehead. He kept staring at the clay head, then down at the floor, and then back again, as if the sight mesmerized him.

“Have you seen her before, Tony?”

“No.” He gulped air. “I’ve never seen her.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.