Silent Victims

13

Tennison had phoned ahead and there was a car waiting to meet her and Dalton at Cardiff Station. The driver was a young WPC, Bronwen Webb, who’d dug Jason Baldwyn’s file out of Records. Tennison skimmed through it while they drove to the estate.

It was a dismal day, an unbroken sheet of murky cloud scudding in from the Severn Estuary. What with the late night and the early call at six-thirty, Tennison wasn’t feeling her best. Her first sight of the estate did nothing to lighten her mood. It was a huge gray barracklike place, ten-story tower blocks with balconies and drafty walkways. Some humorist had named the bleak crescents after trees: Sycamore, Birch, Cedar, Oak. Much of it was boarded up, graffiti everywhere, gutters choked with uncollected rubbish. Wrecked cars rested on their axles, leaking pools of oil. Tennison gazed out on the depressing scene, feeling more depressed by the minute. Welcome to the armpit of the universe.

The car stopped outside a tower block, and she sat there for a minute, summoning up the resolve to move. Dalton was reading the file, quizzing Bronwen about Jason.

“You say he’s known to the locals?”

Bronwen unfastened her seat belt and half-turned, leaning on her elbow. “He’s more than known-he spends more time in the cells than out!” There was only a trace of the singsong Welsh accent. She gave a little resigned shrug. “He’s a nice enough bloke when he’s sober, but he’s a nightmare when he’s not. Been had up for assault, petty crimes. Has a lot of marital troubles-she’s always calling us in, but then withdraws the charges.”

Bronwen’s eyes widened, as if to say, What can you do?

She got out and went to open the rear door just as Tennison’s phone beeped. Bronwen stood with Dalton on the crumbling pavement while Tennison spoke to Halliday. The driver’s window was open an inch, and Dalton tried to listen in, none too successfully, except it was apparent that the Super was giving her one hell of an earful.

Tennison was nodding, trying to get a word in edgeways.

“I can’t really do anything about it from here, Guv…” More nodding as she looked out at the estate. “Yes. Well, as I just said, I can’t do anything right now, hopefully by twelve, yes…”

She finished the call and zapped the aerial back in with a vengeance. She got her briefcase and pushed the door slightly open with her foot. She looked at Dalton. He didn’t get the coded message, and it was Bronwen who jumped to it, sweeping the door wide for the Detective Chief Inspector to get out.

Belatedly, Dalton tried to assist. Tennison buttoned her raincoat and glowered around. Dalton looked at her expectantly.

“The bad news is not worth discussing, Haskons and Lillie got themselves dragged up.” Dalton’s jaw dropped. “Don’t even ask. But the good news is, they brought in Jackson, and this time we can hold,” she said with grim satisfaction.

“You serious, they got dragged up?” Dalton said with the glimmering of a smile.

Tennison was not amused. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. But we’ve also another alibi down. Driscoll this time!” She seemed more ferocious than triumphant. “He’s admitted he lied because Jackson threatened to beat him up.” She turned to Bronwen, waiting patiently. “Thank you. It’s number-what?”

“Sixty-three.” Bronwen pointed up to the third-floor balcony. It was reached by a concrete walkway that zigzagged several times, so you had to walk five times the distance to get where you were going.

“Do you want me to come up with you?” Bronwen asked. “It’s a bit of a warren in there.”

“No, thanks. Judging by the look of the place, you’d best stay with the car.” She gave a nod, squared her shoulders, and set off with Dalton up the ramp. “Jackson physically assaulted Lillie and Haskons, and Larry Hall, all in one night.” She stumped upward, eyes fixed straight in front of her. “Just let that oily little brief try for bail…!”

Dalton didn’t know what effect Tennison had on suspects, but in this kind of storming mood she scared the shit out of him.

The girl who let them in-not more than eighteen-had a baby in a shirt but no diaper balanced on her hip, and she was about seven months pregnant with the next one. She had a hollow-cheeked wasted look and lackluster eyes. She led them through the tiny hallway, where they had to squeeze past a pram, into the living room. It was oppressively hot, with the close dank smell that comes from clothes drying in a sealed room. The source was woolen baby clothes steaming gently on a wooden frame in front of a gas fire that was going full blast. Fluffy toys and plastic building bricks were strewn everywhere, along with empty beer cans and dirty cups and plates, strategically located to make it odds on that you’d step onto or into something. The few sticks of furniture looked like the remnants of a car trunk sale on a bad day.

Jason came in from the kitchen. He was tall and very thin, with straggling hippie-length hair, and to Tennison’s consternation he was exceptionally good-looking. Over ragged blue jeans he wore a striped pajama top. The buttons were missing, showing his ribs and flat, fish-white belly. He was barefoot, the nails long and curved, grime between his toes.

“She’s no need to be in on this.”

“Not unless you want her to be,” Tennison agreed.

Jason jerked his head. “Go on.”

The girl went out with the baby. Jason heeled the door shut.

“I’m Jane Tennison, and this is Brian Dalton. Can we sit down?”

“Sure. Sorry about the mess.” He pushed both hands up into his hair and flung his head back.

Tennison sat down in the lumpy armchair, shifting to avoid the spring. Dalton chose a hard-backed chair, well away from the fire. Jason semireclined on the arm of the settee, one knee pulled up to his chin. “You want tea or…?”

“No, thanks,” Tennison said politely. That was the second surprise. He had a lazy, low-pitched voice, easy to listen to. What had she been expecting? she asked herself. Grunts and slobbering growls? She glanced at Dalton, making sure he was taking notes, and smiled at Jason. “So, where do you want to begin?” He was studying his thumbnail. “You’re from Liverpool originally, aren’t you? How old were you when you went into the home?”

“Which one?”

“The home run by Mr. Edward Parker.”

“Ten.” Jason flicked away something he’d found under his thumbnail. “I was sent there from a foster home. I got into a bit of thieving, so they got shot of me.”

“Would you be prepared to act as a witness for the prosecution?”

“Sure.” Jason twitched his thin shoulders in a listless shrug.

“Would you tell me when the sexual abuse started?”

His eyes flicked toward her, and quickly away. He had thick, dark lashes any woman would have been proud of. And any woman would have fallen for the full-lipped mouth with a slightly sullen droop to it.

“Second or third day I was there, Parker just called me into his office and that was it… started then. And you couldn’t say anything, or do anything about it-like he was a law unto himself. And it wasn’t just me, he was having us all. He’d give you a certain amount of fags, like five say, for a blow job. Always knew when one of the kids had gone the whole way with him, they were flush with fags. Have you got one, by the way?”

Tennison reached into her briefcase. “I have, as a matter of fact. Here, keep the packet, I’ve given up.”

Jason uncoiled from the arm of the settee and knelt down to get a light from the gas fire. Tennison rummaged for matches, but he was already lit up. He stayed where he was, long legs stretched out on the tatty hearth rug. The pose was overtly sexual, the pajama top falling open, the tight jeans displaying the bulge at his crotch. It made Tennison unsure whether he was behaving naturally, unself-consciously, or trying it on, deriving some secret amusement from the situation. He was a very disconcerting young man.

“I’m grateful that you’re being so frank with us,” Tennison said. The heat of the closed room was making her perspire, and she was sorry she hadn’t taken off her raincoat when she came in. Now didn’t seem the right time.

“No other way to be, really, is there?” he said, dribbling tiny puffs of smoke from his mouth.

“What made you report him?”

“He shortchanged me on some fags, so I thought-screw him. So I went to the probation officer. Stupid bitch, I think she fancied him-he used to get it off with women, too. Anyway,” Jason said in a long sigh, “she went on and on at me, did I know what I was saying, what it meant? I said, ‘Oh yeah, you know what it fuckin’ means to me?’ I said, ‘If you don’t do something, I’ll go to the cops.’ ”

“And how old were you?”

“Twelve or thirteen.”

“And did you go to the cops?”

“Yeah…” Jason rolled onto his stomach, flicking ash onto the carpet. “Well, he wouldn’t leave me alone, and she wasn’t doing anything about it. So I went to the police station, made a statement, and then-sort of everybody run around, like, asking me all these questions. Then a doctor examined me, and…” He dragged deeply, letting the smoke trickle out. “Oh, yeah. This copper. He gets me into his office.”

“And?” Tennison leaned forward. “What happened then, Jason?”

“He said that if I said I was lying, that he would make sure I had it cushy-you know, money, cigarettes. Things like that. And that they’d move me-somewhere nice.”

He shook his hair back and looked up at her. He had beautiful eyes, but their expression was opaque, a deadness deep down.

“Do you remember this police officer’s name?” Tennison asked quietly. “Was he wearing a uniform?”

“Nah! He was a friend of Parker’s. They worked it between them.” His tone was dismissive. That’s how the world operated. Those with power and influence dumped on the great unwashed below. Fact of life. “So they sent me back,” he went on, and laughed without humor. “They never got around to moving me, and I became a very heavy smoker.”

Jason took a last drag and stubbed out the cigarette on the tiled hearth. He sat up and favored Tennison with a sunny, beaming smile.

“That’s it.”

Tennison nodded. “Do you remember the name of the doctor? The one that examined you?”

“Be no help if I did. He died of cancer, nice guy. Think his name was something Ellis.”

Dalton made a note.

Tennison said, “Was it all the boys, Jason? Or specifically the very young ones?”

“The little ’uns, he liked the little ones.”

“Do you have a job?”

“Nope. No qualifications. A five-year-old kid reads better than me. I do odd jobs around the place, fix up cars.” He smiled in a simple, childlike way. “I get drunk, and sometimes I get angry.”

“And then you get into trouble?” Tennison hesitated. “Have you ever told somebody about your past, Jason?”

“There’s no point.” Again the offhand dismissal. “I just have to live with it.”

Tennison fastened her briefcase and sat with it across her knees, her hands gripping the sides. She said softly, “I will do everything possible to put this man away. I promise you.”

Jason stared at her, as if she might possibly mean it, and then he laughed harshly. “You haven’t even got him, have you?”

She couldn’t find it in her heart to lie to him. She shook her head, and Jason laughed again, harsh and angry.

He led them out, past the pram in the hallway, and stood on the concrete balcony in his bare feet. A short flight of steps led down to the walkway, littered with broken bottles and crushed beer cans. The breeze ruffled Jason’s pajama top. A change had come over him. He followed after them, speaking in a mechanical monotone, telling them a tale, his breathing rapid.

“One night at the home we was watching a documentary, Nazi thing. This guy ran a concentration camp, you know what they are?”

Tennison and Dalton had paused to listen. They both nodded.

Jason leaned back, his shoulder blades pressed against the concrete wall. “Yeah, well, this guy was called the ‘Angel of Death,’ right? And after the war, he escaped, right? He was never hanged, nobody arrested him, nobody brought him to trial…” He gave a peculiar croaking giggle. “Just like Parker. He did me for eight years, he did every boy in his care. You know what we used to call him? We called him ‘The Keeper of Souls.’ ” He grinned down at them.

Tennison put her hand out. “Go back up the stairs, Jason. There’s glass on the stairs, you’ll hurt yourself…”

Jason’s fingers tore at the pajama top. He ripped it off and flung it down the stairs. “You want to see what the ‘Keeper’ did to me?”

He staggered down the steps toward Tennison. Dalton tensed, about to dive up, thinking he was about to attack her. But Jason turned around, showing the pale scars on his skinny back. Tennison touched his shoulder, and moved her hand gently down the hard ridges of puckered flesh. “I will make him pay, Jason, I promise you…”

Jason slowly turned, and Tennison could barely tolerate the terrible desolate anguish in his eyes. The buried pain, the torment of those years, was even worse than the horrible scars. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t speak. He bowed his head and nodded mutely, his hair hanging down over his bare white shoulders.

Tennison went down. Hunched inside, her throat dry and tight, she heard his agonized whisper, swirled by the breeze down the concrete stairwell. “Keeper of Souls. . . Keeper of Souls.”

Bronwen stood by the car, the rear door open. “We’ll only just make your train.”

Drained of all energy, Tennison tossed her briefcase inside. She turned, holding the door, taking one last look back at the godforsaken place. She clutched her throat. Jason was balanced on the edge of the balcony. His arms were spread wide, exposing his ribcage, the narrow chest. He swayed forward.

“Jason! No!” Tennison’s cry was shrill, almost a screech. “NO!”

He fell, a pale blur, turning over in the air, and they heard his body hit the ground, a soft moist sound, hidden behind a concrete parapet. Dalton raced forward across the scrubby patch of mud and scrambled over the wall. Tennison, in her heeled boots, struggled up the slope. She gripped the wall and craned to see over. Dalton was kneeling by the crumpled body, feeling for his pulse. He lifted the eyelids, searching for a reflex. Very gently he cupped Jason’s head in his hands, and looked toward Tennison.

Badly hurt, but he wasn’t dead, Tennison knew that, because the boy was weeping. She could see the tears streaming down his cheeks from his closed eyes.

She closed her own eyes and rested her forehead against the rough gray concrete. Tears smarted her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She refused to cry. She held on to the emotion, hoarding it, needing it like a fix, feeding her the strength for what she had to do.

Tennison sat at one of the three computer consoles in the Records Department of Cardiff Police Station. It was 12:35 P.M., and the train had long gone. Bronwen stood with arms folded, looking over her shoulder. Tennison scrolled the list of addresses up the screen. She took a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and made a Yuck! face. She jotted an address down and held up the pad.

“Is there any way you can do a cross-check on this for me?” Bronwen hesitated, rubbing her palms. “It’s lunchtime. Come on, see what you can do.”

Bronwen took the sheet and went out, almost colliding with Dalton. Tennison looked up anxiously.

“He’ll live. Broken leg and hip bone.” Dalton shrugged out of his raincoat, giving Tennison a straight look to reassure her. “He’s okay.”

“You’ve been a long time.”

“Yeah, he… he wanted me with him.” Dalton cleared his throat. “He was crying, kept on saying he was sorry… sorry for crying.” Dalton gave a wan smile. He was still badly shaken. “His wife and kid, I sent a cab for them.”

“There’s another train at two twenty-five,” Tennison said, glancing at her watch. Already she was back studying the screen, concentrating.

“Jason and Anthony, it’s too much of a coincidence.” She chewed her lip. “If Edward Parker-Jones moved on, maybe so did the same police officer.”

She was watching the screen, but even so she could feel Dalton’s unease. She’d let him go his own sweet way, allowed him into her confidence. Sooner or later he would have to pay for the privilege. She judged the time was ripe.

“Any developments on Jackson?” Dalton asked. He blinked several times when she looked at him. “You said he’d been picked up…”

“No. What about you? Have you heard from the hospital yet?”

Involuntarily he touched his bandaged hand. “No, not yet,” he said stiffly. “Still waiting.”

“How long does it take?”

“Don’t know.”

There was a silence. Tennison sat back in her chair and gave him a cool level stare. Dalton fidgeted, then shoved his hands in his pockets in a weak show of indifference.

Yes, the time was definitely ripe.

“Why don’t you tell me what a high flyer like you is doing attached to this investigation?”

“What do you mean?” Dalton blustered.

“You’re from the Fraud Squad, university educated, you’re hand-in-glove with Chiswick, you report back to him.” Tennison swept her arms wide. “For God’s sake, when are you going to come clean! You’re my mate, come on!”

Dalton stared at the floor, no doubt hoping a yawning chasm would appear and swallow him up. He wagged his head back and forth. “I have to report back to Commander Chiswick if-only if-your investigation crosses another investigation.”

Tennison waited.

“Yes? And? Come on, now you’ve started.” Tennison’s eyes bored into his, whenever he had the nerve to meet them. “You have to report back to Chiswick. About what exactly?”

Dalton was a deeply unhappy man. His usual tan was looking none too healthy. “It’s about the blackmail of an Assistant Deputy Chief Commissioner. He was or had been on enforced leave for eight months. Six months previous to the blackmail threats.”

Tennison stared at him. She snapped her teeth together. “I don’t believe this.”

“One of the most senior officers ever to be subjected to disciplinary procedures. The matter was passed to the Home Office from Scotland Yard…”

“So who the hell is it?”

Dalton jumped as if her bark had bitten him. “Assistant Deputy Commissioner John Kennington.” It only just crept out.

“What was going on before the blackmail? Eight months is a long time. It must have been something big.”

“His possible connection to a pedophile ring,” Dalton said.

Tennison rested her forehead on her hand, shaking her head to and fro. She was thinking that she must have porridge for brains. Not even an inkling until now. And it was so obvious-all the incestuous spying and rumors and heavy hints. Where had she been living? Disneyland?

Bronwen came in. She was smiling.

“Margaret Speel. She’s now based in-”

“London!” Tennison said, jumping up. “Thank you very much!”

“Kennington vehemently denied all the allegations of wrongdoing, which also included bribery and handing out favors, and he cooperated in a full inquiry. My department was brought in, we examined every log book, letter, document in his entire career file. We checked his associates outside the police-receipts, hotel bills, airline tickets.”

Tennison and Dalton sat on a bench seat, platform 4, waiting for the London train. The rain had held off, but there was a nasty gusting wind, shuffling the cigarette packets and candy wrappers at their feet, piling them in corners.

Unable to stomach British Rail coffee, Tennison was drinking hot chocolate from a plastic cup. She was still getting to grips with what Dalton had told her. She felt numbed by it, the double-dealing and duplicity going on all around while she was busting a gut, doing her level best to conduct an honest, professional investigation. Her anger, like the other violent emotions, was seething under the surface.

“And at the end of this big investigation, what was the outcome?”

“One and a half million quid later we were no farther in proving otherwise.” Elbows on his knees, Dalton was leaning forward, smoothing down the tape on his bandaged hand where the edge had come unstuck. “And no evidence that he was involved in any perverted sexual activity.”

Tennison frowned to herself. Something here that didn’t make sense. As yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Kennington was reinstated, but moved to a different department,” Dalton continued. “The entire investigation made everyone really jumpy, especially if it ever got leaked to the press.”

“Well, of course,” Tennison said caustically, “and they put a lid on it.” Put a lid on her, too.

“But it all opened up again.” Dalton peered at her from under his brows. “About six months ago, of his own volition, Kennington…”

“Admitted it?”

Dalton shook his head. “No, this time he was being blackmailed. He wanted to press charges. But I suppose under pressure he withdrew. He resigned. No case was ever brought.”

Tennison’s anger bubbled up dangerously. “And who was doing the blackmailing?”

“I don’t know. I was off the case by then.” He caught the full impact of her flat disbelieving stare, and insisted, “I really don’t know. But I would say, whoever it was, must have some connection with your investigation, otherwise why would they have brought me in?”

“Are you expecting me to believe that Kennington was prepared to bring charges of being blackmailed but never named who was doing it to him?”

“If he did, I was never told…”

Tennison decided she couldn’t stomach British Rail hot chocolate either. She got up and chucked the half-filled cup into the basket. She paced up and down, scarf whipping in the chill gusts. She stopped in front of Dalton.

“Did Edward Parker-Jones’s name ever come up? Was there any connection proved between him and Kennington?”

“The Fraud Squad discovered there had been several charitable donations from Kennington to Parker-Jones.” Dalton held up his hand to forestall Tennison’s fierce nod. “But they were all legal, all documented. The advice centre was only one of a number of organizations Kennington donated monies to. They found nothing incriminating.”

The smell of all this was positively reeking now.

“Could that be why Chiswick wants me to back off Parker-Jones?” Dalton made a vague gesture. Tennison pressed him. “There has to be some reason unless… was it Parker-Jones doing the blackmail?”

“No way. As I said, he was checked out.”

“Who do you think it was? Oh, come on, you must suspect somebody,” Tennison said, losing patience.

Dalton looked up at her. “It could be Jackson.”

“Yes, there’s always Jackson.” Tennison paced, pushing her wind-ruffled hair back from her forehead. “Let me try this on you.” She was trying it on herself as much as on Dalton. “Kennington had been investigated and came up smelling of roses. He must have been very confident, but then he’s forced to resign. Connie was selling his story to Jessica Smithy, right? Claiming that he was prepared to name names-one a high-ranking police officer. What if it was Kennington? Connie was just a rent boy, swat him like a fly. He was just a kid, no parents, nobody to even identify his body.”

Tennison stood in front of Dalton, pushing her hair back, staring down at him. Dalton was intent on his hand, pressing the tape flat with his thumbnail.

The minute Superintendent Halliday walked into the Squad Room, Otley picked up the warning signal. He was in one of his twitchy moods. He kept squirming his neck inside his collar and rubbing his throat as if undergoing slow strangulation. Most of the Vice team were there, busy at their desks. Ray Hebdon looked to Larry Hall, who in turn glanced at Haskons and Lillie. Norma stopped typing.

The room quieted. Halliday tapped his watch. It was late in the afternoon, going on for five.

“Is there anyone in this building who can tell me where Detective Chief Inspector Tennison is?”

“She’s on her way from Cardiff, boss, expecting her any moment,” Otley called out.

Halliday nodded, lips tight. He turned to leave, and turned back, seething. He pointed at Haskons and Lillie, available targets to vent his spleen on.

“And you two, as far as I am concerned, have behaved in what can only be described as an utterly farcical manner-one which would, if ever it were made public-put not only myself but also this entire department in jeopardy.”

Lillie colored up, while Haskons looked defiant. Otley turned away to hide a grin.

Commander Chiswick pushed open the door and said to Halliday, “In your office,” and went out.

“Just tell me-what in God’s name possessed you to do it?”

“But we brought Jackson in, sir!” Haskons protested, rising to his feet. “He is still the main suspect for the murder of Colin Jenkins.”

The door opened again, and Chiswick’s stern face appeared.

“Sorry, I’ll be right with you,” Halliday said. He strode to the door, rubbing the back of his neck. He whipped around. “DS Haskons, DC Lillie-you will return to Southampton Row as from tomorrow evening. DI Ray Hebdon will leave today. That’s all.”

He pushed at the door, and something caught his eye. A doll was pinned to the notice board, golden curls and a frilly pink dress with pink satin slippers. The block printing above it read: “DI HEBDON. FAIRY OF THE WEEK.”

Halliday’s nostrils twitched. “Get this crap down!” He slammed out.

The door squeaked to a stop, and in the silence everyone looked at one another. Otley leaned against the desk, hands in his pockets.

“Just a passing thought, but does anybody have any idea where she is?” He nodded to the clock. “She should have left Cardiff hours ago!”