Silent Victims

14

On arrival in London, Tennison deliberately hadn’t reported in. She’d sent Dalton off to pick up a car while she took a cab to the Islington Probation Department, with instructions for him to meet her there. It was after five o’clock, and she was afraid that Margaret Speel might have gone, but she hadn’t. She was writing up reports in a tiny cluttered office that had a look of impermanence about it, as if she were in the process of moving in or moving out, Tennison couldn’t decide which.

However temporary her office, Margaret Speel’s sarcastic manner was firmly in place, exactly as before. There was something about the cynical slant of her mouth that was extremely irritating. In her petite bouncy way, she reminded Tennison of a chirpy strutting sparrow with an attitude problem: however smart you think you are, I know I’m smarter.

“Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” she said world-wearily, gesturing to a chair. Her mouth slanted. “You want any more boys off the streets?”

Tennison sat down. She placed her briefcase on the faded carpet and sat up straight. She was all through with taking crap, especially from a cheeky sparrow with an irritating smirk.

“You were at one time working in Cardiff, yes?”

Margaret Speel rocked back in the chair. She recovered quickly. “Yes, and Liverpool. And I’ve also worked in Birmingham.”

“Was Edward Parker-Jones also working in Liverpool and Birmingham?”

“No.”

“Well, we can be thankful for that, can’t we?” Margaret Speel’s eyes narrowed under her dark bangs; she was a mite uncertain now, getting edgy. Tennison kept up the barrage. “Do you know Anthony Field?”

A hard glare, and a frown.

“No? What about Jason Baldwyn? He was a resident at-”

“Yes,” Margaret Speel interrupted. “Yes, I remember Jason.”

“Do you have a relationship with Edward Parker-Jones?”

“I don’t think that is any of your business,” Margaret Speel said in a quiet, outraged voice.

“But it is. It is very much my business.” Tennison leaned toward her. She stared her full in the face. “Jason tried to kill himself this afternoon, right in front of me, Margaret. He’s prepared to make a statement that when he was in the care of Parker-Jones he was sexually abused, for a period of six years. You were at that time his probation officer!”

Margaret Speel’s hand jerked to her throat. Her fingers plucked at a necklace of jade beads. Her pale neck was taut and strained.

“You were Jason’s probation officer, weren’t you? Jason Baldwyn’s probation officer.”

“Yes, yes I was,” Margaret Speel said in a barely audible whisper.

“Do you have anything to say about these allegations? Were you aware of them when you were working in Cardiff?”

Margaret Speel was struggling to take this in. Her chirpy sarcasm was gone, shocked out of her. She made a valiant, desperate effort that only came out sounding weak. “Jason was always telling lies, he was a compulsive liar-”

“Ten-year-old boy, Margaret, and you refused to believe him, and he had six more years of abuse,” Tennison went on relentlessly.

“This isn’t true!” She shook her head, almost in pain. “This is terrible… if I had believed, for one moment…”

“Believe it, Margaret. What do you know about Connie? Colin Jenkins-Margaret?”

“I was telling you the truth! I swear I didn’t even come here until eighteen months ago. Edward contacted me. He even tried to renew our relationship…” Her head dropped. Tennison let her stew. She believed that Margaret Speel was genuinely distraught, she even felt sorry for her, but Tennison’s bottled anger fueled a passion to cut straight to the rotten heart of this, to ruthlessly expose it to the light, no matter who got hurt along the way.

“Are you sure?” Margaret Speel asked, feebly grasping at straws. “You know, these young boys make up stories, and I remember Jason-”

“Margaret-do you also remember if a doctor examined Jason Baldwyn?”

“Yes, of course he was examined.”

“Margaret, do you recall a police officer? Someone who would have known Parker-Jones in Cardiff?”

“Do you mean John Kennington?”

Tennison’s face remained calm, she didn’t so much as move a muscle. She felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. With scarcely a pause she said blithely, “It could possibly be John Kennington. Do you recall what rank, or if he was uniformed or plainclothes?”

“Er, yes, um…” Confused, still in a state of shock, Margaret Speel rubbed her forehead. “I think he was-Superintendent. I never saw him in a uniform. He lives in London now.”

As if it was of minor interest, Tennison said casually, “Do you happen to know if John Kennington and Parker-Jones are still in touch? Still friendly?”

“Yes, yes I think so.”

Tennison thanked her and left. On her way out she heard Margaret Speel sobbing at her desk. She didn’t like the woman, though she did pity her.

Tennison sat in the driver’s seat outside the steeply gabled house with white-leaded windows, a dense windbreak of conifers shielding it from the road. Dalton, very subdued, sat woodenly beside her. Tennison clicked the door open and looked across at him. He knew what she was about to do, and what the consequences were, and both of them knew where it put him. Between a rock and a hard place. Anyway, his decision, she thought. He was a big boy now and she certainly was no wet nurse.

“You can stay in the car if you want!” Tennison said bluntly.

Dalton clenched his jaw, bit the bullet, and reached for the door handle.

A middle-aged housekeeper with a foreign accent showed them into the large L-shaped drawing room. French windows gave a restful evening view of a flagged patio with stone urns of flowers, and beyond a stone balustrade a lawn sloped down to a grove of beech trees.

A grandfather clock, genuine antique to Tennison’s inexpert eye, ticked solemnly in the corner, emphasizing the silence. There was a baby grand on a small platform, a Chopin étude on the music stand. Two long wing-backed sofas covered in rose silks faced each other across a coffee table that was bigger than the kitchen table in Tennison’s flat. The fireplace was white lacquered wood inlaid with gold leaf, and displayed on the mantel were family photographs in ornate silver frames. Tennison went over for a closer look.

“Well, he didn’t buy this on wages,” was her considered opinion, after giving the room the once-over. “This place must be worth a packet.”

“It happens to be my wife’s.”

John Kennington stood in the doorway. He came in, tall and distinguished, with silvery hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead. As a young man he must have been stunningly handsome. Even dressed in a buttoned fawn cardigan and dark green corduroys, with soft leather loafers, he gave the appearance of fine taste and casual elegance. He was totally at ease, charming, and rather patronizing.

Tennison had never met him before. She’d seen him from afar, once, at a grand reception for a delegation of European police chiefs. At the moment she was a bit unnerved, both by him and the surroundings, but she was damned if she was going to show it.

She said formally, “I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, and this is Detective Inspector Brian Dalton.”

Kennington didn’t invite them to sit. He looked from one to the other, and negligently scratched an eyebrow.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I am making inquiries into the death of a young boy, Colin Jenkins. Do you know him?”

Kennington shook his head. He strolled over to the fireplace.

Tennison turned to keep facing him. “Do you know a James Jackson?”

“No.”

“Do you know an Anthony Field, sir?”

“No.”

“A Jason Baldwyn?”

“No.”

“Do you know Edward Parker-Jones?”

Kennington hesitated before shaking his head. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

The grandfather clock ticked on in the brief silence.

“You were at one time stationed in Manchester,” Tennison said, “and previous to that, Cardiff, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you at any time meet a Miss Margaret Speel?” She watched him closely. “A probation officer?”

Kennington shook his head again, this time more abruptly. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”

He was good at stonewalling, and this could have gone on all night. Tennison didn’t have time to waste.

“Your recent resignation, sir-you were about to initiate charges which due to your retirement-”

“What exactly is this inquiry about, Chief Inspector?”

His tone had sharpened. He no longer held the rank of Assistant Deputy Commissioner, but he retained the gravitas of past authority, the prestige of office that demanded a certain respect.

“I should be most grateful if you would answer the questions, sir,” Tennison persisted, refusing to be bullied or patronized.

“I have no inclination to answer anything else, and I would appreciate it if you left my house.” He made a brusque gesture of dismissal. Dalton shuffled his feet. He looked to Tennison, a mute agonized plea in his eyes.

“Colin Jenkins also used the name Connie,” Tennison said, standing up straight. “Do you recall ever meeting him? He was fifteen years old, about my height, with pale red hair. He was, sir, a practicing homosexual…”

Mottled spots of red had appeared in Kennington’s cheeks. He was nearly a foot taller than Tennison, and he came forward, using it to intimidate her.

“I’d like you both to leave. Now.”

Dalton was already halfway to the door. He wanted to physically drag Tennison with him, but the woman hadn’t budged. She stood her ground, gesturing to the silver frames on the mantel.

“It was just that I noticed… you have a number of photographs of young-”

“They are my sons,” Kennington said, his outrage giving his voice a harsh rasp. “Please leave my house NOW!” He stood over her, trembling, fists clenching and unclenching.

“Was Colin Jenkins blackmailing you? Was Parker-Jones attempting to put pressure on you? Which one of them was blackmailing you? Were you aware Colin was selling his story to the newspapers?”

Kennington raised his fist as if he might strike her. He dropped it as an attractive, middle-aged woman came briskly in, her streakily gray hair cut short in a young style that actually suited her. She passed Dalton and looked around, smiling vaguely.

“Oh! I’m sorry…” She looked to her husband. “John?”

Tennison stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Mrs. Kennington, I am-”

Kennington grasped her by the elbow and started pushing her. Tennison pulled her arm free and stood back, holding up both hands.

“Please!” She smoothed her sleeve straight. “Mrs. Kennington, your husband was just answering some questions. I am investigating the death of a young rent boy, fifteen years old, and I’m-”

Mrs. Kennington’s eyes widened in alarm as her husband bodily propelled Tennison across the room. Leaning forward, face carved out of stone, he thrust her ahead of him into the hallway, and kept on going.

“His name was Colin Jenkins, you may have read about it…”

Tennison’s fading voice was interrupted by the sound of the front door being swung violently open on its hinges.

Dalton and Mrs. Kennington looked at one another. It was hard to know who was the more shocked. Dalton gathered his wits and quickly went out.

Standing at the coffee table, Mrs. Kennington reached down, and without looking took a cigarette from a black ebony box. The front door slammed shut. She held the cigarette between her fingers and slowly and deliberately crumpled it, her face frozen in a white mask.

Dalton beside her, Tennison drove into the yard at the rear of Southampton Row Police Station. This was her old division, before being shunted sideways to Soho Vice. Her old boss, Chief Superintendent Kernan, was crossing the yard to his car. Genuinely, or by design-hard to tell-he happened not to see her. She rolled the window down and stuck her head out.

“Buy you a drink?”

Rather reluctantly, he came over. “Sorry, I’m late as it is.” His pouchy cheeks and heavy jowls always reminded her of a disgruntled chipmunk. She couldn’t once recall him looking happy, except when he was pissed. He nodded to Dalton. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

“What do you know about John Kennington?” Tennison asked.

Kernan sighed and stared off somewhere. He didn’t hold with women having senior positions in the force, and that applied to Tennison in spades. She was a real ball-breaker. He bent down to the window.

“He just got the golden handshake. Why?”

“Is he homosexual?”

Kernan laughed abrasively. “I don’t know-why do you ask?”

Tennison opened the door and started to get out. Kernan backed away, making a negative motion. “I’ve got to go, Jane…”

Tennison did get out. Kernan’s shoulders slumped as she confronted him. “Mike, I need to know because I think he is involved in this murder, the rent boy-”

“I’ve nothing to tell you.” His face was a closed book.

Tennison gave him a hard, penetrating stare. She said in a low urgent voice that was almost pleading, “They’re young kids, Mike, some of them eleven and twelve years of age-your boy’s age. All I want is the truth.”

Kernan glanced guardedly toward Dalton in the car, and moved farther off. He looked down on her, flat-eyed. “Do you want me to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“If you start digging dirt up again on Kennington,” he muttered, shaking his head, “it’ll be a waste of time. He may no longer be a big fish, but he’ll have a hell of a lot of friends who still are. A whisper gets out, you’ll tip them off and you won’t get near them, and it won’t help the kids, won’t stop the punters. They’ll all be still on the streets. You should back off this one, Jane.”

“Even if he was a high-ranking police officer,” Tennison said heatedly. “Even if there are judges, politicians, barristers involved…”

“Kennington’s out of the force now,” Kernan said heavily, trying to make her see sense. “Ignore it, that’s the best, the only advice I can give you.”

Tennison nodded slowly, but it didn’t fool him. She pursed her lips. “There’s a Superintendent vacancy up for grabs, you know which area?”

Kernan gazed at her for a moment. He held up his hand, fingers and thumb spread wide. Five. He gave a smirk and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Becoming a player, are you?”

Tennison nodded. She got back in the car and slammed the door. She revved the engine and put it in reverse. Kernan stood watching.

“Good night!” he called out.

“Thanks, Mike,” Tennison said, backing up.

Kernan whacked his open hand on the car roof and she shot off, through the archway to the main road. He shook his head wearily, puzzled and pissed off. If he couldn’t stick the woman at any price-and dammit he couldn’t-why did he so admire the bloody bitch?

Twenty minutes later Tennison dumped her briefcase on her desk, flung her coat over a chair, and scooped up the sheaves of reports, internal memos, and phone messages that had piled up in her absence. After twelve straight hours on the job she was fighting off bone-weary fatigue with pure nervous energy. Her nerve ends jangled.

Dalton trailed in after her. He had a limp, wrung out look to him, the classic symptoms of bags under the eyes and pasty complexion, sweat trickling from the roots of his hair.

He stood, slack shouldered, making a great effort. “Can I say something, apologize really, but I didn’t have much say in the matter and I’ve…”

His voice trailed away when he realized she wasn’t listening, too preoccupied as she scanned through the messages. The silence sank in.

“What? I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry, and, well…” His speech stumbled along. “I dunno where I am. It’s like I’m in some kind of limbo…”

Tennison paid full attention. Dalton seemed to be cracking up in front of her eyes. He wasn’t able to look at her, too embarrassed or fearful or something, and it all came tumbling out in a flood, a dam-burst of raw feeling.

“I can’t sleep and, well, my girlfriend, I haven’t told her. I’m even scared to have sex with her because…” He swallowed painfully. “It’s just hanging over me all the time. What if I have got AIDS?” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. He choked down a sob, standing there forlorn and pitiful. “I’m sorry, sorry…”

Tennison went to him and put her arms around him. She gave him a strong, comforting hug. She could feel him shaking inside. She stood back, holding his shoulders.

“Listen, anyone would feel the same way. And, listen-I think it’ll be good for you to sit and really talk it all out… and to someone who understands all the fears-and they’re real, Brian.” She touched his wet face. “You go and wash up. I’ve got the contacts here for you, okay?” She nodded to her desk. “Maybe you and your girlfriend should go together.”

Dalton let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and turned to leave. Tennison waited for the door to close. She pressed both hands to her face, covering her eyes. She held a deep breath for a count of five, and then snapped back into action, picking up her messages as she returned to her chair.

The door was rapped. Otley looked in.

“We’ve got Parker-Jones in interview room D oh three.”

“What?! He’s here?” Otley nodded. Tennison glared at him. “Whose bloody idea was that?”

“Mine,” Otley retorted, sauntering in. “We got some kids that recognized Deputy Chief Commissioner Kennington’s house. Plus, the property where we picked up Jackson, it’s owned by him.”

“What?” Tennison was on her feet.

“Jackson’s been living in a house owned by Parker-Jones. It’s all there…” He made a flippant gesture to the desk. “Full report.”

“Who’s interviewing him?”

“Haskons and Lillie.”

Tennison swore under her breath as she scoured the littered desk for his report.

Otley’s long gaunt face was looking distinctly tetchy. He’d worked his bollocks off on this case, and what did he get in return? Sweet F.A. Overbearing cow. “And as you weren’t here,” he said, not troubling to hide his sarcasm, “and we couldn’t contact you, I’m just trying to close the case.”

Tennison flared up. “You? I know what you’re playing at, but you are just not good enough. Stop trying to demean me at every opportunity. This isn’t your case!”

“I know that.”

“Then stop working by yourself. I didn’t want Parker-Jones brought in yet.”

“You got a reason?” Otley said, insolent to the last.

She had half a dozen, but she’d be damned if she was going to rhyme them off, chapter and verse, for his benefit. She was in charge of this investigation, and Bill Otley had better wise up to it double quick.

“I’m not ready for him,” was the only reason she-Detective Chief Inspector Tennison-felt obliged to give the cheeky toe-rag.

Edward Parker-Jones, quietly casual in a dark check sport jacket, collar and tie, green suede shoes, sat in interview room D.03. Haskons sat directly opposite him, with a beautiful shiner of a black eye and a cut lip. Lillie had a bruised forehead where Jackson had butted him and a bandage on his chin over the wound he had dabbed with TCP cream.

“Yes, the properties are mine. I have admitted that they are, and I would, if you had asked, given the information freely. I have nothing to hide.”

He was one cool customer, Haskons thought. A real con artist, and he’d met a few. But, so far, Mr. Parker-Jones was completely legit, and had to be handled with care.

“Do you have the books?” Haskons asked, raising his undamaged eyebrow. “You are paid a considerable amount of money from not only Camden Council, but also Holloway and Hackney.”

“They are very large houses, and yes, if you wish to see the books, then all you have to do is contact my accountant. Taking care of the homeless is not a lucrative business, far from it. Laundry bills, heating, electricity, water…” He looked pointedly at his watch, shaking his head and sighing. “Is all this really necessary? Why exactly have I been brought in yet again? Why wasn’t this all asked before? I have been perfectly willing, and cooperative…”

The door swung open. It was as if an icy blast had swept in.

Lillie bent toward the mike. “The time is six-thirty and DCI Tennison has just entered the interview room.”

Haskons took one look at Tennison’s face and vacated his seat. She sat down in it. She wasn’t afraid to let the silence linger as she settled herself, flipped open her notebook and unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen. She looked up.

“Could you please tell us about your relationship with Margaret Speel?”

Parker-Jones hooked a finger over one ear, pushing back a trailing strand of jet-black hair. “She’s my fiancée.” The question hadn’t surprised him, or if it had he’d covered superbly.

“Did you, in 1979, run the Harrow Home for boys in Manchester?”

“Yes.”

However closely Tennison scrutinized him, she couldn’t detect a flicker of concern or unease.

“And in 1986 the Calloway Centre in Cardiff?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Anthony Field?”

A half smile. “Yes.”

“And Jason Baldwyn?”

“Yes, they were both in my care.”

Tennison pretended to jot something down. Eyes downcast, she said. “Do you also know John Kennington?”

Parker-Jones eased back in the chair. His body language gave nothing away. He tilted his head slightly. “Yes-not well, but I have met him.”

“Could you tell me about one of your employees, James Jackson?”

“I wouldn’t call it employed, but he did on the odd occasion do some repairs-caretaking, that sort of thing.”

“How well did you know Mr. Jackson?”

“As I have already stated,” Parker-Jones said, making it sound weary and pedantic. “I did not know Mr. Jackson on a personal or social level. He simply did the occasional odd job for me. Nothing more.”

Tennison leaned her elbows on the table. “But he lived in a property owned by you, Mr. Parker-Jones.”

Parker-Jones looked to the ceiling. He smiled very patiently, humoring her. “Again I have admitted this. I paid Jackson only a nominal amount, and in return for his room he repaired the property. I have no reason to know or even be aware of what Mr. Jackson did in his private life.” He spread his hands. “I was also unaware if he lived there on a permanent basis, as he told me he had an elderly mother he took care of and spent a lot of time with.”

Tennison decided to pass on the elderly mother. She idly wondered why he hadn’t bothered to mention that she was white-haired, crippled, and had multiple sclerosis as well. Instead she said:

“What other names have you been known under?”

“I have two houses in the name of Edwards, and one in the name of Jones.” Glib, straight out with it. As if he already knew the questions and had rehearsed the answers. “I have on occasions used both.”

“Why did you use different names on the deeds of these properties?”

“I just did.” The half smile appeared. “There is no law against it.”

She’d started off gentle, tossed him some easy ones, and he’d batted them back without breaking sweat. She now got ready to lob a few grenades. Her voice went up a pitch.

“Would you like to tell me about the two charges for indecent assault. The ones in Manchester, and Cardiff!”

Parker-Jones fiddled with his signet ring. “Not really. In both incidents all charges were dropped.” His deep-set eyes returned her gaze, measure for measure. “I can see no reason to discuss them.”

“Did John Kennington assist or advise you in any way concerning these two sexual assault charges?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Have you at any time in the past months attempted to get monies from John Kennington?”

“What?” He blinked several times.

“Blackmail? Or extortion? Have you, Mr Parker-Jones, attempted to get monies?”

“Absolutely not.” He laughed at the idea. “Ridiculous.”

“Were you aware that John Kennington was considering bringing blackmail charges against-”

“I would obviously not consider attempting to extort monies out of someone who freely donated to my centre,” he said caustically. He tapped the table with his manicured fingers. “I have, as requested, presented a detailed list of all those who forward charitable donations to the centre. I presume this information was passed on to you…”

Tennison cut across him. “Did you on the night of the seventeenth of this month call the emergency services?” she asked sharply.

He hadn’t rehearsed this one, because he stared blankly at her for a second. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you call an ambulance? On the night of the seventeenth of this month?”

“No.”

“Would you please state where you were on the night of the seventeenth from eight-fifteen P.M. to nine-thirty P.M.”

“I have told you,” Parker-Jones ground out. “I never left the advice centre.” He threw up his hands. “This is really becoming ludicrous…” He looked at Haskons and Lillie, as if they might help him in dealing with this raving madwoman.

“You think so?” Tennison said, her voice as soft now as it had been sharp a moment earlier. Her tone implied that they hadn’t reached ridiculous yet, never mind ludicrous.

“Do you know it is illegal to display false credentials?” While he was grappling with this change of tack, she switched again.

“We would like the names of the witnesses who you say saw you at the centre for the duration of the evening of the seventeenth.”

Parker-Jones slumped back.

Not again.

He was beginning to get an inkling of what lengths ludicrousness could get to. He started off, lips thinning as he repeated the old familiar litany of names:

“Billy Matthews… Disco Driscoll… Alan Thorpe… Kenny Lloyd… Jimmy Jackson…”

The Squad Room was winding down. The last reports of the day were being written up. A skeleton staff would be on duty through the night, but most of the team had knocked off at seven.

Kathy was at the alibis board when Tennison wandered in. She looked dead on her feet. Hungry yet too tired to eat, she was hollow-eyed and ratty.

Kathy turned with a big beaming smile. “I think I deserve a bottle of champagne because…” She tapped the board with a felt-tip marker. “Billy Matthews’s alibi is now withdrawn. Billy was not at the advice centre or anywhere near it. He was in fact in hospital, taken there by ambulance on the night of the sixteenth. And this is the best part-from the advice centre…”

Tennison stuck up a clenched fist. One more down. She looked at the list of names. “Martin Fletcher dead.”

“… Donald Driscoll, alibi withdrawn,” Kathy went on. “Kenny Lloyd ditto. Just Parker-Jones giving Jackson an alibi and vice versa. The only other one out of the entire list is Alan Thorpe, and he has admitted he was drunk! If we’d been able to keep Jackson locked up, we’d have probably got them to admit they lied earlier on.”

An aura of energy had transformed Tennison. Adrenaline pumping, she stared at the board, eyes gleaming.

“Where’ve they got Jackson?”

Haskons and Lillie had entered, and Haskons said, “He’s with the Sarge and Larry the Lamb, room D oh five downstairs.”

Without acknowledgment for Kathy’s success, or even a word of thanks, Tennison did a smart about-face and marched to the door. A tight-lipped Kathy watched her go, hands on hips.

Passing Haskons and Lillie, Tennison said briskly, “You two. Divvy up a bottle of Moët for Kathy, in repayment for that fiasco…”

She pointed. On the notice board next to the door were two photographs of the pair of them, dug out of the files and blown up, their lips daubed with red felt-tip, flouncy dresses sketched over their outdoor clothes. The caption read, “FAIRIES OF THE WEEK.”

“Bloody hell, who put those up?” Lillie snarled, flushing pink.

The culprit, Kathy, giggled behind her hand. Tennison shot one look back and went out. From the corridor came her full-throated, uninhibited bellow of laughter.