Silent Victims

17

Tennison stepped through the open front door into the parquet-floored hallway. To her left she could see a cluster of uniformed police in the study. There was a plainclothes officer kneeling on the carpet. Somebody else was taking flash photographs. She moved across the hallway toward them, and then stopped. The door to the drawing room was open. Mrs. Kennington was sitting on the sofa, her head downcast, a cigarette in one hand, a crumpled lace handkerchief in the other. A crystal tumbler, filled nearly halfway with Scotch, was on the coffee table in front of her. An open bottle of Macallan’s Malt stood next to it.

Tennison put her hand on the doorjamb. “Mrs. Kennington? Could I speak to you a moment?”

The woman didn’t move or look up as Tennison came in and eased the door shut behind her. The room contained an unnatural quietness, the stately ticking of the grandfather clock portioning out the silence.

“Are you all right?”

Mrs. Kennington stirred. “He shot himself, not me,” she said, vacant and subdued. She turned her head. “You were here the other night, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Tennison moved up to a winged armchair, set at an angle to the sofa. “I can leave if you want…”

“But then you’ll want to come back, so ask whatever you want. Get it over with.”

She happened to notice she was smoking. The cigarette was nearly done, and she took another from the box and lit it from the stub, very ladylike, little finger stuck out. She then noticed the Scotch, and drank a mouthful, little finger out. Tennison sat down. She put her briefcase by the side of the chair and folded her hands.

“I was in the front bedroom,” Mrs. Kennington said. “We sleep in separate rooms. There was a phone call, I put it through to John’s study. About half an hour later I heard the-well, I didn’t know what it was, to be honest. I thought it was the plumbing. It’s been making extraordinary noises. Obviously it wasn’t. John had shot himself.”

She blinked at Tennison, as if making an apology for some unfortunate social gaffe. She had bright, intelligent eyes, a striking light blue. Even under stress she maintained her poise, and Tennison was able to understand what an asset she must have been to her husband in furthering his career.

“Do you know who the call was from?” Tennison inquired after a decent interval.

“Oh yes, I know who it was from. His name is Edward Parker-Jones.”

She didn’t notice, or paid no attention, as Otley slid into the room. He moved behind Tennison’s chair.

“At least this saves me getting a divorce.” Mrs. Kennington smiled faintly, gazing at nothing. She delicately wiped the corners of her mouth with the wisp of handkerchief. “There have been obstacles in the way for almost a year…”

“I know about the investigations,” Tennison said.

“Oh, do you?” Mrs. Kennington remarked, cool to the point of half frozen to death.

“You were a doctor, weren’t you? Do you still practice?”

“No. My first husband died. We worked together, or in the same practice.”

“In Cardiff?”

“Yes, in Cardiff. Why do you want to know about my husband’s practice?” She peered closely at Tennison, frowning. “Why are you here?”

“When you were in Cardiff, Mr. Parker-Jones was running…”

“The Calloway Centre.” Mrs. Kennington was now paying full, complete attention. She looked at Otley and then at Tennison, quite perplexed. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Did you examine a young boy called Jason Baldwyn? It was a sexual assault charge.”

“Which was subsequently dropped. No, my husband examined the boy-” Her mouth fell open. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “You think I had something to do with that? My husband was critically ill, he was very sick, I had two small children, and…” She faltered, rubbing her forehead distractedly with the wadded handkerchief. “He had cancer, I only remember it because, because he died. Then there was this investigation about…” She stared, trying to recall the name, and failed. “… This boy. But there was so much confusion about whether his reports were stolen, or just mislaid, I really don’t know.”

The facade had cracked a little, and to repair it she took a drink, finger out, and was careful to put the glass down without making a sound. She dabbed her lips. “My first husband was a very decent human being. I can’t say that about my second, I wish to God I had never married him. But I did,” she added under her breath.

Tennison said, “Do you know if young boys were ever brought here?”

Mrs. Kennington rose and went to the white mantel. With her back to Tennison, she murmured, barely audibly, “Do I know if young boys were ever brought here?”

“Perhaps when you were away,” Tennison said. She opened her briefcase and took out a photograph. “There is one boy I am particularly interested in.” She got up and crossed over. “His name was Connie, Colin Jenkins.”

Mrs. Kennington slowly turned. Her eyes were fixed on Tennison. They drifted down to the photograph. They flicked back, icy blue, sharp as needles.

“Get out of my house,” she said, low in her throat, under iron control.

“Please look at the photograph,” Tennison said quietly, equally controlled.

A shudder passed through Mrs. Kennington’s whole body. She averted her face and stared at the row of silver-framed photographs on the mantel with a force that was almost manic in its intensity. Two fair-haired handsome youths progressed from grinning schoolboys to young adults with darker hair and engaging smiles.

“There were many young boys brought to this house, whether I was here or not.” Her chin trembled. “I was at least able to protect my own sons.”

Tennison slipped the photograph into her briefcase and snapped it shut. She nodded to Otley, and followed him to the door.

“I hope for their sake that you did,” she said.

Tennison pushed through the double doors into the corridor, unwinding her scarf, and headed toward her office. As she reached the door, Halliday came out of his office and beckoned to her urgently.

“Have you got a moment?” He glanced up and down. “I want this kept very quiet, it’s not official yet, but-” His voice dropped to a murmur. “John Kennington committed suicide this morning.”

Tennison took a full pace back. “Good God!”

Halliday nodded darkly. He squinted at her: “That vacancy by the way, for Superintendent. It’s Hammersmith, Commander Chiswick knows the Chief there; in fact they’re playing golf.”

Tennison widened her eyes, blinking owlishly. “I’d better charge Jackson then, hadn’t I?” she said.

Halliday strode off and she entered her office. She tossed her briefcase down and hung up her coat. There was a mound of paperwork on the desk, and she contemplated it, spirits sinking.

First, though, she had a call to make. The call. But no joy. The receptionist promised to pass the message on immediately after Tennison had emphatically insisted.

Five minutes later there was a tap on the door and DI Hall looked in, dark eyebrows raised inquiringly. “You wanted Jessica Smithy? She’s just arrived-and, was it correct you wanted Vernon Reynolds brought back in, only we just released her.”

“Yes. And you keep your eye on Alice in Wonderland-Miss Smithy to you. Put her in interview room D oh two.” The phone rang. She waved Hall out and answered it. Decision time. Now or never.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Dr. Gordon, but I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“I can make an appointment for tomorrow if nothing’s wrong.”

“No, it’s just that I would like to arrange a termination,” Tennison said. She heard her own voice, and marveled at its brisk impersonality. It was like listening to someone else, some other woman, strong and confident, without the slightest qualm.

“Are you sure?” Dr. Gordon asked after a pause. “This is a very big decision.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” How calm, how collected! “It is a very big decision, but…”

“Obviously it is yours, Jane, but I think you should consider, or come in and discuss it with me.” He wasn’t hectoring, and she was glad about that, because she wouldn’t have stood for it.

She toyed with her fountain pen. “I know it’s a big decision, and I have obviously given it a great deal of thought.” She pressed the nib into the blotting paper, testing it not quite to breaking point. “I want an abortion.”

“It could also be a very final decision… considering your age.”

“Yes, I know.”

The door opened, Otley rapping with his knuckles when he was already halfway in. He hovered on one foot, motioning whether he should leave her alone. Tennison shook her head. She said into the phone, “I’ll call you next week, to arrange a time and date.”

“Think on it,” Dr. Gordon advised her. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Slowly she replaced the phone and sat staring at nothing. She took a sudden sharp breath, drumming her fingers on the desk. “I told Halliday we’re ready to charge Jackson”-brisk and businesslike once more.

“You know something I don’t?” Otley muttered, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Tennison opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a pitiful choking sob. Otley was totally transfixed, torn between embarrassment and disbelief. Numb with the shock of it, he watched as she burst out crying, tears pouring down her cheeks. She put her hand over her eyes, shoulders heaving, fumbling blindly for a tissue from the drawer.

“I’m sorry… sorry…” Tennison blew her nose, making it difficult for herself by shaking her head at the same time.

Otley stood like an empty sack of clothes, his face like a stunned rabbit’s, arms hanging limply by his sides. For once his snide cynicism had deserted him.

Tennison wiped her cheeks. “I just feel as if I’m hitting my head against a brick wall.” She sniffed hard, making a contemptuous gesture toward Halliday’s office. “Get no help from him!”

“I could get the screwdriver, take off a few feet of his office and give it to you if it’ll make you feel better,” Otley offered helpfully, giving a gaunt ghost of a smile.

Tennison tried to smile with him, but this only brought on more floods of tears. Muffled behind a bunch of tissues, she croaked, “I have never done this before, I’m sorry…” She sucked in a deep shuddering breath. “He knows Kennington’s dead.”

“Good news travels fast,” Otley remarked glibly. He gave a little uncomfortable shrug, hands spread. “Look, I can handle this afternoon.”

“No!” Tennison wadded the tissues into a sodden ball and threw them viciously in the basket. “I give you an inch and you’ll take a mile.”

Otley sighed. “Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t want a bloody cigarette!”

“Coffee?”

“No.” Tennison straightened her shoulders, sitting upright in the chair, combing her hair back with her fingers. “Just… just give me a few minutes on my own.”

She felt mortified. Not only about breaking down, but breaking down in front of Bill Otley, of all people.

Ye Gods, get a grip, woman.

When he’d gone she sat drained and empty, the muscles in her belly still quivering. Her chest ached, and she had to fight with all her strength to stifle the sobs that at any moment might engulf her.

But twenty minutes later, a transformation. Hair brushed, face washed, fresh makeup applied, she was in fine fettle for Vera. The momentary loss of control had somehow cleansed her, swept all her doubts and depression away, given her a steely, hard-eyed resolve.

She smashed the table with her fist, making Vera’s hunched form jump and jerk, her stifled sobs turning into strangulated hiccups.

“And you lied to me-you never at any time even mentioned you were near that advice centre. Why? Why, Vernon?”

“You’ve always called me Vera,” Vera wailed, raising a tear-streaked face, her eyes filled with childish hurt.

“Stop playing games with me!” Tennison barked. She spun around as Otley came in. “I said five minutes, Sergeant.” She glared at him and bent toward the microphone. “Sergeant Otley has just entered the interview room at three-fifteen P.M.”

Norma looked up from her pad, casting a hooded glance at Otley as one foot soldier to another; she’s breathing fire and brimstone, keep your head down if you don’t want it blown off. Otley leaned indolently against the wall and folded his arms.

“Did you or did you not see Jackson on the night Connie died?” Tennison demanded, returning to the attack.

“Yes,” Vera said miserably.

There was a commotion outside in the corridor. Otley crossed to the door and half opened it. The strident tones of Jessica Smithy could be heard as Hall hustled her along.

“Just how long am I expected to wait? I’ve been here nearly an hour… she’s doing this on purpose!”

Otley wafted them on and firmly shut the door.

Tennison paced up and down. She yanked the back of her jacket straight and without warning swept the file sheets off the table with such force that Vera cowered in her chair.

“You know what really sickens me about you?” Tennison rasped, leaning forward on her knuckles, face thrust toward Vera’s. “That you said you liked Connie, understood him, that he was like you.”

Vera ducked her head as Tennison leaned even closer, inches away.

“He wasn’t though, was he? He wasn’t like you. Because he was twenty years younger than you.” Her voice was scathing, pitiless. “And he was going to get everything you always wanted, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?”

Vera wriggled, her face collapsing in on itself, biting her lip to hold back the tears. Tennison resumed pacing. She stopped at the window, staring out. “What time did you get to the advice centre?”

“About eight-thirty.” The answer barely crept out.

“Eight-thirty?” Tennison revolved slowly on her heel. “Eight-thirty?” She moved nearer. “Where was Connie?”

“In the flat.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Tennison bent down to retrieve the scattered sheets. She dropped them any old how on the table. She folded her arms. “Well, your friend Red is now in trouble. He swore on oath that you were at his friend’s studio at…”

Vera quickly jumped in. “Six-thirty-I was. He never knows the time, and I left to go to the club, just as he said.”

“When you left your flat,” Tennison said with ponderous deliberation, “was Connie there?” Vera nodded. “Suspect nodded his head.” Tennison leaned in. “Alone?” Vera shook her head, eyes downcast. “Suspect shook his head. Who was with Connie when you left your flat at six-thirty?”

The Adam’s apple bobbed in the long white throat. Vera’s heavy-lidded soulful eyes came up, brimming with moisture.

“A journalist.”

Tennison felt a jolt in her spine. She stared at Vera.

Jessica Smithy sat on the edge of the table, smoking, tapping her cigarette ash on the floor. Beside her were two empty cups of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate. With unconcealed impatience she was watching DI Hall, who a moment before had answered the wall phone. He was nodding. “Yes, she’s still here.”

He cradled the handset and turned to her, a deprecating smile on his lips, fidgeting with his tie.

“Choose them yourself, do you?” Her slender leg in its Gucci shoe swung to and fro like a relentless metronome.

Hall fingered his tie. “No, my girlfriend does,” he responded brightly, beaming.

Jessica Smithy’s hazel eyes flashed, sliding off somewhere. “I’d get rid of her.” She blew smoke in the air, tapped ash on the floor.

“I tried-I told you-gave you all the clues. It was me that said the advice centre, even said Parker-Jones’s name, and it was me that told you about Jackson, me who told you about the press…”

Vera scrabbled in the box for another tissue. She discarded the sodden one and noisily blew her nose. She discarded that one too and wrenched out a handful to wipe her damp face.

“I went back to the flat because I’d forgotten a sequinned choker.” The tears welled up again. “Connie was still there, talking-talking. I just listened for a second, I didn’t want to interrupt, but I could see them, the door was just ajar, and he was showing her my album.” Vera gazed up beseechingly at Tennison. “She was looking at my photographs… you don’t understand, do you?”

Her arms folded, Tennison looked down at her watch.

“There were some loose pictures of me before, before… of my mum and dad, private pictures, no show business ones, just my mum and dad, my brother.” Vera’s face crumpled. She talked on through her crying. “I hurt them enough… I don’t ever see them, so the pictures are very special. After all I had done for him, he was selling me, too.”

She wiped the tissues under each eye, one at a time, and with a loud sniff straightened her back. Smoke trailed up from the cigarette in the ashtray but she didn’t pick it up.

She said huskily, “I didn’t want to make a drama, not in front of the press woman. I just called him out of the room, said I wanted to talk to him. He swore to me he wasn’t letting her have a single picture. She left a few minutes later, and I went in to check my album. He lied. There were a lot missing, so I confronted him. He swore he hadn’t given her anything, he said she must have stolen them, but he was such a liar, and, and… and I got hysterical. I hit him. With an ashtray, I think. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he fell down, I helped him to the sofa. And he-he gave me that smile of his, he had such a sweet smile. And, then, he closed his eyes, and I couldn’t feel his pulse. He was-he was dead.”

Silently, without expression, Vera stared in front of her, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her lemon yellow blouse.

“Did you call an ambulance?” Tennison asked.

“No, my phone’s not working. I told Mr. Parker-Jones and he said he would…” She trailed off.

“What? Do what?”

“Take care of everything. Call the ambulance.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know,” Vera said, and in the same dead voice, “I want to go to the toilet.”

“We are terminating the interview at three forty-five P.M. in room D oh five as Mr. Vernon Reynolds has asked to use the bathroom.”

Tennison switched off the tape and looked to Otley. “Take him with you.”

Vera stood up, very tall and slender. “I was put in prison when I was not much older than Connie. That’s what I am scared of. Inside they’re all Jacksons. I was raped every night, that’s what I’ve been so scared of.” She clutched her handbag under her arm and went to the door. “I’ve wanted to tell you, but I was just scared.”

She turned and looked at Tennison with large reproachful eyes.

“You’re horrible. You just pretended to like me. Why can’t you take me to the ladies?”

She followed Otley out.

Otley stood at the washbasins, attempting to flatten the recalcitrant points of his shirt collar. She was taking her bloody time. He sighed, glancing at his watch.

“Come on, Vera, love!”

A toilet flushed and Halliday emerged from one of the cubicles, buttoning his jacket. “Who’s in there?”

Otley looked to the cubicle door, Vera’s high-heeled shoes visible underneath it. “Sorry, Guv, it’s Vernon Reynolds…”

He drew Halliday aside, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

“He’s admitted that he struck Colin Jenkins. We just finished questioning him.”

Behind them, beneath the cubicle door, a thick pool of blood was forming, spreading around Vera’s spiked heels.

“So it wasn’t Jackson after all,” Halliday said, raising his eyebrows.

Otley turned. He snarled, pushing Halliday roughly out of the way, and dived for the cubicle door. “Get someone up here fast!”

Halliday dithered, old woman that he was, and looked around helplessly.

“She’s cut her wrists!” Otley yelled, putting his heel to the lock.

Spurred on at last, Halliday slammed through into the corridor. By now he was running. “GET SOMEONE IN HERE…!”

He ran on as Tennison came out of the ladies toilet. Hurtling into the gents she came upon a bloody scene. Vera was propped in a sitting position against the tiled wall, legs stuck out, one shoe off, limp as a rag doll. Blood was spurting from both wrists. The front of her dress, her legs, the floor, were soaked in it. A smeared red trail led from the cubicle where Otley had dragged her.

Tennison grabbed the roller towel and gave it a fierce, frantic jerk, pulling the end loose from the machine. She kept pulling, unreeling a long white tongue, as Otley ran water in the basin.

Tennison knelt at Vera’s side, her knees in the pool of blood.

“Vera, hold on! It’s going to be okay-listen to me, can you hear me?” The blood was pumping out. She gripped Vera’s upper arm, squeezing with both hands. “Hurry, she’s losing an awful lot of blood…”

Vera’s head lolled from one side to the other, her wig slipping askew. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept mumbling.

“Vera, listen to me! Can you hear me? You didn’t kill Connie, do you understand?” The eyes were glassy, unfocused. “He was still alive.” Tennison stared into the ghastly white face, streaked with blue mascara. “The fire… it was the fire.”

Vera looked at Tennison, eyelids drooping shut, and her head flopped forward onto her chest. Otley dumped the soaking roller towel onto the floor and began binding it tightly around Vera’s arms.

Halliday barged in, heaving for breath. “There’s a fifteen-minute delay on the ambulance call out…”

Tennison snapped, “Then get a car organized-”

She whipped her head around as it sunk in what Halliday had just said. Fifteen Minute Delay. Her lips thinned. “And one for me.”

She looked to be grinning, but it was fixed in place, frozen to her lips, icy and implacable.

“I am bringing in Parker-Jones personally.”

A furious Jessica Smithy marched along the corridor, Hall in close pursuit. “Half past two-I have been here since half past two!” she raged. Hall grasped her by the elbow and she gave him a withering look that would have scorched asbestos. “I want to go to the ladies.”

Hall colored up and released her.

Jessica Smithy’s eyes sparkled dangerously as she spied Tennison coming toward her. She plonked herself in Tennison’s path, taller by several inches, her expression haughty and indignant.

“You have no right to waste my time,” she stormed, tossing her head imperiously.

Tennison, her blouse and jacket cuffs, the hem of her skirt and knees caked in blood, let her have it. “I have every right, and I will hold you for as long as I want. You have lied. You have withheld vital evidence-and you have wasted my time.”

Tennison swept past her, saying, “You wanted the ladies room, Miss Smithy, follow me.”

She pushed open the door into the female staff locker room, and didn’t hold it for Jessica Smithy, who nearly got her face battered. They went inside.

Otley appeared through the double doors at the end of the corridor, running. “Where the hell is she?”

“Toilets,” Hall said.

Rubbing his face, Otley stood panting and fuming.

Tennison flung her soiled blouse into her locker and took out a short-sleeved navy shirt with breast pockets. She hadn’t a matching jacket, so she had to make do with a double-breasted blazer in dark red with gilt-buttoned cuffs. No spare skirt or hose, dammit, she’d have to soldier on with what she had.

She ran water in the washbasin and was rinsing the blood from her hands when the toilet flushed and Jessica Smithy came out of the cubicle. There had been a subtle change. There was a dent in her haughty demeanor, her quick darting gaze not as brashly confident in the face of Tennison’s grim single-mindedness of purpose, her firm authority.

Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances, she tried to rekindle her righteous indignation. “How long am I going to be here for? I am supposed to deliver copy for this evening’s-”

“For aslong as I want!” Tennison didn’t need to raise her voice. The lethal sting in it was enough. “You were at Vernon Reynold’s flat the night Connie died-did you make a third tape?”

The journalist had a sullen pout. “No.”

Tennison gave her a searching look in the mirror and went over to the roller towel. Jessica Smithy’s lean cheeks were slightly flushed. She stared at Tennison’s back. “No, I only made two tapes. I swear before God, just two tapes. I never mentioned before”-clearing her throat uncomfortably-“I mean, I know I should have told you about me being at the flat…”

Tennison finished drying her hands. She picked up her shirt and shook it out. “Did you remove anything from Vernon Reynolds’s flat?” She slipped the shirt on. “Did you?”

“Yes. They were just some snapshots-nobody famous. Just a few black-and-white photographs and drag acts. Nobody famous,” she repeated anxiously.

“So, apart from these photographs you took, did Colin Jenkins give you anything?”

“Nothing, nothing… just some story about being picked up when he was ten or eleven. But I’m beginning to think he made that up.” Her face had a strained, pinched look. “Oh God, it isn’t the way it sounds-I didn’t do anything!”

Tennison buttoned her jacket. “Oh, yes, you did. You stole photographs that meant a lot to someone, meant so much that Colin Jenkins died for them.” She spared her nothing. “That’s what you did, Miss Smithy.”

Otley’s head peered furtively in. Tennison gave her appearance a final check in the mirror and went over. “Kathy said you wanted to see me?” Otley murmured. “Something about an ambulance?”

“Yes.” Tennison shot a look at Jessica Smithy. “Follow me.”

She led the way to her office, Otley bringing up the rear. He could tell from her walk that she was a transformed woman, another person entirely from the one he’d seen weeping less than two hours ago. It was incredible. He couldn’t fathom her. He didn’t understand women as a species all that well, but Tennison absolutely baffled and amazed him.

Jessica Smithy was contrite, sitting in a chair, puffing nervously on a cigarette. “I tried to contact you, you know I did, it’s not as if I didn’t attempt to see you.”

“Just stop the Doris Day act, it’s getting on my nerves,” Tennison said shortly, eyes narrowed. “Martin Fletcher?”

DI Hall came in and spoke over Jessica Smithy’s head. “Car’s ready and waiting, Guv.” Tennison acknowledged him and beamed her attention back on the woman.

“He was the first boy I approached, and he introduced me to Connie.” She gulped down smoke. “Then it seemed obvious to me that, well, Connie would make a better story. We were worried that Martin was too young and-”

“Martin Fletcher is dead, did you know?” Tennison said brutally.

Jessica Smithy’s eyes rounded with shock. She felt she was being battered from all sides. The tough shell of blasé cynicism was falling to pieces, exposing a frightened woman floundering out of her depth.

Tennison looked at her watch. She was in a hurry to get on. She snapped her fingers, and Otley imagined he could practically see an aura of sparks coruscating around her head.

“So you drop Martin Fletcher and now offer Connie money, yes? Did you give him the money in Vernon Reynolds’s flat?”

“Yes.” Jessica Smithy nodded numbly. “He put it in his pocket, said it wasn’t enough, he wanted more.”

“Then what happened?”

“I said I couldn’t give him any more, not until I at least saw what he had to offer…”

“And did you?” Tennison demanded impatiently. “Come on, Miss Smithy, did he show you anything? Give you any names?”

“No.”

Tennison looked again at her watch. “So then what happened?”

Jessica Smithy stubbed out the cigarette and wiped her fingers. “He left the room for a minute and there was this album on the coffee table. I’d just paid him five hundred pounds, so…” She blinked fearfully at Tennison. “I opened the album and just-I just took some of the loose photographs, and a few others…”

“Vera Reynolds’s album? Yes?”

“They were just photos of a family,” Jessica Smithy protested. “Couple of somebody in drag. They were no use, they meant nothing.”

Tennison stood with her hands on her hips. “Wrong, Miss Smithy. They meant an awful lot to somebody, enough to…” She reached for the ashtray. “Make him pick up a heavy glass ashtray and hit Colin Jenkins with it.” She emptied the ashtray, banging it against the side of the metal basket. “You have a lot to answer for.”

Pale and stricken, Jessica Smithy licked her dry lips.

Tennison looked to Hall. She flipped her hand. “Take Miss Smithy and bring her back with Vernon Reynolds’s photographs.”

Jessica Smithy rose slowly to her feet. “Are you going to charge me with anything?” she asked tremulously.

“I’ll let you know,” Tennison glowered, wafting the bloody woman out of her sight.

There was a real buzz around the place. Everyone could feel it. Something big was going down.

Haskons and Lillie, infected like everyone else, hurried along from the Squad Room, in time to see Otley emerging from Tennison’s office.

“Hey, Sarge, what’s going on?”

Otley went past them. “She’s picking up Parker-Jones,” he said, not breaking his stride.

Hall came out and escorted Jessica Smithy to the main staircase.

Otley had halted, midway along the corridor, as Kathy rushed past him. She came up breathlessly, meeting a steely-eyed Tennison head-on as she marched out of her office.

“Emergency services have said there was a fifteen-minute delay that night, and all callers were informed that-”

Tennison punched the air. “I’ve got him! And this time I am ready for him.” All fired up, she shouted to Otley, “Let’s go!”