Silent Victims

4

Piece by piece, the Fire team had reconstructed the sitting room of Vera Reynolds’s flat. The charred furniture had been replaced in its exact position, according to the drawings made by the team and the fire brigade immediately after the blaze had been put out. Sections of fabric from the burnt-out sofa had been salvaged and draped over its blackened frame; the scorched covering still bore the clear outline of Connie’s body.

A cool breeze blew in through the glassless window frame, weak beams of morning sunshine showing the ravages of the fire in every grimy detail.

“The paraffin heater was found here.” Ted Drury, heading the Fire team, squatted on his haunches, pointing to the white plastic tape in the shape of a cross on the sodden, ashy carpet. “Right by the settee. Not-as described by the owner-occupant-on the far wall.”

A second cross of red tape marked the location of the heater, as stipulated by Vera. His colleague, also attired in waterproofs and green Wellington boots, took notes. A Polaroid camera was slung around his neck.

“Cold that night, so the boy lies down…” Drury pointed. “Maybe has moved the fire closer, from there to here.”

“No, it was found with the ridges facing away from the settee.” His colleague laid the smoke-blackened paraffin heater on its side, demonstrating. “If he had moved it to get warm by, the heater would have been the other way around.”

They both turned as footsteps scuffled through the debris in the hallway. Vera Reynolds stood in the doorway. She stared around, ashen-faced, her lower lip trembling. Her friend Red was with her, a mop of curly dyed red hair bright as a flaming beacon, long legs, and a firm little rump in tight blue jeans. They carried black plastic rubbish sacks filled with pots and pans and other kitchen utensils.

Vera gave a tiny squeal and reached down.

“Please don’t touch anything in the room,” Drury warned her.

“It’s my photograph album,” Vera said, anguished. It lay open on the carpet next to the sofa, its edges buckled and scorched.

Red put her arm around Vera’s shoulders, hugging her.

“Don’t look-just don’t even look. You’re insured. Keep on saying to yourself, ‘I am insured.’ ”

Vera gazed at the rack in the alcove where all her lovely, beautiful, gorgeous evening gowns had been, fighting back the tears. Red led her out. “You’ll have to have every carpet replaced. The water’s done more damage than the fire!”

The two fire officers looked at each other. Odd to think that pansies had the same feelings as normal folk.

Tennison called the first briefing for 9:30 A.M. Except for two or three officers who were out checking statements, the entire Vice Squad, Soho Division, was assembled in the Squad Room. After the tension of the previous day, the atmosphere was markedly more relaxed. People lounged around drinking coffee, wisecracks were bandied about, snatches of laughter, general good humor. Tennison thought she might even get to like working here.

“Is there anyone on the squad who has had any past dealings with Colin Jenkins?”

Kathy passed over a sheaf of reports that she’d winnowed out concerning boys of Connie’s age.

“He might have been picked up a few months back, maybe more. We rounded up a lot. I can’t find the report on him, but I’m sure that a Jenkins-I think it was a Bruce Jenkins-was interviewed with a probation officer, as he was underage.”

“What’s this advice centre?” Tennison asked, leafing through. A whiff of cigarette smoke floated by, and she had to battle against the temptation. Did the urge never, ever let up?

“One of the places we targeted,” DI Hall said. “I’ve already been there. The guy that runs it-”

Otley chimed in. “Mr. Parker-Jones. States he hadn’t seen our Connie for months.” And if you believe that, his tone said, I’m a dead ringer for Richard Gere.

“Has it been confirmed yet whether the fire was arson or accidental?”

Hall shook his head. “Don’t know. Fire team are still working on it.”

Everyone straightened up a little, took their feet off desks, as Superintendent Halliday walked in. “Want to run over a few things,” he said brusquely. Tennison nodded. She was on her way, following him out, when she heard Kathy saying to Hall, “Guv, there was an emergency call placed at nine-fifteen, night of the fire. Caller did not leave his name.”

“What emergency call?” asked Hall.

Tennison paused at the door.

“Somebody called an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?” Hall frowned. “For Reynolds’s address? Get the emergency services to send over the recording.”

Tennison hurried along the corridor, catching up with Halliday as he passed her open door. Norma was laboring mightily, logging the stacks of files and placing them on the shelves. Soon it might start to resemble an office.

Halliday turned to Tennison, rubbing his forehead. He looked distinctly green around the gills.

He said, “Last night a lad called Martin Fletcher was brought in-Otley will explain the circumstances-but the last thing we need is any aggro from Social Services about questioning underage kids without legal advisors.” He shot her a warning look, then his face creased with pain. “Christ, I’ve got a headache…”

Kennington’s farewell bash was taking its toll. Serves you bloody well right, Tennison thought with satisfaction.

“I’d like you to set up meetings with the British Transport police, get to know all the centres and halfway homes in our area. I’d like us to try for another swoop on those areas we’ve targeted.”

“Sir, this boy in the fire, Colin Jenkins,” Tennison said as Halliday walked on to his office and opened the door. “According to the team he was on the game!”

“Well, he isn’t anymore, so he’s one less to worry about.” Clutching his head, Halliday went in and slammed the door.

Norma looked up as Tennison came smartly in, heels rapping. She didn’t need smoke signals to know that a storm was brewing. Tennison sent her off to get Martin Fletcher’s file, and when she returned her boss was pacing the small space between the desk and window. Still pacing, Tennison quickly scanned through the file, and then snatched up the phone. Norma kept her head down, literally, sorting out the files.

“DCI Tennison. Extension seven-eight, please.” While she waited, fingers drumming, she spotted some Post-It memo slips stuck to the blotter and attracted Norma’s attention.

“There were three messages. The Fire team, Forensic department, and someone called Jessica Smithy. She’s a journalist. Said she is doing a piece on rent boys-”

“What paper is she from?” Before Norma could answer, Tennison said into the phone, “Would you please ask Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall to…”

There was no need, as Otley tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Tennison banged the phone down. Hall followed the sergeant in.

“That’s it, Norma,” Tennison said. “Out, thank you.” She waited until the door had closed and came around the desk, brandishing the file.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at-no! Don’t interrupt!” Otley shut his mouth as Tennison glared at him. “Last night, according to the roster, you were not even on duty-but last night the pair of you interviewed a Martin Fletcher, correct?” She opened the file, glancing down at the yellow slip paper-clipped to the top sheet. “When later interviewed by his probation officer, a Miss Margaret Speel, she noted that this same Martin Fletcher had extensive bruising to his face, arms, and upper neck…”

“Wait, wait,” Otley said, shaking his head rapidly. “We brought him in like that!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Bill.” Tennison’s eyes blazed. “This same probation officer has subsequently filed a complaint against this department-which, in case you two had not bloody noticed, I am head of!” Her voice sank to a dangerous whisper. “Martin Fletcher, you idiots, is fourteen years old!”

Otley swore under his breath and flopped down into a chair, a hand covering his eyes. Hall stayed on his feet, goggling.

“Oh, man-he swore under caution he was seventeen. He said he was seventeen…”

“And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”

Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.

He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James-”

“So? Get to the point.”

“He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London-Euston, Charing Cross-”

“I know the stations. Go on.”

Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”

Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”

“We just wanted to talk to him about Colin Jenkins,” Hall added. “Then he starts to tell us about Jackson.”

“The bastard plucks ’em off the station,” Otley said, “takes them out, gives them food, offers a place to stay-that’s it, he’s got them.” His mouth twisted in his long, haggard face. “Keeps them locked up. Not just boys, it’s very young-only the very young-girls as well. He drugs them, keeps them dependent.”

Thoughtfully, Tennison went back around the desk. She leaned her knuckles on the edge.

“Did Martin Fletcher tell you all this? Or is it past history?”

“We’ve sort of known about the scams,” Hall said, “but we can’t get any of the kids to name Jackson-he was one of our main targets. We don’t know where he holds the kids, but Fletcher, he admitted-”

“Just hang on a second.” Tennison’s narrowed eyes flicked between them. “What do you mean, ‘holds the kids’? Kidnaps them?”

“No, they go with him willingly,” Otley said. His voice had a raw, ugly edge to it. “And then once he’s got them-that’s it. We’re talking about kids as young as twelve and thirteen…”

“None of the kids will talk. We’ve had him hauled in on numerous occasions, we’ve even got as far as getting charges compiled against him, but the statements are always withdrawn, the kids are terrified of him, they won’t go against him. So when Martin tells us Jackson beat him up because he wanted to know where Connie was, we reckoned we got something.” Hall gestured irritably toward the desk. “Have you read my report?”

Tennison straightened up. “Yes!” She flipped open the buff cover, and began to read out loud.

“SGT. OTLEY: ‘Where does he stay? Do you know his address?’

FLETCHER: ‘No, sir.’

SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did he beat up on you, Martin?’

FLETCHER: ‘Yes, sir, he did.’

SGT. OTLEY: ‘Why did he do that, Martin?’

FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know.’

SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did you know Connie?’

FLETCHER: ‘No.’

SGT. OTLEY: ‘Come on, Martin, he was murdered.’

FLETCHER: ‘No, sir!’ ”

Tennison brought her fist down on the page, glaring across the desk at them. “We do not as yet have any proof that Colin Jenkins was murdered.”

Hall took the file, turned it around and thumbed over a couple of pages. He looked up. “Excuse me, Guv…”

“Help yourself,” Tennison said curtly.

Hall read out loud:

“INSP. HALL: ‘Tell me about Colin Jenkins.’

FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know him.’

INSP. HALL: ‘I think you are lying.’

FLETCHER: ‘I’m not, I didn’t know where he was, that’s why Jackson done it to me…’ ”

Hall looked at Tennison. “Jackson beat up Martin Fletcher on the same night Colin-Connie-died.” He read on.

“INSP. HALL: ‘What time did Jackson beat you up?’

FLETCHER: ‘Eight to nine-ish.’ ”

Hall closed the file and stepped back. During the silence Otley stared at nothing and Tennison tapped her thumbnail against her bottom teeth. “Have you got a realistic time for when the fire started?”

“Yes,” Otley said, getting up. “About nine-thirty.” He yanked his crumpled jacket straight at the back. “Jackson could have done it! Even if he didn’t, this could be what we need to get him off the streets so we can get the kids to talk.” He stared hard at Tennison. She thought some more and then gave a swift nod.

“Okay. You get hold of the probation officer and Martin Fletcher, and bring Jackson in for questioning… just helping inquiries,” she added quietly, staring him out. In other words, no more bloody cock-ups that would leave her holding the shitty end of the stick.

Tennison wanted to see for herself. Statements, autopsy reports, tapes, photographs told one version of events. They might be true and accurate, but they were one-dimensional, open to interpretation. Nothing like being there, seeing it, smelling it, touching it.

She took Otley along with her to Vera Reynolds’s flat. The Fire team was still there, sifting through what remained of Vera’s most treasured possessions. A plastic sheet had been taped over the window to keep out the draft. Even so it was cold, the air acrid with the lingering smell of smoke that seemed to enter every pore, making Tennison’s eyes sting.

“Body was found here, on the settee.” Drury showed her, his gloved hand tracing the outline of Connie’s body on the singed fabric. “This is, or was, a paraffin oil heater, and the seat of the fire.”

He pointed to the white cross on the carpet.

Tennison crouched down for a closer look, lifting the tail of her beige Burberry raincoat to prevent it getting soiled. “Was it an accident?”

“No.” He was very definite. No pussy-footing around. The man knew his business, and his confidence gave her a lift. “The heater was pushed or kicked forward. And there are signs that paraffin had been distributed around the room, probably from a canister of fuel that we found by the door.”

“So somebody started the fire,” Otley murmured, stroking his jaw.

Tennison leaned over to inspect the covering with its ghostly imprint of Connie’s last few seconds alive. No longer just a poor dead lad, she thought; now he was the subject of a possible murder inquiry.

“If you stand by the fireplace, for example, and say you trip…” Drury acted it out for them. “There’s an armchair, a footstool, a coffee table, but none would indicate the victim had fallen. Coming from the opposite direction… if he had, say, fallen against the heater, then he wouldn’t have been lying that way around. His head would be at this end.”

Tennison pictured it in her mind. It was as important to know what hadn’t happened as what actually had. She thanked him with a smile and stepped onto the duckboards leading outside. In the Sierra Sapphire, heading for the morgue, she asked Otley if anything had been found in the flat that might be a possible weapon.

Otley sat in the passenger seat, not wearing his seat belt as she’d asked him to. “Yes, taken to the labs,” he said, rhyming them off. “A heavy glass ashtray, a pan, a walking stick handle, er…”

“Any prints on them?” Otley shook his head. “What about Vera Reynolds? She in the clear?”

“Time of the fire he was on the catwalk in a tranny club.” Otley looked across at her. “He still insists he didn’t know the boy. You want to talk to him?”

“I suppose so.” Tennison sighed, gnawing her lip. “But if Connie was killed, it won’t be down to us to sort it.” Seeing her murder inquiry vanishing over the horizon, she said, “We won’t get a look in.”

Like a kid who’s had an ice cream snatched from under her nose, Otley thought. It should have made him feel gleeful, her disappointment, but somehow it didn’t.

“DCI Tennison’s gone walkabout,” Halliday said darkly to Commander Chiswick. “Nobody knows where she is.”

Chiswick closed the door and tossed the report onto Halliday’s desk. “It’s just official, the fire-it wasn’t accidental.”

“Well, in that case it’s nothing to do with us, is it!” A smile broke over Halliday’s pallid features. Maybe now he could shake this blasted hangover. He sat back, relieved. “Thank God!”

“Make sure she understands that this is the Vice Squad,” Chiswick told him stolidly, spelling it out. “Any other crimes are forwarded to the correct departments.”

“We might have a bit of a problem. The boy was earmarked in Operation Contract, could be a tie-in, but I’ll have a word…”

“You’d better,” Commander Chiswick said, his face stern. “I don’t want her-us-to have anything to do with this murder, so reallocate the investigation.” He wagged his finger. “And tell her, Jack, she has no option.”

Chiswick went out, leaving Halliday delicately massaging his temples with his fingertips.

They arrived at the morgue a few minutes before two-thirty, and were about to enter the laboratory when Tennison received a call on her mobile. She waved Otley on and listened to Norma relaying her messages.

“Right. Okay. Did he leave a number?” Tennison couldn’t get to her notebook fast enough, so she wrote the number on her hand. “Anything else?” She listened impatiently. “Again? Just tell her I am unavailable, or put her onto the press officer.”

She zapped the aerial back and strode into the white-tiled laboratory. Otley was standing with Craig, a scientist with the Forensic team, before a large, oblong lab bench with a white plastic worktop. Pieces of burnt remnants from the boy’s leather jacket, trousers, boots, and underwear were pegged out and separately tagged. There were some loose change, covered in sticky human soot, and sections of what had been a leather wallet, calcified in the heat so that it crumbled to the touch.

“Just official, the fire wasn’t accidental,” Tennison informed Otley. “What’s all this?” she asked, sticking her nose in and watching Craig poking with a glass rod at a hard wad of blackened paper that was crumbling to grayish ash.

“Money. Or the remains of it. We’ve still got some under the microscope, but it’s quite a lot.”

“Like about how much?”

Craig was squinting at it through horn-rimmed glasses, wrinkling his hairy nostrils. “At least five hundred, could be more.” Using the glass rod as a pointer, he took them through the display. “The clothes, all good expensive items. Quality footwear. We’ve got a label from his leather coat, it was Armani…”

He moved on, and Tennison said in a quiet aside to Otley, “Martin Fletcher didn’t say anything about money, did he? You think this is what Jackson was after?”

Otley shrugged. Money hadn’t even been mentioned.”

Farther along the bench, Craig was pointing to some crinkled bits of glossy paper. “These are sections of phtographs, all beyond salvaging, but they were stuffed inside his jacket. And these scraps of paper, all charred, I’m afraid. Possibly letters… hard to tell.”

“This is it?” Tennison said, surveying the worktop.

“Yes, this is all that’s left of him,” Craig said.

On their way out, Tennison said quietly to Otley, “Get Vera brought in again.”

Inspector Larry Hall and WPC Kathy Trent were cruising Euston Station in reverse, so to speak. They weren’t looking to be picked up, they were planning to do the picking up-when they found him. To a casual observer they would have appeared just like any other young couple waiting to meet someone. Hall wore his dark navy car coat over his double-breasted blazer, and Kathy had on a loose, deep purple trenchcoat and black suede ankle boots.

Already they’d walked the full length of the concourse at least a dozen times. As each train arrived and the passengers surged up the ramp from the platform, they stood midstream, scanning the wave upon wave of faces rolling toward them.

At ten minutes to three, with Hall starting to fret that they were wasting their time, he got a call. He inclined his head, listening intently, and then spoke into the small transceiver inside his turned-up collar. “Is it him? Sure? Okay, we’re on our way.”

He set off, Kathy walking briskly beside him. “Jackson’s hanging around platform seven.” He held out his hand, and Kathy slapped it. “You owe me a fiver!” Hall said, grinning. “I said Euston, you said Charing Cross!”

The Liverpool train had just pulled in. Jackson was sitting on the metal barrier at the top of the ramp, eating a burger. He looked quite relaxed, waiting, it seemed, like several others, for the arrival of a friend. His eyes roamed over the passengers: businessmen, families, older people with their luggage on a cart, but he wasn’t interested in any of them. Then he spotted a young boy, fourteen, perhaps fifteen, scruffily dressed, carrying a cheap suitcase tied up with string. Jackson tossed the burger away and slid down. Wiping his mouth, he watched the boy coming up the ramp. He sidled to his left, getting into position to intercept the boy as if by chance.

Hall and Kathy, and a third plainclothes officer, moved in slowly, threading their way through the stream of passengers.

“Hi, how you doin’?” Jackson was all smiles, a friendly face in a strange, hostile environment. “Do I know you?” The boy gave a little nervous smile, shaking his head. “You from Liverpool? You know Steve Wallis?” Jackson patted his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not the law, just waitin’ for a friend. You got somebody meetin’ you? First time in the Smoke?” Jackson stuck a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to the boy. “Hey, man, you want a drag?”

As the boy reached to accept it, Hall stepped between them, nose to nose with Jackson. Jackson fell back a pace. He half-turned, nearly colliding with the third officer standing right behind him. Hall muttered a few words in Jackson’s ear.

Her arm around his shoulder, Kathy said to the boy, “Have you got somebody meeting you, love?”

The boy shook his head. He looked past Kathy and got a glimpse of the two officers walking off with Jackson between them, merging into the crowd.

Otley came into the interview room with a tray of canteen teas in proper cups and saucers. He slid it onto the desk between Tennison and Vera Reynolds. Norma was sitting next to the wall, plump black-stockinged legs crossed, taking notes. She looked bored to tears.

“Vera’s admitted that she knew Colin.”

“Connie,” Vera corrected Tennison. Her head was bowed, her long pale hands with the manicured nails clasped tightly in the lap of her leather skirt. She wore a loose halter-neck knitted top, colored bangles on her bare arms. “He didn’t like his name, sometimes he called himself Bruce.”

Tennison made a note on her pad.

“Bit butch for his kind, isn’t it?” Otley said, standing with legs apart, sipping his tea.

Vera turned her face to the wall.

Tennison’s patience was running short, but she summoned up some more. “Vera, the sooner this is all sorted out, the sooner you can leave.”

“On the other hand, if you killed your little feathered friend,” Otley said, “then you’ll be caged up-with no makeup bag in sight.”

Tennison looked at Vera over the rim of her cup. She glanced up at Otley, who rolled his eyes. They waited.

“If it’s proved to be arson…” Vera’s voice was croaky; her eyes red-rimmed. “I mean, if somebody did it, does that mean I won’t get the insurance?” Her brow puckered as if she were about to cry. “Oh, God… all my costumes. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Never mind your costumes, Vera, what about Connie?” Otley’s patience was running shorter than Tennison’s. “Who do you think set light to him?”

“I don’t know.” Staring at the desktop, fingers plucking at the baggy sleeve of her knitted top.

DI Hall tapped on the door and looked in. Otley went over, and Hall whispered to him, “I’ve got Jackson and the probation officer waiting to see…” He nodded at Tennison. “And Martin Fletcher’s being brought in.”

Tennison was making one last try. “Vera, if you are protecting someone, then you had better tell me. You have already lied to us, wasted our time…” She looked across at Hall. “Five minutes.” Then back to Vera. “Why did you lie about Connie?”

Norma looked at Hall, cross-eyed. She tapped her watch, blowing out her cheeks. He grinned and went out. Tennison leaned her elbows on the desk, waiting. Otley stood holding his cup and saucer, waiting. He glanced impatiently at his watch. Vera took a long time lighting a cigarette. She blew out a great gust of smoke, then, as an afterthought, hesitantly offered the packet.

“I’ve given up,” Tennison said.

“I’ve tried, I’ve had the patches.” Vera smiled weakly. “I’ve got patches for hormones, nicotine-my arse looks like an old pub table. I even tried the chewing gum. How did you give up?”

“With great difficulty.”

Norma’s mouth sagged open as she watched the pair of them. She looked at Otley, who gave her a snide wink.

Tennison pushed the loaded ashtray across. “You had better help me, Vera, I am losing my patience. Why did you lie?”

“I wasn’t lying-about knowing him. Nobody really knew him. He was very gentle, very beautiful. He wanted to be a model. A professional model,” Vera insisted, making sure Tennison understood the difference. “He used to answer the ads…”

Tennison glanced up sharply and glared at Otley as his sigh exploded in the quiet room. She rapped her knuckles on the desk. “What about James Jackson, Vera?”

Vera drew deeply on her cigarette. “He’s an animal, should be caged.”

“Did Connie have someone looking after him? Say Jackson?”

“You mean like a pimp? No, the older boys don’t have them, really. Not like the Toms.”

The bing-bong of the chimes came over the wall speaker. “Sergeant Otley to main reception please.”

He looked to Tennison, and at her nod left the room.

“I would help you, you know that,” Vera said slowly, as if, with tremendous effort, she was forcing the words out of herself. “I always have in the past. You’re… you’re not like the others, and I’ve always appreciated the way you speak to me-” She broke off to suck in a lungful of smoke. “But-I can’t help. Maybe…”

Tennison counted silently to five. “Maybe what?”

“He used the advice centre, for letters, I know that.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Edward Parker-Jones runs it.”

Tennison’s hand reached toward Vera’s, but instead of touching it she picked up the ashtray and tipped it into the wastebasket. Abruptly, she stood up. “Norma, will you show Vera the way out.” She tore the sheet from her notepad. “And check out this. Give it to Kathy.”

Tennison went into the corridor, leaving the door open. She stood there, grinding her teeth. She was annoyed with Vera and bloody angry with herself. She found it difficult to concentrate, and her insides were jumpy. Was she coming down with flu or what? She wasn’t in top form, and knew it.

Otley strode up. She faced him wearily.

“Martin Fletcher’s now in reception, and the probation officer’s with him. I think you need to have words with Martin, and before Jackson.”

Tennison nodded abstractedly, trying to get her train of thought back on the tracks. Vera appeared, clicking her handbag shut, followed by Norma, who pointed along the corridor. “Down the staircase and right…”

Kathy hurried through the double doors from the opposite direction. “Guv, there’s a couple of messages-that reporter again, Jessica Smithy. I’ve told her to contact the press office but she’s really pushy, insists she wants to talk to you. So does Superintendent Halliday, and there’s…”

She was interrupted by the loitering Otley, who’d gone beyond fed up to plain pissed off. “Guv? How do you want to work it?”

Tennison waved Kathy away. “Leave them on my desk,” she said sharply, tiredness nagging at her. Kathy looked hurt, but Tennison couldn’t be bothered. “I’ll talk to Martin first,” she answered Otley.

Having set off for the stairs, Vera was back, clutching her bag, in a distressed state.

“You are going the wrong way, Vera,” Tennison said with the forebearance of a saint. “The main exit is back down the corridor.”

“I wanted to talk to you!” Vera burst out, on the edge of panic hysteria. “You see, if it gets out that it was me who told you…”

“You didn’t tell me anything, Vera,” Tennison said, tight-lipped.

Vera suddenly flinched. Her eyes grew large and round. Terrified, she stared past Tennison to where Jackson was being escorted toward them by Inspector Hall and a uniformed officer. Backing away, Vera whispered hoarsely, “Don’t you let this go, don’t stop. Please, don’t let this go, you dig deep, don’t let it go…”

Jackson had seen her, and Vera saw that he had. She kept on backing away, and then turned and scurried off. She looked back, once, at Tennison, naked fear in her eyes, and vanished down the staircase.

Otley stood aside as Jackson was taken into the interview room. He waited by the door, watching Tennison dithering in the corridor.

“Where’s Martin Fletcher?” she asked irritably.

“Room D oh six,” Otley said, and when she dithered some more, he said loudly, as if she were deaf or stupid, “It’s the one next to the coffee machine!”

Tennison took three paces and stopped. “Where’s the bloody coffee machine?” she said through gritted teeth, but the door had closed.

Halliday came through the double doors. He went past at a clip, not breaking his stride. “Colin Jenkins. Can you get me the full case records to date?”

“Yes, sir,” Tennison said. “Where’s the coffee machine?”

“Make sure you get everything to me ASAP. That’s firsthand, Chief Inspector,” Halliday said over his shoulder. “I don’t want anything sprung on me. That understood? I’ll be in my office…” He disappeared around a corner, his voice floating back, “Downstairs on your right.”

Stumping down the stairs, Tennison made a silent screaming face.