Silent Victims

6

Otley had nothing personal against Dalton-he hardly knew the bloke-but there was something about the young detective inspector (not a day over thirty-five, Otley judged) that irritated him. Not his good looks: Otley had no personal vanity whatsoever. It was more Dalton’s impulsiveness. He did everything at the gallop, instead of taking his time and sizing up a situation. And he had no streetwise sense, not a scrap. That’s what got to Otley, the fact that the bloke was deskbound for most of his working life, far removed from the seedy pubs and afternoon drinking clubs that were part of Otley’s daily round.

That was it. Otley had placed him. An eager-beaver Boy Scout dressed up as a police inspector.

They parked the car and set off on a tour of the Bullring and the Waterloo underpass. This area, south of the river, between the Royal Festival Hall and the National Theatre, was notorious for the hundreds if not thousands of people who inhabited its concrete walkways, its brick viaducts near Waterloo Station, dossing down in cardboard boxes, huddling near the heating vents, constructing little shelters out of bits of timber and plastic sheeting. Dossers, winos, junkies, bag ladies, the physically sick and the mentally ill, kids on the run from home and institutionalized care, and on the game: the hopeless and dispossessed and forgotten, the new London poor of 1993.

It wasn’t Otley’s patch, though he knew the area and its floating population of misfits well. Trouble was, a lot of them knew him, so it was difficult to wander about incognito. And in broad daylight, two o’clock in the afternoon, there weren’t any shadows to skulk around in, creep up on them unawares.

They walked through the Bullring, a huge concrete bowel wrapped around by a network of roads heading north across Waterloo Bridge and south to the Elephant and Castle. The noise was horrendous, the continuous streams of traffic shattering past overhead. Dalton spied a group of kids in a concrete cubbyhole behind one of the massive arching supports. They were crouched in a circle on the filthy, rubbish-covered ground, empty spray cans, squeezed-out tubes of glue, and broken syringes and needles everywhere.

“We’re looking for a kid nicknamed Disco Driscoll-” Dalton made a grab as they scattered, and collared one. “Hey-I’m talking to you!” The boy was squirming. Dalton wrenched the aerosol can from his grimy hand. “What’s this?”

“Makin’ a model airplane, mate!”

Dalton tried to swipe him as he ran off, and missed. Otley looked away, hiding a grin.

The squalid brick viaducts of the Waterloo underpass housed a community of down-and-outs, living in patched-up shelters tacked to the walls. Groups of them sat around campfires on the pavements, passing the bottle, and mingled with the smoke was the sharp reek of meths and cleaning fluid. It was gloomier here, under the arches, and the two detectives were able to approach without being observed. Otley touched Dalton’s arm, making him slow down, and said in a low voice, “Kid with the lager cans, that’s Kenny Lloyd. What I suggest we do…”

He was about to suggest they split up and circle in, one head on and one behind, blocking the kids’ retreat, but he never got the chance. Dalton was off and away. He ran fast, charging along the greasy pavement, but the group Kenny was in, their instinct for self-preservation honed on the streets, saw him coming and were off in a flash, just dark blurs disappearing into the gloom.

Otley sighed and shook his head. Where had they dug up this dickhead from?

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the outdoor cafeteria of the National Film Theatre, overlooking the river. There was a cool breeze and some ragged cloud overhead, but Otley was enjoying a cup of coffee and a sticky iced bun in the fitful sunshine. He broke off a piece and tossed it to a seagull. At once more seagulls started to swoop down.

Dalton didn’t approve. “You shouldn’t encourage them-shit all over you.” Otley tossed another chunk. Dalton turned away in disgust. There was a poster in the Film Theatre window for Andrzej Wajda’s Man of Iron. “Good movie that, have you seen it?” Dalton asked.

Otley’s eyes were elsewhere. He was watching three ragged kids picking up leftover scraps from the tables. One boy in particular, hustling cigarettes from the patrons, looked familiar. Otley watched him for several minutes, a skinny, pathetic-looking specimen in a torn T-shirt, filthy jeans, and cheap sneakers, bare ankles caked with dirt. His thin, ravaged face was marked and bruised, his mouth erupting in open cold sores.

“Just going for a leak, okay?”

Dalton paid no attention as Otley rose and casually threaded his way through the tables. He came up by the boy’s shoulder as he was rummaging inside a trash bin and said softly, “Hello, son…”

The boy looked up, pale puffy eyelids and a pair of dark purple bags. “It’s twenty quid, down the toilets.”

Otley placed his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “You just blew more than you bargained for-I’m a police officer.”

“Okay, so I’ll make it ten.”

“Hey! Watch it!” Otley was smiling. “I just want to ask you a few questions…”

Warily, the boy took a step backward. His eyes flicked past Otley to where Dalton was heading toward them through the tables.

“It’s about that fire,” Otley said, taking out a fiver. “Heard about it? You know Colin Jenkins? Connie?”

Dalton came up and the boy took off. He barged through the tables, turning chairs over behind him, and leapt the wooden barrier surrounding the eating area, skinny elbows pumping as he hared off along the concrete embankment. Dalton was after him like a shot. Kicking the chairs aside and leaping the barrier, his long legs gained on the boy with every stride.

Otley took his time, going out through the swingbar gate and following after them at his own pace. He saw Dalton reach out and grab the boy by the nape of the neck, they both skidded and went down, the boy punching and kicking wildly. Dalton gripped him by the hair, his other hand under the boy’s chin, and the boy sank his teeth into Dalton’s hand. Dalton cursed and belted him hard, hauled him to his feet and belted him again.

“That’s enough,” Otley said, walking up. “Back off him…”

Dalton gave him another crack before stepping back, sucking his hand. “Little bastard bit me!”

The boy wiped his bloody nose on his arm, eyes rolling in his pinched face, frightened to death. “I dunno nuffink, I swear to God, I dunno anyfink…”

Joe Public strolling by and taking an interest in all of this made Otley jumpy. He moved close to the boy, keeping his voice low.

“I haven’t asked you anything yet. Let’s start with your name.”

“Billy,” the boy said, his chin quivering. “Billy Matthews.”

The three new members of the squad were in Tennison’s office, jackets draped over the backs of their chairs, bringing themselves up to speed on the investigation. Neither Haskons nor Lillie was too enthusiastic about the case; why they were here at all was something of a mystery.

“I dunno why we’re going to all this bleedin’ trouble-nasty little queen,” Lillie complained. “We got an address for him, for Colin?”

“He’s not got a permanent one,” Haskons replied.

“He must have lived somewhere! What about a recent photograph?”

“These are from a children’s home,” Ray Hebdon said, spreading them out. “Few years old, black and white.” He glanced down the report. “Not much else.”

Haskons picked up a photograph of Connie, aged about nine, in school uniform, unsmiling. He stared at it and blew out a disgruntled sigh, his broad face with its fleshy nose and heavy jaw set in a lugubrious scowl. “Was he claiming the dole? Any benefits?”

“No, nothing from the DSS,” Lillie said.

Haskons folded his arms and stared through the window at the brick wall. The phone rang and Hebdon answered it. “No, she’s not. Can I take a message?” He found a pencil and a memo pad. “Jessica Smithy. What? Yes, I’ll tell her.”

Haskons yawned. “Any vice charges? I mean, he was on the game, wasn’t he?”

“Too young to bring charges,” Lillie said. “In 1988 he was picked up, shipped back.” He studied the school photograph. “I don’t understand, you know… what makes a poofter want to screw this scrawny, sickly-lookin’ kid?”

“Make our job a damned sight easier if we had a recent photo,” Haskon said with a long-suffering tone.

Lillie tossed over the morgue photograph of Connie’s head, a knob of blackened bone, the face burnt off. “Here you go!” he said, laughing.

Tennison and Hall came down the stairs into the advice centre. The only sign of life was the black kid with the hearing aid, Ron, mopping the floor near the contacts board. Tennison had a quick gander around, peering into the empty TV lounge. Hall wandered over to the corkboard crisscrossed with tape, colored cards with job notices stuck in it.

“It’s usually quiet around now,” Hall said as Tennison joined him. “Kids don’t drift in until early evening.”

Tennison turned to Ron, mechanically mopping. “Is Mr. Parker-Jones here?” At his nod, she said, “Could you get him for me?”

Ron knocked on the office door, opened it an inch or two and looked inside. Tennison reached past him, and with the flat of her hand pushed the door open. “Is he in there?”

The desk lamp was on but the office was empty. Everything was neat and tidy, books on the shelves carefully arranged, wire trays on the desk containing invoices and letters.

“Could you see if he’s anywhere in the building? I’ll wait in here for him.” She showed Ron her I.D. “It’s important.”

Ron went off, and Tennison gave a nod to Hall, who was at the contacts board, searching through them, jotting down names and phone numbers. He returned her nod and went back to the board, keeping one eye on the stairs as a couple of kids came down.

Tennison went in and pushed the door partway closed.

She went over to the two filing cabinets and tried one of the drawers. Locked. She looked around. On the wall above a thriving rubber plant was a row of impressive framed certificates, elaborately scrolled text and fancy borders. Mallory Advice Center, Maryland. Chicago University Child Therapy Unit. New York Speech and Sign Language Institute. A dozen or so letters trailed after the name “Edward Parker-Jones.”

She moved around the desk. There was a stack of stamped and sealed envelopes. She flicked through them, checking the addresses. She leafed through the loose memos and the notepad, glanced at the yellow stickers on the blotter. She bent to try the desk drawers when the door was pushed open and Hall made a quick gesture.

Tennison was standing by the bookshelves when Parker-Jones breezed in. His presence immediately filled the small office. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn he was an honorary Southern colonel as well, judging by the framed credentials.

“Can I help you?” He didn’t smile but his deep modulated voice was pleasant enough.

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison,” she said, holding up her I.D. “You must be…”

“Edward Parker-Jones. Could I see it?” He pointed to her I.D. “Thank you,” he said, handing it back. “Well? How can I help you, Chief Inspector Tennison?”

He moved around the desk, rubbing his hands, which gave Tennison the opportunity to exchange a look with Hall. He went out and closed the door, leaving Tennison alone with Parker-Jones, and giving him the chance to sniff around.

Tennison started with a smile. “I’ve come about the investigation into Colin Jenkins’s death. Could you tell me where you were on the night of the seventeenth of this month?”

“I was here. I was here from six-thirty until at least twelve.”

Tennison’s eyes widened a fraction. Neat answer, very pat. “Do you have any witnesses who can-”

“Exactly how many do you require?” asked Parker-Jones, completely at ease, relaxed and confident. “I can make out a list.”

“I am interested in the hour between eight-thirty and nine-thirty,” Tennison said.

After a small sigh, Parker-Jones reeled them off. “Alan Thorpe, Donald Driscoll, Kenny Lloyd, one or two other lads…”

An identical list, the same familiar names.

“Do you know a James Jackson?”

“Yes.” Parker-Jones nodded. “Strangely enough, he was here that evening.”

“You have a very good memory,” Tennison complimented him, turning on the charm.

Edward Parker-Jones didn’t succumb that easily. “Not really. But it is my job to help the social services by keeping some kind of record of the youngsters who come and go here.” He suddenly remembered, or gave a convincing performance of doing so. “Ah-oh, yes… Billy Matthews.” He took a desk diary from the drawer and turned to the relevant date. “Billy Matthews. He was here also.”

Tennison watched as he wrote out the list of names, using a gold-nibbed fountain pen. He had strong hands, dark hair sprouting from his crisp shirt cuffs to his knuckles, and wore a chunky gold ring with an amber stone on the little finger of his left hand. He was rather good-looking in a louche way, with dark deep-set eyes, his black hair swept back over his ears.

Parker-Jones passed the list to her. He sat down; there was another chair, but Tennison preferred to stay on her feet.

“… yes, Billy Matthews, I arranged for him to see a doctor. He was found in the toilets here.” Parker-Jones tightened his lips, shaking his head. “He’s a tragic case. He’s only fourteen, full-blown AIDS. One of the reasons I remember that evening specifically is that Jackson was in a particularly aggressive mood. He’d been trying to find a boy earlier in the day. Martin Fletcher.”

“Why was he looking for him?”

“I really don’t know,” he said with a slight frown, and checked the diary again. “Martin wasn’t here on the seventeenth but he turned up the following day. In fact… a Sergeant Otley spoke to him recently.”

“You said Jackson had been here in the day, so what time did he return in the evening?”

Parker-Jones seemed rather amused. “Is Jackson a suspect?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “Is that what this is all about?” He found her silence just as amusing. “It was an accidental death, surely? That building’s a fire trap, all those old blocks are.”

“I’m sorry, but could you…” Tennison cleared her throat. “Could you please answer the question? What time did James Jackson return here?”

“Around half eight, or thereabouts. He stayed for about two hours.”

“Two hours!” Tennison mulled this over. She slipped her shoulder bag on. “Thank you very much, Mr. Parker-Jones. You know Reynolds’s flat?” she asked, going to the door. She turned. “Just that you mentioned it was a fire hazard, so you must have been there…?”

Rising to his six feet two Parker-Jones said without a flicker of hesitation, “Of course, Vera is well known by everybody around here. She-he leaves the front door key for friends to pop in. I have always had a good relationship with the Vice Squad,” he said evenly. “You must be new-correct?”

Tennison smiled thinly. “Yes, and I really appreciate your help.”

“Most of the kids that come here are wretched-abused, unloved, and friendless. But they do at least come here, and we can maintain contact.” He moved around the desk toward her. “These children are prey for the perverted. If my centre was to be closed down it would be very sad…”

“I am sure you are doing a very good and worthwhile job, Mr. Parker-Jones. But I am also trying to do mine.” They faced each other in silence for a moment, and then Tennison said, “I noticed you have an impressive list of credentials.”

“Thank you.” He was standing close to her. She could smell his aftershave. Violets. She recognized it as Fahrenheit by Christian Dior.

“Just one more thing,” Tennison said. “Do you keep a record of photographs?”

“Of the boys that come here?” At her nod, he said, “Good heavens no, be far too expensive.”

“Not even casual snapshots of, say, a Christmas party? Colin, or Connie as he was called, was a frequent visitor here, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was, but not recently. In fact I haven’t seen him for about three months.”

An answer to everything. What with that and his meticulous memory, this was one hell of a cool customer. Tennison pressed him further.

“You have no idea where he was living? Or if he lived with anyone?”

“I’m afraid not. He did leave messages on the notice board, and I think he received letters a few times, but not for quite a while. If you leave it with me I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

Tennison smiled perfunctorily and opened the door. Edward Parker-Jones put out his meaty, hairy hand to shake hers. It was left in midair as she turned and left the office.

In the car, while Hall drove, she studied the list in Parker-Jones’s beautiful rounded handwriting. Of course it had to be perfect. Mr. Bleedin’ Hearts Wonderful.

“He’s given me virtually the same names as Jackson-we’ll have to release him.” She smacked her head back against the headrest. “Shit! Banged up, at least he couldn’t scare anyone from talking to us. And they can’t find Martin Fletcher now…”

Hall said, “I’ve made a list of all the jobs and contacts off the centre’s notice board. A lot of ‘Young Male Models’ required. Reads like a Toms’ telephone kiosk.”

Tennison perked up a bit. “That ties in with something Vera said, that Connie wanted to be a model. Good… good…”

She leaned across and gazed at him admiringly. “And may I say you are wearing a very positive tie this evening, Inspector!”

Hall’s chubby face beamed and he actually blushed.

DI Dalton took the tape from his pocket and handed it to Superintendent Halliday. He then stood fidgeting as Halliday walked back around his desk. The room was warm, though Dalton was uncomfortable with more than mere heat. He didn’t know why they’d picked him for this. Skulking hole-in-the-corner stuff was never his style.

“Tennison’s got the murder inquiry partly because it’d be more trouble to stop her,” Halliday said. He looked directly into Dalton’s eyes. “But it is the murder and only the murder we want investigated.”

Dalton shrugged, shuffling his feet. “There’s nothing else, nothing I’ve heard. Jackson is still the prime suspect…”

“We want Jackson charged,” Halliday said, and lowering his voice for emphasis: “What we do not want is the investigation broadened. Understand?”

Dalton nodded and started to leave. Halliday said, “Better go and let the nurse have a look at that.”

Dalton glanced at his hand, wrapped in a handkerchief. Vicious little bastard. He nodded again and went out.

At 5:30 P.M. Tennison fronted the update briefing in the Squad Room. The purpose of this was to acquaint all the team with the day’s developments, to coordinate the various activities, and to delegate fresh lines of inquiry. As she spoke, Hall was at the board behind her, writing up the names of Parker-Jones’s alibis. It didn’t need pointing out to anyone that these tallied exactly with Jackson’s witnesses.

Norma took notes, jotting down questions and queries from the floor as well as Tennison’s spiel.

“We will stick to the weekly rota as arranged, because we now have”-Tennison gestured to the officers drafted in from AMIT-“DC Lillie, DS Haskons, and DI Hebdon, and DI Dalton handling the murder investigation.”

The others were present, but no Dalton, Tennison noticed.

“That said, when we have further information for Operation Contract…” A moaning chorus joined in on the word “Contract.”

“Cut it out, you know Superintendent Halliday is making it a…” Everyone joined in. “Priority.”

With a smile, Tennison turned to Hall. “Okay, can you farm out all the contact numbers you got from the centre? Keep up the links between each investigation.”

The team went back to work. Ray Hebdon pushed through. “Excuse me, Guv, there was a message from some woman Smithy, from a newspaper. I put her name and number…” His jaw dropped as Dalton walked in. “I don’t believe it!”

A smiling Dalton came up to Hebdon and Tennison. “Hey! How are you?” His right hand still wrapped in the handkerchief, he held out his left, which Hebdon gripped. “We were at Hornchurch together,” Dalton told Tennison. “My God, how long is it? You still playing for the rugby team?”

“Nah, did my knee in, tendons, had to have an op. Bit off track for you, isn’t it? I thought you were with Scotland Yard.”

“Yeah, I was… but I got transferred here.”

Tennison had clocked the “Scotland Yard,” and she also clocked Dalton’s evasive look when he said it. He followed her as she moved to the desk.

“We’ve traced three, all said they were at the advice centre all evening and Jackson was there. We’ve not traced Alan Thorpe, but we’ve got a list of hangouts.”

“Pass them over to Larry, he’s just farming out work for tomorrow,” Tennison said. “And those on tonight can have a search for Martin Fletcher. I want him back in!”

“What’s this? What you doin’ here?” Otley had entered and was gaping with surprise at Haskons and Lillie. He went over, grinning fit to bust, and cuffed Haskons. “He got Fairy of the Week at Southampton Row,” he informed the room. “Five times on the trot!”

Haskons squared up to him, ducking and weaving. “Watch it, you old poofter.” He jerked his thumb. “Ray Hebdon-Bill Otley, the Skipper!”

The two men nodded. Otley turned his head to watch Tennison leaving the room. He pinched his nose, giving them all a look. As the door swung to, he said, “Jackson was released ’bout fifteen minutes ago… does she know?”

Hall called them to attention.

“Okay, we’re trying to find anyone with a recent photo of Colin Jenkins, any known contacts, and where he’s been living. Clubs, coffee bars, known hangouts for the rent boys. Who’s taking what?”

From the door, Otley yelled, “As from today we will be awarding the Fairy of the Week award!”

Kathy yelled back, “Yeah-and we’ll award the Prick of the Week. Apparently you’re not eligible, as you’ve been one ever since you arrived.”

Lots of raspberries, honks, and hooting laughter.

Otley gave a universal V-sign and disappeared.

Twenty minutes later, having written up his report, Otley took it along to Tennison’s office where she was looking over a large-scale street map pinned to the wall. He dropped the report on her desk.

“The advice centre and Vera’s flat.” Tennison pointed to each, ringed in red, where she’d just marked them.

“I timed it,” Otley said, perching on the edge of the desk. “You could make it there and back in ten minutes.”

The door was open, and Dalton came in, a bandage on his hand. He stood listening, his tanned face impassive.

“So Jackson could easily have done it.” Tennison glanced over her shoulder at Otley. “But five alibis say he didn’t.”

“I reckon we could break down those kids’ statements if we had Jackson behind bars. They’d all say he was visiting the Queen Mother if he told them to. He’s got to them, it’s obvious.”

“It’s obvious with Martin Fletcher. I want him brought back in.” She went around the desk, biting the end of the felt-tip pen. “Parker-Jones… he’s Jackson’s strongest alibi. Dig around a bit, but on the QT…” She gave him a look.

“He’s squeaky clean,” Otley told her. “I think your predecessor had a nose around but came up with nothin’.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Tennison was frowning and shaking her head. “Could be just a personal reaction-and there was something about his voice.” She rooted underneath some files, then opened a drawer and searched inside. “Shit! Where the hell is the tape?” She looked at Otley. “Did you take a tape from here?”

“No. Is it in the machine?” Otley reached over and pressed the Eject button. Empty. He was conscious that Tennison was staring hard at him, plainly disbelieving.

She straightened up, sighing, and glanced at her watch. “Don’t waste time looking for it now. We’ll call it quits for tonight, get an early start in the morning.”

Dalton gave a nod to them both and went out, closing the door. Otley still waited, watching Tennison opening, searching, and banging shut every drawer in her desk. Finally she stood up.

“You didn’t take it, did you, Bill?”

“What? The tape?” He shook his head. “No, why would I do that?”

Tennison suddenly looked weary. She slumped back in the chair, rubbing her forehead. “Getting paranoid. It’ll be here somewhere.”

There was a reason for Otley’s lingering presence. Out it came, a touch of asperity in his tone.

“Guv, can you get Dalton off my back? I can’t work with him. I could have got a lot more out of those kids-one bit him this afternoon. I nearly did myself,” Otley said darkly.

He was a bastard, Otley, and a chauvinist pig to boot, but she trusted his instincts, because they so often chimed with her own.

“What do you make of him?” she asked.

“Not a lot. Don’t know why he’s on board, do you?”

Tennison shook her head. With a grunted “G’night,” Otley left her alone. She got up, arching her back, and stood with hands on hips looking over her desk. She lifted the reports and files and checked everywhere. She peered down the side of the desk and underneath her chair.

She sat down again, and looked at her watch. Yawning, she picked up the phone and dialed. As she waited she drew Otley’s report toward her and started reading.

“Hello… Dr. Gordon’s receptionist, please.” She waited, reading. “It’s Jane Tennison. I’m sorry, but I’m running a bit late. I’ve got an appointment at six-thirty.” She listened, nodding. “Great, see you then.”

She dropped the phone down and moved slowly around the desk, the report in her hand, still reading. She stopped dead and stared. She read it again, the bit that had frozen her to the spot.

“Oh, shit…!”

Moving fast, she went into the corridor. To the left, outside the Squad Room doors, Commander Chiswick was having a quiet word with Dalton, whose back was toward her, and as Tennison strode quickly up, Chiswick lightly tapped Dalton on the arm, shutting him up.

“Evening, sir,” Tennison greeted the Commander. She turned to Dalton and indicated her office. “Before you go…”

When Dalton came in, a moment or two later, she was leaning against the desk. He’d barely crossed the threshold before Tennison said, “Has anyone looked at that hand?”

“It’s nothing,” Dalton said, bending his wrist to show her. “I put a bandage over it.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to tell you this.” Tennison reached behind her for Otley’s report and held it up. “Billy Matthews has full-blown AIDS. I think you should get to a hospital.”

Dalton frowned at her, blinking rapidly. “The bloody little bastard,” he burst out hoarsely. “I had to have a shower when we got back. I’ll go and see the nurse.” He hadn’t quite grasped it, Tennison could see. “The little shit!”

“I’m sorry…”

Dalton went very quiet, staring at his hand. Only now was he realizing the full implications, his tan fading as the blood drained from his face. He looked scared now, dead scared.

“He bit me, he broke the skin, he… bit me.” He swallowed and looked at Tennison, his voice quavering. “Jesus Christ. I was bleeding…”

“Go to the hospital, you’ll need a tetanus injection for starters.”

Dalton didn’t move. He simply stared at her, mouth hanging open, looking about ten years old.

“Would you like someone to go with you? Do you want me to take you?”

“No, no, it’s okay…” He turned away, holding the wrist of his injured hand. “I’ve got my own car… er… thank you.”

He went out and turned right, heading for the stairs.

Tennison emerged from behind the screen, buttoning up her blouse. She took her suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Seated at the leather-topped desk in his white coat, Dr. Gordon was making an entry in her medical file, having already prepared the sample stickers for the lab tests. The glass slides in their plastic containers were by his elbow.

“Can I ask-if somebody has full-blown AIDS and bites somebody else, actually draws blood, how dangerous is it?”

Dr. Gordon was the same age as Tennison, if not younger, though this had never bothered her. He had a friendly, amiable disposition, which was more important. He looked at her over his silver-framed glasses.

“Very. It’s not the fact that the AIDS carrier has drawn blood, but if his blood then makes contact with the open wound… human bite is extremely dangerous, contains more bacteria than a dog bite. Full-blown AIDS?” He put his pen down, laced his fingers when he saw how intently she was listening to him.

“Often their gums bleed, it’s really dependent on how far advanced the AIDS carrier is, but bleeding gums, mouth sores…”

“How soon can it be diagnosed?”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s not you, is it?”

“No, it’s not me.” Tennison sat down, smoothing her blouse inside the shoulders of her jacket. “I’m fine. Well-a bit ratty, but I put that down to my periods being a bit erratic.”

“Well, it could be the onset of the menopause. We’ll get these samples over to the lab, but until I get the results I won’t prescribe anything.” Dr. Gordon leaned forward, regarding her soberly. “Your friend should be tested for antibodies immediately, but that will only prove he or she doesn’t have it already. I’m afraid it’ll take three to six months to zero convert and they should have HIV tests every four to six weeks for the next six months.”

“So it’ll be six months before he knows?”

“Afraid so. That’s how long it will take to show a positive infection.” He held up a cautioning finger. “However, full-blown AIDS can take anywhere up to eight to ten years to develop.”

“Thank you very much,” Tennison said, getting up. “Do you have any leaflets I could take?”

While he found her some she thoughtfully put on her raincoat and collected her briefcase. She turned to him.

“You mind if I say something? ‘Onset of menopause’ may not mean much to you, but it does to a woman. It means a lot.”

Dr. Gordon paused, watching her, waiting.

Briefcase clasped in her hands, Tennison was studying her shoes. “I’m not married, maybe never will be, so it doesn’t make all that much difference to me-but I am only forty-four, and…” She shook her head rapidly, shoulders slumping. “Oh, forget it!”

“Be a couple of days,” Dr. Gordon said kindly, handing her the leaflets. “I’ll call you.”

“Thank you,” Tennison said, stuffing them in her pocket. “And thank you for fitting me in. I’m sorry I was late.”

As she got to the door her bleeper sounded. She fished it out and pressed a button. “Can I use your phone?”