A Face in the Crowd (10 page)

“I’m sure, of course I’m sure! Every year since his Jeanie died. He wouldn’t have left till the Monday morning.” Eileen Reynolds suddenly bent forward, her work-worn hands clutching the shiny black handbag in her lap. “What you lot’ve got to remember is that he’s a sick man. You shouldn’t be hounding him.”

“Mum.” Jason tugged at her sleeve. He seemed embarrassed. “They’ve got their job to do.”

“He’s waiting for an operation you know? You’ll be the bloody death of him . . .”

“We’re not hounding him, Mrs. Reynolds. We’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries.”

Leaning forward again, beady eyes glittering, the woman said hoarsely, “You wouldn’t be hounding him like this if he was a black man.”

“Mum . . . !”

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Tennison said patiently, “I’ve questioned your brother once, that’s all. Which is not surprising given that the body of a young girl was found buried in his garden.”

Eileen Reynolds snorted. “Well, that’s a lot of rubbish. Simone Cameron this, Simone Cameron that. Was it Simone?”

“No.”

“Exactly. It’s my brother you should be concerned about. He’s the one that’s dying.”

“Is that all for now?” Jason asked, standing up.

“Yes. Thank you very much for coming.”

“Come on, Mum . . .”

“Don’t pull me about!” At the door she turned her sharp, angry face towards Tennison for a parting shot. “He’s at the hospital tomorrow thanks to you.”

“Come on,” Jason said, steering her out into the corridor.

Tennison went to the door and indicated to a passing WPC that she should see them to reception. With his arm around the back of the powder blue coat, Jason guided his mother after the WPC, the dutiful, attentive son.

Tennison looked at her watch, debated for a moment, and grabbed her coat from the hook. If she hurried she’d just be in time to catch Vernon Allen before he left his office.

He wasn’t as friendly and cooperative this time. Perhaps it was because he was in his management role, sitting at a mahogany desk, his broad frame inside a well-cut suit and matching waistcoat. Or perhaps he was just fed up with Tennison retreading the same questions he thought he’d already answered.

Aware that he was fretting, impatient to get away, Tennison said, “Just one last thing, Vernon. You said that you and Mr. 
Harvey
fell out because he wouldn’t move.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“What? No.”

“But didn’t he sublet the basement? To a girl?”

“That had nothing to do with me.”

“What had nothing to do with you?”

“Whatever she was doing.”

“What was she doing?”

“Look—I don’t know. It was none of my business.”

Vernon Allen sniffed and turned his head away, gazing through the venetian blinds at the London skyline in the gathering dusk. Far below, the rush-hour traffic was clogging up the Euston underpass.

“It was if she was a prostitute, Vernon,” Tennison said.

“Why?”

“Because as the landlord you could have been charged with running a brothel.”

He was offended. “How dare you use the word ‘brothel.’ ”

“What word would you use?”

He looked at her through his heavy, dark-framed glasses, a hint of uncertainty there, as if he wasn’t sure of his ground anymore. With a weary motion he pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and said, “I was at work all hours, Esme was too. A neighbor told us men were calling there. I spoke to Harvey right away but I had no proof. Then suddenly the . . . the girl . . . seemed to have gone.”

Tennison leaned forward. “But did you see her?”

Vernon Allen gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.”

“Was it the girl whose remains we’ve found? Is that why you won’t cooperate?”

“Listen. My family is very upset.” He was making a great effort to speak slowly, holding his emotions in check. “It’s an important time for us. A wedding should be a time of joy. I have cooperated with you in every way so far . . .”

“Then please answer the question. Did she answer the description I’ve given you?”

“No.” He stared straight back. “She was a white girl.”

“Not just light-skinned?”

“No. White.”

Tennison leaned back, pressing her lips together. “Can you describe her, please?”

Vernon Allen thought for a moment. “Small, perhaps five foot two. A tiny thing, really. Blond hair—bleached, I would say.” Tennison nodded, making notes. “Young, but not the girl you described.”

Tennison looked up from her pad. “Did you have sexual relations with this girl?”

She saw in his eyes how disturbed he was by this question.

“I did not,” Vernon Allen replied gravely.

“What was the relationship between Harvey and this girl?”

“God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

“And when did all this happen, Vernon?”

He stared down at the desk, evading Tennison’s gaze, but she was quite content to wait. He cleared his throat and swallowed, and reluctantly admitted, “It could have been the summer you’re talking about.”

Tennison replaced the cap on her pen and screwed it tight.

The medical artist had promised it by the end of the week, and the next day, shortly after three in the afternoon, he delivered the goods.

On her way back from the ladies’ room, Tennison nipped up to Kernan’s office and invited him to come along to the Incident Room and take a gander at it. She thought it was the least she could do, seeing as how Kernan had been burdened with finding the money from his budget to pay for it.

“The Viswandhas’ lawyer has been bending my ear,” Kernan grumbled to her as they walked along the corridor. “He tells me Forensic are still there, poking around inside the house, lifting carpets, floorboards, the lot.”

“So?”

“Let’s get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kernan pushed open the door of the Incident Room, waving her to go first, and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Let’s see it then.”

There was an air of expectancy. All the team had gathered for the grand unveiling. Richards, the police photographer, had set up his tripod and lights. Tennison nodded to Haskons, who stepped forward and whisked off the cloth. There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a kind of collective gasp. The medical artist had been too modest, Tennison thought. He was as much artist as he was scientist, without doubt.

Modeled in brown clay, the head was astonishingly lifelike. The girl was young and very beautiful, rather proud-looking, with braided hair swept back from a wide forehead. The artist had caught exactly the mixed-race cast of her features, high cheekbones had a generous mouth, and it reminded Tennison strongly of the sculpted head of an ancient goddess.

Everyone, even the hardened longtime pros who thought they’d seen everything, were impressed . . .

Everyone except Kernan, cynical old bugger, who was seeing a hole in his budget rather than an expertly crafted clay head.

His only comment was a surly, “Very nice,” and then the swing door was wafting the air as he disappeared through it.

Richards was popping off photographs, moving his camera around to cover all the angles. Tennison turned to the men.

“Right . . . I want these photographs to appear everywhere they can, local and national press. From now on you’ll show them to anyone who might be able to help. Let’s get the Allens in to see this . . .” She gestured towards the head. “Vernon Allen has confirmed that there was a hooker working from the basement of Number fifteen that summer. From his description it wasn’t Nadine but it’s possible that Nadine was a tom as well . . . perhaps Harvey was a small-time pimp? Harvey is at the hospital all day tomorrow,” she added, “so I won’t be able to see him till the evening to tackle him about it.”

“She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” DC Lillie said.

“Start asking around anyway.” Tennison moved to the board. “Vernon Allen has accounted for his family’s whereabouts on the thirty-first. For the last ten years there’s been a Reggae Sunsplash concert in Honeyford Park on the last Sunday in August. Vernon says Esme was at that concert—she’s there every year running a stall selling West Indian food.”

The men were silent, paying close attention. Glancing down at her notes now and then to refresh her memory, Tennison continued.

“Apparently Tony, the son, attended the concert, which is an all-day affair—ten to ten. Vernon says he spent the day at home with Sarah and David. Tony returned at about nine
p.m
. to look after his brother and sister so Vernon could go to work. I’ve checked Vernon’s work record. He did a double shift through Sunday night and late into Monday. By the time Esme had packed up, returned things to the cafe and got back home, it was about ten forty-five
p.m.
She says by then all three children were asleep in bed. Obviously, wherever possible, I’d like these accounts verified.”

She looked around, and was about to call the briefing over when Oswalde, leaning back nonchalantly against a desk, arms folded, said casually, “Perhaps that’s the link between Nadine and Honeyford Road.”

“What?”

“The Reggae Sunsplash.”

Tennison’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Harvey could have met her there, or Tony Allen. Perhaps the victim’s bag of African cloth was a costume of some sort. She might even have been performing at the concert.”

Nobody said anything. Oswalde’s first contribution, after being on the team less than twenty-four hours, was a good one, and everybody knew it.

Tennison looked away from him, tapping her fingers on the desk. “It’s an interesting thought. Worth following up. Frank, Gary, I’d like you to visit the Sunsplash organizers first thing tomorrow—see if they can point you toward any bands using back up singers or musicians in African dress.”

Oswalde slowly unfolded his arms. He couldn’t believe this. He’d just single-handedly come up with a promising lead and she’d tossed the juicy bone to someone else. Knowing what he must be feeling, the rest of the team couldn’t meet his dark, angry eyes. Something was going down here, but they were damned if they knew what it was.

“Anything else?” said Tennison briskly. “Right. That’s it for now.” She strode out.

Oswalde went after her. He caught up with her in the corridor and made her stop. “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.

“What?”

“Treating me like the office boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tennison said, braving it out. Her eyes shifted away; people were passing, and it was a bit public for this exchange.

“Why didn’t you send me to see the concert organizers?”

“You’re busy already,” Tennison said, another convenient crap excuse. “Besides, I thought that you didn’t want to be given special tasks because of the color of your skin.”

“I don’t,” Oswalde said curtly. “I want to be given a task commensurate with my abilities and experience.”

He was right to be pissed-off, and right to make this request, they both knew it. Tennison was anxious to end this public confrontation lest tongues started to wag. She said, “I want you to carry on overseeing Mispers . . .” Oswalde was about to protest, and she cut him short. “But I’d also like you to arrange for the Allens to see the clay head. Watch their reactions.”

“Thank you,” Oswalde said stiffly, and went back to work.

While he was still sore at Tennison, Oswalde was glad to be more centrally involved in the investigation; combing through the endless Missing Persons files on the computer was brain-numbing, soul-destroying work. He’d done his stint at it as a young DC, and had thought those days were behind him.

He contacted the Allens and arranged for Vernon and Esme, and their son Tony, to come into Southampton Row to view the clay head. He went down to reception to meet them, and before taking them through to the interview room, explained to the three of them what was involved. They were being asked to say if they recognized the girl, and if possible, to identify her.

As they filed in, Oswalde kept a close eye on them, noting their reactions at the first sight of the head on the small wooden plinth. They studied it in silence. Oswalde glanced at Vernon Allen, who shook his head.

“Are you sure, Vernon?”

“Absolutely.”

“Esme?”

“Yes?” Her brows were drawn forward, gazing at the head with a harrowed expression. “No, dear. I’d remember if I had.” She let out a pitiful sigh. “What a beautiful child . . .”

There was a strange gasping, choking sound. Oswalde swung around to find Tony Allen on the verge of collapse. The boy was shuddering violently and clutching his throat, the awful noises issuing from his quivering mouth. He seemed unable to properly draw a breath.

“Tony—what’s wrong?” Oswalde said, alarmed.

Esme took charge. “Come, Tony, sit down.” She led the boy to a chair and sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “Now don’t make a fuss, you’re all right,” his mother comforted him. “It’s very hot in here. He suffers from asthma,” she explained to Oswalde.

“I see.”

Oswalde watched him. He seemed calmer now, though there was a mist of sweat on his forehead. He kept staring at the clay head, then down at the floor, and then back again, as if the sight mesmerized him.

“Have you seen her before, Tony?”

“No.” He gulped air. “I’ve never seen her.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.

“
H
e’s our prime suspect and he’s dying. I’m not going to sit back and watch.”

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Muddyman panted. “Just another runaway, another dead prostitute . . .”

Tennison halted on the ninth floor of Dwyfor House and turned to him, her chest heaving. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do if it means climbing these poxy stairs again,” Muddyman said, staring up with deep loathing.

“She’s someone’s daughter, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Muddyman set off again. He said bitterly, “Anything we get from the old sod will be thrown out of court anyway. ‘He didn’t know what he was saying,’ ” Muddyman mimicked a light brown voice. “ ‘Oppressive conduct by the police . . . ’ ”