A Face in the Crowd (16 page)

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When it came away he was grinning at Oswalde with a strange mixture of triumph and the deepest loathing.

Harvey seemed to have regained a little strength. The pill, or injection—whatever it was—had brought him back into the world, banished for a short while the shades closing in around him.

Tennison pressed on, anxious to get it over and done with. “What did you do with Joanne’s body?”

“I kept it in the cupboard under the stairs. Till the following night. I dug a hole. I put the earth in bags. I had a lot of plastic sheeting. I wrapped her in the sheeting.” His voice broke. He stared sightlessly upwards. “Buried her.”

Muddyman leaned forward into Tennison’s eye line, stroking his chin. She nodded slowly. Harvey was coming out with crucial details—the belt, the plastic sheeting—that hadn’t been released to the media. Harvey couldn’t possibly have known about them unless he was personally involved with the disposal of Joanne’s body. It was the kind of clinching evidence they required to make the case stand up in court.

She was about to ask a further question when Harvey suddenly, and with great effort, raised himself up. His eyes probed the darkness, his slack mouth working desperately.

“I’m sorry, Jason, I’m sorry you have to hear all this. I just needed you to be here . . .” Exhausted, he fell back, and Tennison waited for calm.

“Did you bury anything else with her, David?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A plastic bag.”

That hadn’t been mentioned in the press either.

“What did it contain?”

Tennison had to crane forward to catch his mumbled. “I don’t know,” and it seemed to her that, having confessed to the murder, he was losing interest in the more mundane details of the crime.

Again she glanced towards Muddyman, who was looking like the cat that got the cream. Harvey was a goner, in more senses than one. He’d given them chapter and bloody verse on the whole sordid saga, committed it to tape, with three witnesses in attendance. Game, set, and match.

Harvey continued to mumble. Tennison strained to hear, hoping the tape was picking it up.

“. . . I banged the earth flat. Laid the rest of the slabs, cemented them in. There was a smell. The darkie next door complained. I told him it was . . . the drains . . .”

His eyes closed.

The wheezing breath fluttered from his lips, emphasizing the silence.

Tennison straightened her shoulders, sat back in her chair. “Thank you, David,” she said, and indicated to Muddyman that he could turn off the machine. Thank God that was over. Her flesh crawled at the memory of his clammy grip.

They went out into the corridor. Muddyman sealed the tape and asked Jason to countersign and date it. The young man did so, the pen shaking in his hand. He was still deathly pale, and looked sick to his stomach.

“Would you like a car to take you home?” Tennison asked, concerned about him.

“It’s all right, thanks.” He raised his head and took a deep breath. “I’d rather walk.”

They watched him trail off down the corridor, looking lost and aimless, but he turned the corner heading for reception, so that seemed okay. Muddyman stuffed the tape in his raincoat pocket and turned to Tennison with a fat grin.

“Well done! Nailed the bastard’s balls to the floor.”

“You think so?”

Muddyman lit up and hungrily sucked in smoke. “Know so.”

Tennison nodded, as if in agreement. She’d have given a month’s pay for Muddyman’s complete, unwavering certainty, but she couldn’t make it jell. Something nagged at her. Some of the details Harvey had spilled she kept returning to, worrying at like a loose tooth.

But it had been a long, grueling pig of a day and she was exhausted. And somehow depressed on top of it. All her mind could focus on right this minute were the hot shower and the large brandy.

As they went down the stairs to the parking lot, Tennison said dully, “God, hospitals depress me.”

Having finally got someone to babysit for her, Esta flew down to Southampton Row and barged into the waiting room. “Have you seen him?” she asked them, huddled there on the bench.
“Have you seen him?”

Esme shook her head tearfully. “They won’t . . . let me see my boy,” she wailed. “My Tony . . .”

Esta stormed up to the counter. She banged on it with both fists. Through the glass panel she could see two or three uniformed officers sitting at desks in the back room. Beating on the counter, she yelled at them, “I want to see somebody now! I want to see the person in charge! Come here—where is he!”

Vernon waved to her. “They say somebody is just coming.”

Esta banged again, harder, louder.

“Come and sit down,” Vernon pleaded. “Take it easy . . .”

Esta ignored him. She had no intention of taking it easy.

Tony was leaning his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. His voice was muffled.

“I’m a black bastard. I deserve all I get . . . I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get . . .”

Standing opposite him, Oswalde thumped the table. “Tony, just stop it, man!”

“I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get . . . I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get . . .”

“Tony, stop it! Just stop it, man . . .”

“That’s enough,” Burkin said curtly. He strode to the door. “Can I have a word with you, Sergeant Oswalde?”

“In a minute.”

“Now, Sergeant Oswalde!” Burkin went out.

Oswalde looked at his watch. “I’m concluding this interview at eleven-twenty-five
p.m.
” He switched off the machine and followed Burkin out.

Tony’s hands came away from his face and clenched into fists.

“No, don’t leave me alone!
Don’t leave me alone in here!
”

In the corridor Burkin faced Oswalde. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Tony Allen’s terrified, near-hysterical cries.

“What’s all this about?”

“What?” Oswalde said. He was an inch or two taller than DI Burkin, and he stared into his eyes, knowing the man for the racist he was.

Burkin held up a warning finger. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Burkin’s eyes bulged. He jerked his thumb at the pitiful, wavering sobs coming from the room—
“Don’t leave me alone .
.
. please don’t leave me alone, please
.
.
.”

“He’s off his head!”

Oswalde looked down his nose at Burkin with narrowed eyes. “That’s your considered psychological opinion, is it?” he sneered.

“You’re one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

Oswalde dropped his voice to a low growl. “Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You’ve been wanting to have a go at me ever since I arrived at this poxy station.” He squared up, flexing his shoulders. “Well, go on then,” he challenged.

Eyeball to eyeball, the two men glowered at one another. Both well over six feet tall, both strongly built, both fired up with mutual hatred: Burkin the area boxing champion, Oswalde top of his class in unarmed combat, they could have knocked seven kinds of shit out of one another. Both of them on a hair trigger, ready and raring to have a go.

“What the hell’s going on?” Alerted by Tony’s racket, Custody Sergeant Calder bustled into the corridor from the charge room, on his way to investigate.

“Butt out, Mike,” Oswalde said, tight lipped.

Calder sized up the situation and acted at once to defuse it. He pushed the two men apart. “I’m in charge of this area. Prisoners are my responsibility, right?”

Burkin turned his fury on him. “So where’s his lawyer?” he demanded.

“He said he didn’t want one.”

“Look,” Burkin exploded, pointing his finger. “That boy’s climbing the fucking walls in there! Has he been seen by the doc?”

“Not yet,” Calder said defensively. He cleared his throat. “It’s all under control . . .”

Burkin shot a fierce look at Oswalde. He said disparagingly, “The arresting officer hasn’t even got credible evidence.”

Calder was nettled. “Look, don’t tell me my job—”

“How do you know, anyway?” Oswalde said, glaring at Burkin.

“You’ve got nothing from him that would stick in court. He should go back into the cells until the boss has been informed.”

Calder tried to peer past them to the half-open door. “Have you left him alone in there?”

Oswalde was really riled up now. He knew what Burkin’s game was, and he told him straight. “Hands off, Frank, this is my kill. You’re just pissed off because the token black is going to have this case signed, sealed, and on the guv’nor’s desk by morning!”

Burkin said quietly, “Bollocks you are.” And went striding off down the corridor to phone Tennison.

Oswalde returned to the interview room and slammed the door.

Calder, gnawing his thumbnail, was left standing. Knowing he should have done as Burkin said and called the doc. He’d better do it. Right now.

Tennison, freshly-showered and talced, wearing silk pajamas, was on her way to bed when the phone rang. Passing by the little table, through sheer force of habit, she reached out to answer it. Her hand hovered, and then the answering machine clicked on. That’s what answering machines were for, she reminded herself. For when you were out or too bloody tired or not in the mood to answer it. Score two out of three.

A voice was burbling. She turned the sound right down, switched off the lamp, and went through into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Whatever anger, whatever defiance, had been in Tony, it had left him as swiftly as the air leaves a punctured balloon. He sat with head bowed, shoulders hunched, his hands resting limply in his lap. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He made hardly any sound, just sat there weeping softly. Behind him, Oswalde paced, turned about, paced again, turned about. Burkin had got through to him, right to the quick. He’d nearly lost his temper, blown it completely. When above everything else he prided himself on his control, on not giving in to provocation.
That
close, and saved by the bell—or rather by Calder.

Oswalde saw it all too clearly. Burkin couldn’t stomach an outside officer—a black one at that—coming in and solving the case and taking the credit. That’s what this was about. That’s why he’d blown a fuse. Well, sunshine, you were going to have to like it or lump it, Oswalde thought with grim satisfaction. He alone had collared Tony Allen and he intended to sweat it out of him. He didn’t care if it took all night. From the minute he saw Tony’s reaction to the clay head, he knew the boy was implicated in the girl’s murder. All he had to do now was prove it.

Oswalde gripped the back of the chair and leaned over him.

“This is a waste of time. You’re just wasting my time. Come on, Tony. You’re as guilty as hell. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you.” He dug his fingers into Tony’s hunched shoulder and hauled him back. “Your guilty secret is written all over your face.”

Tony nodded feebly, his cheeks wet with tears. “I’m guilty . . .”

Oswalde quickly moved around and bent down, his face close to the boy’s. “Then tell me what happened that night.”

“We’re all guilty . . .” Tony opened his mouth wide, fighting for breath. He clutched his throat. “I’m choking . . .”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m choking,” he gasped, clawing at his open-necked shirt with both hands.

“No, you’re
not,”
Oswalde barked at him. He turned away, fists clenching with frustration as Tony’s face crumpled, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. This was bloody hopeless. They’d been here for hours and he was getting nowhere. He had to make the boy crack.
Had
to.

He shook his head in disgust. “All you’ve done is cry like a baby. Well, I’m sick of listening to you. You’re pathetic. A bloody mummy’s boy. Come on.” Oswalde waggled his thumb. “You’re going back in the cells.”

“No . . . I can’t breathe in there,” Tony pleaded, gazing up at Oswalde with his pitiful, tear-streaked face. “Don’t please . . .”

He half-rose out of the chair, tugging at Oswalde’s sleeve. Oswalde shook him off. “Fuck you. You tell me how Joanne met her death or you go back in the bin and you
sweat.
”

Tony’s head wobbled. “No . . . no . . .”

Enough was enough. Oswalde turned away. He didn’t see the change come over Tony’s face. The eyes go suddenly wide and mad. The lips draw back in a snarl of rage. Tony leapt out of the chair. He went for Oswalde’s throat, charging into him so that Oswalde was sent crashing against the wall. He was a head taller than Tony and over forty pounds heavier, but what a moment ago had been a pathetic cringing wreck was now transformed into a raving maniac with blood lust in his eyes, attempting to throttle the life out of him.

Winded, Oswalde struggled to get a grip on the boy’s wrists. He grabbed hold of the left, pivoted on one foot, and wrenched Tony’s arm halfway up his back. He caught the other one and pinned both Tony’s hands behind his back and slammed him head first against the wall.

Calder was yelling, “Number seven, right in, right in!” as the five officers ran with Tony Allen spread-eagled horizontally between them along the corridor and into the cell block. He was kicking and screaming bloody murder. They got him inside, facedown on the floor, arms pinioned behind him, ankles trapped under two heavy boots.

“Out!” Calder yelled. “Out! Out!”

He was the last to leave, heaving the door shut and turning the key. Tony was up on his feet, battering the steel door with his fists. His terrified screams pierced the air. Calder wiped his face and blew out a sigh. That bloody racket was enough to wake the dead. He slid back the bolt and dropped the metal trap, peering in through the bars at the sweating black face and crazy rolling eyes.

“I’ll leave the flap open—all right!”

Tony’s screams sank to a whimpering moan. Calder turned away. Thank Christ for that. He jerked his head around at a drunken voice shouting from the cell next door. It was the drunk they’d picked up on disorderly conduct charges. “Fascist pigs!” the slurred voice raved on. “Fucking police brutality! Kicking the shit out of innocent victims!”