A Face in the Crowd (19 page)

The procedures laid down under PACE were quite explicit, and this interview was a case-book study on how to disregard every one of them. Whoever was appointed from MS15 was going to have a field day.

“That’s enough. Can I have a word with you, Sergeant Oswalde.” Burkin’s voice.

“In a minute.”

“Now, Sergeant Oswalde!”

Tennison mashed her cigarette next to the five stubs and switched off the tape.

T
ennison had the nine
a.m.
briefing put back to nine fifteen. First she wanted Burkin in, and she told DS Haskons to send him along as soon as he arrived. He came in, pale and hollow-eyed, a shaving nick on his chin, and stayed standing and silent while she tore into him. The second time in under two weeks; it was getting to be a bad habit.

“I’m not talking about Oswalde’s part in this,” Tennison stormed at him. She stayed on her feet, pacing, because if she sat down she’d have had the cigarette packet out. “You and Mike Calder had the authority to stop those interviews. Instead, you let them continue—no, better still, you let Oswalde interview the boy on his own while you sat by the telephone waiting for me to do your job for you—”

She broke away to answer the door. It was Haskons.

“Ready when you are, Guv.”

“Right.” She closed the door and walked around Burkin to the desk. He was looking carefully at nothing in particular, as long as it wasn’t her. She didn’t care what he was feeling, or what he thought of her; this was a professional matter; she was expected to do her job, and she expected him to do his.

“The rank of inspector is supposed to mean something, Frank. It carries responsibility. It’s supposed to denote a certain authority.” She stared up at him, hands clasped at her waist. “You won’t make excuses. You’ll face the music like a man. That’ll be all.”

Burkin turned and left the office.

He went directly to the Incident Room, where Muddyman was perched on the corner of a desk, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. The other members of the team were lounging about, and Muddyman was saying, “I don’t understand it—we’re at Harvey’s bedside getting a confession and meanwhile Oswalde’s off chasing Tony. It doesn’t make sense.”

“His ass is grass,” said Rosper, the jive slang specialist, with a shrug.

Haskons was more sympathetic. “It’s a dreadful thing to have happened. You carry that around with you for the rest of your life,” he said.

Still smarting from his encounter with Tennison, Burkin didn’t see why anyone else should be let off the hook. “The spade should be suspended. I mean, why was he brought here in the first place?”

“You know why,” Muddyman said.

“To talk to his people,” Jones said.

“Yeah . . . and now one of them’s dead and it’s down to him,” Burkin growled. He looked around the circle of faces, aware that not all of them were convinced. “Look, I’m not exaggerating or nothing,” he told them stridently. “That boy was really weird, I mean climbing the walls, screaming and shouting, like mental or something. And believe me, I tried to tell him . . .”

“Yeah, course you did, Frank,” Haskons said, nodding, as if Burkin was insisting that Santa Claus really did exist.

The discussion dried up as Oswalde entered the room. No one greeted or looked at him, and he didn’t seem to care either way, going straight to his desk and sitting down. He was a stranger in a strange land, no use seeking sympathy or comradeship around here.

A moment later Tennison arrived. The men gathered around. The mood wasn’t one of sweetness and light.

“Morning everyone.” Her gaze swept over them—Burkin, Muddyman, Lillie, Rosper, Haskons, Jones—and last of all
Oswalde
, who was standing on the edge of the circle.

“I expect you’ve all heard about the events of last night. Just to clarify. Tony Allen hanged himself in cell Number seven—using strips of his own clothes. I informed his parents shortly afterwards. Now, obviously we can expect some adverse publicity. I’m told we can also expect an internal inquiry led by DCI Thorndike to begin almost immediately.”

There were dark looks and a few suppressed groans. Those who knew Thorndike didn’t like him. Those that didn’t know him were well aware of his reputation as a cold-blooded bastard, a career policeman who’d never collared so much as a shoplifter.

“Needless to say, I regret what has happened, but Operation Nadine continues . . .”

Lillie raised a hand. “But surely, ma’am, if Harvey’s confessed—I mean, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Quite frankly, I’m not convinced by David Harvey’s version of events.”

This was news to Muddyman. He said, “Admittedly, there are some inconsistencies, Guv . . .”

“Inconsistencies?” Tennison raised an eyebrow. “He said she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was. He said he put a gag on her—there was no trace of a gag.”

“He could have removed it,” Muddyman pointed out. “It could have rotted away.”

“Yes, it could have,” Tennison conceded. With the possible exception of Oswalde, she was aware that she was in a minority of one. The rest of the team agreed with Muddyman: the case was signed, sealed, and as good as delivered. She went on, “Harvey said he killed her in the kitchen, but the fragment of tooth was found in the front room.”

Muddyman had an answer for that too. “Perhaps there was violence in the front room—he said he hit her—before the murder took place. Perhaps he moved the body after . . .” He spread his hands. “I mean, he did say he hit her.”

“ ‘Perhaps.’ ” Tennison said doubtfully. “ ‘Perhaps’ won’t stand up in court. I’m not sure the confession of a dying man will stand up in court either.”

“He knew her hands had been tied with a belt.”

“Yes—and he said ‘my’ belt.” That was something that had nagged at her. Tennison appealed to them. “Does the belt we found look like something Harvey might wear?”

Muddyman patiently went through it, counting off on his fingers. “She was wrapped in polyethylene sheeting. And there was a plastic bag buried with her. And he said the body remained above ground—which ties up the maggots and that . . . none of those details were mentioned in the press!”

By now most of the team was nodding. It was an open-
and-
shut case. The evidence was overwhelming, whatever inconsistencies there might be. Murder was a sloppy business, not a scientific theorem.

“Look,” Tennison granted them, “I’m as certain as you are that Harvey was involved. Most probably in the disposal of the body. But I’m not sure he killed her. We need to go over Harvey’s statement with a fine-tooth comb. We need to examine what Tony Allen said—”

“You won’t get much there, Guv,” Burkin interrupted. “I know, I was there.”

“You may have been there,” Oswalde said derisively. “You obviously weren’t listening.”

“. . . Sir.”

Oswalde glowered at him. “Sir.”

“Frank,” Tennison said with a touch of asperity, “don’t you think it’s a bit late to be pulling rank?” She faced them. “Now listen. We messed up. Very badly. Which means we’ve got to work twice as hard from now on. Why, if he wasn’t involved in the actual murder of Joanne, would Harvey involve himself in the burial of the body? Can we connect Tony Allen with David Harvey? A connection strong enough for Harvey to confess to a murder he didn’t commit.”

She gave each and every one of them a hard searching look.

“I want to go back to Eileen Reynolds. I want evidence. I want corroboration. I want to solve the case.”

And with that, ignoring their muttered grumbles, she dismissed them.

Thorndike got out of the Rover, briefcase in hand, and waited while his driver locked the car. Together they strode briskly to the main entrance of Southampton Row. One of Esme Allen’s customers, the middle-aged woman with silvery hair, was in the act of placing a small bunch of flowers on the steps. She straightened up, tears streaming down her face, and turned to go. The two MS15 officers exchanged a look and went inside.

“DCI Thorndike, DS Posner to see Superintendent Kernan,” Thorndike informed the young PC behind the duty desk. “We’re expected.”

The PC pressed the buzzer, releasing the glass-paneled door reinforced with steel mesh, and they passed inside.

Barely three hours’ sleep made Tennison edgy and fractious; and what she didn’t need right now was Thorndike’s oily, unctuous presence and smarmy twitterings. God, how she despised the man. Closer acquaintance had only increased her dislike. Sitting opposite him in the interview room, watching him fuss with his papers, she really had to control herself, fight the impulse to burst out and tell him what an officious prick she thought him.

“Southampton Row’s reputation precedes it, Jane,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. He gave her a frank, accusing look. “If you come in the front, you’re likely to go out the back with blood on your face.”

“Is this on the record, David?” Tennison asked politely.

“Of course not,” Thorndike said, smiling his tepid smile. “We’re just talking . . .”

“Good,” Tennison said. “Because that’s bullshit.” With satisfaction she saw his smile drain away. “If it was ever true, it’s not anymore. I’ve never seen excessive force used in this station. Oswalde’s certainly not like that.”

“What with the Cameron case . . .”

She could see his game. He was trying to dredge up the past, the Derrick Cameron saga recently revived by Phelps, and use it as smear tactics. But she wasn’t about to let it happen.

“Look,” she told him, “you’re here to investigate a death in custody.”

“I know why I’m here, Jane.”

“Well then, let’s concentrate on the case in hand.”

“I intend to, don’t worry.” He was flustered, and started fussing through the documents spread out in front of him. He had thin, bony hands that gave her the creeps. “I think it’s important for you to know I take this job seriously,” he said, putting on the stern voice of authority. “I’m not prepared to do a whitewash.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“It’s my belief that when one of the foot soldiers messes up it comes down to the officer in charge.”

“I accept that.”

“I don’t know . . .” Thorndike gave her his fishy-eyed stare. “Perhaps you let your personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

Tennison went cold. The same words, or very close, to the ones Mike Kernan had used. Suddenly she understood. What an idiot that it had taken her till now to realize that it was Thorndike who had done the blabbing. This was the slimy toad who had spread the rumors about her and Oswalde.

“I beg your pardon?” she said frostily.

“It’ll keep.” His eyes slid down to his papers. “Can you ask the Custody Sergeant . . .” He pretended to search for the name.

“Mike Calder.”

“. . . yes, to step into my office, please?”

“One more thing, David.” Tennison was simmering. With a great effort she kept her voice level and cool. “If I’m to be interviewed I’d like to speak to an officer senior in rank to me.”

Thorndike looked up. He said blandly, “Well, that may not be possible.”

Well, Tennison thought, it had better not be
you
, or you can go screw yourself.

There was a chill drizzle just starting to fall as Tennison drove into the hospital parking lot. It was a few minutes after midday, and she had arranged to be there when Vernon Allen came to make the formal identification of his son. Although not strictly necessary, she felt an obligation, as a gesture of regret and condolence, to put in an appearance on behalf of the police authority. She was deeply sorry for what had happened, and felt it was the least she could do.

She locked the Sierra, and was about to start for the main entrance when Sarah Allen came through the rows of parked cars. She must have driven her father to the hospital, and was waiting for him in her car when she spotted Tennison. She made a beeline across the lot, her attractive face twisted in a terrible grimace, her large brown eyes wild with hate and loathing.

“How could you have him arrested for murder? If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened!”

Tennison stepped back a pace, afraid for a moment that the distraught girl was going to attack her. She tried to console her, but Sarah went on in a hoarse, broken voice. “Tony wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone tie them up, rape them . . .”

“Wait a minute . . . Sarah . . .”

“What’s his daughter going to do now?”

Tennison had gone still. It had hit her what Sarah had just said.

“How did you know that she was tied up?” she asked. She tried to grab Sarah’s arm, hoping to calm her. “How did you know she was raped?”

Sarah wrenched herself away. “That’s another life you’ve ruined,” she almost snarled.

Tennison still wanted an answer. “Who told you that?” she demanded.

“He was going to be married this weekend . . .” Sarah broke down, sobbing. Tennison reached out, and the girl backed away. “Just leave us alone!” She turned her tear-stained face away and did a staggering run back to her car.

When Tennison got there, she had locked herself inside. Tennison tapped on the window. “Who told you that she was tied up?”

But she soon saw that it was useless. Sarah was gripping the wheel with both hands, her head resting between them, her shoulders heaving as she wept uncontrollably. For the time being, at any rate, the question would have to remain unanswered.

The door opened and the mortuary attendant stood there. “Would you like to come this way, sir?”

Vernon Allen rose heavily from the bench and followed him through. Tennison was sitting in the corridor outside. She stood up as Vernon passed, but said nothing and made no move as he went through the white door into the mortuary itself. She sat down again.

Tony Allen was lying on a metal table, covered to the waist by a sheet. His eyes were closed, and but for the puckered purplish circle round his neck, he might have been asleep. Vernon gazed down at him. His eyes were dry. A tiny muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. Very slowly, he bent forward and kissed his son on the lips.

Tennison stood up as Vernon emerged from the mortuary. He walked past her, looking straight ahead, his face empty of all expression, and went outside into the gray drizzle sweeping down from a dark sky.