A Face in the Crowd (2 page)

Oswalde’s handsome face had gotten sullen. Perhaps he could feel the noose tightening around his neck.

By the time Superintendent Mike Kernan arrived at Honeyford Road, the Area Major Incident Team, known as AMIT, based at Southampton Row, was already in action. Kernan had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, feet up, glass of Famous Grouse, something undemanding on the TV. In fact, already hightailing it in his BMW when the call had come through, he had debated whether to respond or let the AMIT boys get on with it. But he hadn’t debated for long; first reports from the scene of the crime suggested that this was more than just a run-of-the-mill case of domestic violence—the cause of most murders. And with his interview coming up, the Super didn’t want to be conspicuously absent in what might turn out to be a major homicide investigation. So he turned around at the next intersection and headed back, grimly reconciled to his duty, the TV and the Scotch already a fading memory.

“Heh—policeman! Kernan!”

A small pudgy West Indian woman in a shapeless dark coat tried to grab his sleeve as he pushed his burly frame through the crowd on the slick, wet pavement. Kernan was annoyed—not so much with the woman, whom he recognized as Nola Cameron—but that the area hadn’t been cleared and cordoned off. Where were the uniformed men? This could reach the level of public disorder if it wasn’t nipped in the bud.

“What’s happenin’? Heh, policeman, listen to me! If that’s my Simone in there . . .”

Kernan appealed to her. “Nola, you can see I’ve just arrived. Give me a chance to find out what’s happening. We won’t be issuing any statements tonight. Now go home.” He looked around, raising his voice. “You should all just go home.”

“You never tried to find my daughter,” Nola accused him
passionately
, bitterly. “If it’s her in that garden . . .”

Halfway up the path, Kernan swung his head around, really angry now. “You people
should go home
!” He went on, gritting his teeth as Nola’s wailing voice pursued him. “If that’s my
Simone
. . . you won’t be able to stop us getting to her . . .”

Kernan made a beeline for Muddyman, who seemed to be directing operations from the kitchen.

“Get the area cordoned off properly,” he snapped. “If it turns out to be Simone Cameron we could have a real problem.”

Notepad in hand, his muscular six-foot-three frame looming over her, DI Burkin was interviewing Mrs. Viswandha, while the two kids clutched their mother and peered out with large brown eyes, more curious than apprehensive. Burkin was having problems. She had to spell “Viswandha” for him, and when he asked for her first name, she said, “Sakuntala.” Burkin sighed.

DC Jones and Mr. Viswandha were just inside the front room, off the foyer. The constable’s glasses had misted up, and he was peering over the top of them, looking like an eager boy scientist, with his fresh-faced looks and wavy, brown hair.

“And the slabs were already in place when you bought the house?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve done no work yourself in the garden? Or had any work done?”

“I’m telling you, no,” said Mr. Viswandha through tight lips, his patience wearing thin.

Superintendent Kernan took Muddyman by the arm, leading him to the back door, which overlooked the garden. “Are the forensic boys here?” he asked, satisfied that inquiries with the family were proceeding smoothly.

“Waiting for you, Guv.” Tony Muddyman opened the door. Kernan went first down the steps. With the entire garden area as brightly lit as a film set, the steady downpour was like a boiling mist under the arc lamps.

The back garden had been completely paved over when the Viswandhas moved in. But then there was trouble with the drains. A local building firm had been brought in to lay new pipes to connect with the main sewage system which ran along the rear alleyway. Paving slabs had been lifted and digging begun to remove the old pipework. About two feet down, the workmen had uncovered something far more grisly than broken pipes. Their spades had slashed through some polyethylene sheeting, exposing the pale gleam of human bones.

Kernan, raincoat collar turned up, stood at the edge of the makeshift structure of plastic sheeting the forensic people had erected to keep the rain out. There were three or four people down in the shallow trench, so it was difficult to make anything out. Water had seeped down, and the bottom and sides had congealed into sticky, clinging mud. Peter Gold, Forensic’s bright new boy, was there, Kernan saw, clad in white overalls and green Wellington boots, down on his knees in the mire. Above him, crouched down on the paving slabs, Richards, the police photographer, was trying for the best position to get a clear shot.

Farther along the trench, buttoned up to the neck in his rain gear, the portly, balding figure of Oscar Bream, Chief Pathologist, was leaning forward, gloved hands gripping his knees. Bream’s heavily lidded eyes, as ever, revealed nothing. He had only one expression—inscrutable. Perhaps he really felt nothing, felt no real emotion, just another job of work; or perhaps the years of looking into the pit of horrors of what human beings were capable of doing to their fellow creatures had forced him to adopt this dead-eyed mask as a form of protective camouflage.

Gold was using a small trowel and paintbrush to clear away the mud. “Over here, sir . . . see?”

“Right,” Bream grunted, bending lower. “Let’s take a look.”

Protruding from the wall of the trench, about eighteen inches from the surface, part of a rib cage and pelvis gleamed under the arc lamps. Bream stepped back and gestured to Richards. The camera flashed three times. Bream bent forward, brushing away a smear of mud with his gloved hand. The remains of a human skull stared up, black sockets for eyes, with an expression almost as inscrutable as Oscar Bream’s.

“So tell me what happened,” Tennison said, “when you sodomized her.”

Oswalde was out of his chair. She had him on the run now; she knew it, and he was catching on fast.

“I know what’s gwan on . . .” He looked down on Tennison, and then his eyes flicked across to Thorndike, who was trying not to meet his gaze. Oswalde was nodding, dredging up a faint smile. “. . . with little pinktoes here.” His accent thickened. “Look ’pon her nuh,” he sneered derisively, inviting the other male in the room to join forces against this sly, female conspiracy.

“Sit down please, Robert,” Tennison said calmly.

“She love it.” Oswalde snapped his fingers. “Cockteaser, ennit? What she say I did to that bitch is just turnin’ her on—”

“Sit down please, Robert,” Tennison repeated, and under the force of her level stare he slowly sank back into the chair. “The thought of a woman being humiliated doesn’t turn me on, Robert. Someone being frightened half to death. But that turns you on, doesn’t it?”

Oswalde twitched his broad shoulders in a shrug.

“It must. Why else would you need to force yourself on someone? You’re a very attractive man. How tall are you?”

“Six foot four.”

Tennison raised one eyebrow. “Really? I’m sure a lot of women do fall for you. But not this one.”

“Some women say ‘no’ when they mean ‘yes.’ ”

Tennison’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “So she said ‘no’ to you?”

“I said ‘some’ women.”

“But she said ‘no’ to you?”

“I got nothin’ to say . . .”

“She said ‘no’ and that’s not begging for it. That’s not consent.”

“Bullshit.” Oswalde licked his lips. Getting rattled, he turned again to Thorndike, complaining, “She puttin’ words into my mouth.”

“She said no—that’s rape.” Tennison pointed a finger. “Okay, let me ask you this—”

“Good,” Thorndike interrupted, standing up. He cleared his throat, running his finger nervously inside his short collar. “Yes, well, that seems a convenient place to stop.”

“Oh no—Mr. Thorndike,” Tennison protested, “I haven’t finished yet.”

DCI Thorndike slid back his cuff to reveal his thin freckled wrist and tapped his watch. “Unfortunately we’re going to have to since it’s well past six.” And with that he opened the door and went out.

Tennison brushed a hand through her hair and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” she said through gritted teeth.

Oswalde stared at her, laughter bubbling in his chest. He smothered it with a cough. Tennison just shook her head.

As DCI Thorndike emerged through the door of the prefabricated “interview room,” built into one corner of the conference hall, he wondered what the grins and smirks were all about. Over ninety grins and smirks, lurking on the faces of the police officers seated at rows of tables who had been watching the interrogation on the banks of screens. They’d caught Jane Tennison’s final words and seen her expression, but he hadn’t, so he was never to know.

With his jerky, stiff-legged walk, Thorndike strode to the front of the hall and faced the assembly. This was the second session of a three-day seminar on interviewing techniques: lectures and study groups interspersed with simulated interview situations conducted by senior officers. The hall quieted as Thorndike raised his hand.

“Excellent . . . though I would just sound one word of warning. Some of DCI Tennison’s more unconventional questions might get a less-experienced officer into difficulties. Remember,” he went on pedantically, “under PACE no attempt may be made to bully or threaten a suspect.” This was a reference to the rules and regulations for dealing with detainees as laid down by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. “Finally, well-done to Detective Sergeant Oswalde for playing his part so convincingly.”

There were a few more snide grins at that. Convincing all right, because it seemed like he was damn well enjoying it, a lowly DS coming on strong to a female DCI—one of only four such female senior officers in the country. And although Tennison had a reputation as a ballbreaker, there was hardly a man in the room who didn’t fancy her.

She joined Thorndike at the front, shrugging into her tailored, dark jacket. “And finally,
finally,
tomorrow’s first session will be on interviewing the victims of rape. I’ll see you all at ten o’clock.”

As the meeting broke up to the shuffling of papers and the scraping of chairs, Thorndike gave her a patronizing pat on the shoulder, and she returned a brief, tight smile. God, she thought, he’s like some prissy, old maiden aunt. It was all theory with him, book learning. If he encountered a real-life villain he’d have been totally clueless; probably have to skim through the PACE manual to find the right questions and in which order to ask them. He wasn’t attached to the regular force, but a member of MS15, the Metropolitan body which investigated complaints by the public on matters of police procedure and suspected rule bending—in other words, digging the dirt on his fellow officers.

Going up to her room in the crowded elevator, Tennison glanced behind her to DS Oswalde. “You’re too good at that, Detective Sergeant.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you going for a drink later on?”

“Maybe. But I might just have an early night.”

The bell pinged for the second floor and the doors slid open.

“Oh, well, might see you,” Tennison said, going out. “Good night.”

“Quick as you can,” Bream urged Richards, standing aside as the photographer took another series of shots. When he was done, the pathologist had another look at the crumbling trench wall. “I’m going to need all the bones if I’m to reassemble the bugger,” he told Gold. “So make sure you collect all the earth from around the corpse as well.”

Gold was relishing this. It was his first really juicy forensic investigation, and working with Professor Oscar Bream was a bonus. He instructed his helpers with enthusiasm: “We’ll put all this in these boxes and take it to the labs for sifting. We’re after small bones, cloth fragments, jewellery, coins . . . well, absolutely anything, really.”

“The skull’s been badly smashed, so collect those pieces with care,” Bream cautioned the two assistants.

Standing just inside the plastic canopy, Kernan said gloomily, “Let’s hope the rain gets people back inside.”

Gold was carefully scooping out dollops of mud and putting them in plastic boxes, his assistants sealing the lids and marking each one to indicate the sequence in which the various fragments were excavated. Gradually, piece by painstaking piece, the corpse was excavated, the larger bones bagged and tagged in black plastic bags.

“Looks like it is a female, Oscar . . .”

“Oh, yes, and what makes you say that, Mr. Gold?”

The young scientist looked up, positively beaming. “It’s wearing a bra.”

Kernan rubbed his chin and groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Don’t worry, Mike,” said Bream, deadpan as usual. “It could still turn out to be Danny La Rue.”

“Yeah, and if it is, Nola Cameron will claim him for a daughter.” Kernan had seen enough. He turned to Muddyman, whose brown, curly hair was plastered down, his bald spot plainly visible. “Tony, take over until Tennison gets here.”

Muddyman blinked at him. “She’s got on that course, isn’t she, Guv?”

“Not anymore she’s not,” Kernan said, trudging back over the muddy paving stones and mounting the steps.

Muddyman huddled deeper into his raincoat. “Oh, great . . .”

The kiss was long and deep, making her senses swirl. He had gorgeous skin, smooth enough for a woman’s, but with the hard, sensual feel of solid muscle rippling underneath. Jane drew back, took a breath, and gazed into Bob Oswalde’s dark brown eyes. He smiled as her fingers slid from his chest and probed under the terry bathrobe to his shoulder.

“Already?” he teased.

“Mmmm . . .” Wrapped in his arms, she gave him a wicked little grin.

They had dined here, in her room, drunk the bottle of
Chateauneuf
-du-Pape dry, and then made love. Secretly, she was amazed at how naturally it had come about, without, it seemed, any devious planning or premeditation on either part. She wasn’t a promiscuous woman, had had only one brief fling since she broke up with Peter with whom she’d lived for less than six months. The demands and pressures of her job had been the cause of that; taking charge of the Marlow case, her first murder investigation, had consumed every waking moment—and most sleeping ones too. Peter had been understanding, up to a point, though he was going through a rough time himself, trying to get his building firm up and running, and the pair of them found themselves between a rock and a hard place. Something had to give, and something had. The relationship.