A Face in the Crowd (22 page)

“How is she?” he asked. His voice sounded dull, as if he didn’t care one way or the other; he did care, deeply, but he was wrung out of all emotion, hollow inside.

“Sleeping.”

“I don’t like her taking drugs.”

“It’s better than having her crying all night.” Sarah came in and sat on the arm of an armchair. She looked in silence at the clippings and mangled newspapers. “Pop, why are you doing that?” she asked quietly.

“They’re about Anthony.”

“I know that. I just don’t see how it helps.”

“Well,” Vernon said wistfully, “if it helps me, then surely there’s nothing wrong.”

“You know I’ll be going back to college right after the inquest,” Sarah said.

“Of course.” The scissors snipped. “Is there someone who can take notes for you, so you don’t fall behind?”

“Yes.” She sighed; as if it mattered at a time like this. “Yes, don’t worry.”

“Sarah, did Tony ever talk to you about . . . about that night?”

“No.” Sarah got up. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, hands underneath her armpits. “My bath’ll be running over.”

Vernon became still, the scissors poised in his hand. His son was on TV. His Tony. It was the local news, and there was a small picture of him in the corner of the screen, above the announcer’s left shoulder.

“. . . twenty-two-year-old Anthony Allen, who is at the center of an internal police inquiry into the running of that station. Detective Superintendent Mike Kernan today issued the following statement, after the news was announced that the coroner’s inquest into the death would start tomorrow.”

Sarah couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to leave him, unable to bear the glazed, obsessive expression on her father’s face. The picture switched to Kernan outside Southampton Row.

“I’m very pleased that the inquest opening tomorrow comes so promptly after this tragic event. I am confident that the verdict will fully vindicate the police . . .”

In the darkened, flickering room Vernon stared at the screen, his cheeks wet with tears. He didn’t realize he had any left to shed.

The train rattled past, briefly illuminating the figure crouched beside the track. As soon as it had disappeared around the curve, Jason skipped nimbly over the tracks and went down the opposite embankment. He stopped halfway, partially concealed behind some bushes, almost level with the bedroom window of the house that backed onto the railroad. The light was on and the curtains hadn’t been drawn.

Sarah Allen entered the bedroom. She was wrapped in a large bath towel, a smaller towel around her head. She took down a suit that was hanging from the closet door and removed the plastic cover; the suit had just been dry cleaned. She held it up to the light for inspection, and hung it back on the closet door.

Jason unzipped his Windbreaker. He reached inside for the Pentax Z10 that was slung around his neck. The camera had three-speed power zoom with auto-focus and automatic wind/rewind. He clicked it on and checked the LCD display for battery level. Then he was ready.

Sarah unwrapped the large bath towel and let it fall. No need to draw the curtains, when the rear of the house wasn’t overlooked. She removed the towel from around her head and began to dry her hair.

Grinning, Jason put his eye to the viewfinder and pressed the shutter.

The death of Tony Allen in police custody was a hot story, and the press and TV were there in force, milling about on the steps of the Coroner’s Court. Jonathan Phelps never missed an opportunity, and he was keen to make an early statement, announcing that he personally had secured the services of a top attorney, Mrs. Elizabeth Duhra, to represent the Allen family.

It was just as well he got in quick. The arrival of Tony’s fiancée Esta with their daughter Cleo stole his thunder. This was the shot the media wanted, and they closed in, jostling and elbowing each other aside as she stepped out of the cab with Cleo in her arms. Esta pushed through and struggled up the steps, a barrage of flashes dazzling her and frightening the little girl. Gratefully she accepted the help of an usher, who came to her rescue and led her inside, from pandemonium to relative peace and calm. And the ordeal hadn’t yet begun.

Oswalde sat with Burkin and Calder on the witnesses’ bench. To his left he could see Tennison, talking quietly with Superintendent Kernan. Oswalde’s eyes swept around the packed court, then he bowed his head and stared at the floor. He couldn’t look at the Allen family. Vernon’s arm was clasped around his wife’s shoulder; she looked to be in a state of shock. Not even crying, just blank-eyed, drugged to the point where she hardly knew what was going on or whether it was actually happening.

Sarah was sitting with Esta, Cleo between them. Sarah was staring at Oswalde, and even though he kept his eyes on the floor, he could feel the force of her emotion, like a wave of hatred sweeping over him. No mercy there, and it didn’t surprise him, when he had none for himself.

The coroner was anxious to get the proceedings started. He waited while the court official called for silence, and then began by addressing the jury. His voice was brisk, neutral, cleansed of all nuance or feeling.

“No one is on trial. We are not investigating a crime, but a death. It is our job—yours and mine—to decide how Anthony Allen came to die in police custody. One word of warning. You may be asked to study some distressing photographs taken both at the time of the young man’s death and at the autopsy. I consider the viewing of these pictures to be vital as an aid to reaching your decision. We will begin today by hearing from the pathologist, Professor Bream.”

Bream was on the stand less than ten minutes. He stated the cause of death, from asphyxiation, and answered one or two questions from the coroner. Custody Sergeant Calder was then called to the stand. He swore the oath, and knew he was in for a tough time immediately when Mrs. Duhra started questioning him. She was a slim, elegant, dark-haired woman with high cheekbones and quick, intelligent eyes; a member of a prominent Anglo-Indian family, most of whom were in the legal profession.

Calder wasn’t sure that she was deliberately playing to the largely black public gallery, but she didn’t seem to mind their occasional shouts and angry interruptions.

“It must have taken a great deal of force, and determination, to strangle himself in such a manner.” Mrs. Duhra tilted her head a fraction, inviting his agreement. “Wouldn’t you say?”

As procedure demanded, and as he had been taught, Calder directed his replies to the coroner.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Professor Bream thought so. He thought Tony Allen may have taken rather a long time to die.” She glanced down at some papers, and looked up again. “You did make your checks every fifteen minutes, didn’t you?”

Calder gazed straight in front of him, the globed lights reflecting on his bald head. “Thirty minutes, sir.”

“Oh yes . . .” Mrs. Duhra nodded. Her lips thinned. “Because it’s checks every fifteen minutes for prisoners at risk. And, of course, you’d decided that Tony Allen wasn’t at risk, hadn’t you?”

“Mrs. Duhra,” the coroner mildly rebuked her. She was making assumptions about Calder’s judgment at the time without any supporting testimony to that effect.

“Why was the flap left open?” Mrs. Duhra asked.

“Because the prisoner requested it to be left open, sir.”

“Why?”

“To let in some fresh air.”

“Because he couldn’t breathe .
.
. because he was claustrophobic?”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Mrs. Duhra said, though her tone implied that any person with half a brain ought to have known. “If, as you say, he refused the offer of a lawyer—”

“He did, sir.” Calder wanted that on the record.

“—why did you not make sure that some responsible adult was with him? His father, for example, who was in reception almost the whole time?”

“Because there was no need.”

Mrs. Duhra frowned, giving him a quizzical look that was more for the benefit of the jury. “But his mental health was of concern to you, was it not?”

“No, sir,” Calder said stolidly. “It was not.”

This reply seemed to puzzle Mrs. Duhra even more. She consulted her papers. “But as we can see from the custody record, you called a doctor at nine fifteen
p.m.
” She glanced up, waiting.

“Yes,” Calder admitted. He’d forgotten about procedure, addressing his reply directly to her.

“So you must have been concerned,” Mrs. Duhra went on, logically proving her point. “But he didn’t arrive, did he? Until after one
a.m.
Didn’t you think to call another doctor?”

Calder’s mind went blank. He said in a rush, “I was busy.”

Mrs. Duhra let the silence work for her. She said, all the more effective for her quiet tone, “A boy loses his life because you were busy?”

The coroner leaned forward. “Please, Mrs. Duhra . . .”

“Doctor or no doctor, you had it in your power to send Tony Allen to the hospital. With hindsight would you not agree that you made a series of ill-judged—not to say fatal—decisions?”

The court waited. Calder finally nodded. “Yes. I made mistakes, I admit it . . .”

In the hubbub that followed, while the court official called for silence, Kernan muttered to himself, “For God’s sake, don’t cry about it, man!”

The call came a few minutes after eight
p.m.
Tennison was in the kitchen, preparing her evening meal. This entailed removing the dinner-for-one (complete meal with two vegetables) from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave. She unhooked the wall phone. “Tennison.”

“It’s Muddyman. I’m at the hospital. David Harvey died at seven thirty this evening.

“God . . .” She sagged against the door frame. “This investigation is turning into a graveyard.”

“How did it go today?”

“Dreadful.”

“Oh, well, tomorrow’s another day.”

She said good-bye and hung up. The microwave pinged. She took out the shallow tray, peeled back the cover, and contemplated the dinner-for-one. There were a couple of muddy shapes swimming in a sea of streaky orange-brown sauce. A dog couldn’t live off this, she thought, reaching down a plate and rooting in the drawer for a knife and fork.

“
W
ould you say that the interview was carried out in accordance with PACE regulations?” Mrs. Duhra asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You made no attempt to bully or pressurize Tony Allen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sergeant Oswalde, do you hold a Higher National Diploma in Psychology?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Passed with Distinction?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door at the rear of the court opened and a uniformed figure slipped in. Kernan hadn’t noticed, but Tennison had. She nudged him, and they both stared in dismay as Commander Trayner slid into a seat. What the hell was the top brass doing here? Come to decide which heads were to roll?

Oswalde was standing up well to the questioning. He was keeping his answers short and to the point, not laying himself open to misinterpretation. He was an imposing figure on the witness stand, very tall and very handsome, with a natural quiet dignity. He was immaculately turned out, in a well-cut dark suit, his shirt a crisp dazzling white against his dark skin.

“It is my intention to call an expert witness in a moment,” Mrs. Duhra continued. “A professor of forensic psychology. But before I do so, I’d like to read you some of Tony Allen’s last recorded words—before you had him returned to his cell—and ask for your assessment.”

Oswalde’s face was a closed book. This was the part he’d been dreading, and he had to keep telling himself to stay cool, don’t give her an opening, keep it short and sweet.

Mrs. Duhra began reading from the transcript, holding it up in her left hand so that her face was visible to the jury and her voice carried across the crowded courtroom.

“Tony: ‘I’m choking.’

You: ‘No you’re not.’

Tony: ‘I’m choking. I can’t breathe.’

You: ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

Tony: ‘I’m dirt. I’m dirt in everyone’s mouth. Choking them. My life is dirt.’

You: ‘This is pointless. I’m putting you back in the cells.’

Tony: ‘My life’s a cell. I’m trapped. So much earth, and mud. Earth to earth. Dust to dust.’ ”

Mrs. Duhra put the transcript down. She folded her arms and looked at Oswalde, tilting her head in that characteristic, faintly mocking way of hers. “In the cold light of day, Sergeant, how would you assess Tony’s mental state?”

“From that I’d say he was hysterical.”

“Obsessed with death?”

“Yes.”

“In despair?”

Oswalde hesitated. “Yes.”

“Suffering from claustrophobia?” Mrs. Duhra said, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized his impassive face, searching for a chink of weakness, of doubt, she could exploit.

“Possibly,” Oswalde said, realizing that she was trying to drive him into a corner, and refusing to be driven.

He could feel the eyes of the entire court upon him. The coroner on his high bench was leaning on one elbow, his chin cupped in his hand. In the well of the court, the Allen family, seated in a row, were as if carved from stone. Vernon Allen’s large hands were clasped tightly to his chest, in an attitude of prayer. Beside him, Esme gazed dully into space. Sarah’s eyes were filled with a cold, implacable hatred.

Mrs. Duhra’s voice went on, quietly, lethally, “Yet you had him returned to his cell. His ten-foot-by-six-foot cell. You had an exemplary record, Sergeant. Could it be, that in some subtle way, you were being tougher . . . harder . . . on this black suspect because you too are black?”

There were murmurs and a few muffled shouts from the public gallery. Somebody yelled angrily, “Coconut!”

“I’m afraid your question is too subtle for me,” Oswalde said evenly.

Mrs. Duhra permitted herself a tiny smile. His reply, however cleverly evasive, hardly mattered. She had made her point. She said, “Turning then to the attack that Tony is alleged to have made on your person . . .”