Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (24 page)

Tennison flipped back over several pages of scrawled notes. She searched on the table among the scattered photocopies. Checking, cross-referencing, matching Connie’s assertions with the file that Lyall had hoarded and kept locked away as his own insurance. It was here somewhere, she was convinced, in these tapes and documents. The clean, clear, direct line that connected Connie and Vera Reynolds and Mark Lewis and Jimmy Jackson and Edward Parker-Jones and . . . and who else?
Who else?

Tennison lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. She leaned forward, eyes shut, listening to that young-innocent-old-cynical voice.

“I got the names of high brass, Miss Smithy, they’re all in it. Young boys, kids . . . they only want really young kids.”

12

“
B
rian! Have you missed me?”

Arms held wide, fingertips all aquiver, Red floated across the foyer to the handsome receptionist with the slicked-back ponytail and Vandyke beard, gelled to a glistening point.

Red posed before him, one hip thrust out. “Now, I’ve got one member, this youngster . . .” He indicated Hebdon with a graceful wave of the hand. “And two from Hampstead Garden Suburb.” He giggled and fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly. “No, we’re old friends . . . is it okay?”

Brian wasn’t too sure. He was giving Haskons and Lillie a close, gimlet-eyed examination.

To divert attention, Red was practically doing his stage act right there in the foyer. Twirling around, high-pitched to the point of hysteria, he squealed to Hebdon, “Show your member, darling.” He leaned forward over the desk, trying to cover his jangling nerves with a breathily confidential whisper.

“Now, I know this is naughty, but these are very old friends of mine. And, Brian, daahhhling, we’ve only got one member!” He rolled his eyes theatrically under azure lids. “Oh, I’m so tired of that gag.”

“Members sign,” Brian said, handing the pen to Hebdon. He stared hard at Haskons and Lillie, who were hanging back, attempting to merge into the wallpaper. “Are they for the cabaret?”

Red let out a little trill of amusement. “No, dear, but they just want to learn from me! Don’t they all? You remember that bitch that came up with me a few months ago—she’s only ripped off my act!”

Brian checked Hebdon’s signature against his membership file on the computer screen. He gestured the party to go through, but he still needed some convincing about Karen and Jackie. His eyes never left them. “There’s no table free, not until after one, but there’s a booth, far side.”

Red linked arms with Haskons, sweeping him on, and ushered Lillie quickly forward. “Booth will be fine, we’re not staying long, just until my act’s over . . .”

He pushed the two of them on ahead, toward a doorway swathed in red velvet, and leaned back to Brian.

“Anybody in I should know about? Film producers? Casting agents? I need exposure.” Brian shook his head. “Back room busy?” asked Red, but Brian’s attention had switched to some new arrivals emerging from the elevator.

Haskons and Lillie stood just inside the red velvet curtain. The club was dark and smoky, and Haskons was having trouble with his false eyelashes. He had to keep looking down, about three feet in front of him, to see where he was treading as Red led them past the crowded tables and up a short flight of steps to a small balcony on the left-hand side of the stage, which at the moment was empty. The cabaret was due to start in a few minutes.

Haskons was half blind, but Lillie was taking it all in. The clientele was certainly an exotic mixture. The bar area, to the rear of the club, was favored by groups of elderly, distinguished men, most in lounge suits, but a few in evening dress. Ostensibly chatting with their cronies, Lillie could see them casting glances to the tables in front of the stage. This was the unofficial “stage show,” where the young boys sat with their companions and the transvestites congregated, drinking champagne and shrieking with laughter. The butch boys wore white T-shirts and leathers, one or two in Marlon Brando leather caps. The more overtly gay were elegantly dressed in velvet jackets and frilly shirts, long shiny hair draping their shoulders in the style of Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar Wilde’s bosom chum.

The transvestites and transexuals were fabulous creatures. Lillie felt dowdy by comparison. All, without exception, were tall and willowy, with masses of either blond or red hair tumbling down. They wore glittery evening gowns slashed low to reveal shaved chests and the sensuous slant of their backs, curving to tiny waists and slender, nonwomanly hips. The makeup of each one was in itself a work of art. Lillie, contrary to what he had expected, was fascinated rather than repulsed. It wasn’t in the least a threatening experience, just endlessly engrossing.

Having got them seated, Red went off on a circular tour, flitting like a vivacious gadfly from one group to another. Vera Reynolds had seen Red come in with the others. Furiously, she tried to attract Red’s attention. What the hell was the stupid bitch playing at? The management weren’t thick. They’d have a blue fit when they found out—as they soon would—that the fuzz was around. And not only would the management find out; that was the least of it. Vera’s blood ran cold when she thought of the consequences of what the crazy queen had done, bringing them in here.

It was Vera’s spot any moment now, and she only had time for a quick, explosive word in Red’s startled ear as she headed backstage to prepare for her act.

Hebdon brought drinks to the table. Luridly colored cocktails in long-stemmed glasses. Haskons had all but given up trying to peer into the gloomy depths of the club. “I can hardly see myself, never mind clock any faces,” he complained morosely. The blue shadow on his square jaw was even more evident now. He had the horrible feeling that the straps in his corset had gone. Would this fucking living nightmare never end?

Finger extended, Lillie took a dainty sip of his drink. “How much did these set you back?”

“A lot—buy a bottle for the price of one,” Hebdon replied. “Knock ’em back, you both look like you need something . . .” He turned his head. “Here’s Red now.”

Red leaned over the table, his eyes hot and agitated. Vera’s word in his ear had got him seriously rattled. “I’ve not much time before I’m on, so let’s make it snappy.” Haskons and Lillie started to rise.

“One at a time,” Red hissed. He cast a nervous glance to the private members’ bar behind the curtained door. “I don’t know if I can get you in the back bar, it’s jammed in there. Maybe you can work it yourself.”

Haskons and Lillie stared miserably after him as he went off. Left to their own devices, their chances of getting in there were zilch.

Two spotlights stabbed through the smoke, and there was a spattering of applause as the compere came on, a comically stocky figure in a leather bomber jacket and leather pants cut off to reveal fat, hairy calves. He grabbed the mike off its stand.

“It’s cabaret time! And we have a great favorite, a truly beautiful, talented act. Please welcome—Vera Reynolds!”

Taped music started up. A twenties-style dance orchestra with muted cornets and plunkety percussion. Vera’s tall, lithe figure glided on, clad in a high-necked flesh-colored costume speckled with sequins, the spotlight making a dazzling halo of her platinum-blond wig. Her red-tipped fingers caressed the microphone suggestively.

“I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you . . .”

The breathy voice was uncanny, the luscious pouting lips a perfect replica. It was Marilyn to the life.

Thinking of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis, alias Karen and Jackie, Haskons kicked Lillie under the table. “Well, we got the whole cast now!”

“I wanna be loved by you alone . . . boo-boo-bee-doo . . .”

Down by Waterloo Bridge, Otley was on his own private one-man patrol. He’d had no luck in the Bullring, drawn a blank at St. Margaret’s Crypt. At the hamburger stall, in the shadow of the iron trelliswork, he caught up with Alan Thorpe. The boy was sullen and uncooperative. Otley didn’t blame him. These kids lived on a knife edge. As young as fourteen and fifteen, they had to fend for themselves, keep body and soul together, survive in a hostile, uncaring environment.

“I just want to buy you somethin’ to eat. Have a talk, Alan.”

Otley put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, as much to reassure him as restrain him.

“Leave me alone!” Alan squirmed away. He pointed to his right eye, puffy and shiny purple. “I got this ’cos I talked to you before!”

“Nasty,” Otley said. “So who did that to you, then?”

“It’s always questions wiv you, innit?”

“You want a hamburger or not?”

Alan jerked his thumb to the group around the smoldering fire.

“What about me mates?”

“You hungry?” Otley called to them. He put a tenner on the counter.

Alan Thorpe stared down at the cindery ground. He said bitterly, “Jackson done me, Sarge. Okay?”

Vera came storming into the dressing room. She tore off her wig and flung it down among the pots of cream, tubes of glue, foams and sprays. “Are you crazy? Why?” She thumped Red in the chest, hard. “Why did you do it?”

“Because they asked me to!”

“Well, I’m out of here—and if you’d got any sense you’d leave too.”

“But you’ve got another spot—”

“You do it!” Vera was throwing her makeup into her vanity case.

“But I haven’t done my own yet!” Red protested.

“They stick out like a sore thumb,” Vera snorted, grabbing her wigs off their stands and ramming them into plastic bags.

“They don’t . . .” Red said uncertainly.

“
Yes they do!
” Vera turned on him in fury, arm outstretched, pointing. “They’re asking everybody bloody questions! That’s why I clocked them.” Her lips thinned. Her eyes were large and fearful. “You don’t know, you just don’t know . . .”

Red lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “About Connie—yes, I know, that’s why they’re here. I wanted to help. I thought you cared. Somebody killed him, you know it, I know it.” He was on the verge of tears. “Well, you might be able to stomach what goes on . . .”

“Me?!”
Vera shrieked. “You live with that slime-bag, Mark Lewis, not me! I have never been involved in it all, I’ve never wanted to know.” She wrenched her outdoor coat off the hanger and dragged it on over her dress.

Red gripped her arm. “But you are involved, aren’t you?” His tone was low and venomous. “You lied to me. I covered up for you. But this other stuff with the kids and Jackson . . .” He shook his head in disgust.

Vera pulled her arm free, struggling into her coat. “I am shacking up at his place because I got nowhere else.” The mask slipped, and behind it was a trembling, abject creature terrified half out of her wits. “He won’t leave me alone until this all blows over, and now you’ve gone and got the cops in here.” Vera said hoarsely, “He’ll think I done it—not you—me!”

The door was pushed open and Brian, the receptionist, came in. Vera slammed her vanity case shut, picked up her wig box, and barged past him into the corridor. Brian yelled after her.

“You’ve got another spot, Vera!”

“I’ll do it.” Red was sitting at the dressing table, shoulders slumped, toying with a hairbrush.

Brian leaned on the back of the chair, looking at Red in the mirror. “Those two queens—I’ve just had a complaint. They’ll have to go.”

Red sighed heavily and started powdering his face. “Oh, all right, I’ll come clean. I don’t know them. They latched onto me at Lola’s club, gave me a few quid to get them in.” He met Brian’s accusing stare in the mirror. “It’s the truth, I swear before God! Now can I have some privacy—my tits need readjusting!”

A chill wind with a flurry of drizzle hit Vera in the face as she stepped into the street. She blinked, looked quickly up and down, and set off at a trot. The blue Mercedes ghosted around the corner behind her, with just its sidelights on. Vera started to run, hampered by the small cases she was carrying. The Mercedes speeded up, Jackson’s head sticking out of the window.

“Hey! YOU! Vera!”

Vera kept running. The Mercedes came alongside and mounted the pavement. Its brakes squealed, and Jackson was out, pinning her against the wall, his hand gripping her by the throat.

“I’ve bloody protected you, slag, and you . . .” He gave her a stinging slap with the flat of his hand. “You bring the filth to the house!” He slapped her again, back of the hand. She felt his ring snag her cheek. “Why did you do that, Vera?” Jackson snarled, fingers digging into her throat, forcing her head up.

“
It wasn’t me.
I swear before God, Jimmy, it wasn’t me.” Vera was gasping and choking, spittle running down her chin. “I wouldn’t, would I, I wouldn’t . . .”

Jackson eased back, releasing his grip. “What?”

Vera massaged her throat, trying to calm him, talk him down.

“I need you, why would I tip off the law about you?”

“Who is it to do with, then, Vera?” He gathered the front of her coat in his bunched fist and drew her closer. “Is it Red? How much does he know?” He shook her. “Where’s Red? Eh?
Eh?
”