Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (3 page)

“What did you expect me to do? Come running after you?” He spread his hands helplessly. “You said it was over, then you hung up on me. Now you’re doing the same thing. What are you so afraid of?”

“This is a bit ridiculous.” Tennison clenched her fists impotently. If only she’d acted sensibly, like the mature woman she was, and stayed well away. If only she didn’t still fancy him like crazy. “It was all a long time ago, and it isn’t the same now.” If only! “I shouldn’t have started seeing you again . . .”

“So why did you come tonight?” Jake asked softly.

“Maybe I just couldn’t stay away from you,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Just stay tonight,” Jake said, softer still. “Then I’ll go on my tour, you go . . .” He gestured.

“Vice. I’m heading a Vice Squad.” Tennison was looking anywhere but at Jake, yet she was keenly aware of his approach. Her stomach muscles were knotted with tension. His fingers gently touched her shoulder, turned her toward him. Slowly he put his arms around her and drew her close. His warmth, his nearness, the musky odor of his after-shave mingled with tobacco smoke, took her breath away. She made no attempt to resist.

“I mustn’t,” she said, her gray-green eyes looking up directly into his. He touched her cheek. “I mustn’t.”

2

A
lready, before 9:30 
A.M.
, Commander Chiswick had twice tried to get through to Superintendent Halliday, and no joy. This had better be third time lucky. Tall but rather stooped, with receding gray hair, Chiswick stood at the window of his ninth floor office at New Scotland Yard, phone in hand, gazing out across Victoria Embankment toward the Thames, barely a ripple on its sluggish, iron-gray surface. A mass of low dark cloud threatened the rain that the morning’s forecast had said was imminent.

He straightened up and his eyes flicked into hard focus as Halliday, finally, came on the line.

“It’s public.” Chiswick’s tone was clipped. “John Kennington’s formal resignation accepted due to ill health. That’s it. No option, so I’ve heard—case dismissed.” He listened, breathing heavily with irritation. “I’ve only just been told. I’ll see you there, why not? We’ll have to go, otherwise it’ll look suspicious . . .”

He glanced sharply over his shoulder as his personal assistant tapped at the door and came in, a sheaf of opened mail in her hand.

“Good,” Chiswick said impatiently into the phone. “I’d better be on my way over to you now. Your new DCI should be there any minute.”

He banged the receiver down and headed for the door. His assistant held up the mail, but he walked on, ignoring her. His gruff voice floated back as he went out.

“Call my wife. I have a dinner tonight. Ask her to send over my dinner suit.”

His assistant opened her mouth to remind him of something, but too late, he was gone.

When he’d worked with the Murder Squad at Southampton Row station, Bill Otley was known to everyone as “Skipper.” The name traveled with him when he transferred to Vice at the Soho Division on Broadwick Street. One of the longest-serving officers on the Metropolitan Force, yet still a lowly sergeant, his personal problems, his bolshie attitude, but even more his solitary drinking had held him back. His wife Ellen had died of cancer of the stomach eight years earlier. They’d always wanted children, never been able to have them. His marriage had been very happy, and since her death it seemed as though all warmth and light and joy had been wrung out of Skipper Bill Otley. He lived alone in a small terraced house in the East End, shunning emotional entanglements. The job, and nothing but the job, held him together, gave some meaning to what was otherwise a pointless existence. Without it he wouldn’t have thought twice about sticking his head in the gas oven.

Now and then the notion still occasionally beckoned, like a smiling seductress, usually when the moon was full or Chelsea had lost at home.

Leaning back in his swivel chair, a styrofoam cup of coffee with two sugars on the desk by his elbow, Otley jerked his leg, giving the metal wastebasket a kick that clanged like a gong. Everybody looked around. The full complement of Vice Squad officers was here, ten of them male, and five women. The WPCs acted as administrative support staff, as was usual in the chauvinist dinosaur of an institution that was the British police force.

“We supposed to sit here all morning?” Otley demanded with a sneer. The team was gathered to be formally introduced to their new DCI, Jane Tennison. Five minutes to ten and no Tennison. Otley was pissed-off, so of course he had to let everyone know it.

Inspector Larry Hall walked by, cuffed Otley on the back of the head. Hall had a round, smooth-skinned face and large soft brown eyes, and to offset this babyish appearance he went in for sharp suits and snazzy ties, a different tie every day it seemed. He was also prematurely balding, so what hair he had was cropped close to the scalp to minimize the contrast.

He addressed the room. “Right, everybody, I suggest we give it another five”—ignoring Otley’s scowl—“and get on with the day’s schedule. We need an I.D. on the body found in the burned-out flat last night.”

“Voluptuous Vera rents it.” Otley gave Hall a snide grin. “But it wasn’t her. It was a kid aged between seventeen and twenty.”

“Working overtime, are we?” Hall ribbed him. But it wasn’t overtime to Otley, as everybody knew. He was on the case day and night; probably dreamt about the job too.

“I wouldn’t say she’s overeager to get started,” Otley came back, always having the last word. Turning the knife in Tennison gave him special satisfaction. He’d never liked the ball-breaking bitch when they’d worked together on the Marlow murder case at Southampton Row, and nothing had changed, he was bloody certain of that.

He finished his coffee at a gulp, and instead of hanging around waiting like the other prats, scooted off to the morgue, a couple of blocks and ten minutes’ brisk walk away, north of Oxford Street.

Mike Chow was in the sluice room, removing his mask and gloves. He dropped the soot-blackened gloves in the incinerator and was filling the bowl with hot water when Otley put his head around the door.

“What you got on the barbecued lad?”

“I’ll have to do more tests, but he had a nasty crack over his skull.” The pathologist looked over the top of his rimless spectacles. “Legs and one arm third-degree burns, heat lacerations, rest of the body done to a crisp.”

Otley tilted his head, indicating he’d like to take a gander. Nodding, Mike Chow wiped his hands on a towel and led him through into the lab. He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

“We’ve got an elevated carboxyhemoglobin—blood pink owing to high level of same.”

Otley peered at the remains of the skull on a metal tray on the lab bench. He then took a long look at the illuminated skull and dental X rays in the light box on the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, mouth pulled down at the corners, he gave Mike Chow his famous impression of a sardonic, world-weary hound dog. “Bloody hell . . . looks like someone took a hatchet to him!”

Shit and corruption! First day in her new posting and she was over an hour late. After spending the night at the hotel she hadn’t arrived back at her flat till nearly ten. She’d freshened up, grabbed her briefcase, and battled with the traffic. Even the Commander had beaten her to it. He was waiting to show her around, make the introductions, though fortunately he seemed too preoccupied with something else to show any displeasure.

Tennison tried to keep pace with Chiswick as he strode along the main corridor, shrugging out of her raincoat and trying not to get her feet caught up in her briefcase.

“Bomb scare, so all the traffic was diverted, and then my battery ran low, so I . . .” It sounded pathetic and she knew it. “Sorry I’m late.”

Chiswick didn’t appear to be even listening. He pointed to a pair of double doors with frosted panes, not breaking his stride. He seemed to be in one hell of a hurry. “That’s the Squad section office. You have a good hard-working team assigned to you.”

Tennison nodded breathlessly.

He turned a handle, pushed open a door to what Tennison first took to be the cleaners’ broom closet. Bare wooden desk, one metal-frame chair, dusty bookshelves, three filing cabinets, a small plastic vase with a wilting flower.

“If you want to settle yourself in . . .” Chiswick was already moving back out, leaving her standing there on the carpetless floor. “I’ll see if Superintendent Halliday has made arrangements. He’s right next door.” The Commander pointed to the wall, painted a mixture of old mustard and nicotine.

He went out and closed the door.

Tennison dumped her briefcase on the desk, sending up a cloud of dust. There was an odor she couldn’t identify. Dead cat maybe. A rickety blind covered the window. She raised it, hoping for some light and space. It rattled up and she stared out at a blank brick wall.

She turned and said, “Come in,” at a tap on the door. There was a scuffling sound. With a sigh, Tennison went to the door and opened it to find a red-faced uniformed policewoman weighed under a stack of files and ring binders. Tennison stood aside and watched as the pudgy, rather plain girl with short dark hair staggered in and deposited the files on the desk, sending up more dust.

“You are?”

“WPC Hastings. Norma. I was instructed to bring these to you.”

No “ma’am.” Were things that casual around here, or just plain slack?

Tennison folded her arms. Take it slow and easy, don’t jump the gun. “Do you have a listing of all the officers on the squad?”

Sweating and flustered, WPC Hastings frowned. “Didn’t you get one this morning?” She had large, square teeth with a gap in the middle.

“I’ve just got here,” Tennison said, breathing evenly, trying not to get irritated, though she already was. “If you could do that straightaway, and arrange for everyone to gather in the main office.”

“Most of them are out.” Norma shrugged. “Would you like a coffee?”

“No, just the list,” Tennison said patiently.

The girl went off. Tennison gazed around at the four walls. This had to be a joke. This wasn’t April 1st, was it? She looked through the files, then tried the top drawer of the desk. It came out four inches and stuck. She tried the next one down and that stuck after only two. She kicked it shut, making her big toe sting, and the air blue. What kind of stinking shit-hole was this?

Superintendent Halliday was a neat, fastidious-looking man with short fair hair and pale blue eyes fringed by blond lashes. Not puny, exactly—he was nearly six feet tall with bony shoulders that stretched the fabric of his dark gray suit—but not all that robust either, according to Tennison’s first impression. From the moment she entered his large, spacious, nicely decorated corner office (right next door to her rabbit hutch!) he kept glancing at the gold Rolex on his freckled wrist. She hadn’t expected the welcome mat, but at least he might have shown her the courtesy due a high-ranking officer who was about to take over the Vice Squad. Damn well would have too, Tennison reckoned, if only she’d been a man.

“I want you to give Operation Contract your fullest and immediate attention. I know it’ll be a new area for you, but I am confident your past experience will be an added bonus.”

All the feeling of a talking clock, Tennison thought. As if he’d rehearsed it in his sleep. She had no idea what Operation Contract was. She thought about asking, and then decided not to give him a stick to beat her with by displaying her ignorance. She nodded to seem willing.

Halliday tapped the desk with manicured fingers. “It is imperative we get results—and fast. There’s been enough time wasted.” He shot his cuff and glanced at his watch yet again.

“As yet I have not had time to familiarize myself with any of the cases . . .” Tennison was distracted as WPC Hastings entered without knocking. Halliday showed no signs of noticing her presence. Norma draped a black evening suit in a cleaner’s bag over the back of a chair and went out.

“. . . the cases I will be taking over. But, er—Operation Contract I will make my priority.”

Halliday stood up. “Good.” He stuck his hand out. Tennison shook it. “The team will fill you in on our progress to date.” Another swift glance at the Rolex. “I was expecting you earlier.”

Small wonder he could remember who she was, Tennison thought, leaving his office.

Sergeant Otley flicked the sugar cube into the saucer. He did it twice more, leaning his head on his hand, elbow on the table. Observing him with heavy-lidded, soulful eyes, hands twisting nervously in her lap, Vera arched her neck, her Adam’s apple rippling like a trapped creature. Inspector Hall stood with casually folded arms near the door of the interview room. He was interested, and secretly amused, to see how the Skipper would handle Vernon stroke Vera Reynolds. There was the vexed question of gender, for a start.

“I told you . . . I did the show and then went out for a bite to eat with some friends.” The reply was half-whispered, yet it wasn’t a lisping, camp voice.

Offstage, Vera wasn’t dragged up like some transvestite queen. There was no secret about who and what she was, but she chose to dress plainly and conservatively, favoring a simple blouse in dusky pink, a straight dark skirt, and leather sling-back shoes with low square heels. A few rings and a string of purple beads were the only bits and pieces of jewelry. Under her wig and makeup, in fact, Vera had rather a strong face, Hall reckoned, with good bones; though the mouth, shapely and sensitive, was a dead giveaway.