Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

“What was that, Bill?”

  Otley scratched his armpit, eyes shifting away. He shrugged. “I was just saying, pity we got nothin’ off the Smithy tapes.”

  “They’re useless,” Haskons broke in. “Connie never named anyone! Apart from Jackson, just some clubs where he met his clients.”

  “No addresses yet,” Lillie said, reading from a sheet of paper, “but clubs are: Bowery Roof, Lola’s, Judy’s, and somethin’ that sounded like ‘Puddles.’ ”

  “ ‘Poodles,’ ” Ray Hebdon said. “It’s called Poodles. The last two are gay bars, but the Bowery Roof Top is pretty exclusive. Lots of drag acts, transexuals, transvestites, but most members are homosexuals—city types, professionals, not the usual low-life punters.”

  Grinning broadly, Lillie gave him a dig. “You’re pretty well informed, aren’t you? I’ve only just got ’em.”

  “I’m a member,” Hebdon said quietly.

  Lillie’s loud laugh faltered and dwindled into the general dead silence of the room.

  Tennison said, “Ray, are you joking? Because it isn’t funny.”

  Hebdon didn’t seem to think so either. “I know it isn’t,” he said, his face quite serious, composed. “That’s why I thought it was about time I came clean.” He spread his arms, eyes wide and frank, and looked around. “I’m gay!”

  Tennison sipped her coffee. She put the cup down, shaking her head, more in sorrow than in anger. “You took your time in telling us! It’s your private business, Ray, but considering the—”

  “I’ll leave,” Hebdon said.

  “Let me finish, will you?” Tennison leaned her elbows on the desk. She was trying to assimilate this revelation. She also had a vague, as yet unformed notion that something positive might come of it. “What I was going to say was that it was a pity you didn’t have the confidence to tell us sooner.”

  “Chief Inspector, I have never hidden what I am. Most of us don’t go with underage kids.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel as repulsed as anyone on the team,” Hebdon said with feeling, “but I do know the gay scene. I only proferred the information because it might be of some use.”

  Tennison nodded. It had never crossed her mind that he might be gay, but now that she knew he was, she thought she could detect certain telltale signs. He grew his dark, rather unkempt hair long, over his collar. He seemed edgy at times, and was prone to blinking nervously. He didn’t mince, yet he was light on his feet, his movements quick and alert …

  All this was bullshit of course, and well she knew it. These weren’t telltale signs at all, merely her fanciful imagination. Label anyone gay, and you’d soon invent the evidence to support it. Ray Hebdon’s characteristics were those of a human being, nothing more, nothing less.

  Put that aside and forget it. Down to business.

  “So, which one of these clubs would be likely to be used by, say—”

  “Judges, MPs, barristers, solicitors, lawyers … top brass?”

  “Police officers!”

  “The Bowery,” Hebdon said at once.

  “You well known at the Bowery?”

  “No. It’s very expensive. I’ve only been twice.” He pointed his finger at her. “But I do know one thing … asking questions with that lot in tow!” He jerked his head to indicate the rest of the team. “One, they’d never get past the door. Two, word would leak, you’d never get to the top bracket, let alone get them to talk to you.”

  “What about access to their membership lists?”

  “No way. Most of them use false names, or coded names, even though what they’re doing is perfectly legal. But if they are going with underage kids, it ups the ante even further on cloaking their identity. I mean, they’ll really have to protect themselves. So who they are would be very hush-hush. One hint of a leak and they’d close ranks.” Hebdon’s sober expression suddenly cracked in a smile. “Unless we get the lads dragged up—get in that way—nobody pays any attention to them.”

  Tennison smiled with him. “I’d pay money to see that!”

  Superintendent Halliday came in, wanting a private word. He had the Jessica Smithy transcripts in his hand. Hebdon got up to leave.

  “Go and get some lunch,” Tennison said, and glanced at her watch. “If you see Inspector Dalton, tell him to get his skates on, we’ve got a train to catch.”

  He went out and Halliday closed the door. He waved the transcripts, looking like the cat that ate the cream. “Only one name off the Smithy tapes, but it’s your man. It’s Jackson.”

  “Yes, I know. Lets you off the hook then, doesn’t it?” Tennison said glibly. She saw Halliday flush, and got in quick. “Just a joke …”

  Halliday sat down, adjusting the knife-edge crease in his trousers, trying to appear mollified when actually he wasn’t. Damn woman was too clever for her own good. A loose cannon, Chiswick had called her. More like a loose bloody tank battalion.

  Tennison was anxious to have her say before he did.

  “This might not be the right time, Jack, but it has to be obvious to you that this case is opening up and treading right on Operation Contract’s heels. It is my honest opinion that we should cut our losses … Concentrate solely on the murder investigation.” She met his stare with a laser beam of her own. “Because the information I am getting goes much deeper than a cleanup of the street kids.” She spelt it out. “I think Connie was murdered to silence him, because he was about to name the men involved in a pedophile circle.”

  “And you think Parker-Jones is involved?” Halliday said after a moment, probing.

  Tennison tried to shrug this off. “He is being very cooperative and very helpful,” she said carefully. It sounded weak to her, but she hoped it convinced him. “I don’t have a shred of evidence to link him to any pedophile circle, but the advice centre, along with a number of other venues—”

  “What about Jackson?” Halliday insisted. He had the feeling he was being bamboozled, and he wanted to keep it neat and simple.

  “I still think he killed Colin Jenkins, but …”

  “But?” Halliday said sharply.

  Tennison dropped her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “You’d better reel in Jackson then.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling. He went to the door. “You’ve a very impressive career. Don’t blow it. Charge Jackson, bury everything else.”

  When he’d gone she sat thinking for a while. Why was her career in danger of being ruined if she didn’t nail Jackson, and what else lay buried at the bottom of this crock of shit? She could have cheerfully murdered for a cigarette.

  Haskons unzipped his pants and breathed out a sigh of relief. He looked at Otley, two stalls along. “You’ve not said anything, Bill. What d’you think?”

  “About him being an iron? Doesn’t worry me.” Otley gazed with hooded eyes at the ceramic wall. “Iron” was Cockney rhyming slang: iron hoof = poof. “We had one at Southampton Row, he didn’t last long.”

  He zipped up and turned away. Ray Hebdon was standing by the wash basins. Otley walked straight past, ignoring him, and went out. Haskons finished, and made a studious effort at looking everywhere but at Hebdon. He fastened his jacket, giving a little furtive smile, and went to the door. “See you in the pub …”

  Hebdon washed his hands and wiped his face with his wet hands. In the mirror he saw Dalton come in.

  “Is it true?”

  Impatiently, Hebdon propped both arms against the basin. “What, that I’m gay?”

  He sighed heavily and went to dry his face on the towel.

  “I just don’t believe in this day and age, everybody making such a big deal of it.” He returned to the mirror, and started combing his hair. Dalton hadn’t moved. His face bore a sullen expression.

  “What you looking at me like that for?” Hebdon asked.

  “I just don’t understand. I thought I knew you.”

  “You do,” Hebdon said.

  “Why?” Dalton was angry and mystified. “Ray … why?”

  �
�Why? Are you asking me why I’m gay? Because that’s the way I am. I’ve always been.”

  “Queer?” Dalton said, blinking painfully as if recovering from a kick in the stomach.

  Hebdon rammed his comb into his top pocket. “Yes! Queer, poofter, woofter, screamer, screecher—yes, they’re all me. I’m gay, I don’t apologize for it, I just don’t feel I need to broadcast it—for obvious reasons.” He raised his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists helplessly. “Look at you! The other two will come out with infantile, puerile cracks from now on …”

  “I don’t believe it,” Dalton said, squinting at him. “Do you live with a bloke?”

  “Do you?”

  Dalton exploded. “Of course I bloody don’t!”

  “What difference does it make? My private life is just that. I don’t poke my nose into yours, what gives you the right to …”

  Dalton grabbed him by the lapels and shook him.

  “Because I work with you!”

  Hebdon dragged himself free. He pulled his jacket straight, breathing hard. “I was gay when we first met, did I start touching you up? Propositioning you? Did I? I respect you, why don’t you fucking respect me? Now back off!”

  He stormed to the door, but then stopped. When he turned he was still white in the face, but he was smiling.

  “I was a great rugby player, what I got away with in the scrum …” He held up his hands. “Just joking! Look, Brian, I know you are probably going through it, I’m referring to the bite, okay? I just want you to know that if you need to talk to someone, a lot of my friends have been tested and—”

  “Piss off.”

  Dalton barged past him. Left alone, Hebdon stared at his own reflection, and the look on his face was transformed as the bravado crumpled.

  15:00. Manchester Piccadilly. Platform 6.

  Tennison and Dalton ran across the concourse of Euston Station and reached the barrier of Platform 6 just as the train was pulling out.

  “Shit!” Tennison stood there, panting and fuming. She’d never been able to figure out how British Rail got their trains to leave dead on time and arrive late.

  “What time is the next one?”

  “An hour’s wait,” Dalton said, looking at the timetable.

  “Okay, go and ask the station master if we can use the Pullman lounge. Might as well wait in comfort.”

  “What’s that?”

  Tennison said with tart irritation, “It’s the lounge for first-class ticket holders. Go on, I’ll meet you there.”

  On the main concourse she glanced up at the indicator board to make sure of the next train. 16:00. Manchester Piccadilly. Platform 5. No chance of missing that one.

  Passing behind her, not twenty feet away, Jimmy Jackson was carrying a plastic holdall belonging to a young girl of about twelve years of age. She had pale blond hair, pulled back into a ponytail, and the healthy look and ruddy cheeks of someone brought up in the country. She seemed nervous and lost, gazing around at the milling crowds, her first time in the big city.

  “So where you from?” Jackson asked, a broad friendly grin plastered across his face.

  “Near Manchester.”

  Jackson was hugely surprised. “Well, there’s a coincidence!”

  Tennison hoisted her briefcase and turned, heading toward the Pullman lounge.

  “You from there?” the girl asked him.

  “No, but I was waiting for a mate, he must have missed the train.” Jackson pointed to the sign: Passenger Car Park. “You want a lift?”

  The girl hesitated for a second, and then she nodded.

  Reaching the glass-fronted entrance to the Pullman lounge, Tennison dumped her briefcase and looked around for Dalton. She couldn’t see him, but then she froze. She stood on tiptoe. Jackson and a girl. Walking toward the steps leading down to the underground car park. Lugging her briefcase, Tennison weaved in and out through the crowd, fumbling for her portable phone. Jackson and the girl were turning the corner at the bottom of the steps as she reached the top. She set off down.

  Returning from the station master’s office, Dalton got the barest glimpse of Tennison’s blond head as she disappeared down the steps. He legged it after her.

  The girl was giggling at Jackson’s chat-up line, Tennison saw, which must be good, whatever it was. She watched from a distance, peeking around a concrete pillar, and saw him take out a bunch of keys and approach a car. He looked up, and Tennison slid out of sight. She couldn’t see Dalton, who was scuttling between the parked cars, ducking and diving to get a look at the number plate.

  Tennison cupped her hand around the mouthpiece. “It’s a dark blue Mercedes, old four-door saloon. I’ll get you the number … but is there a car in the area? Suspect is James Jackson. Do not apprehend, just tail to destination.”

  Dalton returned, panting slightly, and eased in beside her. He had the number written on the back of his hand. Tennison passed him the phone. “I told them to look for him at the station exit.”

  Over the speakers, booming in waves through the concrete cavern, came an announcement.

  “THE TRAIN ON PLATFORM FIVE IS THE MANCHESTER PULLMAN EXPRESS. WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT THERE WILL BE NO BUFFET CAR FACILITIES ON THE FOUR O’CLOCK TRAIN TO MANCHESTER DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGES. BRITISH RAIL APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE …”

  At the wheel, Hall kept a sharp lookout on his side of the street while Otley did the same on his. They were somewhere north of Euston—Camden Town, Chalk Farm—Hall wasn’t sure where exactly; he was lost in the maze of streets. He pulled into the curb and stopped behind a rusting Skoda with both rear tires flat to the ground. The dark blue Mercedes was parked on the opposite side of the street. Otley pushed his nose up to the windshield to get a good look at the house.

  It was four stories with cracked and peeling stucco showing red brick underneath. The windows that weren’t boarded up were swathed in thick dark curtains. The entrance porch was supported by one stone pillar, the other a crumbling stump. On the surviving one, the numerals “22” could just be made out in faded black paint.

  Hall reached for the radio handset. “See if we can get more info on the house.”

  A light went on in one of the third-floor windows, visible through a chink in the curtains. “He’s still in there,” Otley said.

  Hall was patched through. “Kathy? You got anything on the Langley house yet?”

  Seated at the computer in the Squad Room, the phone cradled in her shoulder, Kathy was scrolling through column after column of names and addresses.

  “Getting nothing from the polling lists …”

  “Come on, come on,” Hall’s impatient voice said in her ear.

  “I’m going as fast as I can. I’ll call, soon as I have anything.”

  She hung up and kept searching. Norma came in with two plastic cups of coffee. She put one in front of Kathy and sat down at her own desk. “Where’s her Ladyship today?”

  “Up north—doing what, I do not know!” Kathy took a sip and grimaced at the taste. “But she took Dalton with her.”

  “Did he get cleared—his hand?” Norma said, shaking her head and tutting loudly. She smacked herself on the forehead. “Shit—Billy Matthews. Guv wants him requestioned about the Connie video.” She found the number and dialed. “It’s all very well her saying arrest him, but he had four court appearances last year alone. They didn’t want to take him, you know, said he’d only just been in a few days before—”

  She broke off. “Charing Cross Hospital, emergency ward.” She waited for the connection. “What was that nurse’s name at the hospital?” she asked Kathy.

  “Mary Steadman.” Kathy blinked her eyes at the screen. “Shit, I still got nothing on this Jackson address. It isn’t listed under the name Jackson.” She went down the lists, mumbling, “Twenty-two, Langley Road … Islington, Kentish Town, Camden …”

  Norma got through to Mary Steadman. “This is WPC Norma Hastings. I brought in a Billy Matthews … yes.”

 
Kathy let out a whoop. “Got it—property owned by an Edward Jones. Two sitting tenants. First floor, Maureen Fuller, and basement, Abdul unpronounceable. It’s flatlets.” Beaming, she reached for the phone.

  Norma banged the phone down. She looked sick.

  “Billy Matthews discharged himself an hour after we left him there!”

  At six twenty that evening Tennison was sitting in the back of a patrol car outside a pebble-dashed late-Victorian house with bay windows in one of the posher areas of Salford, trying without much success to get through to DI Hall on her portable. She’d had him once, and then he’d gone, lost in a blizzard of static.

  She wound the window down and spoke to the uniformed driver, standing on the pavement. “Is there any way I can get my batteries recharged?”

  The PC stared at her.

  “For my portable phone, officer. What did you think I was referring to? A vibrator?”

  Inspector Dalton was speaking to Mrs. Field on the doorstep, a white-haired woman in her sixties, casually yet smartly dressed in a cardigan and pleated skirt, a single string of pearls around her neck, several gold rings on her fingers. She smiled diffidently and shook her head. Dalton came down the garden path and put his head in the window.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Just a minute,” Tennison said shortly, hearing Hall’s scratchy voice coming from Mars. No food on the train, nothing to drink, and no bloody batteries. “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? Ruddy phone.” She gave it a shake. “Hello … ? Listen, you can gain entry even on the suspicion that a minor is being held there.”

  Face screwed up, she was straining to hear.

  “I’m reporting it, okay? She’s already been with him for more than four hours. God only knows what’s happened to her … Hello?”

  Dead and gone. She pushed the aerial in.

  “Er, his mother’s home,” Dalton said, nodding to the white-haired woman, “but she said he was working late … can we come back?”

  The door hit Dalton’s leg as Tennison thrust it open.

  “Sorry, and no we can’t come back,” she said, getting out.

  As soon as they stepped inside the front door it was clear that Anthony Field’s mother was very houseproud. The smell of furniture polish was like incense. The living room was obsessively neat, not a speck of dust anywhere, and bedecked with shining brass ornaments. It was almost a sacrilege to walk upon the thick Axminster carpet.