Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs. Field had a rather refined voice, and Tennison suspected she was the kind of woman who thought herself a cut above her neighbors, even if she wasn’t.

  Tennison nodded and smiled. “That would be really nice.”

  As Mrs. Field went out there was a creak from the room above. Tennison folded her raincoat and placed it on a chair, not wishing to wreck the symmetry. She sat down and crossed her legs. Another creak from above. She looked up at the ceiling.

  “Come on down, Anthony. There’s a good boy …”

  Dalton’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he in?” Tennison nodded. “How do you know?”

  “Because I saw him at the window.”

  A few minutes later Mrs. Field returned with a tray of tea things, which she set down on a low table that had a nest of smaller tables underneath. She fussed about, sorting out cups and saucers. “It isn’t about the bank, is it? Only Anthony is sure to be made assistant manager.”

  Just then, the would-be assistant manager himself breezed in. He was a tall, lithe young man, clean-cut and good-looking, in a V-neck lemon sweater and natty bow tie. Not as affected as his mother, he spoke fast, running thoughts and sentences into each other.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I only just got in. Is the kettle on, Ma? Well, when it whistles I’ll hear it—don’t miss your program.”

  His mother patted his arm, gave him an adoring smile, and went out.

  “Sorry, I got cold feet as you were late,” Anthony said brightly, standing in front of the gas fire, briskly rubbing his hands. He grinned boyishly. “I didn’t expect you to arrive in a patrol car, bit embarrassing …” He darted to the door as the kettle whistled.

  “Excuse me.”

  Dalton’s gaze shifted sideways to Tennison. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “Another one, isn’t he? Gay?”

  Tennison looked away, expressionless.

  Jackson stood halfway down the staircase, one hand gripping the banister, the other pressed flat against the wall, barring their way. Otley and Hall stared up at him from the second-floor landing.

  The entire place reeked as if ten tomcats had saturated the threadbare carpets. Black plastic bags, ripped open, spilled rubbish and putrefied food over the floor.

  Otley put one foot on the bottom step. “We don’t need a warrant, we have reason to believe you are holding a minor. You were seen leaving Euston Station accompanied.”

  The anemic glow from the bare dusty bulb made a yellowy snarling mask of Jackson’s face.

  “Bullshit. I know my rights. Now—piss off.” He aimed his finger at Otley, right between the eyes. “You got no warrant. You are on private property, and I have a right as a citizen to defend my property!”

  Hall moved along the murky passage and knocked on a door. He tried the handle. Locks, bolts, and catches were undone, and a frail elderly woman peered around the edge, gray hair trailing over her bleary eyes.

  “Are you Mrs. Maureen Fuller?”

  Jackson let out a cackle. “Hey, is that the juvenile I’m supposed to have prisoner?” he jeered at them.

  Otley moved up another step. He shouted to the floor above.

  “HELLO? IS THERE ANYONE UP THERE? THIS IS THE POLICE.”

  Jackson came down, fist raised. Otley ducked under his arm and scrambled up the stairs. As Jackson turned to grab at him, Hall went up fast, grappling with him, and got an elbow in the teeth. Stunned, he fell back against the banister. Jackson dragged him down to the landing, twisted his elbow behind him in an arm lock, and butted Hall’s head into the wall. He yelled up at Otley.

  “You want me to break his arm? Now get the fuck out of here!”

  Otley started to come down, very slowly. “Jimmy, this is crazy … we just want to see the girl. Just let us see she’s okay.”

  A shadowy figure appeared on the landing above.

  “She’s up here,” Vera Reynolds said.

  Jackson’s eyes glittered. His fleshy lips drew back against his teeth. “You’re dead, Vera,” he said, icy calm. Savagely, he swung Hall around and pushed him into the banister post and charged down the stairs, his thudding boots making the house shake.

  Anthony had made the tea. Tennison and Dalton drank, both watching the slender young man standing at the glass-fronted bureau full of china figurines and cut glass knickknacks. He picked up a black-and-white photograph in a gilt frame from several on top of the bureau and showed them.

  “This was my dad, my little sister. They were killed in a car crash when I was five. After that, Mother …” He looked to the closed door. “She had a mental breakdown. That’s why I was sent to the home.”

  He spoke without any emotion whatsoever.

  Tennison said carefully, “Can you tell me about the court case, Anthony? I know how difficult it is.”

  “Really?” He stared at the photograph.

  “I need to know about the man who ran the home, Anthony. You see, I believe that the man who assaulted you is still …”

  She hesitated, trying to choose her words.

  “At it?” Anthony said. He replaced the photograph and turned toward them, drawing in a deep breath. “His name was Edward Parker, and my case never even got to court.”

  11

  Otley sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his hand resting gently on the shaking mound under the smelly gray blanket. There were three other beds crammed into the small back room. A teddy bear with only one arm, the stuffing sprouting out, lay on one of them. Otley got another blanket and pressed it around Billy Matthews’s shivering little body. The boy was burning up with fever. His wet face was buried in the grimy pillow, spiky hair sticking up over the blanket.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay …” It went on and on, a meaningless dirge. He whimpered suddenly—“Don’t leave me on me own. Please … please.”

  “Billy?” Otley said, patting the blanket. “Billy? I’ll stay with you.”

  Hall appeared in the doorway. “I called an ambulance. The other kids are being taken in now.” He looked along the passage. “And Vera asked if she can go.”

  Billy’s hand crept out and fastened tightly around Otley’s fingers. His head came up, eyes drugged and filled with a vacant terror. He wouldn’t let go of Otley. “Don’t leave me …”

  Vera came in. She looked dowdy and defeated. There was a deadness in her eyes, as if nothing mattered anymore and never would again.

  “I’m doing the club tonight, can I go? Doin’ the cabaret.”

  She looked at Billy, hanging onto Otley like grim death, and slowly shook her head. “You won’t get any sense out of him, he’d tell you anything just to stay here.” In a flat, weary voice she started to sing, “ ‘Life is a cabaret, my friend … come to the cabaret.’ ”

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Billy said, staring at nothing. “Everythin’ okay.”

  Vera sighed drably. “No, you’re not, Billy, love. You’re not okay at all. Can I go?” she asked Otley, who nodded.

  Vera went along the passage and down the stairs, high heels clacking. Otley put his arm around the shaking mound of gray blanket, hugging it. He turned his head to Hall. “Where’s the bloody ambulance?”

  “They said there was about a fifteen minute delay.”

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Billy insisted in a voice so thin it was barely a mouse’s squeak. “I’m okay.”

  It took twenty-five, not fifteen, minutes for the ambulance to arrive. They put Billy Matthews inside and off it went, lights flashing. Otley walked over to Hall, who was leaning against the hood of their car. It was growing dark, and there were spits of rain in the air.

  “I’m just going for a walk,” Otley said. He patted Hall on the shoulder and carried on walking.

  “Jackson’s car’s gone.”

  “He won’t get far.” Otley turned on the pavement. “Vera’s at the Bowery Club, isn’t she?” His eyes were narrowed slits in his craggy, gaunt face. “Get somebody watching the place.”

 
Hall watched him amble off in his unmistakable round-shouldered slouch, hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets. Was he going to get pissed out of his skull? He’d shown no emotion over Billy Matthews, but Hall wouldn’t have been surprised if the Skipper got ratarsed.

  “It hurt, and I screamed, but he put his hand over my mouth. I bit him once, really bit his hand, but it didn’t make any difference. I was very small for my age, and he had a special name for me. He said that when he used that special name it was a code, that was when he wanted me to go to his room.”

  Sitting very straight in the armchair, feet together, knees pressed tight, Anthony Field recounted his experience at the children’s home. His tone never varied, never betrayed any feeling; it was a nightmare, permanently fixed in his head, endlessly repeating itself, that had numbed him into this mechanical retelling. He was pale, however, and his long thin fingers were never still.

  Tennison prompted him after a moment’s painful silence.

  “How long did this abuse go on for? Before you told anyone?”

  “Three years. There was no one to tell.” Anthony’s dark-lashed eyes were downcast. He had shapely dark eyebrows, his brown hair brushed and neatly parted in the approved bank employee manner.

  “He always said that if I told anyone, I would have to eat my own feces. I got a letter from my mother, she said she was much better, so I ran away.” He blinked once or twice at the carpet. “I went to the police station, they called in a probation officer. A woman. I had to tell her … it was very embarrassing.”

  Tennison again waited. “How old were you then?”

  “Eight, nearly nine. They took my statements, and then a plainclothes police officer came in to question me.”

  His hands clasped, released, clasped, released. He was leaning forward slightly, his body hunching tighter and tighter.

  Tennison waited. Smoothing her knees, she said quietly, “I really appreciate you telling me this, Anthony.” And quieter still, “Can you go on?” When he nodded, she said, “Thank you very much.”

  Anthony breathed in a long quivery breath.

  “This police officer. I never even knew his name. He asked me if I knew what happened to boys that—that—” His hands were jerking, writhing in his lap. “That tell lies. I said I was not telling lies.” His voice went abruptly harsh. “Well-he-said-We-will-soon-know. And he undid my pants. And he did it to me. He said that if I told anyone I would go to prison.” Anthony stared at the carpet, his face drained of all color. “Hard to tell what would be worse, eating your own shit or going to prison.”

  “This police officer penetrated you?” Tennison said. He nodded, head bowed. “At the station?” He nodded. “Was anyone present?”

  Anthony shook his head. He shuddered. He was close to breaking. Tennison was calculating how much more he could take, and praying to God she hadn’t underestimated.

  “So I said I was—that I had been telling lies. Case dismissed. And they sent me back to the home. I was there for another two years. Then mother collected me.”

  “After you left, you didn’t tell anyone?”

  Anthony straightened up and looked at her. He shook his head.

  “Can I ask you why not?”

  “My aunt told me that mother was still in a very nervous state, so how could I tell her? I love my mother very much. I always felt that if I upset her in any way, I ran the risk of being sent back. So I never told anyone, and …” He gave a listless shrug. “I just got on with my life.”

  “I am sorry to make you remember, Anthony,” Tennison said, feeling the pain with him. But he looked at her as if she’d said something incredibly stupid. He stood up, and almost imperceptibly he thrust out his hip in a tiny flick of campness. I know what I am, and I don’t care that you know it too.

  “Oh, I never did forget, Inspector,” he said softly.

  Tennison took in Dalton’s expression, which was looking distinctly uncomfortable. She said in a quiet yet urgent tone, “Anthony, I sincerely believe the man responsible for the assaults against you is also—”

  “I am not interested in what you believe, I am only concerned with my life and career.” Fists clenched by his sides, the controlled icy anger came spitting out of him. “Whatever happens to him is no longer my concern. I refuse to let him destroy my life.”

  “But you’ll let him destroy others?”

  “No—you let him.” The room was suddenly filled with his awful glacial rage, for years bottled up inside, festering.

  “… I don’t care about anyone else. If there was a court case, if—then I would be forced to relive what that bastard did to me! I would be on trial. My private life now would be made public—I don’t want that—I only agreed to see you on the condition you didn’t want me to go to court. I won’t testify, you can’t make me, I’m all right now, I’m all right now …” His face crumpled and a strangulated sob came from his chest. “Or I was, I was, before you came, so go away, just go away.”

  He closed his eyes, his dark brows very vivid against his white face, fists clenched with the knuckles showing through. “Leave me alone … please.”

  Red delved into the rack of evening gowns in the bedroom closet. He lifted one off on its hanger, and lips pursed, head tilted, gave it a critical, searching scrutiny. With a tiny vexed shake of the head he put it back, and chose another. This was fractionally more demure, in midnight blue lace, its upper half studded with diamantes, split up one side as far as the knee. With an approving smile he laid it out on the bed.

  He opened a drawer and took out a corset.

  Dressed in a silk kimono, Detective Constable Lillie sat before the dressing-table mirror, gazing with interest at the beautiful and expert job Red had done on him. Powdered and rouged, with lipstick, blue eye shadow and false eyelashes, his cheeks seductively shadowed, he was mesmerized by his own gorgeous appearance. He wore a short silvery blond wig, a few artful strands teased over his forehead. He couldn’t get over the transformation. It was bloody amazing.

  Detective Sergeant Haskons, also made up, was struggling into the corset Red had found for him. His wig, a rich glowing auburn swept up to masses of curls, was on a stand on the dressing table. Red had chosen the midnight blue lacy job for him, while Lillie’s was a full-length shimmering lamé dress in puce, set off by a huge flouncy ostrich feather boa in blush pink.

  Ray Hebdon stood at the door, observing all this, trying mightily and just failing to hide the glimmer of a smile.

  Corset on, Haskons was perspiring as he bent down to try on different pairs of shoes. His square, chunky jaw still showed a trace of blue shaving line even after Red had plastered on dark base and powdered it over four or five times. He was complaining bitterly, already regretting the whole daft episode.

  “I still haven’t found a pair to fit—or ones that I can even walk in!”

  “Cuban will be the easiest. These”—Red pointed down at his own blue satin stilettos, rolling his eyes—“Killers. It’s not just the high heels, but the pointed toes.” Flawlessly made up, he was done up to the nines in a tight, flesh-colored, sequined evening dress, two long ropes of purple beads hanging down, and matching purple globes dangling from his ears.

  “You know it’s way after ten,” Hebdon said.

  “Oh, don’t fuss.” Red fluttered his hands in a shooing gesture. “Nothing starts until midnight anyway.”

  Haskons squeezed his toes into a pair of spangled turquoise slippers with square heels and stamped his feet into them.

  “My wife’s never going to believe this. I told her I was off duty, then I had to tell her I was on; now, after midnight?” He blew out his glossy red lips in annoyance. “It’s Friday night!”

  Lillie draped the feather boa over his shoulders and preened at himself in the mirror. “You remember that film, Some Like it Hot? Jack Lemmon and—”

  “Tony Curtis,” Red snapped. “It was dreadful! Silly walks—they’d never have got away with it. Anyone could see they weren’t female.”
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br />   Lillie thought this was being pedantic. “That wasn’t the point though, was it? It was a comedy.”

  “Well, for some, dear, being in drag is the only time they feel right,” Red told him tartly, smoothing his hands over his hips. He cast a sidelong look at himself in the mirror. “And they very rarely fancy anyone but themselves—it’s not funny at all.” He arched an eyebrow at Hebdon. “Is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Hebdon said stiffly, and jerked away into the sitting room.

  Haskons, feeling as though he had a couple of hairy spiders glued to his eyelids, caught Lillie’s warning expression in the dressing-table mirror. Like treading on thin ice, they silently agreed. You had to be careful what you said to people of this persuasion. Touchy, touchy.

  The patrol car drove up the corkscrew ramp to the main entrance of the Piccadilly Hotel in the center of Manchester. The plateglass doors whispered open and Tennison and Dalton trudged wearily into the lobby. It was gone 10:30 and they were both thoroughly knackered.

  “Do you want to have some dinner?” Dalton asked.

  “Thanks, but no, I’ll order room service.” Tennison summoned up a fleeting smile. “Sorry I’ve been a bit snappy … better when I’ve had a large whisky and soda.”

  Dalton looked at his watch. “I’ll go and find an all-night chemist. Do you need anything?”

  “Oh—toothbrush, toothpaste. Thanks.”

  She watched him walk back across the lobby and through the doors, and then she asked for her key. She was dead on her feet, yet there remained things to be done. A policewoman’s lot is not a happy one, Tennison thought sourly.

  Otley sat alone in the viewing room. He had the remote control in one hand, a can of Red Stripe in the other, watching the videotapes of Connie that had been seized from Mark Lewis’s studio. A half-eaten ham and pickle sandwich was on the arm of the chair. At this late hour the station was quiet. A vacuum cleaner could be heard from the Squad Room down the corridor, whining in the lower register as it practiced its scales. From somewhere in the vicinity of Regent Street, a police siren wailed off into the distance.