“You think Connie was paid for finding young kids then?” Otley said casually. Inside, he felt the opposite of casual. His nose twitched. He could almost smell it, he was that close. He’d got their confidence, and they were spilling the lot, only they didn’t know it. To them it was just shop talk.
Alan Thorpe nodded, lighting another cigarette. He sucked in the smoke like a seasoned professional, which was what he was. “Yeah, for the films like …”
“Who was the bloke in the mortarboard?”
“The what?” Kenny Lloyd said, sniffing up a greenish candle drip from the end of his nose.
“The gown,” Otley said, plucking at the lapels of his raincoat. “He had a cane.”
Kenny despised them, and his pale young face showed it, mouth twisted. “He’s a pervert, they’re all perverts. Big posh ’ouses, lotta dough—dirty bastards!”
Otley’s heart was trip-hammering. He kept his eyes hooded as he looked around at them, shaking his head disbelievingly, grinning his snide skeptical grin.
“You scruffy buggers were never taken to posh houses—who you kiddin’?”
Haskons knelt on the mat, leaning into the bath, soaping his face and hair. The shower curtain hung down, obscuring his upper body. The red wig was balanced on the edge of the washbasin, a bedraggled ferret of a thing after Haskons had sweated into it all night. He still wore his dress, open down the back, the half undone corset straining at its straps.
He groped for the shower head on its flexible stem. The water was too hot. Blindly, he spun the taps, adjusting the mixture. The water hissed out and gurgled down the drain, covering the creak of the door as Jackson came in sideways, bringing his hand out of his pocket, the click as the knife sprang open also lost in the hissing and gurgling, and in Haskons’s grunt as he bowed his head into the bath.
Slowly, Jackson reached out to the plastic curtain. Drag it down over the bitch. Wrap it around her and in with the knife, clean and neat and quick. His fingers gripped the edge of the curtain. The plastic rings clinked and jostled on the rod.
Haskons raised his head, soapy water running down his face. “Can you untie the ruddy corset strings! I can’t get it off …”
He heard the plastic rings clash and ping as Jackson tore the curtain off the rod. Blinking wildly, trying to clear the soap from his eyes, Haskons saw the gleaming blade. He twisted his body, half leaning into the bath, his feet churning at the mat as he tried desperately to get out of this exposed and vulnerable position. From the corner of his eye he saw the blade swoop. Tensing his body against the impact, he swung out his right arm in a helpless reflex action, and in the next instant had the breath knocked from his body as Lillie hurled himself at Jackson. Tangled together, the three of them crashed to the tiled floor between the bath and the washbasin.
Lillie had hold of Jackson’s knife arm, but he wouldn’t let go. Haskons struggled to get up, feet slithering. He grabbed out for support, hitting the shower head, which spun around, spraying water everywhere.
Lillie got a handful of Jackson’s hair and held him still while he punched him in the face, really laying into him. Jackson bucked and squirmed, boots flying. Lillie hit him again. “Drop it!” A boot whacked into Lillie’s ribs, making him gasp. “Get the bastard’s legs!” he yelled at Haskons.
Together they pinned Jackson to the floor, Haskons hanging on to his legs. Jackson tore his head free from Lillie’s grasp and butted him in the face, making blood spurt. This made Lillie mad. He cracked Jackson across the mouth. He dug his thumbs into Jackson’s wrist, jerked it viciously, and the knife went skittering away. This time he got two handfuls of hair and banged Jackson’s head against the tiled floor. Then for good measure smacked it sideways into the washbasin pedestal. This seemed to work, so he did it again, twice more.
“That’s enough,” Haskons panted in his ear. Lillie did it again.
“HEY—THAT’S ENOUGH! Get off him!”
“It’s my blood,” Lillie said. He was trembling all over. He still had Jackson’s spiked greasy hair entwined in his white-knuckled fists. “And I’m not gettin’ off him,” he snarled. “Tie his legs.”
Otley wasn’t altogether surprised when, behind Disco Driscoll’s tousled head, he saw the red and blue stripe of a Panda car sliding in, its blue light casting a ghostly aura through the steamy window.
They all trooped out, Otley leading the way, and stood on the wet pavement, the lads jostling one another and sniggering. The two uniformed PCs were from south of the river; they didn’t know Otley, and he didn’t know them. He took one of them aside and produced his I.D. The other policeman, barely out of his teens himself, kept watch on the motley bunch of giggling boys.
Alan Thorpe grinned up at him insolently, nodding toward Otley. “He’s a copper, you stupid git!” The lads hooted, loving it.
The young policeman made a grab at him.
“Leave him alone, he’s with me,” Otley said, coming over.
“See, what did I tell you?” Thorpe chortled, and gave the young PC the finger.
Otley beckoned. Alan Thorpe and Kenny Lloyd followed him a few paces. “You two want a ride around in a Panda? Take me to that posh house? Yeah?” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Tenner in it—what d’you say?”
The two lads exchanged looks. Thorpe nodded. “Okay.”
They had only a hazy idea of where the house was—“Somewhere just off the Heath,” according to Kenny. With the two uniformed officers in front, Otley and the boys crammed in the back, they drove up through Highgate and circled the northeast fringe of Hampstead Heath. Up here, the large detached houses stood safe and secure behind tall hedges and wrought-iron fences. The red ruby eye of a burglar alarm glowed from each one. When they’d covered Cranley Gardens, Muswell Hill, and Aylmer Road north of the golf course, Otley was growing impatient. “Now, come on, this is the fifth road. Is it here or not?”
The Panda car turned into a secluded tree-lined avenue, and Alan Thorpe sat forward and pointed. “That’s the one—’as it got a big double front door with stone animals? Connie said they was lions.”
The house was set back behind a thick hedge of trimmed conifers. It had a steeply gabled roof and white-leaded windows. The house itself was in darkness, but the frosted globe of a security light shone down on the gravel driveway.
The older of the two policemen got out to take a look. He peered in through the gates, saw the studded double doors and the two lions flanking it, and nodded back to the car.
Otley grinned and ruffled Alan Thorpe’s hair. “Good boy … remember any more?”
The policeman came back and leaned in the window. He was shaking his head. “I think the lad is pulling your leg, Sarge! This is Assistant Deputy Commissioner Kennington’s home.”
Otley slowly sat back, staring out, pinching his nose.
13
Tennison had phoned ahead and there was a car waiting to meet her and Dalton at Cardiff Station. The driver was a young WPC, Bronwen Webb, who’d dug Jason Baldwyn’s file out of Records. Tennison skimmed through it while they drove to the estate.
It was a dismal day, an unbroken sheet of murky cloud scudding in from the Severn Estuary. What with the late night and the early call at six-thirty, Tennison wasn’t feeling her best. Her first sight of the estate did nothing to lighten her mood. It was a huge gray barracklike place, ten-story tower blocks with balconies and drafty walkways. Some humorist had named the bleak crescents after trees: Sycamore, Birch, Cedar, Oak. Much of it was boarded up, graffiti everywhere, gutters choked with uncollected rubbish. Wrecked cars rested on their axles, leaking pools of oil. Tennison gazed out on the depressing scene, feeling more depressed by the minute. Welcome to the armpit of the universe.
The car stopped outside a tower block, and she sat there for a minute, summoning up the resolve to move. Dalton was reading the file, quizzing Bronwen about Jason.
“You say he’s known to the locals?”
Bronwen unfastened her seat belt and half-turne
d, leaning on her elbow. “He’s more than known—he spends more time in the cells than out!” There was only a trace of the singsong Welsh accent. She gave a little resigned shrug. “He’s a nice enough bloke when he’s sober, but he’s a nightmare when he’s not. Been had up for assault, petty crimes. Has a lot of marital troubles—she’s always calling us in, but then withdraws the charges.”
Bronwen’s eyes widened, as if to say, What can you do?
She got out and went to open the rear door just as Tennison’s phone beeped. Bronwen stood with Dalton on the crumbling pavement while Tennison spoke to Halliday. The driver’s window was open an inch, and Dalton tried to listen in, none too successfully, except it was apparent that the Super was giving her one hell of an earful.
Tennison was nodding, trying to get a word in edgeways.
“I can’t really do anything about it from here, Guv …” More nodding as she looked out at the estate. “Yes. Well, as I just said, I can’t do anything right now, hopefully by twelve, yes …”
She finished the call and zapped the aerial back in with a vengeance. She got her briefcase and pushed the door slightly open with her foot. She looked at Dalton. He didn’t get the coded message, and it was Bronwen who jumped to it, sweeping the door wide for the Detective Chief Inspector to get out.
Belatedly, Dalton tried to assist. Tennison buttoned her raincoat and glowered around. Dalton looked at her expectantly.
“The bad news is not worth discussing, Haskons and Lillie got themselves dragged up.” Dalton’s jaw dropped. “Don’t even ask. But the good news is, they brought in Jackson, and this time we can hold,” she said with grim satisfaction.
“You serious, they got dragged up?” Dalton said with the glimmering of a smile.
Tennison was not amused. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. But we’ve also another alibi down. Driscoll this time!” She seemed more ferocious than triumphant. “He’s admitted he lied because Jackson threatened to beat him up.” She turned to Bronwen, waiting patiently. “Thank you. It’s number—what?”
“Sixty-three.” Bronwen pointed up to the third-floor balcony. It was reached by a concrete walkway that zigzagged several times, so you had to walk five times the distance to get where you were going.
“Do you want me to come up with you?” Bronwen asked. “It’s a bit of a warren in there.”
“No, thanks. Judging by the look of the place, you’d best stay with the car.” She gave a nod, squared her shoulders, and set off with Dalton up the ramp. “Jackson physically assaulted Lillie and Haskons, and Larry Hall, all in one night.” She stumped upward, eyes fixed straight in front of her. “Just let that oily little brief try for bail … !”
Dalton didn’t know what effect Tennison had on suspects, but in this kind of storming mood she scared the shit out of him.
The girl who let them in—not more than eighteen—had a baby in a shirt but no diaper balanced on her hip, and she was about seven months pregnant with the next one. She had a hollow-cheeked wasted look and lackluster eyes. She led them through the tiny hallway, where they had to squeeze past a pram, into the living room. It was oppressively hot, with the close dank smell that comes from clothes drying in a sealed room. The source was woolen baby clothes steaming gently on a wooden frame in front of a gas fire that was going full blast. Fluffy toys and plastic building bricks were strewn everywhere, along with empty beer cans and dirty cups and plates, strategically located to make it odds on that you’d step onto or into something. The few sticks of furniture looked like the remnants of a car trunk sale on a bad day.
Jason came in from the kitchen. He was tall and very thin, with straggling hippie-length hair, and to Tennison’s consternation he was exceptionally good-looking. Over ragged blue jeans he wore a striped pajama top. The buttons were missing, showing his ribs and flat, fish-white belly. He was barefoot, the nails long and curved, grime between his toes.
“She’s no need to be in on this.”
“Not unless you want her to be,” Tennison agreed.
Jason jerked his head. “Go on.”
The girl went out with the baby. Jason heeled the door shut.
“I’m Jane Tennison, and this is Brian Dalton. Can we sit down?”
“Sure. Sorry about the mess.” He pushed both hands up into his hair and flung his head back.
Tennison sat down in the lumpy armchair, shifting to avoid the spring. Dalton chose a hard-backed chair, well away from the fire. Jason semireclined on the arm of the settee, one knee pulled up to his chin. “You want tea or … ?”
“No, thanks,” Tennison said politely. That was the second surprise. He had a lazy, low-pitched voice, easy to listen to. What had she been expecting? she asked herself. Grunts and slobbering growls? She glanced at Dalton, making sure he was taking notes, and smiled at Jason. “So, where do you want to begin?” He was studying his thumbnail. “You’re from Liverpool originally, aren’t you? How old were you when you went into the home?”
“Which one?”
“The home run by Mr. Edward Parker.”
“Ten.” Jason flicked away something he’d found under his thumbnail. “I was sent there from a foster home. I got into a bit of thieving, so they got shot of me.”
“Would you be prepared to act as a witness for the prosecution?”
“Sure.” Jason twitched his thin shoulders in a listless shrug.
“Would you tell me when the sexual abuse started?”
His eyes flicked toward her, and quickly away. He had thick, dark lashes any woman would have been proud of. And any woman would have fallen for the full-lipped mouth with a slightly sullen droop to it.
“Second or third day I was there, Parker just called me into his office and that was it … started then. And you couldn’t say anything, or do anything about it—like he was a law unto himself. And it wasn’t just me, he was having us all. He’d give you a certain amount of fags, like five say, for a blow job. Always knew when one of the kids had gone the whole way with him, they were flush with fags. Have you got one, by the way?”
Tennison reached into her briefcase. “I have, as a matter of fact. Here, keep the packet, I’ve given up.”
Jason uncoiled from the arm of the settee and knelt down to get a light from the gas fire. Tennison rummaged for matches, but he was already lit up. He stayed where he was, long legs stretched out on the tatty hearth rug. The pose was overtly sexual, the pajama top falling open, the tight jeans displaying the bulge at his crotch. It made Tennison unsure whether he was behaving naturally, unself-consciously, or trying it on, deriving some secret amusement from the situation. He was a very disconcerting young man.
“I’m grateful that you’re being so frank with us,” Tennison said. The heat of the closed room was making her perspire, and she was sorry she hadn’t taken off her raincoat when she came in. Now didn’t seem the right time.
“No other way to be, really, is there?” he said, dribbling tiny puffs of smoke from his mouth.
“What made you report him?”
“He shortchanged me on some fags, so I thought—screw him. So I went to the probation officer. Stupid bitch, I think she fancied him—he used to get it off with women, too. Anyway,” Jason said in a long sigh, “she went on and on at me, did I know what I was saying, what it meant? I said, ‘Oh yeah, you know what it fuckin’ means to me?’ I said, ‘If you don’t do something, I’ll go to the cops.’ ”
“And how old were you?”
“Twelve or thirteen.”
“And did you go to the cops?”
“Yeah …” Jason rolled onto his stomach, flicking ash onto the carpet. “Well, he wouldn’t leave me alone, and she wasn’t doing anything about it. So I went to the police station, made a statement, and then—sort of everybody run around, like, asking me all these questions. Then a doctor examined me, and …” He dragged deeply, letting the smoke trickle out. “Oh, yeah. This copper. He gets me into his office.”
“And?” Tennison leaned forward
. “What happened then, Jason?”
“He said that if I said I was lying, that he would make sure I had it cushy—you know, money, cigarettes. Things like that. And that they’d move me—somewhere nice.”
He shook his hair back and looked up at her. He had beautiful eyes, but their expression was opaque, a deadness deep down.
“Do you remember this police officer’s name?” Tennison asked quietly. “Was he wearing a uniform?”
“Nah! He was a friend of Parker’s. They worked it between them.” His tone was dismissive. That’s how the world operated. Those with power and influence dumped on the great unwashed below. Fact of life. “So they sent me back,” he went on, and laughed without humor. “They never got around to moving me, and I became a very heavy smoker.”
Jason took a last drag and stubbed out the cigarette on the tiled hearth. He sat up and favored Tennison with a sunny, beaming smile.
“That’s it.”
Tennison nodded. “Do you remember the name of the doctor? The one that examined you?”
“Be no help if I did. He died of cancer, nice guy. Think his name was something Ellis.”
Dalton made a note.
Tennison said, “Was it all the boys, Jason? Or specifically the very young ones?”
“The little ’uns, he liked the little ones.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Nope. No qualifications. A five-year-old kid reads better than me. I do odd jobs around the place, fix up cars.” He smiled in a simple, childlike way. “I get drunk, and sometimes I get angry.”
“And then you get into trouble?” Tennison hesitated. “Have you ever told somebody about your past, Jason?”
“There’s no point.” Again the offhand dismissal. “I just have to live with it.”
Tennison fastened her briefcase and sat with it across her knees, her hands gripping the sides. She said softly, “I will do everything possible to put this man away. I promise you.”
Jason stared at her, as if she might possibly mean it, and then he laughed harshly. “You haven’t even got him, have you?”
Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims Page 19
