Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

  She couldn’t find it in her heart to lie to him. She shook her head, and Jason laughed again, harsh and angry.

  He led them out, past the pram in the hallway, and stood on the concrete balcony in his bare feet. A short flight of steps led down to the walkway, littered with broken bottles and crushed beer cans. The breeze ruffled Jason’s pajama top. A change had come over him. He followed after them, speaking in a mechanical monotone, telling them a tale, his breathing rapid.

  “One night at the home we was watching a documentary, Nazi thing. This guy ran a concentration camp, you know what they are?”

  Tennison and Dalton had paused to listen. They both nodded.

  Jason leaned back, his shoulder blades pressed against the concrete wall. “Yeah, well, this guy was called the ‘Angel of Death,’ right? And after the war, he escaped, right? He was never hanged, nobody arrested him, nobody brought him to trial …” He gave a peculiar croaking giggle. “Just like Parker. He did me for eight years, he did every boy in his care. You know what we used to call him? We called him ‘The Keeper of Souls.’ ” He grinned down at them.

  Tennison put her hand out. “Go back up the stairs, Jason. There’s glass on the stairs, you’ll hurt yourself …”

  Jason’s fingers tore at the pajama top. He ripped it off and flung it down the stairs. “You want to see what the ‘Keeper’ did to me?”

  He staggered down the steps toward Tennison. Dalton tensed, about to dive up, thinking he was about to attack her. But Jason turned around, showing the pale scars on his skinny back. Tennison touched his shoulder, and moved her hand gently down the hard ridges of puckered flesh. “I will make him pay, Jason, I promise you …”

  Jason slowly turned, and Tennison could barely tolerate the terrible desolate anguish in his eyes. The buried pain, the torment of those years, was even worse than the horrible scars. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t speak. He bowed his head and nodded mutely, his hair hanging down over his bare white shoulders.

  Tennison went down. Hunched inside, her throat dry and tight, she heard his agonized whisper, swirled by the breeze down the concrete stairwell. “Keeper of Souls … Keeper of Souls.”

  Bronwen stood by the car, the rear door open. “We’ll only just make your train.”

  Drained of all energy, Tennison tossed her briefcase inside. She turned, holding the door, taking one last look back at the godforsaken place. She clutched her throat. Jason was balanced on the edge of the balcony. His arms were spread wide, exposing his ribcage, the narrow chest. He swayed forward.

  “Jason! No!” Tennison’s cry was shrill, almost a screech. “NO!”

  He fell, a pale blur, turning over in the air, and they heard his body hit the ground, a soft moist sound, hidden behind a concrete parapet. Dalton raced forward across the scrubby patch of mud and scrambled over the wall. Tennison, in her heeled boots, struggled up the slope. She gripped the wall and craned to see over. Dalton was kneeling by the crumpled body, feeling for his pulse. He lifted the eyelids, searching for a reflex. Very gently he cupped Jason’s head in his hands, and looked toward Tennison.

  Badly hurt, but he wasn’t dead, Tennison knew that, because the boy was weeping. She could see the tears streaming down his cheeks from his closed eyes.

  She closed her own eyes and rested her forehead against the rough gray concrete. Tears smarted her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She refused to cry. She held on to the emotion, hoarding it, needing it like a fix, feeding her the strength for what she had to do.

  Tennison sat at one of the three computer consoles in the Records Department of Cardiff Police Station. It was 12:35 P.M., and the train had long gone. Bronwen stood with arms folded, looking over her shoulder. Tennison scrolled the list of addresses up the screen. She took a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and made a Yuck! face. She jotted an address down and held up the pad.

  “Is there any way you can do a cross-check on this for me?” Bronwen hesitated, rubbing her palms. “It’s lunchtime. Come on, see what you can do.”

  Bronwen took the sheet and went out, almost colliding with Dalton. Tennison looked up anxiously.

  “He’ll live. Broken leg and hip bone.” Dalton shrugged out of his raincoat, giving Tennison a straight look to reassure her. “He’s okay.”

  “You’ve been a long time.”

  “Yeah, he … he wanted me with him.” Dalton cleared his throat. “He was crying, kept on saying he was sorry … sorry for crying.” Dalton gave a wan smile. He was still badly shaken. “His wife and kid, I sent a cab for them.”

  “There’s another train at two twenty-five,” Tennison said, glancing at her watch. Already she was back studying the screen, concentrating.

  “Jason and Anthony, it’s too much of a coincidence.” She chewed her lip. “If Edward Parker-Jones moved on, maybe so did the same police officer.”

  She was watching the screen, but even so she could feel Dalton’s unease. She’d let him go his own sweet way, allowed him into her confidence. Sooner or later he would have to pay for the privilege. She judged the time was ripe.

  “Any developments on Jackson?” Dalton asked. He blinked several times when she looked at him. “You said he’d been picked up… .”

  “No. What about you? Have you heard from the hospital yet?”

  Involuntarily he touched his bandaged hand. “No, not yet,” he said stiffly. “Still waiting.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Don’t know.”

  There was a silence. Tennison sat back in her chair and gave him a cool level stare. Dalton fidgeted, then shoved his hands in his pockets in a weak show of indifference.

  Yes, the time was definitely ripe.

  “Why don’t you tell me what a high flyer like you is doing attached to this investigation?”

  “What do you mean?” Dalton blustered.

  “You’re from the Fraud Squad, university educated, you’re hand-in-glove with Chiswick, you report back to him.” Tennison swept her arms wide. “For God’s sake, when are you going to come clean! You’re my mate, come on!”

  Dalton stared at the floor, no doubt hoping a yawning chasm would appear and swallow him up. He wagged his head back and forth. “I have to report back to Commander Chiswick if—only if—your investigation crosses another investigation.”

  Tennison waited.

  “Yes? And? Come on, now you’ve started.” Tennison’s eyes bored into his, whenever he had the nerve to meet them. “You have to report back to Chiswick. About what exactly?”

  Dalton was a deeply unhappy man. His usual tan was looking none too healthy. “It’s about the blackmail of an Assistant Deputy Chief Commissioner. He was or had been on enforced leave for eight months. Six months previous to the blackmail threats.”

  Tennison stared at him. She snapped her teeth together. “I don’t believe this.”

  “One of the most senior officers ever to be subjected to disciplinary procedures. The matter was passed to the Home Office from Scotland Yard …”

  “So who the hell is it?”

  Dalton jumped as if her bark had bitten him. “Assistant Deputy Commissioner John Kennington.” It only just crept out.

  “What was going on before the blackmail? Eight months is a long time. It must have been something big.”

  “His possible connection to a pedophile ring,” Dalton said.

  Tennison rested her forehead on her hand, shaking her head to and fro. She was thinking that she must have porridge for brains. Not even an inkling until now. And it was so obvious—all the incestuous spying and rumors and heavy hints. Where had she been living? Disneyland?

  Bronwen came in. She was smiling.

  “Margaret Speel. She’s now based in—”

  “London!” Tennison said, jumping up. “Thank you very much!”

  “Kennington vehemently denied all the allegations of wrongdoing, which also included bribery and handing out favors, and he cooperated in a full inquiry. My department was brought in, we examined every
log book, letter, document in his entire career file. We checked his associates outside the police—receipts, hotel bills, airline tickets.”

  Tennison and Dalton sat on a bench seat, platform 4, waiting for the London train. The rain had held off, but there was a nasty gusting wind, shuffling the cigarette packets and candy wrappers at their feet, piling them in corners.

  Unable to stomach British Rail coffee, Tennison was drinking hot chocolate from a plastic cup. She was still getting to grips with what Dalton had told her. She felt numbed by it, the double-dealing and duplicity going on all around while she was busting a gut, doing her level best to conduct an honest, professional investigation. Her anger, like the other violent emotions, was seething under the surface.

  “And at the end of this big investigation, what was the outcome?”

  “One and a half million quid later we were no farther in proving otherwise.” Elbows on his knees, Dalton was leaning forward, smoothing down the tape on his bandaged hand where the edge had come unstuck. “And no evidence that he was involved in any perverted sexual activity.”

  Tennison frowned to herself. Something here that didn’t make sense. As yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Kennington was reinstated, but moved to a different department,” Dalton continued. “The entire investigation made everyone really jumpy, especially if it ever got leaked to the press.”

  “Well, of course,” Tennison said caustically, “and they put a lid on it.” Put a lid on her, too.

  “But it all opened up again.” Dalton peered at her from under his brows. “About six months ago, of his own volition, Kennington …”

  “Admitted it?”

  Dalton shook his head. “No, this time he was being blackmailed. He wanted to press charges. But I suppose under pressure he withdrew. He resigned. No case was ever brought.”

  Tennison’s anger bubbled up dangerously. “And who was doing the blackmailing?”

  “I don’t know. I was off the case by then.” He caught the full impact of her flat disbelieving stare, and insisted, “I really don’t know. But I would say, whoever it was, must have some connection with your investigation, otherwise why would they have brought me in?”

  “Are you expecting me to believe that Kennington was prepared to bring charges of being blackmailed but never named who was doing it to him?”

  “If he did, I was never told …”

  Tennison decided she couldn’t stomach British Rail hot chocolate either. She got up and chucked the half-filled cup into the basket. She paced up and down, scarf whipping in the chill gusts. She stopped in front of Dalton.

  “Did Edward Parker-Jones’s name ever come up? Was there any connection proved between him and Kennington?”

  “The Fraud Squad discovered there had been several charitable donations from Kennington to Parker-Jones.” Dalton held up his hand to forestall Tennison’s fierce nod. “But they were all legal, all documented. The advice centre was only one of a number of organizations Kennington donated monies to. They found nothing incriminating.”

  The smell of all this was positively reeking now.

  “Could that be why Chiswick wants me to back off Parker-Jones?” Dalton made a vague gesture. Tennison pressed him. “There has to be some reason unless … was it Parker-Jones doing the blackmail?”

  “No way. As I said, he was checked out.”

  “Who do you think it was? Oh, come on, you must suspect somebody,” Tennison said, losing patience.

  Dalton looked up at her. “It could be Jackson.”

  “Yes, there’s always Jackson.” Tennison paced, pushing her wind-ruffled hair back from her forehead. “Let me try this on you.” She was trying it on herself as much as on Dalton. “Kennington had been investigated and came up smelling of roses. He must have been very confident, but then he’s forced to resign. Connie was selling his story to Jessica Smithy, right? Claiming that he was prepared to name names—one a high-ranking police officer. What if it was Kennington? Connie was just a rent boy, swat him like a fly. He was just a kid, no parents, nobody to even identify his body.”

  Tennison stood in front of Dalton, pushing her hair back, staring down at him. Dalton was intent on his hand, pressing the tape flat with his thumbnail.

  The minute Superintendent Halliday walked into the Squad Room, Otley picked up the warning signal. He was in one of his twitchy moods. He kept squirming his neck inside his collar and rubbing his throat as if undergoing slow strangulation. Most of the Vice team were there, busy at their desks. Ray Hebdon looked to Larry Hall, who in turn glanced at Haskons and Lillie. Norma stopped typing.

  The room quieted. Halliday tapped his watch. It was late in the afternoon, going on for five.

  “Is there anyone in this building who can tell me where Detective Chief Inspector Tennison is?”

  “She’s on her way from Cardiff, boss, expecting her any moment,” Otley called out.

  Halliday nodded, lips tight. He turned to leave, and turned back, seething. He pointed at Haskons and Lillie, available targets to vent his spleen on.

  “And you two, as far as I am concerned, have behaved in what can only be described as an utterly farcical manner—one which would, if ever it were made public—put not only myself but also this entire department in jeopardy.”

  Lillie colored up, while Haskons looked defiant. Otley turned away to hide a grin.

  Commander Chiswick pushed open the door and said to Halliday, “In your office,” and went out.

  “Just tell me—what in God’s name possessed you to do it?”

  “But we brought Jackson in, sir!” Haskons protested, rising to his feet. “He is still the main suspect for the murder of Colin Jenkins.”

  The door opened again, and Chiswick’s stern face appeared.

  “Sorry, I’ll be right with you,” Halliday said. He strode to the door, rubbing the back of his neck. He whipped around. “DS Haskons, DC Lillie—you will return to Southampton Row as from tomorrow evening. DI Ray Hebdon will leave today. That’s all.”

  He pushed at the door, and something caught his eye. A doll was pinned to the notice board, golden curls and a frilly pink dress with pink satin slippers. The block printing above it read: “DI HEBDON. FAIRY OF THE WEEK.”

  Halliday’s nostrils twitched. “Get this crap down!” He slammed out.

  The door squeaked to a stop, and in the silence everyone looked at one another. Otley leaned against the desk, hands in his pockets.

  “Just a passing thought, but does anybody have any idea where she is?” He nodded to the clock. “She should have left Cardiff hours ago!”

  14

  On arrival in London, Tennison deliberately hadn’t reported in. She’d sent Dalton off to pick up a car while she took a cab to the Islington Probation Department, with instructions for him to meet her there. It was after five o’clock, and she was afraid that Margaret Speel might have gone, but she hadn’t. She was writing up reports in a tiny cluttered office that had a look of impermanence about it, as if she were in the process of moving in or moving out, Tennison couldn’t decide which.

  However temporary her office, Margaret Speel’s sarcastic manner was firmly in place, exactly as before. There was something about the cynical slant of her mouth that was extremely irritating. In her petite bouncy way, she reminded Tennison of a chirpy strutting sparrow with an attitude problem: however smart you think you are, I know I’m smarter.

  “Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” she said world-wearily, gesturing to a chair. Her mouth slanted. “You want any more boys off the streets?”

  Tennison sat down. She placed her briefcase on the faded carpet and sat up straight. She was all through with taking crap, especially from a cheeky sparrow with an irritating smirk.

  “You were at one time working in Cardiff, yes?”

  Margaret Speel rocked back in the chair. She recovered quickly. “Yes, and Liverpool. And I’ve also worked in Birmingham.”

  “Was Edward P
arker-Jones also working in Liverpool and Birmingham?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we can be thankful for that, can’t we?” Margaret Speel’s eyes narrowed under her dark bangs; she was a mite uncertain now, getting edgy. Tennison kept up the barrage. “Do you know Anthony Field?”

  A hard glare, and a frown.

  “No? What about Jason Baldwyn? He was a resident at—”

  “Yes,” Margaret Speel interrupted. “Yes, I remember Jason.”

  “Do you have a relationship with Edward Parker-Jones?”

  “I don’t think that is any of your business,” Margaret Speel said in a quiet, outraged voice.

  “But it is. It is very much my business.” Tennison leaned toward her. She stared her full in the face. “Jason tried to kill himself this afternoon, right in front of me, Margaret. He’s prepared to make a statement that when he was in the care of Parker-Jones he was sexually abused, for a period of six years. You were at that time his probation officer!”

  Margaret Speel’s hand jerked to her throat. Her fingers plucked at a necklace of jade beads. Her pale neck was taut and strained.

  “You were Jason’s probation officer, weren’t you? Jason Baldwyn’s probation officer.”

  “Yes, yes I was,” Margaret Speel said in a barely audible whisper.

  “Do you have anything to say about these allegations? Were you aware of them when you were working in Cardiff?”

  Margaret Speel was struggling to take this in. Her chirpy sarcasm was gone, shocked out of her. She made a valiant, desperate effort that only came out sounding weak. “Jason was always telling lies, he was a compulsive liar—”

  “Ten-year-old boy, Margaret, and you refused to believe him, and he had six more years of abuse,” Tennison went on relentlessly.

  “This isn’t true!” She shook her head, almost in pain. “This is terrible … if I had believed, for one moment …”

  “Believe it, Margaret. What do you know about Connie? Colin Jenkins—Margaret?”

  “I was telling you the truth! I swear I didn’t even come here until eighteen months ago. Edward contacted me. He even tried to renew our relationship… .” Her head dropped. Tennison let her stew. She believed that Margaret Speel was genuinely distraught, she even felt sorry for her, but Tennison’s bottled anger fueled a passion to cut straight to the rotten heart of this, to ruthlessly expose it to the light, no matter who got hurt along the way.