Tennison and Muddyman watched them close the doors and drive off. They would follow in their own car. As the ambulance pulled out of Lloyd George Estate, siren wailing, Tennison said grimly, “We could lose this one if Harvey croaks.”
Muddyman thought, That’s all she cares about. All the cold-blooded bitch really fucking cares about.
Oswalde drove up the M1 to Birmingham. It was a relief to get away from Southampton Row, out of London in fact, if only for a few hours.
Mrs. Fagunwa lived on the southern outskirts of the city, not many miles distant from Stratford-upon-Avon. It was a well-heeled, white, middle-class area with neat hedges and well-tended gardens. Some of the houses had double garages.
Oswalde had made an appointment, and Mrs. Fagunwa was expecting him. Just like the neighborhood, she was white and rather genteel, younger-looking than her forty-seven years, with thick black hair parted in the middle; she still possessed the good bone structure and fine complexion that must have made her something of a beauty as a young woman.
She led him through the parquet-floored hallway, polished like an ice rink, into a large, comfortably furnished sitting room which had patio doors looking out onto a lawn and flowerbeds. From the records Oswalde knew that she was a widow, and there was a stillness to the house, an unlived-in feeling, that told him she had no companion and lived here alone. She had been married to a Nigerian businessman, and there was a large framed photograph of him on top of the bookcase, along with several more of a dark-skinned girl, showing her at every stage from cheeky pigtailed toddler up to vivaciously attractive teenager.
Oswalde felt a flutter in his chest. Instantly, he hadn’t the slightest doubt. The resemblance to the clay head was as close as it could be. Part of him was elated—they’d found Nadine!—but then he had to prepare himself for what he knew was not going to be a pleasant duty. He started gently.
“May I show you these photographs?”
“Yes …”
They were of the carved ivory bracelets, and she nodded as she looked at them. “Do you recognize these amulets, Mrs. Fagunwa?”
“Yes. They belonged to my husband’s family. He gave them to Joanne.”
“Then I’m sorry to tell you that they were found with the remains of a young girl. May I show you a picture of a clay head that we’ve had made.”
Oswalde waited while she studied it. Her dark eyes in her pale face remained expressionless. He said quietly, “Does that look like your daughter?”
She nodded. “Oh yes. It’s very like her. How clever.”
“I’m sorry,” Oswalde said. This was horrible, he felt like he had a knife in his guts.
Mrs. Fagunwa gazed at him. “How did she die?”
“We’re not certain, but the circumstances are suspicious.”
“Don’t tell me she suffered.” And now there was a shadow of pain in her dark eyes, and her voice was husky. “Please don’t tell me that.”
Riding in the car seemed to have loosened her tongue; it was like watching a dam slowly crumbling, the unstoppable surge of water pouring out. Oswalde drove back down the M1; Mrs. Fagunwa, now she’d started, unable to stop.
“… her father died that year, you see. I still don’t know why she left home. She had everything. She even had her own pony, she had everything …”
“Did Joanne ever have any accidents as a child?”
“Oh, no, the usual cuts and bruises, you know.” Then she bethought herself. “Oh, yes—once she did. She broke her wrist. She fell off her bike.”
Mrs. Fagunwa looked across at him. For him to have asked that specific question meant that he knew, that he was certain. She refused to make herself believe it, but it did no good. She knew now that it was her daughter that had been found, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Swallowing hard, she plunged on. “Well, anyway, then she rejected it all. She started having things woven in her hair. You know, beads and things. Her hair isn’t even black really, more a dark brown, with threads of gold in it. She was almost blond when she was little. Her skin looks more tanned than anything else. She was such a pretty little girl—we have so many photographs. I keep meaning to sort them out.”
She made a sound in her throat and her voice stuck. Oswalde gripped the wheel tightly, doing seventy-five in the center lane. Driving was about the best he could manage at the moment.
Mrs. Fagunwa took a deep breath, rallying herself.
“I don’t think the local police treated her disappearance seriously. Just another young girl leaving home, going to London. Loads of them do that, don’t they? I saw a documentary. It’s not just Joanne …”
Oswalde saw a sign for a service area, one mile ahead. His throat was parched and aching, and besides he needed to call base.
“She always thought the best of people. Perhaps we protected her too much. I don’t know. Do you have children?”
“No, I don’t. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, that would be lovely.” Mrs. Fagunwa smiled at him. Oswalde signaled and pulled over to the inside lane. “Perhaps if ours hadn’t been a mixed marriage. Do you think that could have been the problem? Made her run off like that?”
Hands behind his head, Rosper leaned back in his chair, watching the videos on the TV in a corner of the Incident Room. He was enjoying himself, tapping his foot to the reggae beat. The band was on a makeshift stage out in the street, bathed in sunshine, a real carnival atmosphere. Many of the performers wore colorful African costumes, as did the crowd, packed close to the stage, clapping their hands above their heads. Rosper hummed along and tapped his foot.
Haskons came over and leaned on his shoulder. “How’s it going, Gary?”
Rosper looked up with a beaming grin. “I’m having a shanking good time, Skip.”
“Are you indeed.”
The incessant reggae beat was getting on people’s nerves; some of them complained, so Rosper turned the sound low, but kept his eyes glued to the screen as one band followed another, studying the faces of the backup singers and the women in the crowd. His perseverance paid off. Leaping to his feet, he peered closely at the screen, and just at that moment the camera obligingly moved in on one of three girl backup singers to the left of the stage.
“Yes,” Rosper breathed, and then louder, “Yes. Yes!”
It was she, no mistake, dressed in African costume, happily smiling in the sunshine, swaying and clapping, having one hell of a good time. So full of vibrant energy and youthful joy, her whole life ahead of her, a life that had less than twenty-four hours to run its course.
Standing in the busy hospital corridor, Tennison held one hand flat to her ear while she tried to concentrate on what Haskons was telling her over the phone. He was having to shout too, trying to be heard over the babble of noise as the men clustered around the TV. Not helped by the thumping reggae beat, which Rosper had turned back up.
“That’s right,” Haskons was saying. “And Bob Oswalde called in. He’s got a positive ID. Joanne … Fagunwa?” Not sure of the pronunciation. “He’s bringing Mum in now.” He shouted away from the phone, “Look, turn it down, please.”
“Brilliant,” Tennison said. “All right, thanks, Richard.”
She hung up and joined Muddyman, who was using his powers of persuasion on the Chinese female doctor, Dr. Lim, in the hope that they would be allowed in to see David Harvey. He wasn’t having much success.
“He’s a very ill man, you’ve seen that for yourself,” Dr. Lim said. “You’ve also seen how he has great difficulty breathing when lying flat. He needs complete rest.”
Tennison laid it on the line. “Dr. Lim. We have reason to believe that Mr. Harvey was involved in the murder of a seventeen-year-old girl. Now, I don’t mind what conditions you make, but we have to talk to the man.”
Dr. Lim didn’t say anything, because the discussion was at an end; the look in the eyes of the Chief Inspector told her that.
Mrs. Fagunwa was turning over Joanne’s things in
interview room C3 off reception. She was bearing up well, Oswalde thought. Not a tear, not a quiver, just quietly picking things up—muddy Levi’s jeans, wrinkled Adidas sneakers—until she came to the blue sweater, and her hand shook as she held it up.
“This I recognize. My one and only attempt at knitting …”
She crumpled it in her hand, head bowed low over the table, her shoulders heaving. Oswalde did what he could to comfort her, uttering some soothing platitudes, his arm around her.
“Why her?” Mrs. Fagunwa moaned, tears dripping off the end of her nose. “Why her … ?”
When she had dried her eyes, Oswalde asked if she would like a cup of tea in the cafeteria, but she said no, she’d prefer to start back. He walked her out to the car he had ordered, waiting in the parking lot.
Mrs. Fagunwa faced him. She had regained her composure, though her chin kept quivering. She said, “Thank you for your kindness. Do you think you’ll find out how it happened? You know … find the person who did it?”
“I’m sure we will,” Oswalde replied, and this wasn’t a platitude.
“I wonder, this may seem …” She hesitated. “Could I buy the clay head when your inquiries are over? It’s just … does that seem strange?” she asked anxiously, as if seeking his approval.
“No. I’ll find out for you.”
“Only there’s nothing else is there?” Mrs. Fagunwa plucked at a loose thread on her scarf, her eyes a million light-years away. “Nothing to remind me of my baby.”
Harvey was sleeping, breathing through his mouth. Tennison sat by the bed, back straight, hands clasped in her lap, watching him sleep and breathe, her eyes never leaving his face.
7
After seeing Mrs. Fagunwa off, Oswalde went back up to the Incident Room and sat at his desk. It was twenty past four. He should have been famished, having missed lunch, existing since breakfast on cups of coffee and a chocolate bar, but he wasn’t hungry. It was the hours spent with the dead girl’s mother, he reckoned, and seeing her grief, that had killed his appetite. Not good. After nearly nine years on the Force he ought to be able to shut his own emotions away, not get personally involved. You had to be cold and dispassionate or you couldn’t do the job. Doctors and nurses and paramedics and firemen had to handle it, deal unflinchingly with things that would have turned most people’s stomachs, and then go home and sleep nights. He wished he could do it too, learn the trick. Cultivate a heart like a swinging brick, as one of the tutors in training college was fond of saying.
Get your brain back on the case, Oswalde advised himself, that was the best way. He looked around. “Did the Allens have keys to Harvey’s place?” he asked of no one in particular. “I suppose they must have. Where did Tony Allen go to school?”
Lillie chucked a file over. Oswalde spent a few minutes going through it until Rosper wandered over and interrupted him.
“Have you seen this?” Rosper asked, parking himself on the corner of the desk. He was holding a video tape.
“Is that the tape of Joanne?”
“You should watch it, Bob.” Rosper made a flicking motion with his tongue. “I think I’m in love.”
Haskons had sent over a PC to relieve her. He came in and removed his helmet, holding it under his arm.
Tennison stood up and stretched. She bent over to peer closely at Harvey, his face lined and gray in the shaded light above the bed. He was out for the count, asleep or unconscious, it was hard to tell. She put on her coat, tucked in her scarf, and picked up her briefcase.
“Call me if he comes around.”
“I will.”
Mr. Dugdale taught history, which possibly explained why he had such a good memory for dates. He wasn’t bad on names either, and had no problem whatsoever with Tony Allen, as soon as Oswalde mentioned him.
“I was his adviser of year. I remember it very well.” They were walking towards Dugdale’s office, the corridor deserted except for a cleaner with a bucket and squeegee mop. Oswalde had turned up on the off chance that some of the teachers might have stayed behind to mark papers or something, and had struck lucky.
“He was a bright lad, had done very well in school, good results, going on to A levels, sights set on college.” Dugdale shook his head of shaggy, graying hair, depositing more flakes of dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. “Then when he came back in September he’d changed. He was surly, introverted, a loner.”
They arrived at his office and Dugdale went straight to the filing cabinet and started delving. Oswalde looked at the timetables pinned to the bulletin board, at the silver trophies gathering dust on the shelf next to the wilting potted plant, but he was taking in every word.
“I spoke to him, the headmistress spoke to him. I got Dad up here. Nothing seemed to work.” Dugdale slipped on his glasses and opened the buff folder. “There, you see … September eighty-six. I’m usually right. Educational psychologist’s report. Help yourself.”
Oswalde scanned through it and made a few notes while Dugdale fussed around.
“I see Tony played in a band …”
“Did he? I didn’t know that. We did our best but there was really no point in him staying on. The only person he seemed to relate to was his Sarah. He was gone by Christmas. I see him in the supermarket from time to time,” Dugdale said absently, polishing his glasses with the end of his tie. “Waste really, he was a bright lad.”
Tennison was on her knees, scrubbing the bathtub, when the intercom buzzer sounded. She dried her hands on her loose cotton top and went to answer it, frowning as she lifted the receiver from its wall cradle. She hadn’t a clue who it could be; she wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Hello?”
“Jane?”
A man’s voice, deep and resonant, one she couldn’t put a name to. “Who’s this?” she asked guardedly.
“Bob Oswalde.”
She leaned her outstretched arm against the door frame, wondering what the hell was going on, and more specifically just what game he thought he was playing.
“Jane … ? Look, I know this is a bit, er, unexpected … but I really do need to talk to you.”
“Well, can’t it wait? I’m waiting for a call from the hospital.”
“No.”
Sighing, she pressed the button to release the street door and dropped the receiver back in its cradle. She started towards the living room, only just realizing in the nick of time that she was practically on display, wearing only the loose top with nothing underneath. She nipped back into the bathroom and pulled on a floppy sweater, then walked through the living room, brushing her fingers through her hair.
Oswalde knocked and she opened the door. He was carrying a video tape. She said crisply, “This’d better be good,” already walking off, leaving him to close the door.
She stood with her arms folded, watching him insert the video into the machine and turn on the set. He sat down on the sofa, still in his raincoat, and operated the remote. The image flickered and steadied: a reggae group blowing up a storm, a host of black faces smiling in the sunshine, women swaying to and fro in their multicolored robes and turbans.
Tennison knelt on the carpet in front of the TV, chin propped on her fist. “I’ve seen this,” she told him in a voice flat as a pancake.
Oswalde suddenly leaned forward and touched the screen, indicating a tiny figure on the far right. “There.”
“Your finger, very interesting.”
“There’s a better shot in a moment,” he said, on the defensive, hurt by her flippancy. The camera cut to a close-up of the bass player. Oswalde pressed the pause button and jabbed at the screen. “There!”
Squinting, Tennison slowly leaned forward. “Is that Tony Allen?”
Oswalde gave a grim smile. “Tony Allen. He’s concealed the fact that he was playing at the Sunsplash concert and evidently knew Joanne.”
“Jesus!”
“The Allens had keys to the house. I’ve been to the school—”
“Yes. Okay.” Tennison
cut him short with a raised hand. She sat back on her heels. “Let’s think this through. Just because he was on the bandstand with her doesn’t mean—” Her beeper went off. “Shit, this could be it.” She dived for her shoulder bag, found the beeper and killed it. “I’m waiting for Harvey to come around,” she told him, already reaching for the phone and dialing.
Oswalde discovered he’d been sitting on a plate of half-eaten congealed food. He removed it, mouth curling in distaste. “What’s this?”
“Last night’s dinner—one of those frozen chili con carne things.”
“What have you got for tonight?”
Snapping her fingers impatiently, waiting for the connection to be made, she glanced over at him. “One of those frozen chili con carne things … DCI Tennison,” she said into the phone.
Oswalde draped his raincoat over the back of the sofa, picked up the disgusting plate between outstretched fingertips, and wandered off with it. Tennison was momentarily distracted.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Then she was nodding, talking fast. “Right. Did she leave a number? A pay phone?” She scribbled it down. “Okay … right … thanks.” She hung up and started to redial. Oswalde had disappeared. “It’s not the hospital,” she called out to him. “It’s an informer of mine trying to get through to me.”
“Right …” Oswalde’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“What are you up to?” she wondered aloud. “Rachel? It’s me, Jane Tennison, darling. What’ve you got for me, darling?”
When she came through into the kitchen there was water on the boil, a package of pasta waiting to go in. Bob Oswalde had raided her meager shelves and come up with canned tomatoes, a can of tuna, one onion, and a few dried herbs, the last in the jar. He’d found a clean pan and had made a start on the sauce. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he was standing at the countertop, expertly chopping garlic and crushing it into a saucer.
Tennison leaned in the doorway, watching him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Oswalde wiped his hands and opened the refrigerator door. He rooted inside and picked something up. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up what appeared to be a moldy brown tennis ball.
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