“It’s lettuce,” Tennison said. “Well, it was once.”
Oswalde chucked it in the trash, tut-tutting. “You need to eat some decent food. What was the call about? Anything interesting?”
“No, not really,” she said, deciding to humor him, and besides, the smell was making her ravenous. “Apparently it seems the girl that was at Number fifteen sacked it in afterward and went legit. No one seems to know where she is now, but they’re all sure she’s not on the game.”
“Right,” Oswalde said, busy now forking tuna into a bowl. “I took a look at Tony’s school record. Everything was fine until 1986. When Tony came back from the summer vacation, he was a different person.” He glanced around at her, eyebrows raised. “Educational psychologist’s report talks of depression, anxiety attacks, low self-esteem.”
Tennison studied him for a moment, lips pursed. “What is it with you?”
“What?” Oswalde said, blinking.
“What are you trying to prove?”
He emptied the tomatoes and stirred them in with a wooden spoon. “Do you have any tomato puree?”
“No.”
“How can I work in these conditions?” he complained to the cupboard door, his brow furrowed.
“It’s as if you’re taking some kind of test all the time …”
“You should know,” he retorted, and that made her stand up straight. “I watched you on the course. You know they’re all lined up, wanting to see you fall flat on your face. Thorndike, all the Senior Shits. You always want to be the best, come out on top.”
This was straight from the shoulder, and Tennison wasn’t sure she liked it. She certainly wasn’t used to be spoken to so directly, least of all by a subordinate.
“I’m the same as you,” Oswalde went on imperturbably. He tasted the sauce, added black pepper. “Which is why—when I calmed down and thought about it—I understood why you’d been treating me like the office boy.”
He was one cool customer, had it all down.
“And why you’ve gone off and done a number on your own?” Tennison accused him sharply. He had the gall to laugh—a confident, unforced laugh at that. “I mean it, Bob. You are a member of a team,” she reminded him.
“Am I?” Oswalde said, instantly serious, his stern dark eyes coming around to meet hers.
“Well,” Tennison said, wishing to high heaven he wasn’t such a big, broad-shouldered, handsome bastard. “From now on you are.”
“Okay,” Oswalde said, back to his cheery self. He tipped the pasta into the boiling water and ladled the tuna into the sauce. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink?”
That she had, and she went off to open a bottle of Bulgarian red.
Tennison was confused, and annoyed with herself for letting him get the upper hand. Was Bob Oswalde taking liberties or just trying to be friendly? She knew she was paying the penalty for that one hour of passion in the hotel room. The demarcation lines had been blurred; no other officer under her command would have waltzed into her flat and made himself at home by cooking dinner, without so much as a by-your-leave. Damn Kernan for drafting him onto her team! It was all his bloody fault! But she was as angry with herself for getting herself into this pickle in the first place. Being ruled by her libido instead of her brain. Cunthead.
They ate off the coffee table in the living room. Tasting freshly prepared food and drinking three glasses of wine worked a minor miracle. It took the sting out of her anger and made her almost mellow. It even crossed her mind to wonder what might happen later, and instantly slammed the door shut on that speculation. Hadn’t she made enough of a fool of herself already, for Chrissakes?
They didn’t talk about work until the end of the meal, when Oswalde again brought up the subject of Tony Allen. He seemed to have almost a personal vendetta against the boy. Tennison was wary, not wanting to rush their fences. Oswalde couldn’t see why. The fact that he’d known Joanne Fagunwa was sufficient in itself to have him picked up.
Tennison drained her glass and set it down. “Not yet.”
“The boy was involved in that murder,” Oswalde insisted. “I’m sure of it …”
“We have no evidence of that.”
“You didn’t see his response to the clay head,” Oswalde told her bluntly.
“All we know is that he was on the same bandstand as Joanne—”
“So he’s been lying.”
“—and we’ll question him about that at the right time.”
“What does that mean?” asked Oswalde rudely, his face becoming stiff and surly. He detested all this fooling around. Get in there and get it done with.
“It means not yet.” Tennison’s voice was firm. Three glasses of wine didn’t make her a pushover. She held up a finger. “I can crack Harvey. He holds the key—except the bastard might croak on us any minute. I’ll talk to Tony when we’ve got more on him.”
“More?” Oswalde was both pained and puzzled. “I thought you’d really go for this.”
“Look, Bob, I don’t want to argue about it.” In other words, the Chief Inspector was saying, subject closed.
Oswalde got the message, or thought he did. He stared across at Jane Tennison, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “But the real point,” he said stonily, “is that I shouldn’t have come here, should I?”
“No, you shouldn’t have—we said that in the hotel room. But that’s not the point, actually. Look, all I’m trying to say is …”
“Don’t bother.”
Ten seconds later he was gone, raincoat over his shoulder, door slammed. Tennison piled the dirty dishes in the sink and went to bed.
The Incident Room was quiet when she arrived the next morning, shortly after eight twenty. She went to her office to catch up on some paperwork before the rush started.
WPC Havers eventually turned up, looking a bit worse for wear, and Tennison sent her off to the cafeteria to get a coffee and bring one back for her. She was sipping this and fighting the desperate urge for a cigarette when word came from the hospital. Tennison slurped the rest of her coffee, spilt some on her best chiffon blouse, and made the air blue and Maureen Havers’s ears turn red as she grabbed her coat from the coatrack and hurried out.
“Hello, Guv,” she greeted Kernan, who was about to enter his office, and kept on going.
“Yes, it went very well since you ask.”
Tennison halted. “Sorry?”
“My interview.”
“Oh good … right …”
“Any news on Harvey?”
“He’s regained consciousness. I’m going down there to see him right now.”
Kernan nodded, gave her a look. “Well, gently does it, Jane.”
“Yes, I …”
“Get him everything he wants—lawyers, nurses, doctors, geisha girls—anything. Just so long as his lawyer can’t say you got a statement from him unfairly.”
Tennison tightened her belt, knuckles showing white. “Of course.” What did he think her intention was—throttle the truth out of a dying man?
Lillie emerged from the Incident Room, looking for her. “Excuse me, Guv. Apparently Harvey’s wife died in October eighty-five. Not August.”
“So his sister’s been telling fibs.”
“So it would seem.”
“Well, let’s see what Harvey’s got to say about that.”
Lillie went off, and Tennison was about to leave, when Kernan said, apropos of nothing, “By-election today.”
Then she twigged it. Jonathan Phelps, Labour’s firebrand, was up for election. There was a chance, a slim chance, that he might get in, and if he did there could be one or two repercussions. Phelps was riding on the ticket of community policing in black areas, on newsworthy items such as the case of Derrick Cameron. And now Tennison was investigating a murder in the Honeyford Road area involving a girl of black-white parentage. A highly-sensitive, highly-potent mixture. Like most policemen, Kernan was a staunch Tory, and the last thing he desired was to give the oppo
sition the ammunition to fire a broadside.
With a ghost of a smile, Tennison said, “Well, why aren’t you wearing your blue rosette?”
It wasn’t a joke to Kernan; it was deadly serious.
“Senior policemen are politicians first and foremost, Jane. Remember that if you’re up for Super.”
It was bad enough that he believed it, Tennison thought, even worse to realize that he was right.
The teenager in the black leather jacket, baseball cap worn back to front, stood at the counter of Esme’s cafe, dithering. He pointed to a large bowl of mashed yams with cinnamon and nutmeg, topped with grated orange rind.
“How much is that?”
“One seventy-five,” Esme said.
“How much?” the boy said, goggling.
Esme switched her attention to the tall, good-looking man waiting patiently to be served. From her bright smile and cheerful, “Yes, dear?” Oswalde knew that she hadn’t recognized him.
“Let me have a medium fried chicken, rice, and peas.”
While she dished it up, the boy in the baseball cap continued moaning. He obviously had a sweet tooth, because he next pointed to a portion of plantain fritters, fried in butter and apple sauce. “How much is that?”
“Seventy-five pee.”
“You’re jokin’, man … yeah, all right, then.”
Esme served him and he slouched off, the flaps of his sneakers protruding like white tongues. She handed Oswalde his meal in a polystyrene tray and gave him change from a fiver. Oswalde ate it at the counter, watching Esme ice a large cake; Tony’s wedding cake, Oswalde thought, the wedding a week from Saturday.
“How is it?” Esme asked him.
“Very good. It’s been a long time.”
“Your mother doesn’t cook for you?”
“No.”
She flashed him her bright smile. “Then you come to Esme’s. I’ll cook for you.”
Oswalde moved along the counter, nearer to where she was working. “You don’t recognize me, Esme?” She straightened up, frowning, a slight shake of the head. “I’m a police officer. I’m investigating the murder of Joanne Fagunwa. That was her name, Esme. The girl who was buried in Harvey’s garden …”
Esme stared at him, surprise and shock mingled on her face. But she was in for an even bigger shock when Oswalde said softly, “Did you know that she was a member of Tony’s band? That she was with Tony on the day she died?”
“No,” Esme said in a whisper. No longer smiling, her eyes were scared now.
Oswalde pushed the chicken aside, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Are you sure Tony was there that night when you arrived home?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“He couldn’t have been with Joanne?”
“No.”
Oswalde was convinced she was telling the truth—as much of the truth as she knew, anyway. He said, “Why did you think he changed so much that summer, Esme? He’s never been the same since, has he? What happened to change him like that?”
She didn’t answer, though from her expression Oswalde knew he had scored a bull’s-eye.
Muddyman was waiting for her outside Harvey’s room. “Are we in?” Tennison asked tersely.
“Dr. Lim is still a bit jumpy, but yeah, I think so.”
At that moment Dr. Lim arrived. As they were about to enter, she held up a cautioning hand. “I don’t want him upset. Any extra pressure on his heart could be fatal.”
No more fatal than what happened to Joanne Fagunwa, Tennison reckoned, though she merely nodded, following the small, round-shouldered doctor inside.
Harvey’s breathing filled the room. He was looking up at the ceiling with his dull, bleary eyes. Tennison eased the chair up to the bed and leaned over, her mouth close to his ear. She held his hand.
“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to talk to me, David?” she said very softly. “Get it off your chest?”
Harvey’s tongue came out to lick his dry lips. He stared straight up, his voice a horrible croak. “What … ?”
“David, we know that Joanne—that was her name—we found that Joanne was killed in your home. A fragment of her tooth was found inside the house.”
Harvey swallowed. “Doesn’t mean I killed her,” he gasped.
Tennison went on steadily, “Your wife didn’t die in August, did she, David? Jeanie died in October 1985. What’s the point of lying, David? Carrying all that guilt?” From the corner of her eye she saw a blur of white coat as Dr. Lim, concerned for her patient, moved nearer, but Tennison kept on.
“You’re a very ill man. If you do tell me, nothing will happen to you—it’ll never come to that. We’ll be able to clear all this up and …” She paused. “Most important of all, you’ll feel so much better.”
Harvey closed his eyes and then opened them again, as if he might be thinking about it. Tennison waited, the hoarse, ragged breathing loud in her ears, the smell of it foul in her nostrils.
Oswalde stalked his prey, biding his time until Tony Allen had moved on from chatting to one of the checkout girls, and then he closed in behind him, reaching inside his jacket pocket for the color photograph of Joanne Fagunwa.
“Hello, Tony.”
Tony Allen jumped. “Sorry?”
“You don’t remember me? Detective Sergeant Oswalde. I was just doing a bit of shopping.” Tony Allen retreated a pace as Oswalde loomed over him. “While I’m here, perhaps you could have a look at this. Recognize her?”
Tony barely glanced at the photograph. “Why don’t you people leave me alone?” he said, a tremor in his voice.
“Because you’re telling us lies. You knew Joanne.”
“No …”
“You were both at the Sunsplash together. Better than that,” Oswalde said, quiet and lethal, “you played in the same band.”
Tony’s mouth dropped open. He wasn’t expecting that. Another bull’s-eye.
“Remember her African costume … her bracelets?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
“I don’t.” Tony backed into a freezer cabinet. “I don’t.”
Oswalde watched him scoot off. There was no need to pursue him. Tony Allen wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m a Catholic, too, David, and it’s been a long time since my last confession, but one thing I do remember is that feeling of relief. That weight being lifted off your shoulders.” Harvey’s drab eyes stared up, and Tennison wasn’t sure how much of this was getting through. But she kept at it, soft and remorseless.
“I think we all want to have faith in something, don’t we? We’d like to think we can repent and it’ll be all right … if only we could turn the clock back, make it all right. You’re dying, David. Best get it off your chest. Tell me what happened, David. No more lies. It’s too late for lies.”
Harvey blinked, and tears ran down from the corners of his eyes into his gray hair. Tennison leaned nearer, stroking his hand, her voice like velvet.
“You can talk to me …”
“Can I?” Harvey croaked.
“Of course you can. You can have a doctor present, a lawyer, your sister, Jason, anyone.”
Harvey’s chin quivered. He said huskily, “You know, I’m only fifty-five years old. It’s a fucking joke.”
“I’m sure the doctors will do all they can,” Tennison said.
“I’m so frightened,” Harvey said. His face suddenly crumpled, and he wept.
The streetlights were just flickering into life as Tony Allen came out of the supermarket and walked to his car. He unlocked the door and was about to climb in when he noticed a tall figure leaning against the hood of a black Ford Sierra three cars away.
“Yo, Tony,” Oswalde greeted him. “All right?”
Fists bunched, Tony stormed around his car and went up to him. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you doing this to me?”
Oswalde spread his hands, eyebrows raised. “Hey, doin’ what, man? I’
ve been shopping, that’s all …”
“Leave me alone,” Tony ground out, his eyes bulging furiously. “Just leave me alone!”
Oswalde grinned at him. Tony swung around and marched back to his car. In his haste and rage he nearly smashed into the car behind by going into reverse, then shot out across the parking lot and into the street. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, and every time he looked the black Sierra was there, openly, blatantly, following him.
Tony gripped the wheel so tightly his arms ached. Over and over, almost choking on the words, he kept repeating, “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone …”
Tennison and Muddyman were having a quiet confab outside Harvey’s room when his nephew arrived. The young, fair-haired man came up to them, slightly out of breath, and asked straight out, “How is he?”
“He’s a little better,” Tennison replied, aware that she was being economical with the truth. Looking into the pale blue eyes, and seeing in them a family resemblance, she said quietly, “Jason, your uncle wants to talk to me.”
“Yeah, so I was told.”
“And he’s asked for you to be there.”
Jason nodded. “Right.”
“But I would just ask for you to remain quiet, not to interrupt while I’m talking to him.”
“Right,” Jason said again, as if mentally preparing himself for an ordeal, which indeed it would be.
Tennison glanced at Muddyman and gave a slight nod. He opened the door and the three of them went in.
Oswalde rang the bell of the second-floor flat. From within he heard the murmur of voices, and a moment later the door was opened by Esta, Tony’s wife-to-be. She glared up at him, chewing her lip.
“Is Tony in?”
Before she could answer, Tony appeared in the narrow hallway. He grabbed the edge of the door. “You know I am, you followed me home.”
“Can I come in, Tony?”
“No, you can’t.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Oswalde said.
“You heard him, he said no,” Esta snapped.
Tony pointed a finger, which was quivering with pent-up rage. He said hoarsely, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”
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