Lynda La Plante_Prime Suspect 02

by A Face in the Crowd

  “Thank you, Mr. Peters,” the coroner said icily.

  The coroner’s heavy-handed attempt to discredit her witness brought a fleeting sardonic smile to Mrs. Duhra’s face. His testimony had been heard, that’s what mattered, and what had been said couldn’t be unsaid.

  Tennison, in her bra and slip, was rooting in the closet for a clean blouse when the phone rang at twenty past eight the following morning. She flopped down on the bed and reached out to answer it. She listened and then said sharply, “Who is this? And why should I want to read that rag?”

  Jason was in a phone booth on the shore. It was a gorgeous day down here, a clear blue sky above, the sun sparkling on the waves and making dazzling white triangles of the sails of the yachts setting out for a morning sail around the bay.

  He said silkily, “I think you’ll find something in it to amuse you. Now promise me you’ll buy it.”

  “Who is this?”

  Jason hung up. He didn’t really want to, because he liked the sound of her voice, but it could have been dangerous, staying on the line. She had a sexy voice. She was sexy-looking too. Nice figure, big tits. As a rule he liked them young, the younger the better, because they were innocent and impressionable. But he would have made an exception in her case. Give her a few drinks, get her down to bra and panties, load up the Pentax and shoot off a roll. And after that, well, who knows? Could be her lucky day, a bit of throbbing young meat. They said the older ones really appreciated a good, strong hammering.

  Jason came out of the phone booth onto the sunny promenade. He was breathing quite heavily and his erection was chafing inside the tight crotch of his jeans.

  He set off at an amble, his black T-shirt under his open Windbreaker damply clinging to him, and went looking for amusement, diversion, thrills.

  Sarah Allen was on her way to the kitchen when she heard the mail drop through the mailbox. Upstairs, her nine-year-old brother David was complaining that he couldn’t find his shoes and that Miss Hoggard would make him stay behind if he was late again. From the bathroom, muffled by the sound of running water, came the bass rumble of Vernon’s reply.

  Sarah leafed through the bills and advertising junk to see if there was anything for her. There was. She ripped open the large manila envelope and took out a sheaf of ten-by-eight glossy photographs. At first, and rather stupidly, it only registered that they were of a young and slender naked black woman, a towel wrapped around her head. Then she gasped when she realized it was she. Staring in horror and total disbelief, she looked at the grainy images of herself in the privacy of her own bedroom, taken with a powerful zoom lens.

  There was some writing on the back of one of them. In such a state of shock, Sarah had to read it twice before the words sank in. Her legs turned to water. Trembling and sick with fear, she stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and pushed it under her sweater as Esme came downstairs.

  Gorgeously sunny at the seaside it might have been, but in London it was pissing down. Tennison came out of the newsagent’s and made a dash to her car through the downpour. She slid behind the wheel, shaking cold rainwater from her hair. She unfolded the tabloid newspaper and quickly turned the pages. She didn’t have to look very far. There it was, spread across page five, bold headline that smacked her between the eyes. “TOP COP’S DARK SECRET.”

  Underneath it, three muddy photographs that nevertheless clearly identified the two figures kissing on a doorstep as Bob Oswalde and herself; and as if that weren’t bad enough, she was in pajamas and that bloody Chinese silk dressing gown.

  Tennison slumped back in the seat. The inside of her head was like a snowstorm, thoughts swirling around. It took her a couple of minutes to get a grip, steady herself. When she had, she knew what she had to do. There was a phone booth on the corner. She ran to it and called Mike Kernan at home, hoping to catch him before he left. Thank God he hadn’t. He listened to her, but didn’t seem to get the full drift of it right off.

  Boiling with rage and frustration, Tennison explained angrily, “It’s a threat. From Jason—he’s the photographer.” She nodded vigorously, showering raindrops everywhere. “Yes, of course I’m going to court! I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Someone needs to warn Oswalde …”

  At that moment Oswalde was sitting in a cafe, down a side street nearly opposite the Coroner’s Court, polishing off bacon and eggs. He was just finishing his coffee when Burkin strode in, a snide, knowing grin on his face. He was loving this; about time that stuck-up, holier-than-thou bitch got what was coming to her.

  Hardly stopping on his way to the counter, he rudely waved a folded newspaper in Oswalde’s face and slapped it on the table.

  “What—?”

  “Page five.”

  “What?” Oswalde said again.

  “Fried egg, bacon, and beans, two of toast, cuppa tea with, please, love.” Burkin brought his tea to the table and squeezed in next to Oswalde. “Page five.” He said with a smirk, “That explains it—why the boss was so keen to take your side when Tony killed himself.”

  Oswalde had found the item. He read the headline and stared blankly at the picture, too shell-shocked to feel anything.

  Burkin stirred his tea. “So tell me, is she good? Does she do tricks?” He leered at Oswalde, gave him a sly nudge. “I bet she likes it on top, doesn’t she?”

  Oswalde stood up fast, in the process catching Burkin’s elbow and upsetting his cup. Hot tea spilled into Burkin’s lap, and he stood up fast too, grinding out, “Shit!” When he looked up, tight-lipped, the door was swinging shut behind Oswalde’s departure.

  It was the final day of the inquest, and there was an air of nervous expectation as the court quickly filled up. Tennison took her seat next to Kernan, who gave her a fishy-eyed stare; by now he’d seen the tabloid splash, another nail in the coffin of his promotion prospects. He didn’t know that he could ever forgive her for this, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

  Both of them watched the Allen family filing in. Tennison wasn’t keen on catching their eye, because up until today it had been plain, unadulterated anger and hatred directed at the benches occupied by the police, especially from Sarah. Now Sarah was looking directly at her with an expression Tennison couldn’t fathom. Almost as if she sympathized, or at least understood, what Tennison must be going through after the seedy revelations in that morning’s paper. It was baffling. Sarah should be reveling in her discomfiture—positively gloating over it—Tennison thought, and yet she wasn’t, and wondered why.

  Everyone rose as the coroner entered, and settled down again. The public gallery was packed with black faces. Total silence fell like a shroud as the coroner began his summing up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The time has come for you to withdraw and consider your verdict. But before you do I should like to offer you some advice. There are a number of possible verdicts, but I think under the circumstances you should focus your attention on just three.”

  He paused and stated them, separately and distinctly, so that there should be no confusion.

  “Unlawful killing. Misadventure. Suicide.”

  There were murmurs from the public gallery. Three possible verdicts, but only one would satisfy them, and convince them that justice had been done.

  During the recess, while the jury was out, Tennison went for a smoke in the white-tiled basement which served as a waiting room. She sat apart from all the others, needing to be alone. Besides, the Allen family was down there, surrounded by friends and well-wishers from the public gallery. Therefore it came as a surprise when Sarah came up, and after a slight hesitation, sat down beside her.

  She looked at Tennison with the same sort of understanding as when she had entered the courtroom, as if they shared some secret sorrow.

  “I’m sorry about that tabloid shit.”

  “So am I,” Tennison said with feeling, puffing on her cigarette.

  “I received these this morning.” Sarah glanced around, and shielding it with her bod
y, took a brown envelope from her bag and handed it over. “From the same source, I’d say. No—look at them in private,” she said quickly, as Tennison lifted the flap. Then she got up and returned to sit with her family.

  In the ladies’ lavatory Tennison took the photographs from the envelope and looked at them. Jason’s handiwork, no question. He and his phallic zoom lens, poking it where it wasn’t wanted.

  Now she knew why Sarah’s attitude towards her had changed so dramatically. They were sisters in this, two female victims of the same ugly, sick masculine mind.

  She read the message scrawled in green felt-tip.

  “DON’T EVEN THINK OF TALKING TO THAT FUCK TENNISON. I’M WATCHING YOU.”

  Tennison felt her fury mounting to white-heat. Not because of what he had written about her, she didn’t waste a second worrying about that. It was his sheer egotistical arrogance that incensed her. The swaggering bully who’ll stoop to the lowest, meanest, most cowardly tricks and thinks he can get away with it. Up to and including rape, buggery, and murder.

  God, she was going to nail that little shit if it was the last thing she did.

  The court official waited for complete silence. “And have you reached a verdict?” he asked.

  The jury foreman rose to his feet. “We have. The verdict is suicide.”

  The crowd of reporters, photographers, and TV crews was in danger of becoming a riot, fighting to get near Vernon and Esme Allen as they came down the steps of the courthouse. Esme was weeping openly, in the protective circle of her husband’s arm as he shouldered his way through to the waiting cab. Behind them, spilling through the doors, came their friends and supporters from the public gallery, still angry, still booing at the verdict. The antiracist demonstrators joined in. Chants of “coconut” and “Bounty bar” went up as Oswalde appeared. He struggled down the steps, being jostled and pushed on all sides.

  Tennison and Kernan were largely ignored. They managed to slip through as the media pack surged after the family, wanting shots of Esta and the little girl, who were being helped by Sarah.

  Vernon was doing his best to get Esme into the cab. She was hysterical, swaying and shaking her head like somebody drunk. “He wouldn’t kill himself, never,” she wailed. “He had no reason. He was to be married this weekend …”

  The photographers closed in, flashes going off.

  “He loved his daughter, his family, he was always a happy boy … he would never kill himself!”

  Sarah, handing Cleo into Esta’s arms in the cab parked farther along the street, straightened up and looked through the crowd to where Tennison was standing. The eyes of the two women locked and held. Both of them knew that Esme, the grieving mother, was deluding herself. Far from being a happy boy, Tony had been eaten away inside by some dreadful knowledge, a secret he carried with him to the grave.

  Watching Sarah climb into the cab, Tennison wondered how much of that secret she shared with her brother. How much both of them really knew about the cause and circumstances of Joanne Fagunwa’s brutal murder.

  Tennison drove down Chancery Lane, turned left onto Fleet Street, heading for Ludgate Circus. She’d decided that the station could do without her for a couple of hours. It was just after midday; she’d take an extended lunch break and maybe stock up with frozen dinners at Sainsbury’s.

  The rain was still drumming down as she waited for the lights at the intersection with Shoe Lane. Gazing through the windshield, her eyes drifted down to the envelope Sarah had given her, lying on top of the dashboard behind the steering wheel. Tennison leaned forward, frowning. There was a postmark. Of course there was a postmark, cretin, if the bloody thing had been posted! She snatched it up. The postmark said “CLACTON” with yesterday’s date.

  Instead of turning right, Tennison swung into the left-hand lane, getting a few looks for her pains, gave them the finger in return, and drove up Farrington Street, back towards Southampton Row.

  She barged into the Incident Room, unwinding her long scarf, already halfway out of her raincoat. Copies of the offending tabloid were swiftly stowed away. She didn’t show that she noticed, and if she noticed she didn’t care.

  “Richard.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Start again with the trailer parks. Start with Clacton and any others that come within the postal district. And then work out along the Essex coast from there. Fast, please.”

  Haskons jumped to it, organizing the team to begin the search.

  Jason had been studying her for a good five minutes before he made his move. She was wearing an anorak over a white blouse and a pleated gray skirt, white ankle socks, and Adidas sneakers. Cutting school, he could spot ’em a mile off. Feeding her lunch money into a slot machine. This was the fourth one she’d tried in the shore arcade, and at this rate she’d be out of cash in no time flat.

  He circled around, closing in. Fourteen, he guessed, maybe just turned fifteen. Ripe as a peach waiting to be plucked. Firm pair of titties sprouting under that starched blouse. Nice arse on it too. He liked a nice tight arse.

  He breezed up, and leaning nonchalantly against the machine she was working, started reading aloud from the tabloid he was holding, spread open at the page three pinup.

  “ ‘Lovely Donna, from Clacton. Thirty-six, twenty-two, thirty-four.’ It’s you, innit?”

  “What?” the girl said, chewing gum. She had small, very white teeth and a soft downy complexion. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a severe, straggling bunch, but it couldn’t hide how pretty she was.

  “In the paper.” Jason swiveled around to show her the picture of the girl arching her back and bending over slightly so that her breasts hung down, nipples teased erect. “You’re Donna.”

  The girl shot him a glance from under her eyelashes. “Dirty creek,” she said, but she was laughing when she said it.

  13

  Young David answered the telephone. “Hold on, please,” he said, polite as ever, and called out, “Sarah—phone.”

  Sarah came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She glanced up the stairs, to where the sound of her mother’s racking sobs was rending the air. She had been crying like that, almost without pause, for the past hour. Vernon had had to call the doctor in, and they were upstairs with Esme now.

  “Who is it?” Sarah asked, taking the phone.

  “I don’t know.” David went off into the kitchen.

  “Hello?” It was Tennison. Sarah went stiff. She shook her head, watching furtively as her father and their G.P. came down the stairs. She said in a low voice, “It’s not a good time to call …”

  Vernon came into the hallway. “Thank you, doctor. Perhaps she’ll sleep now.” He opened the vestibule door to show the doctor out.

  “Hang on a sec.” Sarah carried the phone into the living room and pushed the door to with her foot. “Okay.”

  Tennison sounded serious and urgent. “We can’t let him get away with this, Sarah, He can’t turn us into his victims as well.”

  Sarah looked up at the ceiling. Her mother’s sobs were like hacksaw blades, slicing through her brain. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it. She looked wildly around the room, as if seeking some means of escape, and then made up her mind. “All right. But off the record. I’m not giving evidence. Tomorrow …”

  “No, tonight,” Tennison said. “Please.”

  Sarah shut her eyes tight and breathed in. “All right. I can probably make it around seven.”

  “Thank you. ’Bye.”

  Sarah replaced the receiver. Her hands were sweating and she was trembling all over. Above her head, Esme’s broken sobbing went on, and on, and on.

  The Incident Room was a cacophony of voices and jangling telephones. Each man on the team had been given a segment of the Essex coast, from Burnham-on-Crouch to Harwich, checking out every trailer park in a wide radius of Clacton. At her desk, Tennison watched over the bustle and babble of activity, chewing on a Nicorette and anxiously waiting for the
first sign of a positive lead.

  It was Gary Rosper who struck lucky. He banged the phone down and was up on his feet, eyes alight, scurrying across the room to Tennison, waving his notepad. “The Shangri-friggin’-la, Walton-on-the Naze.”

  “Where the hell’s that?” Tennison frowned.

  “Christ knows.” Rosper didn’t.

  “Richard,” Muddyman called out to Haskons, who was already unfolding a large-scale map. “Walton-on-the-Naze.”

  Everyone gathered around. Muddyman pointed it out, nine miles north of Clacton, right on the tip of a peninsula of tiny scattered islands, creeks, and mud flats.

  “How long will it take to get there?” Tennison asked.

  “This time of day, about three and a half hours,” Muddyman said.

  “I want Oswalde to go,” Tennison said. She ignored the looks that were being bandied about, and went on crisply. “Inform the local police. Tell them to sit tight until he gets there.”

  “Why Oswalde?” Muddyman wanted to know, voicing the question none of the others dared ask.

  “Because I say so.”

  No arguing with that. Haskons went to phone Oswalde at home, telling him to put his skates on. After three days in a stuffy courtroom a day at the seaside would make a welcome change.

  With a professional eye, Jason delved through the rack of frilly slips, cami tops, and lacy French panties. He selected a cute little number in peach, pleated sides and a see-through lace panel at the front. A crafty, calculating look in his pale blue eyes, he stepped over to the changing cubicle and swept aside the plastic curtain.

  “Oi,” Sandra said. Down to her bra and panties, she turned away, covering up. He’d been right. Well-blessed up top. This was going to be fun.

  “There you go, Sandy.” Jason grinned. “Try them on.”

  She took the pleated French panties and gave him a long stare as he lingered by the open curtain. “Go on then.”

  Jason pursed his lips and blew her a wet kiss before turning away. His chest felt tight, his breath catching in his throat.

  It took Oswalde a shade over three hours to reach the campsite at Walton-on-the-Naze. Three officers from the local Essex C.I.D. were waiting for him in the site manager’s office. Taking charge, he told them to stay put until he’d had the chance to size up the situation, and escorted by the manager, he walked down the sloping gravel path through row upon row of trailers to the one pointed out to him as belonging to Jason Reynolds. There was a cool breeze whipping in off the sea, and Oswalde was glad he’d put on a thick-knitted polo-neck sweater and his leather jacket.