Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (14 page)

“Be a couple of days,” Dr. Gordon said kindly, handing her the leaflets. “I’ll call you.”

“Thank you,” Tennison said, stuffing them in her pocket. “And thank you for fitting me in. I’m sorry I was late.”

As she got to the door her bleeper sounded. She fished it out and pressed a button. “Can I use your phone?”

7

I
n the softening gloom of early dusk the unkempt graves and slanting headstones of St. Margaret’s Crypt flashed red and yellow in the lights of the patrol car and ambulance parked outside the rusting iron gates. Two uniformed officers were cordoning off the area inside the churchyard with yellow marking ribbons: POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS. Arc lamps had been set up. The sudden harsh glare as they were switched on transformed the crypt into a ghastly gothic world of drunken shadows and crumbling statues, broken glass glittering in the long grass.

A motley collection of human detritus watched with befuddled curiosity. Some were crouched on the low broken-down wall, others slumped on the pavement, wrapped in blankets with layers of newspaper inside. Empty wine and cider bottles filled the gutters. Situated between the Bullring and the underpass of Waterloo Bridge, the derelict churchyard was home to a nighttime population of summer residents; the winter months were far too cold for sleeping on gravestones, even topped up with Thunderbird wine and two liters of Woodpecker.

Otley was talking to the police photographer when he saw Tennison’s Sierra nosing along the narrow cobbled street. She stopped some distance away, leaving room for the ambulance, and wound her window down. Otley went across and leaned in.

“Body was discovered about an hour ago. There’s a doctor checking him over now.”

Tennison followed him, stepping over the heaps of rubbish and broken bottles. As they approached the gates a hand reached out, grabbing at her coat, and a slurred voice said, “Givvus a quid fer a cup o’ tea. . . .”

Tennison stopped one of the policemen. “For chrissakes, clear them out of here!” she snapped. “Get rid of them!”

Lifting the yellow tape for her to bend under, Otley gave a half smile. “Can’t get rid of them, Guv. Each tombstone’s an allocated lodging.” He pointed. “He’s over there, by the angel. Some bloody guardian!”

He remained at the tape, watching Tennison moving through the headstones toward a huge white praying angel with a shattered wing, marble eyes raised sightlessly to heaven. Then, with his sardonic grin, Otley went out through the gates and along the street in the direction of Waterloo Bridge.

The doctor had been kneeling on a plastic sheet while he carried out his examination. He stood up, clicked his small black leather bag shut, and moved aside. Tennison peered down. In death, Martin Fletcher looked even pathetically younger and frailer than he had in life—short, brutish and nasty as that had been.

He lay on his back on the pitted tombstone, one leg bent under the other, his arms open wide. His head was tilted to one side, puffy eyelids closed in his chalk-white face, a string of saliva and vomit hanging from his half-open mouth. By his outstretched hand were two cans of lighter fluid and a two-liter plastic bottle of Woodpecker cider, empty.

I never told nobody nuffink and that is the Gawd’s truth .
.
.

Tennison had seen all she wanted to. She turned away, thinking that Martin Fletcher must have told somebody something, or he wouldn’t have ended up a cold lump of meat on a stone slab, fourteen years of life washed down the drain.

Otley stood at the chest-high wooden counter of the sandwich trailer not a stone’s throw from the iron trelliswork of Waterloo Bridge. It was dark now, the patch of waste ground near the trailer dimly illuminated by a sulky fire in an oil drum. A dozen or so kids sat around it, one of them holding a thin shivering mongrel on a piece of string. Cans of beer were being passed around. Somebody had his nose inside a brown paper bag, breathing heavily, then coughing and spluttering as he passed it on.

“You want ketchup? Mustard? Onions . . . ?”

The stallholder held Otley’s hamburger in his palm. He pushed a large white mug toward Otley’s elbow. “Sugar in the tea? Milk? Top or not?”

“No top, mate,” Otley said, reaching into his pocket for change. “An’ I’ll have the rest, but easy on the ketchup, heavy on the mustard.” He plonked a pound coin and fifty-pence piece down and turned to the boy beside him. Alan Thorpe was a fresh-faced kid with jug ears and straight blond hair hacked off in ragged bangs. Otley guessed he was about thirteen.

“Who else was there that night then?”

Together they strolled, Otley munching his hamburger and sipping his mug of tea, toward the group around the fire. On the far side of the trailer, in the vast shadow cast by the bridge, Tennison slowly drew up. She wound her window down. From this distance she couldn’t hear, but she could see everything that was going on. Otley saying something that made the blond kid laugh, and Otley laughing too. Otley bending down to feed the dog some hamburger. Otley talking to the blond kid, paying close attention to what he said. And then Otley glancing up and seeing her car, the word “Shit” as discernible on his lips as if she’d heard him mutter it.

He came across, chewing the last of the hamburger, wiping his fingers on his hankerchief. He gestured.

“Come midnight they’re around this place like flies. Does a hell of a trade.”

“The boy that bit Dalton, Billy. Turns out he’s got AIDS.”

Otley stared. “Jesus Christ. How’s Dalton?”

“We don’t know yet,” Tennison said bleakly. “It’s tough.”

“Yeah, it’s tough for Billy too,” Otley said, and she was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He leaned on the open window and nodded toward the group. “That was Jackson’s third witness, blond boy with the dog, Alan Thorpe.” He belched and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Says he was too pissed to remember who was at the centre the night Connie died, so that’s one alibi that’s no good.”

“You want a ride home?” Tennison asked him.

Otley hesitated, half shook his head, then changed his mind. As they drove off, the midnight blue Merc with the rusty patches that had been parked under the bridge with its lights off ghosted forward. Jackson slid out from behind the wheel. He stood running his thumb over the rings on his hand, wearing a long, beat-up leather coat that nearly reached his ankles. Pursing his fleshy lips, he gave a low whistle. The kids around the fire turned to look. Jackson whistled again. The dog was released and trotted over to him, trailing its bit of string.

Jackson knelt down, rubbing the dog’s head. He looked up, smiling.

“Alan, come here a sec.”

When nobody moved, Jackson stood up.

“ALAN!” The smile wiped from his face, he pointed. “You! Come here. Don’t mess with me, get over here.”

The group of kids shrank away as Alan Thorpe stood up and shuffled across the loose gravel. He was shuffling too slowly, and Jackson made an angry beckoning gesture.

“What was all that about?” Jackson asked softly as Alan came up. And reaching out, Alan shying away a little, Jackson ruffled the boy’s hair.

“He wanted to know about Connie,” Alan said, barely audible.

Jackson opened the passenger door. “Get in, Alan. We’re goin’ for a little ride.”

“Okay.” Alan moved forward. “What about me mates, can they come too . . .”

Jackson grabbed him by the back of the neck and flung him inside. He smiled. “Just you an’ me, Alan.”

Alan suddenly grinned back, eyes impish in his soft childish face. “Got a punter for me, ’ave yer?”

Jackson slammed the door.

Tennison turned off Holloway Road into the little street of neat terraced houses, each with its own few square feet of scrubby garden. Otley lived three doors from the bottom end, where the viaduct of the London to Birmingham mainline blocked off the street.

She didn’t expect him to invite her in for a coffee, and he didn’t. She wouldn’t have accepted anyway. They were reluctant colleagues, not bosom friends. He was strangely on edge. He opened the door but stayed in the car, one leg out. He looked back at her. In the streetlight his eyes were black pits, unfathomable, perhaps unknowable. She didn’t know him.

“Your real bastards are the ones that use them,” Otley said. “Can’t get to them though, can you?” Grinning at her, teeth clenched. “Especially if they got friends in high places. Dig deep enough an’ you come up against concrete . . . know what I mean . . .”

He was out fast then, slamming the door, through the squeaking gate, up the little path, not looking back. As if he’d said more than he should, shown too much of how he really felt.

Tennison drove home, too tired to bother to understand what he had been getting at. A large Bushmills and bed, that was all she wanted. Another day over, thank God.

At 9 
A.M.
it started all over again. The Squad Room was a cacophony of ringing phones, shouted questions, some foul language, and twenty conversations going on all at once. Updates from the night-duty staff were being passed around. Halliday was at the big notice board with Norma, who was taking him through the various lines of inquiry that were under way. Tennison had one ear to everything that was happening while she listened to Kathy. She felt to be in better shape today, her attention keener, adrenaline buzzing with the noise and activity. Down one day, on a high the next, it was puzzling.

“I’ve been checking out the cards from the advice centre. One of the so-called photographers was busted a few years ago, so he was quite helpful.” Tennison nodded to show she was listening. Kathy went on, “He’s mostly porn and girly pics, but he put me onto a Mark Lewis . . .” She passed over a note of the address. “He specializes in male ‘beauty’ style pictures. I called his number but got short shrift. I think it’d be better for one of the men to have a go. If Connie was trying to be a model he could have used him.”

“Thanks, Kathy.” Tennison gave her a smile and a brisk nod. Halliday was now talking to Ray Hebdon, so Norma was free. “Any messages?” Tennison called to her.

Hall had gathered some of them together for a pep talk. “I just want a quick word, okay? Can you keep dealing with as much of that backlog as possible, and those in court today—Please Give Times! Availability!” Lurking smiles as he adjusted the knot in his immaculate tie, lemon and gray diagonal stripes with embroidered fleur-de-lis.

“Right, I want to give you all a serious warning. I know it’s been said before, but I’m saying it again—and I’ll keep on saying it. Some of these youngsters have full-blown AIDS. They know it! You know it—keep it in your minds. Please, I know you are all aware of the risks, but heed the warnings and the instructions you’ve all had concerning any form of confrontation. Biting is just as dangerous as one of them stabbing you with a hypodermic needle. . . .”

Tennison was at the board, Norma at her elbow reading out the messages. The names of Jackson’s witnesses were ringed and ticked, a line in red through Martin Fletcher’s name. Billy Matthews had a tick and two question marks.

“Oh, and Jessica from the newspaper, she’s the most persistent woman I have ever known!” Norma said, concluding her summary. “She says if you don’t have the time to return her calls, she will come in and see you at a convenient time.” The stocky girl shook her head, exasperated. “But she refuses to tell me what she wants.”

Farther along, Haskons and Lillie were taking notes from the update bulletin board. Tennison said, “Next time she rings, tell her that unless she tells you what is so important . . .” She frowned up at the board. “The Jackson alibis . . . Alan Thorpe was drunk, why the query on Billy Matthews?”

“He doesn’t remember where he was that night. We need to question him again—he might remember!” The inference being that if Norma could have ten minutes alone with him, he damn well would.

Tennison returned to her desk. Otley breezed in and came straight up. He seemed to regard the morning briefing as optional, she thought crossly. Went his own sweet way. But as usual he hadn’t been idle.

“Martin Fletcher virtually drowned in his own vomit. His blood alcohol was so high, it could have been bottled! Plus other substances.” He gripped the edge of the desk in both hands, leaning at an angle. His polyester tie, the knot askew, hung down limp and wrinkled. His suit looked as if it had been slept in. “He’d been sniffing from a gas lighter canister. They said if you’d put a match to him he’d have combusted!”

Superintendent Halliday was standing at the doors, gesturing. Tennison craned her head around Otley to see that she was being summoned. She gave Otley a look, and with a sigh followed Halliday out. Now what?

“So, where are the cream?” Otley drawled, punching Hall on the shoulder. He raised his voice. “That scruff Haskons and Co.?”

Haskons nudged Lillie, and the pair of them turned from the board with wide grins.

Hall said, “Their team’s checking into a mini-cab firm that’s a cover for a hire-a-cab and a Tom-thrown-in. New place just opened, Kings Cross.”

“Inventive,” Otley remarked with a sly wink. “But who drives?”

“You released Jackson? That means his alibis pan out?”

“We’re still checking, still trying to retrace all the boys, take them through their statements again,” Tennison told him. All this was up on the board, so why the grilling? There was a hidden agenda here, though she was blowed if she could even hazard a guess.