Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Bream was trying to be helpful. He had a good deal of respect for Jane Tennison, considered her a fine police officer with a keen intellect and an intuitive grasp of the many complex strands that went to make up a homicide inquiry. And to top it all, he rather liked her. Not an opinion he would have extended to quite a few chief inspectors of his acquaintance. He said, “Well, we’ve got a man here who does all kinds of jiggery-pokery with the skull to ascertain ethnic origins. Better still, a medical artist who could make you a clay head, at a price.”

“Is he good?”

“He’s our very own Auguste Rodin,” Bream said, a glimmer of a smile lurking behind his usual deadpan facade.

“Yeah, but is he good?”

“Naturellement.”

“That’s expensive, right?”

Bream nodded, looking down on her over his glasses. “Do you want a word with Mike Kernan?”

Tennison nibbled her lip. Then she decided. “No, screw it. Let’s just do it.”

“Okay.”

“So how long before I can pick it up?”

“Three weeks.”

“Fine,” Tennison said, moving back to watch Paul engaged in his painstaking assembly of the skull. “I’ll pick it up in three days.”

“I’ll have a word with him.” Bream stood at her shoulder. “Perhaps if you were prepared to model in the nude…?”

“That’s sexual harassment.”

Bream slowly blinked, his expression sanguine. “What isn’t these days?”

Tennison folded her arms, stroking her chin as she gazed at the skull in the bright cone of light. “How did she die, Oscar?”

“I’ve no idea,” Bream confessed. “Her skull could’ve been smashed after death. For all I know she could’ve been buried alive.”

The Incident Room was buzzing with activity when Tennison walked in. Almost all the team was here, shirtsleeves rolled up, plowing through all the Harveys in the telephone directories. It was tedious and frustrating, having to redial when the line was busy, or waiting with drumming fingers for a phone that was never answered. When they did get through to someone, the routine was always the same.

“David Harvey? I’m a police officer carrying out routine inquiries. I wonder if you can help me. Can you tell me whether you were ever domiciled at Number fifteen, Honeyford Road?”

The same routine, and up to now, the same response. Tick the name off and start again. What the hell, Rosper thought, tapping out the next number. It was better than digging up gas mains for a living.

Tennison draped her raincoat over the back of a chair and tucked her blouse into her straight, black skirt. Covering her mouth, she belched softly, still digesting the egg and cottage cheese sandwich she’d eaten driving back in the car, washed down with a carton of orange juice. She did a quick scan of the board, checking if anything new had been pinned up.

“Got anything for me?”

“Nothing so far, boss,” Haskons said, glancing up, keeping his finger on the number he was about to dial. “But we have got some more stuff that’s been dug up in the garden of Number fifteen. Jonesey’s getting it from Gold.”

“Let’s hope it’s good.” Standing at the desk, Tennison raised her voice. “Right, listen up. I’ve just come back from Oscar Bream at the Path Labs. It’s definitely not Simone Cameron.” A wave of disgruntled mutters and sighs went through the room; dark looks were exchanged. As well as an unidentified murderer, they now had an unidentified victim too.

“So we need to operate on two fronts,” Tennison went on. “Find David Harvey and identify Nadine. It’s a bottle of Scotch for David Harvey.”

The team went back to work. Tennison busied herself with the duty roster wondering if she needed to ask the Super for more manpower. Then she remembered the clay model head she’d requested, without first clearing it with him, and decided to let it hang for the time being.

Jones arrived with the new material from Forensic. Tennison shoved the papers aside to make space on the desk.

“They found a plastic bag buried as well, ma’am, and Gold has linked it to the girl. Contained this.”

Tennison stared down at the roll of heavily-woven cloth, dark browns and greens with threads of gold. Next to it Jones had placed two large chunky bracelets, hand-carved with an intricate design.

“The cloth is West African,” Jones said, consulting his notebook. “Several yards of it, in fact. And these ivory bracelets are Nigerian.”

Tennison picked them up, turning them round and round. She was surprised at their weight. She slipped one onto her own wrist. Worn smooth through long use, its internal circumference was large enough to slide up to her elbow.

“Yoruba amulets,” Jones informed her, “supposed to ward off evil spirits. Obviously didn’t work for our Nadine. Apparently they’re very old and very valuable.”

Tennison was shaking her head and frowning at the two bracelets she held in her hands. As if speaking to herself, she murmured under her breath, “Who was this girl?”

Many of the houses on the quiet, tree-lined road were detached, others substantial semi-detached properties of the thirties period. It was clear that the Allens had gone up in the world. Esme’s cafe must be a little gold mine, Tennison thought, parking the Orion alongside a low stone wall bordered by neatly-trimmed shrubbery. She made a mental note, and walked up the driveway, briefcase in hand.

Lights glowed behind a vestibule door of stained glass. She rang the bell, and in a few moments a boy of about nine appeared, very smart in a white shirt and school tie, shorts with knife-edge creases in them, polished black shoes.

Tennison smiled. “Can I see your mummy, please?”

“Yes. Please wait here,” said the boy politely, and turned back indoors. She heard him call, “Mum, someone to see you,” and then Esme Allen came through, smiling, holding the door wider.

“Hello, it’s Jane Tennison.”

“Yes, come in.”

The living room was warm and cosy, with a beige carpet and furniture upholstered in burgundy with embroidered backs. Wall lights with red tasseled shades and thick velvet curtains made for a restful atmosphere. Tennison had interrupted a dressmaking session. On the coffee table stood a pretty child of three, with pigtails, being fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress. The hem of the pale yellow satin dress had been partly pinned. The little girl’s chubby black fists dreamily smoothed the material as she waited patiently for it to be finished.

A young man in a gray sweater and jeans, early twenties, Tennison guessed, and rather good-looking, was sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands between his knees, rubbing his palms together. He gave her a brief sidelong glance as she came in, then looked away shyly. Still smiling, the elegant, graceful Esme introduced them.

“This is my son Tony. And this is his daughter, Cleo. Say hello, Cleo.”

“Hello,” Cleo said, dimples in her cheeks.

“Tony and his girlfriend are doing the decent thing-at long last,” Esme confided, casting a look at Tennison under her eyelashes. She spoke educated, standard English; no trace of the heavy West Indian patois she’d used in the shop that morning. “Their daughter is to be a bridesmaid. Lord, how times have changed! You wanted to see my husband?”

“Yes, please.”

Esme sat the little girl on the edge of the coffee table and went out. Tennison took the armchair opposite the sofa and placed her briefcase flat on her knees. There was a momentary, awkward silence, filled with the ticking of a gilt carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

Tennison said, “So when’s the happy day, Tony?”

Nervously, Tony cleared his throat. “Ummm…” He gazed off at something in the corner of the room.