Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Tennison left the office.

Ten minutes later, on the pretext of officially welcoming DS Oswalde to Southampton Row, Tennison summoned him to her office. She was still pent up and dying for a smoke. She stood in front of her desk, arms folded, looking up at him, accusation in her eyes.

“Are you expecting me to believe this is a complete coincidence?”

Oswalde regarded her placidly. “I don’t know about coincidence-how many black detectives did he have to choose from? What I’m saying is that it had nothing to do with me. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t ask to be the token black on your team.”

He seemed quite sanguine about it.

Tennison said sharply, “Just don’t think that what happened on the course gives you any special privileges.”

“I don’t.”

“And don’t you dare tell anyone.”

“Jane, please… what do you take me for?”

“And don’t call me Jane.”

Oswalde wore a pained expression. “Look, give me some credit. What happened, happened. It’s gone, long since forgotten about. Let’s not give it another thought…”

“Yes. Right.” Tennison waved her hand, dismissing him. “Go back to the Incident Room. I’ll be along in a minute.”

When he’d gone she stared at the door for a long moment, then stuck a Nicorette in her mouth and chewed the hell out of it.

All the team was there, assembled for the four o’clock briefing. There was an odd, strained atmosphere, Tennison snapping out instructions, and the men uneasy. They guessed it had something to do with Kernan and Oswalde, but beyond that they were completely in the dark.

Tennison stood in front of the board, her eyes raking over them. “We could have the clay head by tomorrow with any luck. By the end of the week at the latest. After talking to Harvey, our best bet is to concentrate on Sunday, August the thirty-first, 1986.”

“Has Harvey got an alibi?” Burkin asked.

Tennison nodded. “His sister, Eileen. I’m going to talk to her soon. We need a name. We need to build up Nadine’s life story, then we might be able to connect her to Harvey.”

“I’ve been wading through these statements,” Haskons said, sitting on the edge of his desk and indicating a pile of papers. “One or two people talk about a young girl staying in the basement of Number fifteen.”

“Really?” Tennison said.

“Conflicting reports, but it could have been eighty-six.”

“Brilliant. I’d like to make a start on missing persons. Bob, perhaps you could handle that.”

Oswalde straightened up, his face stiffening, and then gave an abrupt nod. Some of the others exchanged looks. “Mispers” wasn’t normally a job for a Detective Sergeant, especially one as experienced as Oswalde.

“Tony, can you go and see if you can have a word with Harvey’s doctor, make sure he’s not just a bloody good actor.”

“If he is, he should win an Oscar,” Muddyman said.

“Right. That’s all for now.”

As she went out, Burkin turned to Haskons with a grin, muttering, “Glad to see the boss is keeping our colored friend in his place.” Haskons didn’t agree, and he was less than happy with Tennison’s duty allocation. He followed and caught up with her in the corridor.

“Guv… can I put someone else on Mispers?”

“Why?”

“With respect, ma’am, it’s ridiculous having a man of his experience…”

“No.” Tennison was already striding off. “He might pick up on something a more junior man might miss. Don’t call me ma’am.”

Haskons watched her go, shaking his head. Of all the crap excuses…

Eileen Reynolds was a younger, much tougher version of her brother David Harvey. A hard-bitten Glaswegian woman with a shrewd, sharp-nosed face under a silvery cap of bleached hair, she sat in Tennison’s office wearing a powder blue coat and a tartan scarf that clashed badly with everything. Her son Jason sat meekly by her side, as if cowed by her domineering presence.

Tennison was trying to establish the pattern of Harvey’s visits to his sister, and whether he had been there on the weekend in question.

“I’m sure, of course I’m sure! Every year since his Jeanie died. He wouldn’t have left till the Monday morning.” Eileen Reynolds suddenly bent forward, her work-worn hands clutching the shiny black handbag in her lap. “What you lot’ve got to remember is that he’s a sick man. You shouldn’t be hounding him.”

“Mum.” Jason tugged at her sleeve. He seemed embarrassed. “They’ve got their job to do.”

“He’s waiting for an operation you know? You’ll be the bloody death of him…”

“We’re not hounding him, Mrs. Reynolds. We’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries.”

Leaning forward again, beady eyes glittering, the woman said hoarsely, “You wouldn’t be hounding him like this if he was a black man.”

“Mum…!”

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Tennison said patiently, “I’ve questioned your brother once, that’s all. Which is not surprising given that the body of a young girl was found buried in his garden.”

Eileen Reynolds snorted. “Well, that’s a lot of rubbish. Simone Cameron this, Simone Cameron that. Was it Simone?”

“No.”

“Exactly. It’s my brother you should be concerned about. He’s the one that’s dying.”

“Is that all for now?” Jason asked, standing up.

“Yes. Thank you very much for coming.”

“Come on, Mum…”

“Don’t pull me about!” At the door she turned her sharp, angry face towards Tennison for a parting shot. “He’s at the hospital tomorrow thanks to you.”

“Come on,” Jason said, steering her out into the corridor.

Tennison went to the door and indicated to a passing WPC that she should see them to reception. With his arm around the back of the powder blue coat, Jason guided his mother after the WPC, the dutiful, attentive son.

Tennison looked at her watch, debated for a moment, and grabbed her coat from the hook. If she hurried she’d just be in time to catch Vernon Allen before he left his office.

He wasn’t as friendly and cooperative this time. Perhaps it was because he was in his management role, sitting at a mahogany desk, his broad frame inside a well-cut suit and matching waistcoat. Or perhaps he was just fed up with Tennison retreading the same questions he thought he’d already answered.

Aware that he was fretting, impatient to get away, Tennison said, “Just one last thing, Vernon. You said that you and Mr. Harvey fell out because he wouldn’t move.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“What? No.”

“But didn’t he sublet the basement? To a girl?”

“That had nothing to do with me.”

“What had nothing to do with you?”

“Whatever she was doing.”

“What was she doing?”

“Look-I don’t know. It was none of my business.”

Vernon Allen sniffed and turned his head away, gazing through the venetian blinds at the London skyline in the gathering dusk. Far below, the rush-hour traffic was clogging up the Euston underpass.

“It was if she was a prostitute, Vernon,” Tennison said.

“Why?”

“Because as the landlord you could have been charged with running a brothel.”

He was offended. “How dare you use the word ‘brothel.’ ”

“What word would you use?”

He looked at her through his heavy, dark-framed glasses, a hint of uncertainty there, as if he wasn’t sure of his ground anymore. With a weary motion he pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and said, “I was at work all hours, Esme was too. A neighbor told us men were calling there. I spoke to Harvey right away but I had no proof. Then suddenly the… the girl… seemed to have gone.”