Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Tennison leaned forward. “But did you see her?”

Vernon Allen gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.”

“Was it the girl whose remains we’ve found? Is that why you won’t cooperate?”

“Listen. My family is very upset.” He was making a great effort to speak slowly, holding his emotions in check. “It’s an important time for us. A wedding should be a time of joy. I have cooperated with you in every way so far…”

“Then please answer the question. Did she answer the description I’ve given you?”

“No.” He stared straight back. “She was a white girl.”

“Not just light-skinned?”

“No. White.”

Tennison leaned back, pressing her lips together. “Can you describe her, please?”

Vernon Allen thought for a moment. “Small, perhaps five foot two. A tiny thing, really. Blond hair-bleached, I would say.” Tennison nodded, making notes. “Young, but not the girl you described.”

Tennison looked up from her pad. “Did you have sexual relations with this girl?”

She saw in his eyes how disturbed he was by this question.

“I did not,” Vernon Allen replied gravely.

“What was the relationship between Harvey and this girl?”

“God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

“And when did all this happen, Vernon?”

He stared down at the desk, evading Tennison’s gaze, but she was quite content to wait. He cleared his throat and swallowed, and reluctantly admitted, “It could have been the summer you’re talking about.”

Tennison replaced the cap on her pen and screwed it tight.

The medical artist had promised it by the end of the week, and the next day, shortly after three in the afternoon, he delivered the goods.

On her way back from the ladies’ room, Tennison nipped up to Kernan’s office and invited him to come along to the Incident Room and take a gander at it. She thought it was the least she could do, seeing as how Kernan had been burdened with finding the money from his budget to pay for it.

“The Viswandhas’ lawyer has been bending my ear,” Kernan grumbled to her as they walked along the corridor. “He tells me Forensic are still there, poking around inside the house, lifting carpets, floorboards, the lot.”

“So?”

“Let’s get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kernan pushed open the door of the Incident Room, waving her to go first, and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Let’s see it then.”

There was an air of expectancy. All the team had gathered for the grand unveiling. Richards, the police photographer, had set up his tripod and lights. Tennison nodded to Haskons, who stepped forward and whisked off the cloth. There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a kind of collective gasp. The medical artist had been too modest, Tennison thought. He was as much artist as he was scientist, without doubt.

Modeled in brown clay, the head was astonishingly lifelike. The girl was young and very beautiful, rather proud-looking, with braided hair swept back from a wide forehead. The artist had caught exactly the mixed-race cast of her features, high cheekbones had a generous mouth, and it reminded Tennison strongly of the sculpted head of an ancient goddess.

Everyone, even the hardened longtime pros who thought they’d seen everything, were impressed…

Everyone except Kernan, cynical old bugger, who was seeing a hole in his budget rather than an expertly crafted clay head.

His only comment was a surly, “Very nice,” and then the swing door was wafting the air as he disappeared through it.

Richards was popping off photographs, moving his camera around to cover all the angles. Tennison turned to the men.

“Right… I want these photographs to appear everywhere they can, local and national press. From now on you’ll show them to anyone who might be able to help. Let’s get the Allens in to see this…” She gestured towards the head. “Vernon Allen has confirmed that there was a hooker working from the basement of Number fifteen that summer. From his description it wasn’t Nadine but it’s possible that Nadine was a tom as well… perhaps Harvey was a small-time pimp? Harvey is at the hospital all day tomorrow,” she added, “so I won’t be able to see him till the evening to tackle him about it.”

“She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” DC Lillie said.

“Start asking around anyway.” Tennison moved to the board. “Vernon Allen has accounted for his family’s whereabouts on the thirty-first. For the last ten years there’s been a Reggae Sunsplash concert in Honeyford Park on the last Sunday in August. Vernon says Esme was at that concert-she’s there every year running a stall selling West Indian food.”

The men were silent, paying close attention. Glancing down at her notes now and then to refresh her memory, Tennison continued.

“Apparently Tony, the son, attended the concert, which is an all-day affair-ten to ten. Vernon says he spent the day at home with Sarah and David. Tony returned at about nine p.m. to look after his brother and sister so Vernon could go to work. I’ve checked Vernon’s work record. He did a double shift through Sunday night and late into Monday. By the time Esme had packed up, returned things to the cafe and got back home, it was about ten forty-five p.m. She says by then all three children were asleep in bed. Obviously, wherever possible, I’d like these accounts verified.”

She looked around, and was about to call the briefing over when Oswalde, leaning back nonchalantly against a desk, arms folded, said casually, “Perhaps that’s the link between Nadine and Honeyford Road.”

“What?”

“The Reggae Sunsplash.”

Tennison’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Harvey could have met her there, or Tony Allen. Perhaps the victim’s bag of African cloth was a costume of some sort. She might even have been performing at the concert.”

Nobody said anything. Oswalde’s first contribution, after being on the team less than twenty-four hours, was a good one, and everybody knew it.

Tennison looked away from him, tapping her fingers on the desk. “It’s an interesting thought. Worth following up. Frank, Gary, I’d like you to visit the Sunsplash organizers first thing tomorrow-see if they can point you toward any bands using back up singers or musicians in African dress.”

Oswalde slowly unfolded his arms. He couldn’t believe this. He’d just single-handedly come up with a promising lead and she’d tossed the juicy bone to someone else. Knowing what he must be feeling, the rest of the team couldn’t meet his dark, angry eyes. Something was going down here, but they were damned if they knew what it was.

“Anything else?” said Tennison briskly. “Right. That’s it for now.” She strode out.

Oswalde went after her. He caught up with her in the corridor and made her stop. “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.

“What?”

“Treating me like the office boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tennison said, braving it out. Her eyes shifted away; people were passing, and it was a bit public for this exchange.

“Why didn’t you send me to see the concert organizers?”

“You’re busy already,” Tennison said, another convenient crap excuse. “Besides, I thought that you didn’t want to be given special tasks because of the color of your skin.”

“I don’t,” Oswalde said curtly. “I want to be given a task commensurate with my abilities and experience.”

He was right to be pissed-off, and right to make this request, they both knew it. Tennison was anxious to end this public confrontation lest tongues started to wag. She said, “I want you to carry on overseeing Mispers…” Oswalde was about to protest, and she cut him short. “But I’d also like you to arrange for the Allens to see the clay head. Watch their reactions.”