Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

“Thank you,” Oswalde said stiffly, and went back to work.

While he was still sore at Tennison, Oswalde was glad to be more centrally involved in the investigation; combing through the endless Missing Persons files on the computer was brain-numbing, soul-destroying work. He’d done his stint at it as a young DC, and had thought those days were behind him.

He contacted the Allens and arranged for Vernon and Esme, and their son Tony, to come into Southampton Row to view the clay head. He went down to reception to meet them, and before taking them through to the interview room, explained to the three of them what was involved. They were being asked to say if they recognized the girl, and if possible, to identify her.

As they filed in, Oswalde kept a close eye on them, noting their reactions at the first sight of the head on the small wooden plinth. They studied it in silence. Oswalde glanced at Vernon Allen, who shook his head.

“Are you sure, Vernon?”

“Absolutely.”

“Esme?”

“Yes?” Her brows were drawn forward, gazing at the head with a harrowed expression. “No, dear. I’d remember if I had.” She let out a pitiful sigh. “What a beautiful child…”

There was a strange gasping, choking sound. Oswalde swung around to find Tony Allen on the verge of collapse. The boy was shuddering violently and clutching his throat, the awful noises issuing from his quivering mouth. He seemed unable to properly draw a breath.

“Tony-what’s wrong?” Oswalde said, alarmed.

Esme took charge. “Come, Tony, sit down.” She led the boy to a chair and sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “Now don’t make a fuss, you’re all right,” his mother comforted him. “It’s very hot in here. He suffers from asthma,” she explained to Oswalde.

“I see.”

Oswalde watched him. He seemed calmer now, though there was a mist of sweat on his forehead. He kept staring at the clay head, then down at the floor, and then back again, as if the sight mesmerized him.

“Have you seen her before, Tony?”

“No.” He gulped air. “I’ve never seen her.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.

“He’s our prime suspect and he’s dying. I’m not going to sit back and watch.”

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Muddyman panted. “Just another runaway, another dead prostitute…”

Tennison halted on the ninth floor of Dwyfor House and turned to him, her chest heaving. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do if it means climbing these poxy stairs again,” Muddyman said, staring up with deep loathing.

“She’s someone’s daughter, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Muddyman set off again. He said bitterly, “Anything we get from the old sod will be thrown out of court anyway. ‘He didn’t know what he was saying,’ ” Muddyman mimicked a light brown voice. “ ‘Oppressive conduct by the police… ’ ”

If when they’d seen him the previous time Harvey was on his last legs, he was at death’s door now. He looked even more haggard, and kept swallowing tablets-ten different shapes, sizes, and colors-as if they were candy. Tennison, seated opposite him on the sofa, treated him as gently as she knew how. She spread the photographs of Nadine on the coffee table and gave him plenty of time to mull them over. Finally, chest wheezing and rattling, he shook his head.

“No, I’ve never seen her before. I did let the basement room that summer, I admit it. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He fixed Tennison with his rheumy eyes. “The big darkie complained about everything I did. He just wanted me out.”

“Why did you let the room, David? Did you know the girl already?”

“No, I’d never seen her before. It seemed such a big house for just me and I needed the money. I put a card in the newsagent’s window.”

“What was her name?” Muddyman asked, leaning against the back of the sofa.

“Tracey? Sharon? I don’t remember,” Harvey said wearily.

“How long did she stay?” Tennison asked.

“Couple of months.”

“What months?”

“June, July…”

“Not August?”

“No, she’d gone by then.”

“Did you know that she was a prostitute?” Muddyman said, his tone nowhere near as gentle as Tennison’s.

“No.”

“Could she have been friends with that girl?” Tennison indicated the photographs.

“It’s possible.”

“Could she have had a set of keys to the flat?”

Harvey’s narrow shoulders twitched. “Possible I suppose…”

“Could she and some friends have used the flat that Sunday you were at your sister’s?” Tennison pressed him.

“How should I know?” His eyes were upon her, but unfocused, as if he couldn’t quite make her out. “As you say, I wasn’t there…”

His shoulders started heaving as he went into a coughing fit. Muddyman hesitated when Tennison pointed to the kitchen, but then went off and came back with a glass of water, which Harvey gulped down with four more assorted pills.

“Just one last thing, David.” Tennison smiled at him encouragingly. “Could we have a photograph of you, please?”

Harvey wiped his mouth. Beads of water clung to the ragged fringes of his mustache. “Why?”

“It’ll help us eliminate you from our inquiries.”

“Will I get it back?”

“Of course.” Tennison watched him on his snail’s progress to the glass-fronted bureau. “One from the mid-eighties if you’ve got it.”

Harvey took a tattered, red album from the drawer and leafed through it. Tennison went over to stand beside him. She picked up one of the framed photographs, a moody sunset over a gray, restless ocean, which to her inexpert eye looked to be of a professional quality.

“Are you the photographer?” Muddyman asked, taking an interest.

“No. My nephew Jason.”

“They’re very good,” Tennison said, putting it back.

“Here.” Harvey gave her a snapshot of himself, a darker-haired, stronger-looking Harvey with a brown mustache. “Younger and fitter, eh?” he said with a wan smile.

“Thank you. I’ll get this copied and get it back to you as soon as possible.” She put it in her briefcase along with her notebook and snapped the catches.

They went through into the tiny hallway. Harvey leaned on the jamb of the living room door, resting. Tennison reached out to release the Yale lock when she noticed the front door key hanging down from the mailbox on a piece of string. “I’d remove that if I were you, David. Not very safe.”

“It’s so someone can get in if I collapse.” Harvey stated it matter-of-factly; no self-pitying appeal for sympathy.

Tennison gave him a look over her shoulder as she went out. “Even so.”

As they were going down the stairs, Muddyman said mockingly, “You’d make a wonderful Crime Prevention Officer.”

“Oh yeah?” Tennison drawled, punching him.

DS Oswalde lingered by the frozen food cabinets, not even bothering to put up a thin pretense that he was wondering what to buy. The supermarket wasn’t all that busy at this late hour, and Oswalde had an uninterrupted view along the aisles of Tony Allen, neat and dapper in his short dark-blue coat and polka-dotted bow tie, the plastic badge on his left lapel engraved in black letters: “A. ALLEN. TRAINEE MANAGER.”

Tony was aware of the scrutiny. Oswalde had made sure of that. The more rattled the young man became, the better he liked it. Esme Allen had called it an asthma attack. A load of old baloney. Tony had been scared shitless the minute he laid eyes on Nadine’s clay head. He’d recognized her instantly, of that Oswalde hadn’t the slightest doubt.