Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Oswalde watched him scoot off. There was no need to pursue him. Tony Allen wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m a Catholic, too, David, and it’s been a long time since my last confession, but one thing I do remember is that feeling of relief. That weight being lifted off your shoulders.” Harvey’s drab eyes stared up, and Tennison wasn’t sure how much of this was getting through. But she kept at it, soft and remorseless.

“I think we all want to have faith in something, don’t we? We’d like to think we can repent and it’ll be all right… if only we could turn the clock back, make it all right. You’re dying, David. Best get it off your chest. Tell me what happened, David. No more lies. It’s too late for lies.”

Harvey blinked, and tears ran down from the corners of his eyes into his gray hair. Tennison leaned nearer, stroking his hand, her voice like velvet.

“You can talk to me…”

“Can I?” Harvey croaked.

“Of course you can. You can have a doctor present, a lawyer, your sister, Jason, anyone.”

Harvey’s chin quivered. He said huskily, “You know, I’m only fifty-five years old. It’s a fucking joke.”

“I’m sure the doctors will do all they can,” Tennison said.

“I’m so frightened,” Harvey said. His face suddenly crumpled, and he wept.

The streetlights were just flickering into life as Tony Allen came out of the supermarket and walked to his car. He unlocked the door and was about to climb in when he noticed a tall figure leaning against the hood of a black Ford Sierra three cars away.

“Yo, Tony,” Oswalde greeted him. “All right?”

Fists bunched, Tony stormed around his car and went up to him. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you doing this to me?”

Oswalde spread his hands, eyebrows raised. “Hey, doin’ what, man? I’ve been shopping, that’s all…”

“Leave me alone,” Tony ground out, his eyes bulging furiously. “Just leave me alone!”

Oswalde grinned at him. Tony swung around and marched back to his car. In his haste and rage he nearly smashed into the car behind by going into reverse, then shot out across the parking lot and into the street. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, and every time he looked the black Sierra was there, openly, blatantly, following him.

Tony gripped the wheel so tightly his arms ached. Over and over, almost choking on the words, he kept repeating, “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone…”

Tennison and Muddyman were having a quiet confab outside Harvey’s room when his nephew arrived. The young, fair-haired man came up to them, slightly out of breath, and asked straight out, “How is he?”

“He’s a little better,” Tennison replied, aware that she was being economical with the truth. Looking into the pale blue eyes, and seeing in them a family resemblance, she said quietly, “Jason, your uncle wants to talk to me.”

“Yeah, so I was told.”

“And he’s asked for you to be there.”

Jason nodded. “Right.”

“But I would just ask for you to remain quiet, not to interrupt while I’m talking to him.”

“Right,” Jason said again, as if mentally preparing himself for an ordeal, which indeed it would be.

Tennison glanced at Muddyman and gave a slight nod. He opened the door and the three of them went in.

Oswalde rang the bell of the second-floor flat. From within he heard the murmur of voices, and a moment later the door was opened by Esta, Tony’s wife-to-be. She glared up at him, chewing her lip.

“Is Tony in?”

Before she could answer, Tony appeared in the narrow hallway. He grabbed the edge of the door. “You know I am, you followed me home.”

“Can I come in, Tony?”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Oswalde said.

“You heard him, he said no,” Esta snapped.

Tony pointed a finger, which was quivering with pent-up rage. He said hoarsely, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Who told you that?” Oswalde said. His face wore a twisted grin. “Sarah the Law Student?”

Cleo, dressed in her pajamas, holding a teddy bear by its ears, was standing in the living room doorway. Esta waved to her distractedly. “Go back inside, love…”

Pumping himself up, convinced he was in the right, Tony was jabbing his finger in Oswalde’s chest. “She says you either arrest me or stop harassing me.”

That did it. If Oswalde’s mind hadn’t been made up already, that made it up for him. He lunged forward and grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him through the door onto the landing. “Tony Allen, I am arresting you for the murder of Joanne Fagunwa.”

“No!” Esta shouted. But she was too late. Oswalde had Tony in an armlock and was frog-marching him to the stairs.

“You can’t…” Esta wailed. “Where are you…”

Bent double, Tony yelled back, “Esta, phone my dad… phone my dad!”

Oswalde bundled him down the stairs. Seeing her father snatched away in front of her eyes, Cleo had burst into tears; but the child’s crying didn’t deter DS Oswalde, who knew what had to be done, and did it.

Harvey had been miked up. Tennison sat close to the bed, leaning over, while Muddyman kept an eye on the tape recorder’s winking red light. Jason stood behind Muddyman, his face and cap of blond hair a shadowy blur.

“Do you wish to consult an attorney or have an attorney present during the interview?”

“No.” The lost, bleary eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Water.”

Tennison poured water into a glass and helped him to a couple of sips. Her entire job, it seemed, consisted of waiting, and she waited now, very patiently, for Harvey to compose himself.

Custody Sergeant Calder and an Asian PC were having one hell of a struggle, trying to get Tony Allen from the charge room into the cells. The boy was close to hysteria, his eyes wide and terrified in his sweating face. He was babbling, “No, don’t lock me up, don’t lock me up, please don’t lock me up…”

Eventually, after much straining and heaving, they managed to get him inside cell 7 and slammed the door. Calder walked back to the charge room, wiping his bald head, and tugging his uniform straight. He was an experienced officer and he didn’t like the look of it; the kid was half-demented, and even now his moaning voice echoed down the corridor, pleading, “Let me out… don’t leave me alone, please… please let me out!”

Calder entered the charge room, shaking his head worriedly. “I’d better get the doctor to take a look at him. I don’t think he’s fit to be detained.”

Oswalde thought this was overdoing it. “He’s all right,” he said dismissively. “Just let him stew for a bit…”

“Look, I’m the Custody Sergeant,” Calder blazed at him. “Don’t try to tell me my job. Right?”

Oswalde gave him a look. Then he shrugged and went out. Calder reached for the phone but he didn’t pick it up. He stood there for a moment, undecided, cracking his knuckles, and then barked, “Yes?” at the Asian PC, who was holding out a docket to be signed. Calder scrawled his signature, which reminded him he had a mountain of paperwork to process.

He made a noise that was half snort, half sigh. That’s all they were these days, a legion of bloody pencil pushers.

When he was ready, she began:

“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, David?”

“Yes.” His breathing rasped in his throat. Slowly he turned his head on the pillow and looked straight at her.

Tennison had to steel herself not to show repugnance as his breath wafted over her. It seemed to her she had been sitting by his bedside for an eternity, breathing in the foul miasma of death. She herself felt soiled by it, as if it had entered her pores, and she had to use every ounce of willpower to repress the shudder at the touch of his cold, damp hand.