Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Oswalde saw it all too clearly. Burkin couldn’t stomach an outside officer-a black one at that-coming in and solving the case and taking the credit. That’s what this was about. That’s why he’d blown a fuse. Well, sunshine, you were going to have to like it or lump it, Oswalde thought with grim satisfaction. He alone had collared Tony Allen and he intended to sweat it out of him. He didn’t care if it took all night. From the minute he saw Tony’s reaction to the clay head, he knew the boy was implicated in the girl’s murder. All he had to do now was prove it.

Oswalde gripped the back of the chair and leaned over him.

“This is a waste of time. You’re just wasting my time. Come on, Tony. You’re as guilty as hell. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you.” He dug his fingers into Tony’s hunched shoulder and hauled him back. “Your guilty secret is written all over your face.”

Tony nodded feebly, his cheeks wet with tears. “I’m guilty…”

Oswalde quickly moved around and bent down, his face close to the boy’s. “Then tell me what happened that night.”

“We’re all guilty…” Tony opened his mouth wide, fighting for breath. He clutched his throat. “I’m choking…”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m choking,” he gasped, clawing at his open-necked shirt with both hands.

“No, you’re not,” Oswalde barked at him. He turned away, fists clenching with frustration as Tony’s face crumpled, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. This was bloody hopeless. They’d been here for hours and he was getting nowhere. He had to make the boy crack. Had to.

He shook his head in disgust. “All you’ve done is cry like a baby. Well, I’m sick of listening to you. You’re pathetic. A bloody mummy’s boy. Come on.” Oswalde waggled his thumb. “You’re going back in the cells.”

“No… I can’t breathe in there,” Tony pleaded, gazing up at Oswalde with his pitiful, tear-streaked face. “Don’t please…”

He half-rose out of the chair, tugging at Oswalde’s sleeve. Oswalde shook him off. “Fuck you. You tell me how Joanne met her death or you go back in the bin and you sweat. ”

Tony’s head wobbled. “No… no…”

Enough was enough. Oswalde turned away. He didn’t see the change come over Tony’s face. The eyes go suddenly wide and mad. The lips draw back in a snarl of rage. Tony leapt out of the chair. He went for Oswalde’s throat, charging into him so that Oswalde was sent crashing against the wall. He was a head taller than Tony and over forty pounds heavier, but what a moment ago had been a pathetic cringing wreck was now transformed into a raving maniac with blood lust in his eyes, attempting to throttle the life out of him.

Winded, Oswalde struggled to get a grip on the boy’s wrists. He grabbed hold of the left, pivoted on one foot, and wrenched Tony’s arm halfway up his back. He caught the other one and pinned both Tony’s hands behind his back and slammed him head first against the wall.

Calder was yelling, “Number seven, right in, right in!” as the five officers ran with Tony Allen spread-eagled horizontally between them along the corridor and into the cell block. He was kicking and screaming bloody murder. They got him inside, facedown on the floor, arms pinioned behind him, ankles trapped under two heavy boots.

“Out!” Calder yelled. “Out! Out!”

He was the last to leave, heaving the door shut and turning the key. Tony was up on his feet, battering the steel door with his fists. His terrified screams pierced the air. Calder wiped his face and blew out a sigh. That bloody racket was enough to wake the dead. He slid back the bolt and dropped the metal trap, peering in through the bars at the sweating black face and crazy rolling eyes.

“I’ll leave the flap open-all right!”

Tony’s screams sank to a whimpering moan. Calder turned away. Thank Christ for that. He jerked his head around at a drunken voice shouting from the cell next door. It was the drunk they’d picked up on disorderly conduct charges. “Fascist pigs!” the slurred voice raved on. “Fucking police brutality! Kicking the shit out of innocent victims!”

Calder banged on the door, told him to shut it, and went off to find Burkin. He was in the corridor outside the charge room, waiting by the wall phone for Tennison to return his call.

“Tony Allen is back in his cell,” Calder reported. Burkin nodded, looking decidedly uneasy. He moved aside as Calder unhooked the phone, fretting, “What’s happened to that doctor? I’ll give him another call.”

“Right.” Burkin moodily watched him dial. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Allen still in reception?” he asked.

“They won’t budge.” Calder gave him a look. “You should have gone hours ago.” He nodded back towards the cells. “Let the guy sleep it off. Tennison can deal with it in the morning.”

Burkin was about to say something, and gave it up as a bad job. He slouched off. Calder listened to the ringing tone, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “Come on… come on…!”

Oswalde took the elevator up to the cafeteria. It was almost empty at this late hour, a few small groups dotted about, officers taking a break during night patrols. He didn’t know any of the faces, and he was glad about that; he wanted to be alone. In the far corner a TV was burbling to itself, the sound turned low.

Oswalde carried his black coffee to an empty table and sat down. His official duty shift had finished three hours ago. He should have been home in bed now, getting a reasonably early night, because he was due on again at eight-thirty the next morning. He was in a curious mood, couldn’t unwind. He felt tired and yet jumpy and keyed up at the same time; his mind was racing, and he knew he was keeping alert on nervous energy alone.

The late-night news roundup was showing voters coming out of a polling station. It was the by-election, Oswalde remembered. Though not much interested, he switched his mind over to what the announcer was saying. Anything to sidetrack his thoughts away from Tony Allen’s wild, staring eyes and slobbering mouth.

“… pollsters keeping a record at the door suggest that Conservative Ken Bagnall may have held his seat but with a greatly reduced majority. There were angry scenes earlier when members of the Free Derrick Cameron Campaign clashed with Bagnall, who is a self-confessed supporter of capital punishment. Labour’s candidate, Jonathan Phelps, has issued a statement…”

Whatever the statement was, Oswalde never learned. Somebody got up to switch channels, and boxing took its place. Oswalde sipped his coffee and watched with dull eyes as two black middleweights slugged it out.

Three floors below, in cell Number 7, Tony Allen had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He was standing at the door, staring out through the square grille. Slowly and very methodically he was tearing his shirt into strips. In the cell next door the drunk was snoring off his skinful. The two prisoners in adjoining cells were sleeping more quietly. Tony stared out, tearing at the cloth, and he didn’t stop until the shirt had been ripped apart.

Calder looked up at the wall clock. He took a last drag, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and heaved himself up from the desk. On his way out he lifted the heavy bunch of keys from the hook and walked along the corridor, humming under his breath.

Sliding back the greased bolt, he lowered the flap and took a peek at the old guy in Number 5. Sleeping it off. Chances were they’d let him go in the morning with a caution. Silly old bugger, taking a piss in the street. Calder checked on the drunk in 6. A disgusting spectacle of matted hair, earrings, and tattoos. The smell of booze and stale sweat coming through the grille made Calder step back, waving the air. He slammed it shut, operated the bolt.