Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

“No.”

“Where were those photographs of you taken?”

“At the flat.”

“And in Margate?”

“His uncle had a trailer.”

“Can you tell me where that was exactly?”

Tennison felt herself tense up, willing Miriam to provide a name, a location, but she was shaking her head. “I can’t remember the name of the site. It was somewhere out of town.”

“Right. Well.” Tennison stood up. She fastened her shoulder bag. “Thank you very much.”

“That’s it?” Miriam said, staring up.

“Yes. Thank you,” Tennison said, and departed.

It was too late for a cafeteria lunch, and she couldn’t face another sandwich, so once back in the hectic Incident Room she smoked a cigarette to fend off the hunger pangs. Her consumption was gradually creeping up again. To hell with it, no good worrying: she’d try stamping out the filthy weed once this case was finished.

“Boss-have you seen this?” She glanced around at Lillie, who was unpinning one of the photographs.

“What?”

He brought it over and laid it on the desk: a young girl ogling the camera, hands cupping her breasts. The room was tiny and cluttered, a bunk bed and a small window visible in the shot. It looked like the interior of a trailer. Lillie pointed to a calendar behind the girl’s right shoulder, taped to the end of the bunk bed.

“That’s a 1992 calendar,” he said.

It was, Tennison saw, peering at it closely. “So he could still be using the trailer. Try all the sites in the Margate area.” She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “I want Eileen Reynolds arrested,” she informed everybody. “Bring her in, put her in an interview room and let her stew. Perhaps that might bring Jason out from under his stone.”

Muddyman called to Rosper, “Check all the campsites in the Margare area-Jonesy, give him a hand.”

There was a bustle and excitement in the room, as well as a fog of cigarette smoke. Now they had something positive to go on. They had a real live prime suspect and they were going after him.

Lillie opened the plastic bag and took out the belt with the Indian Chief’s head buckle. He passed it to Tennison, who held it in her spread hands for Eileen Reynolds to see.

Eileen had been sitting in the interview room for half an hour or more, with only a WPC for company. She’d drunk two cups of machine coffee, smoked three cigarettes, and she was looking sullen. Tennison didn’t expect her to cooperate, but that didn’t matter. The woman seated opposite her, she was convinced, was the mother of a murderer, so she was in no mood to be gentle or pull any punches.

“This is the belt, Eileen, that was used to tie Joanne’s hands behind her back.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” Eileen dismissed it with hardly a glance. From an envelope Tennison took the photograph of Harvey and Jason. She saw Eileen register that the buckle on Jason’s belt was identical. But all it brought was an indifferent shrug. “Lots of belts that look like that.”

“Really. I think it’s quite distinctive.” Tennison took out the polaroids and placed them, one by one, in a row, on the table. She said, “The dead girl, Joanne Fagunwa. Joanne and Tony. Joanne and Sarah.”

Eileen stuck her head forward. “So why isn’t it Mrs.-fucking-Allen sitting here?” she snarled. “Go and arrest her. Arrest Sarah.”

Tennison said quietly, “Because it’s my belief that Jason took those photographs.”

“You have no proof of that.”

“They were found in your brother’s flat, Eileen.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Eileen said shortly. Her sallow cheeks were flushed. She was putting up a stone wall, but it was crumbling at the foundations. In her eyes Tennison could see the fearful uncertainty, and thought: she’s going to crack.

But she was not about to spare Eileen’s feelings; she intended carrying on the way she had started. Coolly, as if dealing a hand of cards, she placed a set of the later, harder, more explicit shots in the middle of the table.

“That’s your son, Eileen. Your son the pornographer. Would you look at them, please?” Eileen deliberately stared off. “Look at them, please. You won’t look at them. All right,” Tennison said, her back straight, her clasped hands resting on the table, “I’ll describe them to you. The first shows a girl, she’s about fourteen, I would say. Your son’s penis is inserted in the girl’s anus. Her face shows pain… and fear.”

“Stop it…!” Eileen’s whole body was straining forward, her mouth an ugly twisted shape. “You sick bastard bitch!”

“It’s not me in the photographs, Eileen,” Tennison went smoothly on, “I didn’t take them. Your son Jason did that.” She glanced down. “The next, a different girl, slightly older perhaps…”

There was no need to go on.

Eileen rocked forward, covering her face, her head shaking to and fro. A strangled sob escaped from her. She was breaking into pieces. Tennison looked at her, unmoved. She said, “Tell me where Jason is.”

“I don’t know…” Eileen looked up, spittle dribbling down her chin, her eyes tortured. “We should never have come south. God… I did my best…” Tears rolled down her face. “He’s no son of mine. He’s… he’s… he’s some sort of…”

“Tell me where Jason is,” Tennison repeated.

“I don’t know,” Eileen said in a pathetic high-pitched voice, almost like a little girl’s. Tennison believed her.

“Where’s your brother’s trailer, Eileen?”

“As far as I know he… he sold it.” She was sobbing, fighting for breath. “To help pay off the loan.”

Tennison replaced the photographs in the folder. With it tucked under her arm she left the room, not looking back. All the way down the corridor she could hear Eileen’s racking sobs. She wondered if Joanne Fagunwa had sobbed like that, just before Jason Reynolds bashed her brains in.

Vernon Allen was sitting at the table in the living room, newspapers spread out in front of him. Unusually for a man who took pride in his appearance, he was unshaven and disheveled, almost scruffy. He wore his shapeless cardigan, his shirt collar was undone, and his felt hat was shoved to the back of his head. Rather mechanically he was cutting out articles and photographs, placing them in a neat pile. The room was in semi-darkness, the flickering blue light from the TV set and a small lamp in the corner providing the only illumination.

Vernon snipped away, added the clipping to the pile and reached for another newspaper. He looked up as a shadow fell across the table. Sarah was standing in the doorway. She was barefoot, a terry robe wrapped around her.

“How is she?” he asked. His voice sounded dull, as if he didn’t care one way or the other; he did care, deeply, but he was wrung out of all emotion, hollow inside.

“Sleeping.”

“I don’t like her taking drugs.”

“It’s better than having her crying all night.” Sarah came in and sat on the arm of an armchair. She looked in silence at the clippings and mangled newspapers. “Pop, why are you doing that?” she asked quietly.

“They’re about Anthony.”

“I know that. I just don’t see how it helps.”

“Well,” Vernon said wistfully, “if it helps me, then surely there’s nothing wrong.”

“You know I’ll be going back to college right after the inquest,” Sarah said.

“Of course.” The scissors snipped. “Is there someone who can take notes for you, so you don’t fall behind?”

“Yes.” She sighed; as if it mattered at a time like this. “Yes, don’t worry.”

“Sarah, did Tony ever talk to you about… about that night?”

“No.” Sarah got up. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, hands underneath her armpits. “My bath’ll be running over.”