Lynda La Plante: A Face in the Crowd

Going up to her room in the crowded elevator, Tennison glanced behind her to DS Oswalde. “You’re too good at that, Detective Sergeant.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you going for a drink later on?”

“Maybe. But I might just have an early night.”

The bell pinged for the second floor and the doors slid open.

“Oh, well, might see you,” Tennison said, going out. “Good night.”

“Quick as you can,” Bream urged Richards, standing aside as the photographer took another series of shots. When he was done, the pathologist had another look at the crumbling trench wall. “I’m going to need all the bones if I’m to reassemble the bugger,” he told Gold. “So make sure you collect all the earth from around the corpse as well.”

Gold was relishing this. It was his first really juicy forensic investigation, and working with Professor Oscar Bream was a bonus. He instructed his helpers with enthusiasm: “We’ll put all this in these boxes and take it to the labs for sifting. We’re after small bones, cloth fragments, jewellery, coins… well, absolutely anything, really.”

“The skull’s been badly smashed, so collect those pieces with care,” Bream cautioned the two assistants.

Standing just inside the plastic canopy, Kernan said gloomily, “Let’s hope the rain gets people back inside.”

Gold was carefully scooping out dollops of mud and putting them in plastic boxes, his assistants sealing the lids and marking each one to indicate the sequence in which the various fragments were excavated. Gradually, piece by painstaking piece, the corpse was excavated, the larger bones bagged and tagged in black plastic bags.

“Looks like it is a female, Oscar…”

“Oh, yes, and what makes you say that, Mr. Gold?”

The young scientist looked up, positively beaming. “It’s wearing a bra.”

Kernan rubbed his chin and groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Don’t worry, Mike,” said Bream, deadpan as usual. “It could still turn out to be Danny La Rue.”

“Yeah, and if it is, Nola Cameron will claim him for a daughter.” Kernan had seen enough. He turned to Muddyman, whose brown, curly hair was plastered down, his bald spot plainly visible. “Tony, take over until Tennison gets here.”

Muddyman blinked at him. “She’s got on that course, isn’t she, Guv?”

“Not anymore she’s not,” Kernan said, trudging back over the muddy paving stones and mounting the steps.

Muddyman huddled deeper into his raincoat. “Oh, great…”

The kiss was long and deep, making her senses swirl. He had gorgeous skin, smooth enough for a woman’s, but with the hard, sensual feel of solid muscle rippling underneath. Jane drew back, took a breath, and gazed into Bob Oswalde’s dark brown eyes. He smiled as her fingers slid from his chest and probed under the terry bathrobe to his shoulder.

“Already?” he teased.

“Mmmm…” Wrapped in his arms, she gave him a wicked little grin.

They had dined here, in her room, drunk the bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape dry, and then made love. Secretly, she was amazed at how naturally it had come about, without, it seemed, any devious planning or premeditation on either part. She wasn’t a promiscuous woman, had had only one brief fling since she broke up with Peter with whom she’d lived for less than six months. The demands and pressures of her job had been the cause of that; taking charge of the Marlow case, her first murder investigation, had consumed every waking moment-and most sleeping ones too. Peter had been understanding, up to a point, though he was going through a rough time himself, trying to get his building firm up and running, and the pair of them found themselves between a rock and a hard place. Something had to give, and something had. The relationship.

While her job still had priority, the attraction, the sexual chemistry between her and Bob Oswalde had been just too great to resist. And she’d thought, Why the hell not? All work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. She wasn’t feeling dull and jaded now; her body felt vibrant and alive, and the night was still young.

Taking up his teasing mood, she said archly, “Now what was it you were saying about white women liking it rough?”

The instant the words came out, she knew that it was the wrong thing to say. Bob Oswalde reared back a little, his arms slackening, and she cursed her own clumsiness.

“Hey, that wasn’t me,” he protested, hurt. “I don’t think like that.”

“I know-I’m sorry.” She kissed his chest and then the side of his neck, snuggling up to him, cozy and warm in the fluffy, white bathrobe, feeling the heat of his body. She had an idea. “Know what I’d like to do now?”

“No, what?” Bob Oswalde said through a crooked half grin.

“Let’s drink the entire contents of the minibar.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know-I just feel like it.” Jane suddenly sat up and grinned at him. Her short, ruffled blond hair and impish grin made her appear like a mischievous tomboy, a startling transformation from her conventional role as the cool, at times obsessive professional policewoman with a daunting reputation.

Bob Oswalde swung his long legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Okay, what would you like first?”

Jane clapped her hands. “Champagne!”

“Right.”

As he went over to the minibar she flopped full-length on the bed, stretching out her arms luxuriously. She hadn’t felt so content and totally relaxed in a long time. She hadn’t been looking forward to this three-day conference at all, confined to airless, smoke-filled rooms and conference halls (especially as she was trying to give up the noxious weed!), having her brains picked by male colleagues who, deep down, probably resented being lectured to by a woman. The Super had suggested she “volunteer,” which was his unsubtle way of giving a direct order by stealth. Well, the laugh was on him. She was enjoying herself, and at the public’s expense to boot.

The phone rang, a soft trilling tone. Bob Oswalde was stripping the foil from a half-bottle of champagne, and Jane said quickly before she answered it, “That’s Dame Sybil. Don’t make a sound.”

But it was Kernan, and Jane sat up straighter, holding her robe close to her neck, as if it made any difference.

“Oh, hello, Guv. About two hours… why?” She listened, her eyes serious, nodding her head. “Yeah, right… okay. Oh yeah, absolutely. Okay, see you. ’Bye.”

She hung up, staring straight ahead at the built-in closet.

“What’s wrong?”

“That was my Guv. He wants me back.”

“Oh.” The champagne dangled in his hand.

“Now.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Jane slid off the bed, unfastening her bathrobe, while she hopped around to open the closet door. “He wants me to head a murder inquiry. I’ll have to tell Thorndike.” She brushed her fingers through her hair. “Damn, and it’s my lecture tomorrow too…”

“Look, nuts to Thorndike.” Oswalde glanced down at the bottle he was holding, then placed it on top of the minibar.

Burrowing in the closet, Jane said over her shoulder, “I’m sorry, Bob, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I know that.” The words were neutral enough, though he was looking at her sharply. Jane paused in laying out her blouse and suit on the bed. She glanced up.

“So what’s your problem then?”

“What about us?”

“What about us?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“Oh, I see.”

Jane spread her hands. “Bob, I’m not saying I don’t want to see you again. Okay?”

“Aren’t you?”

She watched him in silence as he whipped off his bathrobe and rapidly dressed, eyes downcast, handsome face empty of expression.