Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Mrs. Duhra let the silence work for her. She said, all the more effective for her quiet tone, “A boy loses his life because you were busy?”

The coroner leaned forward. “Please, Mrs. Duhra…”

“Doctor or no doctor, you had it in your power to send Tony Allen to the hospital. With hindsight would you not agree that you made a series of ill-judged-not to say fatal-decisions?”

The court waited. Calder finally nodded. “Yes. I made mistakes, I admit it…”

In the hubbub that followed, while the court official called for silence, Kernan muttered to himself, “For God’s sake, don’t cry about it, man!”

The call came a few minutes after eight p.m. Tennison was in the kitchen, preparing her evening meal. This entailed removing the dinner-for-one (complete meal with two vegetables) from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave. She unhooked the wall phone. “Tennison.”

“It’s Muddyman. I’m at the hospital. David Harvey died at seven thirty this evening.

“God…” She sagged against the door frame. “This investigation is turning into a graveyard.”

“How did it go today?”

“Dreadful.”

“Oh, well, tomorrow’s another day.”

She said good-bye and hung up. The microwave pinged. She took out the shallow tray, peeled back the cover, and contemplated the dinner-for-one. There were a couple of muddy shapes swimming in a sea of streaky orange-brown sauce. A dog couldn’t live off this, she thought, reaching down a plate and rooting in the drawer for a knife and fork.

“Would you say that the interview was carried out in accordance with PACE regulations?” Mrs. Duhra asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You made no attempt to bully or pressurize Tony Allen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sergeant Oswalde, do you hold a Higher National Diploma in Psychology?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Passed with Distinction?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door at the rear of the court opened and a uniformed figure slipped in. Kernan hadn’t noticed, but Tennison had. She nudged him, and they both stared in dismay as Commander Trayner slid into a seat. What the hell was the top brass doing here? Come to decide which heads were to roll?

Oswalde was standing up well to the questioning. He was keeping his answers short and to the point, not laying himself open to misinterpretation. He was an imposing figure on the witness stand, very tall and very handsome, with a natural quiet dignity. He was immaculately turned out, in a well-cut dark suit, his shirt a crisp dazzling white against his dark skin.

“It is my intention to call an expert witness in a moment,” Mrs. Duhra continued. “A professor of forensic psychology. But before I do so, I’d like to read you some of Tony Allen’s last recorded words-before you had him returned to his cell-and ask for your assessment.”

Oswalde’s face was a closed book. This was the part he’d been dreading, and he had to keep telling himself to stay cool, don’t give her an opening, keep it short and sweet.

Mrs. Duhra began reading from the transcript, holding it up in her left hand so that her face was visible to the jury and her voice carried across the crowded courtroom.

“Tony: ‘I’m choking.’

You: ‘No you’re not.’

Tony: ‘I’m choking. I can’t breathe.’

You: ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

Tony: ‘I’m dirt. I’m dirt in everyone’s mouth. Choking them. My life is dirt.’

You: ‘This is pointless. I’m putting you back in the cells.’

Tony: ‘My life’s a cell. I’m trapped. So much earth, and mud. Earth to earth. Dust to dust.’ ”

Mrs. Duhra put the transcript down. She folded her arms and looked at Oswalde, tilting her head in that characteristic, faintly mocking way of hers. “In the cold light of day, Sergeant, how would you assess Tony’s mental state?”

“From that I’d say he was hysterical.”

“Obsessed with death?”

“Yes.”

“In despair?”

Oswalde hesitated. “Yes.”

“Suffering from claustrophobia?” Mrs. Duhra said, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized his impassive face, searching for a chink of weakness, of doubt, she could exploit.

“Possibly,” Oswalde said, realizing that she was trying to drive him into a corner, and refusing to be driven.

He could feel the eyes of the entire court upon him. The coroner on his high bench was leaning on one elbow, his chin cupped in his hand. In the well of the court, the Allen family, seated in a row, were as if carved from stone. Vernon Allen’s large hands were clasped tightly to his chest, in an attitude of prayer. Beside him, Esme gazed dully into space. Sarah’s eyes were filled with a cold, implacable hatred.

Mrs. Duhra’s voice went on, quietly, lethally, “Yet you had him returned to his cell. His ten-foot-by-six-foot cell. You had an exemplary record, Sergeant. Could it be, that in some subtle way, you were being tougher… harder… on this black suspect because you too are black?”

There were murmurs and a few muffled shouts from the public gallery. Somebody yelled angrily, “Coconut!”

“I’m afraid your question is too subtle for me,” Oswalde said evenly.

Mrs. Duhra permitted herself a tiny smile. His reply, however cleverly evasive, hardly mattered. She had made her point. She said, “Turning then to the attack that Tony is alleged to have made on your person…”

“Do you intend to question Sergeant Oswalde for much longer, Mrs. Duhra?” the coroner asked.

“Well, that rather depends on his replies, sir,” Mrs. Duhra said.

“Then I should like to adjourn for the day. The court will resume at ten tomorrow morning.” He gathered his papers together. The court official’s voice rang out, “All rise!”

There was a small but vociferous group of antiracist demonstrators on the steps outside, waving placards and chanting slogans. As she came out with Kernan, and they crossed the road together, Tennison heard shouts of “Bounty bar” and “coconut,” being directed at Oswalde, who pushed his way through, grim-faced.

Kernan unlocked the door of his car. He looked to be in a foul temper. “What the bloody hell was the commander doing there?” he asked angrily.

Tennison, walking on to her own car, turned around. “Mike-the verdict has to be suicide,” she reassured him. “Any other is unthinkable.”

Kernan scowled. “Meanwhile my station is portrayed by Duhra as a hotbed of racism and brutality. Well, I can kiss my promotion good-bye. Thanks to two black bastards…”

Tennison stared at him, genuinely shocked. “I beg your pardon!”

“Well… you know what I mean,” Kernan muttered, giving her a shifty look.

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” he said wearily, and with a heavy sigh he got in the car and slammed the door.

For once, Tennison was having a relaxing evening at home. There was paperwork in her briefcase, waiting to be looked at, but she thought, to hell with it. She wasn’t in the mood to settle down to anything. The inquest was preoccupying her mind. Until it was over and done with, the verdict in, she couldn’t fully focus her concentration.

After a long soothing shower she put on pajamas and her luxurious Chinese silk dressing gown, a special present to herself. She wasn’t the kind of woman to pamper herself, but just occasionally she felt the need to splurge on something extravagant, and damn the expense.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all Bob Oswalde. She let him in, wondering if this was a wise thing to do, but the instant she saw the despondent look on his face, her heart went out to him. He was wearing a long overcoat, and underneath it the dark, conservative suit he had worn in court. He was polite and apologetic, but tightly bottled up, she could tell from the way he stood in the center of the room, glancing around with jerky, distracted movements, kneading his palms together.