Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

God, she was going to nail that little shit if it was the last thing she did.

The court official waited for complete silence. “And have you reached a verdict?” he asked.

The jury foreman rose to his feet. “We have. The verdict is suicide.”

The crowd of reporters, photographers, and TV crews was in danger of becoming a riot, fighting to get near Vernon and Esme Allen as they came down the steps of the courthouse. Esme was weeping openly, in the protective circle of her husband’s arm as he shouldered his way through to the waiting cab. Behind them, spilling through the doors, came their friends and supporters from the public gallery, still angry, still booing at the verdict. The antiracist demonstrators joined in. Chants of “coconut” and “Bounty bar” went up as Oswalde appeared. He struggled down the steps, being jostled and pushed on all sides.

Tennison and Kernan were largely ignored. They managed to slip through as the media pack surged after the family, wanting shots of Esta and the little girl, who were being helped by Sarah.

Vernon was doing his best to get Esme into the cab. She was hysterical, swaying and shaking her head like somebody drunk. “He wouldn’t kill himself, never,” she wailed. “He had no reason. He was to be married this weekend…”

The photographers closed in, flashes going off.

“He loved his daughter, his family, he was always a happy boy… he would never kill himself!”

Sarah, handing Cleo into Esta’s arms in the cab parked farther along the street, straightened up and looked through the crowd to where Tennison was standing. The eyes of the two women locked and held. Both of them knew that Esme, the grieving mother, was deluding herself. Far from being a happy boy, Tony had been eaten away inside by some dreadful knowledge, a secret he carried with him to the grave.

Watching Sarah climb into the cab, Tennison wondered how much of that secret she shared with her brother. How much both of them really knew about the cause and circumstances of Joanne Fagunwa’s brutal murder.

Tennison drove down Chancery Lane, turned left onto Fleet Street, heading for Ludgate Circus. She’d decided that the station could do without her for a couple of hours. It was just after midday; she’d take an extended lunch break and maybe stock up with frozen dinners at Sainsbury’s.

The rain was still drumming down as she waited for the lights at the intersection with Shoe Lane. Gazing through the windshield, her eyes drifted down to the envelope Sarah had given her, lying on top of the dashboard behind the steering wheel. Tennison leaned forward, frowning. There was a postmark. Of course there was a postmark, cretin, if the bloody thing had been posted! She snatched it up. The postmark said “CLACTON” with yesterday’s date.

Instead of turning right, Tennison swung into the left-hand lane, getting a few looks for her pains, gave them the finger in return, and drove up Farrington Street, back towards Southampton Row.

She barged into the Incident Room, unwinding her long scarf, already halfway out of her raincoat. Copies of the offending tabloid were swiftly stowed away. She didn’t show that she noticed, and if she noticed she didn’t care.

“Richard.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Start again with the trailer parks. Start with Clacton and any others that come within the postal district. And then work out along the Essex coast from there. Fast, please.”

Haskons jumped to it, organizing the team to begin the search.

Jason had been studying her for a good five minutes before he made his move. She was wearing an anorak over a white blouse and a pleated gray skirt, white ankle socks, and Adidas sneakers. Cutting school, he could spot ’em a mile off. Feeding her lunch money into a slot machine. This was the fourth one she’d tried in the shore arcade, and at this rate she’d be out of cash in no time flat.

He circled around, closing in. Fourteen, he guessed, maybe just turned fifteen. Ripe as a peach waiting to be plucked. Firm pair of titties sprouting under that starched blouse. Nice arse on it too. He liked a nice tight arse.

He breezed up, and leaning nonchalantly against the machine she was working, started reading aloud from the tabloid he was holding, spread open at the page three pinup.

“ ‘Lovely Donna, from Clacton. Thirty-six, twenty-two, thirty-four.’ It’s you, innit?”

“What?” the girl said, chewing gum. She had small, very white teeth and a soft downy complexion. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a severe, straggling bunch, but it couldn’t hide how pretty she was.

“In the paper.” Jason swiveled around to show her the picture of the girl arching her back and bending over slightly so that her breasts hung down, nipples teased erect. “You’re Donna.”

The girl shot him a glance from under her eyelashes. “Dirty creek,” she said, but she was laughing when she said it.

Young David answered the telephone. “Hold on, please,” he said, polite as ever, and called out, “Sarah-phone.”

Sarah came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She glanced up the stairs, to where the sound of her mother’s racking sobs was rending the air. She had been crying like that, almost without pause, for the past hour. Vernon had had to call the doctor in, and they were upstairs with Esme now.

“Who is it?” Sarah asked, taking the phone.

“I don’t know.” David went off into the kitchen.

“Hello?” It was Tennison. Sarah went stiff. She shook her head, watching furtively as her father and their G.P. came down the stairs. She said in a low voice, “It’s not a good time to call…”

Vernon came into the hallway. “Thank you, doctor. Perhaps she’ll sleep now.” He opened the vestibule door to show the doctor out.

“Hang on a sec.” Sarah carried the phone into the living room and pushed the door to with her foot. “Okay.”

Tennison sounded serious and urgent. “We can’t let him get away with this, Sarah, He can’t turn us into his victims as well.”

Sarah looked up at the ceiling. Her mother’s sobs were like hacksaw blades, slicing through her brain. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it. She looked wildly around the room, as if seeking some means of escape, and then made up her mind. “All right. But off the record. I’m not giving evidence. Tomorrow…”

“No, tonight,” Tennison said. “Please.”

Sarah shut her eyes tight and breathed in. “All right. I can probably make it around seven.”

“Thank you. ’Bye.”

Sarah replaced the receiver. Her hands were sweating and she was trembling all over. Above her head, Esme’s broken sobbing went on, and on, and on.

The Incident Room was a cacophony of voices and jangling telephones. Each man on the team had been given a segment of the Essex coast, from Burnham-on-Crouch to Harwich, checking out every trailer park in a wide radius of Clacton. At her desk, Tennison watched over the bustle and babble of activity, chewing on a Nicorette and anxiously waiting for the first sign of a positive lead.

It was Gary Rosper who struck lucky. He banged the phone down and was up on his feet, eyes alight, scurrying across the room to Tennison, waving his notepad. “The Shangri-friggin’-la, Walton-on-the Naze.”

“Where the hell’s that?” Tennison frowned.

“Christ knows.” Rosper didn’t.

“Richard,” Muddyman called out to Haskons, who was already unfolding a large-scale map. “Walton-on-the-Naze.”

Everyone gathered around. Muddyman pointed it out, nine miles north of Clacton, right on the tip of a peninsula of tiny scattered islands, creeks, and mud flats.

“How long will it take to get there?” Tennison asked.