Lynda La Plante: A Face in the Crowd

“This time of day, about three and a half hours,” Muddyman said.

“I want Oswalde to go,” Tennison said. She ignored the looks that were being bandied about, and went on crisply. “Inform the local police. Tell them to sit tight until he gets there.”

“Why Oswalde?” Muddyman wanted to know, voicing the question none of the others dared ask.

“Because I say so.”

No arguing with that. Haskons went to phone Oswalde at home, telling him to put his skates on. After three days in a stuffy courtroom a day at the seaside would make a welcome change.

With a professional eye, Jason delved through the rack of frilly slips, cami tops, and lacy French panties. He selected a cute little number in peach, pleated sides and a see-through lace panel at the front. A crafty, calculating look in his pale blue eyes, he stepped over to the changing cubicle and swept aside the plastic curtain.

“Oi,” Sandra said. Down to her bra and panties, she turned away, covering up. He’d been right. Well-blessed up top. This was going to be fun.

“There you go, Sandy.” Jason grinned. “Try them on.”

She took the pleated French panties and gave him a long stare as he lingered by the open curtain. “Go on then.”

Jason pursed his lips and blew her a wet kiss before turning away. His chest felt tight, his breath catching in his throat.

It took Oswalde a shade over three hours to reach the campsite at Walton-on-the-Naze. Three officers from the local Essex C.I.D. were waiting for him in the site manager’s office. Taking charge, he told them to stay put until he’d had the chance to size up the situation, and escorted by the manager, he walked down the sloping gravel path through row upon row of trailers to the one pointed out to him as belonging to Jason Reynolds. There was a cool breeze whipping in off the sea, and Oswalde was glad he’d put on a thick-knitted polo-neck sweater and his leather jacket.

The site was on two levels. Jason’s trailer, painted yellow with shiny metal strips along its sides, was on the upper level; below it, another thirty or forty trailers were grouped in an area bordering the sand dunes, and beyond them the ground sloped sharply down to the beach, a wide expanse of flat wet sand that was deserted as far as the eye could see.

This being off-season, there was no one about. Any movement, Oswalde realized with satisfaction, would be immediately spotted. He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after six, and the light was already fading. He spoke on his mobile phone to the officers in the manager’s office at the entrance to the site.

“Yeah, come through… one of you stay in the office and keep an eye out. The other two join me at the van, okay?”

Oswalde had a quick look around, then walked up the little concrete pathway to the door. All the windows, he noted, were masked off with black curtain material. He tried the door, and glanced around at the manager, a dumpy, bald-headed man with tufts of gray hair sticking out over his ears.

The manager shrugged. “I haven’t got a key.”

Oswalde went to work. In two minutes he had the door open. Inside, it was pitch black. He felt for a switch, and the interior was bathed in red light. The entire trailer had been converted into a dark room, fitted out with processing and developing equipment, an enlarger, print trimmer, everything.

“Bloody hell,” the manager muttered, gawking inside.

“Can you wait outside, please?” Oswalde pulled the door to and poked about. Strips of film hung down on wooden pegs. There was a cork board with dozens of girlie shots pinned to it, mostly black and white, a few in color. Three large wire trays held stacks and stacks of prints. On top was one of Sarah Allen, taken through her bedroom window. Oswalde’s mouth tightened as his eye fell on some photographs of him and Tennison, kissing on her doorstep. He stuffed them inside his jacket and zipped it up.

A few minutes later the two Essex C.I.D. officers arrived. They looked at him expectantly, their faces ruddy in the dim red light.

“We’ll just have to sit tight till he shows up,” Oswalde said.

Tennison did her best to make Sarah relax. The girl was so tightly wound up that at first she just sat in Tennison’s office, her back rigid, hands locked together in her lap. The station was quiet after the busy day, most of the team having gone home, so there were no interruptions. Tennison bided her time. She didn’t ask any questions, content to let Sarah say what she felt like saying, no pressure, no hassles.

Of course, all her immediate thoughts were centered on Tony. They had been very close; the pain she felt at his death was like a raw wound, her grief for him nakedly displayed on her face.

Eventually, in a small, very hushed voice, she began to unburden herself, recalling how depressed Tony had become.

“I think when it was really bad he heard voices. I know he dreamed of Joanne, night after night. Always the same dream… that she’d been buried alive. He could hear these muffled screams.” Sarah’s large dark eyes clouded over. She clenched her jaw, fighting back the tears. “He couldn’t bear to be alone. Confined spaces petrified him. If only I’d been around I could have explained… but Mum and Pop just wouldn’t believe there was anything wrong with him.”

She stared miserably into space, overcome with guilt that she’d let her brother down, been away at college when he needed her.

Tennison allowed a small silence to gather. She said gently, “Sarah, you could still help by giving us a statement about what happened.”

“… he never had a girlfriend,” Sarah went on, not listening, following the track of her own thoughts. “No one was more surprised than me when Esta came onto the scene. I don’t suppose that would have lasted if she hadn’t become pregnant.”

Tennison knew that Sarah was circling around and around it, steeling herself to make the plunge and reveal the truth. But it was no good here, in the privacy of this office. It had to be a statement, freely given, committed to tape. Without it, all this was leading nowhere.

She leaned forward, gaining Sarah’s attention by the force of her gaze. “Please, Sarah…”

Sarah turned her head away, and Tennison’s spirits sank. But then, looking resolutely away, tears standing in her eyes, Sarah gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Tennison let her breath go.

As she sat down at the restaurant table, Sandra’s breasts swelled above the low-cut neckline of the black velvet dress. The dress had a cutaway panel at the back too, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. With her dark lush hair brushed out and cascading over her shoulders, her eyes made-up with dusk-gray eye shadow and Virgin Rose lip gloss emphasizing her full lips, she could easily have passed for eighteen. Jason was very pleased with himself. He could certainly pick ’em.

Sandra was flushed and excited, already a bit tipsy on the two drinks she’d had in the pub. Jason ordered a pint of lager for himself and a Martini and lemonade for her. It was early in the evening and the place was quiet, not more than a dozen diners all told, mostly couples.

“Can we have some of them popadoms?” Sandra asked, wriggling in her chair.

Jason smirked at her naïveté. “This is a Chinese restaurant, Sandy.”

“I know,” she said sulkily, coloring.

“I’ll order for us.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

When the food came she didn’t know how to use chopsticks, and had to eat it with a fork. Jason got another round of drinks, even though Sandra protested she’d had enough. Her eyes were glassy, and she got the giggles. Every time Jason whispered in her ear, usually some crude sexual innuendo, she shrieked with laughter. Some of the other diners were becoming irritated. At a nearby table a man muttered to his companion that it was a disgrace, they shouldn’t allow that type in the restaurant in the first place.