Lynda La Plante - A Face in the Crowd

Oswalde edged up to the door and gripped the handle. In one swift smooth movement he had it open and was ducking through the doorway, eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloomy interior.

Lying on the bed of crumpled satin, Sandra’s eyes rounded with terror as the tall, athletic black man burst in. She was wearing a school uniform-blouse, gray pleated skirt, white ankle socks-and was manacled and chained up for a Jason special: schoolgirl bondage. Oswalde moved towards her. Sandra pressed back into a corner and screamed, loud and piercing, and kept on screaming even when he raised both hands in an effort to calm and reassure her.

“It’s all right, I’m a police officer! I’m a police officer!”

Oswalde knelt down, trying to make the girl understand that it was okay, she was safe now. Behind him, Jason crept through the narrow doorway from the kitchen area. He was gripping the empty Scotch bottle by the neck. His lips drew back in a silent snarl. His pale blue eyes with their fringe of blond lashes were wide and murderous. He swung the bottle and brought it down on the back of Oswalde’s head. Oswalde went sprawling, a cascade of stars and flashing sparks filling his universe. He pushed himself back up onto his knees, groggily shaking his head. It took another ten seconds to stagger to his feet. When he looked round, squinting painfully towards the door, Jason had gone.

Oswalde stumbled outside. He touched the back of his neck. Blood was trickling down through the roots of his hair. He staggered forward a few paces, shaking his head to clear it, and looked wildly around. The bastard couldn’t have got far. Then he spotted the blob of blond hair, just disappearing through the waving tufts of coarse grass that grew along the edge of the sand dunes. He was heading for the beach.

Oswalde went after him. Elbows pumping like pistons, he ran towards the broken lip of the cliff top, where it crumbled and fell away to the flat open expanse of wet sand. The blond head vanished as Jason hurtled down the steep sandy slope. Oswalde ran through the coarse grass, feeling it whipping against his legs. He reached the same spot and plunged down, arms cartwheeling as he sought to maintain his balance. He landed with a jarring thud on the hard wet sand and then he was sprinting, long legs at full stretch, the running figure in his sights, the blond head wobbling as Jason started to tire.

Got you, you bastard!

Gaining on him with every stride, Oswalde rapidly closed the distance between them. He could hear Jason’s labored breathing as he reached the shallows of the retreating tide. Jason splashed through them, staggering and sending up curtains of flying spray. He was just recovering when Oswalde launched himself. He hit Jason like an express train. Down they both went into the water. Oswalde got an iron grip on Jason’s wrist and twisted his arm halfway up his back. With his other hand he grabbed Jason by the scruff of the neck, forcing his head down into the water.

Jason came up, coughing and spluttering. He twisted around, a face filled with hate. “Coon, black bastard, jungle bunny, nigger…”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, spewing seawater, snarling, “Rastus, sambo, fucking wog!”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, coughing and gasping. “That’s right, you fucking coon, kill me as well!”

Oswalde could have done it, easily, there and then, he knew it. And there was nothing in the world he’d have liked better than to drown the little shit. Rid the world of that perverted scum.

Instead, with an icy, purposeful deliberation, Oswalde gave him handcuffs and slapped them on. Fighting for breath, Oswalde gave him the full caution, as per the book. “Jason Reynolds, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Joanne Fagunwa…”

The two C.I.D. men splashed through the shallows. Oswalde continued: “You do not have to say anything, but if you do it may be given in evidence.”

Jason raised his head and spat in Oswalde’s face. Hauled to his feet by the C.I.D. men, he was dragged away, still screaming, “Coon, nigger, wog, fucking black bastard…!”

Oswalde sat in the water. He closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the early sun on his face. It felt very good.

Tennison was waiting in the rear yard of Southampton Row when Jason arrived. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing for herself the little shit being brought in and formally charged. Handcuffed and pinioned between two officers, Jason was led inside. As he passed Tennison, he thrust his blond head towards her, leering into her face.

“Thanks for the show the other night. Just your scene, eh? Nice bit of beef… nice black tubesteak up your stank!”

Then he was bundled through, snorting and sniggering to himself. Tennison turned away. She’d seen what she wanted to see. She didn’t believe in the death penalty, but she was always open to persuasion.

The morning was damp and misty. Oswalde came along the neat gravel path, dressed for a funeral he hadn’t attended; that had been yesterday, only he knew that his presence wouldn’t have been welcomed, that it would have upset the Allen family.

Tony’s grave was smothered in wreaths and flowers wrapped in cellophane. Oswalde carried a small bunch of flowers, but there was no card attached. He stood for a moment, looking at the headstone, then laid the flowers at the foot of the grave.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, he crouched down and bowed his head. Jane had said he wasn’t to blame. She had said that when other people made a mistake, it was only money involved. When the police made a mistake, sometimes a human life was put in jeopardy. And sometimes a human life was lost. He had tried to believe her, to convince himself that she was right, but it had a hollow ring, and the pain refused to go away. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life, a corrosive acid eating away at his soul.

He stood up and walked slowly back through the headstones to the gravel path, a tall dark figure that was gradually swallowed up in the morning mist.

Commander Trayner and DCI Thorndike were drinking sherry with Kernan in his office. There was an air of subdued yet distinct jubilation. Kernan detested sherry, but the occasion seemed to demand it, so he clinked glasses and forced the stuff down, hiding his grimace.

Thorndike was at his most overbearingly pompous. His voice was a pedantic drone, the corner of his thin mouth curling up in a tiny smug smile.

“This is not official, you understand, but under the circumstances it seems appropriate to give you a little preview. My recommendation is that disciplinary papers are served on Calder, DI Burkin, and DS Oswalde. I am critical of the way the station was run.” He cast a glance at Kernan, who blinked and took another sip of the disgusting muck. “Procedures need to be tightened up,” Thorndike went on primly. “Too many canteen cowboys. But I find no one to blame for the death of Tony Allen.”

Kernan breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Commander Trayner was nodding, well-pleased. “Clearly, David, you’re the right man to sort this station out.” He turned to Kernan, smiling. “And of course, congratulations to you too, Mike. Nailing Jason Reynolds and getting the move upstairs. I shall have to give you the name of my tailor. He’s particularly adroit at disguising any tendency towards the middle-age spread…”

“Thank you, sir.” Kernan refilled the commander’s glass. “Do you intend to do anything about the press story, sir?”

Trayner considered a moment, and then shook his head. “Let it blow over. Oswalde is back at West End Lane.”

“Yes, sir,” Kernan said, again relieved. He said reflectively, “Besides, Tennison is a bloody good detective.”