Lynda La Plante: A Face in the Crowd

“Perhaps,” Commander Trayner said, acknowledging the fact in rather a grudging tone. “But one who has displayed a considerable lack of judgment… I think you know what I mean?”

The debriefing in the Incident Room was also a subdued affair. The team had done its job well, had every reason to feel proud, but the death of Tony Allen in police custody cast a long, gloomy shadow.

Tennison had assembled all her detectives who had worked on the case; all but one. Bob Oswalde was absent, and she felt an obscure pang of guilt that he wasn’t here today, even if the mood was far from celebratory. He deserved better than to have been sent packing, back to his old post, without so much as a word, some small gesture from the super. But that was Mike Kernan for you. More damn interested in his reputation, his bloody promotion prospects.

Despite what she feeling, she put on a bright face.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt that Jason Reynolds is going away for a very long time. The CPS has informed me that they are not going to press charges against anyone else.”

The men exchanged looks. There was some justice after all. It would have been unnecessarily cruel for the Crown Prosecution Service to have implicated Sarah Allen in the murder.

“Now I don’t know about the rest of you,” Tennison said, clapping her hands lightly, “but I’m off to the pub-where I’d very much like to buy each and every one of you a large drink…”

“That won’t be necessary, Jane.”

Everyone turned. Commander Trayner had entered. There were a few puzzled frowns as Kernan and Thorndike followed him in. Not the usual thing for all the top brass to put in an appearance, even at the successful conclusion to a case.

Trayner said, with a faint smile, “Perhaps I can take this opportunity to make an announcement. Mr. Kernan here, will-from now on-be known to you all as ‘Chief Superintendent’ Kernan…”

Mock groans from the men, a few caustic cheers, and a scattering of applause. Kernan scowled self-consciously.

“I’m also very pleased to be able to introduce his successor here at Southampton Row. ‘Superintendent’ Thorndike.”

A solitary cough from somewhere emphasized the deafening silence. The men were looking anywhere but at Tennison. As Kernan’s senior detective, she should rightfully have been next in line for his job.

Tennison felt the blood draining away from her face. It would have been the same if Trayner, instead of mentioning Thorndike’s name, had walked up and punched her in the stomach. She stared across the room at Mike Kernan, who quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere. She didn’t feel angry, not yet; she just felt numb.

Thorndike stepped forward, rubbing his palms together. “Thank you, Commander. I realize I may have made a few enemies carrying out the investigation on behalf of MS15.” He gave a little cough, accompanied by a watery apology for a smile. “The best thing is to clear the air straightaway. If anyone thinks that’s going to be a problem for them-get in the way of the smooth running of the station-then they should apply for a transfer immediately. Now, since we’re all about to go off duty, and just to prove I have a lighter side, I’ve arranged for us to have a drink to mark the occasion.”

Most of the team brightened up considerably as two uniformed PCs came in carrying several six-packs of Tennants Export and a case of Budweiser. The formal atmosphere vanished, and within moments there was the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter, as the men drank. Thorndike mingled, even accepting a can, which he sipped as if it were a glass of sherry. Somebody offered Tennison a drink, which she refused. She was standing slightly apart, very pale, holding herself erect as if the effort cost her a great deal of willpower. She pushed her way through, and approached Kernan.

“So I didn’t even merit an interview,” she said stiffly.

Kernan squirmed a little. “Jane…”

But she’d already moved on to Thorndike. She said, politely and formally, “May I have a word with you, sir?”

“Official or unofficial?” Thorndike said.

“Official.”

Kernan tried to intervene, his expression pained. “Jane, it can wait, surely…”

“No, it can’t wait.”

Thorndike looked at her, flat-eyed. “You’d better come to my office.”

Thorndike sat behind the desk, occupying what had been Mike Kernan’s chair and was now his. He’d already acquired the approved manner of pressing his fingertips together and pursing his lips while he waited for Tennison, standing in front of the deak, to speak.

She said quietly, “You’ll have my formal request for a transfer first thing in the morning.”

“Very well,” Thorndike said, without a pause or the slightest hesitation. He sat, unmoving, and gazed at her.

Tennison stood. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, unless it was perhaps some small expression of regret at her decision. Even of sadness at her departure. Or that she might like to sleep on it. Or to say that all her hard work at Southampton Row had been much appreciated. Or to say what a good officer she was and that they’d miss her. Or simply to say thanks, and good luck.

In the event she received nothing.

Fuck all.

She turned and went out.

Tennison went straight to her office, put her coat on and collected her briefcase. They were still carousing in the Incident Room when she walked past, a lot of raucous laughter and a babble of animated chatter. Always a good feeling when a case was over. Relax, loosen up, let it all hang out.

Tennison turned right at the end of the corridor. She walked on through reception, down the steps, and into the street.

Lynda La Plante’s fourteen novels, including the Prime Suspect series, have all been international bestsellers. She is an Honorary Fellow of the British Film Institute and a member of the UK Crime Writers Awards Hall of Fame. She was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list in 2008. She runs her own television production company and lives in London and Easthampton, New York. A new American television series based on Prime Suspect premieres this fall on NBC.