Lynda La Plante - Silent Victims

He followed Judge Syers down the four steps from the bar area to the tables clustered around the stage. The judge knew practically everyone, the way he was nodding and smiling. Then Thorndike spotted the look-alike Marlene Dietrich on the far side of the room. She pushed through the crowd toward them, silvery-blond hair gleaming in the smoky light. She came straight up to Judge Syers, a head taller, placed her hand on his arm, and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

Thorndike backed away. He looked around, eyes swiveling, panic rising in his chest. A tall graceful creature with flowing red hair, sharp painted nails, and a low-cut gown revealing a chest as flat as an ironing board winked at him.

Thorndike stumbled up the steps and fled.

“It was an accident,” Vera Reynolds said in a low, frightened voice. Her grip tightened on the judge’s arm. “A terrible accident.”

She glanced nervously over her shoulder. He was there in the bar, as usual. He was looking straight at her. Vera shuddered. She couldn’t make a move without Jackson knowing about it.

Judge Syers was reaching for his wallet. “I’m sorry. If there is anything I can-”

“No.” Vera held up the palms of both hands, whitened by constant applications of lemon juice. “No, I don’t want money,” she protested. She half-turned. “I’d better go and change.”

Judge Syers watched her threading through the crowd. He went up into the bar. He nodded to one or two people, and gradually worked his way around the intimately chattering groups. A tall elegant man with snowwhite hair, leaning on a cane, was deep in conversation with a paunchy balding man of similar age, late sixties. Frampton was a Member of Parliament, and in common with most MPs he liked the sound of his own voice. Those within ten feet had to like it too, given no choice.

“It is a bloody outrage!” Frampton’s watery eyes bulged. His nose had been broken in a public school boxing match, and the years of booze had covered it with a maze of tiny broken blood vessels. “They are saying that the leak sent four times the permitted amount of radioactive dust into the atmosphere. Claims by the government that this could not harm people or the food chain are simply a cover-up!” He thumped his cane. “I fully intend to raise the matter in the House.”

Kilmartin sipped his drink, nodding.

“Greenpeace campaigners have been targeting the place for years,” Frampton went on heatedly. “To state that a Chernobyl-style disaster could not happen here is rubbish!”

Smiling to himself, Judge Syers moved to the bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, then indicated Frampton and Kilmartin with a nod of his head. The barman set about fixing the drinks.

Farther along the bar, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Jackson squinted through the smoke at the judge. His biker gear had been replaced by a hip-length leather jacket, designer jeans, and Reebok sneakers. As Judge Syers turned, Jackson lazily looked away.

The music started up as another act came on. This time it was a Bette Midler look-alike in army uniform, burning red hair, six-inch silver heels, a high bust like two melons under a blanket, blasting out “Boys from the Backroom.”

“If one of the biggest nuclear reprocessors for nuclear warheads in the world can have a leak, no matter how small, it means their security and safety rules must be monitored more closely…”

“You’re in good voice as usual,” Judge Syers said. “Are you well?”

“Terrible,” Frampton boomed. He waggled his stick. “I’ve got ruddy gout. First time out in weeks.”

They shook hands. The barman placed their drinks down. Judge Syers lit a cigar and puffed it into life. The three men raised their glasses. “Cheers!”

Judge Syers watched Bette Midler strutting her stuff for a moment. He stared into his drink. “Colin Jenkins is dead.” Frampton frowned over his brandy glass, rather puzzled. “I think he called himself Connie,” the judge said quietly. He looked at Frampton. “We should talk…”

The three men moved off, Frampton limping, toward a curtained doorway leading to the members’ private bar.

Jackson watched them go, cold as a snake. He turned then, his fleshy lips curving in a dead smile as Vera Reynolds moved slowly up the steps and came to stand beside him.

Piece by piece, the Fire team had reconstructed the sitting room of Vera Reynolds’s flat. The charred furniture had been replaced in its exact position, according to the drawings made by the team and the fire brigade immediately after the blaze had been put out. Sections of fabric from the burnt-out sofa had been salvaged and draped over its blackened frame; the scorched covering still bore the clear outline of Connie’s body.

A cool breeze blew in through the glassless window frame, weak beams of morning sunshine showing the ravages of the fire in every grimy detail.

“The paraffin heater was found here.” Ted Drury, heading the Fire team, squatted on his haunches, pointing to the white plastic tape in the shape of a cross on the sodden, ashy carpet. “Right by the settee. Not-as described by the owner-occupant-on the far wall.”

A second cross of red tape marked the location of the heater, as stipulated by Vera. His colleague, also attired in waterproofs and green Wellington boots, took notes. A Polaroid camera was slung around his neck.

“Cold that night, so the boy lies down…” Drury pointed. “Maybe has moved the fire closer, from there to here.”

“No, it was found with the ridges facing away from the settee.” His colleague laid the smoke-blackened paraffin heater on its side, demonstrating. “If he had moved it to get warm by, the heater would have been the other way around.”

They both turned as footsteps scuffled through the debris in the hallway. Vera Reynolds stood in the doorway. She stared around, ashen-faced, her lower lip trembling. Her friend Red was with her, a mop of curly dyed red hair bright as a flaming beacon, long legs, and a firm little rump in tight blue jeans. They carried black plastic rubbish sacks filled with pots and pans and other kitchen utensils.

Vera gave a tiny squeal and reached down.

“Please don’t touch anything in the room,” Drury warned her.

“It’s my photograph album,” Vera said, anguished. It lay open on the carpet next to the sofa, its edges buckled and scorched.

Red put her arm around Vera’s shoulders, hugging her.

“Don’t look-just don’t even look. You’re insured. Keep on saying to yourself, ‘I am insured.’ ”

Vera gazed at the rack in the alcove where all her lovely, beautiful, gorgeous evening gowns had been, fighting back the tears. Red led her out. “You’ll have to have every carpet replaced. The water’s done more damage than the fire!”

The two fire officers looked at each other. Odd to think that pansies had the same feelings as normal folk.

Tennison called the first briefing for 9:30 A.M. Except for two or three officers who were out checking statements, the entire Vice Squad, Soho Division, was assembled in the Squad Room. After the tension of the previous day, the atmosphere was markedly more relaxed. People lounged around drinking coffee, wisecracks were bandied about, snatches of laughter, general good humor. Tennison thought she might even get to like working here.

“Is there anyone on the squad who has had any past dealings with Colin Jenkins?”

Kathy passed over a sheaf of reports that she’d winnowed out concerning boys of Connie’s age.

“He might have been picked up a few months back, maybe more. We rounded up a lot. I can’t find the report on him, but I’m sure that a Jenkins-I think it was a Bruce Jenkins-was interviewed with a probation officer, as he was underage.”