Lynda La Plante - Silent Victims

“It could also be a very final decision… considering your age.”

“Yes, I know.”

The door opened, Otley rapping with his knuckles when he was already halfway in. He hovered on one foot, motioning whether he should leave her alone. Tennison shook her head. She said into the phone, “I’ll call you next week, to arrange a time and date.”

“Think on it,” Dr. Gordon advised her. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Slowly she replaced the phone and sat staring at nothing. She took a sudden sharp breath, drumming her fingers on the desk. “I told Halliday we’re ready to charge Jackson”-brisk and businesslike once more.

“You know something I don’t?” Otley muttered, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Tennison opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a pitiful choking sob. Otley was totally transfixed, torn between embarrassment and disbelief. Numb with the shock of it, he watched as she burst out crying, tears pouring down her cheeks. She put her hand over her eyes, shoulders heaving, fumbling blindly for a tissue from the drawer.

“I’m sorry… sorry…” Tennison blew her nose, making it difficult for herself by shaking her head at the same time.

Otley stood like an empty sack of clothes, his face like a stunned rabbit’s, arms hanging limply by his sides. For once his snide cynicism had deserted him.

Tennison wiped her cheeks. “I just feel as if I’m hitting my head against a brick wall.” She sniffed hard, making a contemptuous gesture toward Halliday’s office. “Get no help from him!”

“I could get the screwdriver, take off a few feet of his office and give it to you if it’ll make you feel better,” Otley offered helpfully, giving a gaunt ghost of a smile.

Tennison tried to smile with him, but this only brought on more floods of tears. Muffled behind a bunch of tissues, she croaked, “I have never done this before, I’m sorry…” She sucked in a deep shuddering breath. “He knows Kennington’s dead.”

“Good news travels fast,” Otley remarked glibly. He gave a little uncomfortable shrug, hands spread. “Look, I can handle this afternoon.”

“No!” Tennison wadded the tissues into a sodden ball and threw them viciously in the basket. “I give you an inch and you’ll take a mile.”

Otley sighed. “Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t want a bloody cigarette!”

“Coffee?”

“No.” Tennison straightened her shoulders, sitting upright in the chair, combing her hair back with her fingers. “Just… just give me a few minutes on my own.”

She felt mortified. Not only about breaking down, but breaking down in front of Bill Otley, of all people.

Ye Gods, get a grip, woman.

When he’d gone she sat drained and empty, the muscles in her belly still quivering. Her chest ached, and she had to fight with all her strength to stifle the sobs that at any moment might engulf her.

But twenty minutes later, a transformation. Hair brushed, face washed, fresh makeup applied, she was in fine fettle for Vera. The momentary loss of control had somehow cleansed her, swept all her doubts and depression away, given her a steely, hard-eyed resolve.

She smashed the table with her fist, making Vera’s hunched form jump and jerk, her stifled sobs turning into strangulated hiccups.

“And you lied to me-you never at any time even mentioned you were near that advice centre. Why? Why, Vernon?”

“You’ve always called me Vera,” Vera wailed, raising a tear-streaked face, her eyes filled with childish hurt.

“Stop playing games with me!” Tennison barked. She spun around as Otley came in. “I said five minutes, Sergeant.” She glared at him and bent toward the microphone. “Sergeant Otley has just entered the interview room at three-fifteen P.M.”

Norma looked up from her pad, casting a hooded glance at Otley as one foot soldier to another; she’s breathing fire and brimstone, keep your head down if you don’t want it blown off. Otley leaned indolently against the wall and folded his arms.

“Did you or did you not see Jackson on the night Connie died?” Tennison demanded, returning to the attack.

“Yes,” Vera said miserably.

There was a commotion outside in the corridor. Otley crossed to the door and half opened it. The strident tones of Jessica Smithy could be heard as Hall hustled her along.

“Just how long am I expected to wait? I’ve been here nearly an hour… she’s doing this on purpose!”

Otley wafted them on and firmly shut the door.

Tennison paced up and down. She yanked the back of her jacket straight and without warning swept the file sheets off the table with such force that Vera cowered in her chair.

“You know what really sickens me about you?” Tennison rasped, leaning forward on her knuckles, face thrust toward Vera’s. “That you said you liked Connie, understood him, that he was like you.”

Vera ducked her head as Tennison leaned even closer, inches away.

“He wasn’t though, was he? He wasn’t like you. Because he was twenty years younger than you.” Her voice was scathing, pitiless. “And he was going to get everything you always wanted, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he? ”

Vera wriggled, her face collapsing in on itself, biting her lip to hold back the tears. Tennison resumed pacing. She stopped at the window, staring out. “What time did you get to the advice centre?”

“About eight-thirty.” The answer barely crept out.

“Eight-thirty?” Tennison revolved slowly on her heel. “Eight-thirty?” She moved nearer. “Where was Connie?”

“In the flat.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Tennison bent down to retrieve the scattered sheets. She dropped them any old how on the table. She folded her arms. “Well, your friend Red is now in trouble. He swore on oath that you were at his friend’s studio at…”

Vera quickly jumped in. “Six-thirty-I was. He never knows the time, and I left to go to the club, just as he said.”

“When you left your flat,” Tennison said with ponderous deliberation, “was Connie there?” Vera nodded. “Suspect nodded his head.” Tennison leaned in. “Alone?” Vera shook her head, eyes downcast. “Suspect shook his head. Who was with Connie when you left your flat at six-thirty?”

The Adam’s apple bobbed in the long white throat. Vera’s heavy-lidded soulful eyes came up, brimming with moisture.

“A journalist.”

Tennison felt a jolt in her spine. She stared at Vera.

Jessica Smithy sat on the edge of the table, smoking, tapping her cigarette ash on the floor. Beside her were two empty cups of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate. With unconcealed impatience she was watching DI Hall, who a moment before had answered the wall phone. He was nodding. “Yes, she’s still here.”

He cradled the handset and turned to her, a deprecating smile on his lips, fidgeting with his tie.

“Choose them yourself, do you?” Her slender leg in its Gucci shoe swung to and fro like a relentless metronome.

Hall fingered his tie. “No, my girlfriend does,” he responded brightly, beaming.

Jessica Smithy’s hazel eyes flashed, sliding off somewhere. “I’d get rid of her.” She blew smoke in the air, tapped ash on the floor.

“I tried-I told you-gave you all the clues. It was me that said the advice centre, even said Parker-Jones’s name, and it was me that told you about Jackson, me who told you about the press…”

Vera scrabbled in the box for another tissue. She discarded the sodden one and noisily blew her nose. She discarded that one too and wrenched out a handful to wipe her damp face.

“I went back to the flat because I’d forgotten a sequinned choker.” The tears welled up again. “Connie was still there, talking-talking. I just listened for a second, I didn’t want to interrupt, but I could see them, the door was just ajar, and he was showing her my album.” Vera gazed up beseechingly at Tennison. “She was looking at my photographs… you don’t understand, do you?”