Lynda La Plante: Silent Victims

Otley flicked the sugar cube. “And you don’t know who was in your flat?” he inquired in his usual drab tone.

Vera gave a little shake of the head.

Hall put his hands on the back of Otley’s chair and leaned over. “Vernon,” he said, not unkindly, “if I go out and leave somebody kippin’ in my place, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to say I don’t know them. I mean, that is stupid, isn’t it?”

Vera threw up her hands, the knuckles red where she’d been kneading them. She swallowed hard, the Adam’s apple doing a double gyration. “It could have been any number of people-you see, it was well known I leave a key on top of the front door…”

Otley made a sound, a kind of muffled snort. He sighed and shook his head, crumbling the sugar cube between his long hard nails.

“About seventeen years old?” Hall said. “Reddish blond hair… ring any bells?”

Vera bit her lip, staring down at the table. Then a tight, rapid shake of the head. She was steeling herself for the next question when she was saved by Norma’s face at the small glass panel in the door. She tapped and stuck her head in.

“Fire team would like Mr. Reynolds as soon as possible. There’s sandwiches and coffee served in the Squad Room. Can you get everybody mustered, same as this morning, for twelve-thirty sharp.” Norma waggled her dark unplucked eyebrows at them. “She’s here.”

While Inspector Hall escorted Vera Reynolds out and put her in the charge of two uniformed men, Otley followed Norma along the corridor to Tennison’s office, which at the moment was minus Tennison. The Skipper peered in, an evil grin on his face, watching Norma in the dim, dusty cubbyhole trying valiantly to wrench open one of the desk drawers. Norma looked up, perspiring.

“She won’t like this,” Otley gloated, rubbing his hands.

“She’s not here, Sarge. Nor should you be,” Norma said pointedly.

Otley cackled.

Tennison capped her fountain pen with a decisive click and stood up. She tugged her suit jacket straight at the front and came around the desk to face them. The Squad Room stilled. Not very tall, under five feet five, her honey-blond hair cut in a swath across her forehead, she seemed rather out of place in a room of hulking men; all but one of the women police officers were taller, even if they didn’t have her rounded, sensual figure.

The tension in the hot, crowded room was almost palpable. Tennison certainly wasn’t relaxed, and neither were they. A new Detective Chief Inspector heading Vice might spell all kinds of trouble, and already she had two strikes against her. Her reputation as a tenacious round-the-clock obsessive who worked her team to the bone, and the fact that she was female. Even the WPCs were wary of that.

Fingers laced together at her waist, feet braced apart, Tennison let the silence gather for a moment. She wanted control from the start, and was determined to have it.

“So… please accept my apologies. Not got off on a very good footing on my first day.” Small smile. Let them know you can afford it. “I will obviously need everybody’s cooperation, and I would also appreciate it if…”

She caught a movement as Hall slithered in. He gave her a weak, apologetic smile and she returned a curt nod. He grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria tray and it was halfway to his mouth when Tennison said:

“It’s Inspector Lawrence Hall, yes?” He nodded, mouth open, sandwich unbitten. “Well, let’s you and me start off on the right footing, shall we? If I ask everyone to be at a place at a certain time, and only unless you have a good excuse…”

“I’m sorry,” Hall interrupted, “but I had to arrange for Reynolds to be taken over to the Fire unit. I was waiting-”

“Is Sergeant Otley with Reynolds?” Tennison asked sharply.

Hall hesitated. “Yes,” he lied. “You know about the fire, do you?”

Tennison nodded, slowly folding her arms. “Why is this fire and the boy of such interest to you, or this department? I know Vernon Reynolds. I know what he is, but that isn’t against the law.”

“Well-one-it was on our patch. And in the area we have been targeting, Euston and St. Pancras, on Operation Contract. The dead boy was possibly a rent boy.” Hall glanced toward the door, wishing Otley would show up. “Vernon was probably taking a few quid for letting them use his place.”

“Has he admitted that?”

Hall shifted uneasily under her gaze. Where the fuck was Otley? “No, ma’am… well, he’s not likely to, is he? He’s saying he doesn’t even know who was in there.”

Tennison scented that matters were spinning beyond her control. Nip it in the bud. No mavericks on her team. She said briskly, “I’d like a full report on this fire business and then I will tell you whether or not this department wishes to continue with the investigation. Our priority is Operation Contract.”

Hall stared at his feet. The other officers, munching sandwiches and slurping coffee, exchanged looks. First morning in and she was throwing her weight around. This was going to be a load of fun, they didn’t think.

With a curt nod of her head, Tennison indicated that work should continue. The officers turned back to their desks, to their mounds of paperwork, reaching for phones. They were all aware of her scrutiny: new regime, new boss, and they were being required to pass muster.

Tennison beckoned to one of the WPCs standing in a small group next to the wall-length filing section. She came over, a tall, striking girl with frank, open features and friendly blue eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Kathy.”

“Can you give me a brief rundown on the operation?”

WPC Kathy Trent led her over to the large board. “I’ve been trying to question as many of the kids as possible.” She smiled diffidently, eager to help.

Tennison watched closely as Kathy took her through it. She still hadn’t got a handle on this Operation Contract thing. The board was crammed with information. Under “TOMS”-police slang for female and male prostitutes-a long list of names and locations: Waterloo Street, Golden Fleece, Earls Court, Euston Station, Stars & Stripes. Farther along, headed “OPERATION CONTRACT,” photographs of young boys, some of them no older than eleven or twelve, with video stills of supermarket checkouts, tube station platforms, mainline station concourses. More typed lists of targeted locations-cafes, coffee shops, street markets, soup kitchens, cardboard cities-spotted in different colors. Tapes led from these to a huge map of central London with corresponding colored pins. A duty rota of officers on surveillance was marked up in black felt-tip, with dates, times, and frequency, all cross-referenced to file number such-and-such. At first sight it seemed to be an efficient and comprehensive operation, well planned, rigorously executed.

“Most of the older rent boys are carrying pagers, portable phones, so our team-four of us, ma’am-concentrate on the younger ones skiving around Soho.” Kathy pointed to a sheet marked up in colored felt-tip, a blizzard of asterisks, arrows, code numbers. “We staked out the Golden Fleece, Euston Station, Earls Court…”

Tennison nodded, content for now to listen and learn, get some kind of grip on it.

“Our problem is that when the kids are actually out on the street, they’ve already accepted the lifestyle.” Kathy didn’t sound sad, simply resigned to reality.

Over by the door, behind Tennison’s back, Sergeant Otley sneaked in, made a rapid gesture to Hall. The Inspector scuttled over.

“You’ve been with Reynolds and the Fire team,” Hall said under his breath, tapping his nose.

“I haven’t.” Otley grinned. “I’ve been up at Records and we got…”