Lynda La Plante - Silent Victims

Otley nodded slowly. “Used Vera Reynolds’s place. I need to ask some of the boys about him.” Parker-Jones was about to say something, but Otley went on in a monotone, “He’s dead. He was on the game, wasn’t he?”

“Are you telling me or asking me?” Parker-Jones drew himself up to his full height. “Is this official? I’ve already discussed this with an Inspector…” He frowned and snapped his fingers. “Inspector Hall. I really don’t understand why you and your associates persist in coming in here…”

His indignation was wasted on Otley, who had strolled off in the general direction of the television lounge. Ron came from the corner alcove with a plastic cup of soup. Parker-Jones took it from him and hurried past Otley into the lounge, still complaining in his fruity, rather portentous voice.

“You people make my job and the social services work exceptionally difficult. I attempt to get these boys off the street, give them a place they can come to-and I am continually harassed, as are the boys.”

He held out the cup of soup. A tousled head poked up from behind an armchair. A nail-bitten hand reached out.

“They are not in my care, they come here of their own free will. They come here because this is one of the few places they can come to.” He sounded righteously outraged, as if he had been accused of something, his reputation besmirched.

Otley stood in the doorway watching as Martin Fletcher took the soup in both hands. The boy looked up at Parker-Jones, his bruised and battered face breaking into a wan smile. Parker-Jones ruffled his hair and smiled back, the steadfast rock in an ugly, shifting world.

Tennison pushed through the glass double doors into the corridor leading to the Pullman lounge at Euston Station. She checked her appearance in a small hand-mirror, flicking her hair into place with her fingertips. The stewardess behind the glass door pressed the entry release buzzer. Tennison entered the thickly carpeted room, the din of the station below hushed behind triple glazing and velvet drapes. She looked around nervously. The stewardess held out her hand, presumably for a first-class ticket.

“I’m just meeting someone here.” Tennison returned the stewardess’s smile with a small embarrassed one of her own. “I don’t have a-”

“It’s okay, she’s with me.”

Jake Hunter threaded his way through the deep comfortable armchairs grouped around low tables. The lounge was almost empty. The stewardess dimpled at his smile, and he led Tennison across to his table. She put her briefcase by the chair and unbuttoned her raincoat.

“I’ve never been in here before. Mind you, I don’t usually travel first class. Thank you,” she said, as Jake helped her off with her coat. She hadn’t dressed to please him, though the dark red linen jacket and charcoal gray pencil skirt made her feel slim and attractive, and she was glad she wore it.

They sat down. Jake drew his armchair closer.

“I’ve got about an hour before my train, but I just wanted to-”

Tennison interrupted, speaking in a rush. She was still flustered. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk to you. There’s a case I’m working on.”

Jake caught her arm as she reached for her briefcase.

“I don’t want to talk about any work, Jane. I just didn’t think we, or I… could walk away without, without…”

He sighed and sat back, rubbing his chin, as the stewardess appeared beside them with the drinks menu.

“Whisky and soda, please,” Tennison said, ignoring the card. She watched the stewardess go, and then took a good look around. “I’m very impressed. I didn’t know this was even here.”

Jake leaned forward and took her hand. She thought of pulling away, but didn’t. He had to have his say, and she couldn’t stop him. Did she want to? Good question. If only she knew herself.

“Jane, we’ve got to talk, because, I…” She realized he was nervous too. It was a struggle to get the words out. “Jane, I’m married and I have four kids…”

“I know,” Tennison said calmly. “It’s on the flyleaf of your book.”

“Yeah!” Jake sounded almost angry. He leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. “But what isn’t is the way I feel about you. What I’ve always felt about you.”

“No, but you wrote that in the front of the book.”

“Can you just be serious, just for a second, for chrissakes!”

“There’s no point.” She repeated quietly, “There’s no point.”

“Then why did you come?” Jake asked stiffly.

“I just wanted to ask you your opinion about something I’m working on.” Tennison glanced away from him. His eyes were like lasers on her cheek.

“I don’t believe you.”

The stewardess placed Tennison’s drink in front her, along with a napkin and dish of peanuts. Jake took the bill and nodded his thanks.

Silence then, while Tennison stared at her untouched drink. She said, “I knew you were married. I shouldn’t have stayed.”

“Why did you?”

“Because…” She gave a tiny vexed shake of her head. “Because you wanted me to. Don’t-” She held up her hand as he tried to speak. “I wanted to, Jake. I wanted to be with you.”

It was hell to handle, and the only way she knew how was to make light of it, kill the feeling with fake humor.

“I’ve always been a glutton for punishment, maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job. I’ve got that, you’ve got a family-perhaps we’ve both got what we wanted. If I haven’t, then I’ve no one else to blame but myself.”

Jake sighed miserably. “What a mess.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tennison said briskly, “because we’ll do what we agreed. We won’t see each other again. You’ll get on the train, and in the meantime…” She reached down for her briefcase.

Jake turned his face away from her, but she could see his throat working. “I love you,” he said, hardly moving his lips, and took her hand, holding it tightly.

“Yes, I know,” Tennison said softly.

Jake let go of her hand. He took a huge breath and turned back to look at her. “So… what’s this case you’re working on?”

Larry Hall looked up from the computer as he heard the door swing. Otley was standing there, hair plastered to his forehead, hand on the shoulder of a puny kid with terrified eyes in a face that had been through the mangle.

“I want an interview room and somebody to take a statement.”

It was 7:43 by the clock on the wall of the Squad Room. Hall frowned. “You’re not down for tonight, are you?”

A couple of officers were working a few desks away. Otley lowered his voice. “This lad knows something, but he’s scared.” He nodded toward the corridor. “Come in with me?”

Hall took his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped into it, automatically adjusting the knot in his tie. He looked at Martin Fletcher, then tugged the lobe of his ear. “Hey, Bill, how old is he?”

“I think your boy was already dead,” Jake said, studying the pages of the autopsy report spread out on the table. There were some grisly morgue photographs that Tennison had shown him and quickly tucked back into her briefcase. She leaned forward, her clasped hands resting on her knees.

Jake indicated a paragraph. “Says here that the fluid taken from the blisters showed no sign of vital reaction.”

Concentrating hard, Tennison tried to put the pieces together. “So, if the fire wasn’t accidental, he was murdered?… Is that what you’re saying?”

Muted chimes rang out. “The train on platform thirteen is the eight P.M. Pullman Express to Liverpool, calling at Watford, Crewe . . .”

“What does ‘pugilistic attitude’ mean?” Tennison asked, fretting.