Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

  The singing had finished. A slow applause started as Kennington stepped forward to the microphone, holding the velvet box in one hand and a gold pocket watch in the other. He raised an eyebrow, beaming down at them.

  “Gentlemen …” He waited for the applause to die away. “Gentlemen, tonight is a sad, very sad occasion for me, but you have made it a night I will never forget.”

  They were on their feet, applauding, none more vigorously than the iron-haired judge. Thorndike never missed an opportunity. He’d wheedled his way nearly to the top of the greasy pole, currying favor, playing the smiling sycophant, but there was some distance to go.

  He took advantage of the applause to sidle around, finding himself very conveniently at the judge’s elbow. “Excuse me … it’s Judge Syers, isn’t it?”

  Judge Syers turned and stared at him, cold probing eyes under bristling gray brows.

  “We met at a lodge dinner,” Thorndike lied smoothly.

  Judge Syers seemed to think this not impossible. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his iron-gray head. “What’s your name?”

  Cutting through the smoke, the mauve spotlight picked out the face of Marlene Dietrich. Huge dark eyes, a gash of red for the sultry mouth. Thin arcs of eyebrows against an alabaster forehead. Silvery blond hair framing high cheekbones and the rouged hollows beneath. The spotlight widened to reveal her tight, skin-toned dress, figure-hugging from neckline to her ankles. Sequins gave off glittering sparks so that she seemed to shimmer like a cloud of dazzling light.

  “Falling in love again, never wanted to

  What am I to do?

  I can’t help it …”

  Vera swayed hypnotically on the small stage against a backdrop of silver satin drapes. Her arms floated like pale slender reeds, nails sharp as talons, teardrops of blood. Her low throaty voice caressed the words like a hand stroking fur, inviting, suggesting, seducing.

  Below the stage, small lamps in the shape of tulips glowed on the gold lamé tablecloths. The close-packed faces were blurs in the dim light. Some were focused on the stage; Vera Reynolds was a hot act, one of the most popular with the members. Other faces—older, lined, jaded, belonging to men in muted, well-cut business suits—were constantly on the move, eyes roaming the darkness, searching for that special someone.

  Half past midnight. The Bowery Roof Top Club was reaching its peak.

  Thorndike followed Judge Syers out of the elevator into the small lobby on the ninth floor. A handsome young man with a thin mustache that curved down to a pointed beard, his sleek ponytail looped into a bun, sat behind the reception desk. He was checking names and numbers on a screen. Through the doors, Thorndike heard a husky voice singing, “Falling in love again, never wanted to …”

  He was secretly thrilled. He’d never before entered such an exclusive establishment. The place reeked of power and privilege, even if the decor wasn’t to his taste. In fact it was rather vulgar, in an expensive way, Thorndike decided. Heavy tapestries of silver and gold adorned the walls. Pillars of vine leaves in wrought iron, painted gold, supported tubs of exuberant foliage. Large mirrors framed in gilt reflected the heated exotic splendor. Thorndike didn’t quite know what to make of it all; he’d certainly never seen anything like it.

  He stared, blinked, and pursed his thin lips in a prudish pout. That marble statuette—good God! A full-size male nude, the anatomical detail leaving nothing to the imagination. He quickly averted his gaze.

  “Member and one guest,” the receptionist said, pushing the book forward. Judge Syers stood aside as Thorndike signed.

  The act was just finishing. They came through into the bar, and Thorndike got a glimpse of a blond head bowing low, arms gracefully extended, acknowledging the applause. The air was thick with smoke and heavy with perfume. The little flutter of apprehension he felt became stronger as he gazed around. What struck him most forcibly was the height of the women. Many of them were over six feet tall in their spiked heels. Gorgeous, slender creatures in sparkling evening gowns, exquisitely made up, with manes of wavy hair cascading over their shoulders, silver blond, molten red, raven black. Their dresses were cut away in the most revealing places, except there was nothing to reveal. In fact, Thorndike decided, goggling, they looked like women and they moved like women, only more so. His apprehension escalated into dry-mouthed panic.

  There were boys too, some of whom looked no older than sixteen. Their hair was slicked back, glistening with gel. They wore black leather jackets over white T-shirts, with tight jeans fashionably faded at the knees and crotch.

  The bar was crowded with respectable city types, middle-aged and older, in close conversation with the willowy, preening creatures and the young boys. Thorndike seemed to recognize a face here and there, and blanched at the thought that if he knew them, they might know him.

  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.

  4

  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.”

  “What’s this advice centre?” Tennison asked, leafing through. A whiff of cigarette smoke floated by, and she had to battle against the temptation. Did the urge never, ever let up?

  “One of the places we targeted,” DI Hall said. “I’ve already been there. The guy that runs it—”

  Otley chimed in. “Mr. Parker-Jones. States he hadn’t seen our Connie for months.” And if you believe that, his tone said, I’m a dead ringer for Richard Gere.

  “Has it been confirmed yet whether the fire was arson or accidental?”

  Hall shook his head. “Don’t know. Fire team are still working on it.”

  Everyone straightened up a little, took their feet off desks, as Superintendent Halliday walked in. “Want to run over a few things,” he said brusquely. Tennison nodded. She was on her way, following him out, when she heard Kathy saying to Hall, “Guv, there was an emergency call placed at nine-fifteen, night of the fire. Caller did not leave his name.”

  “What emergency call?” asked Hall.

  Tennison paused at the door.

  “Somebody called an ambulance.”

  “An ambulance?” Hall frowned. “For Reynolds’s address? Get the emergency services to send over the recording.”

  Tennison hurried along the corridor, catching up with Halliday as he passed her open door. Norma was laboring mightily, logging the stacks of files and placing them on the shelves. Soon it might start to resemble an office.

  Halliday turned to Tennison, rubbing his forehead. He looked distinctly green around the gills.

  He said, “Last night a lad called Martin Fletcher was brought in—Otley will explain the circumstances—but the last thing we need is any aggro from Social Services about questioning underage kids without legal advisors.” He shot her a warning look, then his face creased with pain. “Christ, I’ve got a headache …”

  Kennington’s farewell bash was taking its toll. Serves you bloody well right, Tennison thought with satisfaction.

  “I’d like you to set up meetings with the British Transport police, get to know all the centres and halfway homes in our area. I’d like us to try for another swoop on those areas we’ve targeted.”

  “Sir, this boy in the fire, Colin Jenkins,” Tennison said as Halliday walked on to his office and opened the door. “According to the team he was on the game!”

  “Well, he isn’t anymore, so he’s one less to worry about.” Clutching his head, Halliday went in and slammed the door.

  Norma looked up as Tennison came smartly in, heels rapping. She didn’t need smoke signals to know that a storm was brewing. Tennison sent her off to get Martin Fletcher’s file, and when she returned her boss was pacing the small space between the desk and window. Still pacing, Tennison quickly scanned through the file, and then snatched up the phone. Norma kept her head down, literally, sorting out the files.

  “DCI Tennison. Extension seven-eight, please.” While she waited, fingers drumming, she spotted some Post-It memo slips stuck to the blotter and attracted Norma’s attention.

  “There were three messages. The Fire team, Forensic department, and someone called Jessica Smithy. She’s a journalist. Said she is doing a piece on rent boys—”

  “What paper is she from?” Before Norma could answer, Tennison said into the phone, “Would you please ask Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall to …”

  There was no need, as Otley tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Tennison banged the phone down. Hall followed the sergeant in.

  “That’s it, Norma,” Tennison said. “Out, thank you.” She waited
until the door had closed and came around the desk, brandishing the file.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at—no! Don’t interrupt!” Otley shut his mouth as Tennison glared at him. “Last night, according to the roster, you were not even on duty—but last night the pair of you interviewed a Martin Fletcher, correct?” She opened the file, glancing down at the yellow slip paper-clipped to the top sheet. “When later interviewed by his probation officer, a Miss Margaret Speel, she noted that this same Martin Fletcher had extensive bruising to his face, arms, and upper neck …”

  “Wait, wait,” Otley said, shaking his head rapidly. “We brought him in like that!”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Bill.” Tennison’s eyes blazed. “This same probation officer has subsequently filed a complaint against this department—which, in case you two had not bloody noticed, I am head of!” Her voice sank to a dangerous whisper. “Martin Fletcher, you idiots, is fourteen years old!”

  Otley swore under his breath and flopped down into a chair, a hand covering his eyes. Hall stayed on his feet, goggling.

  “Oh, man—he swore under caution he was seventeen. He said he was seventeen …”

  “And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”

  Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.

  He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James—”

  “So? Get to the point.”

  “He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London—Euston, Charing Cross—”

  “I know the stations. Go on.”

  Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”

  Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”