Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

  Lots of raspberries, honks, and hooting laughter.

  Otley gave a universal V-sign and disappeared.

  Twenty minutes later, having written up his report, Otley took it along to Tennison’s office where she was looking over a large-scale street map pinned to the wall. He dropped the report on her desk.

  “The advice centre and Vera’s flat.” Tennison pointed to each, ringed in red, where she’d just marked them.

  “I timed it,” Otley said, perching on the edge of the desk. “You could make it there and back in ten minutes.”

  The door was open, and Dalton came in, a bandage on his hand. He stood listening, his tanned face impassive.

  “So Jackson could easily have done it.” Tennison glanced over her shoulder at Otley. “But five alibis say he didn’t.”

  “I reckon we could break down those kids’ statements if we had Jackson behind bars. They’d all say he was visiting the Queen Mother if he told them to. He’s got to them, it’s obvious.”

  “It’s obvious with Martin Fletcher. I want him brought back in.” She went around the desk, biting the end of the felt-tip pen. “Parker-Jones … he’s Jackson’s strongest alibi. Dig around a bit, but on the QT… .” She gave him a look.

  “He’s squeaky clean,” Otley told her. “I think your predecessor had a nose around but came up with nothin’.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Tennison was frowning and shaking her head. “Could be just a personal reaction—and there was something about his voice.” She rooted underneath some files, then opened a drawer and searched inside. “Shit! Where the hell is the tape?” She looked at Otley. “Did you take a tape from here?”

  “No. Is it in the machine?” Otley reached over and pressed the Eject button. Empty. He was conscious that Tennison was staring hard at him, plainly disbelieving.

  She straightened up, sighing, and glanced at her watch. “Don’t waste time looking for it now. We’ll call it quits for tonight, get an early start in the morning.”

  Dalton gave a nod to them both and went out, closing the door. Otley still waited, watching Tennison opening, searching, and banging shut every drawer in her desk. Finally she stood up.

  “You didn’t take it, did you, Bill?”

  “What? The tape?” He shook his head. “No, why would I do that?”

  Tennison suddenly looked weary. She slumped back in the chair, rubbing her forehead. “Getting paranoid. It’ll be here somewhere.”

  There was a reason for Otley’s lingering presence. Out it came, a touch of asperity in his tone.

  “Guv, can you get Dalton off my back? I can’t work with him. I could have got a lot more out of those kids—one bit him this afternoon. I nearly did myself,” Otley said darkly.

  He was a bastard, Otley, and a chauvinist pig to boot, but she trusted his instincts, because they so often chimed with her own.

  “What do you make of him?” she asked.

  “Not a lot. Don’t know why he’s on board, do you?”

  Tennison shook her head. With a grunted “G’night,” Otley left her alone. She got up, arching her back, and stood with hands on hips looking over her desk. She lifted the reports and files and checked everywhere. She peered down the side of the desk and underneath her chair.

  She sat down again, and looked at her watch. Yawning, she picked up the phone and dialed. As she waited she drew Otley’s report toward her and started reading.

  “Hello … Dr. Gordon’s receptionist, please.” She waited, reading. “It’s Jane Tennison. I’m sorry, but I’m running a bit late. I’ve got an appointment at six-thirty.” She listened, nodding. “Great, see you then.”

  She dropped the phone down and moved slowly around the desk, the report in her hand, still reading. She stopped dead and stared. She read it again, the bit that had frozen her to the spot.

  “Oh, shit … !”

  Moving fast, she went into the corridor. To the left, outside the Squad Room doors, Commander Chiswick was having a quiet word with Dalton, whose back was toward her, and as Tennison strode quickly up, Chiswick lightly tapped Dalton on the arm, shutting him up.

  “Evening, sir,” Tennison greeted the Commander. She turned to Dalton and indicated her office. “Before you go …”

  When Dalton came in, a moment or two later, she was leaning against the desk. He’d barely crossed the threshold before Tennison said, “Has anyone looked at that hand?”

  “It’s nothing,” Dalton said, bending his wrist to show her. “I put a bandage over it.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to tell you this.” Tennison reached behind her for Otley’s report and held it up. “Billy Matthews has fullblown AIDS. I think you should get to a hospital.”

  Dalton frowned at her, blinking rapidly. “The bloody little bastard,” he burst out hoarsely. “I had to have a shower when we got back. I’ll go and see the nurse.” He hadn’t quite grasped it, Tennison could see. “The little shit!”

  “I’m sorry …”

  Dalton went very quiet, staring at his hand. Only now was he realizing the full implications, his tan fading as the blood drained from his face. He looked scared now, dead scared.

  “He bit me, he broke the skin, he … bit me.” He swallowed and looked at Tennison, his voice quavering. “Jesus Christ. I was bleeding …”

  “Go to the hospital, you’ll need a tetanus injection for starters.”

  Dalton didn’t move. He simply stared at her, mouth hanging open, looking about ten years old.

  “Would you like someone to go with you? Do you want me to take you?”

  “No, no, it’s okay …” He turned away, holding the wrist of his injured hand. “I’ve got my own car … er … thank you.”

  He went out and turned right, heading for the stairs.

  Tennison emerged from behind the screen, buttoning up her blouse. She took her suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Seated at the leather-topped desk in his white coat, Dr. Gordon was making an entry in her medical file, having already prepared the sample stickers for the lab tests. The glass slides in their plastic containers were by his elbow.

  “Can I ask—if somebody has fullblown AIDS and bites somebody else, actually draws blood, how dangerous is it?”

  Dr. Gordon was the same age as Tennison, if not younger, though this had never bothered her. He had a friendly, amiable disposition, which was more important. He looked at her over his silver-framed glasses.

  “Very. It’s not the fact that the AIDS carrier has drawn blood, but if his blood then makes contact with the open wound … human bite is extremely dangerous, contains more bacteria than a dog bite. Fullblown AIDS?” He put his pen down, laced his fingers when he saw how intently she was listening to him.

  “Often their gums bleed, it’s really dependent on how far advanced the AIDS carrier is, but bleeding gums, mouth sores …”

  “How soon can it be diagnosed?”

  He tilted his head slightly. “It’s not you, is it?”

  “No, it’s not me.” Tennison sat down, smoothing her blouse inside the shoulders of her jacket. “I’m fine. Well—a bit ratty, but I put that down to my periods being a bit erratic.”

  “Well, it could be the onset of the menopause. We’ll get these samples over to the lab, but until I get the results I won’t prescribe anything.” Dr. Gordon leaned forward, regarding her soberly. “Your friend should be tested for antibodies immediately, but that will only prove he or she doesn’t have it already. I’m afraid it’ll take three to six months to zero convert and they should have HIV tests every four to six weeks for the next six months.”

  “So it’ll be six months before he knows?”

  “Afraid so. That’s how long it will take to show a positive infection.” He held up a cautioning finger. “However, fullblown AIDS can take anywhere up to eight to ten years to develop.”

  “Thank you very much,” Tennison said, getting up. “Do you have any leaflets I could take?”

  While
he found her some she thoughtfully put on her raincoat and collected her briefcase. She turned to him.

  “You mind if I say something? ‘Onset of menopause’ may not mean much to you, but it does to a woman. It means a lot.”

  Dr. Gordon paused, watching her, waiting.

  Briefcase clasped in her hands, Tennison was studying her shoes. “I’m not married, maybe never will be, so it doesn’t make all that much difference to me—but I am only forty-four, and …” She shook her head rapidly, shoulders slumping. “Oh, forget it!”

  “Be a couple of days,” Dr. Gordon said kindly, handing her the leaflets. “I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you,” Tennison said, stuffing them in her pocket. “And thank you for fitting me in. I’m sorry I was late.”

  As she got to the door her bleeper sounded. She fished it out and pressed a button. “Can I use your phone?”

  7

  In the softening gloom of early dusk the unkempt graves and slanting headstones of St. Margaret’s Crypt flashed red and yellow in the lights of the patrol car and ambulance parked outside the rusting iron gates. Two uniformed officers were cordoning off the area inside the churchyard with yellow marking ribbons: POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS. Arc lamps had been set up. The sudden harsh glare as they were switched on transformed the crypt into a ghastly gothic world of drunken shadows and crumbling statues, broken glass glittering in the long grass.

  A motley collection of human detritus watched with befuddled curiosity. Some were crouched on the low broken-down wall, others slumped on the pavement, wrapped in blankets with layers of newspaper inside. Empty wine and cider bottles filled the gutters. Situated between the Bullring and the underpass of Waterloo Bridge, the derelict churchyard was home to a nighttime population of summer residents; the winter months were far too cold for sleeping on gravestones, even topped up with Thunderbird wine and two liters of Woodpecker.

  Otley was talking to the police photographer when he saw Tennison’s Sierra nosing along the narrow cobbled street. She stopped some distance away, leaving room for the ambulance, and wound her window down. Otley went across and leaned in.

  “Body was discovered about an hour ago. There’s a doctor checking him over now.”

  Tennison followed him, stepping over the heaps of rubbish and broken bottles. As they approached the gates a hand reached out, grabbing at her coat, and a slurred voice said, “Givvus a quid fer a cup o’ tea… .”

  Tennison stopped one of the policemen. “For chrissakes, clear them out of here!” she snapped. “Get rid of them!”

  Lifting the yellow tape for her to bend under, Otley gave a half smile. “Can’t get rid of them, Guv. Each tombstone’s an allocated lodging.” He pointed. “He’s over there, by the angel. Some bloody guardian!”

  He remained at the tape, watching Tennison moving through the headstones toward a huge white praying angel with a shattered wing, marble eyes raised sightlessly to heaven. Then, with his sardonic grin, Otley went out through the gates and along the street in the direction of Waterloo Bridge.

  The doctor had been kneeling on a plastic sheet while he carried out his examination. He stood up, clicked his small black leather bag shut, and moved aside. Tennison peered down. In death, Martin Fletcher looked even pathetically younger and frailer than he had in life—short, brutish and nasty as that had been.

  He lay on his back on the pitted tombstone, one leg bent under the other, his arms open wide. His head was tilted to one side, puffy eyelids closed in his chalk-white face, a string of saliva and vomit hanging from his half-open mouth. By his outstretched hand were two cans of lighter fluid and a two-liter plastic bottle of Woodpecker cider, empty.

  I never told nobody nuffink and that is the Gawd’s truth …

  Tennison had seen all she wanted to. She turned away, thinking that Martin Fletcher must have told somebody something, or he wouldn’t have ended up a cold lump of meat on a stone slab, fourteen years of life washed down the drain.

  Otley stood at the chest-high wooden counter of the sandwich trailer not a stone’s throw from the iron trelliswork of Waterloo Bridge. It was dark now, the patch of waste ground near the trailer dimly illuminated by a sulky fire in an oil drum. A dozen or so kids sat around it, one of them holding a thin shivering mongrel on a piece of string. Cans of beer were being passed around. Somebody had his nose inside a brown paper bag, breathing heavily, then coughing and spluttering as he passed it on.

  “You want ketchup? Mustard? Onions … ?”

  The stallholder held Otley’s hamburger in his palm. He pushed a large white mug toward Otley’s elbow. “Sugar in the tea? Milk? Top or not?”

  “No top, mate,” Otley said, reaching into his pocket for change. “An’ I’ll have the rest, but easy on the ketchup, heavy on the mustard.” He plonked a pound coin and fifty-pence piece down and turned to the boy beside him. Alan Thorpe was a fresh-faced kid with jug ears and straight blond hair hacked off in ragged bangs. Otley guessed he was about thirteen.

  “Who else was there that night then?”

  Together they strolled, Otley munching his hamburger and sipping his mug of tea, toward the group around the fire. On the far side of the trailer, in the vast shadow cast by the bridge, Tennison slowly drew up. She wound her window down. From this distance she couldn’t hear, but she could see everything that was going on. Otley saying something that made the blond kid laugh, and Otley laughing too. Otley bending down to feed the dog some hamburger. Otley talking to the blond kid, paying close attention to what he said. And then Otley glancing up and seeing her car, the word “Shit” as discernible on his lips as if she’d heard him mutter it.

  He came across, chewing the last of the hamburger, wiping his fingers on his hankerchief. He gestured.

  “Come midnight they’re around this place like flies. Does a hell of a trade.”

  “The boy that bit Dalton, Billy. Turns out he’s got AIDS.”

  Otley stared. “Jesus Christ. How’s Dalton?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Tennison said bleakly. “It’s tough.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough for Billy too,” Otley said, and she was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He leaned on the open window and nodded toward the group. “That was Jackson’s third witness, blond boy with the dog, Alan Thorpe.” He belched and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Says he was too pissed to remember who was at the centre the night Connie died, so that’s one alibi that’s no good.”

  “You want a ride home?” Tennison asked him.

  Otley hesitated, half shook his head, then changed his mind. As they drove off, the midnight blue Merc with the rusty patches that had been parked under the bridge with its lights off ghosted forward. Jackson slid out from behind the wheel. He stood running his thumb over the rings on his hand, wearing a long, beat-up leather coat that nearly reached his ankles. Pursing his fleshy lips, he gave a low whistle. The kids around the fire turned to look. Jackson whistled again. The dog was released and trotted over to him, trailing its bit of string.

  Jackson knelt down, rubbing the dog’s head. He looked up, smiling.

  “Alan, come here a sec.”

  When nobody moved, Jackson stood up.

  “ALAN!” The smile wiped from his face, he pointed. “You! Come here. Don’t mess with me, get over here.”

  The group of kids shrank away as Alan Thorpe stood up and shuffled across the loose gravel. He was shuffling too slowly, and Jackson made an angry beckoning gesture.

  “What was all that about?” Jackson asked softly as Alan came up. And reaching out, Alan shying away a little, Jackson ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “He wanted to know about Connie,” Alan said, barely audible.

  Jackson opened the passenger door. “Get in, Alan. We’re goin’ for a little ride.”

  “Okay.” Alan moved forward. “What about me mates, can they come too …”

  Jackson grabbed him by the back of the neck and flung him inside. He smiled. “Just you an’ me, Alan
.”

  Alan suddenly grinned back, eyes impish in his soft childish face. “Got a punter for me, ’ave yer?”

  Jackson slammed the door.

  Tennison turned off Holloway Road into the little street of neat terraced houses, each with its own few square feet of scrubby garden. Otley lived three doors from the bottom end, where the viaduct of the London to Birmingham mainline blocked off the street.

  She didn’t expect him to invite her in for a coffee, and he didn’t. She wouldn’t have accepted anyway. They were reluctant colleagues, not bosom friends. He was strangely on edge. He opened the door but stayed in the car, one leg out. He looked back at her. In the streetlight his eyes were black pits, unfathomable, perhaps unknowable. She didn’t know him.

  “Your real bastards are the ones that use them,” Otley said. “Can’t get to them though, can you?” Grinning at her, teeth clenched. “Especially if they got friends in high places. Dig deep enough an’ you come up against concrete … know what I mean …”

  He was out fast then, slamming the door, through the squeaking gate, up the little path, not looking back. As if he’d said more than he should, shown too much of how he really felt.

  Tennison drove home, too tired to bother to understand what he had been getting at. A large Bushmills and bed, that was all she wanted. Another day over, thank God.

  At 9 A.M. it started all over again. The Squad Room was a cacophony of ringing phones, shouted questions, some foul language, and twenty conversations going on all at once. Updates from the night-duty staff were being passed around. Halliday was at the big notice board with Norma, who was taking him through the various lines of inquiry that were under way. Tennison had one ear to everything that was happening while she listened to Kathy. She felt to be in better shape today, her attention keener, adrenaline buzzing with the noise and activity. Down one day, on a high the next, it was puzzling.

  “I’ve been checking out the cards from the advice centre. One of the so-called photographers was busted a few years ago, so he was quite helpful.” Tennison nodded to show she was listening. Kathy went on, “He’s mostly porn and girly pics, but he put me onto a Mark Lewis …” She passed over a note of the address. “He specializes in male ‘beauty’ style pictures. I called his number but got short shrift. I think it’d be better for one of the men to have a go. If Connie was trying to be a model he could have used him.”