Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims

by Lynda La Plante

  “You got a light?”

  Vera struck a match and Tennison leaned toward the flame.

  “Did James Jackson kill Connie?”

  Close to her, Tennison saw the twin match flames reflected in Vera’s eyes. She saw fear there, deep down. Deeper yet, stricken terror. She resumed her seat, breathing smoke through her nostrils. “He can’t hurt you, Vera, he’s going to be behind bars for a long time. So, tell me …”

  “I don’t know,” Vera Reynolds said huskily. She bowed her head and smoked, looking down into her lap.

  “Do you know a John Kennington?”

  Vera shook her head.

  Tennison sighed. “Vera, look at me. Come on, help me. Why was Jackson looking for Connie that night? He says Connie owed him money.”

  “Connie didn’t need to borrow money from Jackson. He always used to have money.”

  “Did you know any of his clients?”

  “No.” Vera raised her head. She looked past Tennison to Otley, standing near the door, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of his wrinkled suit. She took a breath. “No, he was very secretive about them. Well, you give one kid a name, next minute they’re offering themselves. You think he was just gay, don’t you?” she said, a faint smile hovering. “Why do you think we got on so well?”

  “I don’t know how well you knew him,” Tennison said gently. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Vera swallowed, the prominent Adam’s apple jerking in the long white throat. Above it, her makeup ended in a smudgy tidemark. Her blond wig wasn’t on straight. She looked defeated and pathetic.

  “He was the same as me. He’d go with gays, but he liked straight men better. He wanted money, needed a lot for the operation. They do the best in Rio. He would have had to pay for it, you see, there’s no way the NHS would have given him the operation, he was too young. As it is you’ve got to go through six months of interrogation, analysts, and God knows what else, and then you’re on a waiting list that’ll take years … I know.”

  She took a deep drag, right up to the filter tip, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. She looked pensive.

  “Always been my dream. I’ve been on the hormone tablets, but they’re so expensive, and then I’ve got to buy costumes, pay rent. I just never had enough—but Connie, he felt ready.” She tightened her lips suddenly, as if she was about to cry, turning her head away. “He was very beautiful, and … sometimes we’d talk, and … he understood … because we were alike, we were the same.”

  “Was one of his clients going to give him the money for the operation?” Tennison kept to her gentle tone.

  “No.” Vera’s finely arched eyebrows went up. “Ten grand? More. You need a lot of after-care treatment.”

  “So Connie needed a lot of money—maybe ten, fifteen thousand pounds, yes?” Vera nodded. “How was he going to get all that? Blackmail?”

  “Connie was capable of anything.”

  “Blackmail, Vera?” Tennison said more insistently.

  “Yes, well, I think he was trying it on a few people—the famous ones. But I don’t think he got very far. I think he got scared off.”

  Tennison jotted something down. Her cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. She mashed it out. “Do you know a Jessica Smithy?” Vera nodded. “Connie was selling his life story?” Vera nodded. “And?”

  “I think she kept stringing him along, promising big money—he used to brag about it. But she wanted evidence. Names, photographs. Photographs.”

  “And Jackson knew about this?”

  “Yes. He knew Connie had got a sort of file. You know, to show this reporter. He found out, because Martin Fletcher stole some things from Jackson and gave them to Connie.”

  Vera fumbled for a cigarette. Tennison waited. Otley shifted onto the other foot. Vera picked something imaginary off her tongue and wiped it on the handkerchief.

  “That’s why Jackson was looking for Connie. Not just to get back his things, but because he knew if Connie was selling his story, then he’d be in it. Connie had been one of his boys, you see, early on. Not lately, of course.”

  “Jackson got Connie on the game?” Tennison said. She made a note.

  “Yes.” Vera was nodding slowly. Her eyes were very sad. “He got him so young. He was only ten years old when Jackson found him.” She looked at Tennison from under her eyelids. “But you got to understand, Jimmy was an abused kid himself. Didn’t make any difference to him if they were eight or eighteen. They never stay with him long. Not once they get the hang of it.” Her voice had become drab, lifeless; her whole behavior was subdued.

  “Did you see what Martin stole from Jackson? What he eventually gave to Connie?” Tennison asked.

  “No, I didn’t see them, he just told me.” Vera patted her chest, indicating that Jackson had concealed something in his jacket. “Probably pictures, photographs, maybe letters, I don’t know. I never saw what Martin nicked from Jackson. But that’s why Martin got beaten up. Because he stole the stuff from Jackson.”

  “If Connie told you about the ‘stuff’ Martin had taken from Jackson, told you about the press connection, did he also mention who he was going to blackmail with it?”

  Vera shook her head. “He never told me, but he was kind of excited—you know, very pleased with himself. Said he’d get the money for his operation. He was very certain.”

  Tennison made a note and closed her notebook. She reached over and touched Vera’s hand, a light firm pressure.

  “Thank you, Vera.”

  Tennison stood up. Vera sat there, eyes clouding with confusion.

  “You can go,” Tennison said. She went to the door, pausing by Otley. “You doing anything lunchtime?” He shook his head. “See you in my office.” She went out.

  In her haste, getting to her feet, Vera had managed to drop her handbag, tipping most of the contents onto the floor. She got down on her knees, shoveling in lipsticks and tubes of makeup. Otley’s face appeared beneath the table. “Get your handbag, Vernon, and you’re out of here,” he drawled.

  Vera scrambled to her feet, clicking her handbag shut. She was palpitating, her eyes a bit wild. “That’s it … ? I can go?”

  Otley jerked his thumb.

  She scurried to the door, heels clacking, clutching her handbag.

  “Vernon!”

  Vera skidded and pitched forward. She whipped a frightened look over her shoulder.

  Otley was dangling a hairbrush by its handle. “This yours?”

  Alan Thorpe stood in the mustard-tinged gloom of the advice centre, idly glancing over the contacts board. He had a full carton of Rothman’s King Size under his arm, and he was leisurely lighting up from the packet he’d just prized out of the cellophane wrapper. It was a little after 10:15 A.M. It was quiet, no one in the games room or the TV lounge.

  Quiet for the next ten seconds until Margaret Speel came clattering down the stairs and barged through the door, frizzy black hair bouncing on her shoulders, her mouth taut as a steel trap.

  She marched past the reception counter, did a smart right turn, and banged her small fist on the door marked “E PARKER-JONES. PRIVATE.”

  Parker-Jones opened the door. He stepped back and smiled, gesturing her in.

  Margaret Speel didn’t move. Her voice had a rasp to it.

  “This won’t take long. I intend to report you, get you blacklisted with every council, every government-run scheme that you have abused.”

  Parker-Jones had spotted Alan Thorpe, who couldn’t help but overhear. He moved farther back, trying to draw her in. “What’s brought this on?” he asked, quiet and steady, no histrionics.

  “I trusted you, I may even have helped you—that is what is worst, worse than any of the lies you have told me.” Her shoulders were hunched with the strain, fists clenched at her sides. Her usual pale coloring was now white as chalk. “I don’t care if I lose my job—”

  “Who’s been talking to you, Margaret?” Parker-Jones asked, keeping his voice low. He reached for her hand. />
  “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

  He swayed back, spreading his arms defenselessly. “Come in, at least talk this through.”

  Margaret Speel wore a bitter smile that made her pert face ugly.

  “She knows everything—about you, and about John Kennington. And when I’ve finished you’ll go to prison.” Spittle flew from her lips.

  Parker-Jones reached out and grasped both her wrists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Margaret. This is from that policewoman, Tennison, yes?” His face showed pain and bewilderment. He tugged beseechingly at her wrists. “Oh, Margaret, don’t you understand? Please … just calm down.” His hand touched her cheek. He implored her softly, “Just come in a minute. Let me explain.”

  She took a swift decisive step backward, pulling herself free. “Yes, I do. I do now.”

  And then she was striding off, past the reception counter. Alan Thorpe stared at her. She spun around, glaring at him, making a sudden grab for his arm.

  “Don’t come here anymore. Do you hear me? Don’t come here. This is closed. This is closed down!”

  Under the force of this onslaught Alan backed away from her. He wasn’t scared, just bemused. Margaret Speel pushed him aside and started snatching down the letters and cards on the contacts board. She tore them off and ripped them up, scattering the pieces, and then she tried to drag the board itself off the wall. One corner came loose and she attacked it in frenzy, bringing the whole thing crashing down.

  Parker-Jones came around the corner from his office. He leapt toward her, face livid, his hand grappling for her shoulder. Margaret Speel pivoted on her heel, her arm swinging, and caught him smack across his face, a stinging slap that split his lip. Her shoulder bag had come off. She swung it back on and stormed up the echoing wooden stairs.

  From his breast pocket Parker-Jones took out a clean white handkerchief and dabbed his lip. He returned to his office, picked up the phone and dialed, dabbing his lip and looking at the spots of blood on the pristine white linen.

  The connection came through.

  He held the receiver close to his mouth, feeling the sluggish warm trickle on his chin.

  “Mrs. Kennington? It’s Edward Parker-Jones.”

  Jimmy Jackson was bent double in the chair, his hands locked across his head, tufts of hair sprouting through his fingers.

  “All right. I never lent him any money!”

  Mr. Arthur sat close by him, knees firmly together, fingers laced beneath the threadbare cuffs of his overcoat.

  Tennison went on, “You were told by Martin Fletcher where Connie was. You then went to Vernon Reynold’s flat.”

  “I didn’t—I’ve admitted I was looking for Connie, but I wasn’t the only one.”

  “Who else? Who else was looking for Connie on the night he was murdered? Jimmy, it’s just five … ten minutes there and back from the advice centre.”

  “I never killed him. I couldn’t have.”

  Otley put his hand on the back of Jackson’s chair and leaned right over. “But you had to silence him, didn’t you? Connie was going to tell about the way you kidnap underage kids. The room at the top of the house. We’ve seen the chains, the weapons, the knives.”

  “Did you torture boys up there?” Tennison said expressionlessly. She looked at his hands, the spiky hair sticking through. “Is that why we have, to date, fifteen separate blood samples, from walls, floorboards, bed sheets? What were you doing to those children?” She glanced at Mr. Arthur, and then inspected her fingernails. “Mr. Jackson, I would really try to be as helpful as possible. The charges against you …”

  “Look, I did go to the centre, right?” His head came up, eyes bulging at Tennison, lips red where he’d been chewing them. “I told Mr. Parker-Jones I couldn’t find him, right?”

  “Edward Parker-Jones,” Tennison said, looking at Otley.

  Jackson nodded. “Yeah …” He sounded short of breath. He twisted around to Mr. Arthur, and twisted back again, plucking at his T-shirt where it stuck to him, one boot agitatedly thumping the carpet. He said hoarsely, “Martin Fletcher took my stuff out of the house …”

  “What stuff?”

  “Things, photographs … I wanted them back, right?”

  “Photographs of you?”

  “Some of them,” Jackson said cautiously, “but Connie had nicked them, he got Martin to get them for him from Camden, right? You with me?”

  “Who else was in the photographs?”

  “I can’t remember,” Jackson said too quickly.

  “You almost kill a boy for them,” Tennison said, her voice brittle with disbelief, “and you can’t remember who they were of? Who was in the photographs?”

  Jackson shakily lit up. He dragged deep, crouched forward, elbows on his knees, blowing smoke at the carpet.

  “Was Parker-Jones in these photographs?” Tennison said.

  “No.”

  “How about a John Kennington? Was he in any of these photographs?”

  Jackson tried to shrug it off. “Just kids, blokes dressed up … bit porno, that’s all. Anyway, it got to about eight, bit later, an’ I told Parker-Jones that I couldn’t find Connie, an’ he said go and get Martin Fletcher, he’d know where he was.” He stared at her sullenly from under his thick brows. “So I did. Ask Martin Fletcher, he’ll tell you.”

  “Martin is dead, Jimmy.” Tennison allowed the silence to hang heavy. “So Parker-Jones wanted the photographs—why? If as you have just stated he wasn’t in them, why would he want them?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is he wanted them, but so did I.”

  “But you were in the photographs.” Tennison pointed her finger. “Are you sure there weren’t any of Edward Parker-Jones?”

  “I didn’t have any pictures of him,” Jackson said through his teeth.

  “Was John Kennington in any of these photographs?”

  “No! I told you before, I don’t even know that bloke …”

  “So they were just photographs of you? And you wanted them so desperately you were prepared to kill for them?”

  “Look, when that fire started … I was over the other side of Waterloo Bridge.” He waved his arm, indicating a vast distance, the backside of the moon.

  Tennison rubbed the nape of her neck, trying to ease the hangover that was thudding in the base of her skull. Red wine was lethal bloody stuff. She felt rotten.

  Otley saw her close her eyes for a second. He said, “So, who was at the centre when you were there?”

  Jackson half-turned to him. “I was only there two minutes, no more,” he said irritably. “Then I come out.”

  “Anybody else?” Tennison asked. “Did you speak to anyone else apart from Parker-Jones?”

  “Yeah.” Jackson sounded weary. “Vernon Reynolds.”

  Tennison and Otley exchanged looks. Vera? Since when was she at the centre that night? First they’d heard of it.

  Head hunched down between his bony shoulders, Jackson stared miserably at his boots, blowing smoke at the carpet.

  Tennison drove north along Highgate Hill, fuming at the traffic. Otley sat beside her, filling his face with a cheeseburger, a plastic cup of coffee held up in front of him to avoid spilling any. It was twelve-thirty. A soothing Brahms string quartet was on Classic FM, but it didn’t help Tennison’s temper any.

  She swung the wheel, avoiding what she knew would be a totally clogged Archway and Muswell Hill, and took to the side roads on the eastern edge of Hampstead Heath.

  “If Jackson is telling the truth, then he couldn’t have done it,” she said, turning right unexpectedly, so that Otley had to concentrate like fury to save his coffee.

  He stuffed in the rest of the cheeseburger, cheeks bulging. “What about Vera, then? That was a turn up. I mean, she’s never mentioned anything about being in or anywhere near the centre.” He swallowed and took a slurp of coffee. “But she couldn’t have started that fire—she was onstage at Judy’s at nine-fifteen. She was bloody onstage.”

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nbsp; The Sierra Sapphire came into the tree-lined avenue of large detached houses. Tennison leaned forward, peering through the windshield.

  “What’s going on here?”

  There was an ambulance outside the gates, its rear doors standing open. Two attendants were wheeling a trolley from the driveway. There was a humped shape under the red blanket.

  Tennison stopped the car and hurried forward. Otley took a peek through the gates, seeing the Panda car outside the front door.

  “What’s happened?” Tennison asked, showing her I.D.

  The attendants were about to lift the trolley into the ambulance. She turned back the blanket. It couldn’t be, she told herself, it couldn’t be, but she was wrong. She clenched her jaw.

  “It’s John Kennington. Shit.”

  Otley glanced toward the house. “We’d better leave it,” he advised, “must have just happened.”

  He looked around for her, but she wasn’t there.

  “Guv!”

  Tennison was walking through the gates, heading up the gravel drive.

  “Guv!”

  17

  Tennison stepped through the open front door into the parquet-floored hallway. To her left she could see a cluster of uniformed police in the study. There was a plainclothes officer kneeling on the carpet. Somebody else was taking flash photographs. She moved across the hallway toward them, and then stopped. The door to the drawing room was open. Mrs. Kennington was sitting on the sofa, her head downcast, a cigarette in one hand, a crumpled lace handkerchief in the other. A crystal tumbler, filled nearly halfway with Scotch, was on the coffee table in front of her. An open bottle of Macallan’s Malt stood next to it.

  Tennison put her hand on the doorjamb. “Mrs. Kennington? Could I speak to you a moment?”

  The woman didn’t move or look up as Tennison came in and eased the door shut behind her. The room contained an unnatural quietness, the stately ticking of the grandfather clock portioning out the silence.

  “Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Kennington stirred. “He shot himself, not me,” she said, vacant and subdued. She turned her head. “You were here the other night, weren’t you?”