Lynda La Plante_Prime Suspect 02

by A Face in the Crowd

  Kernan, raincoat collar turned up, stood at the edge of the makeshift structure of plastic sheeting the forensic people had erected to keep the rain out. There were three or four people down in the shallow trench, so it was difficult to make anything out. Water had seeped down, and the bottom and sides had congealed into sticky, clinging mud. Peter Gold, Forensic’s bright new boy, was there, Kernan saw, clad in white overalls and green Wellington boots, down on his knees in the mire. Above him, crouched down on the paving slabs, Richards, the police photographer, was trying for the best position to get a clear shot.

  Farther along the trench, buttoned up to the neck in his rain gear, the portly, balding figure of Oscar Bream, Chief Pathologist, was leaning forward, gloved hands gripping his knees. Bream’s heavily lidded eyes, as ever, revealed nothing. He had only one expression—inscrutable. Perhaps he really felt nothing, felt no real emotion, just another job of work; or perhaps the years of looking into the pit of horrors of what human beings were capable of doing to their fellow creatures had forced him to adopt this dead-eyed mask as a form of protective camouflage.

  Gold was using a small trowel and paintbrush to clear away the mud. “Over here, sir … see?”

  “Right,” Bream grunted, bending lower. “Let’s take a look.”

  Protruding from the wall of the trench, about eighteen inches from the surface, part of a rib cage and pelvis gleamed under the arc lamps. Bream stepped back and gestured to Richards. The camera flashed three times. Bream bent forward, brushing away a smear of mud with his gloved hand. The remains of a human skull stared up, black sockets for eyes, with an expression almost as inscrutable as Oscar Bream’s.

  “So tell me what happened,” Tennison said, “when you sodomized her.”

  Oswalde was out of his chair. She had him on the run now; she knew it, and he was catching on fast.

  “I know what’s gwan on …” He looked down on Tennison, and then his eyes flicked across to Thorndike, who was trying not to meet his gaze. Oswalde was nodding, dredging up a faint smile. “… with little pinktoes here.” His accent thickened. “Look ’pon her nuh,” he sneered derisively, inviting the other male in the room to join forces against this sly, female conspiracy.

  “Sit down please, Robert,” Tennison said calmly.

  “She love it.” Oswalde snapped his fingers. “Cockteaser, ennit? What she say I did to that bitch is just turnin’ her on—”

  “Sit down please, Robert,” Tennison repeated, and under the force of her level stare he slowly sank back into the chair. “The thought of a woman being humiliated doesn’t turn me on, Robert. Someone being frightened half to death. But that turns you on, doesn’t it?”

  Oswalde twitched his broad shoulders in a shrug.

  “It must. Why else would you need to force yourself on someone? You’re a very attractive man. How tall are you?”

  “Six foot four.”

  Tennison raised one eyebrow. “Really? I’m sure a lot of women do fall for you. But not this one.”

  “Some women say ‘no’ when they mean ‘yes.’ ”

  Tennison’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “So she said ‘no’ to you?”

  “I said ‘some’ women.”

  “But she said ‘no’ to you?”

  “I got nothin’ to say …”

  “She said ‘no’ and that’s not begging for it. That’s not consent.”

  “Bullshit.” Oswalde licked his lips. Getting rattled, he turned again to Thorndike, complaining, “She puttin’ words into my mouth.”

  “She said no—that’s rape.” Tennison pointed a finger. “Okay, let me ask you this—”

  “Good,” Thorndike interrupted, standing up. He cleared his throat, running his finger nervously inside his short collar. “Yes, well, that seems a convenient place to stop.”

  “Oh no—Mr. Thorndike,” Tennison protested, “I haven’t finished yet.”

  DCI Thorndike slid back his cuff to reveal his thin freckled wrist and tapped his watch. “Unfortunately we’re going to have to since it’s well past six.” And with that he opened the door and went out.

  Tennison brushed a hand through her hair and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Oswalde stared at her, laughter bubbling in his chest. He smothered it with a cough. Tennison just shook her head.

  As DCI Thorndike emerged through the door of the prefabricated “interview room,” built into one corner of the conference hall, he wondered what the grins and smirks were all about. Over ninety grins and smirks, lurking on the faces of the police officers seated at rows of tables who had been watching the interrogation on the banks of screens. They’d caught Jane Tennison’s final words and seen her expression, but he hadn’t, so he was never to know.

  With his jerky, stiff-legged walk, Thorndike strode to the front of the hall and faced the assembly. This was the second session of a three-day seminar on interviewing techniques: lectures and study groups interspersed with simulated interview situations conducted by senior officers. The hall quieted as Thorndike raised his hand.

  “Excellent … though I would just sound one word of warning. Some of DCI Tennison’s more unconventional questions might get a less-experienced officer into difficulties. Remember,” he went on pedantically, “under PACE no attempt may be made to bully or threaten a suspect.” This was a reference to the rules and regulations for dealing with detainees as laid down by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. “Finally, well-done to Detective Sergeant Oswalde for playing his part so convincingly.”

  There were a few more snide grins at that. Convincing all right, because it seemed like he was damn well enjoying it, a lowly DS coming on strong to a female DCI—one of only four such female senior officers in the country. And although Tennison had a reputation as a ballbreaker, there was hardly a man in the room who didn’t fancy her.

  She joined Thorndike at the front, shrugging into her tailored, dark jacket. “And finally, finally, tomorrow’s first session will be on interviewing the victims of rape. I’ll see you all at ten o’clock.”

  As the meeting broke up to the shuffling of papers and the scraping of chairs, Thorndike gave her a patronizing pat on the shoulder, and she returned a brief, tight smile. God, she thought, he’s like some prissy, old maiden aunt. It was all theory with him, book learning. If he encountered a real-life villain he’d have been totally clueless; probably have to skim through the PACE manual to find the right questions and in which order to ask them. He wasn’t attached to the regular force, but a member of MS15, the Metropolitan body which investigated complaints by the public on matters of police procedure and suspected rule bending—in other words, digging the dirt on his fellow officers.

  Going up to her room in the crowded elevator, Tennison glanced behind her to DS Oswalde. “You’re too good at that, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Are you going for a drink later on?”

  “Maybe. But I might just have an early night.”

  The bell pinged for the second floor and the doors slid open.

  “Oh, well, might see you,” Tennison said, going out. “Good night.”

  “Quick as you can,” Bream urged Richards, standing aside as the photographer took another series of shots. When he was done, the pathologist had another look at the crumbling trench wall. “I’m going to need all the bones if I’m to reassemble the bugger,” he told Gold. “So make sure you collect all the earth from around the corpse as well.”

  Gold was relishing this. It was his first really juicy forensic investigation, and working with Professor Oscar Bream was a bonus. He instructed his helpers with enthusiasm: “We’ll put all this in these boxes and take it to the labs for sifting. We’re after small bones, cloth fragments, jewellery, coins … well, absolutely anything, really.”

  “The skull’s been badly smashed, so collect those pieces with care,” Bream cautioned the two assistants.

  Standin
g just inside the plastic canopy, Kernan said gloomily, “Let’s hope the rain gets people back inside.”

  Gold was carefully scooping out dollops of mud and putting them in plastic boxes, his assistants sealing the lids and marking each one to indicate the sequence in which the various fragments were excavated. Gradually, piece by painstaking piece, the corpse was excavated, the larger bones bagged and tagged in black plastic bags.

  “Looks like it is a female, Oscar …”

  “Oh, yes, and what makes you say that, Mr. Gold?”

  The young scientist looked up, positively beaming. “It’s wearing a bra.”

  Kernan rubbed his chin and groaned. “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike,” said Bream, deadpan as usual. “It could still turn out to be Danny La Rue.”

  “Yeah, and if it is, Nola Cameron will claim him for a daughter.” Kernan had seen enough. He turned to Muddyman, whose brown, curly hair was plastered down, his bald spot plainly visible. “Tony, take over until Tennison gets here.”

  Muddyman blinked at him. “She’s got on that course, isn’t she, Guv?”

  “Not anymore she’s not,” Kernan said, trudging back over the muddy paving stones and mounting the steps.

  Muddyman huddled deeper into his raincoat. “Oh, great …”

  The kiss was long and deep, making her senses swirl. He had gorgeous skin, smooth enough for a woman’s, but with the hard, sensual feel of solid muscle rippling underneath. Jane drew back, took a breath, and gazed into Bob Oswalde’s dark brown eyes. He smiled as her fingers slid from his chest and probed under the terry bathrobe to his shoulder.

  “Already?” he teased.

  “Mmmm …” Wrapped in his arms, she gave him a wicked little grin.

  They had dined here, in her room, drunk the bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape dry, and then made love. Secretly, she was amazed at how naturally it had come about, without, it seemed, any devious planning or premeditation on either part. She wasn’t a promiscuous woman, had had only one brief fling since she broke up with Peter with whom she’d lived for less than six months. The demands and pressures of her job had been the cause of that; taking charge of the Marlow case, her first murder investigation, had consumed every waking moment—and most sleeping ones too. Peter had been understanding, up to a point, though he was going through a rough time himself, trying to get his building firm up and running, and the pair of them found themselves between a rock and a hard place. Something had to give, and something had. The relationship.

  While her job still had priority, the attraction, the sexual chemistry between her and Bob Oswalde had been just too great to resist. And she’d thought, Why the hell not? All work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. She wasn’t feeling dull and jaded now; her body felt vibrant and alive, and the night was still young.

  Taking up his teasing mood, she said archly, “Now what was it you were saying about white women liking it rough?”

  The instant the words came out, she knew that it was the wrong thing to say. Bob Oswalde reared back a little, his arms slackening, and she cursed her own clumsiness.

  “Hey, that wasn’t me,” he protested, hurt. “I don’t think like that.”

  “I know—I’m sorry.” She kissed his chest and then the side of his neck, snuggling up to him, cozy and warm in the fluffy, white bathrobe, feeling the heat of his body. She had an idea. “Know what I’d like to do now?”

  “No, what?” Bob Oswalde said through a crooked half grin.

  “Let’s drink the entire contents of the minibar.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—I just feel like it.” Jane suddenly sat up and grinned at him. Her short, ruffled blond hair and impish grin made her appear like a mischievous tomboy, a startling transformation from her conventional role as the cool, at times obsessive professional policewoman with a daunting reputation.

  Bob Oswalde swung his long legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Okay, what would you like first?”

  Jane clapped her hands. “Champagne!”

  “Right.”

  As he went over to the minibar she flopped full-length on the bed, stretching out her arms luxuriously. She hadn’t felt so content and totally relaxed in a long time. She hadn’t been looking forward to this three-day conference at all, confined to airless, smoke-filled rooms and conference halls (especially as she was trying to give up the noxious weed!), having her brains picked by male colleagues who, deep down, probably resented being lectured to by a woman. The Super had suggested she “volunteer,” which was his unsubtle way of giving a direct order by stealth. Well, the laugh was on him. She was enjoying herself, and at the public’s expense to boot.

  The phone rang, a soft trilling tone. Bob Oswalde was stripping the foil from a half-bottle of champagne, and Jane said quickly before she answered it, “That’s Dame Sybil. Don’t make a sound.”

  But it was Kernan, and Jane sat up straighter, holding her robe close to her neck, as if it made any difference.

  “Oh, hello, Guv. About two hours … why?” She listened, her eyes serious, nodding her head. “Yeah, right … okay. Oh yeah, absolutely. Okay, see you. ’Bye.”

  She hung up, staring straight ahead at the built-in closet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That was my Guv. He wants me back.”

  “Oh.” The champagne dangled in his hand.

  “Now.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” Jane slid off the bed, unfastening her bathrobe, while she hopped around to open the closet door. “He wants me to head a murder inquiry. I’ll have to tell Thorndike.” She brushed her fingers through her hair. “Damn, and it’s my lecture tomorrow too …”

  “Look, nuts to Thorndike.” Oswalde glanced down at the bottle he was holding, then placed it on top of the minibar.

  Burrowing in the closet, Jane said over her shoulder, “I’m sorry, Bob, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “I know that.” The words were neutral enough, though he was looking at her sharply. Jane paused in laying out her blouse and suit on the bed. She glanced up.

  “So what’s your problem then?”

  “What about us?”

  “What about us?” she asked, frowning slightly.

  “Oh, I see.”

  Jane spread her hands. “Bob, I’m not saying I don’t want to see you again. Okay?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  She watched him in silence as he whipped off his bathrobe and rapidly dressed, eyes downcast, handsome face empty of expression.

  Jane sighed. “C’mon, this is hard enough as it is …”

  “Look, I hear you, okay?” He sat with his back to her, pulling on his socks and shoes. He stated flatly, “The Detective Chief Inspector has received her orders.”

  “What did you expect?” His attitude was annoying her, and she clenched her fists. “You know that’s really unfair. It’s not as though the love of your life is walking out on you.”

  Bob Oswalde snatched his sweater from the back of a chair and dragged it on over his T-shirt. His dark eyes flashed at her. “I just don’t like being treated like some black stud.”

  Hands on hips, Jane said with faint disbelief, “Is that what you think’s been going on here?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, that’s in your head.”

  “Is it?”

  She could do without this. It was he who was hung up on racial stereotyping, not her. He was an attractive man, period, and she’d enjoyed tremendously having sex with him, but if he had difficulty accepting it simply for what it was, tough luck.

  Jane said, “I think you’d better go.”

  “Don’t worry,” Oswalde said, already on the move, “I’m going.”

  “I hope I can rely on you to be discreet.”

  With his hand on the doorknob, Oswalde slowly turned his head and gave her a long, hard stare over his shoulder.

  “You really are something else, aren’t you?” he muttered soft
ly, and with a little shake of the head went out.

  Returning to his room after dinner, DCI David Thorndike was fumbling for his key when he heard a door slam, followed by the rapid thump of footsteps. Craning backwards, he spied DS Oswalde, head down, marching along the corridor towards the elevator. He’d come out of the room two doors away from his, Thorndike noted. Well, well, well. Tennison … fraternizing with the troops no less.

  He turned the key in the lock and slipped into his room as Oswalde, muttering to himself, came up to the elevator. Standing with his ear to the crack in the door, Thorndike heard Oswalde’s low, angry “Bitch!” as he punched the button.

  Pursing his lips prudishly, DCI Thorndike eased the door shut.

  2

  Within ten minutes Tennison was fully-dressed, had applied a dab of makeup, run a brush through her hair, packed her bag and was ready to go. She gave herself a final once-over in the dressing table mirror and set off to see Thorndike in his lair. He was the type, she knew very well, who never made life easy, always had to nitpick. But she steeled herself to deal with him as quickly and calmly as possible and get the hell out. She had a job to do.

  After she’d broken the news, he paced up and down his room, rubbing the little cluster of blue veins at his temple, shaking his head distractedly. “But I don’t know anything about rape victims,” he complained, realizing he would have to give the lecture at ten the next morning.

  “Then it’s time you did. It’s attitudes like that that account for the fact that only eight percent of rapes are ever reported.” Tennison took a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and held them out. “I’ll leave you my notes.”

  “Well, that would be a help, but …” Thorndike dropped the papers on a table, sighing. “It’s still bloody annoying.”

  “What can I do, David?” She was fed up to the back teeth with his prissy, old-womanish whining, but she controlled her temper.

  He glanced at her with a pained expression. “Hasn’t Mike Kernan got other DCIs available?”

  “Yes, but he wants me to head it.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he thinks I’m a good detective,” Tennison said tightly.