“Who told you that?” Oswalde said. His face wore a twisted grin. “Sarah the Law Student?”
Cleo, dressed in her pajamas, holding a teddy bear by its ears, was standing in the living room doorway. Esta waved to her distractedly. “Go back inside, love …”
Pumping himself up, convinced he was in the right, Tony was jabbing his finger in Oswalde’s chest. “She says you either arrest me or stop harassing me.”
That did it. If Oswalde’s mind hadn’t been made up already, that made it up for him. He lunged forward and grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him through the door onto the landing. “Tony Allen, I am arresting you for the murder of Joanne Fagunwa.”
“No!” Esta shouted. But she was too late. Oswalde had Tony in an armlock and was frog-marching him to the stairs.
“You can’t …” Esta wailed. “Where are you …”
Bent double, Tony yelled back, “Esta, phone my dad … phone my dad!”
Oswalde bundled him down the stairs. Seeing her father snatched away in front of her eyes, Cleo had burst into tears; but the child’s crying didn’t deter DS Oswalde, who knew what had to be done, and did it.
Harvey had been miked up. Tennison sat close to the bed, leaning over, while Muddyman kept an eye on the tape recorder’s winking red light. Jason stood behind Muddyman, his face and cap of blond hair a shadowy blur.
“Do you wish to consult an attorney or have an attorney present during the interview?”
“No.” The lost, bleary eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Water.”
Tennison poured water into a glass and helped him to a couple of sips. Her entire job, it seemed, consisted of waiting, and she waited now, very patiently, for Harvey to compose himself.
Custody Sergeant Calder and an Asian PC were having one hell of a struggle, trying to get Tony Allen from the charge room into the cells. The boy was close to hysteria, his eyes wide and terrified in his sweating face. He was babbling, “No, don’t lock me up, don’t lock me up, please don’t lock me up …”
Eventually, after much straining and heaving, they managed to get him inside cell 7 and slammed the door. Calder walked back to the charge room, wiping his bald head, and tugging his uniform straight. He was an experienced officer and he didn’t like the look of it; the kid was half-demented, and even now his moaning voice echoed down the corridor, pleading, “Let me out … don’t leave me alone, please … please let me out!”
Calder entered the charge room, shaking his head worriedly. “I’d better get the doctor to take a look at him. I don’t think he’s fit to be detained.”
Oswalde thought this was overdoing it. “He’s all right,” he said dismissively. “Just let him stew for a bit …”
“Look, I’m the Custody Sergeant,” Calder blazed at him. “Don’t try to tell me my job. Right?”
Oswalde gave him a look. Then he shrugged and went out. Calder reached for the phone but he didn’t pick it up. He stood there for a moment, undecided, cracking his knuckles, and then barked, “Yes?” at the Asian PC, who was holding out a docket to be signed. Calder scrawled his signature, which reminded him he had a mountain of paperwork to process.
He made a noise that was half snort, half sigh. That’s all they were these days, a legion of bloody pencil pushers.
When he was ready, she began:
“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, David?”
“Yes.” His breathing rasped in his throat. Slowly he turned his head on the pillow and looked straight at her.
8
Tennison had to steel herself not to show repugnance as his breath wafted over her. It seemed to her she had been sitting by his bedside for an eternity, breathing in the foul miasma of death. She herself felt soiled by it, as if it had entered her pores, and she had to use every ounce of willpower to repress the shudder at the touch of his cold, damp hand.
Her face betrayed none of this. And her voice stayed quiet and calm, almost soothing.
“All right, David … let me take you back to what you said originally. That you were with your sister in Margate on Sunday and Monday, and not at Honeyford Road.”
“Lies,” Harvey said drably. “I didn’t stay the night. I came back Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Not Monday like I said.”
“So—did you ask Eileen to provide you with an alibi?”
Harvey shook his head weakly. “No. She knows nothing of this …”
Tennison frowned. “But she must, David, because she confirmed your story. She said that weekend was the anniversary of your wife’s death. It wasn’t. She said you spent it with her. You didn’t.”
“I don’t want my sister dragged into this,” Harvey insisted, his voice thickening. He was staring at Tennison, blinking rapidly.
“I’m afraid she already is, David …”
“Leave her out of it.” Suddenly angry, he levered himself up on one elbow, the effort making him gasp. His eyes were wild, rolling. “I’ll tell you nothing if you drag her into it!”
Tennison put her hand on his shoulder, and he slowly subsided, flecks of spittle on his mustache. He lay flat, his chest heaving. The vehemence of his reaction puzzled her. She had seen real fear in his eyes … but fear of what? Involving his sister? His emotion had been too fierce and panic-stricken for that alone, Tennison thought. Unless he was trying to shield Eileen, divert suspicion from her possible complicity in what had taken place that weekend.
Harvey went on, almost in a drone, as if talking to himself. “I hated it down there anyway. Godforsaken cold bastard of a place. Thought I might as well go home—do something useful, get some work done in the garden …”
“So what time did you get back to London?” Tennison asked.
“About five. I did some more work, then I went inside. I was watching the TV in the front room when I saw her.”
Tennison leaned forward, her eyes narrowing a fraction. “Who did you see, David?”
“I saw the girl. Joanne.” Harvey stared into the shadows, as if seeing her now. “She was standing at a bus stop. Waiting for a bus that didn’t run on a Sunday.”
“What time was this?”
“ ’Bout half past eight, nine. It was just getting dark. I watched her …” His voice took on a dreamy, faraway tone. “She stood with one leg behind the other, sort of swinging herself. I thought I’d better tell her. I went out to her. I told her the bus didn’t run. I said she should phone for a taxi. Told her she could use my phone.
He paused, his dry lips parted. “She came into the house,” he said in his drab, dreamy voice, and then, as if the recollection had exhausted him, he closed his eyes.
DI Burkin wasn’t at all happy about this. Calder, the Custody Sergeant, had already voiced his doubts to him, and Burkin could see why. The kid was practically gibbering with fear. Sweat was trickling from the roots of his short black hair, making his face a shiny, petrified mask. Oswalde didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, didn’t appear to care.
Arms folded, Burkin leaned against the wall of the interview room, watching with hooded eyes as Oswalde set up the tape recorder. He didn’t know what grounds Oswalde had for arresting Tony Allen, but they’d better be bloody good, or there’d be hell to pay.
Oswalde placed the mike on the table in front of Tony Allen, who stared at it like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Oswalde stretched out and pressed the record button. Still standing, he began: “This interview is being tape recorded. I am Detective Sergeant Robert Oswalde, attached to Southampton Row. The other officer present is …”
“Detective Inspector Frank Burkin,” Burkin said.
Oswalde sat down opposite Tony Allen. “You are?”
Nothing. Not a flicker. The young man looked to be in some sort of trance. Oswalde leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “State your full name and date of birth.”
Tony’s lips moved. In a mumble that was almost inaudible, he said, “Anthony Allen. Fifth
of May …”
“Louder for the tape, please.”
The command galvanized Tony into life. His head came up, eyes bulging, and he started gabbling like somebody on speed, “Anthony Allen. Anthony Allen. Fifth of May. Nineteen sixty-nine. Nineteen sixty … ”
Burkin gloomily rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. A jungle bunny off his trolley; that’s all they fucking needed.
Vernon Allen and his wife had been in the waiting room over an hour. Esme was frantic, out of her mind with worry, and it was all he could do to pacify her. The call from Esta, telling them that Tony had been arrested, had left them both shocked and scared. Vernon kept telling himself that it was a mistake, it would soon be straightened out, but as the minutes dragged by and they were told nothing, a hollow feeling of sick apprehension rose up inside, nearly choking him. But he had to keep a grip, not let it show, otherwise Esme would go completely to pieces.
She was back on her feet again, unable to sit still for more than a minute. The Asian PC behind the reception desk could only shrug and offer a bland, “I’m sorry,” as Esme leaned against the counter, fists clenched, her eyes large and moist.
“We must be allowed to see our son!” she demanded for the umpteenth time.
“The officer in charge will be out to see you shortly, madam.”
Esme turned away, shaking her head, not knowing where to put herself. In a small, lost voice she said faintly, “I don’t believe this is happening …”
“Well it is,” Vernon said. He sighed and gave a weary gesture. “Now come and sit down.”
“The officer won’t be long,” the PC assured them.
Esme slumped down on the bench beside her husband. What was happening to her boy, her Tony? Why wouldn’t they let them see him? What were they doing to him in there?
“I tried to touch her,” Harvey said, his voice harsh and rasping. “Touch her tits.”
He returned Tennison’s calm gaze with a challenging stare, as if hoping she might be offended by his crudity. But he was disappointed; she wasn’t.
“Do you remember what she was wearing, David?” Tennison asked in the same quiet, even tone.
“No.”
“Was she wearing a bra?”
“I don’t think so, no,” Harvey said after a slight hesitation.
Tennison paused a moment to consider this before asking, “Then what happened?”
Harvey turned his head away. Under the shaded light on the wall above the bed his lined face and sunken cheeks had the appearance of a death’s-head. “I hit her,” he said.
He was going to break him; it was just a matter of going at him, unrelentingly, until he tripped himself up. But it wasn’t quite working out that way. The more Oswalde pressed him, the angrier and more defiant Tony became. Burkin was surprised by the guy’s guts. He’d have laid odds that Tony Allen was the type to crumple as soon as the heat was turned on. It gave him a sly sense of amusement to watch Oswalde banging away and getting nowhere fast. Teach the cocky bastard a lesson.
“What did I just say?” Tony threw up his hands. “… I admit it, I admit I knew her!”
“She was your girlfriend, Tony,” Oswalde repeated for the third time, making it sound like a statement of established fact.
“No, she wasn’t. I told you. She was going out with the lead singer. I asked her out but she said no—”
Oswalde pounced. “So how come she ended up back at Honeyford Road with you?”
Tony closed his eyes and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. He sighed and said wearily, “I had some tapes there she wanted. Songs for her to learn.” He looked up at the man sitting opposite him, as taut and intense as a coiled spring. “She came in after my dad went to work. Stayed for an hour or so, that’s all.”
“And then you took her into Harvey’s house.”
“No.”
“Because you knew he was away for the weekend. Used your father’s keys and went next door with her.” More statements of fact, according to Oswalde. “What happened then, Tony?”
Tony Allen shook his head. He went on shaking it as he said, slowly and distinctly, “I—didn’t—kill—her.”
Oswalde knew in his bones that the boy was lying through his teeth, but Burkin wasn’t so sure.
“I tied her up. Hands behind her back.”
“What with?”
“I don’t remember. I gagged her. Had sex with her. Afterwards I left her lying there.”
“Where was this?”
Harvey frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Which room were you in?”
“The kitchen.” His eyelids flickered. “A belt. I tied her with my belt …”
Without moving her head, Tennison turned her eyes to meet Muddyman’s. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, a frown of concentration on his face. Behind him, in the darkened corner of the room, Jason was nothing more than a vague blur, his black T-shirt and dark Windbreaker merging into the background. Tennison turned her attention back to Harvey, to the drab, droning voice.
“… I left her lying there. Went and watched the TV. I don’t know why. It was like a dream. As if it hadn’t happened.”
Tennison pursed her lips, remained silent.
Tony twisted his lips in disgust. “What kind of a brother are you?” he demanded contemptuously. “To say things like that to me?”
“I’m not your brother, I’m a police officer,” Oswalde said stolidly. The guy was trying to play the black power card, and he wasn’t having any. Burkin would just love that, all dem black folks jess one big happy family crap. Well stuff that.
With utter loathing in his voice, Tony practically spat in his face, “Because you want to be white! You hate your black brothers and sisters. You’re black!”
Oswalde was getting more irritated by the second. But he wasn’t going to be drawn down that road. No chance. To show how calm he was, unaffected by Tony’s outburst, he studied his fingernails and asked casually, “Why did you give up playing the bass after that concert, Tony?”
“You’re a sellout, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Tony’s whole face seemed to be moving, as if he was trying to say something he didn’t know how to express. There was a strange light in his eyes. Then it burst out of him in a flood.
“Bass notes are the pulse, they come up at you through the soles of your feet … they sound inside you, here. They beat with your heart. From beneath. A heartbeat. From beneath the earth.” He was like a mechanical doll, the words jerking out of him. His eyes suddenly focused on Oswalde, his voice filled with scathing contempt. “You see, you don’t understand. I couldn’t play anymore … how could I play anymore?” Head straining forward, he yelled in Oswalde’s impassive face, “Why ask questions when you don’t understand?”
Burkin was staring at Tony, fascinated. Maybe Oswalde didn’t understand, but he sure did; the kid was a loony tune. End of story.
The feel of the clammy hand clutching hers made Tennison feel nauseous. She swallowed hard, telling herself it would soon be over. Harvey was tiring fast, his voice becoming weaker, the gasping pauses more prolonged; but she nearly had it all now, down on tape, in his own words. The repulsion she felt was a small price to pay.
“… she must have choked on the gag. There was vomit all around her mouth, her nose … I didn’t mean to kill her.”
The door opened and a nurse came in bearing a small tray. Standing at the foot of the bed, she said quietly. “I must give Mr. Harvey his medication.”
Tennison nodded. She indicated to Muddyman and Jason that they should leave, then turned back to Harvey.
“I’ll be back soon, David.” For the benefit of the tape, she said, “I am concluding this interview. The time is eight ten.”
Muddyman was standing with Jason in the corridor. The young man’s hands hung limply by his sides, and the ordeal he was going through showed plainly on his face.
Tennison squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,
this must be awful for you.”
Jason was staring at the floor, ashen to the lips. “I’ve known him all my life,” he said in a stunned whisper. “And I don’t … I don’t know him at all.”
“Will you be all right to go back in?” Tennison asked gently, and received a brief nod.
Muddyman stirred himself. “I’ll get us a coffee,” he said, and went off to find a machine.
Tennison felt soiled and grubby. What she really wanted was a hot cleansing shower and a large brandy. Wash away the stink from her body and deaden the memory of that gaunt, wasted face gasping out its last confession.
“If I had buried her,” Tony Allen told Oswalde, his eyes dangerously bright, “I’d have buried her so deep you’d never have found her again. She’d never have come back …”
“Has she come back?” Oswalde asked, watching him closely.
Tony gave a pitying half-smile, the smile of someone trying to communicate an ultimate truth to an ignoramus. “She’s inside you,” he hissed. “I can see her looking at me. Looking at me through your eyes. Reaching out to me.” He tapped his chest. “I’m her friend. She wants to get away from you. You’re a coffin. You suffocate her. You’re her coffin. Your eyes are little windows. I can see inside you. Through your eyes. See Joanne. She hates you …”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When it came away he was grinning at Oswalde with a strange mixture of triumph and the deepest loathing.
Harvey seemed to have regained a little strength. The pill, or injection—whatever it was—had brought him back into the world, banished for a short while the shades closing in around him.
Tennison pressed on, anxious to get it over and done with. “What did you do with Joanne’s body?”
“I kept it in the cupboard under the stairs. Till the following night. I dug a hole. I put the earth in bags. I had a lot of plastic sheeting. I wrapped her in the sheeting.” His voice broke. He stared sightlessly upwards. “Buried her.”
Muddyman leaned forward into Tennison’s eye line, stroking his chin. She nodded slowly. Harvey was coming out with crucial details—the belt, the plastic sheeting—that hadn’t been released to the media. Harvey couldn’t possibly have known about them unless he was personally involved with the disposal of Joanne’s body. It was the kind of clinching evidence they required to make the case stand up in court.
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