Lynda La Plante_Prime Suspect 02

by A Face in the Crowd

  She was about to ask a further question when Harvey suddenly, and with great effort, raised himself up. His eyes probed the darkness, his slack mouth working desperately.

  “I’m sorry, Jason, I’m sorry you have to hear all this. I just needed you to be here …” Exhausted, he fell back, and Tennison waited for calm.

  “Did you bury anything else with her, David?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “A plastic bag.”

  That hadn’t been mentioned in the press either.

  “What did it contain?”

  Tennison had to crane forward to catch his mumbled. “I don’t know,” and it seemed to her that, having confessed to the murder, he was losing interest in the more mundane details of the crime.

  Again she glanced towards Muddyman, who was looking like the cat that got the cream. Harvey was a goner, in more senses than one. He’d given them chapter and bloody verse on the whole sordid saga, committed it to tape, with three witnesses in attendance. Game, set, and match.

  Harvey continued to mumble. Tennison strained to hear, hoping the tape was picking it up.

  “… I banged the earth flat. Laid the rest of the slabs, cemented them in. There was a smell. The darkie next door complained. I told him it was … the drains …”

  His eyes closed.

  The wheezing breath fluttered from his lips, emphasizing the silence.

  Tennison straightened her shoulders, sat back in her chair. “Thank you, David,” she said, and indicated to Muddyman that he could turn off the machine. Thank God that was over. Her flesh crawled at the memory of his clammy grip.

  They went out into the corridor. Muddyman sealed the tape and asked Jason to countersign and date it. The young man did so, the pen shaking in his hand. He was still deathly pale, and looked sick to his stomach.

  “Would you like a car to take you home?” Tennison asked, concerned about him.

  “It’s all right, thanks.” He raised his head and took a deep breath. “I’d rather walk.”

  They watched him trail off down the corridor, looking lost and aimless, but he turned the corner heading for reception, so that seemed okay. Muddyman stuffed the tape in his raincoat pocket and turned to Tennison with a fat grin.

  “Well done! Nailed the bastard’s balls to the floor.”

  “You think so?”

  Muddyman lit up and hungrily sucked in smoke. “Know so.”

  Tennison nodded, as if in agreement. She’d have given a month’s pay for Muddyman’s complete, unwavering certainty, but she couldn’t make it jell. Something nagged at her. Some of the details Harvey had spilled she kept returning to, worrying at like a loose tooth.

  But it had been a long, grueling pig of a day and she was exhausted. And somehow depressed on top of it. All her mind could focus on right this minute were the hot shower and the large brandy.

  As they went down the stairs to the parking lot, Tennison said dully, “God, hospitals depress me.”

  Having finally got someone to babysit for her, Esta flew down to Southampton Row and barged into the waiting room. “Have you seen him?” she asked them, huddled there on the bench. “Have you seen him?”

  Esme shook her head tearfully. “They won’t … let me see my boy,” she wailed. “My Tony …”

  Esta stormed up to the counter. She banged on it with both fists. Through the glass panel she could see two or three uniformed officers sitting at desks in the back room. Beating on the counter, she yelled at them, “I want to see somebody now! I want to see the person in charge! Come here—where is he!”

  Vernon waved to her. “They say somebody is just coming.”

  Esta banged again, harder, louder.

  “Come and sit down,” Vernon pleaded. “Take it easy …”

  Esta ignored him. She had no intention of taking it easy.

  Tony was leaning his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. His voice was muffled.

  “I’m a black bastard. I deserve all I get … I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get …”

  Standing opposite him, Oswalde thumped the table. “Tony, just stop it, man!”

  “I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get … I’m a black bastard, I deserve all I get …”

  “Tony, stop it! Just stop it, man …”

  “That’s enough,” Burkin said curtly. He strode to the door. “Can I have a word with you, Sergeant Oswalde?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Now, Sergeant Oswalde!” Burkin went out.

  Oswalde looked at his watch. “I’m concluding this interview at eleven-twenty-five p.m.” He switched off the machine and followed Burkin out.

  Tony’s hands came away from his face and clenched into fists.

  “No, don’t leave me alone! Don’t leave me alone in here!”

  In the corridor Burkin faced Oswalde. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Tony Allen’s terrified, near-hysterical cries.

  “What’s all this about?”

  “What?” Oswalde said. He was an inch or two taller than DI Burkin, and he stared into his eyes, knowing the man for the racist he was.

  Burkin held up a warning finger. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” Burkin’s eyes bulged. He jerked his thumb at the pitiful, wavering sobs coming from the room—“Don’t leave me alone … please don’t leave me alone, please …”

  “He’s off his head!”

  Oswalde looked down his nose at Burkin with narrowed eyes. “That’s your considered psychological opinion, is it?” he sneered.

  “You’re one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

  Oswalde dropped his voice to a low growl. “Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You’ve been wanting to have a go at me ever since I arrived at this poxy station.” He squared up, flexing his shoulders. “Well, go on then,” he challenged.

  Eyeball to eyeball, the two men glowered at one another. Both well over six feet tall, both strongly built, both fired up with mutual hatred: Burkin the area boxing champion, Oswalde top of his class in unarmed combat, they could have knocked seven kinds of shit out of one another. Both of them on a hair trigger, ready and raring to have a go.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Alerted by Tony’s racket, Custody Sergeant Calder bustled into the corridor from the charge room, on his way to investigate.

  “Butt out, Mike,” Oswalde said, tight lipped.

  Calder sized up the situation and acted at once to defuse it. He pushed the two men apart. “I’m in charge of this area. Prisoners are my responsibility, right?”

  Burkin turned his fury on him. “So where’s his lawyer?” he demanded.

  “He said he didn’t want one.”

  “Look,” Burkin exploded, pointing his finger. “That boy’s climbing the fucking walls in there! Has he been seen by the doc?”

  “Not yet,” Calder said defensively. He cleared his throat. “It’s all under control …”

  Burkin shot a fierce look at Oswalde. He said disparagingly, “The arresting officer hasn’t even got credible evidence.”

  Calder was nettled. “Look, don’t tell me my job—”

  “How do you know, anyway?” Oswalde said, glaring at Burkin.

  “You’ve got nothing from him that would stick in court. He should go back into the cells until the boss has been informed.”

  Calder tried to peer past them to the half-open door. “Have you left him alone in there?”

  Oswalde was really riled up now. He knew what Burkin’s game was, and he told him straight. “Hands off, Frank, this is my kill. You’re just pissed off because the token black is going to have this case signed, sealed, and on the guv’nor’s desk by morning!”

  Burkin said quietly, “Bollocks you are.” And went striding off down the corridor to phone Tennison.

  Oswalde returned to the interview room and slammed the door.

  Calder, gnawing his thumbna
il, was left standing. Knowing he should have done as Burkin said and called the doc. He’d better do it. Right now.

  Tennison, freshly-showered and talced, wearing silk pajamas, was on her way to bed when the phone rang. Passing by the little table, through sheer force of habit, she reached out to answer it. Her hand hovered, and then the answering machine clicked on. That’s what answering machines were for, she reminded herself. For when you were out or too bloody tired or not in the mood to answer it. Score two out of three.

  A voice was burbling. She turned the sound right down, switched off the lamp, and went through into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Whatever anger, whatever defiance, had been in Tony, it had left him as swiftly as the air leaves a punctured balloon. He sat with head bowed, shoulders hunched, his hands resting limply in his lap. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He made hardly any sound, just sat there weeping softly. Behind him, Oswalde paced, turned about, paced again, turned about. Burkin had got through to him, right to the quick. He’d nearly lost his temper, blown it completely. When above everything else he prided himself on his control, on not giving in to provocation. That close, and saved by the bell—or rather by Calder.

  Oswalde saw it all too clearly. Burkin couldn’t stomach an outside officer—a black one at that—coming in and solving the case and taking the credit. That’s what this was about. That’s why he’d blown a fuse. Well, sunshine, you were going to have to like it or lump it, Oswalde thought with grim satisfaction. He alone had collared Tony Allen and he intended to sweat it out of him. He didn’t care if it took all night. From the minute he saw Tony’s reaction to the clay head, he knew the boy was implicated in the girl’s murder. All he had to do now was prove it.

  Oswalde gripped the back of the chair and leaned over him.

  “This is a waste of time. You’re just wasting my time. Come on, Tony. You’re as guilty as hell. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you.” He dug his fingers into Tony’s hunched shoulder and hauled him back. “Your guilty secret is written all over your face.”

  Tony nodded feebly, his cheeks wet with tears. “I’m guilty …”

  Oswalde quickly moved around and bent down, his face close to the boy’s. “Then tell me what happened that night.”

  “We’re all guilty …” Tony opened his mouth wide, fighting for breath. He clutched his throat. “I’m choking …”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m choking,” he gasped, clawing at his open-necked shirt with both hands.

  “No, you’re not,” Oswalde barked at him. He turned away, fists clenching with frustration as Tony’s face crumpled, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. This was bloody hopeless. They’d been here for hours and he was getting nowhere. He had to make the boy crack. Had to.

  He shook his head in disgust. “All you’ve done is cry like a baby. Well, I’m sick of listening to you. You’re pathetic. A bloody mummy’s boy. Come on.” Oswalde waggled his thumb. “You’re going back in the cells.”

  “No … I can’t breathe in there,” Tony pleaded, gazing up at Oswalde with his pitiful, tear-streaked face. “Don’t please …”

  He half-rose out of the chair, tugging at Oswalde’s sleeve. Oswalde shook him off. “Fuck you. You tell me how Joanne met her death or you go back in the bin and you sweat.”

  Tony’s head wobbled. “No … no …”

  Enough was enough. Oswalde turned away. He didn’t see the change come over Tony’s face. The eyes go suddenly wide and mad. The lips draw back in a snarl of rage. Tony leapt out of the chair. He went for Oswalde’s throat, charging into him so that Oswalde was sent crashing against the wall. He was a head taller than Tony and over forty pounds heavier, but what a moment ago had been a pathetic cringing wreck was now transformed into a raving maniac with blood lust in his eyes, attempting to throttle the life out of him.

  Winded, Oswalde struggled to get a grip on the boy’s wrists. He grabbed hold of the left, pivoted on one foot, and wrenched Tony’s arm halfway up his back. He caught the other one and pinned both Tony’s hands behind his back and slammed him head first against the wall.

  Calder was yelling, “Number seven, right in, right in!” as the five officers ran with Tony Allen spread-eagled horizontally between them along the corridor and into the cell block. He was kicking and screaming bloody murder. They got him inside, facedown on the floor, arms pinioned behind him, ankles trapped under two heavy boots.

  “Out!” Calder yelled. “Out! Out!”

  He was the last to leave, heaving the door shut and turning the key. Tony was up on his feet, battering the steel door with his fists. His terrified screams pierced the air. Calder wiped his face and blew out a sigh. That bloody racket was enough to wake the dead. He slid back the bolt and dropped the metal trap, peering in through the bars at the sweating black face and crazy rolling eyes.

  “I’ll leave the flap open—all right!”

  Tony’s screams sank to a whimpering moan. Calder turned away. Thank Christ for that. He jerked his head around at a drunken voice shouting from the cell next door. It was the drunk they’d picked up on disorderly conduct charges. “Fascist pigs!” the slurred voice raved on. “Fucking police brutality! Kicking the shit out of innocent victims!”

  Calder banged on the door, told him to shut it, and went off to find Burkin. He was in the corridor outside the charge room, waiting by the wall phone for Tennison to return his call.

  “Tony Allen is back in his cell,” Calder reported. Burkin nodded, looking decidedly uneasy. He moved aside as Calder unhooked the phone, fretting, “What’s happened to that doctor? I’ll give him another call.”

  “Right.” Burkin moodily watched him dial. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Allen still in reception?” he asked.

  “They won’t budge.” Calder gave him a look. “You should have gone hours ago.” He nodded back towards the cells. “Let the guy sleep it off. Tennison can deal with it in the morning.”

  Burkin was about to say something, and gave it up as a bad job. He slouched off. Calder listened to the ringing tone, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “Come on … come on … !”

  Oswalde took the elevator up to the cafeteria. It was almost empty at this late hour, a few small groups dotted about, officers taking a break during night patrols. He didn’t know any of the faces, and he was glad about that; he wanted to be alone. In the far corner a TV was burbling to itself, the sound turned low.

  Oswalde carried his black coffee to an empty table and sat down. His official duty shift had finished three hours ago. He should have been home in bed now, getting a reasonably early night, because he was due on again at eight-thirty the next morning. He was in a curious mood, couldn’t unwind. He felt tired and yet jumpy and keyed up at the same time; his mind was racing, and he knew he was keeping alert on nervous energy alone.

  The late-night news roundup was showing voters coming out of a polling station. It was the by-election, Oswalde remembered. Though not much interested, he switched his mind over to what the announcer was saying. Anything to sidetrack his thoughts away from Tony Allen’s wild, staring eyes and slobbering mouth.

  “… pollsters keeping a record at the door suggest that Conservative Ken Bagnall may have held his seat but with a greatly reduced majority. There were angry scenes earlier when members of the Free Derrick Cameron Campaign clashed with Bagnall, who is a self-confessed supporter of capital punishment. Labour’s candidate, Jonathan Phelps, has issued a statement …”

  Whatever the statement was, Oswalde never learned. Somebody got up to switch channels, and boxing took its place. Oswalde sipped his coffee and watched with dull eyes as two black middleweights slugged it out.

  Three floors below, in cell Number 7, Tony Allen had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He was standing at the door, staring out through the square grille. Slowly and very methodically he was tearing his shirt into strips. In the cell next door the drunk was snoring off his skinful. The two prisoners in adjoi
ning cells were sleeping more quietly. Tony stared out, tearing at the cloth, and he didn’t stop until the shirt had been ripped apart.

  9

  Calder looked up at the wall clock. He took a last drag, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and heaved himself up from the desk. On his way out he lifted the heavy bunch of keys from the hook and walked along the corridor, humming under his breath.

  Sliding back the greased bolt, he lowered the flap and took a peek at the old guy in Number 5. Sleeping it off. Chances were they’d let him go in the morning with a caution. Silly old bugger, taking a piss in the street. Calder checked on the drunk in 6. A disgusting spectacle of matted hair, earrings, and tattoos. The smell of booze and stale sweat coming through the grille made Calder step back, waving the air. He slammed it shut, operated the bolt.

  The next flap was open, as Calder had left it. He took a pace forward and then froze. Something was very wrong. A rope of white cloth was looped around one of the bars, hanging down inside. Calder’s heart dropped into his bowels. Whatever the worst was, he feared it had happened. Breathing hard, he jammed his head against the bars and squinted down. At first he saw only a heap of clothing, a pair of brown shoes. He strained farther, his heart trip-hammering in his chest, and made out the top of Tony’s head, a few inches below the open flap.

  “Shit!” Calder dived for the panic button and the alarm bell drilled through the cell block. “Dave, John,” he bellowed, “get here quick!”

  Back at the cell door, he fumbled for the right key, cursing through gritted teeth. Boots pounded along the corridor. Suddenly there were four or five uniformed bodies crowding around the cell door as Calder turned the key in the lock. The door was pulled open, dragging Tony’s body with it, bare legs splayed out. It was very ingenious and very simple. He’d made a rope out of the torn strips of his shirt, looped it around the bars, and hung himself from a sitting position. His bloodshot eyes bulged out, his tongue lolled between blue lips. Calder had seen his share of dead people, and he was looking at one now.