A Face in the Crowd (14 page)

“Hello, Guv,” she greeted Kernan, who was about to enter his office, and kept on going.

“Yes, it went very well since you ask.”

Tennison halted. “Sorry?”

“My interview.”

“Oh good . . . right . . .”

“Any news on Harvey?”

“He’s regained consciousness. I’m going down there to see him right now.”

Kernan nodded, gave her a look. “Well, gently does it, Jane.”

“Yes, I . . .”

“Get him everything he wants—lawyers, nurses, doctors, geisha girls—anything. Just so long as his lawyer can’t say you got a statement from him unfairly.”

Tennison tightened her belt, knuckles showing white. “Of course.” What did he think her intention was—throttle the truth out of a dying man?

Lillie emerged from the Incident Room, looking for her. “Excuse me, Guv. Apparently Harvey’s wife died in October eighty-five. Not August.”

“So his sister’s been telling fibs.”

“So it would seem.”

“Well, let’s see what Harvey’s got to say about that.”

Lillie went off, and Tennison was about to leave, when Kernan said, apropos of nothing, “By-election today.”

Then she twigged it. Jonathan Phelps, Labour’s firebrand, was up for election. There was a chance, a slim chance, that he might get in, and if he did there could be one or two repercussions. Phelps was riding on the ticket of community policing in black areas, on newsworthy items such as the case of Derrick Cameron. And now Tennison was investigating a murder in the Honeyford Road area involving a girl of black-white parentage. A highly-sensitive, highly-potent mixture. Like most policemen, Kernan was a staunch Tory, and the last thing he desired was to give the opposition the ammunition to fire a broadside.

With a ghost of a smile, Tennison said, “Well, why aren’t you wearing your blue rosette?”

It wasn’t a joke to Kernan; it was deadly serious.

“Senior policemen are politicians first and foremost, Jane. Remember that if you’re up for Super.”

It was bad enough that he believed it, Tennison thought, even worse to realize that he was right.

The teenager in the black leather jacket, baseball cap worn back to front, stood at the counter of Esme’s cafe, dithering. He pointed to a large bowl of mashed yams with cinnamon and nutmeg, topped with grated orange rind.

“How much is that?”

“One seventy-five,” Esme said.

“How much?” the boy said, goggling.

Esme switched her attention to the tall, good-looking man waiting patiently to be served. From her bright smile and cheerful, “Yes, dear?” Oswalde knew that she hadn’t recognized him.

“Let me have a medium fried chicken, rice, and peas.”

While she dished it up, the boy in the baseball cap continued moaning. He obviously had a sweet tooth, because he next pointed to a portion of plantain fritters, fried in butter and apple sauce. “How much is that?”

“Seventy-five pee.”

“You’re jokin’, man . . . yeah, all right, then.”

Esme served him and he slouched off, the flaps of his sneakers protruding like white tongues. She handed Oswalde his meal in a polystyrene tray and gave him change from a fiver. Oswalde ate it at the counter, watching Esme ice a large cake; Tony’s wedding cake, Oswalde thought, the wedding a week from Saturday.

“How is it?” Esme asked him.

“Very good. It’s been a long time.”

“Your mother doesn’t cook for you?”

“No.”

She flashed him her bright smile. “Then you come to Esme’s. I’ll cook for you.”

Oswalde moved along the counter, nearer to where she was working. “You don’t recognize me, Esme?” She straightened up, frowning, a slight shake of the head. “I’m a police officer. I’m investigating the murder of Joanne Fagunwa. That was her name, Esme. The girl who was buried in Harvey’s garden . . .”

Esme stared at him, surprise and shock mingled on her face. But she was in for an even bigger shock when Oswalde said softly, “Did you know that she was a member of Tony’s band? That she was with Tony on the day she died?”

“No,” Esme said in a whisper. No longer smiling, her eyes were scared now.

Oswalde pushed the chicken aside, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Are you sure Tony was there that night when you arrived home?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“He couldn’t have been with Joanne?”

“No.”

Oswalde was convinced she was telling the truth—as much of the truth as she knew, anyway. He said, “Why did you think he changed so much that summer, Esme? He’s never been the same since, has he? What happened to change him like that?”

She didn’t answer, though from her expression Oswalde knew he had scored a bull’s-eye.

Muddyman was waiting for her outside Harvey’s room. “Are we in?” Tennison asked tersely.

“Dr. Lim is still a bit jumpy, but yeah, I think so.”

At that moment Dr. Lim arrived. As they were about to enter, she held up a cautioning hand. “I don’t want him upset. Any extra pressure on his heart could be fatal.”

No more fatal than what happened to Joanne Fagunwa, Tennison reckoned, though she merely nodded, following the small, round-shouldered doctor inside.

Harvey’s breathing filled the room. He was looking up at the ceiling with his dull, bleary eyes. Tennison eased the chair up to the bed and leaned over, her mouth close to his ear. She held his hand.

“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to talk to me, David?” she said very softly. “Get it off your chest?”

Harvey’s tongue came out to lick his dry lips. He stared straight up, his voice a horrible croak. “What . . . ?”

“David, we know that Joanne—that was her name—we found that Joanne was killed in your home. A fragment of her tooth was found inside the house.”

Harvey swallowed. “Doesn’t mean I killed her,” he gasped.

Tennison went on steadily, “Your wife didn’t die in August, did she, David? Jeanie died in October 1985. What’s the point of lying, David? Carrying all that guilt?” From the corner of her eye she saw a blur of white coat as Dr. Lim, concerned for her patient, moved nearer, but Tennison kept on.

“You’re a very ill man. If you do tell me, nothing will happen to you—it’ll never come to that. We’ll be able to clear all this up and . . .” She paused. “Most important of all, you’ll feel so much better.”

Harvey closed his eyes and then opened them again, as if he might be thinking about it. Tennison waited, the hoarse, ragged breathing loud in her ears, the smell of it foul in her nostrils.

Oswalde stalked his prey, biding his time until Tony Allen had moved on from chatting to one of the checkout girls, and then he closed in behind him, reaching inside his jacket pocket for the color photograph of Joanne Fagunwa.

“Hello, Tony.”

Tony Allen jumped. “Sorry?”

“You don’t remember me? Detective Sergeant Oswalde. I was just doing a bit of shopping.” Tony Allen retreated a pace as Oswalde loomed over him. “While I’m here, perhaps you could have a look at this. Recognize her?”

Tony barely glanced at the photograph. “Why don’t you people leave me alone?” he said, a tremor in his voice.

“Because you’re telling us lies. You knew Joanne.”

“No . . .”

“You were both at the Sunsplash together. Better than that,” Oswalde said, quiet and lethal, “you played in the same band.”

Tony’s mouth dropped open. He wasn’t expecting that. Another bull’s-eye.

“Remember her African costume . . . her bracelets?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do.”

“I don’t.” Tony backed into a freezer cabinet. “
I don’t.
”

Oswalde watched him scoot off. There was no need to pursue him. Tony Allen wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m a Catholic, too, David, and it’s been a long time since my last confession, but one thing I do remember is that feeling of relief. That weight being lifted off your shoulders.” Harvey’s drab eyes stared up, and Tennison wasn’t sure how much of this was getting through. But she kept at it, soft and remorseless.

“I think we all want to have faith in something, don’t we? We’d like to think we can repent and it’ll be all right . . . if only we could turn the clock back, make it all right. You’re dying, David. Best get it off your chest. Tell me what happened, David. No more lies. It’s too late for lies.”

Harvey blinked, and tears ran down from the corners of his eyes into his gray hair. Tennison leaned nearer, stroking his hand, her voice like velvet.

“You can talk to me . . .”

“Can I?” Harvey croaked.

“Of course you can. You can have a doctor present, a lawyer, your sister, Jason, anyone.”

Harvey’s chin quivered. He said huskily, “You know, I’m only fifty-five years old. It’s a fucking joke.”

“I’m sure the doctors will do all they can,” Tennison said.

“I’m so frightened,” Harvey said. His face suddenly crumpled, and he wept.

The streetlights were just flickering into life as Tony Allen came out of the supermarket and walked to his car. He unlocked the door and was about to climb in when he noticed a tall figure leaning against the hood of a black Ford Sierra three cars away.

“Yo, Tony,” Oswalde greeted him. “All right?”

Fists bunched, Tony stormed around his car and went up to him. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you doing this to me?”

Oswalde spread his hands, eyebrows raised. “Hey, doin’ what, man? I’ve been shopping, that’s all . . .”

“Leave me alone,” Tony ground out, his eyes bulging furiously.
“Just leave me alone!”

Oswalde grinned at him. Tony swung around and marched back to his car. In his haste and rage he nearly smashed into the car behind by going into reverse, then shot out across the parking lot and into the street. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, and every time he looked the black Sierra was there, openly, blatantly, following him.

Tony gripped the wheel so tightly his arms ached. Over and over, almost choking on the words, he kept repeating, “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone . . .”

Tennison and Muddyman were having a quiet confab outside Harvey’s room when his nephew arrived. The young, fair-haired man came up to them, slightly out of breath, and asked straight out, “How is he?”

“He’s a little better,” Tennison replied, aware that she was being economical with the truth. Looking into the pale blue eyes, and seeing in them a family resemblance, she said quietly, “Jason, your uncle wants to talk to me.”

“Yeah, so I was told.”

“And he’s asked for you to be there.”

Jason nodded. “Right.”

“But I would just ask for you to remain quiet, not to interrupt while I’m talking to him.”

“Right,” Jason said again, as if mentally preparing himself for an ordeal, which indeed it would be.

Tennison glanced at Muddyman and gave a slight nod. He opened the door and the three of them went in.

Oswalde rang the bell of the second-floor flat. From within he heard the murmur of voices, and a moment later the door was opened by Esta, Tony’s wife-to-be. She glared up at him, chewing her lip.

“Is Tony in?”

Before she could answer, Tony appeared in the narrow hallway. He grabbed the edge of the door. “You know I am, you followed me home.”

“Can I come in, Tony?”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Oswalde said.

“You heard him, he said no,” Esta snapped.

Tony pointed a finger, which was quivering with pent-up rage. He said hoarsely, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“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 . . .”