A Face in the Crowd (17 page)

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 adjoining cells were sleeping more quietly. Tony stared out, tearing at the cloth, and he didn’t stop until the shirt had been ripped apart.

C
alder 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.

“Get me a knife,” he said, and kneeling down, took the clasp knife and cut through the rope of knotted shirt strips. The others grabbed Tony’s body as it slumped forward, a dead weight, and laid it on the floor of the cell. Calder stood up, his hands shaking, a mist of sweat on his bald head.

“Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty!” Oswalde arrived, pushing through the men crowding in the doorway. He dropped to his knees at Tony’s side. He cupped the boy’s slack jaw in his hand, bringing the head back, preparing to give mouth-to-mouth. “Get a mask.”

Calder shook his head weakly. “It’s too late . . .”

“Now.”

“Mask!” Calder snapped.

Oswalde was leaning over, both hands spread flat on Tony’s chest, using his weight to massage his heart. A hand thrust a resuscitation mask at him. Making sure the bloated tongue was clear, Oswalde fitted the mask over Tony’s mouth. He filled his lungs and blew into the plastic mouthpiece. It whooshed back at him, forced out under the pressure of the surrounding air. He did it again, and again, and he was still doing it, watched in silence by the men in the doorway, when Burkin shouldered his way through.

He glanced at Calder, who shook his head. Then he watched Oswalde straighten up and thump Tony’s chest with the heels of his palms, do a silent count, and thump it again. Everyone knew it was hopeless, a lost cause, everyone but him.

Burkin had seen enough. He said gently, “Bob, it’s no good . . .”

Oswalde thumped, did a silent count, thumped.

“It’s no good, Bob . . .”

Thump, count, thump.

Burkin couldn’t stand it. He leaped in, pulling Oswalde away. “Listen to me.
Look at me!
”

Oswalde went stiff. He stopped counting. He felt Burkin’s firm grip on his shoulder and heard Burkin’s voice, quiet, in his ear.

“The boy’s dead . . . he’s dead.”

Oswalde slowly sat back on his heels, his arms flopping to his sides. Tony lay on the floor of the cell, the mask around his mouth, staring sightlessly up. Silence. Nobody said anything. There was nothing to say.

Tennison switched on the bedside lamp. Blinking painfully against the light, she reached for the ringing phone, a wave of blond hair falling over her eyes. “Oh shit,” she mumbled, and then into the receiver, “Yes?” and listened with her eyes half-shut to Burkin’s voice. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

Burkin told her it couldn’t and told her why.

Tennison said faintly, “What was he doing in the cells?” Burkin told her. “Jesus Christ. I’m on my way.”

She hung up, but for a minute she didn’t move. The horror of what Burkin had told her was still sinking in. It still hadn’t fully sunk in as she padded through into the living room. She switched on the lamp and pressed the playback button on the answering machine. Burkin’s message to her earlier that evening came on. She turned up the volume and his voice filled the room.

“Ma’m, it’s DI Burkin. I’m a bit worried . . . well, not exactly worried, but, well . . . the thing is, Oswalde’s arrested Tony Allen on suspicion of murder. He’s got him in the interview room now, and, well, the kid’s climbing the walls. I mean freaking out, and I’m . . . worried. Could you call me back?”

The line clicked off. Supporting herself on the table’s edge, Tennison stared into space. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up in a minute. It had to be a dream. A fucking nightmare.

Superintendent Kernan had been hauled out of a rugby club bash. Wearing his blazer and club tie, wreathed in whisky fumes, he arrived at Southampton Row and stumped inside with the ferocious look of a drunken man sobering up fast to an ugly reality.

Calder, puffing on a surreptitious cigarette behind the duty desk, was the first to get Kernan’s glowering stare as he marched through like a thundercloud. Calder gazed hopelessly at the ceiling, as if seeking divine deliverance or a swift and painless death.

The thundercloud passed on through the station.

Oswalde was sitting in one of the interview rooms, trying to compose himself, when the door was shoved open and Kernan glared in at him. Then the door was slammed shut, leaving Oswalde alone like a penitent monk in a cell, with only purgatory to look forward to.

Kernan moved on. The Allens were still in reception, patiently waiting for news of their son, but Kernan couldn’t bring himself to face them. Going up in the elevator to his office, exhaling Johnnie Walker Black Label, he had only one thing in mind. The mirage of Chief Superintendent Kernan fading farther and farther away in the distance. By God, he’d have someone’s balls for this. And if Tennison was in any way to blame, he’d have her balls too.

The police photographer had just finished taking shots when Tennison entered the cell block. She had taken some time, and a few pains, to make herself smart and presentable, even at this ungodly hour. Freshly made-up, wearing a dark red suit with a flared jacket, she came in and took a long look at Tony Allen’s body on the floor of cell Number 7. The resuscitation mask had been removed. The boy’s face still bore the expression of frozen terror that had been his last emotion. Tennison turned away. Through tight lips she said to Burkin, “Cover him up, Frank.”

She stood aside as two uniformed officers escorted the drunk from the cells. They were hustling him along, trying to prevent him getting even a glance of what had happened in the cell next door. The drunk knew though—or had guessed from all the commotion—and nobody was going to shut him up.

“You’ve killed him, you bastards!” he started shouting, straining his unshaven face around to get a look. He kept it up, his angry voice floating back as they dragged him out into the corridor, “You bastards have killed him, you bastards . . .”

Tennison brushed a hand through her hair. “Oh brilliant,” she said.

Ten yards away from his office, Tennison could plainly hear Kernan’s bellowing voice giving somebody a raking over. She came up to the door, wincing a little. She felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end, whether they deserved it or not.

“It’s just not good enough, not bloody good enough!” Kernan raged. “The prisoner is your sole responsibility!”

It was Calder, the Custody Sergeant, Tennison realized. She listened to the quiet, abject mumble of his reply, which was cut short by Kernan’s “Don’t tell me—put it in your report! Now!”

Calder emerged, looking white and shaken, and walked straight past without acknowledging her. He was close to tears. Tennison went in. She was glad she’d put a dab of perfume on because the office reeked of whisky. Kernan’s tie was loose and his shirt collar was crumpled. He looked a bit of a mess, his eyes more heavily-lidded than usual, and his hands were none too steady as he lit a cigarette.

“Well, that’s my promotion down the toilet,” was how he greeted her, blowing out smoke in a disgruntled sigh.

Tennison was shocked. “A boy’s lying dead in the cells and you’re worried about your promotion?” she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval.

“Just don’t start, all right?” Kernan said, flapping his hand. He gave her a baleful look. “The Custody Sergeant told me Burkin was trying to call you, worried by what Oswalde was up to . . .”

The knives were out already, Tennison thought. But she wasn’t about to be dumped on from a great height. She said with venom, “Burkin’s supposed to be a Detective Inspector, not a limp dick. He should have straightened it out. Calder should have straightened it out.” And to think that two minutes ago she’d felt sorry for the man!

“But they bloody didn’t, did they?” Kernan said, a veiled accusation in his voice.

Tennison paced in front of the desk, clenching her fists. “Christ Almighty, do I have to do everything myself?”

Kernan said wearily, “All right, all right . . .”

“I mean, what’s Burkin being paid to do? For Christ’s sake—”

“All right! I hear you.”

Tennison ceased pacing but she was still fuming. If Kernan wanted a scapegoat, he could damn well look elsewhere. She glared at him and he shifted his eyes. He said, “How did it go with Harvey?”

“He confessed to murder.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Kernan said, relieved.

No point in hanging back; she was an experienced officer, paid to exercise her judgment. She said evenly, “But I’ve got my doubts about it . . .”

“What?” Kernan goggled at her. “We’re being handed it gift-wrapped and you have your doubts?”

“Yes, I do. And I have good reason.” Tennison appealed to him, “Look, Guv, right now I need to know what went on in that interview room. I mean—what made Tony kill himself, for chrissake . . . ?”

Kernan stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “All hell’s gonna break loose when this gets out,” he said gloomily. “Riots, the lot.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Tennison said shortly.

Kernan slowly turned his head and gave her a hard stare. “You remember who you’re talking to.”

Now it was Tennison’s turn to look away. She lifted her chin and said stiffly, “I’ll listen to those interviews and report back as soon as I can. Sir.”

“You do that.”

The cigarette was still smoldering in the ashtray. What with that and the whisky fumes, the place smelled like a saloon bar. “By the way,” Tennison said, “you know Tony’s mum and dad are still in reception, don’t you?”