A Face in the Crowd (18 page)

“Well, they can’t be told.” Kernan rubbed the side of his face and stifled a yawn. “Not until we’ve got things arranged.”

“
What?
” Tennison said, aghast.

“Send them home. Tell them tomorrow.” It was starting, he could feel it now, a beaut of a headache working its way up from the back of his neck to the base of his skull. Terrific. “For their own sakes it’ll be better to be told in the morning,” he said.

“We can’t do that.”

“Yes, we can,” Kernan said irritably.

Tennison blinked rapidly. “How would we explain that in court? It’d reek of a cover-up . . . besides, think of the way they’d feel.”

“I’ve made my decision.”

“Yes, and it’s a bad one.”

“Well, that’s what I’m paid for!” Kernan snapped at her. His patience, threadbare at the best of times, was wearing dangerously thin. When he was in this frame of mind he sometimes blurted out things better left unsaid. And the icing on the cake was that his headache had just shifted up into second gear.

But the bloody woman wouldn’t let it rest. She said tartly, “You’re paid to make bad decisions, are you?”

To stop himself from landing one on her, Kernan went over to the little bar and picked up the whisky bottle. “You know what I mean,” he growled under his breath.

Tennison watched him pour, at least three fingers’ worth. She said quietly, “Mike, how much have you had to drink?”

Kernan shot a fierce glance over his shoulder. “Now you bloody watch it,” he warned her, mottled patches appearing in his cheeks. “None of this would have happened if you’d kept Oswalde on a tighter rein . . .”

That was rich, and Tennison flared up. “You brought him in, not me,” she reminded the superintendent. “I didn’t ask for him. He’s a loner, a one-man-band, he’s not my type.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

There was dead silence. Tennison wasn’t sure he’d said what she’d heard, and then with a sickly feeling she knew that he had. She controlled the sudden panic fluttering in her chest and said coolly, “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Kernan said. He took a gulp.

“No,” Tennison said, and her cool tone now had icicles hanging from it. “You explain that comment.”

Kernan came back to the desk, swirling his whisky. “I’m merely suggesting that you might have let your personal feelings for him cloud your judgment.”

“My personal feelings?” Tennison said carefully, and regretted saying it before the words were out of her mouth. She was right to, because Kernan put his glass down, and placing both hands flat on the desk, leaned towards her, looking her squarely in the face.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He paused. “You had an affair on that course! There. Now. I didn’t want to mention it. But . . .” He shrugged and picked up his glass.

Tennison stared him out. “Nothing happened on that course,” she said, her face stiff as a wooden mask.

“You will bloody argue, won’t you?” Kernan closed his eyes, unutterably weary and pissed-off with the woman.

“You’ve been misinformed . . .”

“I hope so,” Kernan said with a small sigh. “For your sake.”

Tennison left the room. She needed to go to the lavatory, quick.

Downstairs, on the main floor, Tennison stopped a WPC in the corridor. “Show Mr. and Mrs. Allen up to my office, will you, please? Not a word about what’s happened, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Oswalde came through the swing doors, on his way to the elevator, summoned by Kernan. Tennison glanced around, making sure the corridor was deserted. “Bob . . .”

He stared past her with dull eyes. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it right now,” he muttered. “I’ve got to see Kernan.”

From the set of his mouth she could tell he was holding himself as tight as a coiled spring. But she couldn’t let him step into the lion’s den without warning him. As he moved to go around her, she said, “Kernan knows about us at the course.”

Oswalde halted. Now he did look at her, his handsome face creasing in a bewildered frown. “I don’t know what . . .” he started to mumble.

“Listen.” Tennison cut him short. She was holding judgment on whether she ought to be absolutely furious or not. She said, “If you’ve been bragging about laying the Guv’nor . . .”

“What do you take me for?” Oswalde was plainly hurt by this. “Do you think I’d say anything? You think I’d . . .” He swallowed and looked away.

Tennison kneaded her palms anxiously. “Well, all I can think about right now is I’ve got to tell that boy’s parents that their son is dead.”

“And that boy is dead because of me . . .” Oswalde choked on the words. He was very near the edge. He said emptily, “Do you really think it matters that Kernan knows about us . . .”

Tennison’s look was stony. “Yes, it matters,” she said, and turned on her heel, leaving him to face Kernan’s music.

The Allens were sitting in her office. Tennison would rather have walked barefoot on white-hot coals than go through with this, but that was the price she paid for being in charge of a murder investigation: the shitty end of the stick.

Ever the gentleman, Vernon Allen rose to his feet as she came in. “About time, Chief Inspector. We’ve been waiting out there for an eternity.” Even so, he sounded more reproachful than angry, blinking at her through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The man had the patience of a saint, Tennison thought; she quailed at the duty before her, almost turned and fled.

“Please . . . can you give my son this?”

Esme had risen and was holding out a thick wool sweater, neatly folded. Tennison accepted it. She didn’t know what else to do.

Esme wore a strained smile, her eyes large and moist. “Esta said he didn’t even have time to get a coat. I hate to think of him spending the night in a cell. I don’t want him to catch cold . . .”

Tennison placed the sweater on the corner of the desk, next to Vernon’s hat. She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I have some bad news for you.”

“I just want my son!” Esme blurted out plaintively. Vernon patted her shoulder. The three of them were still standing. Tennison went around the desk, turned and faced them. “Esme—Esme, please sit down.”

She waited then, hands clasped in front of her, until they were seated. She raised her eyes and looked at them. “I’m afraid that after Tony was returned to his cell, after questioning, he took his own life.”

Vernon leaned forward slightly. He seemed puzzled. “Is he hurt?”

Tennison said quietly, “Vernon, your son is dead. I’m very sorry.”

The Allens just sat and looked at her with blank expressions. Was any of this getting through? “Do you understand?” she asked them. She hesitated, then said wretchedly, “I’m so sorry . . .”

Vernon had removed his glasses. In slow motion he reached out and put them on top of his hat. He looked up at Tennison, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “How?”

“He used strips of his own clothes to . . .”

Esme came up out of her chair. Her eyes gleamed. Spitting and scratching, she launched herself at Tennison, screeching at the top of her voice, “You killed him! You killed my boy! You killed him! You killed him! You killed him . . . !”

Making no attempt to retaliate, defending herself as best she could by holding up her arms, Tennison retreated into a corner. She felt the bony fists and sharp nails striking at her head and face. There was a panic button under her desk. She could have tried to get to it and summon help, but she didn’t. She huddled in the corner, arms crossed to ward off the blows Esme was raining down on her with berserk, mindless rage.

“You killed him, killed my boy, killed him, you killed him
.
.
.”

When finally Vernon managed to pull her off, Esme turned her fury on him, lashing out in a frenzy and pounding her fists into his chest. Vernon held her shoulders, taking the blows, letting her punch herself out. Esme sagged against him, sobbing into his chest, and the sight of this pitiful, distraught woman took from Tennison a lot of willpower to hold on to herself. She felt so helpless in the face of this naked human pain and misery that she felt like sobbing too.

Vernon’s arms were wrapped around his wife, holding and comforting her; without their support she would have collapsed.

Over her head, and calling upon some deep reserve of calmness and dignity, he said to Tennison, “How did it happen?”

“He hanged himself.”

“When?” It seemed very important. “I mean when exactly?”

Tennison pushed back her tangled hair. Her left cheek was stinging, and she touched it lightly with her fingertips, feeling a bruise starting to form. “Between midnight and twelve-thirty,” she said.

Vernon stared at her, his wife huddled against him; muffled, broken sobs shuddered out of her. It was all Tennison could manage not to look away. “While we were waiting in reception?” Vernon said.

“Yes.”

Vernon closed his eyes, his throat working above his collar and tie. He opened his eyes, and a spasm passed over his face. He said huskily, “Lady. May you rot in hell for that.”

With a stiff, jerky movement he turned away, and half carrying her, steered his wife to the door. Tennison came forward, holding his hat and glasses. He slipped the glasses into his overcoat pocket and took his hat. “Thank you,” he said politely.

Tennison stood in the doorway watching as they wandered off aimlessly, two lost souls numb with anguish.

“Where are they going?” Burkin asked, appearing at Tennison’s side.

“I don’t think they know. Arrange a car for them,” she said. “I think Mrs. Allen may well need to see a doctor. Probably they both do.”

Burkin nodded, about to do her bidding, when he noticed her face. “Are you okay, Guv?”

“Right away, please, Frank.”

Burkin went after them, leading them out.

Tennison leaned weakly in the doorway for a moment. She felt nauseated, as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. She went back into her office.

Kernan had taken off his jacket and shoes and was lying on the leather sofa in his office, listening on the phone to Commander Trayner. He’d crunched three aspirin and swilled the mush down with neat whisky. He shaded his eyes, waiting for it to take effect, as he half-watched the television picture, the sound turned low. The by-election count was still going on. It was going to be a close one.

At one time, Kernan reflected, in the dim and distant past, he’d been a copper on the beat. A real policeman. Doing real police work. Now he was trapped and tangled up in bleeding internal politics and PR and career moves, like a fly in a sticky web. On top of which he had a murder investigation that threatened to go off the rails, a dead black boy in the cells, and a rowdy DCI who’d been caught fucking a junior officer. He shut his eyes, and through the dull pounding in his head, tried to concentrate on what the commander was saying.

“Has the family been informed? Good . . .”

Immaculate in a dark-blue suit, pale cream shirt, and polka-dot tie, Trayner stood in the hallway, keeping one eye on the TV in the living room. He’d invited the Thorndikes around to dinner, and they were sitting with his wife Dorothy, lingering over brandies and Harrods’ mint crisp wafers, while they watched the election result.

“What about MS15?” Trayner asked. “Well, get onto them right away.” He passed a pink, plump hand over his smooth glossy hair, graying at the temples. “David Thorndike should lead the investigation, which is good news for us,” he said glibly.

At the mention of his name, Thorndike swivelled around in his chair, sharp nose in the air, all ears. Trayner winked and favored him with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Absolutely.” Trayner was nodding, agreeing with Kernan. “A complete bastard—but a complete bastard who is the most likely candidate to take over from you if you get the move upstairs.” He added silkily, “And that will surely depend on how you handle this business from now on . . .”

Dorothy had turned the sound up, and Trayner said, “One moment,” leaning towards the living room door as the party official stepped up to the microphone.

“Kenneth Trevor Bagnall, Conservative . . . thirteen thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven.”

“Not enough,” Trayner muttered tersely, shaking his head.

“Jonathan Phelps, Labour .
.
. sixteen thousand, four hundred
.
.
.”

The rest was drowned in a storm of cheering from the Labour supporters in the hall. Phelps, smiling broadly, had both fists raised in the air. Trayner turned his back on it.

“Did you hear that?” he said into the phone. “It’s in David’s best interests to stop Southampton Row being dragged through the mire. Keep me informed.”

He hung up. Thorndike came through, buttoning his jacket. “Well, we’d better be going.” The two men looked at one another. Things might work out after all. The MS15 investigation, with Thorndike in charge, couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment, everything considered. If nothing else, it would cast a cloud over Tennison’s promotion prospects. And if Thorndike could perform a damage limitation exercise on the Met’s reputation, impressing the powers-that-be, he’d come out of it smelling of roses.

Trayner patted him on the shoulder, and Thorndike responded with his thin-lipped watery smile. “Looks like I’ve got an early start in the morning,” he said.

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

“Stop that!”

Tennison sat at her desk, her elbow on the blotter, her head propped in one hand. She tapped the ash off her cigarette and put it to her lips. She inhaled deeply and breathed out, the smoke pluming from her nostrils. The tape reel slowly turned, semaphoring plastic gleams under the lamplight with each revolution.

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

“Tony, just stop it, man!”

Tennison closed her eyes and took another long drag.

This was worse than she had feared. Much worse. What in heaven’s name had possessed Oswalde? Why had he allowed it to go on? Pushing and pressuring the boy when it was obvious that he was stricken with hysterical panic, teetering on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown? What the hell was he trying to prove? That black coppers were superior to white ones? Or that he had nothing to learn from the Gestapo?