A Face in the Crowd (25 page)

Oswalde had a quick look around, then walked up the little concrete pathway to the door. All the windows, he noted, were masked off with black curtain material. He tried the door, and glanced around at the manager, a dumpy, bald-headed man with tufts of gray hair sticking out over his ears.

The manager shrugged. “I haven’t got a key.”

Oswalde went to work. In two minutes he had the door open. Inside, it was pitch black. He felt for a switch, and the interior was bathed in red light. The entire trailer had been converted into a dark room, fitted out with processing and developing equipment, an enlarger, print trimmer, everything.

“Bloody hell,” the manager muttered, gawking inside.

“Can you wait outside, please?” Oswalde pulled the door to and poked about. Strips of film hung down on wooden pegs. There was a cork board with dozens of girlie shots pinned to it, mostly black and white, a few in color. Three large wire trays held stacks and stacks of prints. On top was one of Sarah Allen, taken through her bedroom window. Oswalde’s mouth tightened as his eye fell on some photographs of him and Tennison, kissing on her doorstep. He stuffed them inside his jacket and zipped it up.

A few minutes later the two Essex C.I.D. officers arrived. They looked at him expectantly, their faces ruddy in the dim red light.

“We’ll just have to sit tight till he shows up,” Oswalde said.

Tennison did her best to make Sarah relax. The girl was so tightly wound up that at first she just sat in Tennison’s office, her back rigid, hands locked together in her lap. The station was quiet after the busy day, most of the team having gone home, so there were no interruptions. Tennison bided her time. She didn’t ask any questions, content to let Sarah say what she felt like saying, no pressure, no hassles.

Of course, all her immediate thoughts were centered on Tony. They had been very close; the pain she felt at his death was like a raw wound, her grief for him nakedly displayed on her face.

Eventually, in a small, very hushed voice, she began to unburden herself, recalling how depressed Tony had become.

“I think when it was really bad he heard voices. I know he dreamed of Joanne, night after night. Always the same dream . . . that she’d been buried alive. He could hear these muffled screams.” Sarah’s large dark eyes clouded over. She clenched her jaw, fighting back the tears. “He couldn’t bear to be alone. Confined spaces petrified him. If only I’d been around I could have explained . . . but Mum and Pop just wouldn’t believe there was anything wrong with him.”

She stared miserably into space, overcome with guilt that she’d let her brother down, been away at college when he needed her.

Tennison allowed a small silence to gather. She said gently, “Sarah, you could still help by giving us a statement about what happened.”

“. . . he never had a girlfriend,” Sarah went on, not listening, following the track of her own thoughts. “No one was more surprised than me when Esta came onto the scene. I don’t suppose that would have lasted if she hadn’t become pregnant.”

Tennison knew that Sarah was circling around and around it, steeling herself to make the plunge and reveal the truth. But it was no good here, in the privacy of this office. It had to be a statement, freely given, committed to tape. Without it, all this was leading nowhere.

She leaned forward, gaining Sarah’s attention by the force of her gaze. “Please, Sarah . . .”

Sarah turned her head away, and Tennison’s spirits sank. But then, looking resolutely away, tears standing in her eyes, Sarah gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Tennison let her breath go.

As she sat down at the restaurant table, Sandra’s breasts swelled above the low-cut neckline of the black velvet dress. The dress had a cutaway panel at the back too, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. With her dark lush hair brushed out and cascading over her shoulders, her eyes made-up with dusk-gray eye shadow and Virgin Rose lip gloss emphasizing her full lips, she could easily have passed for eighteen. Jason was very pleased with himself. He could certainly pick ’em.

Sandra was flushed and excited, already a bit tipsy on the two drinks she’d had in the pub. Jason ordered a pint of lager for himself and a Martini and lemonade for her. It was early in the evening and the place was quiet, not more than a dozen diners all told, mostly couples.

“Can we have some of them popadoms?” Sandra asked, wriggling in her chair.

Jason smirked at her naïveté. “This is a Chinese restaurant, Sandy.”

“I know,” she said sulkily, coloring.

“I’ll order for us.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

When the food came she didn’t know how to use chopsticks, and had to eat it with a fork. Jason got another round of drinks, even though Sandra protested she’d had enough. Her eyes were glassy, and she got the giggles. Every time Jason whispered in her ear, usually some crude sexual innuendo, she shrieked with laughter. Some of the other diners were becoming irritated. At a nearby table a man muttered to his companion that it was a disgrace, they shouldn’t allow that type in the restaurant in the first place.

Jason was up on his feet, neck pumping, fists bunched. He strode across and stuck his head in the man’s face.

“What you say? My type? What’s ‘my type,’ eh? Eh?” White-faced with rage, he grabbed a plateful of food and chucked it in the man’s lap. “You fuck.” He gripped the edge of the table and tipped the whole thing over.

Two waiters rushed over and started yammering away in Chinese. Jason angrily brushed them off. He marched back to his table, threw down some money, and jerked his thumb at Sandra. “C’mon darlin’.”

Sandra rose to her feet, a little nervous smile hovering on her lips. She’d never seen anyone change so quickly, so suddenly. He was like a different person. A shiver ran down her spine, but she did as she was told, and meekly followed him out.

In the darkened trailer, Oswalde and the two local C.I.D. officers waited. They’d made themselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped space, Oswalde taking the bench couch under the window, the other two sitting on cushions on the floor. From time to time all three looked hopefully at the mobile phone, standing upright on the sink unit. Their man in the site manager’s office would give them advance word the minute Jason drove in. Then they’d be ready for him as he stepped through the door.

Oswalde smothered a yawn. Join the police for a life of thrills and excitement. They forgot to mention the endless hours of boredom while you waited for something to happen.

The embossed plastic sign in the center of the door read: TAPED INTERVIEW ROOM.

Sarah paused on the threshold as Tennison pushed the door open and bade her enter. She said tremulously, “Was this the room Tony was interviewed in?”

Tennison shook her head. “No, love.” She touched Sarah’s arm reassuringly. “No.”

Sarah went in. Tennison followed and closed the door.

Jason’s arm was hooked around Sandra’s waist, leading her to his Cavalier hatchback at the curb. The giggles were back. She staggered tipsily in her high heels and nearly tripped, and he had to hoist her up. His hand slid down to squeeze her buttocks. Lovely firm body on it, not an ounce of flab. That’s why he preferred them young; those old fucks with their arses hanging out turned his stomach. He bet this tart would go at top speed, a regular rattlesnake.

He unlocked the passenger door and got her safely installed. He had a hard-on like a tent pole, couldn’t wait to see her stripped off and get stuck in. He had some whisky back at the van, just in case she needed loosening up, a bit of Dutch courage. He went around to his side, chest tight, grinning into the night air. He was going to give her a lot more than whisky and Dutch courage.

Sarah had taken off her coat and scarf. She hadn’t bothered to change before she left home; wearing a simple dark dress and loose knitted cardigan, she sat opposite Tennison, her feet together, hands resting in her lap. Even in her fraught condition there was a noble dignity about her, Tennison decided. She held herself proudly, shoulders back, and it was only in her large liquid eyes that the terrible anguish and pain she was struggling with showed itself.

Tennison started the tape. Without any prompting, Sarah began to speak in a level, controlled voice, quiet yet distinct, recalling the events of the last day of August 1986.

“I was at home with Pop until Tony got back. That was just before nine, as arranged. As soon as Pop had gone, Tony said he had to go out for a while. Of course he wasn’t supposed to, so we started arguing. I watched him go back out to a girl who was waiting for him. Joanne. Tony must have got Pop’s keys from somewhere, because they went next door . . .”

“Into Harvey’s house?” Tennison said, clarifying it for the record.

“Yes. Joanne was looking for a flat to rent and Tony told her about Harvey’s basement. How his father owned it and all that. I followed them and watched. They went into the bedroom together. They kissed, lay on the bed together. I watched for a while. It made me feel odd. But I was fourteen, and curious, I suppose.”

She stared past Tennison, a slight glaze over her eyes, reliving the memory.

“Then I saw Jason come in. Tony didn’t know he was staying there . . .”

The Cavalier hatchback turned in at the gate and bumped over the rutted track past the site manager’s office. It passed within a few feet of an open window, through which a storm of cheering erupted as Paul Merson headed in the equalizer against Liverpool. Leaning forward in his chair, the C.I.D. man punched the air and grinned across at the manager. Show those bleeding natives how it’s done. He took another bite of his corned beef and pickle sandwich, and settled back with eager anticipation in the comfy armchair.

Outside, the red taillights grew faint, and finally disappeared from view as the gravel track dipped down.

“I went around to the front door and rang the bell. Jason answered. He invited me in. I had quite a crush on Jason at the time . . .” Sarah’s eyes rolled towards Tennison, the thought of it filling her with horror. She moistened her lips. “Tony was pissed off to see me but I wouldn’t go. Tony and Joanne were dancing together. Jason was watching them, encouraging them, telling them to kiss . . .”

Randy and raring to go, Jason gave Sandra a sloppy wet kiss as they staggered up the concrete pathway together. Her giggles now weren’t altogether convincing. The cold night air had sharpened her senses, cut through the alcoholic haze swirling inside her head. He had bought her fancy new clothes and underwear, wined and dined her, and she wasn’t fool enough not to know that he expected something in return. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to give it.

But it was too late; she was here, at his trailer, and she didn’t know how to get out of it.

Jason fished out his keys. Cuddling her, he turned the key in the lock, yanked the door open, and pushed her inside, into the pitch blackness.

“. . . Jason found a Polaroid camera. It must have belonged to Harvey. Jason took photographs. We were drinking Harvey’s booze, getting quite drunk.”

Sandra stood blinking as the light came on. Sidling past her, Jason slapped her neat little bottom in the black velvet dress. “Make yourself at home.”

He went to a cupboard, hunting for the bottle of White Horse. “This is my studio . . . I got me darkroom in another van,” he told her.

Swaying a little, Sandra gazed around. She was feeling a bit queasy, and it wasn’t only the drinks and the Chinese food. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with pictures of naked girls. There was a camera set up on a tripod and a battery of lights. And there was a couch, draped in a satin sheet. Suddenly she realized she was trembling all over. A horrible cold crawling sensation was seeping up from the pit of her stomach.

She jumped as he turned to her, clutching a bottle and two glasses. His fair eyebrows were raised, and there was a devilish gleam in his pale blue eyes.

Oswalde closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired, didn’t feel at all sleepy, but it was a strain just sitting there, staring into black nothingness, the minutes dragging painfully by. His nostrils twitched. Somebody had let one off, silent and deadly. Great. He lay back on the couch, trying to think of something pleasant to pass the time, but it wasn’t easy with that reek pervading the air.

“Then Jason started making suggestions.”

“What kind of suggestions?” Tennison asked when Sarah paused.

“That we should undress. Encouraging Tony to touch Joanne. I could see Jason was getting turned on by it . . . we were all turned on in a way,” she admitted. “He ran out of film after about ten pictures but he wouldn’t stop. He became more serious. More insistent.”

Sandra took another sip of whisky, just to keep him quiet. He was going on and on at her, so she did. She hoped it might make her feel better, but it didn’t. The room was spinning. She sat down heavily on the couch, and then he was beside her, his breath on her cheek, his hand creeping over her breast. She tried to push him away. Somehow she didn’t have the strength. The room was whirling around and her head felt hot. And all the time he was whispering, whispering in her ear in a sly, silky voice. She couldn’t make sense of the words but she knew what he wanted her to do. She knew from the way his hand was kneading her breasts and tugging at the black velvet dress. And his soft voice whispering in her ear.

“When Joanne wouldn’t pose topless he started pulling at her clothes.”

Tennison sat quite still, not interrupting or asking questions, allowing Sarah to tell her story. Her voice had taken on a mechanical, almost dreamlike quality. As if she were describing a film that was unrolling inside her head. A horror film from which she couldn’t avert her eyes, had to see it through to its grisly end.

“She tried to stop him. It wasn’t funny anymore. He was pulling at her clothes. Joanne was scared. Tony tried to stop him. But Jason got really angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen anyone. He went completely wild. He punched Joanne in the face. Her mouth was bleeding . . .”

Sarah’s own mouth twisted into an ugly shape. Her eyes went wide and bright with fear, watching the film unroll. A spasm shook her entire body, held rigid and bolt upright in the chair. The real horror was about to begin. She forced herself to carry on.