A Face in the Crowd (4 page)

The officers dispersed, leaving through the back garden gate. Tennison stayed. She was glad she did, because a few moments later Gold made an important discovery. He beckoned the photographer over to take several close-up shots of the corpse’s wrists, behind its back, beneath the pelvis.

Bream craned forward, speaking softly into a small pocket recorder. “Hands tied together at the back with . . .”

Gingerly, Gold pulled something out and held it up.

“. . . a leather belt,” Bream intoned.

A movement caught Tennison’s eye and she turned to see the little Viswandha boy standing on the top step, all agog.

“For God’s sake . . . didn’t anyone think to get the family moved?” She went up the steps, ushering him ahead of her. “It’ll be gone soon,” she said reassuringly.

He wasn’t a bit frightened, just filled with curiosity. “Is it a real person?”

“Let’s get you inside, you’ll catch cold. You should be in bed.”

“It should have been buried deeper, shouldn’t it?” he said with a child’s irrefutable logic. “Then it wouldn’t have come back.”

Mrs. Viswandha was on her way downstairs, clearly distraught after trying to comfort her daughter. She clutched the boy to her, scolding and hugging him at the same time.

“Don’t you have family or friends you could go to stay with?” Tennison asked sympathetically.

“My husband won’t leave here . . .” She was almost in tears.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

The woman found a wan smile, nodding gratefully. “Thank you.”

Tennison had hoped that the forensic boys might have finished before daybreak, folded their tents and stolen silently away under cover of darkness. But it was not to be. In the gray light of dawn, with gray, haggard faces to match, they trudged along the alleyway carrying a body bag and several large plastic containers. As they came between the tall Victorian houses into Honeyford Road where the dark-blue police van was parked, rear doors open, the pathetic figure of Nola Cameron, shivering, eyes red-rimmed, let out a shrill cry and went stumbling towards them.

“Simone! Simone!”

Standing by her car, Tennison watched the uniformed policeman on duty at the front gate step forward, barring her way. The pitiful cries rang out in the quiet street—“Simone,
Simone!
”—as the body bag was hoisted into the van and the doors slammed shut.

Tennison drove away, averting her eyes from the rearview mirror, from the terrible pain of the grieving mother. If it really was Simone Cameron in that body bag, she knew one thing for sure. All hell was about to break loose.

There wasn’t time to return to the flat. She drove straight to Southampton Row, knowing that Mike Kernan would be hopping about like a cat on broken glass. The cafeteria didn’t open till eight thirty. She had to make do with a styrofoam cup of disgusting machine coffee to wash down three paracetamol, in the hope that she could keep the dull, throbbing headache at bay for a few hours at least. Going without sleep was part of the job, but she was no spring chicken anymore and couldn’t handle it as she used to.

Kernan was at his desk, enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, which wouldn’t do his ulcer much good, Tennison thought. With his heavy-lidded eyes and pouchy cheeks, he put her in mind of a grumpy chipmunk with a hangover. He launched right in, telling her about the meeting, that same evening, which couldn’t have come at a worst time. “It was all arranged weeks ago. I’m going with the Community Liaison Officer, guy named Patterson. I can’t back out now, but it’s going to be a nightmare. I want you to be there. Starts at eight.”

Kernan sucked in a lungful, pushed his packet of Embassy her way.

“No thanks.” Tennison shook her head firmly. “I’m trying to give it up.”

“Christ,” Kernan muttered, in a state of shock. “Since when?”

“Five days, six hours and . . .” Tennison gazed at the ceiling “. . . ’bout fifteen minutes.”

Kernan was so impressed he stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “The meeting’s supposed to be to discuss community policing, but given what’s happening just now we’re sure to be dragged facedown through the shit about the Cameron family.” His heavy brows came together. “And Phelps is coming down tonight, and he’s bound to have the media in tow. That man can smell a vote-winner from fifty miles.”

“Let’s face it, Guv—Nola may be jumping to conclusions but we can’t claim to have done well by her family, can we? Not if it turns out that Derrick was framed.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Kernan was uncomfortable with the subject. “Let’s concentrate on the immediate problem. Is it the Cameron girl or not?”

“I don’t know. And I won’t find anything out from Oscar Bream till tomorrow at the earliest.”

The phone rang and Kernan snatched it up. His secretary informed him that Commander Trayner was on the line. “Right, I’ll hold.” He looked at Tennison through the wreaths of tobacco smoke. “If we knew one way or another before tonight’s meeting, our lives would be a whole lot easier.”

Tennison nodded. “I’ll see if the forensic boys can shed some light. And I want the rest of the garden dug up in case there are other bodies . . .”

“Jesus, what do you want?” Kernan growled, aghast. “Another Nilsen?” He stiffened slightly as the commander came on. “Sir?” He listened, nodding, his drooping eyes fixed on the desk blotter.

“That’s right. I thought she was the very best person for the job. It requires tact and . . . well, I’m sure she’ll be able to cope.”

Tennison pursed her mouth, giving a little rueful half-smile. The antiwomen bias in the Force extended all the way from the ranks right to the upper echelons. Having a female DCI heading a murder inquiry still went against the grain, even though the official line was that there was no sexual discrimination; every one rose by merit, experience, hard work. Which was a load of crap.

“I will do. ’Bye, sir.” Thoughtfully, Kernan hung up. He took a long drag, letting the smoke plume from his nostrils, and stared across the desk with cloudy eyes. “Now how in hell does the commander know what happened on your course already?”

Tennison went very still. “What do you mean?”

“That I brought you back to lead this inquiry?”

She breathed out. For a nasty moment there she had had a dreadful, sinking sensation that her dalliance in the hotel room had spread like wildfire, sniggers and dirty jokes in the locker rooms . . .
Hey, heard the latest—that bitch Tennison likes her men big, rough, and black!

“I’ll give you one guess,” she told Kernan. “And it involves some funny handshakes.”

“Thorndike? The same lodge?”

“I’d put money on it,” Tennison said, getting up, smoothing her skirt.

“Then you’d better make sure you vindicate my decision,” Kernan said, and he wasn’t joking.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” she said crisply, and went out.

The cold water felt good. Leaning over the washbasin in the locker room, Tennison splashed a couple more palmfuls into her face, then dried herself and made a critical inspection in the mirror. Oh God. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. It seemed a world away now, though it was less than twelve hours since she’d been lying in Bob Oswalde’s arms in the hotel room, drinking Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

Two clerks came in, chattering away, though Tennison seemed oblivious, intent on repairing the ravages of a night without sleep, giving her hair a vigorous brushing and applying fresh makeup. Usually sparing with perfume when on duty, this morning she put an extra dab on her wrists and behind her ears to perk herself up. Then, shrugging into her tailored jacket and straightening her shoulders, she was ready for the fray.

There was a fog of smoke in the Incident Room, the members of the team lounging around drinking coffee, laying bets on the identity of the collection of bones discovered in the back garden of Honeyford Road.

“Fiver says it’s Simone . . .”

“You’re on!”

“What odds you offering?”

“I’m starting a book.”

“Huh!” said DC Lillie with a scowl. “Last time I ended up seventy-five quid out of pocket . . .”

Tennison came in, calling out to Muddyman as she strode briskly to the desk in front of the long white bulletin board that took up one full wall. “Tony, we need a name. Where we up to in the A to Z?”

“I think it’s N, Guv.”

“Look up the first N for us then, Tony.” She stood at the desk, waiting a moment or two for the chatter to die down. When there was complete silence, Tennison began.

“As some of you will be aware, workmen digging in the back garden of Number fifteen, Honeyford Road, have uncovered skeletonized human remains. The arms had been tied behind the back and the body wrapped in polyethylene, so it’s a suspicious death.”

Tennison pointed to the photographs of the corpse, which had been processed overnight and pinned up on the board by DC Jones.

“Those of you who’ve been down there will know that there’s a lot of speculation that it could be the body of a local girl who was reported missing two years ago—Simone Cameron. Her mother, Nola, who still lives a few doors away from Number fifteen, is completely convinced it’s Simone. We’ll get the forensic boys and the pathologist boys to give us an answer to that as soon as possible.”

Tennison paused, her eyes raking over the assembled officers, who were all, to a man, paying rapt attention.

“In the meantime, we have to treat Nola Cameron’s fears seriously. The unfortunate thing is that the Cameron family have been the focus of attention in that area for some years now. The oldest boy, Derrick, was accused of stabbing a white youth to death. He was sent to prison on the basis of that confession, made here in this station. Now there are doubts about the safety of that conviction.”

Dark glances were exchanged between the men. Tennison raised her voice to cut short the rumbling murmurs.

“A campaign led by Jonathan Phelps—Labour’s candidate in the by-election—to have Derrick’s case brought before the Court of Appeal is gaining a lot of support from all sorts of people. So . . . there’s a lot of anger and bitterness, and resentment against the police. It looks like we can rule out the present owners, so our first priority is to locate all former occupants of Number fifteen. Let’s get down there straightaway and see what information we can gather.”

There was a general movement. Climbing to his feet, DI Burkin glanced around, a grin on his handsome, slightly battered face, the result of several bouts in the boxing ring, which made him the current holder of the south Thames Metropolitan title. “Passports at the ready, lads . . .”

“Frank, you know that’s out of order,” Tennison snapped, wiping away his grin. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

Silence fell. Tennison’s gaze swept around the room, her face stony. “I don’t want the Camerons—and that means aunts, uncles, all of them—interviewed at all. As far as the other residents go, remember this: if we go in there expecting aggro, start leaning on people, we’ll get it. So it’s easy does it.” She came around the desk, raising an eyebrow and softening her tone to take the sting out of her rebuke. “You’re all graduates of the Rank Charm School, right? I want a list of all former residents of the Honeyford Road area over the last ten years
.
”

Groans and muttered oaths. That kind of follow-up meant days of futile legwork, endless hours tramping the streets, knocking on doors, and getting blank stares and shaken heads. In short, a lot of hard work for minimal return.

“I’ve asked DS Haskons to be office manager.” Tennison looked toward Muddyman, leafing through a dog-eared copy of the A to Z directory. “Tony—a name for this operation.”

“The first N is Nadine Street, Guv.”

“Very nice. So it’s Operation Nadine then.”

Somebody snapped his fingers and started to sing an old Buddy Holly number “Nadine, Honey, Is That You?” and the others took it up, joining in the chorus.

Already halfway to the door, Tennison rapped out, “Right, let’s go . . . Jonesy!”

While the team got on with the house-to-house, Tennison, with DC Jones trailing in her wake, went down two flights to the Forensic Science labs, situated in an annex at the rear of the station. Two white-coated technicians were scooping mud from the plastic containers, mixing it with water into a thin soup, and sieving it. Any resulting fragments, even the tiniest specks, were placed on sheets of white blotter for Gold to examine later.

Gold looked a bit pale and drawn, but his enthusiasm was undimmed, and so was his industry. He’d separated the various items of clothing and artifacts found with the body and lined them up in shallow trays on the bench. He went along, detailing his finds to Tennison, while Jones took notes.

“I’ll get all this stuff bagged for you as soon as possible if you want Mrs. Cameron to look at it.” Gold lifted some woven material with a rubber-gloved hand. “The sweater remains—pretty color, don’t you think?” He moved along. “Bra, pants, labels, some studs from her Levi’s, Adidas sneakers, and so on. Not very helpful, I’m afraid . . .”

One of his assistants came up, holding a small fragment in stainless steel tweezers. Gold squinted at it. “Looks like a piece of skull. Get it sent over to Oscar Bream.”

He gestured Tennison forward to another bench. Here, laid out on separate sheets of blotter, were a number of smaller, tarnished items. They didn’t look like much to Tennison, though Gold seemed quite pleased. “But we have found several coins! The most recent of which is 1986.”

Tennison frowned at him. “So?”

“Have you got any change in your pocket?”

Jones fished out a handful and Gold plucked out a five-pence piece, which he held up with a conjurer’s flourish. “There. 1991. Which proves that you were walking around above ground until at least that year.”

“Thank God for that,” Jones muttered, pulling a face for Tennison’s benefit behind the young scientist’s back.

Gold was holding up a scabby piece of coiled leather, covered in green mildew. Evidently his prize specimen, from the way he was beaming. “Perhaps most promising so far—the belt that secured her hands behind her back. Distinctive buckle.”