A Face in the Crowd (9 page)

There were one or two puzzled, uncertain looks exchanged; this was the first they’d heard about drafting in new manpower. Never one to waste time on formalities, Kernan waved to them to get on with it, then beckoned Oswalde over. “DS Haskons here is the office manager. He’ll fill you in.”

“Hello Bob.”

Oswalde returned the nod. “Richard.”

“You two know each other?” Kernan said.

“I used to be at West End Lane,” Haskons said.

“Of course you were. Good.” Job done, Kernan departed.

Haskons was as puzzled as some of the others. He said, “Tennison didn’t mention that you were joining us.”

Oswalde turned from sizing up the situation, seeing if there was anyone else he recognized. He looked down on Haskons’s mere six feet from his six-feet-four. “She doesn’t know,” he said.

A
hospital porter pointed the way to the medical artist’s studio. Tennison walked along the echoing, white-tiled corridor and found the door with a piece of white card taped to it, “STUDIO” scrawled on the card in green felt-tip. It looked to her like a shoestring operation; this guy had better be good for the money they were shelling out.

Upon entering, Tennison saw that it wasn’t a studio at all, but more a medical science laboratory. There were human organs immersed in fluid in giant test tubes, which she didn’t examine too closely in case they turned out to be real. A tall young man in a black polo-necked sweater and a gray apron was working on the far side of the room, next to a wide-slanting window to gain the maximum natural daylight. Tennison threaded through the exhibits, keeping her eyes to the front. She’d seen real human beings in gruesome conditions, and the sight of blood didn’t bother her, but these mummified floating bits of internal plumbing gave her the creeps.

“I’m DCI Tennison. I think you’re making a clay head for us?”

It was the clay head he was actually working on. He stood back, wiping brown clay onto his apron, allowing her to get a good look.

“It may not look like much at the moment, but I have high hopes.” He had a drawling, dreamlike voice, as if he spent much of his time on another plane of existence. Probably did, Tennison thought.

She moved closer. A plaster cast had been taken of Nadine’s skull into which he had hammered dozens of steel pins. These formed the scaffolding for the features he was building up in clay. At the moment the underlying structure could be seen, exposed muscles and ligatures, and the effect was macabre, a face stripped down to its component parts.

“She had the most beautiful skull I’ve ever seen,” the young man said.

“Really?”

“Yes. See this . . .” He used a stainless steel scalpel as a pointer. “The orbicularis oris. The muscle originates on the maxilla and mandible, near the midline, on the eminences due to the incisor and canine teeth. Its fibers surround the oral aperture. Function—closing of the mouth and pursing of lips. You see, I’m a scientist,” he added, giving her his shy, dreamy smile. “Otherwise I’d have said it’s the muscle that allows you to kiss someone.”

“When will she be ready?”

“By the end of the week.”

As office manager, Haskons was doing a bit of reorganizing—much to Ken Lillie’s displeasure, because he was the one being reorganized.

“But why?” Lillie asked, his arms piled up with document files.

“I’m moving you.”

“Why me?”

“Bob needs a desk.”

“No, no, that’s not an answer . . . why me?”

Haskons plunked a cardboard box of miscellaneous stuff on top of the pile, so that Lillie had to raise his head to peer over it.

“Because you’re only ever at your desk to drink coffee.”

“Yeah,” Lillie agreed vehemently. “Normally I’m out there making sure the streets are safe to walk.”

Hoots of derision from all corners of the room. Catcalls and shouts of “SuperLillie Strikes Again,” and “Batman and Lillie.”

Oswalde was studying the photographs of Nadine on the big bulletin board, keeping well out of it. He was edgy enough as it was, nervously watching the door for Tennison’s arrival. Kernan had arranged his transfer without consulting her, which put Oswalde in a spot he knew he shouldn’t be in. Especially after what had occurred at the conference. Had he been paranoid, Oswalde reflected, he might have suspected that Kernan had deliberately thrown the two of them together, part of a gleeful, devious plot so he could sit back and watch the pair of them squirm.

No, Kernan would never stoop to that. Would he?

Oswalde had other eyes on him. Burkin was slumped in his chair, long legs splayed out, chewing a matchstick. He muttered to Rosper at the next desk, “It’s bad enough having to police the buggers, let alone work with them.”

“You’re only saying that ’cos he’s taller than you,” Rosper quipped, always the easygoing one.

Burkin was stung. “No he ain’t.”

The door swung open and Tennison breezed in, raincoat flapping around her. Halfway to her desk she caught sight of Oswalde and stopped dead in her tracks. Oswalde was attempting the impossible, hoping not to draw attention to them both by not looking at her, at the same time trying to convey to her by some mysterious telepathic process that he was as blameless as she was, just another innocent pawn in the game.

“Tony. Can I have a word, please?”

Tennison turned about-face and went out.

Muddyman left his desk and went into the corridor, where he found her pacing up and down, hands deep in her raincoat pockets.

“Guv?”

“What’s Bob Oswalde doing here?”

“You know him?”

“Answer the question, Tony.”

“He’s part of the team. Kernan brought him in.”

“Thank you.”

With that she marched off to Kernan’s office, leaving Muddyman standing there, wondering what the fuck this was all about.

Kernan was dictating letters to a clerk when Tennison walked in. He seemed very pleased with himself about something, leaning back with a smug grin on his pouchy, pockmarked face. Tennison’s mind was racing ten to the dozen. It was all a jumble; she wasn’t sure which emotion came first, nor which one to trust. She knew she had to be careful how she handled this.

“Jane?” Kernan said, which showed he was in a good mood, because normally he would have said with a sigh,
Well, what is it?

“I want a word with you, Guv. Now.”

“Thank you, Sharon.”

Immediately after the WPC had gone and the door had closed, Tennison said, “Why did you co-opt someone onto my team without telling me?” She was holding herself in check, her voice reasonably calm, her temper under control—for the moment.

Kernan lit a cigarette. “It seemed to me that a black officer would be a—how can I put it?—a useful addition.”

“Why didn’t you consult with me?”

“Actually, I consulted the Community Liaison Officer, who thought it was an excellent idea.” Kernan gestured with the cigarette. “A black face prominent in this inquiry. An antidote to the Burkins of this world. You’re saying you can’t use an extra man?”

“No.”

“Well, what are you saying?”

“You’ve called in this officer as backup,” Tennison said questioningly, making sure she understood, “because he’s black?”

Now Kernan did sigh, and rolled his eyes a little. “Jane, I’m not looking for a political argument . . .”

“It would have been different if he’d been part of the team from the beginning, but now every time I ask him to do something, it’s open to misinterpretation.”

Kernan gazed blankly up at her. “I don’t understand.”

Tennison came nearer the desk, her hands clutching the air. “It smacks of tokenism. It’s political maneuvering.”

Kernan didn’t want to listen to this claptrap, and didn’t see why he should. But Tennison had pumped herself up and wasn’t about to stop. She said heatedly, “You should have asked me first. Pulling rank just undermines me.”

It was Kernan’s turn to get annoyed. “I wasn’t pulling rank. I was trying to help you out . . .”

“Oh, bollocks,” Tennison said. Then added, “Sir.”

What could he do with the bloody woman? Against all the odds she’d made it to Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Force, in charge of a murder squad—which was what she’d always wanted—and still she wasn’t happy. He never had this problem with his male colleagues. If only she wasn’t so good at her job, he’d have dumped her double-quick. On yer bike, sunshine.

Kernan rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips, feeling the ulcer start to nag. “You can’t work with the man?” he asked finally, doing his level best to get to the root of her objection.

“Yes, I can work with him.”

“Because all my sources reckon he’s a good officer.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Kernan spread his hands, appealing to her. “Then what have you got against him?”

“Nothing,” Tennison said, tight-lipped. “Well . . .” She gave a halfshrug. “We didn’t hit it off particularly well on the course, but . . .”

“I don’t want you to marry the man, for Chrissake!” Kernan practically shouted, squashing his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

Tennison’s tangle of emotions nearly got the better of her. She almost blurted out the real reason why she objected to Bob Oswalde joining the squad—how could she possibly work with a man she was strongly attracted to, who had been her lover? It would set up all kinds of impossible conflicts, make normal, everyday working relations a knife-edge balancing act. And what if it came out? She’d become a laughingstock. Her credibility would pop like a toy balloon, her reputation plummet to zilch, lower than a snake’s belly.

But in the end, sanity prevailed. She didn’t make a fool of herself, and she didn’t blurt anything out. She simply stated, as forcefully as she could, that she didn’t want him on the team.

Kernan’s patience had been worn to a fine point, and finally it snapped. “He’s on the team already. I’ve made my decision and I’m not going back on it. Get the man briefed and put him to work. We’ll review the situation at the end of the week. I’ll be watching the progress of this case very carefully from now on.”

Tennison left the office.

Ten minutes later, on the pretext of officially welcoming DS 
Oswalde
to Southampton Row, Tennison summoned him to her office. She was still pent up and dying for a smoke. She stood in front of her desk, arms folded, looking up at him, accusation in her eyes.

“Are you expecting me to believe this is a complete coincidence?”

Oswalde regarded her placidly. “I don’t know about coincidence—how many black detectives did he have to choose from? What I’m saying is that it had nothing to do with me. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t ask to be the token black on your team.”

He seemed quite sanguine about it.

Tennison said sharply, “Just don’t think that what happened on the course gives you any special privileges.”

“I don’t.”

“And don’t you dare tell anyone.”

“Jane, please . . . what do you take me for?”

“And don’t call me Jane.”

Oswalde wore a pained expression. “Look, give me some credit. What happened, happened. It’s gone, long since forgotten about. Let’s not give it another thought . . .”

“Yes. Right.” Tennison waved her hand, dismissing him. “Go back to the Incident Room. I’ll be along in a minute.”

When he’d gone she stared at the door for a long moment, then stuck a Nicorette in her mouth and chewed the hell out of it.

All the team was there, assembled for the four o’clock briefing. There was an odd, strained atmosphere, Tennison snapping out instructions, and the men uneasy. They guessed it had something to do with Kernan and Oswalde, but beyond that they were completely in the dark.

Tennison stood in front of the board, her eyes raking over them. “We could have the clay head by tomorrow with any luck. By the end of the week at the latest. After talking to Harvey, our best bet is to concentrate on Sunday, August the thirty-first, 1986.”

“Has Harvey got an alibi?” Burkin asked.

Tennison nodded. “His sister, Eileen. I’m going to talk to her soon. We need a name. We need to build up Nadine’s life story, then we might be able to connect her to Harvey.”

“I’ve been wading through these statements,” Haskons said, sitting on the edge of his desk and indicating a pile of papers. “One or two people talk about a young girl staying in the basement of Number fifteen.”

“Really?” Tennison said.

“Conflicting reports, but it could have been eighty-six.”

“Brilliant. I’d like to make a start on missing persons. Bob, perhaps you could handle that.”

Oswalde straightened up, his face stiffening, and then gave an abrupt nod. Some of the others exchanged looks. “Mispers” wasn’t normally a job for a Detective Sergeant, especially one as experienced as Oswalde.

“Tony, can you go and see if you can have a word with Harvey’s doctor, make sure he’s not just a bloody good actor.”

“If he is, he should win an Oscar,” Muddyman said.

“Right. That’s all for now.”

As she went out, Burkin turned to Haskons with a grin, muttering, “Glad to see the boss is keeping our colored friend in his place.” Haskons didn’t agree, and he was less than happy with Tennison’s duty allocation. He followed and caught up with her in the corridor.

“Guv . . . can I put someone else on Mispers?”

“Why?”

“With respect, ma’am, it’s ridiculous having a man of his experience . . .”

“No.” Tennison was already striding off. “He might pick up on something a more junior man might miss. Don’t call me ma’am.”

Haskons watched her go, shaking his head. Of all the crap excuses . . .

Eileen Reynolds was a younger, much tougher version of her brother David Harvey. A hard-bitten Glaswegian woman with a shrewd, sharp-nosed face under a silvery cap of bleached hair, she sat in Tennison’s office wearing a powder blue coat and a tartan scarf that clashed badly with everything. Her son Jason sat meekly by her side, as if cowed by her domineering presence.

Tennison was trying to establish the pattern of Harvey’s visits to his sister, and whether he had been there on the weekend in question.