Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (12 page)

Dalton didn’t approve. “You shouldn’t encourage them—shit all over you.” Otley tossed another chunk. Dalton turned away in disgust. There was a poster in the Film Theatre window for Andrzej Wajda’s
Man of Iron.
“Good movie that, have you seen it?” Dalton asked.

Otley’s eyes were elsewhere. He was watching three ragged kids picking up leftover scraps from the tables. One boy in particular, hustling cigarettes from the patrons, looked familiar. Otley watched him for several minutes, a skinny, pathetic-looking specimen in a torn T-shirt, filthy jeans, and cheap sneakers, bare ankles caked with dirt. His thin, ravaged face was marked and bruised, his mouth erupting in open cold sores.

“Just going for a leak, okay?”

Dalton paid no attention as Otley rose and casually threaded his way through the tables. He came up by the boy’s shoulder as he was rummaging inside a trash bin and said softly, “Hello, son . . .”

The boy looked up, pale puffy eyelids and a pair of dark purple bags. “It’s twenty quid, down the toilets.”

Otley placed his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “You just blew more than you bargained for—I’m a police officer.”

“Okay, so I’ll make it ten.”

“Hey! Watch it!” Otley was smiling. “I just want to ask you a few questions . . .”

Warily, the boy took a step backward. His eyes flicked past Otley to where Dalton was heading toward them through the tables.

“It’s about that fire,” Otley said, taking out a fiver. “Heard about it? You know Colin Jenkins? Connie?”

Dalton came up and the boy took off. He barged through the tables, turning chairs over behind him, and leapt the wooden barrier surrounding the eating area, skinny elbows pumping as he hared off along the concrete embankment. Dalton was after him like a shot. Kicking the chairs aside and leaping the barrier, his long legs gained on the boy with every stride.

Otley took his time, going out through the swingbar gate and following after them at his own pace. He saw Dalton reach out and grab the boy by the nape of the neck, they both skidded and went down, the boy punching and kicking wildly. Dalton gripped him by the hair, his other hand under the boy’s chin, and the boy sank his teeth into Dalton’s hand. Dalton cursed and belted him hard, hauled him to his feet and belted him again.

“That’s enough,” Otley said, walking up. “Back off him . . .”

Dalton gave him another crack before stepping back, sucking his hand. “Little bastard bit me!”

The boy wiped his bloody nose on his arm, eyes rolling in his pinched face, frightened to death. “I dunno nuffink, I swear to God, I dunno anyfink . . .”

Joe Public strolling by and taking an interest in all of this made Otley jumpy. He moved close to the boy, keeping his voice low.

“I haven’t asked you anything yet. Let’s start with your name.”

“Billy,” the boy said, his chin quivering. “Billy Matthews.”

The three new members of the squad were in Tennison’s office, jackets draped over the backs of their chairs, bringing themselves up to speed on the investigation. Neither Haskons nor Lillie was too enthusiastic about the case; why they were here at all was something of a mystery.

“I dunno why we’re going to all this bleedin’ trouble—nasty little queen,” Lillie complained. “We got an address for him, for Colin?”

“He’s not got a permanent one,” Haskons replied.

“He must have lived somewhere! What about a recent photograph?”

“These are from a children’s home,” Ray Hebdon said, spreading them out. “Few years old, black and white.” He glanced down the report. “Not much else.”

Haskons picked up a photograph of Connie, aged about nine, in school uniform, unsmiling. He stared at it and blew out a disgruntled sigh, his broad face with its fleshy nose and heavy jaw set in a lugubrious scowl. “Was he claiming the dole? Any benefits?”

“No, nothing from the DSS,” Lillie said.

Haskons folded his arms and stared through the window at the brick wall. The phone rang and Hebdon answered it. “No, she’s not. Can I take a message?” He found a pencil and a memo pad. “Jessica Smithy. What? Yes, I’ll tell her.”

Haskons yawned. “Any vice charges? I mean, he was on the game, wasn’t he?”

“Too young to bring charges,” Lillie said. “In 1988 he was picked up, shipped back.” He studied the school photograph. “I don’t understand, you know . . . what makes a poofter want to screw this scrawny, sickly-lookin’ kid?”

“Make our job a damned sight easier if we had a recent photo,” Haskon said with a long-suffering tone.

Lillie tossed over the morgue photograph of Connie’s head, a knob of blackened bone, the face burnt off. “Here you go!” he said, laughing.

Tennison and Hall came down the stairs into the advice centre. The only sign of life was the black kid with the hearing aid, Ron, mopping the floor near the contacts board. Tennison had a quick gander around, peering into the empty TV lounge. Hall wandered over to the corkboard crisscrossed with tape, colored cards with job notices stuck in it.

“It’s usually quiet around now,” Hall said as Tennison joined him. “Kids don’t drift in until early evening.”

Tennison turned to Ron, mechanically mopping. “Is Mr. Parker-Jones here?” At his nod, she said, “Could you get him for me?”

Ron knocked on the office door, opened it an inch or two and looked inside. Tennison reached past him, and with the flat of her hand pushed the door open. “Is he in there?”

The desk lamp was on but the office was empty. Everything was neat and tidy, books on the shelves carefully arranged, wire trays on the desk containing invoices and letters.

“Could you see if he’s anywhere in the building? I’ll wait in here for him.” She showed Ron her I.D. “It’s important.”

Ron went off, and Tennison gave a nod to Hall, who was at the contacts board, searching through them, jotting down names and phone numbers. He returned her nod and went back to the board, keeping one eye on the stairs as a couple of kids came down.

Tennison went in and pushed the door partway closed.

She went over to the two filing cabinets and tried one of the drawers. Locked. She looked around. On the wall above a thriving rubber plant was a row of impressive framed certificates, elaborately scrolled text and fancy borders. Mallory Advice Center, Maryland. Chicago University Child Therapy Unit. New York Speech and Sign Language Institute. A dozen or so letters trailed after the name “Edward Parker-Jones.”

She moved around the desk. There was a stack of stamped and sealed envelopes. She flicked through them, checking the addresses. She leafed through the loose memos and the notepad, glanced at the yellow stickers on the blotter. She bent to try the desk drawers when the door was pushed open and Hall made a quick gesture.

Tennison was standing by the bookshelves when Parker-Jones breezed in. His presence immediately filled the small office. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn he was an honorary Southern colonel as well, judging by the framed credentials.

“Can I help you?” He didn’t smile but his deep modulated voice was pleasant enough.

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison,” she said, holding up her I.D. “You must be . . .”

“Edward Parker-Jones. Could I see it?” He pointed to her I.D. “Thank you,” he said, handing it back. “Well? How can I help you, Chief Inspector Tennison?”

He moved around the desk, rubbing his hands, which gave Tennison the opportunity to exchange a look with Hall. He went out and closed the door, leaving Tennison alone with Parker-Jones, and giving him the chance to sniff around.

Tennison started with a smile. “I’ve come about the investigation into Colin Jenkins’s death. Could you tell me where you were on the night of the seventeenth of this month?”

“I was here. I was here from six-thirty until at least twelve.”

Tennison’s eyes widened a fraction. Neat answer, very pat. “Do you have any witnesses who can—”

“Exactly how many do you require?” asked Parker-Jones, completely at ease, relaxed and confident. “I can make out a list.”

“I am interested in the hour between eight-thirty and nine-thirty,” Tennison said.

After a small sigh, Parker-Jones reeled them off. “Alan Thorpe, Donald Driscoll, Kenny Lloyd, one or two other lads . . .”

An identical list, the same familiar names.

“Do you know a James Jackson?”

“Yes.” Parker-Jones nodded. “Strangely enough, he was here that evening.”

“You have a very good memory,” Tennison complimented him, turning on the charm.

Edward Parker-Jones didn’t succumb that easily. “Not really. But it is my job to help the social services by keeping some kind of record of the youngsters who come and go here.” He suddenly remembered, or gave a convincing performance of doing so. “Ah—oh, yes . . . Billy Matthews.” He took a desk diary from the drawer and turned to the relevant date. “Billy Matthews. He was here also.”

Tennison watched as he wrote out the list of names, using a gold-nibbed fountain pen. He had strong hands, dark hair sprouting from his crisp shirt cuffs to his knuckles, and wore a chunky gold ring with an amber stone on the little finger of his left hand. He was rather good-looking in a louche way, with dark deep-set eyes, his black hair swept back over his ears.

Parker-Jones passed the list to her. He sat down; there was another chair, but Tennison preferred to stay on her feet.

“. . . yes, Billy Matthews, I arranged for him to see a doctor. He was found in the toilets here.” Parker-Jones tightened his lips, shaking his head. “He’s a tragic case. He’s only fourteen, full-blown AIDS. One of the reasons I remember that evening specifically is that Jackson was in a particularly aggressive mood. He’d been trying to find a boy earlier in the day. Martin Fletcher.”

“Why was he looking for him?”

“I really don’t know,” he said with a slight frown, and checked the diary again. “Martin wasn’t here on the seventeenth but he turned up the following day. In fact . . . a Sergeant Otley spoke to him recently.”

“You said Jackson had been here in the day, so what time did he return in the evening?”

Parker-Jones seemed rather amused. “Is Jackson a suspect?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “Is that what this is all about?” He found her silence just as amusing. “It was an accidental death, surely? That building’s a fire trap, all those old blocks are.”

“I’m sorry, but could you . . .” Tennison cleared her throat. “Could you please answer the question? What time did James Jackson return here?”

“Around half eight, or thereabouts. He stayed for about two hours.”

“Two hours!” Tennison mulled this over. She slipped her shoulder bag on. “Thank you very much, Mr. Parker-Jones. You know Reynolds’s flat?” she asked, going to the door. She turned. “Just that you mentioned it was a fire hazard, so you must have been there . . . ?”

Rising to his six feet two Parker-Jones said without a flicker of hesitation, “Of course, Vera is well known by everybody around here. She—he leaves the front door key for friends to pop in. I have always had a good relationship with the Vice Squad,” he said evenly. “You must be new—correct?”

Tennison smiled thinly. “Yes, and I really appreciate your help.”

“Most of the kids that come here are wretched—abused, unloved, and friendless. But they do at least come here, and we can maintain contact.” He moved around the desk toward her. “These children are prey for the perverted. If my centre was to be closed down it would be very sad. . . .”

“I am sure you are doing a very good and worthwhile job, Mr. Parker-Jones. But I am also trying to do mine.” They faced each other in silence for a moment, and then Tennison said, “I noticed you have an impressive list of credentials.”

“Thank you.” He was standing close to her. She could smell his aftershave. Violets. She recognized it as Fahrenheit by Christian Dior.

“Just one more thing,” Tennison said. “Do you keep a record of photographs?”

“Of the boys that come here?” At her nod, he said, “Good heavens no, be far too expensive.”

“Not even casual snapshots of, say, a Christmas party? Colin, or Connie as he was called, was a frequent visitor here, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was, but not recently. In fact I haven’t seen him for about three months.”

An answer to everything. What with that and his meticulous memory, this was one hell of a cool customer. Tennison pressed him further.

“You have no idea where he was living? Or if he lived with anyone?”

“I’m afraid not. He did leave messages on the notice board, and I think he received letters a few times, but not for quite a while. If you leave it with me I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

Tennison smiled perfunctorily and opened the door. Edward Parker-Jones put out his meaty, hairy hand to shake hers. It was left in midair as she turned and left the office.

In the car, while Hall drove, she studied the list in Parker-Jones’s beautiful rounded handwriting. Of course it had to be perfect. Mr. Bleedin’ Hearts Wonderful.

“He’s given me virtually the same names as Jackson—we’ll have to release him.” She smacked her head back against the headrest. “Shit! Banged up, at least he couldn’t scare anyone from talking to us. And they can’t find Martin Fletcher now. . . .”