Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (13 page)

Hall said, “I’ve made a list of all the jobs and contacts off the centre’s notice board. A lot of ‘Young Male Models’ required. Reads like a Toms’ telephone kiosk.”

Tennison perked up a bit. “That ties in with something Vera said, that Connie wanted to be a model. Good . . . good . . .”

She leaned across and gazed at him admiringly. “And may I say you are wearing a very positive tie this evening, Inspector!”

Hall’s chubby face beamed and he actually blushed.

DI Dalton took the tape from his pocket and handed it to Superintendent Halliday. He then stood fidgeting as Halliday walked back around his desk. The room was warm, though Dalton was uncomfortable with more than mere heat. He didn’t know why they’d picked him for this. Skulking hole-in-the-corner stuff was never his style.

“Tennison’s got the murder inquiry partly because it’d be more trouble to stop her,” Halliday said. He looked directly into Dalton’s eyes. “But it is the murder and only the murder we want investigated.”

Dalton shrugged, shuffling his feet. “There’s nothing else, nothing I’ve heard. Jackson is still the prime suspect. . . .”

“We want Jackson charged,” Halliday said, and lowering his voice for emphasis: “What we do not want is the investigation broadened. Understand?”

Dalton nodded and started to leave. Halliday said, “Better go and let the nurse have a look at that.”

Dalton glanced at his hand, wrapped in a handkerchief. Vicious little bastard. He nodded again and went out.

At 5:30 
P.M.
Tennison fronted the update briefing in the Squad Room. The purpose of this was to acquaint all the team with the day’s developments, to coordinate the various activities, and to delegate fresh lines of inquiry. As she spoke, Hall was at the board behind her, writing up the names of Parker-Jones’s alibis. It didn’t need pointing out to anyone that these tallied exactly with Jackson’s witnesses.

Norma took notes, jotting down questions and queries from the floor as well as Tennison’s spiel.

“We will stick to the weekly rota as arranged, because we now have”—Tennison gestured to the officers drafted in from AMIT—“DC Lillie, DS Haskons, and DI Hebdon, and DI Dalton handling the murder investigation.”

The others were present, but no Dalton, Tennison noticed.

“That said, when we have further information for Operation Contract . . .” A moaning chorus joined in on the word “Contract.”

“Cut it out, you know Superintendent Halliday is making it a . . .” Everyone joined in.
“Priority.”

With a smile, Tennison turned to Hall. “Okay, can you farm out all the contact numbers you got from the centre? Keep up the links between each investigation.”

The team went back to work. Ray Hebdon pushed through. “Excuse me, Guv, there was a message from some woman Smithy, from a newspaper. I put her name and number . . .” His jaw dropped as Dalton walked in. “I don’t believe it!”

A smiling Dalton came up to Hebdon and Tennison. “Hey! How are you?” His right hand still wrapped in the handkerchief, he held out his left, which Hebdon gripped. “We were at Hornchurch together,” Dalton told Tennison. “My God, how long is it? You still playing for the rugby team?”

“Nah, did my knee in, tendons, had to have an op. Bit off track for you, isn’t it? I thought you were with Scotland Yard.”

“Yeah, I was . . . but I got transferred here.”

Tennison had clocked the “Scotland Yard,” and she also clocked Dalton’s evasive look when he said it. He followed her as she moved to the desk.

“We’ve traced three, all said they were at the advice centre all evening and Jackson was there. We’ve not traced Alan Thorpe, but we’ve got a list of hangouts.”

“Pass them over to Larry, he’s just farming out work for tomorrow,” Tennison said. “And those on tonight can have a search for Martin Fletcher. I want him back in!”

“What’s this? What you doin’ here?” Otley had entered and was gaping with surprise at Haskons and Lillie. He went over, grinning fit to bust, and cuffed Haskons. “He got Fairy of the Week at Southampton Row,” he informed the room. “Five times on the trot!”

Haskons squared up to him, ducking and weaving. “Watch it, you old poofter.” He jerked his thumb. “Ray Hebdon—Bill Otley, the Skipper!”

The two men nodded. Otley turned his head to watch Tennison leaving the room. He pinched his nose, giving them all a look. As the door swung to, he said, “Jackson was released ’bout fifteen minutes ago . . . does she know?”

Hall called them to attention.

“Okay, we’re trying to find anyone with a recent photo of Colin Jenkins, any known contacts, and where he’s been living. Clubs, coffee bars, known hangouts for the rent boys. Who’s taking what?”

From the door, Otley yelled, “As from today we will be awarding the Fairy of the Week award!”

Kathy yelled back, “Yeah—and we’ll award the Prick of the Week. Apparently you’re not eligible, as you’ve been one ever since you arrived.”

Lots of raspberries, honks, and hooting laughter.

Otley gave a universal V-sign and disappeared.

Twenty minutes later, having written up his report, Otley took it along to Tennison’s office where she was looking over a large-scale street map pinned to the wall. He dropped the report on her desk.

“The advice centre and Vera’s flat.” Tennison pointed to each, ringed in red, where she’d just marked them.

“I timed it,” Otley said, perching on the edge of the desk. “You could make it there and back in ten minutes.”

The door was open, and Dalton came in, a bandage on his hand. He stood listening, his tanned face impassive.

“So Jackson could easily have done it.” Tennison glanced over her shoulder at Otley. “But five alibis say he didn’t.”

“I reckon we could break down those kids’ statements if we had Jackson behind bars. They’d all say he was visiting the Queen Mother if he told them to. He’s got to them, it’s obvious.”

“It’s obvious with Martin Fletcher. I want him brought back in.” She went around the desk, biting the end of the felt-tip pen. “Parker-Jones . . . he’s Jackson’s strongest alibi. Dig around a bit, but on the QT. . . .” She gave him a look.

“He’s squeaky clean,” Otley told her. “I think your predecessor had a nose around but came up with nothin’.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Tennison was frowning and shaking her head. “Could be just a personal reaction—and there was something about his voice.” She rooted underneath some files, then opened a drawer and searched inside. “Shit! Where the hell is the tape?” She looked at Otley. “Did you take a tape from here?”

“No. Is it in the machine?” Otley reached over and pressed the Eject button. Empty. He was conscious that Tennison was staring hard at him, plainly disbelieving.

She straightened up, sighing, and glanced at her watch. “Don’t waste time looking for it now. We’ll call it quits for tonight, get an early start in the morning.”

Dalton gave a nod to them both and went out, closing the door. Otley still waited, watching Tennison opening, searching, and banging shut every drawer in her desk. Finally she stood up.

“You didn’t take it, did you, Bill?”

“What? The tape?” He shook his head. “No, why would I do that?”

Tennison suddenly looked weary. She slumped back in the chair, rubbing her forehead. “Getting paranoid. It’ll be here somewhere.”

There was a reason for Otley’s lingering presence. Out it came, a touch of asperity in his tone.

“Guv, can you get Dalton off my back? I can’t work with him. I could have got a lot more out of those kids—one bit him this afternoon. I nearly did myself,” Otley said darkly.

He was a bastard, Otley, and a chauvinist pig to boot, but she trusted his instincts, because they so often chimed with her own.

“What do you make of him?” she asked.

“Not a lot. Don’t know why he’s on board, do you?”

Tennison shook her head. With a grunted “G’night,” Otley left her alone. She got up, arching her back, and stood with hands on hips looking over her desk. She lifted the reports and files and checked everywhere. She peered down the side of the desk and underneath her chair.

She sat down again, and looked at her watch. Yawning, she picked up the phone and dialed. As she waited she drew Otley’s report toward her and started reading.

“Hello . . . Dr. Gordon’s receptionist, please.” She waited, reading. “It’s Jane Tennison. I’m sorry, but I’m running a bit late. I’ve got an appointment at six-thirty.” She listened, nodding. “Great, see you then.”

She dropped the phone down and moved slowly around the desk, the report in her hand, still reading. She stopped dead and stared. She read it again, the bit that had frozen her to the spot.

“Oh, shit . . . !”

Moving fast, she went into the corridor. To the left, outside the Squad Room doors, Commander Chiswick was having a quiet word with Dalton, whose back was toward her, and as Tennison strode quickly up, Chiswick lightly tapped Dalton on the arm, shutting him up.

“Evening, sir,” Tennison greeted the Commander. She turned to Dalton and indicated her office. “Before you go . . .”

When Dalton came in, a moment or two later, she was leaning against the desk. He’d barely crossed the threshold before Tennison said, “Has anyone looked at that hand?”

“It’s nothing,” Dalton said, bending his wrist to show her. “I put a bandage over it.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to tell you this.” Tennison reached behind her for Otley’s report and held it up. “Billy Matthews has full-blown AIDS. I think you should get to a hospital.”

Dalton frowned at her, blinking rapidly. “The bloody little bastard,” he burst out hoarsely. “I had to have a shower when we got back. I’ll go and see the nurse.” He hadn’t quite grasped it, Tennison could see. “The little shit!”

“I’m sorry . . .”

Dalton went very quiet, staring at his hand. Only now was he realizing the full implications, his tan fading as the blood drained from his face. He looked scared now, dead scared.

“He bit me, he broke the skin, he . . . bit me.” He swallowed and looked at Tennison, his voice quavering. “Jesus Christ. I was bleeding . . .”

“Go to the hospital, you’ll need a tetanus injection for starters.”

Dalton didn’t move. He simply stared at her, mouth hanging open, looking about ten years old.

“Would you like someone to go with you? Do you want me to take you?”

“No, no, it’s okay . . .” He turned away, holding the wrist of his injured hand. “I’ve got my own car . . . er . . . thank you.”

He went out and turned right, heading for the stairs.

Tennison emerged from behind the screen, buttoning up her blouse. She took her suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Seated at the leather-topped desk in his white coat, Dr. Gordon was making an entry in her medical file, having already prepared the sample stickers for the lab tests. The glass slides in their plastic containers were by his elbow.

“Can I ask—if somebody has full-blown AIDS and bites somebody else, actually draws blood, how dangerous is it?”

Dr. Gordon was the same age as Tennison, if not younger, though this had never bothered her. He had a friendly, amiable disposition, which was more important. He looked at her over his silver-framed glasses.

“Very. It’s not the fact that the AIDS carrier has drawn blood, but if his blood then makes contact with the open wound . . . human bite is extremely dangerous, contains more bacteria than a dog bite. Full-blown AIDS?” He put his pen down, laced his fingers when he saw how intently she was listening to him.

“Often their gums bleed, it’s really dependent on how far advanced the AIDS carrier is, but bleeding gums, mouth sores . . .”

“How soon can it be diagnosed?”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s not you, is it?”

“No, it’s not me.” Tennison sat down, smoothing her blouse inside the shoulders of her jacket. “I’m fine. Well—a bit ratty, but I put that down to my periods being a bit erratic.”

“Well, it could be the onset of the menopause. We’ll get these samples over to the lab, but until I get the results I won’t prescribe anything.” Dr. Gordon leaned forward, regarding her soberly. “Your friend should be tested for antibodies immediately, but that will only prove he or she doesn’t have it already. I’m afraid it’ll take three to six months to zero convert and they should have HIV tests every four to six weeks for the next six months.”

“So it’ll be six months before he knows?”

“Afraid so. That’s how long it will take to show a positive infection.” He held up a cautioning finger. “However, full-blown AIDS can take anywhere up to eight to ten years to develop.”

“Thank you very much,” Tennison said, getting up. “Do you have any leaflets I could take?”

While he found her some she thoughtfully put on her raincoat and collected her briefcase. She turned to him.

“You mind if I say something? ‘Onset of menopause’ may not mean much to you, but it does to a woman. It means a lot.”

Dr. Gordon paused, watching her, waiting.

Briefcase clasped in her hands, Tennison was studying her shoes. “I’m not married, maybe never will be, so it doesn’t make all that much difference to me—but I am only forty-four, and . . .” She shook her head rapidly, shoulders slumping. “Oh, forget it!”