Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (16 page)

“Sarge.” Norma was back. “Kath’s just got a call, tip-off from one of the street photographers. He reckons the guy we may be looking for is a Mark Lewis. Where’s your lads, Sarge?”

“Just one second, Dave . . .” Otley turned furiously, jabbing his finger. “Bloody check the board—go on!” He cupped the phone, opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. He looked up again. “Mark Lewis? Hang on a second, I think our boys are there now. Check it out.”

Leaving him to his call, Norma went over to the board. Kathy joined her. “Who’s he talking to?”

Norma tapped her nose. “Chief Inspector here before Tennison . . .”

Kathy scanned the board, then pointed. “Mark Lewis. They’re seeing him this morning.” Her finger moved along, and she was suddenly excited. “Guv! This Mark Lewis, the photographer we got a tip-off about—he’s on the list from the advice centre.”

Otley covered the phone and whipped around.

“Well, bloody contact them!” He muttered into the phone, “Dave, sorry about this . . . okay, yeah, can you fax me what you sniffed out?” He looked up wearily. “Hang on.”

Hall was standing there, arms folded, looking peeved.

Otley held the receiver against his chest. “Well, what was your little private conflab about?”

“Cut it out, Sarge, that’s my phone,” Hall said, holding out his hand. “Is it for me?”

“No, it’s personal.” Otley jerked his head. “Just check over Kath, she’s had a tip-off.” Hall sniffed loudly and went around the desk to the board. Otley crouched. “Dave? As a favor, mate. We’re sniffin’ around Parker-Jones again, yeah . . .”

8

“
T
here is nothing like a dame . . . Nothing in the world. There is nothing you can name that is anything like a dame!”

Shirley Bassey had been replaced by the soundtrack of
South Pacific
, and Haskons sang lustily along. He and Lillie were working their way through the albums. There were hundreds of photographs, mostly black and white, all of them featuring gorgeous young men and svelte pretty boys in various states of undress. The shots of couples were suggestive certainly, but not strictly pornographic.

“Some great-lookin’ fellas, they must all work out like crazy,” Lillie said. “Here, look at this one.”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” Leafing through the album, Haskons couldn’t be bothered; he’d seen enough naked male flesh to last him a lifetime. Even the show tunes were beginning to bore him. “I’ve had worse taken on me holidays.”

“What, kissin’ blokes?” Lillie sniggered.

“Piss off! I mean in swimmin’ trunks.” Haskons flipped over a page, scowling. “This is a waste of time. I got some that go back to the seventies. I dunno what we’re doing here, why we’re here . . .” He threw out his hands. “If he did a bit of modelin’, so what? What we lookin’ for?”

His bleeper sounded. He reached inside his jacket to kill it, and looked around the room.

“You see a phone?”

“Mr. Lewis? Can I use your phone!”

Mark Lewis cocked his head. He half-turned from the processing bench. In his left hand he held a thick bundle of ten-by-eight glossy prints, color and black and white. With his right hand he was feeding them, one by one, into a bath of acid. They fizzed and buckled, turned brown and sank to the bottom in a gray-brown slimy sludge.

He leaned toward the black curtain.

“Be my guest! I can’t come out, I’m working on some negs. Phone’s on the shelf in the passage.”

He stayed there until he heard Haskons move away, then quickly turned back to the bench and carried on methodically feeding the prints into the acid bath.

When Haskons returned he found Lillie examining the lock on one of the large cupboards. Haskons called out, “Thanks, Mr. Lewis!” and said in Lillie’s ear, “That was Kathy. Tip-off. If there was anyone doing the real heavy stuff, then this is our man. . . .”

Lillie had taken out a bunch of keys. He selected one and slid it into the lock. It clicked open.

“Hey, watch it!” Haskons whispered. “We’ve no search warrant.”

From top to bottom the cupboard was filled with videotapes. Lillie pulled one out and looked at the label.

“He’s messing us about. Never said anythin’ about this lot.” He showed Haskons the label. “ ‘Adam and Adam.’ That’s original.”

Haskons went over to the darkroom.

“Mr. Lewis, we need to talk to you a minute.”

He pushed the curtain aside and peered in. Mark Lewis’s startled face craned around over his shoulder. He shifted across, attempting to shield what he was doing. Haskons went in and shoved him out of the way. He saw the photograph Lewis had just dropped into the bath and reached for it.

“No! Don’t!” Lewis anxiously paddled the air like an hysterical schoolgirl. “It’s acid, it’ll burn your hand off!”

Lillie appeared, in time to see Haskons lifting the print out of the bath with a steel ruler. Crinkling and turning brown, the image was still discernible. A naked, beautiful boy with curly red hair.

They lay on Tennison’s desk, a dozen or more of the large color photographs of Connie in various artistic poses that Mark Lewis hadn’t had a chance to dispose of. Otley picked one out at random. It happened to be of Connie bending over, firm round buttocks presented to the camera like two peaches.

Tennison leaned against the windowsill, pushing her cuticles back with the clip of her fountain pen. She said thoughtfully, “Parker-Jones is regarded as the Mother Teresa of Soho . . . and he’s Jackson’s alibi.” She scratched her nose with the fountain pen clip. “There’s something that doesn’t quite sit right. If Jackson was looking for Connie because he owed him money, why—if we presume he found Connie—why didn’t he take it?”

Otley shook his head and tossed the photograph down. There was a tap at the door and Haskons looked in. “Mark Lewis is in interview room D oh two. We’re getting a video room set up, view Connie’s tapes.”

Tennison nodded to indicate she’d be right along. She followed Otley to the door. The phone rang. “You go ahead,” she told him, and reached for the phone. “Chief Inspector Tennison’s office.”

It was Dr. Gordon’s receptionist. Tennison listened, frowning. “Is this bad news? Is it the tests?”

She moved around the desk to sit down. She closed her eyes, listening. “Yes, yes . . . I’ll come in. Thank you.”

She put the phone down and sat silently for a moment, rubbing the back of her hand. Snapping awake, she opened the top drawer and took out her diary. Underneath it was the cassette tape she’d hunted high and low for. She took it out and turned it over.

Kathy came in. “You wanted DCI Lyall’s contact number. He’s in Manchester.” She put the paper down. “I think the Sarge . . .” She paused. Tennison was thumbing through the pages of the diary, chewing her lip. “You okay?”

Tennison banged the diary shut. “Kathy, you didn’t put this tape in my drawer, did you? It’s the ambulance call-out tape.”

“No.” Kathy turned to go.

“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” Tennison said.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” Kathy said, leaving.

The diary and the tape lay side by side on the desk. Tennison stared at them, pulling distractedly at the neckline of her blouse. She tossed the diary back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

DS Richard Haskons and DI Ray Hebdon were in Taped Interview Room D.02 with Mark Lewis. As the arresting officer, Haskons was having first crack. Hebdon stood watching, arms folded, his tie pulled loosely away from his collar. The atmosphere was close in the small room, and he imagined he could smell Mark Lewis sweating. Or maybe it wasn’t his imagination; the photographer was highly agitated, twisting a handkerchief in his heavily veined hands, the nails neatly manicured and coated in clear varnish.

“Go on,” Haskons prompted.

“I last saw him about four, perhaps five days before the fire. He wanted some photographs—not the explicit ones, just some head and shoulders . . .”

“And?”

“He never showed up.” Lewis looked his age now, deep lines etched into his forehead, the skin rough and open-pored on his sagging cheeks. His confident, finger-snapping breeziness had been utterly punctured. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “Look, I was only destroying them because I know he’s dead and I just didn’t want to be involved.”

The door opened and Tennison walked in. She’d run a comb through her hair, freshened her makeup, and was, outwardly at least, calm and composed.

“DCI Tennison has just entered the room,” Haskons said into the microphone. Tennison mouthed
Thank you.
Haskons continued. “Did he say what he wanted the photographs for?”

“I assumed Connie was maybe trying to do some legit modeling work. He . . . well, he was a very good-looking boy. Quite a star.”

“When he came to you on the other occasions, when these”—Haskons tapped the three or four photographs on the table between them—“these were taken, did he commission them himself or did somebody else?”

“Those,” Lewis said, blinking down at them, “well, he paid for them. I suppose he was going to try for work on spec.”

“Did you ever see Connie with anybody else?”

“You mean apart from the other models?”

“Yes. Did you ever see Connie with anybody?”

“No,” Lewis said, hardly moving his lips.

Haskons pressed him. “So he always came to the studio alone?”

“Yes, apart from the other people in the session. He was always alone.”

Haskons looked at Tennison, standing alongside Hebdon. She gave the slightest of nods. It wasn’t necessary now to imagine Mark Lewis sweating, it was plainly visible, his dark curly hair clinging damply to his forehead. The handkerchief resembled a length of twisted, grimy rope.

“What about the videos?” Tennison asked, closing the other claw in a pincer attack. “We know what business you are in, Mr. Lewis, we know about the videos. Now, was Connie ever seen with anyone else when he came to your studio? I’m not talking about the models—did anyone ever
bring
him to your studio?”

“No, he was always by himself.” Lewis looked up, his eyes shifting from face to face, an abject appeal. “He was very beautiful, very special, very professional. It was just business—”

“Mr. Lewis.” Tennison wasn’t moved by any kind of appeal. “We know you made videos with underage boys.” Meaning, we can throw the book at you any time we like. “So did you ever see Connie with anyone?”

“Somebody was with him, once,” Lewis mumbled. He cleared his throat. “No idea who it was, but he paid for the film. Sat watching . . . I’m going back at least a year, eighteen months.”

“How much did this film cost?” Haskons asked.

Lewis wiped his neck with the grimy rope. “Two thousand.” He swallowed. “Pounds.”

“Describe him,” Hebdon cut in sharply.

“Who?”

Hebdon leaned over the desk. “The man with Connie. Describe him. How old for starters?”

“Oh!” Mark Lewis made a vague, fluttery gesture. “Well, be about late fifties, maybe older. Tall, gray-haired, gray . . . he was all sort of gray, really, pinstriped suit, smart, had a briefcase . . .”

“How did he pay? Check or cash?”

“Cash.” Lewis nodded emphatically. “He had the cash in the briefcase.”

Tennison bent down to have a quiet word in Haskons’s ear. He leaned to one side and whispered back, “He waived his right . . .”

“So he’s made his call, yes?” Tennison murmured, and was assured by Haskons’s nod. Mark Lewis watched them with glazed, slightly moist eyes. He visibly jumped when Hebdon said, “Did he take part in the video? This gray-haired man?”

“Well . . . not physically.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Haskons said beligerently.

Lewis stammered, “He s-said what he wanted, t-told me what he wanted Connie to do.”

“Have we got the video?” Haskons asked him.

“Oh, no—that one never even had a copy made. He took it out of the camera. All the others we made came after. Connie got a bit of a taste for it.”

It was the first direct answer he’d given that Tennison actually believed. Everything else had had to be, quite literally, sweated out of him. She said, “You got an address for Connie? A phone number?” Mark Lewis shook his head.
“No?”
Tennison said icily, pointing at the tape recorder. “Would you please answer the question?”

“No, I don’t know where he lives,” Lewis said meekly.

“
Lived
, Mr. Lewis. Connie is dead. How did you contact him when he was alive?”

Lewis stared dumbly at the table, squeezing the wet rag of a handkerchief. The door was pushed open, and Otley beckoned to Tennison. She went over and had a whispered conversation.

With a tight, icy smile, Haskons said, “We’ve a stack of your films starring Connie, and you want us to believe you had no way of contacting him?”

“. . . search warrant . . .”

Lewis stared glassily past Haskons’s shoulder, having caught Otley’s words. He saw Tennison nod to Otley, who disappeared. She came back in and shut the door of the humid, claustrophobic room as Hebdon leaned over the desk, putting his face close to Lewis’s.