Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (19 page)

“Just telling me that you have important names isn’t good enough. I mean, what if this is all a lie? Just to get money out of my paper?”

“I told you I had names—very important people, high up people. An MP, a police officer, a . . .”

The three men flicked glances at one another.

“I have to go to my editor, Connie. I have to sell him the story too, you know.”

“I want big money.” Tennison recalled the sweet, shy smile in the video. But this was the hard-faced Connie, the calculating hustler out for everything he could get. “. . . Because if they found out I was doing this, then they’d kill me. There’s a guy called Jimmy Jackson, he’s real crazy.”

Tennison clenched her fist, looking around triumphantly. Bingo—first name! She craned forward with the others.

“I want at least twenty thousand quid . . .”

The rest was drowned out in scuffling footsteps, a door opening, the sound of traffic suddenly swelling.

Impatiently, Tennison looked at her watch. From her desk drawer she took out a small Panasonic tape recorder, slipped it into the pocket of her dark-blue jacket, and stood up.

“Get the dialogue transcribed and see if the tech boys can clear off the background noise,” she instructed Haskons. “We want names, and as fast as possible.”

She gave Otley the nod to follow her outside. In the corridor she paced, turned, paced again, on a real high. At last they were getting somewhere. It was the best buzz she ever got, when the pieces started coming together. Beat an orgasm hollow.

She stabbed her finger in Otley’s chest. “Get someone to keep tabs on Jackson. If he knew about those tapes, he wasn’t looking for Connie because of any money.”

Otley went off at the double. Dalton came out. “I had to go back in for the blood tests,” he said with an apologetic shrug, and tapped his bandaged hand.

Tennison faced him. “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound off at you in there.” She turned to go.

“I’ll get the results this week. In the meantime I just have to wait,” Dalton continued as she walked off. “. . . Can I sit in on the Jessica Smithy interview?”

Tennison paused and looked back at him. Her name hadn’t been mentioned in there, and yet Dalton knew. He’d asked who brought the tape in, and all the time he knew that too.

What she knew was that somebody was playing silly buggers, for sure. She nodded. Dalton trailed after her.

“I had two meetings with him. We met once on the tenth in Mr. Dickies at Covent Garden, and on the fourteenth in the Karaoke K bar.”

“How did he first contact you?”

“He called the office.”

“But how did he know to get to you, specifically?”

“Maybe he reads my column.”

“So—if I called your office at the paper and said I had a hot story, you would drop everything and meet me in the middle of Covent Garden?”

“You get to have a feel for a story, intuition.”

“And you had a feel for this one?”

“I just don’t understand your attitude.” Jessica Smithy puffed on her cigarette, eyes rolling at the ceiling. She said tartly, “Unless you don’t want an investigation into Colin Jenkins’s death.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Tennison said, though she had a pretty good idea.

“But then—if what Connie told me is true, it would make sense.”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“That one of his clients is a high-ranking officer within the Metropolitan Police Force.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. That is why I wanted to talk to you. Being a woman . . . if there was a cover-up.” Jessica Smithy stared hard at Dalton, his crime being that he was the only male present, and possibly a pederast into the bargain.

“You had two sessions only with Connie, correct? Just two, and both of them taped?”

Jessica Smithy blew a gust of smoke out in a long sigh.
“Yes!”

“Did you make any further tapes?”

“No, I did not,” she stated, enunciating each word separately.

Haskons came in and leaned over to whisper in Tennison’s ear. She listened, nodding, and scribbled on a notepad, tore it off and passed it to him. He went out. Watching every detail of this interaction with her restless, darting eyes, Jessica Smithy smoked furiously. Her long pale cheeks were hollowed as she sucked in, held it, suddenly let go.

Tennison wafted the air. “Have you tried the patches?”

“What?”

“To give up smoking.” Jessica Smithy flicked ash, ignoring her. “You had only two meetings with Colin Jenkins . . .” She carried on ignoring her. “And on both these occasions you recorded the entire conversation between you and Colin Jenkins?”

“Yes.” Token answer, bored to tears.

Tennison plowed steadily, resolutely on. “You said that Colin Jenkins first contacted you directly at your office. How did you get in touch with him the second time?”

“I left a message for him at an advice centre. In fact I even went there, it’s the one in Soho, and I knew it was a big hangout—”

“What date?” Tennison cut in.

“—for rent boys. It would have been the twelfth of this month at three-fifteen 
P.M.
, not 
A.M.
”

“When you went to the advice centre did you interview any other boy?”

“This is bloody umbelievable,” Jessica Smithy snorted, stubbing out her cigarette in a cloud of ash. “No, I did not. I didn’t interview anybody.”

“Did you speak to anybody?”

“Edward Parker-Jones. He runs the centre.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t
tell
him anything.” She dusted her fingertips. “I just asked if he knew where I could contact Colin Jenkins.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“Look, I’m a journalist, okay, and I have to sometimes . . .” She spread her hands.

“Lie?”

Jessica Smithy’s lips came together primly. “No. He presumed I was a social worker and he was very helpful. But somebody must have told him who I was, and he asked me to leave, in fact he got quite abusive. If I’d wanted to interview any of the kids there he wouldn’t have let me.”

“So Mr. Parker-Jones knew you, a journalist, were looking for Colin Jenkins?”

“YES!”
Jessica Smithy might have been trying to get through to an imbecile. “So now what?” She leaned forward eagerly, eyes alight. “Is he a suspect?”

Tennison was distracted by movement in the small square window of the door. Haskons was talking to someone, and a moment later she saw Halliday’s baby blues peering inquisitively in. Hell and damnation. She might have known he’d be lurking about, nose twitching, quick as a shithouse rat.

“Why aren’t you trying to find out which MP or which police officer used him?” Jessica Smithy said angrily. “Maybe even killed him! He was murdered, wasn’t he?”

Tennison regarded her calmly. “Who else did you speak to at the centre? Another boy maybe?”

“I’ve told you,” Jessica Smithy said wearily. “I didn’t speak to anyone, because Parker-Jones wouldn’t allow me to. He asked me to leave . . .”

Haskons was beckoning. He pushed open the door as Tennison went across. They stood together in the doorway, having a murmured conversation. Glaring at them, Jessica Smithy rose, snatching at her shoulder bag, slinging it on. Tennison leaned in.

“Please remain seated, Miss Smithy.”

Jessica Smithy sat down again, drumming her fingers on the table. She opened the cigarette packet, found it empty, and crushed it and tossed it away. Tennison came in and collected her things. Haskons sat down in Tennison’s vacated chair.

Thinking she was free to leave, Jessica Smithy got up again, and to her intense annoyance was waved down again. She sat there fuming, fists clenched on the table.

“One more thing,” Tennison said. “How much did you pay Colin Jenkins for the tapes?”

“I didn’t,” Jessica Smithy replied, a shade too quickly. “That’s why I was looking for him. I’d been given some money by my editor.”

“How much?”

She hesitated. “Few hundred. But I don’t see that is of any concern of yours.”

“Few hundred?” Jessica Smithy nodded, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when Tennison thrust her head forward and barked, “Exactly how much, Miss Smithy? How much were you going to give Colin Jenkins, Miss Smithy? I can call your editor.”

“Five hundred . . .”

Tennison leaned nearer, intimidatingly close. Her voice sank to a lethal whisper. “Did you meet Colin Jenkins and give him the five hundred pounds?”

“I—” She nearly blurted something, and checked herself. “No, I did not.”

Tennison looked her straight in the eye. Jessica Smithy turned away. First time she’d been caught out. Tennison knew it, and so did Jessica Smithy.

Haskons said formally, “We will, Miss Smithy, be retaining the tapes you made of your two meetings with Colin Jenkins, as evidence. You will be asked to sign a legal document which bars you, and your paper, from using any information—”

Jessica Smithy tried to interrupt.

“—appertaining to the said tapes.”

Jessica Smithy was wild eyed and furious. “What? This is crazy! You can’t stop me from printing.”

Tennison opened the door. “We just did,” she said, going out.

“You tell her—” Jessica Smithy pointed a trembling finger after Tennison, turning her furious face to Haskons and Dalton. “When my story gets out, she won’t want it in any scrapbook!”

Otley was outside, propped up in his usual indolent slouch, hands stuffed in his pockets. He nodded toward the interview room.

“Anything?”

“Yes.” Tennison indicated they should move on, and they walked along together. “Parker-Jones knew Jessica Smithy was a journalist, knew she was looking for Connie.” Tennison threw a backward glance. “She’s also lying. I think she met Connie. She had five hundred quid, same amount found on his body. I think she paid Connie.”

“Maybe I should run a check on Parker-Jones’s credentials,” Otley suggested.

“I already have. Mallory, Chicago University don’t exist, and the rest are a load of cobblers.” She gave Otley a big smile. “I’m getting closer, we’ve got a motive!”

“For Jackson?” Dalton said, right behind her.

Tennison looked around quickly, not realizing he had been following. She nodded. “Until I get back, keep the pressure on breaking those kids’ alibis,” she told the two of them.

“You want me to come with you?” Dalton asked.

“What, to my doctor’s?” Tennison grinned and set off. She halted. “Oh, one more thing. Halliday wants the transcripts of the Smithy tapes.” She narrowed her eyes at Otley. “But nobody gets them before me, understood?”

And then she was striding off, a jaunty spring in her step.

Dr. Gordon said, “I’ll make an appointment for you to have a laboratory sensitive test, and then we’ll get the beta sub-unit hormone measured.” He completed the note in her medical records and looked up and smiled. “All very advanced technology now!”

“But are you positive?” Tennison said, fastening the top button of her blouse.

“I think so,” Dr. Gordon said, smiling. “You’re pregnant—just!”

Tennison needed the edge of the desk to support herself. She gulped hard. She couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t happening. Things like this never happened to her. Then she realized they did, and had, and she started to smile.

10

O
ne hour later, Tennison was back in the thick of it.

On the return journey she did something she’d never done before. She bought a pound of seedless white grapes and ate them at one go, sitting in her car in the underground carpark of the Soho police station. It didn’t occur to her till afterward that she’d always associated grapes with illness and convalescence. But she wasn’t ill—she was pregnant! She knew of the hormone cocktail her glands were even at this moment manufacturing, and of the cravings it gave rise to. But so soon? Was her body trying to tell her something? Or was her mind so shell-shocked that it had flipped a circuit and caused her to wolf down a pound of grapes in secret—some kind of bizarre Freudian ritual? Puzzling.

She went directly to the Squad Room, where Haskons gave her the first news, which wasn’t good. They’d drawn a blank on the Jessica Smithy tapes. Haskons had listened to the cleaned-up version over headphones and no further names were mentioned.

Tennison felt frustrated. She had really believed, hoped, that this was going to be the breakthrough. It was one step forward, two steps back. As per bloody usual with police work.

She was with Dalton at the board, getting an update on Operation Contract, when Otley arrived. He didn’t come over, but instead gave her a private look. Get over here and don’t bring Dalton.

“This just came through.” Otley was holding a thick bunch of faxes. He moved around so that his back was to the board. “I’ve been doing a bit of digging after a tip-off . . . 1979. A Mr. Edward Parker was accused of molesting a boy in his care when he ran the Harrow Home for kids, Manchester. Case dismissed for lack of evidence.” Otley plucked out another sheet. “Anthony Field. 1983. Indecent assault on a minor. Case dismissed. Same Mr. Edward Parker again, this time running the Calloway Centre in Cardiff, another home for kids.” Next sheet. “Jason Baldwyn . . .”