Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (21 page)

The girl hesitated for a second, and then she nodded.

Reaching the glass-fronted entrance to the Pullman lounge, Tennison dumped her briefcase and looked around for Dalton. She couldn’t see him, but then she froze. She stood on tiptoe. Jackson and a girl. Walking toward the steps leading down to the underground car park. Lugging her briefcase, Tennison weaved in and out through the crowd, fumbling for her portable phone. Jackson and the girl were turning the corner at the bottom of the steps as she reached the top. She set off down.

Returning from the station master’s office, Dalton got the barest glimpse of Tennison’s blond head as she disappeared down the steps. He legged it after her.

The girl was giggling at Jackson’s chat-up line, Tennison saw, which must be good, whatever it was. She watched from a distance, peeking around a concrete pillar, and saw him take out a bunch of keys and approach a car. He looked up, and Tennison slid out of sight. She couldn’t see Dalton, who was scuttling between the parked cars, ducking and diving to get a look at the number plate.

Tennison cupped her hand around the mouthpiece. “It’s a dark blue Mercedes, old four-door saloon. I’ll get you the number . . . but is there a car in the area? Suspect is James Jackson. Do not apprehend, just tail to destination.”

Dalton returned, panting slightly, and eased in beside her. He had the number written on the back of his hand. Tennison passed him the phone. “I told them to look for him at the station exit.”

Over the speakers, booming in waves through the concrete cavern, came an announcement.

“THE TRAIN ON PLATFORM FIVE IS THE MANCHESTER PULLMAN EXPRESS. WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT THERE WILL BE NO BUFFET CAR FACILITIES ON THE FOUR O’CLOCK TRAIN TO MANCHESTER DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGES. BRITISH RAIL APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE . . .”

At the wheel, Hall kept a sharp lookout on his side of the street while Otley did the same on his. They were somewhere north of Euston—Camden Town, Chalk Farm—Hall wasn’t sure where exactly; he was lost in the maze of streets. He pulled into the curb and stopped behind a rusting Skoda with both rear tires flat to the ground. The dark blue Mercedes was parked on the opposite side of the street. Otley pushed his nose up to the windshield to get a good look at the house.

It was four stories with cracked and peeling stucco showing red brick underneath. The windows that weren’t boarded up were swathed in thick dark curtains. The entrance porch was supported by one stone pillar, the other a crumbling stump. On the surviving one, the numerals “22” could just be made out in faded black paint.

Hall reached for the radio handset. “See if we can get more info on the house.”

A light went on in one of the third-floor windows, visible through a chink in the curtains. “He’s still in there,” Otley said.

Hall was patched through. “Kathy? You got anything on the Langley house yet?”

Seated at the computer in the Squad Room, the phone cradled in her shoulder, Kathy was scrolling through column after column of names and addresses.

“Getting nothing from the polling lists . . .”

“Come on, come on,” Hall’s impatient voice said in her ear.

“I’m going as fast as I can. I’ll call, soon as I have anything.”

She hung up and kept searching. Norma came in with two plastic cups of coffee. She put one in front of Kathy and sat down at her own desk. “Where’s her Ladyship today?”

“Up north—doing what, I do not know!” Kathy took a sip and grimaced at the taste. “But she took Dalton with her.”

“Did he get cleared—his hand?” Norma said, shaking her head and tutting loudly. She smacked herself on the forehead. “Shit—Billy Matthews. Guv wants him requestioned about the Connie video.” She found the number and dialed. “It’s all very well her saying arrest him, but he had four court appearances last year alone. They didn’t want to take him, you know, said he’d only just been in a few days before—”

She broke off. “Charing Cross Hospital, emergency ward.” She waited for the connection. “What was that nurse’s name at the hospital?” she asked Kathy.

“Mary Steadman.” Kathy blinked her eyes at the screen. “Shit, I still got nothing on this Jackson address. It isn’t listed under the name Jackson.” She went down the lists, mumbling, “Twenty-two, Langley Road . . . Islington, Kentish Town, Camden . . .”

Norma got through to Mary Steadman. “This is WPC Norma Hastings. I brought in a Billy Matthews . . . yes.”

Kathy let out a whoop. “Got it—property owned by an Edward Jones. Two sitting tenants. First floor, Maureen Fuller, and basement, Abdul unpronounceable. It’s flatlets.” Beaming, she reached for the phone.

Norma banged the phone down. She looked sick.

“Billy Matthews discharged himself an hour after we left him there!”

At six twenty that evening Tennison was sitting in the back of a patrol car outside a pebble-dashed late-Victorian house with bay windows in one of the posher areas of Salford, trying without much success to get through to DI Hall on her portable. She’d had him once, and then he’d gone, lost in a blizzard of static.

She wound the window down and spoke to the uniformed driver, standing on the pavement. “Is there any way I can get my batteries recharged?”

The PC stared at her.

“For my portable phone, officer. What did you think I was referring to? A vibrator?”

Inspector Dalton was speaking to Mrs. Field on the doorstep, a white-haired woman in her sixties, casually yet smartly dressed in a cardigan and pleated skirt, a single string of pearls around her neck, several gold rings on her fingers. She smiled diffidently and shook her head. Dalton came down the garden path and put his head in the window.

“Ma’am?”

“Just a minute,” Tennison said shortly, hearing Hall’s scratchy voice coming from Mars. No food on the train, nothing to drink, and no bloody batteries. “Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? Ruddy phone.” She gave it a shake. “Hello . . . ? Listen, you can gain entry even on the suspicion that a minor is being held there.”

Face screwed up, she was straining to hear.

“
I’m
reporting it, okay? She’s already been with him for more than four hours. God only knows what’s happened to her . . .
Hello?
”

Dead and gone. She pushed the aerial in.

“Er, his mother’s home,” Dalton said, nodding to the white-haired woman, “but she said he was working late . . . can we come back?”

The door hit Dalton’s leg as Tennison thrust it open.

“Sorry, and no we can’t come back,” she said, getting out.

As soon as they stepped inside the front door it was clear that Anthony Field’s mother was very houseproud. The smell of furniture polish was like incense. The living room was obsessively neat, not a speck of dust anywhere, and bedecked with shining brass ornaments. It was almost a sacrilege to walk upon the thick Axminster carpet.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs. Field had a rather refined voice, and Tennison suspected she was the kind of woman who thought herself a cut above her neighbors, even if she wasn’t.

Tennison nodded and smiled. “That would be really nice.”

As Mrs. Field went out there was a creak from the room above. Tennison folded her raincoat and placed it on a chair, not wishing to wreck the symmetry. She sat down and crossed her legs. Another creak from above. She looked up at the ceiling.

“Come on down, Anthony. There’s a good boy . . .”

Dalton’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he in?” Tennison nodded. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw him at the window.”

A few minutes later Mrs. Field returned with a tray of tea things, which she set down on a low table that had a nest of smaller tables underneath. She fussed about, sorting out cups and saucers. “It isn’t about the bank, is it? Only Anthony is sure to be made assistant manager.”

Just then, the would-be assistant manager himself breezed in. He was a tall, lithe young man, clean-cut and good-looking, in a V-neck lemon sweater and natty bow tie. Not as affected as his mother, he spoke fast, running thoughts and sentences into each other.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, but I only just got in. Is the kettle on, Ma? Well, when it whistles I’ll hear it—don’t miss your program.”

His mother patted his arm, gave him an adoring smile, and went out.

“Sorry, I got cold feet as you were late,” Anthony said brightly, standing in front of the gas fire, briskly rubbing his hands. He grinned boyishly. “I didn’t expect you to arrive in a patrol car, bit embarrassing . . .” He darted to the door as the kettle whistled.

“Excuse me.”

Dalton’s gaze shifted sideways to Tennison. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “Another one, isn’t he? Gay?”

Tennison looked away, expressionless.

Jackson stood halfway down the staircase, one hand gripping the banister, the other pressed flat against the wall, barring their way. Otley and Hall stared up at him from the second-floor landing.

The entire place reeked as if ten tomcats had saturated the threadbare carpets. Black plastic bags, ripped open, spilled rubbish and putrefied food over the floor.

Otley put one foot on the bottom step. “We don’t need a warrant, we have reason to believe you are holding a minor. You were seen leaving Euston Station accompanied.”

The anemic glow from the bare dusty bulb made a yellowy snarling mask of Jackson’s face.

“Bullshit. I know my rights. Now—piss off.” He aimed his finger at Otley, right between the eyes. “You got no warrant. You are on private property, and I have a right as a citizen to defend my property!”

Hall moved along the murky passage and knocked on a door. He tried the handle. Locks, bolts, and catches were undone, and a frail elderly woman peered around the edge, gray hair trailing over her bleary eyes.

“Are you Mrs. Maureen Fuller?”

Jackson let out a cackle. “Hey, is that the juvenile I’m supposed to have prisoner?” he jeered at them.

Otley moved up another step. He shouted to the floor above.

“HELLO? IS THERE ANYONE UP THERE? THIS IS THE POLICE.”

Jackson came down, fist raised. Otley ducked under his arm and scrambled up the stairs. As Jackson turned to grab at him, Hall went up fast, grappling with him, and got an elbow in the teeth. Stunned, he fell back against the banister. Jackson dragged him down to the landing, twisted his elbow behind him in an arm lock, and butted Hall’s head into the wall. He yelled up at Otley.

“You want me to break his arm? Now get the fuck out of here!”

Otley started to come down, very slowly. “Jimmy, this is crazy . . . we just want to see the girl. Just let us see she’s okay.”

A shadowy figure appeared on the landing above.

“She’s up here,” Vera Reynolds said.

Jackson’s eyes glittered. His fleshy lips drew back against his teeth. “You’re dead, Vera,” he said, icy calm. Savagely, he swung Hall around and pushed him into the banister post and charged down the stairs, his thudding boots making the house shake.

Anthony had made the tea. Tennison and Dalton drank, both watching the slender young man standing at the glass-fronted bureau full of china figurines and cut glass knickknacks. He picked up a black-and-white photograph in a gilt frame from several on top of the bureau and showed them.

“This was my dad, my little sister. They were killed in a car crash when I was five. After that, Mother . . .” He looked to the closed door. “She had a mental breakdown. That’s why I was sent to the home.”

He spoke without any emotion whatsoever.

Tennison said carefully, “Can you tell me about the court case, Anthony? I know how difficult it is.”

“Really?” He stared at the photograph.

“I need to know about the man who ran the home, Anthony. You see, I believe that the man who assaulted you is still . . .”

She hesitated, trying to choose her words.

“At it?” Anthony said. He replaced the photograph and turned toward them, drawing in a deep breath. “His name was Edward Parker, and my case never even got to court.”

11

O
tley sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his hand resting gently on the shaking mound under the smelly gray blanket. There were three other beds crammed into the small back room. A teddy bear with only one arm, the stuffing sprouting out, lay on one of them. Otley got another blanket and pressed it around Billy Matthews’s shivering little body. The boy was burning up with fever. His wet face was buried in the grimy pillow, spiky hair sticking up over the blanket.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay . . .” It went on and on, a meaningless dirge. He whimpered suddenly—“Don’t leave me on me own. Please . . . please.”

“Billy?” Otley said, patting the blanket. “Billy? I’ll stay with you.”

Hall appeared in the doorway. “I called an ambulance. The other kids are being taken in now.” He looked along the passage. “And Vera asked if she can go.”

Billy’s hand crept out and fastened tightly around Otley’s fingers. His head came up, eyes drugged and filled with a vacant terror. He wouldn’t let go of Otley. “Don’t leave me . . .”