Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (28 page)

Halliday’s nostrils twitched. “Get this crap down!” He slammed out.

The door squeaked to a stop, and in the silence everyone looked at one another. Otley leaned against the desk, hands in his pockets.

“Just a passing thought, but does anybody have any idea where she is?” He nodded to the clock. “She should have left Cardiff hours ago!”

14

O
n arrival in London, Tennison deliberately hadn’t reported in. She’d sent Dalton off to pick up a car while she took a cab to the Islington Probation Department, with instructions for him to meet her there. It was after five o’clock, and she was afraid that Margaret Speel might have gone, but she hadn’t. She was writing up reports in a tiny cluttered office that had a look of impermanence about it, as if she were in the process of moving in or moving out, Tennison couldn’t decide which.

However temporary her office, Margaret Speel’s sarcastic manner was firmly in place, exactly as before. There was something about the cynical slant of her mouth that was extremely irritating. In her petite bouncy way, she reminded Tennison of a chirpy strutting sparrow with an attitude problem: however smart you think you are, I know I’m smarter.

“Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” she said world-wearily, gesturing to a chair. Her mouth slanted. “You want any more boys off the streets?”

Tennison sat down. She placed her briefcase on the faded carpet and sat up straight. She was all through with taking crap, especially from a cheeky sparrow with an irritating smirk.

“You were at one time working in Cardiff, yes?”

Margaret Speel rocked back in the chair. She recovered quickly. “Yes, and Liverpool. And I’ve also worked in Birmingham.”

“Was Edward Parker-Jones also working in Liverpool and Birmingham?”

“No.”

“Well, we can be thankful for that, can’t we?” Margaret Speel’s eyes narrowed under her dark bangs; she was a mite uncertain now, getting edgy. Tennison kept up the barrage. “Do you know Anthony Field?”

A hard glare, and a frown.

“No? What about Jason Baldwyn? He was a resident at—”

“Yes,” Margaret Speel interrupted. “Yes, I remember Jason.”

“Do you have a relationship with Edward Parker-Jones?”

“I don’t think that is any of your business,” Margaret Speel said in a quiet, outraged voice.

“But it is. It is very much my business.” Tennison leaned toward her. She stared her full in the face. “Jason tried to kill himself this afternoon, right in front of me, Margaret. He’s prepared to make a statement that when he was in the care of Parker-Jones he was sexually abused, for a period of six years. You were at that time his probation officer!”

Margaret Speel’s hand jerked to her throat. Her fingers plucked at a necklace of jade beads. Her pale neck was taut and strained.

“You were Jason’s probation officer, weren’t you? Jason Baldwyn’s probation officer.”

“Yes, yes I was,” Margaret Speel said in a barely audible whisper.

“Do you have anything to say about these allegations? Were you aware of them when you were working in Cardiff?”

Margaret Speel was struggling to take this in. Her chirpy sarcasm was gone, shocked out of her. She made a valiant, desperate effort that only came out sounding weak. “Jason was always telling lies, he was a compulsive liar—”

“Ten-year-old boy, Margaret, and you refused to believe him, and he had six more years of abuse,” Tennison went on relentlessly.

“This isn’t true!” She shook her head, almost in pain. “This is terrible . . . if I had believed, for one moment . . .”

“Believe it, Margaret. What do you know about Connie? Colin Jenkins—Margaret?”

“I was telling you the truth! I swear I didn’t even come here until eighteen months ago. Edward contacted me. He even tried to renew our relationship. . . .” Her head dropped. Tennison let her stew. She believed that Margaret Speel was genuinely distraught, she even felt sorry for her, but Tennison’s bottled anger fueled a passion to cut straight to the rotten heart of this, to ruthlessly expose it to the light, no matter who got hurt along the way.

“Are you sure?” Margaret Speel asked, feebly grasping at straws. “You know, these young boys make up stories, and I remember Jason—”

“Margaret—do you also remember if a doctor examined Jason Baldwyn?”

“Yes, of course he was examined.”

“Margaret, do you recall a police officer? Someone who would have known Parker-Jones in Cardiff?”

“Do you mean John Kennington?”

Tennison’s face remained calm, she didn’t so much as move a muscle. She felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. With scarcely a pause she said blithely, “It could possibly be John Kennington. Do you recall what rank, or if he was uniformed or plainclothes?”

“Er, yes, um . . .” Confused, still in a state of shock, Margaret Speel rubbed her forehead. “I think he was—Superintendent. I never saw him in a uniform. He lives in London now.”

As if it was of minor interest, Tennison said casually, “Do you happen to know if John Kennington and Parker-Jones are still in touch? Still friendly?”

“Yes, yes I think so.”

Tennison thanked her and left. On her way out she heard Margaret Speel sobbing at her desk. She didn’t like the woman, though she did pity her.

Tennison sat in the driver’s seat outside the steeply gabled house with white-leaded windows, a dense windbreak of conifers shielding it from the road. Dalton, very subdued, sat woodenly beside her. Tennison clicked the door open and looked across at him. He knew what she was about to do, and what the consequences were, and both of them knew where it put him. Between a rock and a hard place. Anyway, his decision, she thought. He was a big boy now and she certainly was no wet nurse.

“You can stay in the car if you want!” Tennison said bluntly.

Dalton clenched his jaw, bit the bullet, and reached for the door handle.

A middle-aged housekeeper with a foreign accent showed them into the large L-shaped drawing room. French windows gave a restful evening view of a flagged patio with stone urns of flowers, and beyond a stone balustrade a lawn sloped down to a grove of beech trees.

A grandfather clock, genuine antique to Tennison’s inexpert eye, ticked solemnly in the corner, emphasizing the silence. There was a baby grand on a small platform, a Chopin étude on the music stand. Two long wing-backed sofas covered in rose silks faced each other across a coffee table that was bigger than the kitchen table in Tennison’s flat. The fireplace was white lacquered wood inlaid with gold leaf, and displayed on the mantel were family photographs in ornate silver frames. Tennison went over for a closer look.

“Well, he didn’t buy this on wages,” was her considered opinion, after giving the room the once-over. “This place must be worth a packet.”

“It happens to be my wife’s.”

John Kennington stood in the doorway. He came in, tall and distinguished, with silvery hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead. As a young man he must have been stunningly handsome. Even dressed in a buttoned fawn cardigan and dark green corduroys, with soft leather loafers, he gave the appearance of fine taste and casual elegance. He was totally at ease, charming, and rather patronizing.

Tennison had never met him before. She’d seen him from afar, once, at a grand reception for a delegation of European police chiefs. At the moment she was a bit unnerved, both by him and the surroundings, but she was damned if she was going to show it.

She said formally, “I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, and this is Detective Inspector Brian Dalton.”

Kennington didn’t invite them to sit. He looked from one to the other, and negligently scratched an eyebrow.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I am making inquiries into the death of a young boy, Colin Jenkins. Do you know him?”

Kennington shook his head. He strolled over to the fireplace.

Tennison turned to keep facing him. “Do you know a James Jackson?”

“No.”

“Do you know an Anthony Field, sir?”

“No.”

“A Jason Baldwyn?”

“No.”

“Do you know Edward Parker-Jones?”

Kennington hesitated before shaking his head. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

The grandfather clock ticked on in the brief silence.

“You were at one time stationed in Manchester,” Tennison said, “and previous to that, Cardiff, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you at any time meet a Miss Margaret Speel?” She watched him closely. “A probation officer?”

Kennington shook his head again, this time more abruptly. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”

He was good at stonewalling, and this could have gone on all night. Tennison didn’t have time to waste.

“Your recent resignation, sir—you were about to initiate charges which due to your retirement—”

“What exactly is this inquiry about, Chief Inspector?”

His tone had sharpened. He no longer held the rank of Assistant Deputy Commissioner, but he retained the gravitas of past authority, the prestige of office that demanded a certain respect.

“I should be most grateful if you would answer the questions, sir,” Tennison persisted, refusing to be bullied or patronized.

“I have no inclination to answer anything else, and I would appreciate it if you left my house.” He made a brusque gesture of dismissal. Dalton shuffled his feet. He looked to Tennison, a mute agonized plea in his eyes.

“Colin Jenkins also used the name Connie,” Tennison said, standing up straight. “Do you recall ever meeting him? He was fifteen years old, about my height, with pale red hair. He was, sir, a practicing homosexual . . .”

Mottled spots of red had appeared in Kennington’s cheeks. He was nearly a foot taller than Tennison, and he came forward, using it to intimidate her.

“I’d like you both to leave. Now.”

Dalton was already halfway to the door. He wanted to physically drag Tennison with him, but the woman hadn’t budged. She stood her ground, gesturing to the silver frames on the mantel.

“It was just that I noticed . . . you have a number of photographs of young—”

“They are my sons,” Kennington said, his outrage giving his voice a harsh rasp. “Please leave my house NOW!” He stood over her, trembling, fists clenching and unclenching.

“Was Colin Jenkins blackmailing you? Was Parker-Jones attempting to put pressure on you? Which one of them was blackmailing you? Were you aware Colin was selling his story to the newspapers?”

Kennington raised his fist as if he might strike her. He dropped it as an attractive, middle-aged woman came briskly in, her streakily gray hair cut short in a young style that actually suited her. She passed Dalton and looked around, smiling vaguely.

“Oh! I’m sorry . . .” She looked to her husband. “John?”

Tennison stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Mrs. Kennington, I am—”

Kennington grasped her by the elbow and started pushing her. Tennison pulled her arm free and stood back, holding up both hands.

“Please!” She smoothed her sleeve straight. “Mrs. Kennington, your husband was just answering some questions. I am investigating the death of a young rent boy, fifteen years old, and I’m—”

Mrs. Kennington’s eyes widened in alarm as her husband bodily propelled Tennison across the room. Leaning forward, face carved out of stone, he thrust her ahead of him into the hallway, and kept on going.

“His name was Colin Jenkins, you may have read about it . . .”

Tennison’s fading voice was interrupted by the sound of the front door being swung violently open on its hinges.

Dalton and Mrs. Kennington looked at one another. It was hard to know who was the more shocked. Dalton gathered his wits and quickly went out.

Standing at the coffee table, Mrs. Kennington reached down, and without looking took a cigarette from a black ebony box. The front door slammed shut. She held the cigarette between her fingers and slowly and deliberately crumpled it, her face frozen in a white mask.

Dalton beside her, Tennison drove into the yard at the rear of Southampton Row Police Station. This was her old division, before being shunted sideways to Soho Vice. Her old boss, Chief Superintendent Kernan, was crossing the yard to his car. Genuinely, or by design—hard to tell—he happened not to see her. She rolled the window down and stuck her head out.

“Buy you a drink?”

Rather reluctantly, he came over. “Sorry, I’m late as it is.” His pouchy cheeks and heavy jowls always reminded her of a disgruntled chipmunk. She couldn’t once recall him looking happy, except when he was pissed. He nodded to Dalton. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

“What do you know about John Kennington?” Tennison asked.

Kernan sighed and stared off somewhere. He didn’t hold with women having senior positions in the force, and that applied to Tennison in spades. She was a real ball-breaker. He bent down to the window.

“He just got the golden handshake. Why?”

“Is he homosexual?”