Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (29 page)

Kernan laughed abrasively. “I don’t know—why do you ask?”

Tennison opened the door and started to get out. Kernan backed away, making a negative motion. “I’ve got to go, Jane . . .”

Tennison did get out. Kernan’s shoulders slumped as she confronted him. “Mike, I need to know because I think he is involved in this murder, the rent boy—”

“I’ve nothing to tell you.” His face was a closed book.

Tennison gave him a hard, penetrating stare. She said in a low urgent voice that was almost pleading, “They’re young kids, Mike, some of them eleven and twelve years of age—your boy’s age. All I want is the truth.”

Kernan glanced guardedly toward Dalton in the car, and moved farther off. He looked down on her, flat-eyed. “Do you want me to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“If you start digging dirt up again on Kennington,” he muttered, shaking his head, “it’ll be a waste of time. He may no longer be a big fish, but he’ll have a hell of a lot of friends who still are. A whisper gets out, you’ll tip them off and you won’t get near them, and it won’t help the kids, won’t stop the punters. They’ll all be still on the streets. You should back off this one, Jane.”

“Even if he was a high-ranking police officer,” Tennison said heatedly. “Even if there are judges, politicians, barristers involved . . .”

“Kennington’s out of the force now,” Kernan said heavily, trying to make her see sense. “Ignore it, that’s the best, the only advice I can give you.”

Tennison nodded slowly, but it didn’t fool him. She pursed her lips. “There’s a Superintendent vacancy up for grabs, you know which area?”

Kernan gazed at her for a moment. He held up his hand, fingers and thumb spread wide. Five. He gave a smirk and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Becoming a player, are you?”

Tennison nodded. She got back in the car and slammed the door. She revved the engine and put it in reverse. Kernan stood watching.

“Good night!” he called out.

“Thanks, Mike,” Tennison said, backing up.

Kernan whacked his open hand on the car roof and she shot off, through the archway to the main road. He shook his head wearily, puzzled and pissed off. If he couldn’t stick the woman at any price—and dammit he couldn’t—why did he so admire the bloody bitch?

Twenty minutes later Tennison dumped her briefcase on her desk, flung her coat over a chair, and scooped up the sheaves of reports, internal memos, and phone messages that had piled up in her absence. After twelve straight hours on the job she was fighting off bone-weary fatigue with pure nervous energy. Her nerve ends jangled.

Dalton trailed in after her. He had a limp, wrung out look to him, the classic symptoms of bags under the eyes and pasty complexion, sweat trickling from the roots of his hair.

He stood, slack shouldered, making a great effort. “Can I say something, apologize really, but I didn’t have much say in the matter and I’ve . . .”

His voice trailed away when he realized she wasn’t listening, too preoccupied as she scanned through the messages. The silence sank in.

“What? I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry, and, well . . .” His speech stumbled along. “I dunno where I am. It’s like I’m in some kind of limbo . . .”

Tennison paid full attention. Dalton seemed to be cracking up in front of her eyes. He wasn’t able to look at her, too embarrassed or fearful or something, and it all came tumbling out in a flood, a dam-burst of raw feeling.

“I can’t sleep and, well, my girlfriend, I haven’t told her. I’m even scared to have sex with her because . . .” He swallowed painfully. “It’s just hanging over me all the time. What if I have got AIDS?” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. He choked down a sob, standing there forlorn and pitiful. “I’m sorry, sorry . . .”

Tennison went to him and put her arms around him. She gave him a strong, comforting hug. She could feel him shaking inside. She stood back, holding his shoulders.

“Listen, anyone would feel the same way. And, listen—I think it’ll be good for you to sit and really talk it all out . . . and to someone who understands all the fears—and they’re real, Brian.” She touched his wet face. “You go and wash up. I’ve got the contacts here for you, okay?” She nodded to her desk. “Maybe you and your girlfriend should go together.”

Dalton let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and turned to leave. Tennison waited for the door to close. She pressed both hands to her face, covering her eyes. She held a deep breath for a count of five, and then snapped back into action, picking up her messages as she returned to her chair.

The door was rapped. Otley looked in.

“We’ve got Parker-Jones in interview room D oh three.”

“What?! He’s here?” Otley nodded. Tennison glared at him. “Whose bloody idea was that?”

“Mine,” Otley retorted, sauntering in. “We got some kids that recognized Deputy Chief Commissioner Kennington’s house. Plus, the property where we picked up Jackson, it’s owned by him.”

“What?” Tennison was on her feet.

“Jackson’s been living in a house owned by Parker-Jones. It’s all there . . .” He made a flippant gesture to the desk. “Full report.”

“Who’s interviewing him?”

“Haskons and Lillie.”

Tennison swore under her breath as she scoured the littered desk for his report.

Otley’s long gaunt face was looking distinctly tetchy. He’d worked his bollocks off on this case, and what did he get in return? Sweet F.A. Overbearing cow. “And as you weren’t here,” he said, not troubling to hide his sarcasm, “and we couldn’t contact you, I’m just trying to close the case.”

Tennison flared up. “
You?
I know what you’re playing at, but you are just not good enough. Stop trying to demean me at every opportunity. This
isn’t
your case!”

“I know that.”

“Then stop working by yourself. I didn’t want Parker-Jones brought in yet.”

“You got a reason?” Otley said, insolent to the last.

She had half a dozen, but she’d be damned if she was going to rhyme them off, chapter and verse, for his benefit. She was in charge of this investigation, and Bill Otley had better wise up to it double quick.

“I’m not ready for him,” was the only reason she—Detective Chief Inspector Tennison—felt obliged to give the cheeky toe-rag.

Edward Parker-Jones, quietly casual in a dark check sport jacket, collar and tie, green suede shoes, sat in interview room D.03. Haskons sat directly opposite him, with a beautiful shiner of a black eye and a cut lip. Lillie had a bruised forehead where Jackson had butted him and a bandage on his chin over the wound he had dabbed with TCP cream.

“Yes, the properties are mine. I have admitted that they are, and I would, if you had asked, given the information freely. I have nothing to hide.”

He was one cool customer, Haskons thought. A real con artist, and he’d met a few. But, so far, Mr. Parker-Jones was completely legit, and had to be handled with care.

“Do you have the books?” Haskons asked, raising his undamaged eyebrow. “You are paid a considerable amount of money from not only Camden Council, but also Holloway and Hackney.”

“They are very large houses, and yes, if you wish to see the books, then all you have to do is contact my accountant. Taking care of the homeless is not a lucrative business, far from it. Laundry bills, heating, electricity, water . . .” He looked pointedly at his watch, shaking his head and sighing. “Is all this really necessary? Why exactly have I been brought in yet again? Why wasn’t this all asked before? I have been perfectly willing, and cooperative . . .”

The door swung open. It was as if an icy blast had swept in.

Lillie bent toward the mike. “The time is six-thirty and DCI Tennison has just entered the interview room.”

Haskons took one look at Tennison’s face and vacated his seat. She sat down in it. She wasn’t afraid to let the silence linger as she settled herself, flipped open her notebook and unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen. She looked up.

“Could you please tell us about your relationship with Margaret Speel?”

Parker-Jones hooked a finger over one ear, pushing back a trailing strand of jet-black hair. “She’s my fiancée.” The question hadn’t surprised him, or if it had he’d covered superbly.

“Did you, in 1979, run the Harrow Home for boys in Manchester?”

“Yes.”

However closely Tennison scrutinized him, she couldn’t detect a flicker of concern or unease.

“And in 1986 the Calloway Centre in Cardiff?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Anthony Field?”

A half smile. “Yes.”

“And Jason Baldwyn?”

“Yes, they were both in my care.”

Tennison pretended to jot something down. Eyes downcast, she said. “Do you also know John Kennington?”

Parker-Jones eased back in the chair. His body language gave nothing away. He tilted his head slightly. “Yes—not well, but I have met him.”

“Could you tell me about one of your employees, James Jackson?”

“I wouldn’t call it employed, but he did on the odd occasion do some repairs—caretaking, that sort of thing.”

“How well did you know Mr. Jackson?”

“As I have already stated,” Parker-Jones said, making it sound weary and pedantic. “I did not know Mr. Jackson on a personal or social level. He simply did the occasional odd job for me. Nothing more.”

Tennison leaned her elbows on the table. “But he lived in a property owned by you, Mr. Parker-Jones.”

Parker-Jones looked to the ceiling. He smiled very patiently, humoring her. “Again I have admitted this. I paid Jackson only a nominal amount, and in return for his room he repaired the property. I have no reason to know or even be aware of what Mr. Jackson did in his private life.” He spread his hands. “I was also unaware if he lived there on a permanent basis, as he told me he had an elderly mother he took care of and spent a lot of time with.”

Tennison decided to pass on the elderly mother. She idly wondered why he hadn’t bothered to mention that she was white-haired, crippled, and had multiple sclerosis as well. Instead she said:

“What other names have you been known under?”

“I have two houses in the name of Edwards, and one in the name of Jones.” Glib, straight out with it. As if he already knew the questions and had rehearsed the answers. “I have on occasions used both.”

“Why did you use different names on the deeds of these properties?”

“I just did.” The half smile appeared. “There is no law against it.”

She’d started off gentle, tossed him some easy ones, and he’d batted them back without breaking sweat. She now got ready to lob a few grenades. Her voice went up a pitch.

“Would you like to tell me about the two charges for indecent assault. The ones in Manchester, and Cardiff!”

Parker-Jones fiddled with his signet ring. “Not really. In both incidents all charges were dropped.” His deep-set eyes returned her gaze, measure for measure. “I can see no reason to discuss them.”

“Did John Kennington assist or advise you in any way concerning these two sexual assault charges?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Have you at any time in the past months attempted to get monies from John Kennington?”

“What?” He blinked several times.

“Blackmail? Or extortion? Have you, Mr Parker-Jones,
attempted to get monies
?”

“Absolutely not.” He laughed at the idea. “Ridiculous.”

“Were you aware that John Kennington was considering bringing blackmail charges against—”

“I would obviously not consider attempting to extort monies out of someone who freely donated to my centre,” he said caustically. He tapped the table with his manicured fingers. “I have, as requested, presented a detailed list of all those who forward charitable donations to the centre. I presume this information was passed on to you . . .”

Tennison cut across him. “Did you on the night of the seventeenth of this month call the emergency services?” she asked sharply.

He hadn’t rehearsed this one, because he stared blankly at her for a second. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you call an ambulance? On the night of the seventeenth of this month?”

“No.”

“Would you please state where you were on the night of the seventeenth from eight-fifteen 
P.M.
to nine-thirty 
P.M.
”

“I have told you,” Parker-Jones ground out. “I never left the advice centre.” He threw up his hands. “This is really becoming ludicrous . . .” He looked at Haskons and Lillie, as if they might help him in dealing with this raving madwoman.

“You think so?” Tennison said, her voice as soft now as it had been sharp a moment earlier. Her tone implied that they hadn’t reached ridiculous yet, never mind ludicrous.

“Do you know it is illegal to display false credentials?” While he was grappling with this change of tack, she switched again.