Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (30 page)

“We would like the names of the witnesses who you say saw you at the centre for the duration of the evening of the seventeenth.”

Parker-Jones slumped back.

Not
again.

He was beginning to get an inkling of what lengths ludicrousness could get to. He started off, lips thinning as he repeated the old familiar litany of names:

“Billy Matthews . . . Disco Driscoll . . . Alan Thorpe . . . Kenny Lloyd . . . Jimmy Jackson . . .”

The Squad Room was winding down. The last reports of the day were being written up. A skeleton staff would be on duty through the night, but most of the team had knocked off at seven.

Kathy was at the alibis board when Tennison wandered in. She looked dead on her feet. Hungry yet too tired to eat, she was hollow-eyed and ratty.

Kathy turned with a big beaming smile. “I think I deserve a bottle of champagne because . . .” She tapped the board with a felt-tip marker. “Billy Matthews’s alibi is now withdrawn. Billy was not at the advice centre or anywhere near it. He was in fact in hospital, taken there by ambulance on the night of the sixteenth. And this is the best part—from the advice centre . . .”

Tennison stuck up a clenched fist. One more down. She looked at the list of names. “Martin Fletcher dead.”

“. . . Donald Driscoll, alibi withdrawn,” Kathy went on. “Kenny Lloyd ditto. Just Parker-Jones giving Jackson an alibi and vice versa. The only other one out of the entire list is Alan Thorpe, and he has admitted he was drunk! If we’d been able to keep Jackson locked up, we’d have probably got them to admit they lied earlier on.”

An aura of energy had transformed Tennison. Adrenaline pumping, she stared at the board, eyes gleaming.

“Where’ve they got Jackson?”

Haskons and Lillie had entered, and Haskons said, “He’s with the Sarge and Larry the Lamb, room D oh five downstairs.”

Without acknowledgment for Kathy’s success, or even a word of thanks, Tennison did a smart about-face and marched to the door. A tight-lipped Kathy watched her go, hands on hips.

Passing Haskons and Lillie, Tennison said briskly, “You two. Divvy up a bottle of Moët for Kathy, in repayment for that fiasco . . .”

She pointed. On the notice board next to the door were two photographs of the pair of them, dug out of the files and blown up, their lips daubed with red felt-tip, flouncy dresses sketched over their outdoor clothes. The caption read, “FAIRIES OF THE WEEK.”

“Bloody hell, who put those up?” Lillie snarled, flushing pink.

The culprit, Kathy, giggled behind her hand. Tennison shot one look back and went out. From the corridor came her full-throated, uninhibited bellow of laughter.

15

“
W
hat did Connie owe you this money for?” DI Hall asked.

“He needed to get some photographs, he needed some new gear.” Jackson shrugged. “Well, that’s what he told me, so I lent him the dough.”

He looked up as Tennison came in. He nodded and smiled at her in a friendly fashion. For the record, Hall stated that DCI Tennison had entered the room, timed at 7:35 
P.M.
He went on to ask Jackson, “How much?”

“Two hundred quid. Then he disappears. So, I go out looking for him.” Perfectly natural, nothing untoward, his tone implied.

Jackson’s normally scruffy mop of spiky hair had been gelled and combed down. His face bore the signs of the previous night’s fracas, but otherwise he looked quite presentable in a clean T-shirt inscribed with “Happy Mondays” and a brown suede trucker jacket. His jeans even had creases in them.

His brief, Mr. Arthur, had made no such effort. If anything, he was even seedier than before. A small attaché case rested on the shiny knees of his trousers, its cheap leatherette scratched and torn, one of the clasps missing.

Otley said, “You go to Vernon’s flat looking for him?”

“Yeah, but in the afternoon. I spoke to Vera, she was there.”

“And she told you what?” Otley asked.

“That Connie wasn’t there!” Jackson exclaimed, the obvious answer to a dumb question. “I told you all this, I’ve said all this . . .”

Tennison had remained standing, next to the wall opposite Jackson, which meant he had to swivel his head as the interrogation switched direction. Her turn.

“Did Parker-Jones ask you to say you were at the advice centre?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember? Tell me about the money. Did you often lend Connie money?”

“No. He usually had enough. He was always pretty flush.” Jackson gave his thick-lipped smile. “I mean, sometimes I borrowed from him.”

“When exactly did you give him the two hundred pounds?”

Jackson peered off into space, brow furrowed, in a credible performance of thinking hard. “Don’t remember—I’m sorry.”

“Did Connie live at the house in Camden Town?”

“Sometimes left his gear there, but he’d not actually lived—” He cleared his throat. “—lived there for months.”

“Do you know where he was living?” Tennison asked. “Say for the past few months?”

Jackson shook his head.

“Please answer the question.”

“No.” Jackson answered in a drab, long-suffering voice. “I dunno where he was living.”

“So where did you give him the money?”

“At the advice centre.”

“But according to Parker-Jones, Connie hadn’t been there for—quite a few months.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t remember where I give it him!” Jackson said testily. He glanced edgily at Mr. Arthur, and then his smile was turned on again, full beam. “I’m sorry, really I am. Just don’t remember . . .”

“How well do you know Edward Parker-Jones?”

“I work for him, pays me a few quid to look after his property.”

“Have you at any time attempted to extort money out of a man called John Kennington?” Jackson gave her a blank stare. Tennison moved nearer. “Blackmail, Mr. Jackson. Have you attempted to blackmail John Kennington?”

Jackson shook his head. “No, I dunno him.”

“On the night Colin Jenkins died,” Tennison said quietly, moving closer, “did you discuss anything with Parker-Jones?”

“Yes.” He paused, deadpan. “Price of toilet paper. I get it in bulk for him.”

“And after the death of Colin Jenkins, did you discuss anything with Mr. Parker-Jones? Not necessarily toilet paper.”

“Like what?”

“You have stated that Donald Driscoll, Billy Matthews, Alan Thorpe, and Kenny Lloyd all saw you at the advice centre the night Colin Jenkins was murdered, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You listed the exact same names as Mr. Edward Parker-Jones—so I am asking you.” Tennison gripped the edge of the table and leaned over. “Did you at any time discuss this with Mr. Edward Parker-Jones?”

“No. No reason to.” Jackson slanted his body away, trying to maintain the distance between them. His heavy-lidded eyes flicked sideways toward her. “They were there and so was he. So he’s bound to say the same lads as I say, because I was there . . .”

Tennison straightened her back. “You are going to be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer, Mr. Jackson. You also refused an officer entry to the house in Camden and physically attacked another police officer.” Jackson tried to interject, but she steam-rollered on. “You were holding a fourteen-year-old-girl against her will. You have been living off immoral earnings. You want more? Because we have more.”

“I didn’t know they was coppers!” Jackson held up his hands, palms pressed against an invisible wall. “On my life—I mean they just barged into the house and—that girl won’t bring charges—she begged me to give her a place to stay—I didn’t know she was fourteen!” He jerked his head, gulping. “And that other thing. I thought it was Red, that stupid old drag queen, didn’t know it was a copper . . . just mistaken identity.”

“Why did you want to kill her?”

“I didn’t want to kill her, no way. I just wanted to . . . frighten her a bit.”

“Why?”

Jackson was thinking hard now, and it was no pretence. He suddenly found himself in a hole, and instead of digging in deeper and deeper, he wanted to dig himself out. He licked his lips. “Well . . . Vera told me she’d been talking to the cops, and all I wanted to do was frighten her off.”

“Why?” Tennison said. “Why did you want to frighten Rodney Allarton?” Jackson looked confused. “Red?”

Jackson wanted the help of his brief. Mr. Arthur had his head down, scribbling away on a notepad, using his attaché case as a desk. No help there. Jackson looked around, a bit panicky, and then said lamely, “Because I did. Look, I’m sorry, really sorry about that, it was all a mistake . . .”

“You must have had a reason.”

“No, no, I didn’t have a reason. And that is the God’s truth!”

Tennison gave a little sigh, shaking her head sadly.

“Well, Jimmy, you are going away for a very long time—for no reason.”

Jackson made a wild gesture, at last attracting Mr. Arthur’s attention, who leaned over for Jackson to whisper in his ear. Mr. Arthur sat back. “My client is very tired, perhaps we can continue this interview in the morning?”

The punishingly long day had taken its toll on Tennison too. The lines around her eyes were etched in, the furrows in her forehead deeply ridged. She felt like saying,
Enough’s enough, get this scumbag out of my sight
, but instead she merely nodded to Hall, who spoke into the tape, concluding the interview.

However desperately she might have desired it, the day was far from over.

They had Jackson running scared—no doubt about it—but he hadn’t cracked, and until he did their case was long on suspicion, short on hard-clinching evidence. She was going to sweat that bastard and wring him out like an old dishrag.

Taking Otley along, she drove up to the house in Langley Road, Camden. From Otley’s description of the place she knew what to expect, but it turned out to be even worse. The squalor of the poky bedrooms at the top of the house disgusted and depressed her. The smell made her nauseous.

They checked out the wardrobes and drawers, sorted through the kids’ clothing and pitiful belongings. After ten minutes Tennison had had it. She slumped down on a narrow trestle bed, the one occupied by Billy Matthews, and picked up the physically challenged teddy bear and gazed at it with listless eyes. Some poor mite had clung onto this battered relic, seeking love and comfort. It felt damp, and she imagined they were a child’s tears.

Otley slammed a drawer shut and looked at her over his shoulder. In a parody of Mr. Arthur, he muttered in his sardonic drawl, “My Guv’nor’s very tired, perhaps we can continue this search in the morning!”

Scrawled into the plaster above the bed, in jagged capitals, she read: “MARTIN FLETCHER LIVES HERE.”

Tennison rubbed her eyes. “I met a friend of yours in Manchester, David Lyall.”

“Yes, I know, he called me,” Otley said, leaning on the dresser. “I wondered why you were hot to trot to Manchester.”

“Good that I did . . .” She gazed up at him, her hands limp on her knees. “It’s like a jigsaw. I’ve got all the pieces and they just won’t fit.”

“Best not to push them into place,” Otley advised, wise old sage. “Got to have patience.”

“I’ve got that,” Tennison snapped back, nettled, “just don’t have the time.” She added resentfully, “You jumped the gun with Parker-Jones—I wasn’t ready for him.”

Otley didn’t think that merited a response. Anyway, he didn’t give one, just wandered off into the next room. After a moment Tennison levered herself up and followed him.

There was a TV set, video recorder, porn videotapes and magazines, a crate of Newcastle Brown, half consumed, and a 200 carton of Benson & Hedges, the cellophane broken, just one packet gone. Jackson’s room, quite evidently. His long leather coat hung behind the door, and there was other masculine tackle scattered around.

Otley was rooting through the wardrobe, taking stuff off hangers, going through the pockets, feeling the seams and throwing it on the floor. “They all stink, these rooms, used clothes, mildew . . .” He sounded puzzled. “If Connie stayed here, where’s all the smart gear he was supposed to wear?”

Tennison rummaged through a chest of drawers, poking at Jackson’s belongings with distaste. Otley was on his knees, feeling under the wardrobe. All he found was dust, so he moved along the linoleum to the smaller of the two beds. He lifted the corner of the stained eiderdown to look underneath the bed, and almost sneezed as the dust got to him.

“He must have had letters or a diary or something,” Otley said, sniffing and pinching his nose. Crouching, he craned his head. “Hang on, what have we got here? If he was selling his story to that woman—what was her name?” Grunting as he reached under the bed.

“Jessica Smithy. That’s what he said . . . ! And Martin Fletcher—‘I can sell my story for a lot of dough.’ ” Tennison straightened up. Something had just clicked. “What if Jessica Smithy met him first, and Connie came second? Rent boys, not just one rent boy. She was writing an article on rent
boys
—plural.”