Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (31 page)

Bent double, Otley dragged a small brown suitcase from underneath the bed. It was locked. He took out his penknife, and after a couple of seconds’ fiddling that got him nowhere, lost his patience and used brute force. The clasps sprang open. Tennison looked over his shoulder as he flung the lid back. The two of them stared down at the jumble of whips, knives, blackjacks, rubber masks, leather jockstraps, bondage gear, and sundry other exotic sadomasochistic gear.

“Nice little away-day assortment!” Otley commented.

He shoved the case aside and peered under the bed again. Frowning, he got to his feet and leaned over, looking closely at the wall against which the bed was pressed. Dark stains and splashes. He whipped the eiderdown off the bed. The sheets were spattered with dried blood, and there were other discolorations that might have been vomit and diarrhea, going by the smell.

Together, Otley and Tennison moved the bed away from the wall. A pair of soiled Y-front underpants came to light, an odd sock covered in fluff. More dark red splashes. And something else. Lower down near the skirting board, bolted into the wall, an iron ankle bracelet on a chain, its edges crusted with blood.

Tennison recoiled with disgust, wrinkling her face.

“We better get Forensic in here, check the entire house over! And I want it done tonight!” She went to the door, sniffing Givenchy Mirage from her scarf. She said with grim satisfaction, “I don’t think Jackson’s brief’s going to believe this—he’s already worn his nasty little felt-tip pen out tonight, writing down all the charges!”

Outside, Tennison breathed in deeply, taking a lungful of wonderful evening air. She climbed into her car. Otley leaned in the window.

“I think we should have another go at our Vera,” he suggested. “I mean, she’s been living here.” Tennison nodded agreement. “I’ll hang around for the Forensic blokes, they could be a while.” He snapped off a mock salute. “ ’Night. Mind how you go.”

As the car moved off, Tennison gave him a look. “This is my case. Bill. Don’t jump the gun again.”

Otley’s slitted eyes watched her drive off down the street. He wore his nasty little grin. “Your case? Yes, ma’am.”

Ray Hebdon sat in the darkened viewing room, remote control in one hand, pen in the other, making notes as the tapes unrolled on the screen. Some of the stuff was pretty anodyne, some pure filth, and Hebdon wasn’t watching by choice; he was forcing himself to sit here and endure it by an act of will, suppressing his repugnance.

He ejected the tape, stuck in another, and sat back in the chair, reaching for his lukewarm can of beer.

He’d seen this one before, but he watched it again. The classroom and the compliant pupils, the stern schoolteacher whacking his cane on the desk. From its innocent, even quaint, beginning, it degenerated very rapidly to the teacher meting out punishment and demanding penance in the form of spanking, masturbation, blow jobs, and buggery. Other “teachers” appeared on the scene, ready and willing to lend a hand, or some other part of their anatomy. Hebdon studied their faces and made notes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hebdon turned. “I’m almost through,” he said to Dalton, who had come silently into the room.

“What? Jerking off?” Dalton’s expression was that of someone who’s just got a whiff of a stale fart in a lift. “Are you into this kind of thing?”

Hebdon started to flush from the neck up. “Yeah, I’m off duty,” he sneered, his eyes burning into Dalton’s. “So shut the door when you leave, will you?”

Dalton hesitated, as if something was on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t bring himself to utter it. He coughed and turned to leave.

“G’night then.”

As the door closed behind him Hebdon swung around and hurled his can of beer at it. Hot-eyed, he stared at the screen, his skin prickling with rage, and jabbed savagely at the remote control, freezing the frame on Kilmartin receiving the favors of Connie, Alan Thorpe, and Kenny Lloyd.

The hot water felt so good she could have stayed in another twenty minutues, but then she noticed her fingertips getting wrinkly. She dried herself, chucked sandalwood tale everywhere she could reach, wrapped herself in her Chinese silk robe, and stretched out on the sofa in the living room, glass of red wine within easy reach. She thought of putting on a CD she’d bought recently—Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor—and then decided not to. The silence was too beautiful, and the peace and quiet too precious. Tennison sighed and closed her eyes.

The doorbell rang.

On her way to answer it she looked at the clock and saw that it was a few minutes after eleven. She pushed her hair back, still damp at the roots, tightened her robe, and opened the door.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Ray Hebdon said, genuinely apologetic.

“No, but I hope this is important.” Tennison’s look could have penetrated galvanized steel at twenty yards. He followed her in. She gestured for him to sit. Her half-full glass of wine was on the coffee table. “Do you want to join me?”

She went off to the kitchen and came back with a glass and a fresh bottle of wine. Hebdon had taken off his coat and was standing somewhat self-consciously rubbing his hands.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose you know I’m going back to my station?” She nodded. He smiled. “So I thought I’d do a bit of homework before I left.”

Tennison handed him the bottle and corkscrew. “I’ve been watching the videos,” he said, peeling off the foil. “You know Chiswick was after them? We’ve been shuffling them around until we’d had a good chance to check all the faces out. Maybe that’s why the top brass want them!” He nodded behind him. “Look in my coat pocket.”

Tennison picked up his coat from the back of the armchair. She found his notepad and flipped it open.

“Took me a long time, but I’ve listed all the faces I recognized. There’s a judge, two MPs, a lawyer—big criminal lawyer, a barrister . . .”

“Any police officers?”

“None that I recognized.” Hebdon uncorked the wine. He topped up Tennison’s glass and poured himself one. “But that’s quite a list!”

“Why?” Tennison was studying the names, frowning and shaking her head. “Why do they do it?”

“It’s what they’re into.”

That didn’t answer her question. “But to risk everything, their careers—for what? I don’t understand.”

“I think it gets to a point where they can’t help it.” Hebdon shrugged.

“Can’t help it?” Tennison said with a grimace. “My God . . .”

Hebdon sat down. He sipped his wine and stared at the carpet, and struggled to explain. “Because . . . there’s also the power, like they’re above the law, untouchable.” He looked at her. “Maybe because they are the law.”

Tennison sat down on the sofa and reached for her glass. She said quietly, “Ray, who do you think killed Connie? One of these men?”

“I don’t think it’s as big as them—I mean, they might have instigated it, but they wouldn’t dirty their hands.”

“What about Parker-Jones? He’s involved, that’s obvious. Just as it’s obvious he and Jackson cooked up their alibis together. But did he give Jackson the order to kill Connie?”

Hebdon drank, frowning into space. “That could be why he’s covering his tracks.”

“He’d also lose a lucrative business,” Tennison pointed out.

But it seemed she was off beam, because Hebdon was shaking his head. “No, no, that’s where you’ve got it all wrong. It’s not the money.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think Otley and Co. have been off course—you know, looking for the money element. Those houses he owns—sure, they’re cash in some respects, but it’s not that. It’s the power of being the supplier.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call in the favors. It’s obvious he had to have connections to have got off not just one charge but two. Parker-Jones must have big contacts. It makes him . . .” Hebdon pinged the rim of the glass with his fingernail. “Untouchable. I doubt if he’d want to mess it up with murder—or blackmail.”

Tennison sloshed some wine into her glass and sat back on the sofa, grinding her teeth. “So we’re back to Jackson.” She took a swig and licked her upper lip. “If Parker-Jones sticks to his story, Jackson will get away with murder—
unless
we break it.”

“Going to be tough, because that means you got to break Parker-Jones. If he ordered Jackson to kill Connie, no way will he back down.”

The wine was getting to Tennison. But instead of making her more relaxed, she was feeling uptight and jittery. She said, “Do you have a cigarette?”

Hebdon shook his head and finished his wine.

“Time is running out on this one, isn’t it?” Tennison brooded. She saw his empty glass. “Have another one—you opened the bottle, for chrissakes . . .” Her tongue slurred over “chrissakes.”

Hebdon hesitated for a moment, and then refilled his glass. Tennison’s head was back on the sofa, her eyes closed. She said slowly, almost mechanically, “I want to tell you something.” Her lips felt numb. “I need to tell somebody.”

Hebdon waited uneasily. He didn’t know what to do, so he had another drink. He watched her, head back, eyes closed.

“I am pregnant.”

Hebdon blinked, and filled the silence with a muffled cough.

“Congratulations.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Tennison said, opening her eyes. She looked at him. “I am pregnant and I have absolutely no one I can talk to. I’ve tried, but . . . you tell me. Should I have it?”

“It depends, really.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, on whether you want it or not,” he added lamely.

“Would you, in my position?” The question wasn’t just hypothetical, it was stupid. Tennison stared into her glass. “Hell, I could be out of a job tomorrow!”

“What about the, er—the father?”

“There isn’t one—well, obviously there is, but not . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He doesn’t know.”

“Will you tell him?”

Tennison didn’t have to think. She shook her head at once.

“We lived together for a long time and almost got married. But then I got cold feet and he went away and found somebody else.” She threw the last of the wine back. “He is a very nice man, and I would like to be his wife . . . but it wouldn’t be right.” An expression of pain crossed her face. “No, it would be right, it was always right, just me that messed it up.” She bowed her head, tightly clutching the stem of the wineglass in both hands.

Hebdon said cautiously, “Well, I suppose it comes down to whether or not you want it. Do you?” She was hunched over, hiding her face from him. “Do you want to be a mother?” he asked quietly.

Tennison’s head came slowly around, her eyes bright and moist. A shy, radiant smile lit up her whole face. She said softly, “Yes. Oh yes, I do, very much.”

16

T
ennison was twenty minutes late arriving in the Squad Room. She had no excuses, except that she had a foul head and a thick taste on her tongue, and she wasn’t going to offer those up in mitigation. When she finally made it, DI Hall had the 9 
A.M.
briefing under way. He had on a superb suit in dark olive green and a tie with so many swirling colors it made Tennison ill just to look at it.

She gave Hall the nod to carry on, while she took off her raincoat and tried to get her brain in gear.

“Parker-Jones owns a number of bed and breakfast stroke hotel stroke houses, under the company name ‘Protega.’ Mostly for children in local authority care.” Hall referred to his notes. “As a registered charity he’s got a staff of four, one administrator and two youth workers. Annual running costs of around one hundred and twenty thousand. He’s on a number of grants, one hundred and sixty grand from Camden, another one from Westminster Council, that’s for advice and support . . .”

Dalton came over and stood by Tennison’s elbow. With one ear on the briefing, Tennison said, “They’re still keeping you on, are they?”

“. . . he’s also got another fat one from London Boroughs Grants Committee,” Hall was saying. “
Added
to all the grants, Parker-Jones receives from the local authorities a hundred and ten pounds per person. So far we’ve got eighteen registered to one house, another twelve in Hackney, and the one in Camden has eight.”

He carried on, giving more details, as the team made notes and asked for a point of clarification now and then. The PA
bing-bong
chimed out. “DCI Tennison to Superintendent Halliday’s office immediately, please.”

Tennison glanced up to the Tannoy, a strange fierce light in her eyes. “This is it! I think it’s charge or pull the rug time.”

Dalton put his hand on her arm. “The doctor attached to the Calloway Centre, Cardiff. His widow, Joyce Ellis, two sons, aged fifty-two, in 1987 married John Kennington.”

Tennison gave him a crooked grin. “What’s this? Changing sides, are you?”

Bing-bong.

“DCI Tennison please return to her office immediately.”

Dalton also looked to the Tannoy. “He doesn’t know.”

“Thank you,” Tennison said, squeezing his arm. She headed to the door. Otley was there, beckoning urgently.