Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (32 page)

Tennison walked past him. “I know, Halliday wants me.”

“Commander’s with him!” Otley hissed.

She pushed through into the corridor, not waiting to see if he was relishing this or not, and caring even less.

Halliday was standing in front of her desk and Chiswick was sitting in her chair. The Commander had a crabbed look on his face, his small mouth tight and hard. He didn’t give her time to shut the door.

“You have not one shred of evidence against Parker-Jones and his involvement in the death of—”

“Colin Jenkins?” Halliday edged out of the way as Tennison came forward, all fired up, ready for a showdown. “No, I haven’t got him to admit his involvement, but I know he’s covering up for Jackson and possibly for John Kennington.”

“Drop it!” Chiswick said, icy quiet.

“Are you serious? In 1979 and again in 1986 both John Kennington and Edward Parker-Jones . . .”

Chiswick made a brusque sweep of the hand. “I am fully aware of the cases you are referring to.”

“Then you should have made whatever information you had available to me!” Tennison said angrily. “I have wasted a considerable—”

“
Waste
being the operative word, Chief Inspector. You were supposed to be investigating the murder of—”

She was sick of his interrupting. It was her turn.

“The murder of Colin Jenkins. But if—
if
—I also discover evidence that proves Edward Parker-Jones . . .”

The bastard did it again.

“This is not the Colin Jenkins case.”

“. . . is unfit to be awarded massive grants from four different councils, and is a possible pedophile . . .”

“Is this true?” Halliday asked Chiswick, but the Commander had no time for noncombatants. His sights were fixed on Tennison. It was a double-headed contest, two boxers slugging it out, attempting by sheer weight of punches to batter their opponent to the canvas.

“Chief Inspector Tennison, you give me no option but to warn you, that if you continue to investigate persons—”

“Persons?” Tennison was in like a flash. “One Edward Parker-Jones?”

“—against specific instructions, then disciplinary action will be taken.”

Tennison took a deep breath and slugged on. “You take it, sir, and I will fight you every inch of the way.” Her eyes flashed. She wasn’t just angry now, she was blazing mad. “I have been fobbed off with ‘stay clear of this or that person because of,’ and I quote, ‘repercussions to this department.’ Well, this department has blatantly attempted to cover up my investigation into a murder, which has direct links to a pedophile ring—members of that said ring, and one member, John Kennington, who has been under a full-scale internal inquiry!”

“John Kennington was reinstated,” Chiswick said, his voice trembling as he struggled to retain his composure.

“Yes—but six months later he’s being blackmailed! The case never even got to court. What happened, everybody get cold feet, so retire him?” Tennison was filled with contempt. She was cutting in deep and raw, but what the hell, these were spineless excuses for officers charged with enforcing law and order. She thumped the desk, and Chiswick visibly jerked back.

“Retire him,” Tennison raged on, “pay him off, and when another investigation touches on it . . . John Kennington is still alive, Colin Jenkins is dead.”

“Just calm down,” Chiswick said, raising his hand. “Look at it from our side, my side, the investigation into John Kennington—”

“Failed . . . and to the tune of over one and a half million. Next, Operation Contract!” Tennison shook her head, smiling bitterly. “How much did that set the Government back? You
knew
there was a leak—well, was it John Kennington?”

“Be very careful what you are insinuating,” Chiswick warned her solemnly, playing the Senior Figure in Authority card.

Tennison closed her eyes for a second, breathing in deeply. She pressed her palms together. “All I want is to find the killer of Colin Jenkins. If it touches on Parker-Jones or anyone else, then that’s the way it’s got to be.” She faced him squarely, looking him straight in the eyes. “You can lay it all on my shoulders. I take full responsibility. But I will not be anybody’s scapegoat, and if you pull me off this case now, I won’t go quietly.”

Chiswick stared balefully at her across the desk. “Don’t make threats, Detective Chief Inspector.”

He rose ponderously to his feet and jerked his head to Halliday, indicating that the interview was at an end. As they reached the door, Tennison said coolly:

“I’d like to be put forward for the Superintendent vacancy on the AMIT Area Five. I am very confident that I’ll make an arrest for the Colin Jenkins murder this weekend, and therefore, with the case closed, it will be unnecessary for me to continue any further investigation into John Kennington’s connection with Colin Jenkins.”

The two men were standing stock-still. They were both trying, as best they could, to take on board what Tennison had said.

Commander Chiswick opened the door and went out, stooping, not looking back. Halliday went meekly after him, pausing for a look at Tennison that was both guarded and puzzled before quietly closing the door.

Tennison heard them enter the next door office. She heard the rumble of voices through the wall. She closed her eyes and slowly sank back, needing the solid desk to support her.

Vera extended her tongue, delicately picked something off it, and wiped it on the handkerchief in her lap. She puffed on her cigarette and batted the smoke away. With soulful, heavy-lidded eyes she watched as Tennison took the packet of cigarettes, extracted one, and put it between her lips.

“You got a light?”

Vera struck a match and Tennison leaned toward the flame.

“Did James Jackson kill Connie?”

Close to her, Tennison saw the twin match flames reflected in Vera’s eyes. She saw fear there, deep down. Deeper yet, stricken terror. She resumed her seat, breathing smoke through her nostrils. “He can’t hurt you, Vera, he’s going to be behind bars for a long time. So, tell me . . .”

“I don’t know,” Vera Reynolds said huskily. She bowed her head and smoked, looking down into her lap.

“Do you know a John Kennington?”

Vera shook her head.

Tennison sighed. “Vera, look at me. Come on, help me. Why was Jackson looking for Connie that night? He says Connie owed him money.”

“Connie didn’t need to borrow money from Jackson. He always used to have money.”

“Did you know any of his clients?”

“No.” Vera raised her head. She looked past Tennison to Otley, standing near the door, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of his wrinkled suit. She took a breath. “No, he was very secretive about them. Well, you give one kid a name, next minute they’re offering themselves. You think he was just gay, don’t you?” she said, a faint smile hovering. “Why do you think we got on so well?”

“I don’t know how well you knew him,” Tennison said gently. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Vera swallowed, the prominent Adam’s apple jerking in the long white throat. Above it, her makeup ended in a smudgy tidemark. Her blond wig wasn’t on straight. She looked defeated and pathetic.

“He was the same as me. He’d go with gays, but he liked straight men better. He wanted money, needed a lot for the operation. They do the best in Rio. He would have had to pay for it, you see, there’s no way the NHS would have given him the operation, he was too young. As it is you’ve got to go through six months of interrogation, analysts, and God knows what else, and then you’re on a waiting list that’ll take years . . . I know.”

She took a deep drag, right up to the filter tip, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. She looked pensive.

“Always been my dream. I’ve been on the hormone tablets, but they’re so expensive, and then I’ve got to buy costumes, pay rent. I just never had enough—but Connie, he felt ready.” She tightened her lips suddenly, as if she was about to cry, turning her head away. “He was very beautiful, and . . . sometimes we’d talk, and . . . he understood . . . because we were alike, we were the same.”

“Was one of his clients going to give him the money for the operation?” Tennison kept to her gentle tone.

“No.” Vera’s finely arched eyebrows went up. “Ten grand? More. You need a lot of after-care treatment.”

“So Connie needed a lot of money—maybe ten, fifteen thousand pounds, yes?” Vera nodded. “How was he going to get all that? Blackmail?”

“Connie was capable of anything.”

“Blackmail, Vera?” Tennison said more insistently.

“Yes, well, I think he was trying it on a few people—the famous ones. But I don’t think he got very far. I think he got scared off.”

Tennison jotted something down. Her cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. She mashed it out. “Do you know a Jessica Smithy?” Vera nodded. “Connie was selling his life story?” Vera nodded. “And?”

“I think she kept stringing him along, promising big money—he used to brag about it. But she wanted evidence. Names, photographs. Photographs.”

“And Jackson knew about this?”

“Yes. He knew Connie had got a sort of file. You know, to show this reporter. He found out, because Martin Fletcher stole some things from Jackson and gave them to Connie.”

Vera fumbled for a cigarette. Tennison waited. Otley shifted onto the other foot. Vera picked something imaginary off her tongue and wiped it on the handkerchief.

“That’s why Jackson was looking for Connie. Not just to get back his things, but because he knew if Connie was selling his story, then he’d be in it. Connie had been one of his boys, you see, early on. Not lately, of course.”

“Jackson got Connie on the game?” Tennison said. She made a note.

“Yes.” Vera was nodding slowly. Her eyes were very sad. “He got him so young. He was only ten years old when Jackson found him.” She looked at Tennison from under her eyelids. “But you got to understand, Jimmy was an abused kid himself. Didn’t make any difference to him if they were eight or eighteen. They never stay with him long. Not once they get the hang of it.” Her voice had become drab, lifeless; her whole behavior was subdued.

“Did you see what Martin stole from Jackson? What he eventually gave to Connie?” Tennison asked.

“No, I didn’t see them, he just told me.” Vera patted her chest, indicating that Jackson had concealed something in his jacket. “Probably pictures, photographs, maybe letters, I don’t know. I never saw what Martin nicked from Jackson. But that’s why Martin got beaten up. Because he stole the stuff from Jackson.”

“If Connie told you about the ‘stuff’ Martin had taken from Jackson, told you about the press connection, did he also mention who he was going to blackmail with it?”

Vera shook her head. “He never told me, but he was kind of excited—you know, very pleased with himself. Said he’d get the money for his operation. He was very certain.”

Tennison made a note and closed her notebook. She reached over and touched Vera’s hand, a light firm pressure.

“Thank you, Vera.”

Tennison stood up. Vera sat there, eyes clouding with confusion.

“You can go,” Tennison said. She went to the door, pausing by Otley. “You doing anything lunchtime?” He shook his head. “See you in my office.” She went out.

In her haste, getting to her feet, Vera had managed to drop her handbag, tipping most of the contents onto the floor. She got down on her knees, shoveling in lipsticks and tubes of makeup. Otley’s face appeared beneath the table. “Get your handbag, Vernon, and you’re out of here,” he drawled.

Vera scrambled to her feet, clicking her handbag shut. She was palpitating, her eyes a bit wild. “That’s it . . . ? I can go?”

Otley jerked his thumb.

She scurried to the door, heels clacking, clutching her handbag.

“Vernon!”

Vera skidded and pitched forward. She whipped a frightened look over her shoulder.

Otley was dangling a hairbrush by its handle. “This yours?”

Alan Thorpe stood in the mustard-tinged gloom of the advice centre, idly glancing over the contacts board. He had a full carton of Rothman’s King Size under his arm, and he was leisurely lighting up from the packet he’d just prized out of the cellophane wrapper. It was a little after 10:15 
A.M.
It was quiet, no one in the games room or the TV lounge.

Quiet for the next ten seconds until Margaret Speel came clattering down the stairs and barged through the door, frizzy black hair bouncing on her shoulders, her mouth taut as a steel trap.

She marched past the reception counter, did a smart right turn, and banged her small fist on the door marked “E PARKER-JONES. PRIVATE.”

Parker-Jones opened the door. He stepped back and smiled, gesturing her in.

Margaret Speel didn’t move. Her voice had a rasp to it.

“This won’t take long. I intend to report you, get you blacklisted with every council, every government-run scheme that you have abused.”

Parker-Jones had spotted Alan Thorpe, who couldn’t help but overhear. He moved farther back, trying to draw her in. “What’s brought this on?” he asked, quiet and steady, no histrionics.