Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (35 page)

Silently, without expression, Vera stared in front of her, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her lemon yellow blouse.

“Did you call an ambulance?” Tennison asked.

“No, my phone’s not working. I told Mr. Parker-Jones and he said he would . . .” She trailed off.

“What? Do what?”

“Take care of everything. Call the ambulance.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know,” Vera said, and in the same dead voice, “I want to go to the toilet.”

“We are terminating the interview at three forty-five 
P.M.
in room D oh five as Mr. Vernon Reynolds has asked to use the bathroom.”

Tennison switched off the tape and looked to Otley. “Take him with you.”

Vera stood up, very tall and slender. “I was put in prison when I was not much older than Connie. That’s what I am scared of. Inside they’re all Jacksons. I was raped every night, that’s what I’ve been so scared of.” She clutched her handbag under her arm and went to the door. “I’ve wanted to tell you, but I was just scared.”

She turned and looked at Tennison with large reproachful eyes.

“You’re horrible. You just pretended to like me. Why can’t you take me to the ladies?”

She followed Otley out.

Otley stood at the washbasins, attempting to flatten the recalcitrant points of his shirt collar. She was taking her bloody time. He sighed, glancing at his watch.

“Come on, Vera, love!”

A toilet flushed and Halliday emerged from one of the cubicles, buttoning his jacket. “Who’s in there?”

Otley looked to the cubicle door, Vera’s high-heeled shoes visible underneath it. “Sorry, Guv, it’s Vernon Reynolds . . .”

He drew Halliday aside, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

“He’s admitted that he struck Colin Jenkins. We just finished questioning him.”

Behind them, beneath the cubicle door, a thick pool of blood was forming, spreading around Vera’s spiked heels.

“So it wasn’t Jackson after all,” Halliday said, raising his eyebrows.

Otley turned. He snarled, pushing Halliday roughly out of the way, and dived for the cubicle door. “Get someone up here fast!”

Halliday dithered, old woman that he was, and looked around helplessly.

“She’s cut her wrists!” Otley yelled, putting his heel to the lock.

Spurred on at last, Halliday slammed through into the corridor. By now he was running. “GET SOMEONE IN HERE . . . !”

He ran on as Tennison came out of the ladies toilet. Hurtling into the gents she came upon a bloody scene. Vera was propped in a sitting position against the tiled wall, legs stuck out, one shoe off, limp as a rag doll. Blood was spurting from both wrists. The front of her dress, her legs, the floor, were soaked in it. A smeared red trail led from the cubicle where Otley had dragged her.

Tennison grabbed the roller towel and gave it a fierce, frantic jerk, pulling the end loose from the machine. She kept pulling, unreeling a long white tongue, as Otley ran water in the basin.

Tennison knelt at Vera’s side, her knees in the pool of blood.

“Vera, hold on! It’s going to be okay—listen to me, can you hear me?” The blood was pumping out. She gripped Vera’s upper arm, squeezing with both hands. “Hurry, she’s losing an awful lot of blood . . .”

Vera’s head lolled from one side to the other, her wig slipping askew. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept mumbling.

“Vera, listen to me! Can you hear me? You didn’t kill Connie, do you understand?” The eyes were glassy, unfocused. “He was still alive.” Tennison stared into the ghastly white face, streaked with blue mascara. “The fire . . .
it was the fire.
”

Vera looked at Tennison, eyelids drooping shut, and her head flopped forward onto her chest. Otley dumped the soaking roller towel onto the floor and began binding it tightly around Vera’s arms.

Halliday barged in, heaving for breath. “There’s a fifteen-minute delay on the ambulance call out . . .”

Tennison snapped, “Then get a car organized—”

She whipped her head around as it sunk in what Halliday had just said. Fifteen Minute Delay. Her lips thinned. “And one for me.”

She looked to be grinning, but it was fixed in place, frozen to her lips, icy and implacable.

“I am bringing in Parker-Jones personally.”

A furious Jessica Smithy marched along the corridor, Hall in close pursuit. “Half past two—I have been here since half past two!” she raged. Hall grasped her by the elbow and she gave him a withering look that would have scorched asbestos. “I want to go to the ladies.”

Hall colored up and released her.

Jessica Smithy’s eyes sparkled dangerously as she spied Tennison coming toward her. She plonked herself in Tennison’s path, taller by several inches, her expression haughty and indignant.

“You have no right to waste my time,” she stormed, tossing her head imperiously.

Tennison, her blouse and jacket cuffs, the hem of her skirt and knees caked in blood, let her have it. “I have every right, and I will hold you for as long as I want. You have lied. You have withheld vital evidence—and you have wasted
my
time.”

Tennison swept past her, saying, “You wanted the ladies room, Miss Smithy, follow me.”

She pushed open the door into the female staff locker room, and didn’t hold it for Jessica Smithy, who nearly got her face battered. They went inside.

Otley appeared through the double doors at the end of the corridor, running. “Where the hell is she?”

“Toilets,” Hall said.

Rubbing his face, Otley stood panting and fuming.

Tennison flung her soiled blouse into her locker and took out a short-sleeved navy shirt with breast pockets. She hadn’t a matching jacket, so she had to make do with a double-breasted blazer in dark red with gilt-buttoned cuffs. No spare skirt or hose, dammit, she’d have to soldier on with what she had.

She ran water in the washbasin and was rinsing the blood from her hands when the toilet flushed and Jessica Smithy came out of the cubicle. There had been a subtle change. There was a dent in her haughty demeanor, her quick darting gaze not as brashly confident in the face of Tennison’s grim single-mindedness of purpose, her firm authority.

Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances, she tried to rekindle her righteous indignation. “How long am I going to be here for? I am supposed to deliver copy for this evening’s—”

“For as
long as I want
!” Tennison didn’t need to raise her voice. The lethal sting in it was enough. “You were at Vernon Reynold’s flat the night Connie died—did you make a third tape?”

The journalist had a sullen pout. “No.”

Tennison gave her a searching look in the mirror and went over to the roller towel. Jessica Smithy’s lean cheeks were slightly flushed. She stared at Tennison’s back. “No, I only made two tapes. I swear before God, just two tapes. I never mentioned before”—clearing her throat uncomfortably—“I mean, I know I should have told you about me being at the flat . . .”

Tennison finished drying her hands. She picked up her shirt and shook it out. “Did you remove anything from Vernon Reynolds’s flat?” She slipped the shirt on. “Did you?”

“Yes. They were just some snapshots—nobody famous. Just a few black-and-white photographs and drag acts. Nobody famous,” she repeated anxiously.

“So, apart from these photographs you took, did Colin Jenkins give you anything?”

“Nothing, nothing . . . just some story about being picked up when he was ten or eleven. But I’m beginning to think he made that up.” Her face had a strained, pinched look. “Oh God, it isn’t the way it sounds—I didn’t do anything!”

Tennison buttoned her jacket. “Oh, yes, you did. You stole photographs that meant a lot to someone, meant so much that Colin Jenkins died for them.” She spared her nothing. “That’s what you did, Miss Smithy.”

Otley’s head peered furtively in. Tennison gave her appearance a final check in the mirror and went over. “Kathy said you wanted to see me?” Otley murmured. “Something about an ambulance?”

“Yes.” Tennison shot a look at Jessica Smithy. “Follow me.”

She led the way to her office, Otley bringing up the rear. He could tell from her walk that she was a transformed woman, another person entirely from the one he’d seen weeping less than two hours ago. It was incredible. He couldn’t fathom her. He didn’t understand women as a species all that well, but Tennison absolutely baffled and amazed him.

Jessica Smithy was contrite, sitting in a chair, puffing nervously on a cigarette. “I tried to contact you, you know I did, it’s not as if I didn’t attempt to see you.”

“Just stop the Doris Day act, it’s getting on my nerves,” Tennison said shortly, eyes narrowed. “Martin Fletcher?”

DI Hall came in and spoke over Jessica Smithy’s head. “Car’s ready and waiting, Guv.” Tennison acknowledged him and beamed her attention back on the woman.

“He was the first boy I approached, and he introduced me to Connie.” She gulped down smoke. “Then it seemed obvious to me that, well, Connie would make a better story. We were worried that Martin was too young and—”

“Martin Fletcher is dead, did you know?” Tennison said brutally.

Jessica Smithy’s eyes rounded with shock. She felt she was being battered from all sides. The tough shell of blasé cynicism was falling to pieces, exposing a frightened woman floundering out of her depth.

Tennison looked at her watch. She was in a hurry to get on. She snapped her fingers, and Otley imagined he could practically see an aura of sparks coruscating around her head.

“So you drop Martin Fletcher and now offer Connie money, yes? Did you give him the money in Vernon Reynolds’s flat?”

“Yes.” Jessica Smithy nodded numbly. “He put it in his pocket, said it wasn’t enough, he wanted more.”

“Then what happened?”

“I said I couldn’t give him any more, not until I at least saw what he had to offer. . . .”

“And did you?” Tennison demanded impatiently. “Come on, Miss Smithy, did he show you anything? Give you any names?”

“No.”

Tennison looked again at her watch. “So then what happened?”

Jessica Smithy stubbed out the cigarette and wiped her fingers. “He left the room for a minute and there was this album on the coffee table. I’d just paid him five hundred pounds, so . . .” She blinked fearfully at Tennison. “I opened the album and just—I just took some of the loose photographs, and a few others . . .”

“Vera Reynolds’s album? Yes?”

“They were just photos of a family,” Jessica Smithy protested. “Couple of somebody in drag. They were no use, they meant nothing.”

Tennison stood with her hands on her hips. “Wrong, Miss Smithy. They meant an awful lot to somebody, enough to . . .” She reached for the ashtray. “Make him pick up a heavy glass ashtray and hit Colin Jenkins with it.” She emptied the ashtray, banging it against the side of the metal basket. “You have a lot to answer for.”

Pale and stricken, Jessica Smithy licked her dry lips.

Tennison looked to Hall. She flipped her hand. “Take Miss Smithy and bring her back with Vernon Reynolds’s photographs.”

Jessica Smithy rose slowly to her feet. “Are you going to charge me with anything?” she asked tremulously.

“I’ll let you know,” Tennison glowered, wafting the bloody woman out of her sight.

There was a real buzz around the place. Everyone could feel it. Something big was going down.

Haskons and Lillie, infected like everyone else, hurried along from the Squad Room, in time to see Otley emerging from Tennison’s office.

“Hey, Sarge, what’s going on?”

Otley went past them. “She’s picking up Parker-Jones,” he said, not breaking his stride.

Hall came out and escorted Jessica Smithy to the main staircase.

Otley had halted, midway along the corridor, as Kathy rushed past him. She came up breathlessly, meeting a steely-eyed Tennison head-on as she marched out of her office.

“Emergency services have said there was a fifteen-minute delay that night, and all callers were informed that—”

Tennison punched the air. “I’ve got him! And this time I am ready for him.” All fired up, she shouted to Otley, “Let’s go!”

18

O
tley went first, holding the door for Tennison to walk through into the reception area. She was alerted; it seemed unusually quiet. It was the dead time of the afternoon, but even so . . .

The door to the office was ajar, and Tennison peeked inside. The normally neat desk was a muddle of correspondence and document files spilling their contents, papers strewn everywhere. The desk drawers were open, and so were several of the filing cabinets, as if someone had been hastily rooting through them.

“Looks like he’s about to do a runner,” Tennison observed. “You think he’s been tipped off?”

Otley stepped over the torn-down notice board. He gazed around at the address slips and contact cards, ripped up and scattered over the dank green carpet. He opened the door to the TV room and looked in. Empty. He turned back to Tennison with a shrug.