Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (6 page)

“Jane, we’ve got to talk, because, I . . .” She realized he was nervous too. It was a struggle to get the words out. “Jane, I’m married and I have four kids. . . .”

“I know,” Tennison said calmly. “It’s on the flyleaf of your book.”

“Yeah!” Jake sounded almost angry. He leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. “But what isn’t is the way I feel about you. What I’ve always felt about you.”

“No, but you wrote that in the front of the book.”

“Can you just be serious, just for a second, for chrissakes!”

“There’s no point.” She repeated quietly, “There’s no point.”

“Then why did you come?” Jake asked stiffly.

“I just wanted to ask you your opinion about something I’m working on.” Tennison glanced away from him. His eyes were like lasers on her cheek.

“I don’t believe you.”

The stewardess placed Tennison’s drink in front her, along with a napkin and dish of peanuts. Jake took the bill and nodded his thanks.

Silence then, while Tennison stared at her untouched drink. She said, “I knew you were married. I shouldn’t have stayed.”

“Why did you?”

“Because . . .” She gave a tiny vexed shake of her head. “Because you wanted me to. Don’t—” She held up her hand as he tried to speak. “I wanted to, Jake. I wanted to be with you.”

It was hell to handle, and the only way she knew how was to make light of it, kill the feeling with fake humor.

“I’ve always been a glutton for punishment, maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job. I’ve got that, you’ve got a family—perhaps we’ve both got what we wanted. If I haven’t, then I’ve no one else to blame but myself.”

Jake sighed miserably. “What a mess.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tennison said briskly, “because we’ll do what we agreed. We won’t see each other again. You’ll get on the train, and in the meantime . . .” She reached down for her briefcase.

Jake turned his face away from her, but she could see his throat working. “I love you,” he said, hardly moving his lips, and took her hand, holding it tightly.

“Yes, I know,” Tennison said softly.

Jake let go of her hand. He took a huge breath and turned back to look at her. “So . . . what’s this case you’re working on?”

Larry Hall looked up from the computer as he heard the door swing. Otley was standing there, hair plastered to his forehead, hand on the shoulder of a puny kid with terrified eyes in a face that had been through the mangle.

“I want an interview room and somebody to take a statement.”

It was 7:43 by the clock on the wall of the Squad Room. Hall frowned. “You’re not down for tonight, are you?”

A couple of officers were working a few desks away. Otley lowered his voice. “This lad knows something, but he’s scared.” He nodded toward the corridor. “Come in with me?”

Hall took his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped into it, automatically adjusting the knot in his tie. He looked at Martin Fletcher, then tugged the lobe of his ear. “Hey, Bill, how old is he?”

“I think your boy was already dead,” Jake said, studying the pages of the autopsy report spread out on the table. There were some grisly morgue photographs that Tennison had shown him and quickly tucked back into her briefcase. She leaned forward, her clasped hands resting on her knees.

Jake indicated a paragraph. “Says here that the fluid taken from the blisters showed no sign of vital reaction.”

Concentrating hard, Tennison tried to put the pieces together. “So, if the fire wasn’t accidental, he was murdered? . . . Is that what you’re saying?”

Muted chimes rang out.
“The train on platform thirteen is the eight 
P.M.
Pullman Express to Liverpool, calling at Watford, Crewe
.
.
.”

“What does ‘pugilistic attitude’ mean?” Tennison asked, fretting.

“Arms held out, legs flexed.” Jake thought for a moment. “It’s caused by the coagulation of the muscles on the flexor surface of the limbs . . . so the body could look as if it was in a sitting-up position.” He raised his eyebrows. “Jane? I’ll be back in London next week, and maybe—”

“No, we agreed, no more meetings.” Tennison shuffled the pages together and closed the file. “That’s your train.” She put the file in her briefcase and snapped the locks. “Don’t call me again, please.”

Jake picked up his bag. He dropped it and fished in his pocket for change. Tennison got up and took the bill from his hand. “I’ll get this. You’d better go.”

He looked down at her gravely and put his hand on her shoulder. She did what she promised herself she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. She took his hand and pressed her lips to it.

She could still taste him when he’d gone, turned abruptly and walked out, while she stood staring at nothing. She sat down for a moment and then went to the window. He was striding across the concourse to platform 13. Suddenly he stopped, turned quite slowly, and stared up, his fair eyebrows standing out against his tanned face.

Tennison saw him move on and watched his tall figure until it was lost to sight, beyond the barrier. She came away from the window. The stewardess was clearing the table.

“Ah . . . I’d like another whisky and soda.” Tennison felt as if her insides had been scoured raw. She managed a smile. “If that’s okay.”

“For he’s a jolly good fe-ellow, for he’s a jolly good fe-ellow, for he’s a jolly good fe-el-low! And so say all of us!”

Mike Kernan wasn’t singing. He was staring, bleary-eyed, watching them sing their stupid heads off. Chiswick. Trayner. Halliday. All the rest at the top table, up on their hind legs, bellowing away. And John Kennington, slightly flushed, holding the velvet presentation box, that haughty smirk on his lips.

In Kernan’s book, Kennington wasn’t a jolly good fellow at all. Far from it. Did he have a tale to tell, if only he felt like telling it. . . .

“I’m out of here.” Kernan pushed his chair back. He tried to stand and fell back. “Can’t take any more of this crap.” He leaned over, almost in the lap of Thorndike, who gazed at him with naked disapproval. “Somebody should ask him to start the cabaret,” Kernan said, nodding, wagging his finger. “I saw him at the Bowery Roof Club . . .”

Thorndike’s attention sharpened. “The Bowery what?”

Kernan had made it to his feet, swaying. He tapped his nose. “Keep this out of it . . . but you see that iron-haired bloke, Judge Syers, top table? Ask him if he can get you a membership. ‘Iron’ being the”—he belched—“operative word. G’night.” He staggered off.

Iron? Thorndike pursed his lips. What did that mean?

The singing had finished. A slow applause started as Kennington stepped forward to the microphone, holding the velvet box in one hand and a gold pocket watch in the other. He raised an eyebrow, beaming down at them.

“Gentlemen . . .” He waited for the applause to die away. “Gentlemen, tonight is a sad, very sad occasion for me, but you have made it a night I will never forget.”

They were on their feet, applauding, none more vigorously than the iron-haired judge. Thorndike never missed an opportunity. He’d wheedled his way nearly to the top of the greasy pole, currying favor, playing the smiling sycophant, but there was some distance to go.

He took advantage of the applause to sidle around, finding himself very conveniently at the judge’s elbow. “Excuse me . . . it’s Judge Syers, isn’t it?”

Judge Syers turned and stared at him, cold probing eyes under bristling gray brows.

“We met at a lodge dinner,” Thorndike lied smoothly.

Judge Syers seemed to think this not impossible. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his iron-gray head. “What’s your name?”

Cutting through the smoke, the mauve spotlight picked out the face of Marlene Dietrich. Huge dark eyes, a gash of red for the sultry mouth. Thin arcs of eyebrows against an alabaster forehead. Silvery blond hair framing high cheekbones and the rouged hollows beneath. The spotlight widened to reveal her tight, skin-toned dress, figure-hugging from neckline to her ankles. Sequins gave off glittering sparks so that she seemed to shimmer like a cloud of dazzling light.

“Falling in love again, never wanted to

What am I to do?

I can’t help it . . .”

Vera swayed hypnotically on the small stage against a backdrop of silver satin drapes. Her arms floated like pale slender reeds, nails sharp as talons, teardrops of blood. Her low throaty voice caressed the words like a hand stroking fur, inviting, suggesting, seducing.

Below the stage, small lamps in the shape of tulips glowed on the gold lamé tablecloths. The close-packed faces were blurs in the dim light. Some were focused on the stage; Vera Reynolds was a hot act, one of the most popular with the members. Other faces—older, lined, jaded, belonging to men in muted, well-cut business suits—were constantly on the move, eyes roaming the darkness, searching for that special someone.

Half past midnight. The Bowery Roof Top Club was reaching its peak.

Thorndike followed Judge Syers out of the elevator into the small lobby on the ninth floor. A handsome young man with a thin mustache that curved down to a pointed beard, his sleek ponytail looped into a bun, sat behind the reception desk. He was checking names and numbers on a screen. Through the doors, Thorndike heard a husky voice singing, “Falling in love again, never wanted to . . .”

He was secretly thrilled. He’d never before entered such an exclusive establishment. The place reeked of power and privilege, even if the decor wasn’t to his taste. In fact it was rather vulgar, in an expensive way, Thorndike decided. Heavy tapestries of silver and gold adorned the walls. Pillars of vine leaves in wrought iron, painted gold, supported tubs of exuberant foliage. Large mirrors framed in gilt reflected the heated exotic splendor. Thorndike didn’t quite know what to make of it all; he’d certainly never seen anything like it.

He stared, blinked, and pursed his thin lips in a prudish pout. That marble statuette—good God! A full-size male nude, the anatomical detail leaving nothing to the imagination. He quickly averted his gaze.

“Member and one guest,” the receptionist said, pushing the book forward. Judge Syers stood aside as Thorndike signed.

The act was just finishing. They came through into the bar, and Thorndike got a glimpse of a blond head bowing low, arms gracefully extended, acknowledging the applause. The air was thick with smoke and heavy with perfume. The little flutter of apprehension he felt became stronger as he gazed around. What struck him most forcibly was the height of the women. Many of them were over six feet tall in their spiked heels. Gorgeous, slender creatures in sparkling evening gowns, exquisitely made up, with manes of wavy hair cascading over their shoulders, silver blond, molten red, raven black. Their dresses were cut away in the most revealing places, except there was nothing to reveal. In fact, Thorndike decided, goggling, they looked like women and they moved like women, only more so. His apprehension escalated into dry-mouthed panic.

There were boys too, some of whom looked no older than sixteen. Their hair was slicked back, glistening with gel. They wore black leather jackets over white T-shirts, with tight jeans fashionably faded at the knees and crotch.

The bar was crowded with respectable city types, middle-aged and older, in close conversation with the willowy, preening creatures and the young boys. Thorndike seemed to recognize a face here and there, and blanched at the thought that if he knew them, they might know him.

He followed Judge Syers down the four steps from the bar area to the tables clustered around the stage. The judge knew practically everyone, the way he was nodding and smiling. Then Thorndike spotted the look-alike Marlene Dietrich on the far side of the room. She pushed through the crowd toward them, silvery-blond hair gleaming in the smoky light. She came straight up to Judge Syers, a head taller, placed her hand on his arm, and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

Thorndike backed away. He looked around, eyes swiveling, panic rising in his chest. A tall graceful creature with flowing red hair, sharp painted nails, and a low-cut gown revealing a chest as flat as an ironing board winked at him.

Thorndike stumbled up the steps and fled.

“It was an accident,” Vera Reynolds said in a low, frightened voice. Her grip tightened on the judge’s arm. “A terrible accident.”

She glanced nervously over her shoulder. He was there in the bar, as usual. He was looking straight at her. Vera shuddered. She couldn’t make a move without Jackson knowing about it.

Judge Syers was reaching for his wallet. “I’m sorry. If there is anything I can—”

“No.” Vera held up the palms of both hands, whitened by constant applications of lemon juice. “No, I don’t want money,” she protested. She half-turned. “I’d better go and change.”

Judge Syers watched her threading through the crowd. He went up into the bar. He nodded to one or two people, and gradually worked his way around the intimately chattering groups. A tall elegant man with snowwhite hair, leaning on a cane, was deep in conversation with a paunchy balding man of similar age, late sixties. Frampton was a Member of Parliament, and in common with most MPs he liked the sound of his own voice. Those within ten feet had to like it too, given no choice.