Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims (7 page)

“It is a bloody outrage!” Frampton’s watery eyes bulged. His nose had been broken in a public school boxing match, and the years of booze had covered it with a maze of tiny broken blood vessels. “They are saying that the leak sent four times the permitted amount of radioactive dust into the atmosphere. Claims by the government that this could not harm people or the food chain are simply a cover-up!” He thumped his cane. “I fully intend to raise the matter in the House.”

Kilmartin sipped his drink, nodding.

“Greenpeace campaigners have been targeting the place for years,” Frampton went on heatedly. “To state that a Chernobyl-style disaster could not happen here is rubbish!”

Smiling to himself, Judge Syers moved to the bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, then indicated Frampton and Kilmartin with a nod of his head. The barman set about fixing the drinks.

Farther along the bar, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Jackson squinted through the smoke at the judge. His biker gear had been replaced by a hip-length leather jacket, designer jeans, and Reebok sneakers. As Judge Syers turned, Jackson lazily looked away.

The music started up as another act came on. This time it was a Bette Midler look-alike in army uniform, burning red hair, six-inch silver heels, a high bust like two melons under a blanket, blasting out “Boys from the Backroom.”

“If one of the biggest nuclear reprocessors for nuclear warheads in the world can have a leak, no matter how small, it means their security and safety rules must be monitored more closely . . .”

“You’re in good voice as usual,” Judge Syers said. “Are you well?”

“Terrible,” Frampton boomed. He waggled his stick. “I’ve got ruddy gout. First time out in weeks.”

They shook hands. The barman placed their drinks down. Judge Syers lit a cigar and puffed it into life. The three men raised their glasses. “Cheers!”

Judge Syers watched Bette Midler strutting her stuff for a moment. He stared into his drink. “Colin Jenkins is dead.” Frampton frowned over his brandy glass, rather puzzled. “I think he called himself Connie,” the judge said quietly. He looked at Frampton. “We should talk . . .”

The three men moved off, Frampton limping, toward a curtained doorway leading to the members’ private bar.

Jackson watched them go, cold as a snake. He turned then, his fleshy lips curving in a dead smile as Vera Reynolds moved slowly up the steps and came to stand beside him.

4

P
iece by piece, the Fire team had reconstructed the sitting room of Vera Reynolds’s flat. The charred furniture had been replaced in its exact position, according to the drawings made by the team and the fire brigade immediately after the blaze had been put out. Sections of fabric from the burnt-out sofa had been salvaged and draped over its blackened frame; the scorched covering still bore the clear outline of Connie’s body.

A cool breeze blew in through the glassless window frame, weak beams of morning sunshine showing the ravages of the fire in every grimy detail.

“The paraffin heater was found here.” Ted Drury, heading the Fire team, squatted on his haunches, pointing to the white plastic tape in the shape of a cross on the sodden, ashy carpet. “Right by the settee. Not—as described by the owner-occupant—on the far wall.”

A second cross of red tape marked the location of the heater, as stipulated by Vera. His colleague, also attired in waterproofs and green Wellington boots, took notes. A Polaroid camera was slung around his neck.

“Cold that night, so the boy lies down . . .” Drury pointed. “Maybe has moved the fire closer, from there to here.”

“No, it was found with the ridges facing away from the settee.” His colleague laid the smoke-blackened paraffin heater on its side, demonstrating. “If he had moved it to get warm by, the heater would have been the other way around.”

They both turned as footsteps scuffled through the debris in the hallway. Vera Reynolds stood in the doorway. She stared around, ashen-faced, her lower lip trembling. Her friend Red was with her, a mop of curly dyed red hair bright as a flaming beacon, long legs, and a firm little rump in tight blue jeans. They carried black plastic rubbish sacks filled with pots and pans and other kitchen utensils.

Vera gave a tiny squeal and reached down.

“Please don’t touch anything in the room,” Drury warned her.

“It’s my photograph album,” Vera said, anguished. It lay open on the carpet next to the sofa, its edges buckled and scorched.

Red put her arm around Vera’s shoulders, hugging her.

“Don’t look—just don’t even look. You’re insured. Keep on saying to yourself, ‘I am insured.’ ”

Vera gazed at the rack in the alcove where all her lovely, beautiful, gorgeous evening gowns had been, fighting back the tears. Red led her out. “You’ll have to have every carpet replaced. The water’s done more damage than the fire!”

The two fire officers looked at each other. Odd to think that pansies had the same feelings as normal folk.

Tennison called the first briefing for 9:30 
A.M.
Except for two or three officers who were out checking statements, the entire Vice Squad, Soho Division, was assembled in the Squad Room. After the tension of the previous day, the atmosphere was markedly more relaxed. People lounged around drinking coffee, wisecracks were bandied about, snatches of laughter, general good humor. Tennison thought she might even get to like working here.

“Is there anyone on the squad who has had any past dealings with Colin Jenkins?”

Kathy passed over a sheaf of reports that she’d winnowed out concerning boys of Connie’s age.

“He might have been picked up a few months back, maybe more. We rounded up a lot. I can’t find the report on him, but I’m sure that a Jenkins—I think it was a Bruce Jenkins—was interviewed with a probation officer, as he was underage.”

“What’s this advice centre?” Tennison asked, leafing through. A whiff of cigarette smoke floated by, and she had to battle against the temptation. Did the urge never, ever let up?

“One of the places we targeted,” DI Hall said. “I’ve already been there. The guy that runs it—”

Otley chimed in. “Mr. Parker-Jones. States he hadn’t seen our Connie for months.” And if you believe that, his tone said, I’m a dead ringer for Richard Gere.

“Has it been confirmed yet whether the fire was arson or accidental?”

Hall shook his head. “Don’t know. Fire team are still working on it.”

Everyone straightened up a little, took their feet off desks, as Superintendent Halliday walked in. “Want to run over a few things,” he said brusquely. Tennison nodded. She was on her way, following him out, when she heard Kathy saying to Hall, “Guv, there was an emergency call placed at nine-fifteen, night of the fire. Caller did not leave his name.”

“What emergency call?” asked Hall.

Tennison paused at the door.

“Somebody called an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?” Hall frowned. “For Reynolds’s address? Get the emergency services to send over the recording.”

Tennison hurried along the corridor, catching up with Halliday as he passed her open door. Norma was laboring mightily, logging the stacks of files and placing them on the shelves. Soon it might start to resemble an office.

Halliday turned to Tennison, rubbing his forehead. He looked distinctly green around the gills.

He said, “Last night a lad called Martin Fletcher was brought in—Otley will explain the circumstances—but the last thing we need is any aggro from Social Services about questioning underage kids without legal advisors.” He shot her a warning look, then his face creased with pain. “Christ, I’ve got a headache . . .”

Kennington’s farewell bash was taking its toll. Serves you bloody well right, Tennison thought with satisfaction.

“I’d like you to set up meetings with the British Transport police, get to know all the centres and halfway homes in our area. I’d like us to try for another swoop on those areas we’ve targeted.”

“Sir, this boy in the fire, Colin Jenkins,” Tennison said as Halliday walked on to his office and opened the door. “According to the team he was on the game!”

“Well, he isn’t anymore, so he’s one less to worry about.” Clutching his head, Halliday went in and slammed the door.

Norma looked up as Tennison came smartly in, heels rapping. She didn’t need smoke signals to know that a storm was brewing. Tennison sent her off to get Martin Fletcher’s file, and when she returned her boss was pacing the small space between the desk and window. Still pacing, Tennison quickly scanned through the file, and then snatched up the phone. Norma kept her head down, literally, sorting out the files.

“DCI Tennison. Extension seven-eight, please.” While she waited, fingers drumming, she spotted some Post-It memo slips stuck to the blotter and attracted Norma’s attention.

“There were three messages. The Fire team, Forensic department, and someone called Jessica Smithy. She’s a journalist. Said she is doing a piece on rent boys—”

“What paper is she from?” Before Norma could answer, Tennison said into the phone, “Would you please ask Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall to . . .”

There was no need, as Otley tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Tennison banged the phone down. Hall followed the sergeant in.

“That’s it, Norma,” Tennison said. “Out, thank you.” She waited until the door had closed and came around the desk, brandishing the file.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at—
no!
Don’t interrupt!” Otley shut his mouth as Tennison glared at him. “Last night, according to the roster,
you
were not even on duty—but last night the pair of you interviewed a Martin Fletcher, correct?” She opened the file, glancing down at the yellow slip paper-clipped to the top sheet. “When later interviewed by his probation officer, a Miss Margaret Speel, she noted that this same Martin Fletcher had extensive bruising to his face, arms, and upper neck . . .”

“Wait, wait,” Otley said, shaking his head rapidly. “We brought him in like that!”

“
Don’t
interrupt me, Bill.” Tennison’s eyes blazed. “This same probation officer has subsequently filed a complaint against this department—which, in case you two had not bloody noticed,
I am head of
!” Her voice sank to a dangerous whisper. “Martin Fletcher, you idiots, is fourteen years old!”

Otley swore under his breath and flopped down into a chair, a hand covering his eyes. Hall stayed on his feet, goggling.

“Oh, man—he swore under caution he was seventeen. He said he was seventeen . . .”

“And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”

Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.

He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James—”

“So? Get to the point.”

“He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London—Euston, Charing Cross—”

“I know the stations. Go on.”

Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”

Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”

“We just wanted to talk to him about Colin Jenkins,” Hall added. “Then he starts to tell us about Jackson.”

“The bastard plucks ’em off the station,” Otley said, “takes them out, gives them food, offers a place to stay—that’s it, he’s got them.” His mouth twisted in his long, haggard face. “Keeps them locked up. Not just boys, it’s very young—only the very young—girls as well. He drugs them, keeps them dependent.”

Thoughtfully, Tennison went back around the desk. She leaned her knuckles on the edge.

“Did Martin Fletcher tell you all this? Or is it past history?”

“We’ve sort of known about the scams,” Hall said, “but we can’t get any of the kids to name Jackson—he was one of our main targets. We don’t know where he holds the kids, but Fletcher, he admitted—”

“Just hang on a second.” Tennison’s narrowed eyes flicked between them. “What do you mean, ‘holds the kids’? Kidnaps them?”

“No, they go with him willingly,” Otley said. His voice had a raw, ugly edge to it. “And then once he’s got them—that’s it. We’re talking about kids as young as twelve and thirteen . . .”

“None of the kids will talk. We’ve had him hauled in on numerous occasions, we’ve even got as far as getting charges compiled against him, but the statements are always withdrawn, the kids are terrified of him, they won’t go against him. So when Martin tells us Jackson beat him up because he wanted to know where Connie was, we reckoned we got something.” Hall gestured irritably toward the desk. “Have you read my report?”

Tennison straightened up. “Yes!” She flipped open the buff cover, and began to read out loud.