“So you bought the property in 1981, right?”
“Yes.”
“And Harvey moved in shortly after?”
Vernon Allen nodded. “With his wife. After she died he let things go.”
“And you sold the property in…” Tennison checked her notes “… ’89, with Mr. Harvey as a resident tenant?” Vernon Allen’s nod confirmed this. “Did that lead to much bad feeling between you and Mr. Harvey?”
“Some. Not much.” He wagged his head from side to side, the light catching the flecks of gray in his thick hair. “The problem we had was that he was very erratic in paying the rent. Sometimes he seemed to have money; sometimes not.”
“Mmm,” Tennison said, as if mulling this over, and then she said quickly, “I presume you have a set of keys to the property?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Allen, did you do anything to the garden while you were the owner of the property?”
“No. Harvey laid the slabs. I didn’t want him to, but he did very much as he pleased really.”
“When were those slabs laid?”
“I’d say 1986. 1987…?”
The door was ajar a couple of inches. There was a movement outside on the landing, the creaking of a floorboard.
“Because, you know,” Tennison went on, “it’s almost certain that the body was buried before the slabs went down.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Vernon Allen said.
“Mr. Allen, how is it you could afford two properties on your pay?”
He didn’t seem surprised at this change of tack, or even mildly annoyed by the question.
“Esme’s cafe has always done well.” He shrugged his broad shoulders in the rumpled cardigan. “To tell you the truth, it was her money that paid for the second mortgage.”
“And your son’s at private school?” Tennison said, having jotted down in her mental file the blue-and-green striped tie the polite schoolboy had been wearing.
At that moment the door was pushed roughly open and a tall, willowy girl barged in, an exact younger version of Esme Allen, hair cropped very short with tiny-plaited dreadlocks trailing over her ears. Attractive and vivacious, with large flashing eyes, the effect was spoiled somewhat by the way she was twisting her mouth.
“When will you ever learn, Pop? Black people aren’t supposed to own businesses, houses, get an education…”
She regarded Tennison with open hostility.
“This is my daughter, Sarah,” Vernon Allen said, standing up. “There’s no need to be rude,” he gently rebuked her.
“I agree,” Sarah snapped.
Tennison rose, glancing down at the notebook in her hand. “Sarah… you’re the law student. And you’re twenty. So in the summer of, say, 1986, you would have been… let me see…”
There was a slight pause.
“Fourteen. Mathematics not your strong point?” the girl said sarcastically.
Tennison was unabashed. “Not particularly, no.” She smiled. Sarah’s rudeness didn’t upset her one bit, but it embarrassed Vernon Allen.
“It’s my son David who’s the wizard at math,” he said, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.
Tennison took the description of Nadine from her briefcase and handed it to the girl. “Do you recall seeing anyone like that in the vicinity of Honeyford Road?”
Sarah hardly glanced at it. “Yes, of course, Simone Cameron,” she said curtly.
“It’s not Simone. We’re quite sure about that,” Tennison stated evenly. “Would you look at the description, please.”
Sarah blinked rapidly, obviously taken aback. Then the icy, scathing tone returned, this time with a touch of venom.
“Well, then, if it’s not Simone, you’ll need to be a bit more specific, won’t you? That’s if you can be bothered!”
“And would that mean…”
Sarah interrupted, “The police aren’t exactly noted for their enthusiasm in solving cases when the victim is black, are they?” Again the sneering twist to her mouth, her contemptuous summing up of all police officers, be they male or female.
Tennison raised her eyebrows. “Was she black? It doesn’t say so here.” Taking back the description, she gave Sarah a cool, level stare. “Maybe it’s you who’s jumping to conclusions.”
Tony was in the hallway with Cleo in his arms when Vernon Allen showed Tennison to the front door. Tennison smiled at the little girl and asked, “When’s the happy day, Tony?”
He looked down at the carpet, throat working, too shy or too tongue-tied to give a coherent reply. Sarah had followed them downstairs. She came into the hallway, transformed into a beautiful young woman by a beaming smile as she looked fondly at her brother and his daughter, and Tennison noticed that she gripped Tony’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
“Two weeks away now,” Sarah said, and even her voice was different, warm and affectionate, when speaking of Tony.
“Well, I’ll see you again before that,” Tennison said, nodding to Vernon Allen as he held the door open for her. “Thanks for your help. Good-bye.”
It was late when she returned to Southampton Row. The cleaners didn’t start their assault on the disaster area of the Incident Room till the early hours. Everyone had gone, except for DS Haskons, who was tidying up his desk, getting ready for home. He looked frazzled after the long day, shirt collar wrinkled, tie undone, wavy, brown hair tousled from continually brushing his fingers through it.
“Got anything on David Harvey?” Tennison asked, dumping her briefcase on the desk.
“Not yet, Guv,” Haskons said wearily. He wondered what Tennison did in her spare time. Traffic duty at Hyde Park Corner? “We’ve tried the electoral rolls, NHS, DHSS, taxes.” He gestured at the piles of directories. “I’ve just finished working my way through the phone book…”
“You know,” Tennison said, her brain still ticking over after twelve straight hours on the job, “Vernon Allen said Harvey was erratic in paying his rent. Have we checked out the credit reference agencies?”
Haskons mumbled that they hadn’t. Tossing her raincoat aside and pushing up her sleeves, Tennison got down to it. She pulled a chair up to the computer terminal, and slipped a Nicorette lozenge into her mouth while she studied the code manual. Haskons leaned over, watching as Tennison keyed in the letters “SVR.” The computer clicked and whirred, and in a second or two the “CREDIT REFERENCE AGENCIES” program flashed up to the VDU screen.
Tennison carefully typed, “DAVID ALOYSIUS HARVEY, 15 HONEYFORD ROAD, LONDON N1.” A few more clicks followed while the computer carried out its search. Then up came:
“CREDIT REF: DAH/18329
DATE: 12 2 86
SUM: £5000 × 60 FIN.”
Tennison leaned forward, rubbing her hands. “Yes…”
The next line appeared.
“FORWARD 3 10 90-136 DWYFOR HOUSE, LLOYD GEORGE ESTATE, LONDON SW8.”
Tennison snapped her fingers for a pen. Haskons handed her his ballpoint. She noted down the details, then keyed in a new code, and the computer responded.
“LOAN REPAYMENTS TAKEN OVER BY MRS. EILEEN REYNOLDS, 6 6 90.”
“Well done, boss,” Haskons murmured admiringly. You had to hand it to the woman. Like a bloody terrier with a bone.
Tennison was scribbling on the pad. “Do you fancy a drink?” she asked, the Nicorette bulging in her cheek.
Haskons hesitated. “I should get home really…”
Tennison glanced around. “Yes, right-the twins.” She gave him a grin and a quick nod. “Off you go.”
“ ’Night,” Haskons said, on his way out.
“ ’Night, Richard.”
The door swung shut, rocking to and fro on its hinges. The room was silent, except for the low hum of the computer. Alone, crouched over the keyboard, in a world of her own, Tennison clenched both fists and stared at the screen in triumph.