“Tony, can you go and see if you can have a word with Harvey’s doctor, make sure he’s not just a bloody good actor.”
“If he is, he should win an Oscar,” Muddyman said.
“Right. That’s all for now.”
As she went out, Burkin turned to Haskons with a grin, muttering, “Glad to see the boss is keeping our colored friend in his place.” Haskons didn’t agree, and he was less than happy with Tennison’s duty allocation. He followed and caught up with her in the corridor.
“Guv… can I put someone else on Mispers?”
“Why?”
“With respect, ma’am, it’s ridiculous having a man of his experience…”
“No.” Tennison was already striding off. “He might pick up on something a more junior man might miss. Don’t call me ma’am.”
Haskons watched her go, shaking his head. Of all the crap excuses…
Eileen Reynolds was a younger, much tougher version of her brother David Harvey. A hard-bitten Glaswegian woman with a shrewd, sharp-nosed face under a silvery cap of bleached hair, she sat in Tennison’s office wearing a powder blue coat and a tartan scarf that clashed badly with everything. Her son Jason sat meekly by her side, as if cowed by her domineering presence.
Tennison was trying to establish the pattern of Harvey’s visits to his sister, and whether he had been there on the weekend in question.
“I’m sure, of course I’m sure! Every year since his Jeanie died. He wouldn’t have left till the Monday morning.” Eileen Reynolds suddenly bent forward, her work-worn hands clutching the shiny black handbag in her lap. “What you lot’ve got to remember is that he’s a sick man. You shouldn’t be hounding him.”
“Mum.” Jason tugged at her sleeve. He seemed embarrassed. “They’ve got their job to do.”
“He’s waiting for an operation you know? You’ll be the bloody death of him…”
“We’re not hounding him, Mrs. Reynolds. We’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries.”
Leaning forward again, beady eyes glittering, the woman said hoarsely, “You wouldn’t be hounding him like this if he was a black man.”
“Mum…!”
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Tennison said patiently, “I’ve questioned your brother once, that’s all. Which is not surprising given that the body of a young girl was found buried in his garden.”
Eileen Reynolds snorted. “Well, that’s a lot of rubbish. Simone Cameron this, Simone Cameron that. Was it Simone?”
“No.”
“Exactly. It’s my brother you should be concerned about. He’s the one that’s dying.”
“Is that all for now?” Jason asked, standing up.
“Yes. Thank you very much for coming.”
“Come on, Mum…”
“Don’t pull me about!” At the door she turned her sharp, angry face towards Tennison for a parting shot. “He’s at the hospital tomorrow thanks to you.”
“Come on,” Jason said, steering her out into the corridor.
Tennison went to the door and indicated to a passing WPC that she should see them to reception. With his arm around the back of the powder blue coat, Jason guided his mother after the WPC, the dutiful, attentive son.
Tennison looked at her watch, debated for a moment, and grabbed her coat from the hook. If she hurried she’d just be in time to catch Vernon Allen before he left his office.
He wasn’t as friendly and cooperative this time. Perhaps it was because he was in his management role, sitting at a mahogany desk, his broad frame inside a well-cut suit and matching waistcoat. Or perhaps he was just fed up with Tennison retreading the same questions he thought he’d already answered.
Aware that he was fretting, impatient to get away, Tennison said, “Just one last thing, Vernon. You said that you and Mr. Harvey fell out because he wouldn’t move.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
“What? No.”
“But didn’t he sublet the basement? To a girl?”
“That had nothing to do with me.”
“What had nothing to do with you?”
“Whatever she was doing.”
“What was she doing?”
“Look-I don’t know. It was none of my business.”
Vernon Allen sniffed and turned his head away, gazing through the venetian blinds at the London skyline in the gathering dusk. Far below, the rush-hour traffic was clogging up the Euston underpass.
“It was if she was a prostitute, Vernon,” Tennison said.
“Why?”
“Because as the landlord you could have been charged with running a brothel.”
He was offended. “How dare you use the word ‘brothel.’ ”
“What word would you use?”
He looked at her through his heavy, dark-framed glasses, a hint of uncertainty there, as if he wasn’t sure of his ground anymore. With a weary motion he pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and said, “I was at work all hours, Esme was too. A neighbor told us men were calling there. I spoke to Harvey right away but I had no proof. Then suddenly the… the girl… seemed to have gone.”
Tennison leaned forward. “But did you see her?”
Vernon Allen gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.”
“Was it the girl whose remains we’ve found? Is that why you won’t cooperate?”
“Listen. My family is very upset.” He was making a great effort to speak slowly, holding his emotions in check. “It’s an important time for us. A wedding should be a time of joy. I have cooperated with you in every way so far…”
“Then please answer the question. Did she answer the description I’ve given you?”
“No.” He stared straight back. “She was a white girl.”
“Not just light-skinned?”
“No. White.”
Tennison leaned back, pressing her lips together. “Can you describe her, please?”
Vernon Allen thought for a moment. “Small, perhaps five foot two. A tiny thing, really. Blond hair-bleached, I would say.” Tennison nodded, making notes. “Young, but not the girl you described.”
Tennison looked up from her pad. “Did you have sexual relations with this girl?”
She saw in his eyes how disturbed he was by this question.
“I did not,” Vernon Allen replied gravely.
“What was the relationship between Harvey and this girl?”
“God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”
“And when did all this happen, Vernon?”
He stared down at the desk, evading Tennison’s gaze, but she was quite content to wait. He cleared his throat and swallowed, and reluctantly admitted, “It could have been the summer you’re talking about.”
Tennison replaced the cap on her pen and screwed it tight.
The medical artist had promised it by the end of the week, and the next day, shortly after three in the afternoon, he delivered the goods.
On her way back from the ladies’ room, Tennison nipped up to Kernan’s office and invited him to come along to the Incident Room and take a gander at it. She thought it was the least she could do, seeing as how Kernan had been burdened with finding the money from his budget to pay for it.
“The Viswandhas’ lawyer has been bending my ear,” Kernan grumbled to her as they walked along the corridor. “He tells me Forensic are still there, poking around inside the house, lifting carpets, floorboards, the lot.”
“So?”
“Let’s get out of there as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course.”
Kernan pushed open the door of the Incident Room, waving her to go first, and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Let’s see it then.”
There was an air of expectancy. All the team had gathered for the grand unveiling. Richards, the police photographer, had set up his tripod and lights. Tennison nodded to Haskons, who stepped forward and whisked off the cloth. There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a kind of collective gasp. The medical artist had been too modest, Tennison thought. He was as much artist as he was scientist, without doubt.
Modeled in brown clay, the head was astonishingly lifelike. The girl was young and very beautiful, rather proud-looking, with braided hair swept back from a wide forehead. The artist had caught exactly the mixed-race cast of her features, high cheekbones had a generous mouth, and it reminded Tennison strongly of the sculpted head of an ancient goddess.