Everyone, even the hardened longtime pros who thought they’d seen everything, were impressed…
Everyone except Kernan, cynical old bugger, who was seeing a hole in his budget rather than an expertly crafted clay head.
His only comment was a surly, “Very nice,” and then the swing door was wafting the air as he disappeared through it.
Richards was popping off photographs, moving his camera around to cover all the angles. Tennison turned to the men.
“Right… I want these photographs to appear everywhere they can, local and national press. From now on you’ll show them to anyone who might be able to help. Let’s get the Allens in to see this…” She gestured towards the head. “Vernon Allen has confirmed that there was a hooker working from the basement of Number fifteen that summer. From his description it wasn’t Nadine but it’s possible that Nadine was a tom as well… perhaps Harvey was a small-time pimp? Harvey is at the hospital all day tomorrow,” she added, “so I won’t be able to see him till the evening to tackle him about it.”
“She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” DC Lillie said.
“Start asking around anyway.” Tennison moved to the board. “Vernon Allen has accounted for his family’s whereabouts on the thirty-first. For the last ten years there’s been a Reggae Sunsplash concert in Honeyford Park on the last Sunday in August. Vernon says Esme was at that concert-she’s there every year running a stall selling West Indian food.”
The men were silent, paying close attention. Glancing down at her notes now and then to refresh her memory, Tennison continued.
“Apparently Tony, the son, attended the concert, which is an all-day affair-ten to ten. Vernon says he spent the day at home with Sarah and David. Tony returned at about nine p.m. to look after his brother and sister so Vernon could go to work. I’ve checked Vernon’s work record. He did a double shift through Sunday night and late into Monday. By the time Esme had packed up, returned things to the cafe and got back home, it was about ten forty-five p.m. She says by then all three children were asleep in bed. Obviously, wherever possible, I’d like these accounts verified.”
She looked around, and was about to call the briefing over when Oswalde, leaning back nonchalantly against a desk, arms folded, said casually, “Perhaps that’s the link between Nadine and Honeyford Road.”
“What?”
“The Reggae Sunsplash.”
Tennison’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“Harvey could have met her there, or Tony Allen. Perhaps the victim’s bag of African cloth was a costume of some sort. She might even have been performing at the concert.”
Nobody said anything. Oswalde’s first contribution, after being on the team less than twenty-four hours, was a good one, and everybody knew it.
Tennison looked away from him, tapping her fingers on the desk. “It’s an interesting thought. Worth following up. Frank, Gary, I’d like you to visit the Sunsplash organizers first thing tomorrow-see if they can point you toward any bands using back up singers or musicians in African dress.”
Oswalde slowly unfolded his arms. He couldn’t believe this. He’d just single-handedly come up with a promising lead and she’d tossed the juicy bone to someone else. Knowing what he must be feeling, the rest of the team couldn’t meet his dark, angry eyes. Something was going down here, but they were damned if they knew what it was.
“Anything else?” said Tennison briskly. “Right. That’s it for now.” She strode out.
Oswalde went after her. He caught up with her in the corridor and made her stop. “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.
“What?”
“Treating me like the office boy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tennison said, braving it out. Her eyes shifted away; people were passing, and it was a bit public for this exchange.
“Why didn’t you send me to see the concert organizers?”
“You’re busy already,” Tennison said, another convenient crap excuse. “Besides, I thought that you didn’t want to be given special tasks because of the color of your skin.”
“I don’t,” Oswalde said curtly. “I want to be given a task commensurate with my abilities and experience.”
He was right to be pissed-off, and right to make this request, they both knew it. Tennison was anxious to end this public confrontation lest tongues started to wag. She said, “I want you to carry on overseeing Mispers…” Oswalde was about to protest, and she cut him short. “But I’d also like you to arrange for the Allens to see the clay head. Watch their reactions.”
“Thank you,” Oswalde said stiffly, and went back to work.
While he was still sore at Tennison, Oswalde was glad to be more centrally involved in the investigation; combing through the endless Missing Persons files on the computer was brain-numbing, soul-destroying work. He’d done his stint at it as a young DC, and had thought those days were behind him.
He contacted the Allens and arranged for Vernon and Esme, and their son Tony, to come into Southampton Row to view the clay head. He went down to reception to meet them, and before taking them through to the interview room, explained to the three of them what was involved. They were being asked to say if they recognized the girl, and if possible, to identify her.
As they filed in, Oswalde kept a close eye on them, noting their reactions at the first sight of the head on the small wooden plinth. They studied it in silence. Oswalde glanced at Vernon Allen, who shook his head.
“Are you sure, Vernon?”
“Absolutely.”
“Esme?”
“Yes?” Her brows were drawn forward, gazing at the head with a harrowed expression. “No, dear. I’d remember if I had.” She let out a pitiful sigh. “What a beautiful child…”
There was a strange gasping, choking sound. Oswalde swung around to find Tony Allen on the verge of collapse. The boy was shuddering violently and clutching his throat, the awful noises issuing from his quivering mouth. He seemed unable to properly draw a breath.
“Tony-what’s wrong?” Oswalde said, alarmed.
Esme took charge. “Come, Tony, sit down.” She led the boy to a chair and sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “Now don’t make a fuss, you’re all right,” his mother comforted him. “It’s very hot in here. He suffers from asthma,” she explained to Oswalde.
“I see.”
Oswalde watched him. He seemed calmer now, though there was a mist of sweat on his forehead. He kept staring at the clay head, then down at the floor, and then back again, as if the sight mesmerized him.
“Have you seen her before, Tony?”
“No.” He gulped air. “I’ve never seen her.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.
6
“He’s our prime suspect and he’s dying. I’m not going to sit back and watch.”
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Muddyman panted. “Just another runaway, another dead prostitute…”
Tennison halted on the ninth floor of Dwyfor House and turned to him, her chest heaving. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do if it means climbing these poxy stairs again,” Muddyman said, staring up with deep loathing.
“She’s someone’s daughter, Tony.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Muddyman set off again. He said bitterly, “Anything we get from the old sod will be thrown out of court anyway. ‘He didn’t know what he was saying,’ ” Muddyman mimicked a light brown voice. “ ‘Oppressive conduct by the police… ’ ”
If when they’d seen him the previous time Harvey was on his last legs, he was at death’s door now. He looked even more haggard, and kept swallowing tablets-ten different shapes, sizes, and colors-as if they were candy. Tennison, seated opposite him on the sofa, treated him as gently as she knew how. She spread the photographs of Nadine on the coffee table and gave him plenty of time to mull them over. Finally, chest wheezing and rattling, he shook his head.