“I spoke to him, the headmistress spoke to him. I got Dad up here. Nothing seemed to work.” Dugdale slipped on his glasses and opened the buff folder. “There, you see… September eighty-six. I’m usually right. Educational psychologist’s report. Help yourself.”
Oswalde scanned through it and made a few notes while Dugdale fussed around.
“I see Tony played in a band…”
“Did he? I didn’t know that. We did our best but there was really no point in him staying on. The only person he seemed to relate to was his Sarah. He was gone by Christmas. I see him in the supermarket from time to time,” Dugdale said absently, polishing his glasses with the end of his tie. “Waste really, he was a bright lad.”
Tennison was on her knees, scrubbing the bathtub, when the intercom buzzer sounded. She dried her hands on her loose cotton top and went to answer it, frowning as she lifted the receiver from its wall cradle. She hadn’t a clue who it could be; she wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Hello?”
“Jane?”
A man’s voice, deep and resonant, one she couldn’t put a name to. “Who’s this?” she asked guardedly.
“Bob Oswalde.”
She leaned her outstretched arm against the door frame, wondering what the hell was going on, and more specifically just what game he thought he was playing.
“Jane…? Look, I know this is a bit, er, unexpected… but I really do need to talk to you.”
“Well, can’t it wait? I’m waiting for a call from the hospital.”
“No.”
Sighing, she pressed the button to release the street door and dropped the receiver back in its cradle. She started towards the living room, only just realizing in the nick of time that she was practically on display, wearing only the loose top with nothing underneath. She nipped back into the bathroom and pulled on a floppy sweater, then walked through the living room, brushing her fingers through her hair.
Oswalde knocked and she opened the door. He was carrying a video tape. She said crisply, “This’d better be good,” already walking off, leaving him to close the door.
She stood with her arms folded, watching him insert the video into the machine and turn on the set. He sat down on the sofa, still in his raincoat, and operated the remote. The image flickered and steadied: a reggae group blowing up a storm, a host of black faces smiling in the sunshine, women swaying to and fro in their multicolored robes and turbans.
Tennison knelt on the carpet in front of the TV, chin propped on her fist. “I’ve seen this,” she told him in a voice flat as a pancake.
Oswalde suddenly leaned forward and touched the screen, indicating a tiny figure on the far right. “There.”
“Your finger, very interesting.”
“There’s a better shot in a moment,” he said, on the defensive, hurt by her flippancy. The camera cut to a close-up of the bass player. Oswalde pressed the pause button and jabbed at the screen. “There!”
Squinting, Tennison slowly leaned forward. “Is that Tony Allen?”
Oswalde gave a grim smile. “Tony Allen. He’s concealed the fact that he was playing at the Sunsplash concert and evidently knew Joanne.”
“Jesus!”
“The Allens had keys to the house. I’ve been to the school-”
“Yes. Okay.” Tennison cut him short with a raised hand. She sat back on her heels. “Let’s think this through. Just because he was on the bandstand with her doesn’t mean-” Her beeper went off. “Shit, this could be it.” She dived for her shoulder bag, found the beeper and killed it. “I’m waiting for Harvey to come around,” she told him, already reaching for the phone and dialing.
Oswalde discovered he’d been sitting on a plate of half-eaten congealed food. He removed it, mouth curling in distaste. “What’s this?”
“Last night’s dinner-one of those frozen chili con carne things.”
“What have you got for tonight?”
Snapping her fingers impatiently, waiting for the connection to be made, she glanced over at him. “One of those frozen chili con carne things… DCI Tennison,” she said into the phone.
Oswalde draped his raincoat over the back of the sofa, picked up the disgusting plate between outstretched fingertips, and wandered off with it. Tennison was momentarily distracted.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Then she was nodding, talking fast. “Right. Did she leave a number? A pay phone?” She scribbled it down. “Okay… right… thanks.” She hung up and started to redial. Oswalde had disappeared. “It’s not the hospital,” she called out to him. “It’s an informer of mine trying to get through to me.”
“Right…” Oswalde’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“What are you up to?” she wondered aloud. “Rachel? It’s me, Jane Tennison, darling. What’ve you got for me, darling?”
When she came through into the kitchen there was water on the boil, a package of pasta waiting to go in. Bob Oswalde had raided her meager shelves and come up with canned tomatoes, a can of tuna, one onion, and a few dried herbs, the last in the jar. He’d found a clean pan and had made a start on the sauce. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he was standing at the countertop, expertly chopping garlic and crushing it into a saucer.
Tennison leaned in the doorway, watching him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Oswalde wiped his hands and opened the refrigerator door. He rooted inside and picked something up. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up what appeared to be a moldy brown tennis ball.
“It’s lettuce,” Tennison said. “Well, it was once.”
Oswalde chucked it in the trash, tut-tutting. “You need to eat some decent food. What was the call about? Anything interesting?”
“No, not really,” she said, deciding to humor him, and besides, the smell was making her ravenous. “Apparently it seems the girl that was at Number fifteen sacked it in afterward and went legit. No one seems to know where she is now, but they’re all sure she’s not on the game.”
“Right,” Oswalde said, busy now forking tuna into a bowl. “I took a look at Tony’s school record. Everything was fine until 1986. When Tony came back from the summer vacation, he was a different person.” He glanced around at her, eyebrows raised. “Educational psychologist’s report talks of depression, anxiety attacks, low self-esteem.”
Tennison studied him for a moment, lips pursed. “What is it with you?”
“What?” Oswalde said, blinking.
“What are you trying to prove?”
He emptied the tomatoes and stirred them in with a wooden spoon. “Do you have any tomato puree?”
“No.”
“How can I work in these conditions?” he complained to the cupboard door, his brow furrowed.
“It’s as if you’re taking some kind of test all the time…”
“You should know,” he retorted, and that made her stand up straight. “I watched you on the course. You know they’re all lined up, wanting to see you fall flat on your face. Thorndike, all the Senior Shits. You always want to be the best, come out on top.”
This was straight from the shoulder, and Tennison wasn’t sure she liked it. She certainly wasn’t used to be spoken to so directly, least of all by a subordinate.
“I’m the same as you,” Oswalde went on imperturbably. He tasted the sauce, added black pepper. “Which is why-when I calmed down and thought about it-I understood why you’d been treating me like the office boy.”
He was one cool customer, had it all down.
“And why you’ve gone off and done a number on your own?” Tennison accused him sharply. He had the gall to laugh-a confident, unforced laugh at that. “I mean it, Bob. You are a member of a team,” she reminded him.
“Am I?” Oswalde said, instantly serious, his stern dark eyes coming around to meet hers.