Pumping himself up, convinced he was in the right, Tony was jabbing his finger in Oswalde’s chest. “She says you either arrest me or stop harassing me.”
That did it. If Oswalde’s mind hadn’t been made up already, that made it up for him. He lunged forward and grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him through the door onto the landing. “Tony Allen, I am arresting you for the murder of Joanne Fagunwa.”
“No!” Esta shouted. But she was too late. Oswalde had Tony in an armlock and was frog-marching him to the stairs.
“You can’t…” Esta wailed. “Where are you…”
Bent double, Tony yelled back, “Esta, phone my dad… phone my dad!”
Oswalde bundled him down the stairs. Seeing her father snatched away in front of her eyes, Cleo had burst into tears; but the child’s crying didn’t deter DS Oswalde, who knew what had to be done, and did it.
Harvey had been miked up. Tennison sat close to the bed, leaning over, while Muddyman kept an eye on the tape recorder’s winking red light. Jason stood behind Muddyman, his face and cap of blond hair a shadowy blur.
“Do you wish to consult an attorney or have an attorney present during the interview?”
“No.” The lost, bleary eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Water.”
Tennison poured water into a glass and helped him to a couple of sips. Her entire job, it seemed, consisted of waiting, and she waited now, very patiently, for Harvey to compose himself.
Custody Sergeant Calder and an Asian PC were having one hell of a struggle, trying to get Tony Allen from the charge room into the cells. The boy was close to hysteria, his eyes wide and terrified in his sweating face. He was babbling, “No, don’t lock me up, don’t lock me up, please don’t lock me up…”
Eventually, after much straining and heaving, they managed to get him inside cell 7 and slammed the door. Calder walked back to the charge room, wiping his bald head, and tugging his uniform straight. He was an experienced officer and he didn’t like the look of it; the kid was half-demented, and even now his moaning voice echoed down the corridor, pleading, “Let me out… don’t leave me alone, please… please let me out!”
Calder entered the charge room, shaking his head worriedly. “I’d better get the doctor to take a look at him. I don’t think he’s fit to be detained.”
Oswalde thought this was overdoing it. “He’s all right,” he said dismissively. “Just let him stew for a bit…”
“Look, I’m the Custody Sergeant,” Calder blazed at him. “Don’t try to tell me my job. Right?”
Oswalde gave him a look. Then he shrugged and went out. Calder reached for the phone but he didn’t pick it up. He stood there for a moment, undecided, cracking his knuckles, and then barked, “Yes?” at the Asian PC, who was holding out a docket to be signed. Calder scrawled his signature, which reminded him he had a mountain of paperwork to process.
He made a noise that was half snort, half sigh. That’s all they were these days, a legion of bloody pencil pushers.
When he was ready, she began:
“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, David?”
“Yes.” His breathing rasped in his throat. Slowly he turned his head on the pillow and looked straight at her.
8
Tennison had to steel herself not to show repugnance as his breath wafted over her. It seemed to her she had been sitting by his bedside for an eternity, breathing in the foul miasma of death. She herself felt soiled by it, as if it had entered her pores, and she had to use every ounce of willpower to repress the shudder at the touch of his cold, damp hand.
Her face betrayed none of this. And her voice stayed quiet and calm, almost soothing.
“All right, David… let me take you back to what you said originally. That you were with your sister in Margate on Sunday and Monday, and not at Honeyford Road.”
“Lies,” Harvey said drably. “I didn’t stay the night. I came back Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Not Monday like I said.”
“So-did you ask Eileen to provide you with an alibi?”
Harvey shook his head weakly. “No. She knows nothing of this…”
Tennison frowned. “But she must, David, because she confirmed your story. She said that weekend was the anniversary of your wife’s death. It wasn’t. She said you spent it with her. You didn’t.”
“I don’t want my sister dragged into this,” Harvey insisted, his voice thickening. He was staring at Tennison, blinking rapidly.
“I’m afraid she already is, David…”
“Leave her out of it.” Suddenly angry, he levered himself up on one elbow, the effort making him gasp. His eyes were wild, rolling. “I’ll tell you nothing if you drag her into it!”
Tennison put her hand on his shoulder, and he slowly subsided, flecks of spittle on his mustache. He lay flat, his chest heaving. The vehemence of his reaction puzzled her. She had seen real fear in his eyes… but fear of what? Involving his sister? His emotion had been too fierce and panic-stricken for that alone, Tennison thought. Unless he was trying to shield Eileen, divert suspicion from her possible complicity in what had taken place that weekend.
Harvey went on, almost in a drone, as if talking to himself. “I hated it down there anyway. Godforsaken cold bastard of a place. Thought I might as well go home-do something useful, get some work done in the garden…”
“So what time did you get back to London?” Tennison asked.
“About five. I did some more work, then I went inside. I was watching the TV in the front room when I saw her.”
Tennison leaned forward, her eyes narrowing a fraction. “Who did you see, David?”
“I saw the girl. Joanne.” Harvey stared into the shadows, as if seeing her now. “She was standing at a bus stop. Waiting for a bus that didn’t run on a Sunday.”
“What time was this?”
“ ’Bout half past eight, nine. It was just getting dark. I watched her…” His voice took on a dreamy, faraway tone. “She stood with one leg behind the other, sort of swinging herself. I thought I’d better tell her. I went out to her. I told her the bus didn’t run. I said she should phone for a taxi. Told her she could use my phone.
He paused, his dry lips parted. “She came into the house,” he said in his drab, dreamy voice, and then, as if the recollection had exhausted him, he closed his eyes.
DI Burkin wasn’t at all happy about this. Calder, the Custody Sergeant, had already voiced his doubts to him, and Burkin could see why. The kid was practically gibbering with fear. Sweat was trickling from the roots of his short black hair, making his face a shiny, petrified mask. Oswalde didn’t seem to notice-or if he did, didn’t appear to care.
Arms folded, Burkin leaned against the wall of the interview room, watching with hooded eyes as Oswalde set up the tape recorder. He didn’t know what grounds Oswalde had for arresting Tony Allen, but they’d better be bloody good, or there’d be hell to pay.
Oswalde placed the mike on the table in front of Tony Allen, who stared at it like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Oswalde stretched out and pressed the record button. Still standing, he began: “This interview is being tape recorded. I am Detective Sergeant Robert Oswalde, attached to Southampton Row. The other officer present is…”
“Detective Inspector Frank Burkin,” Burkin said.
Oswalde sat down opposite Tony Allen. “You are?”
Nothing. Not a flicker. The young man looked to be in some sort of trance. Oswalde leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “State your full name and date of birth.”
Tony’s lips moved. In a mumble that was almost inaudible, he said, “Anthony Allen. Fifth of May…”
“Louder for the tape, please.”
The command galvanized Tony into life. His head came up, eyes bulging, and he started gabbling like somebody on speed, “Anthony Allen. Anthony Allen. Fifth of May. Nineteen sixty-nine. Nineteen sixty. . . ”