“You’re one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”
Oswalde dropped his voice to a low growl. “Don’t look at me like that, Frank. You’ve been wanting to have a go at me ever since I arrived at this poxy station.” He squared up, flexing his shoulders. “Well, go on then,” he challenged.
Eyeball to eyeball, the two men glowered at one another. Both well over six feet tall, both strongly built, both fired up with mutual hatred: Burkin the area boxing champion, Oswalde top of his class in unarmed combat, they could have knocked seven kinds of shit out of one another. Both of them on a hair trigger, ready and raring to have a go.
“What the hell’s going on?” Alerted by Tony’s racket, Custody Sergeant Calder bustled into the corridor from the charge room, on his way to investigate.
“Butt out, Mike,” Oswalde said, tight lipped.
Calder sized up the situation and acted at once to defuse it. He pushed the two men apart. “I’m in charge of this area. Prisoners are my responsibility, right?”
Burkin turned his fury on him. “So where’s his lawyer?” he demanded.
“He said he didn’t want one.”
“Look,” Burkin exploded, pointing his finger. “That boy’s climbing the fucking walls in there! Has he been seen by the doc?”
“Not yet,” Calder said defensively. He cleared his throat. “It’s all under control…”
Burkin shot a fierce look at Oswalde. He said disparagingly, “The arresting officer hasn’t even got credible evidence.”
Calder was nettled. “Look, don’t tell me my job-”
“How do you know, anyway?” Oswalde said, glaring at Burkin.
“You’ve got nothing from him that would stick in court. He should go back into the cells until the boss has been informed.”
Calder tried to peer past them to the half-open door. “Have you left him alone in there?”
Oswalde was really riled up now. He knew what Burkin’s game was, and he told him straight. “Hands off, Frank, this is my kill. You’re just pissed off because the token black is going to have this case signed, sealed, and on the guv’nor’s desk by morning!”
Burkin said quietly, “Bollocks you are.” And went striding off down the corridor to phone Tennison.
Oswalde returned to the interview room and slammed the door.
Calder, gnawing his thumbnail, was left standing. Knowing he should have done as Burkin said and called the doc. He’d better do it. Right now.
Tennison, freshly-showered and talced, wearing silk pajamas, was on her way to bed when the phone rang. Passing by the little table, through sheer force of habit, she reached out to answer it. Her hand hovered, and then the answering machine clicked on. That’s what answering machines were for, she reminded herself. For when you were out or too bloody tired or not in the mood to answer it. Score two out of three.
A voice was burbling. She turned the sound right down, switched off the lamp, and went through into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Whatever anger, whatever defiance, had been in Tony, it had left him as swiftly as the air leaves a punctured balloon. He sat with head bowed, shoulders hunched, his hands resting limply in his lap. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He made hardly any sound, just sat there weeping softly. Behind him, Oswalde paced, turned about, paced again, turned about. Burkin had got through to him, right to the quick. He’d nearly lost his temper, blown it completely. When above everything else he prided himself on his control, on not giving in to provocation. That close, and saved by the bell-or rather by Calder.
Oswalde saw it all too clearly. Burkin couldn’t stomach an outside officer-a black one at that-coming in and solving the case and taking the credit. That’s what this was about. That’s why he’d blown a fuse. Well, sunshine, you were going to have to like it or lump it, Oswalde thought with grim satisfaction. He alone had collared Tony Allen and he intended to sweat it out of him. He didn’t care if it took all night. From the minute he saw Tony’s reaction to the clay head, he knew the boy was implicated in the girl’s murder. All he had to do now was prove it.
Oswalde gripped the back of the chair and leaned over him.
“This is a waste of time. You’re just wasting my time. Come on, Tony. You’re as guilty as hell. I’ve known it from the first time I saw you.” He dug his fingers into Tony’s hunched shoulder and hauled him back. “Your guilty secret is written all over your face.”
Tony nodded feebly, his cheeks wet with tears. “I’m guilty…”
Oswalde quickly moved around and bent down, his face close to the boy’s. “Then tell me what happened that night.”
“We’re all guilty…” Tony opened his mouth wide, fighting for breath. He clutched his throat. “I’m choking…”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m choking,” he gasped, clawing at his open-necked shirt with both hands.
“No, you’re not,” Oswalde barked at him. He turned away, fists clenching with frustration as Tony’s face crumpled, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. This was bloody hopeless. They’d been here for hours and he was getting nowhere. He had to make the boy crack. Had to.
He shook his head in disgust. “All you’ve done is cry like a baby. Well, I’m sick of listening to you. You’re pathetic. A bloody mummy’s boy. Come on.” Oswalde waggled his thumb. “You’re going back in the cells.”
“No… I can’t breathe in there,” Tony pleaded, gazing up at Oswalde with his pitiful, tear-streaked face. “Don’t please…”
He half-rose out of the chair, tugging at Oswalde’s sleeve. Oswalde shook him off. “Fuck you. You tell me how Joanne met her death or you go back in the bin and you sweat.”
Tony’s head wobbled. “No… no…”
Enough was enough. Oswalde turned away. He didn’t see the change come over Tony’s face. The eyes go suddenly wide and mad. The lips draw back in a snarl of rage. Tony leapt out of the chair. He went for Oswalde’s throat, charging into him so that Oswalde was sent crashing against the wall. He was a head taller than Tony and over forty pounds heavier, but what a moment ago had been a pathetic cringing wreck was now transformed into a raving maniac with blood lust in his eyes, attempting to throttle the life out of him.
Winded, Oswalde struggled to get a grip on the boy’s wrists. He grabbed hold of the left, pivoted on one foot, and wrenched Tony’s arm halfway up his back. He caught the other one and pinned both Tony’s hands behind his back and slammed him head first against the wall.
Calder was yelling, “Number seven, right in, right in!” as the five officers ran with Tony Allen spread-eagled horizontally between them along the corridor and into the cell block. He was kicking and screaming bloody murder. They got him inside, facedown on the floor, arms pinioned behind him, ankles trapped under two heavy boots.
“Out!” Calder yelled. “Out! Out!”
He was the last to leave, heaving the door shut and turning the key. Tony was up on his feet, battering the steel door with his fists. His terrified screams pierced the air. Calder wiped his face and blew out a sigh. That bloody racket was enough to wake the dead. He slid back the bolt and dropped the metal trap, peering in through the bars at the sweating black face and crazy rolling eyes.
“I’ll leave the flap open-all right!”
Tony’s screams sank to a whimpering moan. Calder turned away. Thank Christ for that. He jerked his head around at a drunken voice shouting from the cell next door. It was the drunk they’d picked up on disorderly conduct charges. “Fascist pigs!” the slurred voice raved on. “Fucking police brutality! Kicking the shit out of innocent victims!”
Calder banged on the door, told him to shut it, and went off to find Burkin. He was in the corridor outside the charge room, waiting by the wall phone for Tennison to return his call.