“Tony Allen is back in his cell,” Calder reported. Burkin nodded, looking decidedly uneasy. He moved aside as Calder unhooked the phone, fretting, “What’s happened to that doctor? I’ll give him another call.”
“Right.” Burkin moodily watched him dial. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Allen still in reception?” he asked.
“They won’t budge.” Calder gave him a look. “You should have gone hours ago.” He nodded back towards the cells. “Let the guy sleep it off. Tennison can deal with it in the morning.”
Burkin was about to say something, and gave it up as a bad job. He slouched off. Calder listened to the ringing tone, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “Come on… come on…!”
Oswalde took the elevator up to the cafeteria. It was almost empty at this late hour, a few small groups dotted about, officers taking a break during night patrols. He didn’t know any of the faces, and he was glad about that; he wanted to be alone. In the far corner a TV was burbling to itself, the sound turned low.
Oswalde carried his black coffee to an empty table and sat down. His official duty shift had finished three hours ago. He should have been home in bed now, getting a reasonably early night, because he was due on again at eight-thirty the next morning. He was in a curious mood, couldn’t unwind. He felt tired and yet jumpy and keyed up at the same time; his mind was racing, and he knew he was keeping alert on nervous energy alone.
The late-night news roundup was showing voters coming out of a polling station. It was the by-election, Oswalde remembered. Though not much interested, he switched his mind over to what the announcer was saying. Anything to sidetrack his thoughts away from Tony Allen’s wild, staring eyes and slobbering mouth.
“… pollsters keeping a record at the door suggest that Conservative Ken Bagnall may have held his seat but with a greatly reduced majority. There were angry scenes earlier when members of the Free Derrick Cameron Campaign clashed with Bagnall, who is a self-confessed supporter of capital punishment. Labour’s candidate, Jonathan Phelps, has issued a statement…”
Whatever the statement was, Oswalde never learned. Somebody got up to switch channels, and boxing took its place. Oswalde sipped his coffee and watched with dull eyes as two black middleweights slugged it out.
Three floors below, in cell Number 7, Tony Allen had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He was standing at the door, staring out through the square grille. Slowly and very methodically he was tearing his shirt into strips. In the cell next door the drunk was snoring off his skinful. The two prisoners in adjoining cells were sleeping more quietly. Tony stared out, tearing at the cloth, and he didn’t stop until the shirt had been ripped apart.
9
Calder looked up at the wall clock. He took a last drag, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and heaved himself up from the desk. On his way out he lifted the heavy bunch of keys from the hook and walked along the corridor, humming under his breath.
Sliding back the greased bolt, he lowered the flap and took a peek at the old guy in Number 5. Sleeping it off. Chances were they’d let him go in the morning with a caution. Silly old bugger, taking a piss in the street. Calder checked on the drunk in 6. A disgusting spectacle of matted hair, earrings, and tattoos. The smell of booze and stale sweat coming through the grille made Calder step back, waving the air. He slammed it shut, operated the bolt.
The next flap was open, as Calder had left it. He took a pace forward and then froze. Something was very wrong. A rope of white cloth was looped around one of the bars, hanging down inside. Calder’s heart dropped into his bowels. Whatever the worst was, he feared it had happened. Breathing hard, he jammed his head against the bars and squinted down. At first he saw only a heap of clothing, a pair of brown shoes. He strained farther, his heart trip-hammering in his chest, and made out the top of Tony’s head, a few inches below the open flap.
“Shit!” Calder dived for the panic button and the alarm bell drilled through the cell block. “Dave, John,” he bellowed, “get here quick!”
Back at the cell door, he fumbled for the right key, cursing through gritted teeth. Boots pounded along the corridor. Suddenly there were four or five uniformed bodies crowding around the cell door as Calder turned the key in the lock. The door was pulled open, dragging Tony’s body with it, bare legs splayed out. It was very ingenious and very simple. He’d made a rope out of the torn strips of his shirt, looped it around the bars, and hung himself from a sitting position. His bloodshot eyes bulged out, his tongue lolled between blue lips. Calder had seen his share of dead people, and he was looking at one now.
“Get me a knife,” he said, and kneeling down, took the clasp knife and cut through the rope of knotted shirt strips. The others grabbed Tony’s body as it slumped forward, a dead weight, and laid it on the floor of the cell. Calder stood up, his hands shaking, a mist of sweat on his bald head.
“Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty!” Oswalde arrived, pushing through the men crowding in the doorway. He dropped to his knees at Tony’s side. He cupped the boy’s slack jaw in his hand, bringing the head back, preparing to give mouth-to-mouth. “Get a mask.”
Calder shook his head weakly. “It’s too late…”
“Now.”
“Mask!” Calder snapped.
Oswalde was leaning over, both hands spread flat on Tony’s chest, using his weight to massage his heart. A hand thrust a resuscitation mask at him. Making sure the bloated tongue was clear, Oswalde fitted the mask over Tony’s mouth. He filled his lungs and blew into the plastic mouthpiece. It whooshed back at him, forced out under the pressure of the surrounding air. He did it again, and again, and he was still doing it, watched in silence by the men in the doorway, when Burkin shouldered his way through.
He glanced at Calder, who shook his head. Then he watched Oswalde straighten up and thump Tony’s chest with the heels of his palms, do a silent count, and thump it again. Everyone knew it was hopeless, a lost cause, everyone but him.
Burkin had seen enough. He said gently, “Bob, it’s no good…”
Oswalde thumped, did a silent count, thumped.
“It’s no good, Bob…”
Thump, count, thump.
Burkin couldn’t stand it. He leaped in, pulling Oswalde away. “Listen to me. Look at me!”
Oswalde went stiff. He stopped counting. He felt Burkin’s firm grip on his shoulder and heard Burkin’s voice, quiet, in his ear.
“The boy’s dead… he’s dead.”
Oswalde slowly sat back on his heels, his arms flopping to his sides. Tony lay on the floor of the cell, the mask around his mouth, staring sightlessly up. Silence. Nobody said anything. There was nothing to say.
Tennison switched on the bedside lamp. Blinking painfully against the light, she reached for the ringing phone, a wave of blond hair falling over her eyes. “Oh shit,” she mumbled, and then into the receiver, “Yes?” and listened with her eyes half-shut to Burkin’s voice. “Can’t it wait till morning?”
Burkin told her it couldn’t and told her why.
Tennison said faintly, “What was he doing in the cells?” Burkin told her. “Jesus Christ. I’m on my way.”
She hung up, but for a minute she didn’t move. The horror of what Burkin had told her was still sinking in. It still hadn’t fully sunk in as she padded through into the living room. She switched on the lamp and pressed the playback button on the answering machine. Burkin’s message to her earlier that evening came on. She turned up the volume and his voice filled the room.
“Ma’m, it’s DI Burkin. I’m a bit worried… well, not exactly worried, but, well… the thing is, Oswalde’s arrested Tony Allen on suspicion of murder. He’s got him in the interview room now, and, well, the kid’s climbing the walls. I mean freaking out, and I’m… worried. Could you call me back?”