The line clicked off. Supporting herself on the table’s edge, Tennison stared into space. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up in a minute. It had to be a dream. A fucking nightmare.
Superintendent Kernan had been hauled out of a rugby club bash. Wearing his blazer and club tie, wreathed in whisky fumes, he arrived at Southampton Row and stumped inside with the ferocious look of a drunken man sobering up fast to an ugly reality.
Calder, puffing on a surreptitious cigarette behind the duty desk, was the first to get Kernan’s glowering stare as he marched through like a thundercloud. Calder gazed hopelessly at the ceiling, as if seeking divine deliverance or a swift and painless death.
The thundercloud passed on through the station.
Oswalde was sitting in one of the interview rooms, trying to compose himself, when the door was shoved open and Kernan glared in at him. Then the door was slammed shut, leaving Oswalde alone like a penitent monk in a cell, with only purgatory to look forward to.
Kernan moved on. The Allens were still in reception, patiently waiting for news of their son, but Kernan couldn’t bring himself to face them. Going up in the elevator to his office, exhaling Johnnie Walker Black Label, he had only one thing in mind. The mirage of Chief Superintendent Kernan fading farther and farther away in the distance. By God, he’d have someone’s balls for this. And if Tennison was in any way to blame, he’d have her balls too.
The police photographer had just finished taking shots when Tennison entered the cell block. She had taken some time, and a few pains, to make herself smart and presentable, even at this ungodly hour. Freshly made-up, wearing a dark red suit with a flared jacket, she came in and took a long look at Tony Allen’s body on the floor of cell Number 7. The resuscitation mask had been removed. The boy’s face still bore the expression of frozen terror that had been his last emotion. Tennison turned away. Through tight lips she said to Burkin, “Cover him up, Frank.”
She stood aside as two uniformed officers escorted the drunk from the cells. They were hustling him along, trying to prevent him getting even a glance of what had happened in the cell next door. The drunk knew though-or had guessed from all the commotion-and nobody was going to shut him up.
“You’ve killed him, you bastards!” he started shouting, straining his unshaven face around to get a look. He kept it up, his angry voice floating back as they dragged him out into the corridor, “You bastards have killed him, you bastards…”
Tennison brushed a hand through her hair. “Oh brilliant,” she said.
Ten yards away from his office, Tennison could plainly hear Kernan’s bellowing voice giving somebody a raking over. She came up to the door, wincing a little. She felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end, whether they deserved it or not.
“It’s just not good enough, not bloody good enough!” Kernan raged. “The prisoner is your sole responsibility!”
It was Calder, the Custody Sergeant, Tennison realized. She listened to the quiet, abject mumble of his reply, which was cut short by Kernan’s “Don’t tell me-put it in your report! Now!”
Calder emerged, looking white and shaken, and walked straight past without acknowledging her. He was close to tears. Tennison went in. She was glad she’d put a dab of perfume on because the office reeked of whisky. Kernan’s tie was loose and his shirt collar was crumpled. He looked a bit of a mess, his eyes more heavily-lidded than usual, and his hands were none too steady as he lit a cigarette.
“Well, that’s my promotion down the toilet,” was how he greeted her, blowing out smoke in a disgruntled sigh.
Tennison was shocked. “A boy’s lying dead in the cells and you’re worried about your promotion?” she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval.
“Just don’t start, all right?” Kernan said, flapping his hand. He gave her a baleful look. “The Custody Sergeant told me Burkin was trying to call you, worried by what Oswalde was up to…”
The knives were out already, Tennison thought. But she wasn’t about to be dumped on from a great height. She said with venom, “Burkin’s supposed to be a Detective Inspector, not a limp dick. He should have straightened it out. Calder should have straightened it out.” And to think that two minutes ago she’d felt sorry for the man!
“But they bloody didn’t, did they?” Kernan said, a veiled accusation in his voice.
Tennison paced in front of the desk, clenching her fists. “Christ Almighty, do I have to do everything myself?”
Kernan said wearily, “All right, all right…”
“I mean, what’s Burkin being paid to do? For Christ’s sake-”
“All right! I hear you.”
Tennison ceased pacing but she was still fuming. If Kernan wanted a scapegoat, he could damn well look elsewhere. She glared at him and he shifted his eyes. He said, “How did it go with Harvey?”
“He confessed to murder.”
“Thank Christ for that,” Kernan said, relieved.
No point in hanging back; she was an experienced officer, paid to exercise her judgment. She said evenly, “But I’ve got my doubts about it…”
“What?” Kernan goggled at her. “We’re being handed it gift-wrapped and you have your doubts?”
“Yes, I do. And I have good reason.” Tennison appealed to him, “Look, Guv, right now I need to know what went on in that interview room. I mean-what made Tony kill himself, for chrissake…?”
Kernan stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “All hell’s gonna break loose when this gets out,” he said gloomily. “Riots, the lot.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Tennison said shortly.
Kernan slowly turned his head and gave her a hard stare. “You remember who you’re talking to.”
Now it was Tennison’s turn to look away. She lifted her chin and said stiffly, “I’ll listen to those interviews and report back as soon as I can. Sir.”
“You do that.”
The cigarette was still smoldering in the ashtray. What with that and the whisky fumes, the place smelled like a saloon bar. “By the way,” Tennison said, “you know Tony’s mum and dad are still in reception, don’t you?”
“Well, they can’t be told.” Kernan rubbed the side of his face and stifled a yawn. “Not until we’ve got things arranged.”
“What?” Tennison said, aghast.
“Send them home. Tell them tomorrow.” It was starting, he could feel it now, a beaut of a headache working its way up from the back of his neck to the base of his skull. Terrific. “For their own sakes it’ll be better to be told in the morning,” he said.
“We can’t do that.”
“Yes, we can,” Kernan said irritably.
Tennison blinked rapidly. “How would we explain that in court? It’d reek of a cover-up… besides, think of the way they’d feel.”
“I’ve made my decision.”
“Yes, and it’s a bad one.”
“Well, that’s what I’m paid for!” Kernan snapped at her. His patience, threadbare at the best of times, was wearing dangerously thin. When he was in this frame of mind he sometimes blurted out things better left unsaid. And the icing on the cake was that his headache had just shifted up into second gear.
But the bloody woman wouldn’t let it rest. She said tartly, “You’re paid to make bad decisions, are you?”
To stop himself from landing one on her, Kernan went over to the little bar and picked up the whisky bottle. “You know what I mean,” he growled under his breath.
Tennison watched him pour, at least three fingers’ worth. She said quietly, “Mike, how much have you had to drink?”
Kernan shot a fierce glance over his shoulder. “Now you bloody watch it,” he warned her, mottled patches appearing in his cheeks. “None of this would have happened if you’d kept Oswalde on a tighter rein…”