That was rich, and Tennison flared up. “You brought him in, not me,” she reminded the superintendent. “I didn’t ask for him. He’s a loner, a one-man-band, he’s not my type.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
There was dead silence. Tennison wasn’t sure he’d said what she’d heard, and then with a sickly feeling she knew that he had. She controlled the sudden panic fluttering in her chest and said coolly, “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Kernan said. He took a gulp.
“No,” Tennison said, and her cool tone now had icicles hanging from it. “You explain that comment.”
Kernan came back to the desk, swirling his whisky. “I’m merely suggesting that you might have let your personal feelings for him cloud your judgment.”
“My personal feelings?” Tennison said carefully, and regretted saying it before the words were out of her mouth. She was right to, because Kernan put his glass down, and placing both hands flat on the desk, leaned towards her, looking her squarely in the face.
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He paused. “You had an affair on that course! There. Now. I didn’t want to mention it. But…” He shrugged and picked up his glass.
Tennison stared him out. “Nothing happened on that course,” she said, her face stiff as a wooden mask.
“You will bloody argue, won’t you?” Kernan closed his eyes, unutterably weary and pissed-off with the woman.
“You’ve been misinformed…”
“I hope so,” Kernan said with a small sigh. “For your sake.”
Tennison left the room. She needed to go to the lavatory, quick.
Downstairs, on the main floor, Tennison stopped a WPC in the corridor. “Show Mr. and Mrs. Allen up to my office, will you, please? Not a word about what’s happened, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
Oswalde came through the swing doors, on his way to the elevator, summoned by Kernan. Tennison glanced around, making sure the corridor was deserted. “Bob…”
He stared past her with dull eyes. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it right now,” he muttered. “I’ve got to see Kernan.”
From the set of his mouth she could tell he was holding himself as tight as a coiled spring. But she couldn’t let him step into the lion’s den without warning him. As he moved to go around her, she said, “Kernan knows about us at the course.”
Oswalde halted. Now he did look at her, his handsome face creasing in a bewildered frown. “I don’t know what…” he started to mumble.
“Listen.” Tennison cut him short. She was holding judgment on whether she ought to be absolutely furious or not. She said, “If you’ve been bragging about laying the Guv’nor…”
“What do you take me for?” Oswalde was plainly hurt by this. “Do you think I’d say anything? You think I’d…” He swallowed and looked away.
Tennison kneaded her palms anxiously. “Well, all I can think about right now is I’ve got to tell that boy’s parents that their son is dead.”
“And that boy is dead because of me…” Oswalde choked on the words. He was very near the edge. He said emptily, “Do you really think it matters that Kernan knows about us…”
Tennison’s look was stony. “Yes, it matters,” she said, and turned on her heel, leaving him to face Kernan’s music.
The Allens were sitting in her office. Tennison would rather have walked barefoot on white-hot coals than go through with this, but that was the price she paid for being in charge of a murder investigation: the shitty end of the stick.
Ever the gentleman, Vernon Allen rose to his feet as she came in. “About time, Chief Inspector. We’ve been waiting out there for an eternity.” Even so, he sounded more reproachful than angry, blinking at her through his horn-rimmed spectacles. The man had the patience of a saint, Tennison thought; she quailed at the duty before her, almost turned and fled.
“Please… can you give my son this?”
Esme had risen and was holding out a thick wool sweater, neatly folded. Tennison accepted it. She didn’t know what else to do.
Esme wore a strained smile, her eyes large and moist. “Esta said he didn’t even have time to get a coat. I hate to think of him spending the night in a cell. I don’t want him to catch cold…”
Tennison placed the sweater on the corner of the desk, next to Vernon’s hat. She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I have some bad news for you.”
“I just want my son!” Esme blurted out plaintively. Vernon patted her shoulder. The three of them were still standing. Tennison went around the desk, turned and faced them. “Esme-Esme, please sit down.”
She waited then, hands clasped in front of her, until they were seated. She raised her eyes and looked at them. “I’m afraid that after Tony was returned to his cell, after questioning, he took his own life.”
Vernon leaned forward slightly. He seemed puzzled. “Is he hurt?”
Tennison said quietly, “Vernon, your son is dead. I’m very sorry.”
The Allens just sat and looked at her with blank expressions. Was any of this getting through? “Do you understand?” she asked them. She hesitated, then said wretchedly, “I’m so sorry…”
Vernon had removed his glasses. In slow motion he reached out and put them on top of his hat. He looked up at Tennison, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “How?”
“He used strips of his own clothes to…”
Esme came up out of her chair. Her eyes gleamed. Spitting and scratching, she launched herself at Tennison, screeching at the top of her voice, “You killed him! You killed my boy! You killed him! You killed him! You killed him…!”
Making no attempt to retaliate, defending herself as best she could by holding up her arms, Tennison retreated into a corner. She felt the bony fists and sharp nails striking at her head and face. There was a panic button under her desk. She could have tried to get to it and summon help, but she didn’t. She huddled in the corner, arms crossed to ward off the blows Esme was raining down on her with berserk, mindless rage.
“You killed him, killed my boy, killed him, you killed him . . .”
When finally Vernon managed to pull her off, Esme turned her fury on him, lashing out in a frenzy and pounding her fists into his chest. Vernon held her shoulders, taking the blows, letting her punch herself out. Esme sagged against him, sobbing into his chest, and the sight of this pitiful, distraught woman took from Tennison a lot of willpower to hold on to herself. She felt so helpless in the face of this naked human pain and misery that she felt like sobbing too.
Vernon’s arms were wrapped around his wife, holding and comforting her; without their support she would have collapsed.
Over her head, and calling upon some deep reserve of calmness and dignity, he said to Tennison, “How did it happen?”
“He hanged himself.”
“When?” It seemed very important. “I mean when exactly?”
Tennison pushed back her tangled hair. Her left cheek was stinging, and she touched it lightly with her fingertips, feeling a bruise starting to form. “Between midnight and twelve-thirty,” she said.
Vernon stared at her, his wife huddled against him; muffled, broken sobs shuddered out of her. It was all Tennison could manage not to look away. “While we were waiting in reception?” Vernon said.
“Yes.”
Vernon closed his eyes, his throat working above his collar and tie. He opened his eyes, and a spasm passed over his face. He said huskily, “Lady. May you rot in hell for that.”
With a stiff, jerky movement he turned away, and half carrying her, steered his wife to the door. Tennison came forward, holding his hat and glasses. He slipped the glasses into his overcoat pocket and took his hat. “Thank you,” he said politely.
Tennison stood in the doorway watching as they wandered off aimlessly, two lost souls numb with anguish.