Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims Read online

  Prime

  Suspect 3

  Lynda La Plante

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PREFACE

  When I was commissioned to write Prime Suspect for Granada Television, I had no notion that it would change my life. I had been very successful writing a series called Widows, but it had not resulted in offers of work that I felt excited about. The plot of Widows pivoted on four men attempting a dangerous armed robbery, and all died when the explosives held in their truck exploded. They left four widows, who discovered the detailed plans and decided they would audaciously attempt to pull the robbery.

  My meeting at Granada was to see if I had any other project they could consider. Due to offers coming in that were all similar to Widows, I decided that the best way to approach the possible commission was to find out exactly what the network was looking for, rather than pitch one or other of my ideas. I was told they were actually looking for a female-led police drama, but they did not want her to be in uniform.

  “Ah I have been researching exactly that, and have some great material in a treatment,” I LIED! But when I was asked what the title of this proposed new show was, out came, and with no forethought, the title Prime Suspect.

  I knew this was a great opportunity, and with nothing actually written, I had to launch into research to prepare a treatment for a possible series. I was fortunate enough to meet Detective Chief Inspector Jackie Malton. She was attached to the Metropolitan Scotland Yard murder squad, and had risen through the ranks from uniform to become one of only three high-ranking female officers. By the time I had completed a story line and treatment, we had become friends. The friendship continued as I gained a commission to write the series Prime Suspect.

  Via Jackie, and her eagerness for me to “get it right,” I went to my first autopsy. I spent time in incident rooms, pathology labs, and forensic departments. She was a never-ending source of encouragement and in many ways Jane Tennison was created via Jackie’s constant desire that for once a woman was portrayed within the police force in a realistic way. She would read every scene, make corrections and suggestions with anecdotes appertaining to her own career. She was a complex woman and had been subjected to discrimination throughout her career. As I rewrote and polished up the scripts she became quite emotional because I had acted like a sponge listening and inserting sections that she didn’t recall telling me about.

  The moment Prime Suspect aired on British television it created incredible critical acclaim. I had to fight for a number of scenes to be retained. Producers were concerned that I had written an unsympathetic woman, but I refused to change, explaining over and over that this was a character based on reality. When she examined a victim she didn’t, as they wanted, show emotion but retained a professional distance. To make her ambitious was yet again not wholly acceptable, but I persisted, and again I was helped by being able to introduce Jackie Malton.

  Helen Mirren was unafraid of the role and added a strong quality to the character. She was the right age, she was still a very attractive woman and yet her believability never faltered. I would never have considered another actress could take on the same role. Over the years there have been so many scripts and attempts to make a US version of the show. There was a constant difficulty in finding an actress on a par with Helen, and although the scripts were well written, something didn’t work as the writers moved away from the original concept. That is until Maria Bello took on the role. The series is written by Alexandra Cunningham and she has brilliantly captured the world of a New York precinct. She has cleverly snatched from the original opening series the most salient points and updated them, bringing in the discrimination that still exists and how even today a woman detective has to prove herself beyond and above her male counterparts; respect does not come easily.

  The books cover Prime Suspect 1, 2, 3 … and they mean as much to me as the television show. Sadly with all good things, sometimes the powers that be, have their own agendas and only these three books represent my voice. I only ever wrote three episodes, and three books. The learning curve from being a writer for hire, which I was on Prime Suspect, became the next major change in my career. I formed a production company, so that enabled me to produce my own work, cast, edit, and choose the directors. That said, although I have produced and written numerous series, I don’t think there will ever be one as close to me as Prime Suspect.

  Sincerely,

  Lynda La Plante

  1

  The color slide of a naked female corpse flashed up on the screen. The girl was about seventeen, with long blond hair trailing over her white shoulders. She had once been very pretty. The projector clicked and the screen was filled with a close-up of the girl’s head. The ligature, a piece of fencing wire, bit deeply into the soft flesh of her neck. Her once pretty blue eyes were swollen, blood filled, bulging blindly toward the sky. Her tongue protruded like a fat purple worm.

  The audience in the darkened lecture hall didn’t stir. Trained not to display emotion and hardened by experience, the homicide officers, police medical teams, and Pathology scientists sat in silent rows, enduring the grisly peep show. Hardened or not, experienced or otherwise, some stomachs churned. A few of the younger men felt faint, nauseous, or both. The voice of the lecturer didn’t help. Jake Hunter went remorselessly on, the catalogue of human depravity and perversion made even more chilling by his educated Boston drawl.

  “So far, apart from a recent case in the United States, known serial killers have all been male, almost all white, often unusually intelligent or extremely cunning. Most victims are female, usually young women, whose death—as you see here—is frequently accompanied by violent sexual assault. Invariably there is evidence of torture and mutilation. A number of cases have involved homosexuals.”

  Another slide flashed up. A full-face close-up of a swarthy, dark-haired, unshaven man with piercing, crazed eyes separated by a bony blade of nose. His thin, veined neck was cut off by a nine-digit mug-shot ident code.

  “Richard Trenton Chase, the Sacramento ‘Vampire Killer,’ ” Hunter went on. “Arrested for seven murders.” The slide changed. “Note his own handwriting, taken from a scrawled message left at the scene of one of his crimes. Catch Me Before I Kill More, I Cannot Control Myself.”

  Hunter turned to the audience. He was of medium height, with an athletic build that filled out his expensively tailored tweed suit. Under it he wore a button-down cream shirt with a striped silk tie. If the suit marked out his fashion sense as transatlantic, the brown cowhide boots with stirrup trim were strictly Dallas by way of Fifth Avenue.

  Hunter went on, “Later, I’ll come back to the clues the handwriting gave as an insight to the killer’s personality.”

  He hadn’t spotted Tennison. She’d arrived late, quite deliberately, and was standing by the door, her short hair a honey-blond blur in the flickering darkness. It rather amused her, Jake not knowing she was there, although they had already met twice during his lecture tour of England. Observing him secretly in the reflected glow of the screen gave her a tiny flutter of excitement, part nerves, part
sexual danger.

  His short brown hair was a little more flecked with gray, especially noticeable at the neatly trimmed sideburns, yet the bastard was still as ruggedly handsome as ever. His eyebrows were sun bleached, standing out against his tanned, craggy features. Had she aged as attractively? She still got her share of looks on the street, workmen whistled at her from scaffolding, but inside she sometimes felt like the Wicked Witch of the West. That was the job. A woman in a man’s world. Required, expected, to handle the daily dish of crap and not flinch.

  So she wasn’t surprised, as she’d noticed on entering, to be the only woman present. She’d been the only female Detective Chief Inspector in the Murder Squad, at her previous posting at Southampton Row. About to move to Vice on the northern perimeter of Soho, Jane Tennison had no doubt that she’d be the senior female officer there by several light-years.

  “Mass murder is the quintessential American crime,” Hunter told his attentive audience. “Virtually unheard of a century ago, it has now become almost an epidemic. We are coming through a phase where males in the thirty-to-fifty age group are more brutal, more violent, than ever before. I have no doubt that these mass murders have a contagious element …”

  They were listening silently not out of politeness or boredom, but because Jake Hunter spoke with the authority of hard-won experience. He had lived through it, been there on the front line. As a consultant to the New York Police Pathology and Forensic Research Unit, he was one of the world’s top-ranked experts in the field; not only had he studied in depth the theoretical and historical background, he had witnessed the terrible bloody fact firsthand. He had been at the forefront in pioneering the technique of psychological profiling, now used by police forces in the United States and Europe. His books had become standard texts for the training of homicide officers, and were also required reading for students and academics specializing in criminal psychology.

  In recent years he’d turned to fiction, producing three bestselling novels, two of which were under option to Hollywood studios. His latest book, however—and the reason he was here, lecturing to colleges and promoting it to a wider public—was nonfiction, a distillation of his many years’ experience as a leading criminologist in the country that had patent rights on the concept of serial murder.

  Another slide flashed up.

  “George Henard executed”—Hunter repeated the word in his soft drawl—“executed twenty-three people, aiming point-blank volleys to their heads before turning the …”

  He stopped short, seeing Tennison, and paused, eyes blinking. Tennison gave him a warm, slightly mischievous smile.

  “… before turning the nine-millimeter semiautomatic gun against his right temple for one final shot. What we cannot believe,” Hunter said, winding up to his chilling conclusion, “is that the world is full of people with the potential to do this.”

  Someone had done something singularly unpleasant to little Connie. He was a slender, pale, waiflike creature with loose, curly red hair that in sunlight was imbued with a golden sheen. He was lying on a sagging sofa in the flat of a drag queen named Vernon—or Vera—Reynolds who at that precise moment, 9:35 P.M., was floating in a mauve spotlight dressed as Marlene Dietrich singing “Falling in Love Again” in a husky, tremulous baritone.

  Connie tried to raise himself. His luminous dark brown eyes were muzzy. The cloud of auburn hair tumbled over his white forehead, but his beauty was marred by the dark stain of dried blood, like a slug’s trail on his smooth cheek, where it had oozed down from the sticky gash on his right temple.

  Again he tried to get up, failed, fell back. There was a racing blue edge of flame on the carpet. It touched the sofa and climbed the wrinkled cover. The flames turned to orange, their bright reflection twinkling in Vera’s spangled and sequined gowns on the rack in the rear alcove.

  The peacock feathers on another gown wafted in the updraft as the fire took hold. Half the room was ablaze, engulfing the sofa and the young boy so quickly that it sucked all the air from his lungs, leaving his scream stillborn in his raw throat.

  The rack of gowns caught fire. Feathers and charred bits of chiffon wafted upward in a writhing cloud of smoke. The curtains went up. The paintwork on the frame of the closed window bubbled and peeled off. The entire living room and cluttered tiny kitchen of Vera Reynolds’s shabby little flat were now ablaze.

  With the sound and fury of a small but powerful bomb, the window blasted out into the night. The explosion shattered the peace of the six redbrick blocks of the flats. Burning debris showered down into the paved courtyard three floors below, setting alight a line of washing.

  Already, from somewhere across the city, came the wail of an ambulance siren.

  He’d find that bastard! Jimmy Jackson swung the old midnight-blue Merc into a side street near the canal, the headlights making oily smears on the wet cobblestones. He gripped the wheel tightly, his scarred, pockmarked face thrust forward, his slitted eyes hot and mad, peering through the cracked windshield. His thick, fleshy lips were drawn back against his teeth. Where the fuck was the little turd! Sure bet that Fletcher was down here with the dregs, another homeless, snotty-nosed kid living in a cardboard box with winos, dossers, and sewer rats for neighbors.

  Jackson spotted a movement. He snarled a grin and stamped on the big brake pedal. Next second the door was flung open and he was out and running, tall and mean in a studded leather jacket and torn jeans, knee-length biker boots ringing on the greasy pavement.

  The terrified kid had taken off, heading for the iron bridge over the canal. But each of Jackson’s thumping strides was equal to three of Fletcher’s. He caught up with him by the edge of the canal that had the carcasses of bed frames, bikes, and supermarket carts sticking up from its putrid surface. Reaching out a clawed hand, Jackson grabbed the kid by the hair and yanked him to a skidding halt; the act of doing it, the thrill of power, gave him something close to sensual pleasure.

  The kid was babbling with abject terror. Jackson stooped over from his lean yet muscular six foot height and smacked him in the teeth. He hit him again with both barrels, left fist, right fist, to forehead and jaw. The kid squirmed on the ground, one grimy hand with bitten nails forlornly held up to ward off more punishment.

  Jackson raised his fist.

  “Dunno … dunno where he is!” Fletcher screamed through his bloody mouth. “I dunno where he is—I swear!”

  Jackson took a pace to one side and kicked him in the groin. The steel toe cap went in with a satisfying solid thunk. He pushed his spiky mop of hair back with both hands. The kid might not know after all, but then again he might. Jackson needed a bit more convincing. He reached down for him.

  Fletcher screamed, “No, please … I dunno, I swear! Please don’t, don’t … PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!”

  Small groups of people in nightclothes were standing on the balconies watching the fire crews at work. Some of the crowd had babies and toddlers in their arms. Hoses from three tenders snaked up the brick walls and over the concrete balconies to the third-floor flat. The fire was out, just a plume of dirty gray smoke eddying from the blackened, blasted-out window and wafting away on a northerly breeze.

  A patrol car, siren off but with lights flashing, sped into the courtyard from the main road and stopped with a squeal of brakes, rocking on its suspension. Two uniformed officers, bulky, square framed, leapt out and ran toward the stairway. A slighter figure, round shouldered and rather hunched, wearing a shapeless raincoat that should have been given to Oxfam years ago, climbed out and shambled after them. He paused to look up to the window. The bright flare of arc lamps, set up by the fire crews, illuminated the balcony like a film set. Detective Sergeant Bill Otley sniffed and pinched his beaked nose. The call on the closed police band had reported at least one body. Not strictly his line, but Otley was in the habit of poking his nose in where it didn’t belong.

  Taking his time, as he always did, Otley went up the bleak stairwell. On the third-floor landing, pools of wate
r everywhere, he glanced around, sharp eyes in his narrow, intense face missing very little. He appeared intense, Otley, when he was reading the Mirror’s sports page or watching the weatherman on TV. As if he was suspicious of everybody and everything, seeking out the guilt, the real motive, behind life’s innocent facade. Life wasn’t all that innocent, he knew damn well; everybody was guilty of something.

  “Some of the tenants want to know if it’s safe to return to their flats,” said a voice from within.

  “Keep everybody clear,” the fire chief replied. “We’re checking the flats immediately above and below …”

  The ambulance attendants were bringing out the body. Just the one. Otley stood a couple of feet inside the tiny hallway watching as they lifted it onto a stretcher and covered it with plastic sheeting. Curious position. The heat of the fire had petrified the charred, spindly black bones into what must have been the corpse’s physical attitude at the moment of death. Arms stuck out like rigid sticks. Legs bent, feet curled underneath. The skull was a shapeless knob of sticky tar.

  Otley pressed himself to the wall to let them pass.

  “Anybody got an I.D. on it?”

  “You jokin’?” one of the ambulance attendants said, maneuvering the stretcher through the front door. “Can’t even tell if it’s male or female yet!”

  Otley grinned. He let them go and stuck his head into the living room. The arc lamps made stark shadows of the firemen and the two uniformed officers rooting about in the wreckage.

  The fire chief gestured. “Can somebody get duckboards on the balcony landing?”

  Otley retreated through the hallway. As he went out he heard one of the uniformed officers say, “The flat belongs to a Vernon Reynolds. Lived alone. Aged somewhere between late twenties and early thirties …”