Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims Read online

  “Are you sure?” Margaret Speel asked, feebly grasping at straws. “You know, these young boys make up stories, and I remember Jason—”

  “Margaret—do you also remember if a doctor examined Jason Baldwyn?”

  “Yes, of course he was examined.”

  “Margaret, do you recall a police officer? Someone who would have known Parker-Jones in Cardiff?”

  “Do you mean John Kennington?”

  Tennison’s face remained calm, she didn’t so much as move a muscle. She felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. With scarcely a pause she said blithely, “It could possibly be John Kennington. Do you recall what rank, or if he was uniformed or plainclothes?”

  “Er, yes, um …” Confused, still in a state of shock, Margaret Speel rubbed her forehead. “I think he was—Superintendent. I never saw him in a uniform. He lives in London now.”

  As if it was of minor interest, Tennison said casually, “Do you happen to know if John Kennington and Parker-Jones are still in touch? Still friendly?”

  “Yes, yes I think so.”

  Tennison thanked her and left. On her way out she heard Margaret Speel sobbing at her desk. She didn’t like the woman, though she did pity her.

  Tennison sat in the driver’s seat outside the steeply gabled house with white-leaded windows, a dense windbreak of conifers shielding it from the road. Dalton, very subdued, sat woodenly beside her. Tennison clicked the door open and looked across at him. He knew what she was about to do, and what the consequences were, and both of them knew where it put him. Between a rock and a hard place. Anyway, his decision, she thought. He was a big boy now and she certainly was no wet nurse.

  “You can stay in the car if you want!” Tennison said bluntly.

  Dalton clenched his jaw, bit the bullet, and reached for the door handle.

  A middle-aged housekeeper with a foreign accent showed them into the large L-shaped drawing room. French windows gave a restful evening view of a flagged patio with stone urns of flowers, and beyond a stone balustrade a lawn sloped down to a grove of beech trees.

  A grandfather clock, genuine antique to Tennison’s inexpert eye, ticked solemnly in the corner, emphasizing the silence. There was a baby grand on a small platform, a Chopin étude on the music stand. Two long wing-backed sofas covered in rose silks faced each other across a coffee table that was bigger than the kitchen table in Tennison’s flat. The fireplace was white lacquered wood inlaid with gold leaf, and displayed on the mantel were family photographs in ornate silver frames. Tennison went over for a closer look.

  “Well, he didn’t buy this on wages,” was her considered opinion, after giving the room the once-over. “This place must be worth a packet.”

  “It happens to be my wife’s.”

  John Kennington stood in the doorway. He came in, tall and distinguished, with silvery hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead. As a young man he must have been stunningly handsome. Even dressed in a buttoned fawn cardigan and dark green corduroys, with soft leather loafers, he gave the appearance of fine taste and casual elegance. He was totally at ease, charming, and rather patronizing.

  Tennison had never met him before. She’d seen him from afar, once, at a grand reception for a delegation of European police chiefs. At the moment she was a bit unnerved, both by him and the surroundings, but she was damned if she was going to show it.

  She said formally, “I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, and this is Detective Inspector Brian Dalton.”

  Kennington didn’t invite them to sit. He looked from one to the other, and negligently scratched an eyebrow.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I am making inquiries into the death of a young boy, Colin Jenkins. Do you know him?”

  Kennington shook his head. He strolled over to the fireplace.

  Tennison turned to keep facing him. “Do you know a James Jackson?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know an Anthony Field, sir?”

  “No.”

  “A Jason Baldwyn?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know Edward Parker-Jones?”

  Kennington hesitated before shaking his head. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  The grandfather clock ticked on in the brief silence.

  “You were at one time stationed in Manchester,” Tennison said, “and previous to that, Cardiff, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you at any time meet a Miss Margaret Speel?” She watched him closely. “A probation officer?”

  Kennington shook his head again, this time more abruptly. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”

  He was good at stonewalling, and this could have gone on all night. Tennison didn’t have time to waste.

  “Your recent resignation, sir—you were about to initiate charges which due to your retirement—”

  “What exactly is this inquiry about, Chief Inspector?”

  His tone had sharpened. He no longer held the rank of Assistant Deputy Commissioner, but he retained the gravitas of past authority, the prestige of office that demanded a certain respect.

  “I should be most grateful if you would answer the questions, sir,” Tennison persisted, refusing to be bullied or patronized.

  “I have no inclination to answer anything else, and I would appreciate it if you left my house.” He made a brusque gesture of dismissal. Dalton shuffled his feet. He looked to Tennison, a mute agonized plea in his eyes.

  “Colin Jenkins also used the name Connie,” Tennison said, standing up straight. “Do you recall ever meeting him? He was fifteen years old, about my height, with pale red hair. He was, sir, a practicing homosexual …”

  Mottled spots of red had appeared in Kennington’s cheeks. He was nearly a foot taller than Tennison, and he came forward, using it to intimidate her.

  “I’d like you both to leave. Now.”

  Dalton was already halfway to the door. He wanted to physically drag Tennison with him, but the woman hadn’t budged. She stood her ground, gesturing to the silver frames on the mantel.

  “It was just that I noticed … you have a number of photographs of young—”

  “They are my sons,” Kennington said, his outrage giving his voice a harsh rasp. “Please leave my house NOW!” He stood over her, trembling, fists clenching and unclenching.

  “Was Colin Jenkins blackmailing you? Was Parker-Jones attempting to put pressure on you? Which one of them was blackmailing you? Were you aware Colin was selling his story to the newspapers?”

  Kennington raised his fist as if he might strike her. He dropped it as an attractive, middle-aged woman came briskly in, her streakily gray hair cut short in a young style that actually suited her. She passed Dalton and looked around, smiling vaguely.

  “Oh! I’m sorry …” She looked to her husband. “John?”

  Tennison stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Mrs. Kennington, I am—”

  Kennington grasped her by the elbow and started pushing her. Tennison pulled her arm free and stood back, holding up both hands.

  “Please!” She smoothed her sleeve straight. “Mrs. Kennington, your husband was just answering some questions. I am investigating the death of a young rent boy, fifteen years old, and I’m—”

  Mrs. Kennington’s eyes widened in alarm as her husband bodily propelled Tennison across the room. Leaning forward, face carved out of stone, he thrust her ahead of him into the hallway, and kept on going.

  “His name was Colin Jenkins, you may have read about it …”

  Tennison’s fading voice was interrupted by the sound of the front door being swung violently open on its hinges.

  Dalton and Mrs. Kennington looked at one another. It was hard to know who was the more shocked. Dalton gathered his wits and quickly went out.

  Standing at the coffee table, Mrs. Kennington reached down, and without looking took a cigarette from a black ebony box. The front door slammed shut. She held the cigarette between he
r fingers and slowly and deliberately crumpled it, her face frozen in a white mask.

  Dalton beside her, Tennison drove into the yard at the rear of Southampton Row Police Station. This was her old division, before being shunted sideways to Soho Vice. Her old boss, Chief Superintendent Kernan, was crossing the yard to his car. Genuinely, or by design—hard to tell—he happened not to see her. She rolled the window down and stuck her head out.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  Rather reluctantly, he came over. “Sorry, I’m late as it is.” His pouchy cheeks and heavy jowls always reminded her of a disgruntled chipmunk. She couldn’t once recall him looking happy, except when he was pissed. He nodded to Dalton. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

  “What do you know about John Kennington?” Tennison asked.

  Kernan sighed and stared off somewhere. He didn’t hold with women having senior positions in the force, and that applied to Tennison in spades. She was a real ball-breaker. He bent down to the window.

  “He just got the golden handshake. Why?”

  “Is he homosexual?”

  Kernan laughed abrasively. “I don’t know—why do you ask?”

  Tennison opened the door and started to get out. Kernan backed away, making a negative motion. “I’ve got to go, Jane …”

  Tennison did get out. Kernan’s shoulders slumped as she confronted him. “Mike, I need to know because I think he is involved in this murder, the rent boy—”

  “I’ve nothing to tell you.” His face was a closed book.

  Tennison gave him a hard, penetrating stare. She said in a low urgent voice that was almost pleading, “They’re young kids, Mike, some of them eleven and twelve years of age—your boy’s age. All I want is the truth.”

  Kernan glanced guardedly toward Dalton in the car, and moved farther off. He looked down on her, flat-eyed. “Do you want me to spell it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you start digging dirt up again on Kennington,” he muttered, shaking his head, “it’ll be a waste of time. He may no longer be a big fish, but he’ll have a hell of a lot of friends who still are. A whisper gets out, you’ll tip them off and you won’t get near them, and it won’t help the kids, won’t stop the punters. They’ll all be still on the streets. You should back off this one, Jane.”

  “Even if he was a high-ranking police officer,” Tennison said heatedly. “Even if there are judges, politicians, barristers involved …”

  “Kennington’s out of the force now,” Kernan said heavily, trying to make her see sense. “Ignore it, that’s the best, the only advice I can give you.”

  Tennison nodded slowly, but it didn’t fool him. She pursed her lips. “There’s a Superintendent vacancy up for grabs, you know which area?”

  Kernan gazed at her for a moment. He held up his hand, fingers and thumb spread wide. Five. He gave a smirk and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Becoming a player, are you?”

  Tennison nodded. She got back in the car and slammed the door. She revved the engine and put it in reverse. Kernan stood watching.

  “Good night!” he called out.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Tennison said, backing up.

  Kernan whacked his open hand on the car roof and she shot off, through the archway to the main road. He shook his head wearily, puzzled and pissed off. If he couldn’t stick the woman at any price—and dammit he couldn’t—why did he so admire the bloody bitch?

  Twenty minutes later Tennison dumped her briefcase on her desk, flung her coat over a chair, and scooped up the sheaves of reports, internal memos, and phone messages that had piled up in her absence. After twelve straight hours on the job she was fighting off bone-weary fatigue with pure nervous energy. Her nerve ends jangled.

  Dalton trailed in after her. He had a limp, wrung out look to him, the classic symptoms of bags under the eyes and pasty complexion, sweat trickling from the roots of his hair.

  He stood, slack shouldered, making a great effort. “Can I say something, apologize really, but I didn’t have much say in the matter and I’ve …”

  His voice trailed away when he realized she wasn’t listening, too preoccupied as she scanned through the messages. The silence sank in.

  “What? I’m sorry?”

  “I’m sorry, and, well …” His speech stumbled along. “I dunno where I am. It’s like I’m in some kind of limbo …”

  Tennison paid full attention. Dalton seemed to be cracking up in front of her eyes. He wasn’t able to look at her, too embarrassed or fearful or something, and it all came tumbling out in a flood, a dam-burst of raw feeling.

  “I can’t sleep and, well, my girlfriend, I haven’t told her. I’m even scared to have sex with her because …” He swallowed painfully. “It’s just hanging over me all the time. What if I have got AIDS?” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. He choked down a sob, standing there forlorn and pitiful. “I’m sorry, sorry …”

  Tennison went to him and put her arms around him. She gave him a strong, comforting hug. She could feel him shaking inside. She stood back, holding his shoulders.

  “Listen, anyone would feel the same way. And, listen—I think it’ll be good for you to sit and really talk it all out … and to someone who understands all the fears—and they’re real, Brian.” She touched his wet face. “You go and wash up. I’ve got the contacts here for you, okay?” She nodded to her desk. “Maybe you and your girlfriend should go together.”

  Dalton let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand and turned to leave. Tennison waited for the door to close. She pressed both hands to her face, covering her eyes. She held a deep breath for a count of five, and then snapped back into action, picking up her messages as she returned to her chair.

  The door was rapped. Otley looked in.

  “We’ve got Parker-Jones in interview room D oh three.”

  “What?! He’s here?” Otley nodded. Tennison glared at him. “Whose bloody idea was that?”

  “Mine,” Otley retorted, sauntering in. “We got some kids that recognized Deputy Chief Commissioner Kennington’s house. Plus, the property where we picked up Jackson, it’s owned by him.”

  “What?” Tennison was on her feet.

  “Jackson’s been living in a house owned by Parker-Jones. It’s all there …” He made a flippant gesture to the desk. “Full report.”

  “Who’s interviewing him?”

  “Haskons and Lillie.”

  Tennison swore under her breath as she scoured the littered desk for his report.

  Otley’s long gaunt face was looking distinctly tetchy. He’d worked his bollocks off on this case, and what did he get in return? Sweet F.A. Overbearing cow. “And as you weren’t here,” he said, not troubling to hide his sarcasm, “and we couldn’t contact you, I’m just trying to close the case.”

  Tennison flared up. “You? I know what you’re playing at, but you are just not good enough. Stop trying to demean me at every opportunity. This isn’t your case!”

  “I know that.”

  “Then stop working by yourself. I didn’t want Parker-Jones brought in yet.”

  “You got a reason?” Otley said, insolent to the last.

  She had half a dozen, but she’d be damned if she was going to rhyme them off, chapter and verse, for his benefit. She was in charge of this investigation, and Bill Otley had better wise up to it double quick.

  “I’m not ready for him,” was the only reason she—Detective Chief Inspector Tennison—felt obliged to give the cheeky toe-rag.

  Edward Parker-Jones, quietly casual in a dark check sport jacket, collar and tie, green suede shoes, sat in interview room D.03. Haskons sat directly opposite him, with a beautiful shiner of a black eye and a cut lip. Lillie had a bruised forehead where Jackson had butted him and a bandage on his chin over the wound he had dabbed with TCP cream.

  “Yes, the properties are mine. I have admitted that they are, and I would, if you had asked, given the in
formation freely. I have nothing to hide.”

  He was one cool customer, Haskons thought. A real con artist, and he’d met a few. But, so far, Mr. Parker-Jones was completely legit, and had to be handled with care.

  “Do you have the books?” Haskons asked, raising his undamaged eyebrow. “You are paid a considerable amount of money from not only Camden Council, but also Holloway and Hackney.”

  “They are very large houses, and yes, if you wish to see the books, then all you have to do is contact my accountant. Taking care of the homeless is not a lucrative business, far from it. Laundry bills, heating, electricity, water …” He looked pointedly at his watch, shaking his head and sighing. “Is all this really necessary? Why exactly have I been brought in yet again? Why wasn’t this all asked before? I have been perfectly willing, and cooperative …”

  The door swung open. It was as if an icy blast had swept in.

  Lillie bent toward the mike. “The time is six-thirty and DCI Tennison has just entered the interview room.”

  Haskons took one look at Tennison’s face and vacated his seat. She sat down in it. She wasn’t afraid to let the silence linger as she settled herself, flipped open her notebook and unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen. She looked up.

  “Could you please tell us about your relationship with Margaret Speel?”

  Parker-Jones hooked a finger over one ear, pushing back a trailing strand of jet-black hair. “She’s my fiancée.” The question hadn’t surprised him, or if it had he’d covered superbly.

  “Did you, in 1979, run the Harrow Home for boys in Manchester?”

  “Yes.”

  However closely Tennison scrutinized him, she couldn’t detect a flicker of concern or unease.

  “And in 1986 the Calloway Centre in Cardiff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Anthony Field?”

  A half smile. “Yes.”