As the officers came through, the young boy with the bike piped up, “Have the Pakis murdered someone?”
Detective Inspector Frank Burkin didn’t break his stride. “Shut up and move that bike!”
The kid’s older brother, wearing a beaded cap with dreadlocks trailing down, wasn’t too thrilled with Burkin’s attitude. “What makes you think you can talk to him like that?” he burst out angrily. “We live here, man, not you… what is it with you?”
Impatiently, DI Tony Muddyman pushed past, leaving Burkin to argue with the youth. Diplomacy never was top priority on Burkin’s list, but why the hell did he have to alienate the local community the minute he planted his size elevens on Honeyford Road, he thought. Getting people’s backs up was no way to start.
Mr. Viswandha had finished on the phone and met Muddyman as he came through the front door. Eyes glittering, head jerking back and forth, the Indian watched the file of men troop past him down the hall.
“Are you in charge?”
“For the time being, sir,” Muddyman nodded.
“Then please…” Mr. Viswandha’s brown, plump hands paddled the air nervously. “Just take it away.”
“We will, sir, as soon as possible-”
“Not as soon as possible.” He glanced at his wife hugging the two children to her, a boy of seven and a girl of five. “Now. I pay my poll tax.”
“I’m afraid it’s a suspicious death, sir, and as such, all this has to be done properly.” Muddyman beckoned a District Commissioner forward. “Now, will you go with this officer and answer his questions, please.”
With a nod to Mrs. Viswandha, Muddyman went on; he always tried to be polite, especially with the ethnics, but why was it that he always felt he had to compensate for Burkin’s crass, insensitive behavior? As if the bloody job wasn’t hard enough.
“So she consented to sex with you?”
Tennison kept her voice deliberately flat, unemotional. She wanted to feed him just enough rope to hang himself with.
Oswalde gave a lazy grin. “What ya gwan an with? She was beggin’ for it, man.”
“If she was a willing partner, why did you use violence?” Casually the Chief Inspector fed him a bit more rope. “Why did you hit her?”
“You know these t’ings,” said Oswalde with a shrug, “how them happen…”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Some of them white t’ing like it rough.” Again the overt sexual insult in his eyes, teasing, taunting. Watching him, Tennison decided to draw the noose tighter. She glanced down at the sheet of paper in front of her.
“But the doctor reports ‘severe gripping contusions to the upper arms.’ ” She glanced up. “Bruises where you’d held her down.”
Oswalde looked blank. Turning, he frowned at DCI Thorndike who was sitting to one side, arms folded across his double-breasted lapels, his narrow, pale face and watery eyes just beyond the arc of lamplight. Thorndike dropped his eyes, as though embarrassed by the explicit nature of the interrogation. But Tennison was not in the least put out. It seemed as if nothing could shock her, not even if Oswalde had stripped and done a handstand on the table.
“All right, Robert, let me ask you this.” Tennison leaned forward, the curtain of honey-blond hair slanting across her forehead. “How did you know that this girl liked it ‘rough’?”
“I knew. The way she looked.”
“Well… how did she look?” Tennison pressed him.
“She had blond hair.” Oswalde stared straight back. “She was wearin’ a red blouse…”
Tennison had on a red blouse.
“An’ she had a tight, tight black skirt… like for you.”
“I see. So she didn’t actually say anything to encourage you?”
Tennison let the silence hang for a moment, and then her voice had a harder edge to it. “But then that’s not surprising since you tore her tights off and rammed them down her throat.”
Oswalde stiffened. “That’s just her word against mine.” There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his smooth wide forehead.
“No, it’s the doctor’s report, the forensic evidence, and her word against yours,” Tennison corrected him. She pulled the rope a notch tighter. “How many other women have you attacked? How long before you kill someone, Robert?”
Oswalde’s handsome face had gotten sullen. Perhaps he could feel the noose tightening around his neck.
By the time Superintendent Mike Kernan arrived at Honeyford Road, the Area Major Incident Team, known as AMIT, based at Southampton Row, was already in action. Kernan had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, feet up, glass of Famous Grouse, something undemanding on the TV. In fact, already hightailing it in his BMW when the call had come through, he had debated whether to respond or let the AMIT boys get on with it. But he hadn’t debated for long; first reports from the scene of the crime suggested that this was more than just a run-of-the-mill case of domestic violence-the cause of most murders. And with his interview coming up, the Super didn’t want to be conspicuously absent in what might turn out to be a major homicide investigation. So he turned around at the next intersection and headed back, grimly reconciled to his duty, the TV and the Scotch already a fading memory.
“Heh-policeman! Kernan!”
A small pudgy West Indian woman in a shapeless dark coat tried to grab his sleeve as he pushed his burly frame through the crowd on the slick, wet pavement. Kernan was annoyed-not so much with the woman, whom he recognized as Nola Cameron-but that the area hadn’t been cleared and cordoned off. Where were the uniformed men? This could reach the level of public disorder if it wasn’t nipped in the bud.
“What’s happenin’? Heh, policeman, listen to me! If that’s my Simone in there…”
Kernan appealed to her. “Nola, you can see I’ve just arrived. Give me a chance to find out what’s happening. We won’t be issuing any statements tonight. Now go home.” He looked around, raising his voice. “You should all just go home.”
“You never tried to find my daughter,” Nola accused him passionately, bitterly. “If it’s her in that garden…”
Halfway up the path, Kernan swung his head around, really angry now. “You people should go home!” He went on, gritting his teeth as Nola’s wailing voice pursued him. “If that’s my Simone… you won’t be able to stop us getting to her…”
Kernan made a beeline for Muddyman, who seemed to be directing operations from the kitchen.
“Get the area cordoned off properly,” he snapped. “If it turns out to be Simone Cameron we could have a real problem.”
Notepad in hand, his muscular six-foot-three frame looming over her, DI Burkin was interviewing Mrs. Viswandha, while the two kids clutched their mother and peered out with large brown eyes, more curious than apprehensive. Burkin was having problems. She had to spell “Viswandha” for him, and when he asked for her first name, she said, “Sakuntala.” Burkin sighed.
DC Jones and Mr. Viswandha were just inside the front room, off the foyer. The constable’s glasses had misted up, and he was peering over the top of them, looking like an eager boy scientist, with his fresh-faced looks and wavy, brown hair.
“And the slabs were already in place when you bought the house?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve done no work yourself in the garden? Or had any work done?”