“Mr. Peters, is it true that you are a member of Narcotics Anonymous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you could tell the members of the jury why that is.”
The crusty blinked, and gave the jury an ingratiating smile. “Because, ladies and gentlemen, I used to be addicted to various narcotic substances.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peters,” the coroner said icily.
The coroner’s heavy-handed attempt to discredit her witness brought a fleeting sardonic smile to Mrs. Duhra’s face. His testimony had been heard, that’s what mattered, and what had been said couldn’t be unsaid.
Tennison, in her bra and slip, was rooting in the closet for a clean blouse when the phone rang at twenty past eight the following morning. She flopped down on the bed and reached out to answer it. She listened and then said sharply, “Who is this? And why should I want to read that rag?”
Jason was in a phone booth on the shore. It was a gorgeous day down here, a clear blue sky above, the sun sparkling on the waves and making dazzling white triangles of the sails of the yachts setting out for a morning sail around the bay.
He said silkily, “I think you’ll find something in it to amuse you. Now promise me you’ll buy it.”
“Who is this?”
Jason hung up. He didn’t really want to, because he liked the sound of her voice, but it could have been dangerous, staying on the line. She had a sexy voice. She was sexy-looking too. Nice figure, big tits. As a rule he liked them young, the younger the better, because they were innocent and impressionable. But he would have made an exception in her case. Give her a few drinks, get her down to bra and panties, load up the Pentax and shoot off a roll. And after that, well, who knows? Could be her lucky day, a bit of throbbing young meat. They said the older ones really appreciated a good, strong hammering.
Jason came out of the phone booth onto the sunny promenade. He was breathing quite heavily and his erection was chafing inside the tight crotch of his jeans.
He set off at an amble, his black T-shirt under his open Windbreaker damply clinging to him, and went looking for amusement, diversion, thrills.
Sarah Allen was on her way to the kitchen when she heard the mail drop through the mailbox. Upstairs, her nine-year-old brother David was complaining that he couldn’t find his shoes and that Miss Hoggard would make him stay behind if he was late again. From the bathroom, muffled by the sound of running water, came the bass rumble of Vernon’s reply.
Sarah leafed through the bills and advertising junk to see if there was anything for her. There was. She ripped open the large manila envelope and took out a sheaf of ten-by-eight glossy photographs. At first, and rather stupidly, it only registered that they were of a young and slender naked black woman, a towel wrapped around her head. Then she gasped when she realized it was she. Staring in horror and total disbelief, she looked at the grainy images of herself in the privacy of her own bedroom, taken with a powerful zoom lens.
There was some writing on the back of one of them. In such a state of shock, Sarah had to read it twice before the words sank in. Her legs turned to water. Trembling and sick with fear, she stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and pushed it under her sweater as Esme came downstairs.
Gorgeously sunny at the seaside it might have been, but in London it was pissing down. Tennison came out of the newsagent’s and made a dash to her car through the downpour. She slid behind the wheel, shaking cold rainwater from her hair. She unfolded the tabloid newspaper and quickly turned the pages. She didn’t have to look very far. There it was, spread across page five, bold headline that smacked her between the eyes. “TOP COP’S DARK SECRET.”
Underneath it, three muddy photographs that nevertheless clearly identified the two figures kissing on a doorstep as Bob Oswalde and herself; and as if that weren’t bad enough, she was in pajamas and that bloody Chinese silk dressing gown.
Tennison slumped back in the seat. The inside of her head was like a snowstorm, thoughts swirling around. It took her a couple of minutes to get a grip, steady herself. When she had, she knew what she had to do. There was a phone booth on the corner. She ran to it and called Mike Kernan at home, hoping to catch him before he left. Thank God he hadn’t. He listened to her, but didn’t seem to get the full drift of it right off.
Boiling with rage and frustration, Tennison explained angrily, “It’s a threat. From Jason-he’s the photographer.” She nodded vigorously, showering raindrops everywhere. “Yes, of course I’m going to court! I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Someone needs to warn Oswalde…”
At that moment Oswalde was sitting in a cafe, down a side street nearly opposite the Coroner’s Court, polishing off bacon and eggs. He was just finishing his coffee when Burkin strode in, a snide, knowing grin on his face. He was loving this; about time that stuck-up, holier-than-thou bitch got what was coming to her.
Hardly stopping on his way to the counter, he rudely waved a folded newspaper in Oswalde’s face and slapped it on the table.
“What-?”
“Page five.”
“What?” Oswalde said again.
“Fried egg, bacon, and beans, two of toast, cuppa tea with, please, love.” Burkin brought his tea to the table and squeezed in next to Oswalde. “Page five.” He said with a smirk, “That explains it-why the boss was so keen to take your side when Tony killed himself.”
Oswalde had found the item. He read the headline and stared blankly at the picture, too shell-shocked to feel anything.
Burkin stirred his tea. “So tell me, is she good? Does she do tricks?” He leered at Oswalde, gave him a sly nudge. “I bet she likes it on top, doesn’t she?”
Oswalde stood up fast, in the process catching Burkin’s elbow and upsetting his cup. Hot tea spilled into Burkin’s lap, and he stood up fast too, grinding out, “Shit!” When he looked up, tight-lipped, the door was swinging shut behind Oswalde’s departure.
It was the final day of the inquest, and there was an air of nervous expectation as the court quickly filled up. Tennison took her seat next to Kernan, who gave her a fishy-eyed stare; by now he’d seen the tabloid splash, another nail in the coffin of his promotion prospects. He didn’t know that he could ever forgive her for this, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.
Both of them watched the Allen family filing in. Tennison wasn’t keen on catching their eye, because up until today it had been plain, unadulterated anger and hatred directed at the benches occupied by the police, especially from Sarah. Now Sarah was looking directly at her with an expression Tennison couldn’t fathom. Almost as if she sympathized, or at least understood, what Tennison must be going through after the seedy revelations in that morning’s paper. It was baffling. Sarah should be reveling in her discomfiture-positively gloating over it-Tennison thought, and yet she wasn’t, and wondered why.
Everyone rose as the coroner entered, and settled down again. The public gallery was packed with black faces. Total silence fell like a shroud as the coroner began his summing up.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The time has come for you to withdraw and consider your verdict. But before you do I should like to offer you some advice. There are a number of possible verdicts, but I think under the circumstances you should focus your attention on just three.”
He paused and stated them, separately and distinctly, so that there should be no confusion.
“Unlawful killing. Misadventure. Suicide.”
There were murmurs from the public gallery. Three possible verdicts, but only one would satisfy them, and convince them that justice had been done.
During the recess, while the jury was out, Tennison went for a smoke in the white-tiled basement which served as a waiting room. She sat apart from all the others, needing to be alone. Besides, the Allen family was down there, surrounded by friends and well-wishers from the public gallery. Therefore it came as a surprise when Sarah came up, and after a slight hesitation, sat down beside her.