Sandra was flushed and excited, already a bit tipsy on the two drinks she’d had in the pub. Jason ordered a pint of lager for himself and a Martini and lemonade for her. It was early in the evening and the place was quiet, not more than a dozen diners all told, mostly couples.
“Can we have some of them popadoms?” Sandra asked, wriggling in her chair.
Jason smirked at her naïveté. “This is a Chinese restaurant, Sandy.”
“I know,” she said sulkily, coloring.
“I’ll order for us.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
When the food came she didn’t know how to use chopsticks, and had to eat it with a fork. Jason got another round of drinks, even though Sandra protested she’d had enough. Her eyes were glassy, and she got the giggles. Every time Jason whispered in her ear, usually some crude sexual innuendo, she shrieked with laughter. Some of the other diners were becoming irritated. At a nearby table a man muttered to his companion that it was a disgrace, they shouldn’t allow that type in the restaurant in the first place.
Jason was up on his feet, neck pumping, fists bunched. He strode across and stuck his head in the man’s face.
“What you say? My type? What’s ‘my type,’ eh? Eh?” White-faced with rage, he grabbed a plateful of food and chucked it in the man’s lap. “You fuck.” He gripped the edge of the table and tipped the whole thing over.
Two waiters rushed over and started yammering away in Chinese. Jason angrily brushed them off. He marched back to his table, threw down some money, and jerked his thumb at Sandra. “C’mon darlin’.”
Sandra rose to her feet, a little nervous smile hovering on her lips. She’d never seen anyone change so quickly, so suddenly. He was like a different person. A shiver ran down her spine, but she did as she was told, and meekly followed him out.
In the darkened trailer, Oswalde and the two local C.I.D. officers waited. They’d made themselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped space, Oswalde taking the bench couch under the window, the other two sitting on cushions on the floor. From time to time all three looked hopefully at the mobile phone, standing upright on the sink unit. Their man in the site manager’s office would give them advance word the minute Jason drove in. Then they’d be ready for him as he stepped through the door.
Oswalde smothered a yawn. Join the police for a life of thrills and excitement. They forgot to mention the endless hours of boredom while you waited for something to happen.
The embossed plastic sign in the center of the door read: TAPED INTERVIEW ROOM.
Sarah paused on the threshold as Tennison pushed the door open and bade her enter. She said tremulously, “Was this the room Tony was interviewed in?”
Tennison shook her head. “No, love.” She touched Sarah’s arm reassuringly. “No.”
Sarah went in. Tennison followed and closed the door.
Jason’s arm was hooked around Sandra’s waist, leading her to his Cavalier hatchback at the curb. The giggles were back. She staggered tipsily in her high heels and nearly tripped, and he had to hoist her up. His hand slid down to squeeze her buttocks. Lovely firm body on it, not an ounce of flab. That’s why he preferred them young; those old fucks with their arses hanging out turned his stomach. He bet this tart would go at top speed, a regular rattlesnake.
He unlocked the passenger door and got her safely installed. He had a hard-on like a tent pole, couldn’t wait to see her stripped off and get stuck in. He had some whisky back at the van, just in case she needed loosening up, a bit of Dutch courage. He went around to his side, chest tight, grinning into the night air. He was going to give her a lot more than whisky and Dutch courage.
Sarah had taken off her coat and scarf. She hadn’t bothered to change before she left home; wearing a simple dark dress and loose knitted cardigan, she sat opposite Tennison, her feet together, hands resting in her lap. Even in her fraught condition there was a noble dignity about her, Tennison decided. She held herself proudly, shoulders back, and it was only in her large liquid eyes that the terrible anguish and pain she was struggling with showed itself.
Tennison started the tape. Without any prompting, Sarah began to speak in a level, controlled voice, quiet yet distinct, recalling the events of the last day of August 1986.
“I was at home with Pop until Tony got back. That was just before nine, as arranged. As soon as Pop had gone, Tony said he had to go out for a while. Of course he wasn’t supposed to, so we started arguing. I watched him go back out to a girl who was waiting for him. Joanne. Tony must have got Pop’s keys from somewhere, because they went next door…”
“Into Harvey’s house?” Tennison said, clarifying it for the record.
“Yes. Joanne was looking for a flat to rent and Tony told her about Harvey’s basement. How his father owned it and all that. I followed them and watched. They went into the bedroom together. They kissed, lay on the bed together. I watched for a while. It made me feel odd. But I was fourteen, and curious, I suppose.”
She stared past Tennison, a slight glaze over her eyes, reliving the memory.
“Then I saw Jason come in. Tony didn’t know he was staying there…”
The Cavalier hatchback turned in at the gate and bumped over the rutted track past the site manager’s office. It passed within a few feet of an open window, through which a storm of cheering erupted as Paul Merson headed in the equalizer against Liverpool. Leaning forward in his chair, the C.I.D. man punched the air and grinned across at the manager. Show those bleeding natives how it’s done. He took another bite of his corned beef and pickle sandwich, and settled back with eager anticipation in the comfy armchair.
Outside, the red taillights grew faint, and finally disappeared from view as the gravel track dipped down.
“I went around to the front door and rang the bell. Jason answered. He invited me in. I had quite a crush on Jason at the time…” Sarah’s eyes rolled towards Tennison, the thought of it filling her with horror. She moistened her lips. “Tony was pissed off to see me but I wouldn’t go. Tony and Joanne were dancing together. Jason was watching them, encouraging them, telling them to kiss…”
Randy and raring to go, Jason gave Sandra a sloppy wet kiss as they staggered up the concrete pathway together. Her giggles now weren’t altogether convincing. The cold night air had sharpened her senses, cut through the alcoholic haze swirling inside her head. He had bought her fancy new clothes and underwear, wined and dined her, and she wasn’t fool enough not to know that he expected something in return. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to give it.
But it was too late; she was here, at his trailer, and she didn’t know how to get out of it.
Jason fished out his keys. Cuddling her, he turned the key in the lock, yanked the door open, and pushed her inside, into the pitch blackness.
“… Jason found a Polaroid camera. It must have belonged to Harvey. Jason took photographs. We were drinking Harvey’s booze, getting quite drunk.”
Sandra stood blinking as the light came on. Sidling past her, Jason slapped her neat little bottom in the black velvet dress. “Make yourself at home.”
He went to a cupboard, hunting for the bottle of White Horse. “This is my studio… I got me darkroom in another van,” he told her.
Swaying a little, Sandra gazed around. She was feeling a bit queasy, and it wasn’t only the drinks and the Chinese food. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with pictures of naked girls. There was a camera set up on a tripod and a battery of lights. And there was a couch, draped in a satin sheet. Suddenly she realized she was trembling all over. A horrible cold crawling sensation was seeping up from the pit of her stomach.