“If I hear an outburst like that from you again, it’ll be a disciplinary matter.”
“Yeah, then perhaps you better take me off the case,” Burkin said, looking straight past her to the opposite wall.
“You won’t be off the case, Frank, you’ll be off the Force.” Tennison’s voice was lethal. “If you think setting someone up because they’re black is okay, then you shouldn’t be a cop at all. Simple as that.”
The intercom buzzed. Tennison reached over to press the button, and Maureen Havers announced that Nola Cameron was in reception, waiting to see her. Tennison said she’d be right there, and turned back to Burkin, shaking her head.
“Jesus, this is a murder investigation, Frank. A young girl ends up buried in someone’s backyard like the family cat? Her skull smashed to pieces? What difference does it make what color her skin used to be?” She said with quiet finality, “I want the boy cautioned and released and then get back to work.”
Without a word, Burkin turned and left the office.
3
Nola Cameron was a pathetic sight, still wearing the woven cap and shapeless coat of the previous night. Tennison escorted her into the interview room, holding her arm. “This way, Nola, my love…”
The clothing and other items were laid out on a table; stained with mud and partially decayed, they were sad mementos of a young life that had been brutally cut short, stopped in its tracks before it had time to flower into womanhood.
Tennison said gently, “Now, Nola, I want you to look at these things and tell me if you recognize any of them as having belonged to Simone.” She kept her eyes on the woman’s face, watching her closely as Nola Cameron fingered the sweater, then touched the other scraps of clothing. Almost at once she was nodding, a haunted expression straining her features.
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “These are her things.”
“Nola, please, look carefully, take your time.”
“These are all her things,” Nola Cameron insisted, nodding again, blinking back her tears.
“We found this belt buried with her.” Tennison showed her the large silver buckle in the shape of the Red Indian’s head. “Do you recognize that?”
“Yes, yes,” Nola Cameron said, hardly glancing at it. “That is her belt. She always wore this belt.”
“I see.” Tennison slipped off her wristwatch and laid it next to the Adidas sneakers. “And what about this watch?”
“That is hers.” Nola Cameron started sobbing, head bowed, rocking back and forth. “I bought her this watch.”
Tennison wrapped her arm around the shaking shoulders. “Nola, would you like a cup of tea? Do you want to sit down?”
“No, thank you.”
Tennison led her to the door. “The experts will be able to give us a lot more information soon. Your dentist has provided Simone’s dental records and we can compare those against those of the girl we found. That will tell us for sure.” She hesitated. “And so until then-these things are all we have to go on. Are you sure you recognize them?”
“Oh, yes,” Nola Cameron whispered. “Yes.”
“I see, all right. Well, thank you very much.”
Thoughtfully, Tennison watched as the bowed figure shuffled off across the reception area. Then with a sigh she picked up her watch, slipped it back on, and returned to the Incident Room.
DC Jones was standing at the board. While most of the desk-bound team worked in shirtsleeves, Jones prided himself on keeping up appearances, jacket on, necktie neatly knotted; with his glasses firmly on his nose, he looked like an earnest insurance salesman about to make a pitch. He held up a sheaf of typewritten sheets, claiming her attention.
“Report in from Gold, boss. He reckons Nadine was infested by maggots. Bluebottles.”
“So?”
“Bluebottles won’t lay their eggs underground.”
Arms folded, Tennison studied the 10 × 8 glossy photographs pinned to the board, the whole grisly sequence as the corpse was disinterred.
“So that means she was above ground for a while before she was buried?”
Jones nodded eagerly. “At least a few hours. The other thing is that she must have been killed in the summer, ’cos that’s when bluebottles are active.”
“And Simone was missing in February.” Tennison subsided into a chair, rubbing her eyes, feeling suddenly very weary. “Which means I go into tonight’s meeting none-the-bloody-wiser.”
The community center was packed to overflowing. There would have been a reasonable turnout anyway, but with the Derrick Cameron case back in the headlines, and now the discovery of the body in Honeyford Road, the local, mainly black residents had turned out in force. Community policing had always been a contentious issue, and here was a golden opportunity for them to air their grievances and put the senior police officers on the spot.
Tennison and Kernan arrived together, to be met by Don Patterson, who was to chair the meeting, a young West Indian casually dressed in T-shirt, jeans, and leather sandals. He led them through the crowd milling around the entrance, skirting the television crew and knot of reporters clamoring for Jonathan Phelps to make a statement. Phelps, of mixed-West Indian and Asian parentage, was a tall, balding, well-dressed man, rather good-looking in a severe way, keenly-intelligent and a forceful presence. He had been educated at the London School of Economics, where he himself now lectured, and had been selected as Labour’s candidate in the forthcoming by-election. Tonight’s meeting was a gift on a silver platter, and he was making the most of the media exposure to pursue his political ambitions.
Tennison couldn’t quite see him through the crowd of newsmen and photographers, but she could hear him all right: the firm, resonant voice, the incisive delivery, confidence in every phrase.
“… my concern is that Derrick Cameron’s case reaches the Court of Appeal-and that someone who has been wrongly imprisoned for six years is released. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act brought in stricter safeguards for the interrogating of suspects, but that was not much help to Derrick Cameron, who along with an increasing number of individuals”-here a pause for emphasis, while his voice took on a dry, mocking tone-“apparently wanted to confess to the police in the car on the way to the station.”
The media lapped it up. Passing inside, Tennison and Kernan exchanged gloomy looks. This was going to be as bad-worse perhaps-than they had feared. Phelps had set the tone and the agenda for the evening with his opening remarks, and any hope of a cool, reasonable discussion had flown out the window. And that’s how it turned out. Seated up on the platform with Phelps and Patterson, and Tennison beside him, Kernan was fighting a losing battle from the start, struggling to make himself heard above the rowdy, packed hall, constantly interrupted in mid-sentence by people leaping up, not so much to ask questions as to hurl abuse.
The TV crew had set up at the back of the hall, the photographers crouching in the center aisle, getting lovely close-ups of Kernan’s mounting frustration, and then swiveling to take in the crowd’s angry reactions.
“If that means a no-go area,” Kernan was saying, palms raised, “if that means a no-go area…”
“With respect,” Phelps chimed in.
“… I can make no such assurances. I am unable”-Kernan valiantly tried again, almost drowned out by the racket from the floor-“I am unable to give any such assurances.”
“The idea is not to create no-go areas,” Phelps said, responding to the point but directly addressing the audience and the cameras. “Quite the reverse. We’ve heard from your Community Liaison Officer-who is of course a white police officer…”