Kennington’s farewell bash was taking its toll. Serves you bloody well right, Tennison thought with satisfaction.
“I’d like you to set up meetings with the British Transport police, get to know all the centres and halfway homes in our area. I’d like us to try for another swoop on those areas we’ve targeted.”
“Sir, this boy in the fire, Colin Jenkins,” Tennison said as Halliday walked on to his office and opened the door. “According to the team he was on the game!”
“Well, he isn’t anymore, so he’s one less to worry about.” Clutching his head, Halliday went in and slammed the door.
Norma looked up as Tennison came smartly in, heels rapping. She didn’t need smoke signals to know that a storm was brewing. Tennison sent her off to get Martin Fletcher’s file, and when she returned her boss was pacing the small space between the desk and window. Still pacing, Tennison quickly scanned through the file, and then snatched up the phone. Norma kept her head down, literally, sorting out the files.
“DCI Tennison. Extension seven-eight, please.” While she waited, fingers drumming, she spotted some Post-It memo slips stuck to the blotter and attracted Norma’s attention.
“There were three messages. The Fire team, Forensic department, and someone called Jessica Smithy. She’s a journalist. Said she is doing a piece on rent boys-”
“What paper is she from?” Before Norma could answer, Tennison said into the phone, “Would you please ask Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall to…”
There was no need, as Otley tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Tennison banged the phone down. Hall followed the sergeant in.
“That’s it, Norma,” Tennison said. “Out, thank you.” She waited until the door had closed and came around the desk, brandishing the file.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at-no! Don’t interrupt!” Otley shut his mouth as Tennison glared at him. “Last night, according to the roster, you were not even on duty-but last night the pair of you interviewed a Martin Fletcher, correct?” She opened the file, glancing down at the yellow slip paper-clipped to the top sheet. “When later interviewed by his probation officer, a Miss Margaret Speel, she noted that this same Martin Fletcher had extensive bruising to his face, arms, and upper neck…”
“Wait, wait,” Otley said, shaking his head rapidly. “We brought him in like that!”
“Don’t interrupt me, Bill.” Tennison’s eyes blazed. “This same probation officer has subsequently filed a complaint against this department-which, in case you two had not bloody noticed, I am head of!” Her voice sank to a dangerous whisper. “Martin Fletcher, you idiots, is fourteen years old!”
Otley swore under his breath and flopped down into a chair, a hand covering his eyes. Hall stayed on his feet, goggling.
“Oh, man-he swore under caution he was seventeen. He said he was seventeen…”
“And as such he should have been allocated a lawyer, a probation officer, or an appropriate adult,” Tennison went on relentlessly. She tossed the file on the desk and folded her arms. “So, which one of you wants to start?”
Otley looked up at Hall, who coughed and as a nervous reflex smoothed down his tie, a garish swirl of reds, pinks, and purples.
He said, “There’s a known heavy, beats up on the young kids. Jackson, James-”
“So? Get to the point.”
“He picks up the young kids, the really young ones, in and around central London-Euston, Charing Cross-”
“I know the stations. Go on.”
Hall blinked his large baby-brown eyes. “Martin Fletcher was one of his boys.”
Otley’s fists were clenched on his knees. With a great effort he kept his voice under tight control. “Reason I brought Martin in was because I reckoned he might help us get a handle on Connie, why he was in that flat.”
“We just wanted to talk to him about Colin Jenkins,” Hall added. “Then he starts to tell us about Jackson.”
“The bastard plucks ’em off the station,” Otley said, “takes them out, gives them food, offers a place to stay-that’s it, he’s got them.” His mouth twisted in his long, haggard face. “Keeps them locked up. Not just boys, it’s very young-only the very young-girls as well. He drugs them, keeps them dependent.”
Thoughtfully, Tennison went back around the desk. She leaned her knuckles on the edge.
“Did Martin Fletcher tell you all this? Or is it past history?”
“We’ve sort of known about the scams,” Hall said, “but we can’t get any of the kids to name Jackson-he was one of our main targets. We don’t know where he holds the kids, but Fletcher, he admitted-”
“Just hang on a second.” Tennison’s narrowed eyes flicked between them. “What do you mean, ‘holds the kids’? Kidnaps them?”
“No, they go with him willingly,” Otley said. His voice had a raw, ugly edge to it. “And then once he’s got them-that’s it. We’re talking about kids as young as twelve and thirteen…”
“None of the kids will talk. We’ve had him hauled in on numerous occasions, we’ve even got as far as getting charges compiled against him, but the statements are always withdrawn, the kids are terrified of him, they won’t go against him. So when Martin tells us Jackson beat him up because he wanted to know where Connie was, we reckoned we got something.” Hall gestured irritably toward the desk. “Have you read my report?”
Tennison straightened up. “Yes!” She flipped open the buff cover, and began to read out loud.
“SGT. OTLEY: ‘Where does he stay? Do you know his address?’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did he beat up on you, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘Yes, sir, he did.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Why did he do that, Martin?’
FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Did you know Connie?’
FLETCHER: ‘No.’
SGT. OTLEY: ‘Come on, Martin, he was murdered.’
FLETCHER: ‘No, sir!’ ”
Tennison brought her fist down on the page, glaring across the desk at them. “We do not as yet have any proof that Colin Jenkins was murdered.”
Hall took the file, turned it around and thumbed over a couple of pages. He looked up. “Excuse me, Guv…”
“Help yourself,” Tennison said curtly.
Hall read out loud:
“INSP. HALL: ‘Tell me about Colin Jenkins.’
FLETCHER: ‘I don’t know him.’
INSP. HALL: ‘I think you are lying.’
FLETCHER: ‘I’m not, I didn’t know where he was, that’s why Jackson done it to me…’ ”
Hall looked at Tennison. “Jackson beat up Martin Fletcher on the same night Colin-Connie-died.” He read on.
“INSP. HALL: ‘What time did Jackson beat you up?’
FLETCHER: ‘Eight to nine-ish.’ ”
Hall closed the file and stepped back. During the silence Otley stared at nothing and Tennison tapped her thumbnail against her bottom teeth. “Have you got a realistic time for when the fire started?”
“Yes,” Otley said, getting up. “About nine-thirty.” He yanked his crumpled jacket straight at the back. “Jackson could have done it! Even if he didn’t, this could be what we need to get him off the streets so we can get the kids to talk.” He stared hard at Tennison. She thought some more and then gave a swift nod.
“Okay. You get hold of the probation officer and Martin Fletcher, and bring Jackson in for questioning… just helping inquiries,” she added quietly, staring him out. In other words, no more bloody cock-ups that would leave her holding the shitty end of the stick.
Tennison wanted to see for herself. Statements, autopsy reports, tapes, photographs told one version of events. They might be true and accurate, but they were one-dimensional, open to interpretation. Nothing like being there, seeing it, smelling it, touching it.