Jackson had seen her, and Vera saw that he had. She kept on backing away, and then turned and scurried off. She looked back, once, at Tennison, naked fear in her eyes, and vanished down the staircase.
Otley stood aside as Jackson was taken into the interview room. He waited by the door, watching Tennison dithering in the corridor.
“Where’s Martin Fletcher?” she asked irritably.
“Room D oh six,” Otley said, and when she dithered some more, he said loudly, as if she were deaf or stupid, “It’s the one next to the coffee machine!”
Tennison took three paces and stopped. “Where’s the bloody coffee machine?” she said through gritted teeth, but the door had closed.
Halliday came through the double doors. He went past at a clip, not breaking his stride. “Colin Jenkins. Can you get me the full case records to date?”
“Yes, sir,” Tennison said. “Where’s the coffee machine?”
“Make sure you get everything to me ASAP. That’s firsthand, Chief Inspector,” Halliday said over his shoulder. “I don’t want anything sprung on me. That understood? I’ll be in my office…” He disappeared around a corner, his voice floating back, “Downstairs on your right.”
Stumping down the stairs, Tennison made a silent screaming face.
5
Martin Fletcher’s bruised face had matured over the past twenty-four hours. The blow on his forehead had ripened into a huge purple swelling. His cut lip was an angry puffy red. The gash on his cheek had crusted over, weeping yellowish pus. A plug of bloodstained cotton was stuck up his left nostril.
Head sunk between his shoulders, he sat in the interview room, smoking, continually flicking at the filter tip with a gnawed-down thumbnail. The ashtray had overflowed onto the tabletop. Nearby, the unwinking red light of the tape recorder glowed like a tiny ruby.
A uniformed officer stood by the door. Next to Martin sat his probation officer, Margaret Speel. She was in her early thirties, neat and unfussy in a light gray suit, with an oval small-boned face and frizzy black hair cut in severe bangs just above her eyes. She leaned toward him, bowing her head to be on a level with his.
“You understand the question, Martin? Now, we’re all getting tired, we’ve all been here a long time…”
Tennison looked up from the report in front of her. It was after six in the evening, it had been a hectic yet frustrating day, and under the harsh strip lighting she knew that she must have looked like a worn-out old hag. She certainly felt like one. She tried again.
“Martin, last night you talked to Sergeant Otley and Inspector Hall, and you told them that the man who attacked you-”
“No! That was words put in me mouth.” Martin sniffed loudly. “I never told nobody nuffink-and that is the Gawd’s truth.”
Tennison plowed on. “You also said that the man’s name was Jackson and that he specifically asked you if you knew where Colin Jenkins was-”
Again Martin jumped in. “No-I never said that-never.” He took a swift drag, his fingers trembling, showering ash everywhere. “What happened was… you know that escalator top of King’s Cross station? I was comin’ down, me coat got caught like, and I fell forward.” He ducked down to demonstrate. “I hit me head on the stairs, and then, when I got up, I fell over again and hit me nose. Nobody hit me.” He stared at her, one eye swollen and bloodshot.
“So you lied to the police officers who questioned you?” Tennison said quietly.
“Yeah, I suppose so.” He grew bolder. “Yeah, I lied ’cos… ’cos I’m underage-I mean, they really scared me like, and…”
“Martin, did you know Colin?”
He glanced sideways at Margaret Speel and then took another deep swift drag, a single plume of smoke issuing through one nostril.
“Yeah, not like-well, red-haired bloke, wasn’t he? Quentin House, he was there wiv me, now he’s burnt like a crisp!” Due to his cut lip his grin was lopsided, showing the black gap of two missing front teeth. “That’s a joke goin’ round-Quentin Crisp, famous poofter…”
“Have you ever had sex with a man?”
“Me? Nah!”
“What about a blow job? Ever been paid for doing that?”
Martin shrugged. “Few times, when I’m broke like, but I’m not into that. I got other means of employment.” He was sounding cocky now, starting to brag.
“Such as?”
“Breakin’ and enterin’, nickin’ cars, radios. Beggin’-do a bit of that.” He smirked. “Sell my life story to the newspapers.”
Tennison looked at Margaret Speel, whose expression remained exactly the same: in fact hardly any expression at all, apart from a slight cynical twist of the mouth, that must be part of the job description, Tennison thought.
Martin was laughing. “I can nick a motor, go for a joyride, an’ you lot can’t do nuffink!”
Tennison snapped her notebook shut.
“You listen to me, Martin. You think you can play games with us, lie to us, and it’s all a joke. Well, it isn’t. Colin Jenkins has no one to claim his body, no one to bury him.” Tennison stood up. Martin wouldn’t look at her. “Nobody cares about Colin Jenkins but us.”
Absolutely seething, Tennison went up the stairs and strode along the corridor, muttering to herself, “I have just about had enough of this bloody place-kids can run riot over us without-”
Otley was leaning against the wall outside interview room D.03 having a smoke. He eased himself into his usual round-shouldered slouch as Tennison stormed up.
“-Is Jackson in here?” she snapped, jerking her thumb.
“He denies knowing Martin Fletcher,” Otley said.
“And Martin Fletcher denied his entire statement! Can we hold Jackson on attempting to pick up that boy at the station?” Otley shook his head. “So we’ve got nothing on him…! No prints from Vera’s flat?” Otley shook his head. “Nothing off the possible weapon?”
“Nope, nothin’,” Otley said, still shaking his head.
For just an instant Tennison seemed to deflate before his eyes. Then she rallied, straightened up, took a deep breath, brushed a hand through her hair, and jabbed her finger at the door. Otley pushed it open.
She had expected Jackson to be a nasty piece of work and she wasn’t disappointed. What she hadn’t expected was his overweening confidence bordering on insolence. He was sprawled back in the chair as if he owned the place, long legs splayed out, leather jacket undone, blowing smoke rings into the thick blue haze that filled the room. Cigarette stubs floated in the cups of cold coffee on the table. He couldn’t be bothered to look up as she entered, heavy-lidded eyes in the long, pockmarked face glazed with boredom, scruffy mop of hair sticking up in spikes. He leaned back, blowing another lazy smoke ring.
“Open the window,” Tennison rapped out to Hall. “Shut the door,” she told Otley. Jackson sniggered. Bossy bitch.
She whipped around on him. “And you, take that smile off your face! Because I am going to book you and send you away, Jackson, for a very long time.”
Jackson looked at Hall as if to say, Where the fuck did you dig this twat up from? He looked at Tennison and then dropped his eyes to the Marlboro packet he was turning slowly over and over. He said in a calm, controlled voice, “What am I supposed to have done?”
“One-you were caught approaching a juvenile. Two-attempted murder of another juvenile, Martin Fletcher, and three-that you did on the night of the seventeenth murder Colin Jenkins.”
Jackson stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet wearing a pained, crooked smile.
“SIT DOWN!!”
Sighing, he dropped into his seat. Still amused, he watched the manic Tennison dragging out the vacant chair with a clatter, picking up the laden ashtray and banging it into the wastebasket. She threw it down on the table, turning to Hall. “You’ve read him his rights?” Then to Otley, “Sergeant, has he given you his contact number for his brief yet?”