The receiver went down and rapid footsteps thudded on the carpet. Tennison made it to her door just as Halliday’s door opened. She nipped in and gently pushed the door to with her fingertips, seeing him pass by through the crack. She clicked the door shut.
Otley had been on the bevvy the night before. His gaunt face was grayer and even more deeply lined than usual, eyes like piss-holes in snow. Nonetheless he was enjoying himself. He kept sneaking wicked little grins at Hall, whose return smile was rather lukewarm.
It was the 9:30 A.M. briefing in the Squad Room, and the entire team-with the exception of DCI Tennison and WPC Kathy Trent-was assembled, paying close attention to Commander Chiswick. Halliday was there, the Colin Jenkins autopsy report and forensic lab reports on the desk in front of him. There was also a new face. Otley recognized him as Detective Inspector Brian Dalton-dark, tanned, with sleepy brown eyes that had the women turning somersaults, Otley reckoned. A real handsome bastard.
So Otley’s delight was twofold. Chiswick was holding court while Tennison was conspicuous by her absence (maybe she hadn’t even been told!) and new people were being drafted in, probably without her knowledge. At any rate, something was going down, Otley gloated, and the old cow would hit the freaking roof when she found out.
“The deceased, Colin Jenkins, was, according to the Path. reports, unconscious when the fire took hold.” Chiswick had a pedantic, monotone delivery, better suited to reading the weather forecast. “This is verified by the low amount of smoke inhalation, indicating very shallow breathing. But his death was due to carbon monoxide poisoning, therefore we are treating the case as murder…”
Otley folded his arms, hugging himself, as Tennison came in, followed by Kathy. Halliday nodded a greeting to Tennison, who went to stand beside him.
“… as it is clear from the fire reports that the fire was not accidental, but an act of arson. We all have a backlog of cases,” the Commander said, looking toward Tennison. He didn’t nod or smile, he just looked. He faced the front.
“… and my own feelings concerning the murder and its obvious complexities are that we keep it inhouse. So I’d like this case brought to a conclusion as fast as possible, and have requested backup to assist Detective Chief Inspector Tennison’s inquiry from C.I.D. AMIT area seven-stroke-eight.”
AMIT 7/8 was the Area Major Incident Team, based at New Scotland Yard, which covered the Soho, Piccadilly Circus, and Leicester Square beat.
“Thank you,” Chiswick said, and a buzz of chatter started up.
Otley nudged DI Hall. They both watched, Otley with undisguised glee, as Tennison stalked out, face like a storm cloud.
She was halfway along the corridor when Chiswick and Halliday appeared behind her, following on at an even pace. When she was a reasonable distance from the Squad Room, Tennison halted and turned, facing squarely up to Halliday.
“I do not, at this stage, need any assistance. I already have a strong suspect.”
“James Jackson,” Halliday muttered to Chiswick, “earmarked in Operation Contract.”
“I would also appreciate it,” Tennison said crisply, getting it off her chest, “if I were to be informed before the squad of any further decisions connected to the Colin Jenkins investigation.”
DI Dalton ambled up, tall, dark, and handsome, with an engaging grin. Otley’s head poked through the Squad Room doors, wearing a devilish smirk, relishing every moment.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Jane, I didn’t have time this morning to introduce you.” Halliday extended his hand. “This is one of your new team, DI Brian Dalton. Brian, this is Chief Inspector Jane Tennison.”
“Good morning,” Tennison said without so much as a glance at him, and went into her office.
She busied herself for an hour with a mound of paperwork. The mind-numbing chore brought her anger down from white heat to a dull smoldering red. Why in heaven’s name she hadn’t developed an ulcer was one of the unsolved mysteries of the age. Or had a nervous breakdown. But she was saving that for her three-week vacation.
Norma kept her supplied with coffee, and at eleven o’clock DI Hall came to her office with the tape sent over from the ambulance emergency service. All such calls were taped and kept for a period of months. They listened to it several times, straining to hear through the whining distortion and crackling electronics; also there was music and pinging noises in the background, which didn’t help.
“I want to report an accident. It’s flat five. I need an ambulance. I want to report an accident. It’s flat five. I need an ambulance . . .”
“Call logged at nine-fifteen P.M.,” Hall said.
Tennison rewound the tape. “Recognize the voice? It’s not Vernon, is it?”
Hall shrugged. It could have been King Kong.
As they were replaying it, Brian Dalton knocked and came in, and leaned against the wall, supported by an outstretched arm, one ankle crossed over the other, studying his fingernails.
“Didn’t leave his name?” he said, when it was finished.
“Of course!” Hall said, beaming brightly. “We’re just replaying this because we like the sound of his voice!”
Tennison started the tape again. She turned it off when Otley put his head around the door. “Jackson is now with his brief, Guv!” He pushed the door open, holding his wrist up, pointing at his watch.
Tennison went into the corridor, nodding at Otley to come with her. Dalton followed. Tennison gave a sweet smile. “Just stay put a minute,” she said, and firmly pulled the door shut on him.
She moved a small distance along the corridor, then leaned against the wall, head bowed, inspecting the worn carpet. Hated that color, even when it was new. Sort of snot-green.
“Bit overqualified, isn’t he?” Otley said, jerking his head.
Tennison’s head came up fast. “You interviewed Colin, alias Bruce, Jenkins. What happened, Bill? Did it slip your mind?” He blinked a couple of times, and Tennison really tore into him. “Here am I trying to get a handle on the boy, and you, you-interviewed him!”
Otley looked at the ceiling. A cord of muscle twitched in his hollow cheek. Here we go again. Ball-Breakers Inc.
He said, “I had a two-minute conversation with him, just after I first came here. I didn’t remember it until Kath told me…”
“And? Is that it? Was he intelligent? Was he dumb? Was he cheeky? Where was he picked up? Was he caught in the act? What was he doing? I presume you did question him. He was soliciting, wasn’t he?”
It was Otley’s turn to inspect the carpet. “He was just… very young, quiet.” Small shrug. “Very quiet.”
“Take Dalton with you. I want Martin Fletcher brought back in.” Tennison’s face was stony. “I presume you can remember who he is.”
She walked off and Otley trudged back to get Dalton and do the bitch’s bidding.
With his brief present-Mr. Arthur, a short squat little man with a sweaty bald head, wearing a threadbare suit and scuffed brown suede shoes-Jackson seemed more inclined to talk. The cockiness was still there, the indolent sprawling posture, the sneering fleshy lips, the chain-smoking. You can’t touch me, I’m fireproof: he might have carried it around with him as a neon advertising sign.
Tennison and Hall listened, not interrupting, getting as much down on tape as was possible in the time. Time was the problem.
“… and there was another kid, Kenny Lloyd, he was there. And-oh yeah, Driscoll. Dunno his first name. Disco Driscoll, and Alan Thorpe, Billy Matthews, they was with me, from…” He sucked on the Marlboro, held the smoke in, let it explode through his nostrils. “ ’Bout half eight onward, at the advice centre.” He wagged his head, lips pursed. “Played some pool, watched TV… I told you this, I told you about even Mr. Parker-Jones being there.”