“I’ve been checking out the cards from the advice centre. One of the so-called photographers was busted a few years ago, so he was quite helpful.” Tennison nodded to show she was listening. Kathy went on, “He’s mostly porn and girly pics, but he put me onto a Mark Lewis…” She passed over a note of the address. “He specializes in male ‘beauty’ style pictures. I called his number but got short shrift. I think it’d be better for one of the men to have a go. If Connie was trying to be a model he could have used him.”
“Thanks, Kathy.” Tennison gave her a smile and a brisk nod. Halliday was now talking to Ray Hebdon, so Norma was free. “Any messages?” Tennison called to her.
Hall had gathered some of them together for a pep talk. “I just want a quick word, okay? Can you keep dealing with as much of that backlog as possible, and those in court today-Please Give Times! Availability!” Lurking smiles as he adjusted the knot in his immaculate tie, lemon and gray diagonal stripes with embroidered fleur-de-lis.
“Right, I want to give you all a serious warning. I know it’s been said before, but I’m saying it again-and I’ll keep on saying it. Some of these youngsters have full-blown AIDS. They know it! You know it-keep it in your minds. Please, I know you are all aware of the risks, but heed the warnings and the instructions you’ve all had concerning any form of confrontation. Biting is just as dangerous as one of them stabbing you with a hypodermic needle…”
Tennison was at the board, Norma at her elbow reading out the messages. The names of Jackson’s witnesses were ringed and ticked, a line in red through Martin Fletcher’s name. Billy Matthews had a tick and two question marks.
“Oh, and Jessica from the newspaper, she’s the most persistent woman I have ever known!” Norma said, concluding her summary. “She says if you don’t have the time to return her calls, she will come in and see you at a convenient time.” The stocky girl shook her head, exasperated. “But she refuses to tell me what she wants.”
Farther along, Haskons and Lillie were taking notes from the update bulletin board. Tennison said, “Next time she rings, tell her that unless she tells you what is so important…” She frowned up at the board. “The Jackson alibis… Alan Thorpe was drunk, why the query on Billy Matthews?”
“He doesn’t remember where he was that night. We need to question him again-he might remember!” The inference being that if Norma could have ten minutes alone with him, he damn well would.
Tennison returned to her desk. Otley breezed in and came straight up. He seemed to regard the morning briefing as optional, she thought crossly. Went his own sweet way. But as usual he hadn’t been idle.
“Martin Fletcher virtually drowned in his own vomit. His blood alcohol was so high, it could have been bottled! Plus other substances.” He gripped the edge of the desk in both hands, leaning at an angle. His polyester tie, the knot askew, hung down limp and wrinkled. His suit looked as if it had been slept in. “He’d been sniffing from a gas lighter canister. They said if you’d put a match to him he’d have combusted!”
Superintendent Halliday was standing at the doors, gesturing. Tennison craned her head around Otley to see that she was being summoned. She gave Otley a look, and with a sigh followed Halliday out. Now what?
“So, where are the cream?” Otley drawled, punching Hall on the shoulder. He raised his voice. “That scruff Haskons and Co.?”
Haskons nudged Lillie, and the pair of them turned from the board with wide grins.
Hall said, “Their team’s checking into a mini-cab firm that’s a cover for a hire-a-cab and a Tom-thrown-in. New place just opened, Kings Cross.”
“Inventive,” Otley remarked with a sly wink. “But who drives?”
“You released Jackson? That means his alibis pan out?”
“We’re still checking, still trying to retrace all the boys, take them through their statements again,” Tennison told him. All this was up on the board, so why the grilling? There was a hidden agenda here, though she was blowed if she could even hazard a guess.
Tennison spread her hands. “I didn’t have enough to hold Jackson. Pity, because I think the kids are scared of him, covering up for him.”
Halliday leaned back in his chair. “So Jackson is still the prime suspect?” Tennison nodded. “And Parker-Jones? You went to see him?”
Again, that note of criticism, censure even, in his voice. It nettled her.
“Yes, is there any reason I shouldn’t have gone to interview him?”
“No,” Halliday said curtly. “Was the interview satisfactory?”
“He was very cooperative-”
She was interrupted. “Do you think it will be necessary to see him again?”
Tennison put her head forward, frowning. “I don’t understand-are you telling me not to interview my main suspect’s alibi again?”
“I saw the case board, you’ve three boys that gave Jackson an alibi.” He added flatly, “So stay off Parker-Jones.”
Tennison straightened her spine, getting riled up now. “Am I in charge of this investigation or not?”
“No. I am. So now I am telling you, back off him and stay off him. You are diverting and wasting time. If Jackson is your man, then get him. Concentrate on Jackson and wrap this case up.”
She knew better than to argue. He was laying down the law, and he had the clout to back it up. This wasn’t the moment to have a flaming row. Besides, she had a hidden agenda of her own.
From the reception area Tennison could see over the low partition to where Margaret Speel was talking to a woman with dyed blond hair and a sallow complexion, in her late twenties. The probation office was a dismal, depressing place. The carpet was worn thin and the furniture was scratched and shabby. An attempt had been made to brighten things up with posters, and one corner had been turned into a children’s playpen, a few cheap plastic toys scattered around, a little slide decorated with Mickey Mouse stickers. Somehow all this made everything seem even more pathetic. It reminded Tennison of an older woman trying to camouflage the ravages of time with daubs of garish makeup and youthful clothes.
The receptionist was on the phone. She had been on the phone ever since Tennison arrived, nearly ten minutes earlier. Tennison looked at her watch and tried to attract Margaret Speel’s attention.
“Did you look for the signs?” The probation officer’s voice carried over the partition, mingled in with conversations from other parts of the room. “I told you what to expect-if his speech is slurred, eyes red-rimmed. Has he got a persistent cough? Yes? Did you smell it on his breath…?” She glanced up, raising her hand. “Just a minute, Mrs. Line.”
She came around with her brisk walk, dark and petite, attractive in a pert, almost elfish way. Large thin gold loops dangled from her small white ears. “Is it Martin Fletcher again?” She gestured to some seats with hideous green plastic coverings.
“No, he’s dead,” Tennison said, sitting down. “He was found last night, drug abuse.”
Margaret Speel sank down beside her. “Oh, no…”
Tennison got the impression that the probation officer wasn’t all that surprised. She waited a moment, then got straight on with it.
“Do you know a Billy Matthews?” Margaret Speel nodded. “Is there any way you can get him off the streets?”
“What do you mean, ‘get him off the streets’?” Margaret Speel said, testily repeating the phrase.
“He has full-blown AIDS.”
Margaret Speel looked plaintively to the ceiling and back at Tennison, twitching her mouth. “And just where do you suggest I put him?” She swept her hand out, as if Billy Matthews might possibly doss down on the threadbare carpet. “Oh, really! You know of one boy with fullblown AIDS, and you want him off the streets. Well-where do I put him? With the rest? Do you know where they all are? How many there are?”