“But? There was a leak?” When he didn’t answer, Tennison got up and paced the office. “Come on, I’ve checked the charge sheets, nothing subversive? Somebody must have tipped off the punters, never mind the clubs!”
“Off the record, I think we got close to someone with heavy-duty contacts,” Hall admitted, looking at her properly for the first time.
Tennison stopped pacing. “You got a suspicion?” She brushed a hand through her hair, a faint smile on her lips. “No? Not even a possible?”
“If I had I’d tell you, honestly.” His babyish round features put her in mind of an eager-to-please Boy Scout. He wasn’t Halliday’s man, she was convinced: too transparent. She believed him.
“What about you?” he asked her.
Tennison laughed. “If I had, Larry, I wouldn’t be trying to wheedle it out of you. Okay, you can go, and thanks.”
The Squad Room was unusually quiet. Some of the team had gone to the canteen for an early lunch, others were out chasing down leads. An impatient Otley was standing behind Norma, leaning over her as she spoke into the phone.
“Good morning, can I speak to Chief Inspector David Lyall? It’s personal, could you say a Sergeant Bill Otley, Vice Squad, Soho… yes, I’ll hold, thank you.”
Two desks along, Kathy was just finishing another call. “Okay, yes, I’ve got that. I’ll pass it on.” She put the phone down and called out, “Sarge?”
Otley went over.
“Sarge!” Norma yelled. “I’ve got him coming on the line now…”
Otley scuttled back and grabbed the phone off her. “Go and help Kathy.” He turned his back on her and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Dave? Listen, mate, I need a favor. Remember when you were here you thought you got something on a bloke-”
“Sarge.” Norma was back. “Kath’s just got a call, tip-off from one of the street photographers. He reckons the guy we may be looking for is a Mark Lewis. Where’s your lads, Sarge?”
“Just one second, Dave…” Otley turned furiously, jabbing his finger. “Bloody check the board-go on!” He cupped the phone, opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. He looked up again. “Mark Lewis? Hang on a second, I think our boys are there now. Check it out.”
Leaving him to his call, Norma went over to the board. Kathy joined her. “Who’s he talking to?”
Norma tapped her nose. “Chief Inspector here before Tennison…”
Kathy scanned the board, then pointed. “Mark Lewis. They’re seeing him this morning.” Her finger moved along, and she was suddenly excited. “Guv! This Mark Lewis, the photographer we got a tip-off about-he’s on the list from the advice centre.”
Otley covered the phone and whipped around.
“Well, bloody contact them!” He muttered into the phone, “Dave, sorry about this… okay, yeah, can you fax me what you sniffed out?” He looked up wearily. “Hang on.”
Hall was standing there, arms folded, looking peeved.
Otley held the receiver against his chest. “Well, what was your little private conflab about?”
“Cut it out, Sarge, that’s my phone,” Hall said, holding out his hand. “Is it for me?”
“No, it’s personal.” Otley jerked his head. “Just check over Kath, she’s had a tip-off.” Hall sniffed loudly and went around the desk to the board. Otley crouched. “Dave? As a favor, mate. We’re sniffin’ around Parker-Jones again, yeah…”
8
“There is nothing like a dame… Nothing in the world. There is nothing you can name that is anything like a dame!”
Shirley Bassey had been replaced by the soundtrack of South Pacific, and Haskons sang lustily along. He and Lillie were working their way through the albums. There were hundreds of photographs, mostly black and white, all of them featuring gorgeous young men and svelte pretty boys in various states of undress. The shots of couples were suggestive certainly, but not strictly pornographic.
“Some great-lookin’ fellas, they must all work out like crazy,” Lillie said. “Here, look at this one.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Leafing through the album, Haskons couldn’t be bothered; he’d seen enough naked male flesh to last him a lifetime. Even the show tunes were beginning to bore him. “I’ve had worse taken on me holidays.”
“What, kissin’ blokes?” Lillie sniggered.
“Piss off! I mean in swimmin’ trunks.” Haskons flipped over a page, scowling. “This is a waste of time. I got some that go back to the seventies. I dunno what we’re doing here, why we’re here…” He threw out his hands. “If he did a bit of modelin’, so what? What we lookin’ for?”
His bleeper sounded. He reached inside his jacket to kill it, and looked around the room.
“You see a phone?”
“Mr. Lewis? Can I use your phone!”
Mark Lewis cocked his head. He half-turned from the processing bench. In his left hand he held a thick bundle of ten-by-eight glossy prints, color and black and white. With his right hand he was feeding them, one by one, into a bath of acid. They fizzed and buckled, turned brown and sank to the bottom in a gray-brown slimy sludge.
He leaned toward the black curtain.
“Be my guest! I can’t come out, I’m working on some negs. Phone’s on the shelf in the passage.”
He stayed there until he heard Haskons move away, then quickly turned back to the bench and carried on methodically feeding the prints into the acid bath.
When Haskons returned he found Lillie examining the lock on one of the large cupboards. Haskons called out, “Thanks, Mr. Lewis!” and said in Lillie’s ear, “That was Kathy. Tip-off. If there was anyone doing the real heavy stuff, then this is our man…”
Lillie had taken out a bunch of keys. He selected one and slid it into the lock. It clicked open.
“Hey, watch it!” Haskons whispered. “We’ve no search warrant.”
From top to bottom the cupboard was filled with videotapes. Lillie pulled one out and looked at the label.
“He’s messing us about. Never said anythin’ about this lot.” He showed Haskons the label. “ ‘Adam and Adam.’ That’s original.”
Haskons went over to the darkroom.
“Mr. Lewis, we need to talk to you a minute.”
He pushed the curtain aside and peered in. Mark Lewis’s startled face craned around over his shoulder. He shifted across, attempting to shield what he was doing. Haskons went in and shoved him out of the way. He saw the photograph Lewis had just dropped into the bath and reached for it.
“No! Don’t!” Lewis anxiously paddled the air like an hysterical schoolgirl. “It’s acid, it’ll burn your hand off!”
Lillie appeared, in time to see Haskons lifting the print out of the bath with a steel ruler. Crinkling and turning brown, the image was still discernible. A naked, beautiful boy with curly red hair.
They lay on Tennison’s desk, a dozen or more of the large color photographs of Connie in various artistic poses that Mark Lewis hadn’t had a chance to dispose of. Otley picked one out at random. It happened to be of Connie bending over, firm round buttocks presented to the camera like two peaches.
Tennison leaned against the windowsill, pushing her cuticles back with the clip of her fountain pen. She said thoughtfully, “Parker-Jones is regarded as the Mother Teresa of Soho… and he’s Jackson’s alibi.” She scratched her nose with the fountain pen clip. “There’s something that doesn’t quite sit right. If Jackson was looking for Connie because he owed him money, why-if we presume he found Connie-why didn’t he take it?”
Otley shook his head and tossed the photograph down. There was a tap at the door and Haskons looked in. “Mark Lewis is in interview room D oh two. We’re getting a video room set up, view Connie’s tapes.”
Tennison nodded to indicate she’d be right along. She followed Otley to the door. The phone rang. “You go ahead,” she told him, and reached for the phone. “Chief Inspector Tennison’s office.”