It was Dr. Gordon’s receptionist. Tennison listened, frowning. “Is this bad news? Is it the tests?”
She moved around the desk to sit down. She closed her eyes, listening. “Yes, yes… I’ll come in. Thank you.”
She put the phone down and sat silently for a moment, rubbing the back of her hand. Snapping awake, she opened the top drawer and took out her diary. Underneath it was the cassette tape she’d hunted high and low for. She took it out and turned it over.
Kathy came in. “You wanted DCI Lyall’s contact number. He’s in Manchester.” She put the paper down. “I think the Sarge…” She paused. Tennison was thumbing through the pages of the diary, chewing her lip. “You okay?”
Tennison banged the diary shut. “Kathy, you didn’t put this tape in my drawer, did you? It’s the ambulance call-out tape.”
“No.” Kathy turned to go.
“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” Tennison said.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” Kathy said, leaving.
The diary and the tape lay side by side on the desk. Tennison stared at them, pulling distractedly at the neckline of her blouse. She tossed the diary back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
DS Richard Haskons and DI Ray Hebdon were in Taped Interview Room D.02 with Mark Lewis. As the arresting officer, Haskons was having first crack. Hebdon stood watching, arms folded, his tie pulled loosely away from his collar. The atmosphere was close in the small room, and he imagined he could smell Mark Lewis sweating. Or maybe it wasn’t his imagination; the photographer was highly agitated, twisting a handkerchief in his heavily veined hands, the nails neatly manicured and coated in clear varnish.
“Go on,” Haskons prompted.
“I last saw him about four, perhaps five days before the fire. He wanted some photographs-not the explicit ones, just some head and shoulders…”
“And?”
“He never showed up.” Lewis looked his age now, deep lines etched into his forehead, the skin rough and open-pored on his sagging cheeks. His confident, finger-snapping breeziness had been utterly punctured. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “Look, I was only destroying them because I know he’s dead and I just didn’t want to be involved.”
The door opened and Tennison walked in. She’d run a comb through her hair, freshened her makeup, and was, outwardly at least, calm and composed.
“DCI Tennison has just entered the room,” Haskons said into the microphone. Tennison mouthed Thank you. Haskons continued. “Did he say what he wanted the photographs for?”
“I assumed Connie was maybe trying to do some legit modeling work. He… well, he was a very good-looking boy. Quite a star.”
“When he came to you on the other occasions, when these”-Haskons tapped the three or four photographs on the table between them-“these were taken, did he commission them himself or did somebody else?”
“Those,” Lewis said, blinking down at them, “well, he paid for them. I suppose he was going to try for work on spec.”
“Did you ever see Connie with anybody else?”
“You mean apart from the other models?”
“Yes. Did you ever see Connie with anybody?”
“No,” Lewis said, hardly moving his lips.
Haskons pressed him. “So he always came to the studio alone?”
“Yes, apart from the other people in the session. He was always alone.”
Haskons looked at Tennison, standing alongside Hebdon. She gave the slightest of nods. It wasn’t necessary now to imagine Mark Lewis sweating, it was plainly visible, his dark curly hair clinging damply to his forehead. The handkerchief resembled a length of twisted, grimy rope.
“What about the videos?” Tennison asked, closing the other claw in a pincer attack. “We know what business you are in, Mr. Lewis, we know about the videos. Now, was Connie ever seen with anyone else when he came to your studio? I’m not talking about the models-did anyone ever bring him to your studio?”
“No, he was always by himself.” Lewis looked up, his eyes shifting from face to face, an abject appeal. “He was very beautiful, very special, very professional. It was just business-”
“Mr. Lewis.” Tennison wasn’t moved by any kind of appeal. “We know you made videos with underage boys.” Meaning, we can throw the book at you any time we like. “So did you ever see Connie with anyone?”
“Somebody was with him, once,” Lewis mumbled. He cleared his throat. “No idea who it was, but he paid for the film. Sat watching… I’m going back at least a year, eighteen months.”
“How much did this film cost?” Haskons asked.
Lewis wiped his neck with the grimy rope. “Two thousand.” He swallowed. “Pounds.”
“Describe him,” Hebdon cut in sharply.
“Who?”
Hebdon leaned over the desk. “The man with Connie. Describe him. How old for starters?”
“Oh!” Mark Lewis made a vague, fluttery gesture. “Well, be about late fifties, maybe older. Tall, gray-haired, gray… he was all sort of gray, really, pinstriped suit, smart, had a briefcase…”
“How did he pay? Check or cash?”
“Cash.” Lewis nodded emphatically. “He had the cash in the briefcase.”
Tennison bent down to have a quiet word in Haskons’s ear. He leaned to one side and whispered back, “He waived his right…”
“So he’s made his call, yes?” Tennison murmured, and was assured by Haskons’s nod. Mark Lewis watched them with glazed, slightly moist eyes. He visibly jumped when Hebdon said, “Did he take part in the video? This gray-haired man?”
“Well… not physically.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Haskons said beligerently.
Lewis stammered, “He s-said what he wanted, t-told me what he wanted Connie to do.”
“Have we got the video?” Haskons asked him.
“Oh, no-that one never even had a copy made. He took it out of the camera. All the others we made came after. Connie got a bit of a taste for it.”
It was the first direct answer he’d given that Tennison actually believed. Everything else had had to be, quite literally, sweated out of him. She said, “You got an address for Connie? A phone number?” Mark Lewis shook his head. “No?” Tennison said icily, pointing at the tape recorder. “Would you please answer the question?”
“No, I don’t know where he lives,” Lewis said meekly.
“Lived, Mr. Lewis. Connie is dead. How did you contact him when he was alive?”
Lewis stared dumbly at the table, squeezing the wet rag of a handkerchief. The door was pushed open, and Otley beckoned to Tennison. She went over and had a whispered conversation.
With a tight, icy smile, Haskons said, “We’ve a stack of your films starring Connie, and you want us to believe you had no way of contacting him?”
“… search warrant…”
Lewis stared glassily past Haskons’s shoulder, having caught Otley’s words. He saw Tennison nod to Otley, who disappeared. She came back in and shut the door of the humid, claustrophobic room as Hebdon leaned over the desk, putting his face close to Lewis’s.
“Mark, you’re getting in deeper. You’ve just admitted you filmed Connie eighteen months ago. He was still a minor.”
“I-I didn’t know how old he was. He told me he was eighteen!”
Tennison barked at him, “Mr. Lewis, how did you contact Connie?”
Dalton tapped and came in. He wanted a word. With a sigh Tennison followed him into the corridor.
“I think you should have a look at it, it’s just a home video.”
“Of Connie?” Dalton nodded. “Okay, we’ll take a break in ten minutes.” She looked into his eyes. “How you feeling?”
Dalton shrugged it off, waggling his hand with the bandage on it. “I’m fine, no problem.”