She watched him walk off down the corridor. No question about it, he wasn’t fine, far from it, and maybe there was one hell of a problem. She went back in. Lewis was hoarse and ragged, squirming in the chair, his collar, his shirtfront, drenched with sweat.
“I’d leave a message and he’d call me… I never knew where he lived, I swear.”
He hadn’t much resistance left. It was a token effort. Tennison knew they had just about squeezed him dry. But not quite.
“So, if I, for example, saw one of your films, and wanted to contact somebody in it… I’d get in touch with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I’d go around to the advice centre and stick up a note for him.”
“Advice centre, which advice centre?”
“One in Soho, near some old flats.”
“Did you get paid for carrying these messages back and forth?”
Rather late in the day, Mark Lewis decided this was an affront. “No. No, I did not get paid.”
“You just did it as an act of kindness?” Hebdon said, with only the faintest sarcasm.
“Yes.”
Tennison opened the small top window, and then opened the larger one. The fresh clean air was delicious. “Do you know Edward Parker-Jones?” she asked, breathing deeply and turning to him.
“He runs the advice centre.” Lewis nodded. “But I don’t know him. He wouldn’t approve, you know…” His eyebrows, as suspiciously dark as his hair, went up and down. “Very straight.”
Tennison took a pace nearer and asked quietly, “Why do you think Colin Jenkins was murdered?”
“I don’t know.”
Tennison let the silence hang for a moment. She didn’t believe him, and she didn’t not believe him. For the time being, the jury was still out.
She moved up close to the table, standing very straight, looking down on him.
“Mr. Lewis, you were read your rights, and you said that you did not require any legal representation. You were also granted permission to make a phone call, which you did. I now have to inform you that a warrant has been requested for a search to be carried out at your premises, and you will be held in custody until formal charges are presented.”
She tapped Haskons on the shoulder, who rose, tugging his jacket straight, and together they left the room. Mark Lewis was slumped in the chair, gray-faced, wrung-out, looking sixty-five if he looked a day.
Striding along the corridor toward the viewing room, Tennison stabbed the air. “We want bank statements, address books, phone numbers, fax numbers. We want names of his clients. We want tax payments, VAT payments-we’ll throw the lot at that seedy, revolting pervert and do his place over tonight.”
Haskons strode along with her, keeping pace, just. He’d seen her in this mood before, when they’d worked together on a murder case. She was like a woman possessed. She bloody well was possessed, Haskons thought, by whatever demon it was that drove her.
The room was full, the reflected light from the screen showing up the thick wreathes of smoke hanging near the ceiling. The men were enjoying it, laughing uproariously and shouting out lewd remarks. There were high-pitched squeals, effeminate ooohs and aaahhs, as they mimicked the participants in the cheap, tawdry drama that had been shot by shaky hand-held camera in Super VHS PornoScope.
Boys’ night out, Tennison thought sourly, standing in the doorway. All they were short of was a bar, and later on a blond striptease act with forty-four inch tits. Superintendent Halliday was there, she saw, sitting near the front. From this angle she couldn’t tell if he was laughing too, or even enjoying it. All in the line of duty.
Some of the men noted her presence, but it didn’t inhibit them. Probably gave the whole thing an extra charge, that snooty bitch with the cast-iron drawers watching this filth.
But Tennison wasn’t shocked by the images, nor even disgusted. She was simply, and very deeply, saddened by them. That boys and young men should do this to make money was enormously dispiriting; that others should pay to see it, and get pleasure out of watching it, was even worse. She herself felt grubby and demeaned at witnessing this joyless, miserable, pathetic shadow play.
She signaled to Dalton. A general moan went up as he stopped the VCR and a snowstorm filled the screen. The fluorescent lights flickered on. Tennison moved to the front.
“Could just the officers directly concerned in the Colin Jenkins inquiry please remain. Everyone else… show’s over.”
Chairs scraped as the men filed out. Halliday, staying where he was, crooked a finger. Tennison ground her teeth, hoping it didn’t show. She looked attentive.
“I’d keep a record of all these tapes,” Halliday said gravely. He looked at her from under his brows. “Don’t want any to go walkabout.”
Tennison’s sober expression matched his. She leaned closer and said confidentially, “I’d like you to listen to the Mark Lewis interview.”
Halliday nearly smiled and immediately stood up, pleased that his new DCI was inviting a second opinion.
Tennison watched him leave, metaphorically dusting her hands. That’s got rid of him.
The team settled down to watch the Connie video. “What we watchin’ then?” asked Haskons as Dalton started the machine and stepped back beside Tennison’s chair.
“Gone With the Wind, what d’you think, pratt,” came Otley’s reply.
They all waited as the screen jumped and buzzed. Tennison looked up and said quietly, “You know, Brian, if you need to talk, there’s always me, or there’s a very good counselor.”
Dalton didn’t move, though it seemed, Tennison acutely sensed, as if he was withdrawing tightly into himself. Both his hands were clenched, the bandage on his right hand vivid against the bloodless skin. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He stared straight ahead at the screen, fragmented pictures starting to form.
Tennison turned away as the film proper began.
A desolate, windswept children’s playground. Pools of water on the cindery ground. A row of swings, some with broken seats, creaking to and fro on rusted chains. The shaky camera panned to the left, picking up a slight, red-haired figure in a padded red-and-black baseball jacket and sand-colored chinos. The wind ruffled his curly hair as he sat down on one of the swings and gently rocked. The camera moved in close until the boy’s face filled the screen. He had a sweet shy smile. Fringed by long auburn lashes, his brown eyes sparkled. He had a fair complexion and skin soft as a girl’s. He giggled, biting his lower red lip with small white teeth.
“Hi! My name is Connie. I am fourteen years old, and…”
Again the infectious giggle.
“I’m sorry, I’ll start again.” He straightened his face. “Hi! My name is Connie…”
He couldn’t keep it up. He covered his mouth. “This is stupid.” He pointed off camera. “It’s Billy’s fault, he keeps on pulling faces at me!”
A cross-eyed Billy appeared, features contorted in a dreadful grimace. It was too much. Connie had broken up, hanging onto the swing, helplessly wagging his head from side to side. Someone’s hand whisked Billy out of sight, but it was past saving, Connie had had it.
“Get Billy Matthews brought in,” Tennison said quietly, face set.
The video went off and then started again as they tried for another take. This time a straight-faced Connie, his eyes still moist from laughing, gave it his best shot.
“Hello. My name is Connie”-the same shy, sweet smile filled the screen-“and I’m fourteen years old…”
Otley and Hebdon had St. Margaret’s Crypt, Haskons and Lillie the Bullring, WPCs Kathy Trent and Norma Hastings the underpass next to Waterloo Bridge.
It was a fine night, with a pleasantly mild breeze blowing off the river. The waxing quarter-moon rose up behind the distant towers of Canary Wharf, a dusty orange-red scimitar seen through the haze of the capital.