The chances of finding Billy Matthews were slim. Just one punk kid among the hundreds sleeping out on the streets, dossing down in shop doorways, huddled on the concrete walkways and beneath the brick archways on the South Bank.
Norma hated it. To the drunks and dossers, she and Kathy were two respectable, well-dressed young women, and as such fair game. They got the lot, and had to endure it. The obscene invitations and suggestions, the grimy faces jeering at them from the shadows, the beggars and buskers accosting them at every corner. Down by Cardboard City, at the tea wagon run by two middle-aged women, they came across a gang of kids with a skinny dog on a bit of string. The kids took off as they approached them, scattering in all directions. One of the boys stumbled, and Kathy managed to get near him, a fresh-faced lad with ragged blond bangs, his face showing signs of a recent beating.
“Do you know Billy Matthews? Have you seen him?”
Fear in his eyes, Alan Thorpe picked himself up and stumbled off past the cardboard and wood shacks lining the viaduct walls, ducking out of sight in the labyrinth of shantytown.
Kathy looked hopelessly at Norma. They both felt like giving up. Drunken voices sang, argued and swore in the darkness. On a tinny, crackling radio, Frank Sinatra boasted that he’d done it his way. A busker with an out-of-tune guitar sang “She said, Son, this is the road to hell,” while a reeling drunk clutching a bottle of Thunderbird yelled out in a hoarse voice that boomed and echoed under the viaduct, “Oh, when the saints… Oh, when the saints… Oh, when the saints go marchin’ in…”
Keeping close together, Kathy and Norma moved along the slimy, littered pavements. A head was thrust out on a scrawny neck, its front teeth missing. “Hello, girls! This way to the National Theatre, have yer tickets ready-pul-ease!” He cackled with insane merriment.
Norma evaded his clutching hand, and bustled on quickly, shuddering. She touched Kathy’s arm, having had enough, about to retreat from this underworld of the damned-to hell with Billy Matthews-and there he was, lying against the wall, wrapped in a filthy sack. He was in a terrible state. They weren’t even sure, at first, if he was alive or dead.
Kathy felt for his pulse. “Radio in for an ambulance! Norma!”
Norma came back to herself, fumbling for her radio. She was sick to her stomach. Along the pavement, the busker with the broken guitar was singing her song.
“This ain’t no upwardly mobile freeway-
Oh no, this is the road to hell.”
Jessica Smithy didn’t give the Sierra Sapphire time to stop before she was out from behind the wheel of the black BMW, switching on the tiny microcassette recorder and holding it concealed in her gloved hand. Carl, her photographer, was a few paces behind as she crossed the quiet tree-lined street, thumbing the auto flash on the Pentax slung around his neck.
Jessica reckoned she deserved this break. She had waited over an hour, since 9:45, listening to The World Tonight on Radio 4 and the first five minutes of Book at Bedtime. At last she had been rewarded. She flicked the long tail of her Hermès scarf over her shoulder and patted her knitted ski hat down onto her razor-trimmed, slick-backed hair. Tall and athletically slender, she had a sharp, fine-boned face and quick, darting hazel eyes. Intelligent and tenacious, she never let a good story escape her grasp, and she scented that this one was high-yield plutonium.
“Excuse me, Inspector Tennison? Are you Detective Chief Inspector Tennison?”
Tennison locked the door of her car. She turned warily, eyeing the woman and the bearded man with the camera with deep suspicion.
“I’m Jessica Smithy. I have tried to contact you, I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes…?”
Evidently, Tennison couldn’t. Briefcase in hand, she marched around the back of the car to the pavement. They pursued her.
“Can you give me an update on Colin Jenkins?”
Tennison pushed open the wrought-iron gate. Without turning, she said, “There was a formal press conference yesterday. I have no further comment.” She banged the gate shut and went up the short path to her front door.
“But is his death still being treated as suspicious or accidental?”
Jessica Smithy hovered at the gate as Tennison let herself in.
“Are you heading the investigation?”
The door was firmly closed.
“Shit.” Jessica Smithy kicked the gate viciously and switched off the recorder.
At 10:35 P.M. Billy Matthews was being rushed along a corridor toward the emergency resuscitation section. The red blanket was up to his chin. Eyes closed, a dribble of blood-streaked saliva trailing from his open mouth, his pale peaked face was drenched in sweat. His hands clutched the edge of the blanket, as a child seeks to cuddle up warm in the comfort and security of a favorite fluffy toy.
Trotting alongside, the nurse leaned over him anxiously. Billy opened his eyes, blinking away sweat.
“I’m okay.” He smiled up at her. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
9
That bloody woman again! Did she never give up?
Tennison had unlocked the door of her car, tossed her briefcase inside, mentally preparing herself to do battle with the early morning gridlock, and there she was-climbing out of a black BMW across the street next to the park railings. The bearded guy with the camera was with her.
“Chief Inspector Tennison!”
Did the damn woman never sleep? Even before Tennison could get in and zoom off, she was hurrying across, the heels of her high brown leather boots clicking, coat flapping around her.
The photographer nipped in and a flashlight went off.
“Hey-what is this?” Tennison demanded angrily. “What’s he taking pictures of me for?”
Jessica Smithy wafted her hand. “Go back in the car, Carl.” She gave Tennison a warm friendly smile, all sweetness and light. “I’m sorry, but I just need to talk to you.” She held up a press card, a passport-size photograph sealed in plastic. Tennison’s eyes took this in, and also the pocket recorder partly concealed in Jessica Smithy’s other hand.
“Is that on?”
“You’re not interested, are you?” Jessica Smithy’s face hardened, the smile evaporating like morning mist. “Why? Because he was homeless? A rent boy? Doesn’t he warrant a full investigation?” She was holding up the recorder, quite blatantly. “You are the officer who brought George Marlow to trial-”
“Is that on?” Tennison repeated, getting riled.
“I’m writing an article on the boy that died in the fire, Colin Jenkins. You see, I met him a couple of times, and my editors really want pictures… he promised me an exclusive.”
“I’m sorry, we have no pictures of him,” Tennison said, clipped and precise. She was looking at Jessica Smithy with renewed interest.
“They must have taken some when they found him, surely?”
“How often did you meet him?”
“Just a couple of times. I have been very willing to come in to discuss my entire interaction-”
“An exclusive?” Tennison interrupted. Jessica Smithy frowned; the interrogator had suddenly become the interrogated. “You mean Colin Jenkins was selling his story, yes?” She pointed. “Is that tape on?”
“He was prepared to name his clients, including a high-ranking police officer,” Jessica Smithy admitted.
Tennison jerked back, bumping into the side of the car. A spasm tautened her stomach muscles. “Did you record your interview with Colin Jenkins?” she asked, pointing at the recorder.
“Yes, and I’m willing to let you hear the tapes, but I want an exclusive interview with you.”
Tennison had a nasty streak. Jessica Smithy got the brunt of it.
“I want to interview you, Miss Smithy.” She thrust her wrist out, glared at her watch. “You be at my office-with the tapes-at nine o’clock. That’s official.”