“Did he know who you were?”
“Look, I’m a journalist, okay, and I have to sometimes…” She spread her hands.
“Lie?”
Jessica Smithy’s lips came together primly. “No. He presumed I was a social worker and he was very helpful. But somebody must have told him who I was, and he asked me to leave, in fact he got quite abusive. If I’d wanted to interview any of the kids there he wouldn’t have let me.”
“So Mr. Parker-Jones knew you, a journalist, were looking for Colin Jenkins?”
“YES!” Jessica Smithy might have been trying to get through to an imbecile. “So now what?” She leaned forward eagerly, eyes alight. “Is he a suspect?”
Tennison was distracted by movement in the small square window of the door. Haskons was talking to someone, and a moment later she saw Halliday’s baby blues peering inquisitively in. Hell and damnation. She might have known he’d be lurking about, nose twitching, quick as a shithouse rat.
“Why aren’t you trying to find out which MP or which police officer used him?” Jessica Smithy said angrily. “Maybe even killed him! He was murdered, wasn’t he?”
Tennison regarded her calmly. “Who else did you speak to at the centre? Another boy maybe?”
“I’ve told you,” Jessica Smithy said wearily. “I didn’t speak to anyone, because Parker-Jones wouldn’t allow me to. He asked me to leave…”
Haskons was beckoning. He pushed open the door as Tennison went across. They stood together in the doorway, having a murmured conversation. Glaring at them, Jessica Smithy rose, snatching at her shoulder bag, slinging it on. Tennison leaned in.
“Please remain seated, Miss Smithy.”
Jessica Smithy sat down again, drumming her fingers on the table. She opened the cigarette packet, found it empty, and crushed it and tossed it away. Tennison came in and collected her things. Haskons sat down in Tennison’s vacated chair.
Thinking she was free to leave, Jessica Smithy got up again, and to her intense annoyance was waved down again. She sat there fuming, fists clenched on the table.
“One more thing,” Tennison said. “How much did you pay Colin Jenkins for the tapes?”
“I didn’t,” Jessica Smithy replied, a shade too quickly. “That’s why I was looking for him. I’d been given some money by my editor.”
“How much?”
She hesitated. “Few hundred. But I don’t see that is of any concern of yours.”
“Few hundred?” Jessica Smithy nodded, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when Tennison thrust her head forward and barked, “Exactly how much, Miss Smithy? How much were you going to give Colin Jenkins, Miss Smithy? I can call your editor.”
“Five hundred…”
Tennison leaned nearer, intimidatingly close. Her voice sank to a lethal whisper. “Did you meet Colin Jenkins and give him the five hundred pounds?”
“I-” She nearly blurted something, and checked herself. “No, I did not.”
Tennison looked her straight in the eye. Jessica Smithy turned away. First time she’d been caught out. Tennison knew it, and so did Jessica Smithy.
Haskons said formally, “We will, Miss Smithy, be retaining the tapes you made of your two meetings with Colin Jenkins, as evidence. You will be asked to sign a legal document which bars you, and your paper, from using any information-”
Jessica Smithy tried to interrupt.
“-appertaining to the said tapes.”
Jessica Smithy was wild eyed and furious. “What? This is crazy! You can’t stop me from printing.”
Tennison opened the door. “We just did,” she said, going out.
“You tell her-” Jessica Smithy pointed a trembling finger after Tennison, turning her furious face to Haskons and Dalton. “When my story gets out, she won’t want it in any scrapbook!”
Otley was outside, propped up in his usual indolent slouch, hands stuffed in his pockets. He nodded toward the interview room.
“Anything?”
“Yes.” Tennison indicated they should move on, and they walked along together. “Parker-Jones knew Jessica Smithy was a journalist, knew she was looking for Connie.” Tennison threw a backward glance. “She’s also lying. I think she met Connie. She had five hundred quid, same amount found on his body. I think she paid Connie.”
“Maybe I should run a check on Parker-Jones’s credentials,” Otley suggested.
“I already have. Mallory, Chicago University don’t exist, and the rest are a load of cobblers.” She gave Otley a big smile. “I’m getting closer, we’ve got a motive!”
“For Jackson?” Dalton said, right behind her.
Tennison looked around quickly, not realizing he had been following. She nodded. “Until I get back, keep the pressure on breaking those kids’ alibis,” she told the two of them.
“You want me to come with you?” Dalton asked.
“What, to my doctor’s?” Tennison grinned and set off. She halted. “Oh, one more thing. Halliday wants the transcripts of the Smithy tapes.” She narrowed her eyes at Otley. “But nobody gets them before me, understood?”
And then she was striding off, a jaunty spring in her step.
Dr. Gordon said, “I’ll make an appointment for you to have a laboratory sensitive test, and then we’ll get the beta sub-unit hormone measured.” He completed the note in her medical records and looked up and smiled. “All very advanced technology now!”
“But are you positive?” Tennison said, fastening the top button of her blouse.
“I think so,” Dr. Gordon said, smiling. “You’re pregnant-just!”
Tennison needed the edge of the desk to support herself. She gulped hard. She couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t happening. Things like this never happened to her. Then she realized they did, and had, and she started to smile.
10
One hour later, Tennison was back in the thick of it.
On the return journey she did something she’d never done before. She bought a pound of seedless white grapes and ate them at one go, sitting in her car in the underground carpark of the Soho police station. It didn’t occur to her till afterward that she’d always associated grapes with illness and convalescence. But she wasn’t ill-she was pregnant! She knew of the hormone cocktail her glands were even at this moment manufacturing, and of the cravings it gave rise to. But so soon? Was her body trying to tell her something? Or was her mind so shell-shocked that it had flipped a circuit and caused her to wolf down a pound of grapes in secret-some kind of bizarre Freudian ritual? Puzzling.
She went directly to the Squad Room, where Haskons gave her the first news, which wasn’t good. They’d drawn a blank on the Jessica Smithy tapes. Haskons had listened to the cleaned-up version over headphones and no further names were mentioned.
Tennison felt frustrated. She had really believed, hoped, that this was going to be the breakthrough. It was one step forward, two steps back. As per bloody usual with police work.
She was with Dalton at the board, getting an update on Operation Contract, when Otley arrived. He didn’t come over, but instead gave her a private look. Get over here and don’t bring Dalton.
“This just came through.” Otley was holding a thick bunch of faxes. He moved around so that his back was to the board. “I’ve been doing a bit of digging after a tip-off… 1979. A Mr. Edward Parker was accused of molesting a boy in his care when he ran the Harrow Home for kids, Manchester. Case dismissed for lack of evidence.” Otley plucked out another sheet. “Anthony Field. 1983. Indecent assault on a minor. Case dismissed. Same Mr. Edward Parker again, this time running the Calloway Centre in Cardiff, another home for kids.” Next sheet. “Jason Baldwyn…”
Tennison held up her hand. She glanced around. “Are you saying what I think you are, that this Parker…”