“Any boy who disobeys me will be severely punished!”
Otley pressed a button, holding the picture in freeze-frame. He rolled it on, held it on Connie’s face. Rolled it on and held it. Billy Matthews. Rolled it on and held it as each of the boys’ faces came in view.
There was a quick tread in the corridor and DI Hall poked his head in. “Skipper… Billy Matthews.”
Otley looked at him in silence. “Is he dead?”
Hall came in, shaking his cropped head. “He’s got a bronchial infection. He’s back at Charing Cross Hospital where the nurse-real old battle-ax-pointed out they would not or could not take responsibility for him as he persistently discharged himself. Once on the seventeenth, again last night, and…”
Otley gave a snide smile. Hall frowned. “Did you hear what I said?”
On the screen, the “schoolmaster” was standing in front of Connie, hand held out, demanding his homework. Otley’s face had the ghost of a smile as he watched it.
He said softly, “Seventeenth? Night Connie died? Right?” He nodded slowly. “Discharged? Discharged himself? What time? So he couldn’t have been at the advice centre, yes?” He stuck his thumb up, pointed his index finger at Hall. “Yes! Lovely… Edward Parker-Jones was very specific about our Billy.”
Otley freeze-framed the picture and pointed. “Alan Thorpe! He was too drunk to remember-so we got to find those other two lads and Jackson’s screwed!” He bounced up, clapping his hands. “Fancy a hamburger?”
Hall pulled a long-suffering face. “Hey, come on, Skip. You know what time it is? I came off hours ago…”
Otley was bending down, changing the tape. He said cheerfully, “On yer bike, then. See you tomorrow!”
Hall went. Tomorrow was less than an hour away. He speculated idly whether the Skipper curled up in the chair or bedded down on the carpet.
Tennison sat with Detective Chief Inspector David Lyall in the grill room of the Piccadilly Hotel. The excellent dinner they had just consumed was on Tennison’s expenses, so Lyall hadn’t stinted himself. He didn’t stint himself on anything, so far as Tennison could see: prodigious drinker, heavy smoker, and he’d gobbled up the mints that came with the coffee as if frightened they’d melt in front of his eyes.
He was rather handsome in a seedy way, with a fine head of graying hair, but of distinctly disheveled appearance. His dark gray suit was speckled with cigarette ash, his tie pulled loose, shoes scuffed and unpolished, and his fingernails were a disgrace. Tennison wouldn’t have cared if he had B.O. and farted like a brontosaurus providing he came up with some answers.
She took a document file from her briefcase. It contained the faxes Otley had dug up on the two boys in the children’s homes, Anthony Field and Jason Baldwyn.
“I suggested to Halliday this morning that Operation Contract should be quietly put to bed. You worked on it for six months, didn’t you?”
Lyall lit up, nodding through the smoke. “I worked for six months, doing surveillance on all the areas we targeted, right. On the night earmarked for the big swoop, we got no more-less than on a usual busy Friday night.”
He had a phlegmy smoker’s voice, and she thought she could hear his chest wheezing. Lyall drained his glass of wine. He made a face, but went on to refill it to the rim.
“Don’t like the vino…” He took a deep slurp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Anyway, three clubs were empty, apart from the hostesses. Course there was a leak, where the fuck, excuse me, where it came from, inside or out, I honestly can’t tell you, and I was”-he elbowed the air-“out faster than a greyhound.” He looked moodily at his wine. “I prefer a Scotch.”
“Did you target Parker-Jones personally?” Tennison asked.
Lyall chewed on his cigarette, gulping in smoke. He found something on the tablecloth to interest him. “Why do you ask that?”
Tennison tapped the file. “I know it was you sent the faxes to Otley about this case up here and one in Cardiff.” She watched him closely.
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you.” Tennison automatically took that to mean he was going to lie through his teeth, but DCI Lyall surprised her by reaching into his battered briefcase and putting a thick file down on top of hers. His gruff voice dropped to a growling mutter.
“I photocopied these before I left, just more or less to protect myself, if there was any shit…” He gave a half shrug. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to shoulder the entire blame, right? There’s some kind of cover-up-now, I don’t know who it’s connected to, and to be honest I don’t want to know.” He sucked hungrily on his cigarette. “Dig into these. I think it goes way back maybe before me. Halliday’s a bit of a puppet.” His streaky gray eyebrows went up. “Chiswick pulls the strings.”
It only rubber-stamped what she already knew. The warning signs were all over the Soho Vice Division, big as billboards for anyone with eyes to see. “So there is a cover-up,” Tennison said, leaning in.
Lyall looked over his shoulder. The fact that the restaurant was almost empty didn’t encourage him to say any more. Tennison thought of an inducement that might. She signed the bill, and ten minutes later she was handing him a miniature bottle of Whyte & McKay from the mini bar in her room. Seated in one of the low leather chairs next to the teak table, Lyall accepted it with undisguised relish.
“Ah, that’s more like it, ta.” He poured the entire contents into his glass. Tennison sat down with her own glass of Scotch, tempered with a little soda. Lyall took a healthy sip and smacked his lips, watching her over his glass.
“I’ve heard very good things about you. That you’re not scared into backing off anything. Well, I am.” He wasn’t shamed by the admission; a small shrug and that was all. “They’ll be demoting lots of us in our rank, and I happen to know there’s a Superintendent vacancy coming up. So, you take this.” He nodded to the file. “I’m sorry, but I’m lookin’ out for my future. This Sheehy inquiry’s gonna put the flutter around.” He drank, and stared into his glass. “Only ones safe will be those with thirty years’ experience. I don’t fancy being demoted. Worked hard enough for the DCI rank as it is.”
The hard drinking and general scruffiness didn’t mean that he wasn’t a good copper, Tennison thought. Her gut feeling told her that he was a good ’un. Plus, he wouldn’t have been shunted up north if he was a gutless pushover or plain incompetent.
Lyall’s head whipped around as someone knocked. Tennison went to the door and opened it. Dalton held out a small plastic bag with a chemist’s logo on it.
“One toothbrush, paste-and I thought you might need this.” He shook the bag. “It’s makeup remover.”
“Oh, very thoughtful. How much do I owe you?”
She stepped back to get her purse, pushing the door wider.
“Receipts are in the bag. It’s the type my girlfriend uses,” Dalton said, pointing to it. He looked up and saw Lyall. “The remover…”
Tennison gestured as Lyall rose to his feet. “This is Detective Chief Inspector David Lyall. This is Detective Inspector Brian Dalton.”
The two men acknowledged one another from a distance. Tennison counted out change and handed it over. “Your room okay?” She smiled, holding up the bag. “Thanks for this!”
Dalton hovered in the doorway, waiting to be invited in. “Room’s fine… er…” He raised his hand in a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”
There was no use waiting, because Tennison closed the door on him. She didn’t see Dalton’s blink of surprise, though Lyall did. On her return she tossed the bag of toiletries onto the bed. “I didn’t expect to stay overnight.” She sat down, hands laced around her knees, leaning forward. “There was a leak, wasn’t there?”