Otley wasn’t altogether surprised when, behind Disco Driscoll’s tousled head, he saw the red and blue stripe of a Panda car sliding in, its blue light casting a ghostly aura through the steamy window.
They all trooped out, Otley leading the way, and stood on the wet pavement, the lads jostling one another and sniggering. The two uniformed PCs were from south of the river; they didn’t know Otley, and he didn’t know them. He took one of them aside and produced his I.D. The other policeman, barely out of his teens himself, kept watch on the motley bunch of giggling boys.
Alan Thorpe grinned up at him insolently, nodding toward Otley. “He’s a copper, you stupid git!” The lads hooted, loving it.
The young policeman made a grab at him.
“Leave him alone, he’s with me,” Otley said, coming over.
“See, what did I tell you?” Thorpe chortled, and gave the young PC the finger.
Otley beckoned. Alan Thorpe and Kenny Lloyd followed him a few paces. “You two want a ride around in a Panda? Take me to that posh house? Yeah?” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Tenner in it-what d’you say?”
The two lads exchanged looks. Thorpe nodded. “Okay.”
They had only a hazy idea of where the house was-“Somewhere just off the Heath,” according to Kenny. With the two uniformed officers in front, Otley and the boys crammed in the back, they drove up through Highgate and circled the northeast fringe of Hampstead Heath. Up here, the large detached houses stood safe and secure behind tall hedges and wrought-iron fences. The red ruby eye of a burglar alarm glowed from each one. When they’d covered Cranley Gardens, Muswell Hill, and Aylmer Road north of the golf course, Otley was growing impatient. “Now, come on, this is the fifth road. Is it here or not?”
The Panda car turned into a secluded tree-lined avenue, and Alan Thorpe sat forward and pointed. “That’s the one-’as it got a big double front door with stone animals? Connie said they was lions.”
The house was set back behind a thick hedge of trimmed conifers. It had a steeply gabled roof and white-leaded windows. The house itself was in darkness, but the frosted globe of a security light shone down on the gravel driveway.
The older of the two policemen got out to take a look. He peered in through the gates, saw the studded double doors and the two lions flanking it, and nodded back to the car.
Otley grinned and ruffled Alan Thorpe’s hair. “Good boy… remember any more?”
The policeman came back and leaned in the window. He was shaking his head. “I think the lad is pulling your leg, Sarge! This is Assistant Deputy Commissioner Kennington’s home.”
Otley slowly sat back, staring out, pinching his nose.
13
Tennison had phoned ahead and there was a car waiting to meet her and Dalton at Cardiff Station. The driver was a young WPC, Bronwen Webb, who’d dug Jason Baldwyn’s file out of Records. Tennison skimmed through it while they drove to the estate.
It was a dismal day, an unbroken sheet of murky cloud scudding in from the Severn Estuary. What with the late night and the early call at six-thirty, Tennison wasn’t feeling her best. Her first sight of the estate did nothing to lighten her mood. It was a huge gray barracklike place, ten-story tower blocks with balconies and drafty walkways. Some humorist had named the bleak crescents after trees: Sycamore, Birch, Cedar, Oak. Much of it was boarded up, graffiti everywhere, gutters choked with uncollected rubbish. Wrecked cars rested on their axles, leaking pools of oil. Tennison gazed out on the depressing scene, feeling more depressed by the minute. Welcome to the armpit of the universe.
The car stopped outside a tower block, and she sat there for a minute, summoning up the resolve to move. Dalton was reading the file, quizzing Bronwen about Jason.
“You say he’s known to the locals?”
Bronwen unfastened her seat belt and half-turned, leaning on her elbow. “He’s more than known-he spends more time in the cells than out!” There was only a trace of the singsong Welsh accent. She gave a little resigned shrug. “He’s a nice enough bloke when he’s sober, but he’s a nightmare when he’s not. Been had up for assault, petty crimes. Has a lot of marital troubles-she’s always calling us in, but then withdraws the charges.”
Bronwen’s eyes widened, as if to say, What can you do?
She got out and went to open the rear door just as Tennison’s phone beeped. Bronwen stood with Dalton on the crumbling pavement while Tennison spoke to Halliday. The driver’s window was open an inch, and Dalton tried to listen in, none too successfully, except it was apparent that the Super was giving her one hell of an earful.
Tennison was nodding, trying to get a word in edgeways.
“I can’t really do anything about it from here, Guv…” More nodding as she looked out at the estate. “Yes. Well, as I just said, I can’t do anything right now, hopefully by twelve, yes…”
She finished the call and zapped the aerial back in with a vengeance. She got her briefcase and pushed the door slightly open with her foot. She looked at Dalton. He didn’t get the coded message, and it was Bronwen who jumped to it, sweeping the door wide for the Detective Chief Inspector to get out.
Belatedly, Dalton tried to assist. Tennison buttoned her raincoat and glowered around. Dalton looked at her expectantly.
“The bad news is not worth discussing, Haskons and Lillie got themselves dragged up.” Dalton’s jaw dropped. “Don’t even ask. But the good news is, they brought in Jackson, and this time we can hold,” she said with grim satisfaction.
“You serious, they got dragged up?” Dalton said with the glimmering of a smile.
Tennison was not amused. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. But we’ve also another alibi down. Driscoll this time!” She seemed more ferocious than triumphant. “He’s admitted he lied because Jackson threatened to beat him up.” She turned to Bronwen, waiting patiently. “Thank you. It’s number-what?”
“Sixty-three.” Bronwen pointed up to the third-floor balcony. It was reached by a concrete walkway that zigzagged several times, so you had to walk five times the distance to get where you were going.
“Do you want me to come up with you?” Bronwen asked. “It’s a bit of a warren in there.”
“No, thanks. Judging by the look of the place, you’d best stay with the car.” She gave a nod, squared her shoulders, and set off with Dalton up the ramp. “Jackson physically assaulted Lillie and Haskons, and Larry Hall, all in one night.” She stumped upward, eyes fixed straight in front of her. “Just let that oily little brief try for bail…!”
Dalton didn’t know what effect Tennison had on suspects, but in this kind of storming mood she scared the shit out of him.
The girl who let them in-not more than eighteen-had a baby in a shirt but no diaper balanced on her hip, and she was about seven months pregnant with the next one. She had a hollow-cheeked wasted look and lackluster eyes. She led them through the tiny hallway, where they had to squeeze past a pram, into the living room. It was oppressively hot, with the close dank smell that comes from clothes drying in a sealed room. The source was woolen baby clothes steaming gently on a wooden frame in front of a gas fire that was going full blast. Fluffy toys and plastic building bricks were strewn everywhere, along with empty beer cans and dirty cups and plates, strategically located to make it odds on that you’d step onto or into something. The few sticks of furniture looked like the remnants of a car trunk sale on a bad day.
Jason came in from the kitchen. He was tall and very thin, with straggling hippie-length hair, and to Tennison’s consternation he was exceptionally good-looking. Over ragged blue jeans he wore a striped pajama top. The buttons were missing, showing his ribs and flat, fish-white belly. He was barefoot, the nails long and curved, grime between his toes.