“Admitted it?”
Dalton shook his head. “No, this time he was being blackmailed. He wanted to press charges. But I suppose under pressure he withdrew. He resigned. No case was ever brought.”
Tennison’s anger bubbled up dangerously. “And who was doing the blackmailing?”
“I don’t know. I was off the case by then.” He caught the full impact of her flat disbelieving stare, and insisted, “I really don’t know. But I would say, whoever it was, must have some connection with your investigation, otherwise why would they have brought me in?”
“Are you expecting me to believe that Kennington was prepared to bring charges of being blackmailed but never named who was doing it to him?”
“If he did, I was never told…”
Tennison decided she couldn’t stomach British Rail hot chocolate either. She got up and chucked the half-filled cup into the basket. She paced up and down, scarf whipping in the chill gusts. She stopped in front of Dalton.
“Did Edward Parker-Jones’s name ever come up? Was there any connection proved between him and Kennington?”
“The Fraud Squad discovered there had been several charitable donations from Kennington to Parker-Jones.” Dalton held up his hand to forestall Tennison’s fierce nod. “But they were all legal, all documented. The advice centre was only one of a number of organizations Kennington donated monies to. They found nothing incriminating.”
The smell of all this was positively reeking now.
“Could that be why Chiswick wants me to back off Parker-Jones?” Dalton made a vague gesture. Tennison pressed him. “There has to be some reason unless… was it Parker-Jones doing the blackmail?”
“No way. As I said, he was checked out.”
“Who do you think it was? Oh, come on, you must suspect somebody,” Tennison said, losing patience.
Dalton looked up at her. “It could be Jackson.”
“Yes, there’s always Jackson.” Tennison paced, pushing her wind-ruffled hair back from her forehead. “Let me try this on you.” She was trying it on herself as much as on Dalton. “Kennington had been investigated and came up smelling of roses. He must have been very confident, but then he’s forced to resign. Connie was selling his story to Jessica Smithy, right? Claiming that he was prepared to name names-one a high-ranking police officer. What if it was Kennington? Connie was just a rent boy, swat him like a fly. He was just a kid, no parents, nobody to even identify his body.”
Tennison stood in front of Dalton, pushing her hair back, staring down at him. Dalton was intent on his hand, pressing the tape flat with his thumbnail.
The minute Superintendent Halliday walked into the Squad Room, Otley picked up the warning signal. He was in one of his twitchy moods. He kept squirming his neck inside his collar and rubbing his throat as if undergoing slow strangulation. Most of the Vice team were there, busy at their desks. Ray Hebdon looked to Larry Hall, who in turn glanced at Haskons and Lillie. Norma stopped typing.
The room quieted. Halliday tapped his watch. It was late in the afternoon, going on for five.
“Is there anyone in this building who can tell me where Detective Chief Inspector Tennison is?”
“She’s on her way from Cardiff, boss, expecting her any moment,” Otley called out.
Halliday nodded, lips tight. He turned to leave, and turned back, seething. He pointed at Haskons and Lillie, available targets to vent his spleen on.
“And you two, as far as I am concerned, have behaved in what can only be described as an utterly farcical manner-one which would, if ever it were made public-put not only myself but also this entire department in jeopardy.”
Lillie colored up, while Haskons looked defiant. Otley turned away to hide a grin.
Commander Chiswick pushed open the door and said to Halliday, “In your office,” and went out.
“Just tell me-what in God’s name possessed you to do it?”
“But we brought Jackson in, sir!” Haskons protested, rising to his feet. “He is still the main suspect for the murder of Colin Jenkins.”
The door opened again, and Chiswick’s stern face appeared.
“Sorry, I’ll be right with you,” Halliday said. He strode to the door, rubbing the back of his neck. He whipped around. “DS Haskons, DC Lillie-you will return to Southampton Row as from tomorrow evening. DI Ray Hebdon will leave today. That’s all.”
He pushed at the door, and something caught his eye. A doll was pinned to the notice board, golden curls and a frilly pink dress with pink satin slippers. The block printing above it read: “DI HEBDON. FAIRY OF THE WEEK.”
Halliday’s nostrils twitched. “Get this crap down!” He slammed out.
The door squeaked to a stop, and in the silence everyone looked at one another. Otley leaned against the desk, hands in his pockets.
“Just a passing thought, but does anybody have any idea where she is?” He nodded to the clock. “She should have left Cardiff hours ago!”
14
On arrival in London, Tennison deliberately hadn’t reported in. She’d sent Dalton off to pick up a car while she took a cab to the Islington Probation Department, with instructions for him to meet her there. It was after five o’clock, and she was afraid that Margaret Speel might have gone, but she hadn’t. She was writing up reports in a tiny cluttered office that had a look of impermanence about it, as if she were in the process of moving in or moving out, Tennison couldn’t decide which.
However temporary her office, Margaret Speel’s sarcastic manner was firmly in place, exactly as before. There was something about the cynical slant of her mouth that was extremely irritating. In her petite bouncy way, she reminded Tennison of a chirpy strutting sparrow with an attitude problem: however smart you think you are, I know I’m smarter.
“Now what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” she said world-wearily, gesturing to a chair. Her mouth slanted. “You want any more boys off the streets?”
Tennison sat down. She placed her briefcase on the faded carpet and sat up straight. She was all through with taking crap, especially from a cheeky sparrow with an irritating smirk.
“You were at one time working in Cardiff, yes?”
Margaret Speel rocked back in the chair. She recovered quickly. “Yes, and Liverpool. And I’ve also worked in Birmingham.”
“Was Edward Parker-Jones also working in Liverpool and Birmingham?”
“No.”
“Well, we can be thankful for that, can’t we?” Margaret Speel’s eyes narrowed under her dark bangs; she was a mite uncertain now, getting edgy. Tennison kept up the barrage. “Do you know Anthony Field?”
A hard glare, and a frown.
“No? What about Jason Baldwyn? He was a resident at-”
“Yes,” Margaret Speel interrupted. “Yes, I remember Jason.”
“Do you have a relationship with Edward Parker-Jones?”
“I don’t think that is any of your business,” Margaret Speel said in a quiet, outraged voice.
“But it is. It is very much my business.” Tennison leaned toward her. She stared her full in the face. “Jason tried to kill himself this afternoon, right in front of me, Margaret. He’s prepared to make a statement that when he was in the care of Parker-Jones he was sexually abused, for a period of six years. You were at that time his probation officer!”
Margaret Speel’s hand jerked to her throat. Her fingers plucked at a necklace of jade beads. Her pale neck was taut and strained.
“You were Jason’s probation officer, weren’t you? Jason Baldwyn’s probation officer.”
“Yes, yes I was,” Margaret Speel said in a barely audible whisper.
“Do you have anything to say about these allegations? Were you aware of them when you were working in Cardiff?”
Margaret Speel was struggling to take this in. Her chirpy sarcasm was gone, shocked out of her. She made a valiant, desperate effort that only came out sounding weak. “Jason was always telling lies, he was a compulsive liar-”
“Ten-year-old boy, Margaret, and you refused to believe him, and he had six more years of abuse,” Tennison went on relentlessly.
“This isn’t true!” She shook her head, almost in pain. “This is terrible… if I had believed, for one moment…”
“Believe it, Margaret. What do you know about Connie? Colin Jenkins-Margaret?”
“I was telling you the truth! I swear I didn’t even come here until eighteen months ago. Edward contacted me. He even tried to renew our relationship…” Her head dropped. Tennison let her stew. She believed that Margaret Speel was genuinely distraught, she even felt sorry for her, but Tennison’s bottled anger fueled a passion to cut straight to the rotten heart of this, to ruthlessly expose it to the light, no matter who got hurt along the way.
“Are you sure?” Margaret Speel asked, feebly grasping at straws. “You know, these young boys make up stories, and I remember Jason-”
“Margaret-do you also remember if a doctor examined Jason Baldwyn?”
“Yes, of course he was examined.”
“Margaret, do you recall a police officer? Someone who would have known Parker-Jones in Cardiff?”
“Do you mean John Kennington?”
Tennison’s face remained calm, she didn’t so much as move a muscle. She felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. With scarcely a pause she said blithely, “It could possibly be John Kennington. Do you recall what rank, or if he was uniformed or plainclothes?”
“Er, yes, um…” Confused, still in a state of shock, Margaret Speel rubbed her forehead. “I think he was-Superintendent. I never saw him in a uniform. He lives in London now.”
As if it was of minor interest, Tennison said casually, “Do you happen to know if John Kennington and Parker-Jones are still in touch? Still friendly?”
“Yes, yes I think so.”
Tennison thanked her and left. On her way out she heard Margaret Speel sobbing at her desk. She didn’t like the woman, though she did pity her.