“Please!” She smoothed her sleeve straight. “Mrs. Kennington, your husband was just answering some questions. I am investigating the death of a young rent boy, fifteen years old, and I’m-”
Mrs. Kennington’s eyes widened in alarm as her husband bodily propelled Tennison across the room. Leaning forward, face carved out of stone, he thrust her ahead of him into the hallway, and kept on going.
“His name was Colin Jenkins, you may have read about it…”
Tennison’s fading voice was interrupted by the sound of the front door being swung violently open on its hinges.
Dalton and Mrs. Kennington looked at one another. It was hard to know who was the more shocked. Dalton gathered his wits and quickly went out.
Standing at the coffee table, Mrs. Kennington reached down, and without looking took a cigarette from a black ebony box. The front door slammed shut. She held the cigarette between her fingers and slowly and deliberately crumpled it, her face frozen in a white mask.
Dalton beside her, Tennison drove into the yard at the rear of Southampton Row Police Station. This was her old division, before being shunted sideways to Soho Vice. Her old boss, Chief Superintendent Kernan, was crossing the yard to his car. Genuinely, or by design-hard to tell-he happened not to see her. She rolled the window down and stuck her head out.
“Buy you a drink?”
Rather reluctantly, he came over. “Sorry, I’m late as it is.” His pouchy cheeks and heavy jowls always reminded her of a disgruntled chipmunk. She couldn’t once recall him looking happy, except when he was pissed. He nodded to Dalton. “Nothing wrong, is there?”
“What do you know about John Kennington?” Tennison asked.
Kernan sighed and stared off somewhere. He didn’t hold with women having senior positions in the force, and that applied to Tennison in spades. She was a real ball-breaker. He bent down to the window.
“He just got the golden handshake. Why?”
“Is he homosexual?”
Kernan laughed abrasively. “I don’t know-why do you ask?”
Tennison opened the door and started to get out. Kernan backed away, making a negative motion. “I’ve got to go, Jane…”
Tennison did get out. Kernan’s shoulders slumped as she confronted him. “Mike, I need to know because I think he is involved in this murder, the rent boy-”
“I’ve nothing to tell you.” His face was a closed book.
Tennison gave him a hard, penetrating stare. She said in a low urgent voice that was almost pleading, “They’re young kids, Mike, some of them eleven and twelve years of age-your boy’s age. All I want is the truth.”
Kernan glanced guardedly toward Dalton in the car, and moved farther off. He looked down on her, flat-eyed. “Do you want me to spell it out?”
“Yes.”
“If you start digging dirt up again on Kennington,” he muttered, shaking his head, “it’ll be a waste of time. He may no longer be a big fish, but he’ll have a hell of a lot of friends who still are. A whisper gets out, you’ll tip them off and you won’t get near them, and it won’t help the kids, won’t stop the punters. They’ll all be still on the streets. You should back off this one, Jane.”
“Even if he was a high-ranking police officer,” Tennison said heatedly. “Even if there are judges, politicians, barristers involved…”
“Kennington’s out of the force now,” Kernan said heavily, trying to make her see sense. “Ignore it, that’s the best, the only advice I can give you.”
Tennison nodded slowly, but it didn’t fool him. She pursed her lips. “There’s a Superintendent vacancy up for grabs, you know which area?”
Kernan gazed at her for a moment. He held up his hand, fingers and thumb spread wide. Five. He gave a smirk and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Becoming a player, are you?”
Tennison nodded. She got back in the car and slammed the door. She revved the engine and put it in reverse. Kernan stood watching.
“Good night!” he called out.
“Thanks, Mike,” Tennison said, backing up.
Kernan whacked his open hand on the car roof and she shot off, through the archway to the main road. He shook his head wearily, puzzled and pissed off. If he couldn’t stick the woman at any price-and dammit he couldn’t-why did he so admire the bloody bitch?
Twenty minutes later Tennison dumped her briefcase on her desk, flung her coat over a chair, and scooped up the sheaves of reports, internal memos, and phone messages that had piled up in her absence. After twelve straight hours on the job she was fighting off bone-weary fatigue with pure nervous energy. Her nerve ends jangled.
Dalton trailed in after her. He had a limp, wrung out look to him, the classic symptoms of bags under the eyes and pasty complexion, sweat trickling from the roots of his hair.
He stood, slack shouldered, making a great effort. “Can I say something, apologize really, but I didn’t have much say in the matter and I’ve…”
His voice trailed away when he realized she wasn’t listening, too preoccupied as she scanned through the messages. The silence sank in.
“What? I’m sorry?”
“I’m sorry, and, well…” His speech stumbled along. “I dunno where I am. It’s like I’m in some kind of limbo…”
Tennison paid full attention. Dalton seemed to be cracking up in front of her eyes. He wasn’t able to look at her, too embarrassed or fearful or something, and it all came tumbling out in a flood, a dam-burst of raw feeling.
“I can’t sleep and, well, my girlfriend, I haven’t told her. I’m even scared to have sex with her because…” He swallowed painfully. “It’s just hanging over me all the time. What if I have got AIDS?” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. He choked down a sob, standing there forlorn and pitiful. “I’m sorry, sorry…”
Tennison went to him and put her arms around him. She gave him a strong, comforting hug. She could feel him shaking inside. She stood back, holding his shoulders.
“Listen, anyone would feel the same way. And, listen-I think it’ll be good for you to sit and really talk it all out… and to someone who understands all the fears-and they’re real, Brian.” She touched his wet face. “You go and wash up. I’ve got the contacts here for you, okay?” She nodded to her desk. “Maybe you and your girlfriend should go together.”
Dalton let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and turned to leave. Tennison waited for the door to close. She pressed both hands to her face, covering her eyes. She held a deep breath for a count of five, and then snapped back into action, picking up her messages as she returned to her chair.
The door was rapped. Otley looked in.
“We’ve got Parker-Jones in interview room D oh three.”
“What?! He’s here?” Otley nodded. Tennison glared at him. “Whose bloody idea was that?”
“Mine,” Otley retorted, sauntering in. “We got some kids that recognized Deputy Chief Commissioner Kennington’s house. Plus, the property where we picked up Jackson, it’s owned by him.”
“What?” Tennison was on her feet.
“Jackson’s been living in a house owned by Parker-Jones. It’s all there…” He made a flippant gesture to the desk. “Full report.”
“Who’s interviewing him?”
“Haskons and Lillie.”
Tennison swore under her breath as she scoured the littered desk for his report.
Otley’s long gaunt face was looking distinctly tetchy. He’d worked his bollocks off on this case, and what did he get in return? Sweet F.A. Overbearing cow. “And as you weren’t here,” he said, not troubling to hide his sarcasm, “and we couldn’t contact you, I’m just trying to close the case.”
Tennison flared up. “You? I know what you’re playing at, but you are just not good enough. Stop trying to demean me at every opportunity. This isn’t your case!”