Tennison swept past her, saying, “You wanted the ladies room, Miss Smithy, follow me.”
She pushed open the door into the female staff locker room, and didn’t hold it for Jessica Smithy, who nearly got her face battered. They went inside.
Otley appeared through the double doors at the end of the corridor, running. “Where the hell is she?”
“Toilets,” Hall said.
Rubbing his face, Otley stood panting and fuming.
Tennison flung her soiled blouse into her locker and took out a short-sleeved navy shirt with breast pockets. She hadn’t a matching jacket, so she had to make do with a double-breasted blazer in dark red with gilt-buttoned cuffs. No spare skirt or hose, dammit, she’d have to soldier on with what she had.
She ran water in the washbasin and was rinsing the blood from her hands when the toilet flushed and Jessica Smithy came out of the cubicle. There had been a subtle change. There was a dent in her haughty demeanor, her quick darting gaze not as brashly confident in the face of Tennison’s grim single-mindedness of purpose, her firm authority.
Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances, she tried to rekindle her righteous indignation. “How long am I going to be here for? I am supposed to deliver copy for this evening’s-”
“For aslong as I want!” Tennison didn’t need to raise her voice. The lethal sting in it was enough. “You were at Vernon Reynold’s flat the night Connie died-did you make a third tape?”
The journalist had a sullen pout. “No.”
Tennison gave her a searching look in the mirror and went over to the roller towel. Jessica Smithy’s lean cheeks were slightly flushed. She stared at Tennison’s back. “No, I only made two tapes. I swear before God, just two tapes. I never mentioned before”-clearing her throat uncomfortably-“I mean, I know I should have told you about me being at the flat…”
Tennison finished drying her hands. She picked up her shirt and shook it out. “Did you remove anything from Vernon Reynolds’s flat?” She slipped the shirt on. “Did you?”
“Yes. They were just some snapshots-nobody famous. Just a few black-and-white photographs and drag acts. Nobody famous,” she repeated anxiously.
“So, apart from these photographs you took, did Colin Jenkins give you anything?”
“Nothing, nothing… just some story about being picked up when he was ten or eleven. But I’m beginning to think he made that up.” Her face had a strained, pinched look. “Oh God, it isn’t the way it sounds-I didn’t do anything!”
Tennison buttoned her jacket. “Oh, yes, you did. You stole photographs that meant a lot to someone, meant so much that Colin Jenkins died for them.” She spared her nothing. “That’s what you did, Miss Smithy.”
Otley’s head peered furtively in. Tennison gave her appearance a final check in the mirror and went over. “Kathy said you wanted to see me?” Otley murmured. “Something about an ambulance?”
“Yes.” Tennison shot a look at Jessica Smithy. “Follow me.”
She led the way to her office, Otley bringing up the rear. He could tell from her walk that she was a transformed woman, another person entirely from the one he’d seen weeping less than two hours ago. It was incredible. He couldn’t fathom her. He didn’t understand women as a species all that well, but Tennison absolutely baffled and amazed him.
Jessica Smithy was contrite, sitting in a chair, puffing nervously on a cigarette. “I tried to contact you, you know I did, it’s not as if I didn’t attempt to see you.”
“Just stop the Doris Day act, it’s getting on my nerves,” Tennison said shortly, eyes narrowed. “Martin Fletcher?”
DI Hall came in and spoke over Jessica Smithy’s head. “Car’s ready and waiting, Guv.” Tennison acknowledged him and beamed her attention back on the woman.
“He was the first boy I approached, and he introduced me to Connie.” She gulped down smoke. “Then it seemed obvious to me that, well, Connie would make a better story. We were worried that Martin was too young and-”
“Martin Fletcher is dead, did you know?” Tennison said brutally.
Jessica Smithy’s eyes rounded with shock. She felt she was being battered from all sides. The tough shell of blasé cynicism was falling to pieces, exposing a frightened woman floundering out of her depth.
Tennison looked at her watch. She was in a hurry to get on. She snapped her fingers, and Otley imagined he could practically see an aura of sparks coruscating around her head.
“So you drop Martin Fletcher and now offer Connie money, yes? Did you give him the money in Vernon Reynolds’s flat?”
“Yes.” Jessica Smithy nodded numbly. “He put it in his pocket, said it wasn’t enough, he wanted more.”
“Then what happened?”
“I said I couldn’t give him any more, not until I at least saw what he had to offer…”
“And did you?” Tennison demanded impatiently. “Come on, Miss Smithy, did he show you anything? Give you any names?”
“No.”
Tennison looked again at her watch. “So then what happened?”
Jessica Smithy stubbed out the cigarette and wiped her fingers. “He left the room for a minute and there was this album on the coffee table. I’d just paid him five hundred pounds, so…” She blinked fearfully at Tennison. “I opened the album and just-I just took some of the loose photographs, and a few others…”
“Vera Reynolds’s album? Yes?”
“They were just photos of a family,” Jessica Smithy protested. “Couple of somebody in drag. They were no use, they meant nothing.”
Tennison stood with her hands on her hips. “Wrong, Miss Smithy. They meant an awful lot to somebody, enough to…” She reached for the ashtray. “Make him pick up a heavy glass ashtray and hit Colin Jenkins with it.” She emptied the ashtray, banging it against the side of the metal basket. “You have a lot to answer for.”
Pale and stricken, Jessica Smithy licked her dry lips.
Tennison looked to Hall. She flipped her hand. “Take Miss Smithy and bring her back with Vernon Reynolds’s photographs.”
Jessica Smithy rose slowly to her feet. “Are you going to charge me with anything?” she asked tremulously.
“I’ll let you know,” Tennison glowered, wafting the bloody woman out of her sight.
There was a real buzz around the place. Everyone could feel it. Something big was going down.
Haskons and Lillie, infected like everyone else, hurried along from the Squad Room, in time to see Otley emerging from Tennison’s office.
“Hey, Sarge, what’s going on?”
Otley went past them. “She’s picking up Parker-Jones,” he said, not breaking his stride.
Hall came out and escorted Jessica Smithy to the main staircase.
Otley had halted, midway along the corridor, as Kathy rushed past him. She came up breathlessly, meeting a steely-eyed Tennison head-on as she marched out of her office.
“Emergency services have said there was a fifteen-minute delay that night, and all callers were informed that-”
Tennison punched the air. “I’ve got him! And this time I am ready for him.” All fired up, she shouted to Otley, “Let’s go!”
18
Otley went first, holding the door for Tennison to walk through into the reception area. She was alerted; it seemed unusually quiet. It was the dead time of the afternoon, but even so…
The door to the office was ajar, and Tennison peeked inside. The normally neat desk was a muddle of correspondence and document files spilling their contents, papers strewn everywhere. The desk drawers were open, and so were several of the filing cabinets, as if someone had been hastily rooting through them.
“Looks like he’s about to do a runner,” Tennison observed. “You think he’s been tipped off?”