A Face in the Crowd (26 page)

“. . . he broke a bottle. I really believed he’d use it. He made Tony tie some tights, they were my tights”—she faltered, her throat working—“around Joanne’s mouth. Jason took off his belt and tied Joanne’s hands behind her back.”

He’d gotten her dress off at last. She was sitting on the silken-draped couch, shivering in her low-cut bra, staring up at him with fearful eyes as he undid the buckle and slowly slid the belt through the loops of his jeans. He felt he was in a state of fever. The blood was pounding in his temples. He breathed in a deep lungful to steady himself, to take the quaver out of his voice and make it sound natural as he said casually, “Don’t be afraid . . .”

Sandra stared up at him, hugging herself. It made her breasts swell over the lacy top. He could see right down her cleavage. Beautiful. Firm young titties. He was going to have the time of his life with this lovely piece of cunt; shaft the arse off it, literally.

“Nothing to worry about, eh?” he said soothingly. “It’s the johns. They love a bit of bondage.” He coiled the belt in his hands. “I won’t tie you too tight. It’s all acting really . . .”

“I don’t like it,” Sandra whimpered, her mouth trembling.

“Course you do,” Jason grinned, uncoiling the belt.

“I don’t . . .”

“He raped her there in front of us,” Sarah said, the pain of that dreadful night frozen in her eyes. “He held the broken bottle over her face. And we did nothing. We stood and watched. Joanne was choking on the gag. And we stood and watched.”

She shuddered.

He had her just how he wanted her. Facedown on the couch, hands behind her back, the belt wrapped around her wrists and pulled tight so that it cut into her flesh. Sandra cried out then, in agony, as Jason thrust down with all his strength, forcing rear entry. She felt she was being ripped apart.

Getting into his stroke, Jason pumped away. Sandra’s head bounced on the couch under the impact of his incessant pounding. She felt suffocated. She couldn’t see. Her tangled hair was in her eyes and stuck to her forehead. Her cheeks were mottled and blotchy from the hot tears rolling down. She gasped as he went in, deeper. The pain was searing, tearing at her inside. She tried to scream but her head was being rammed into the couch, and what came out sounded like the muffled, terrified squeals of a whipped animal.

Jason kept at it, grunting with every thrust. Sweat from his chest sprinkled her back. His cap of blond hair was saturated. In his left hand he held the remote control. Every few seconds he pressed the button. The shutter clicked. The camera whirred to a new frame. He pounded away and pressed the button. The shutter clicked. He’d been careful in his advance preparation, made sure there was a new roll in. Five down, just thirty-one to go.

“When it was all over he went . . . suddenly quiet. He warned us that we were guilty too. That he had the photographs to prove it. He let us leave. We didn’t know what to do. We went home. We went to our rooms. When Mum got back we pretended to be asleep in bed. The dreadful thing was that we just left Joanne there. We weren’t even sure whether she was dead or not . . .

“The following night I heard noises in the next door garden. When I looked out my window I saw Jason and Harvey digging. They were putting the earth into sacks and Jason was taking them off somewhere to dump. I guessed why, but . . . but I couldn’t look after that.” Her voice sank to a choking whisper. “My nightmare was the sound of those shovels. The following morning I told Tony. We took an oath together never to tell a soul. The next time I made myself look from my bedroom window all the slabs were in place. Not a sign that anything had happened. Sometimes I could almost believe it hadn’t . . . until she was dug up again.”

Sarah’s face collapsed. She was moaning and sobbing, tears dripping off her chin and splashing onto her bare arms. She was shaking her head, helpless and bereft. “It was an awful secret we carried around with us . . .”

She covered her face and her body slumped forward until she was bent almost double, great racking sobs shuddering through her.

“Oh, God, what am I going to do . . . without him? Without Tony . . . ?”

Tennison went quickly around the desk and knelt down beside her chair. She put both arms around Sarah and held her.

W
ith a groan, Oswalde rocked himself forward and swung his feet to the floor. He wriggled his toes inside his Reeboks and arched his back, stretching. He must have been sitting in that same semi-crouched position for over an hour, and had possibly, without realizing it, dozed off. His buttocks tingled as the circulation got going.

Light was filtering through the curtains. From the floor of the caravan came a bass-baritone duet of snores; both C.I.D. men were well away in the land of nod.

Oswalde twitched the curtain aside and looked out at a new day. Over the sea, the sky was a clear tranquil blue, as if it had been washed clean overnight. It was very early, not yet six thirty. Oswalde stared dismally out, wondering what the fuck had happened to Jason Reynolds. Had he got wind of them? Or just been delayed somewhere and would show up later? The thought of having to spend all day cooped up in here with the phantom farter made Oswalde profoundly depressed.

He went outside and gratefully sucked in some of the chill morning air. He’d better give Tennison a call, he thought, rolling his head around to loosen up his cramped neck muscles. She’d want to be brought up to date on what was happening, or rather
not
happening.

Oswalde’s head stopped in mid-roll. Below him, on the lower level, a Cavalier hatchback was parked outside one of the trailers. It hadn’t been there last night. How the hell had it got onto the site without the man at the gate noticing it?

Thoughtfully, Oswalde zipped up his jacket. Stepping lightly, he moved down the grassy slope and skirted around to approach the trailer end on, because he could see a curtain was drawn across the large picture window, blanking out the view. Arms spread to keep his balance, he tiptoed over the grass and pressed his face close to the glass, hoping there might be a chink in the curtains. No luck. He moved around to the door, pausing at another window, but that too was curtained off.

Oswalde edged up to the door and gripped the handle. In one swift smooth movement he had it open and was ducking through the doorway, eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloomy interior.

Lying on the bed of crumpled satin, Sandra’s eyes rounded with terror as the tall, athletic black man burst in. She was wearing a school uniform—blouse, gray pleated skirt, white ankle socks—and was manacled and chained up for a Jason special: schoolgirl bondage. Oswalde moved towards her. Sandra pressed back into a corner and screamed, loud and piercing, and kept on screaming even when he raised both hands in an effort to calm and reassure her.

“It’s all right, I’m a police officer! I’m a police officer!”

Oswalde knelt down, trying to make the girl understand that it was okay, she was safe now. Behind him, Jason crept through the narrow doorway from the kitchen area. He was gripping the empty Scotch bottle by the neck. His lips drew back in a silent snarl. His pale blue eyes with their fringe of blond lashes were wide and murderous. He swung the bottle and brought it down on the back of Oswalde’s head. Oswalde went sprawling, a cascade of stars and flashing sparks filling his universe. He pushed himself back up onto his knees, groggily shaking his head. It took another ten seconds to stagger to his feet. When he looked round, squinting painfully towards the door, Jason had gone.

Oswalde stumbled outside. He touched the back of his neck. Blood was trickling down through the roots of his hair. He staggered forward a few paces, shaking his head to clear it, and looked wildly around. The bastard couldn’t have got far. Then he spotted the blob of blond hair, just disappearing through the waving tufts of coarse grass that grew along the edge of the sand dunes. He was heading for the beach.

Oswalde went after him. Elbows pumping like pistons, he ran towards the broken lip of the cliff top, where it crumbled and fell away to the flat open expanse of wet sand. The blond head vanished as Jason hurtled down the steep sandy slope. Oswalde ran through the coarse grass, feeling it whipping against his legs. He reached the same spot and plunged down, arms cartwheeling as he sought to maintain his balance. He landed with a jarring thud on the hard wet sand and then he was sprinting, long legs at full stretch, the running figure in his sights, the blond head wobbling as Jason started to tire.

Got you, you bastard!

Gaining on him with every stride, Oswalde rapidly closed the distance between them. He could hear Jason’s labored breathing as he reached the shallows of the retreating tide. Jason splashed through them, staggering and sending up curtains of flying spray. He was just recovering when Oswalde launched himself. He hit Jason like an express train. Down they both went into the water. Oswalde got an iron grip on Jason’s wrist and twisted his arm halfway up his back. With his other hand he grabbed Jason by the scruff of the neck, forcing his head down into the water.

Jason came up, coughing and spluttering. He twisted around, a face filled with hate. “Coon, black bastard, jungle bunny, nigger . . .”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, spewing seawater, snarling, “Rastus, sambo, fucking wog!”

Oswalde rammed him under.

Jason came up again, coughing and gasping. “That’s right, you fucking coon, kill me as well!”

Oswalde could have done it, easily, there and then, he knew it. And there was nothing in the world he’d have liked better than to drown the little shit. Rid the world of that perverted scum.

Instead, with an icy, purposeful deliberation, Oswalde gave him handcuffs and slapped them on. Fighting for breath, Oswalde gave him the full caution, as per the book. “Jason Reynolds, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Joanne Fagunwa . . .”

The two C.I.D. men splashed through the shallows. Oswalde continued: “You do not have to say anything, but if you do it may be given in evidence.”

Jason raised his head and spat in Oswalde’s face. Hauled to his feet by the C.I.D. men, he was dragged away, still screaming, “Coon, nigger, wog, fucking black bastard . . . !”

Oswalde sat in the water. He closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the early sun on his face. It felt very good.

Tennison was waiting in the rear yard of Southampton Row when Jason arrived. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing for herself the little shit being brought in and formally charged. Handcuffed and pinioned between two officers, Jason was led inside. As he passed Tennison, he thrust his blond head towards her, leering into her face.

“Thanks for the show the other night. Just your scene, eh? Nice bit of beef . . . nice black tubesteak up your stank!”

Then he was bundled through, snorting and sniggering to himself. Tennison turned away. She’d seen what she wanted to see. She didn’t believe in the death penalty, but she was always open to persuasion.

The morning was damp and misty. Oswalde came along the neat gravel path, dressed for a funeral he hadn’t attended; that had been yesterday, only he knew that his presence wouldn’t have been welcomed, that it would have upset the Allen family.

Tony’s grave was smothered in wreaths and flowers wrapped in cellophane. Oswalde carried a small bunch of flowers, but there was no card attached. He stood for a moment, looking at the headstone, then laid the flowers at the foot of the grave.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, he crouched down and bowed his head. Jane had said he wasn’t to blame. She had said that when other people made a mistake, it was only money involved. When the police made a mistake, sometimes a human life was put in jeopardy. And sometimes a human life was lost. He had tried to believe her, to convince himself that she was right, but it had a hollow ring, and the pain refused to go away. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life, a corrosive acid eating away at his soul.

He stood up and walked slowly back through the headstones to the gravel path, a tall dark figure that was gradually swallowed up in the morning mist.

Commander Trayner and DCI Thorndike were drinking sherry with Kernan in his office. There was an air of subdued yet distinct jubilation. Kernan detested sherry, but the occasion seemed to demand it, so he clinked glasses and forced the stuff down, hiding his grimace.

Thorndike was at his most overbearingly pompous. His voice was a pedantic drone, the corner of his thin mouth curling up in a tiny smug smile.

“This is not official, you understand, but under the circumstances it seems appropriate to give you a little preview. My recommendation is that disciplinary papers are served on Calder, DI Burkin, and DS Oswalde. I am critical of the way the station was run.” He cast a glance at Kernan, who blinked and took another sip of the disgusting muck. “Procedures need to be tightened up,” Thorndike went on primly. “Too many canteen cowboys. But I find no one to blame for the death of Tony Allen.”

Kernan breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Commander Trayner was nodding, well-pleased. “Clearly, David, you’re the right man to sort this station out.” He turned to Kernan, smiling. “And of course, congratulations to you too, Mike. Nailing Jason Reynolds and getting the move upstairs. I shall have to give you the name of my tailor. He’s particularly adroit at disguising any tendency towards the middle-age spread . . .”

“Thank you, sir.” Kernan refilled the commander’s glass. “Do you intend to do anything about the press story, sir?”

Trayner considered a moment, and then shook his head. “Let it blow over. Oswalde is back at West End Lane.”

“Yes, sir,” Kernan said, again relieved. He said reflectively, “Besides, Tennison is a bloody good detective.”

“Perhaps,” Commander Trayner said, acknowledging the fact in rather a grudging tone. “But one who has displayed a considerable lack of judgment . . . I think you know what I mean?”

The debriefing in the Incident Room was also a subdued affair. The team had done its job well, had every reason to feel proud, but the death of Tony Allen in police custody cast a long, gloomy shadow.