A Face in the Crowd by Lynda La Plante

the corridor. “He tells me Forensic are still there, poking around inside the house, lifting carpets, floorboards, the lot.”
    “So?”
    “Let’s get out of there as soon as possible.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    Kernan pushed open the door of the Incident Room, waving her to go first, and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “Let’s see it then.”
    There was an air of expectancy. All the team had gathered for the grand unveiling. Richards, the police photographer, had set up his tripod and lights. Tennison nodded to Haskons, who stepped forward and whisked off the cloth. There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a kind of collective gasp. The medical artist had been too modest, Tennison thought. He was as much artist as he was scientist, without doubt.
    Modeled in brown clay, the head was astonishingly lifelike. The girl was young and very beautiful, rather proud-looking, with braided hair swept back from a wide forehead. The artist had caught exactly the mixed-race cast of her features, high cheekbones had a generous mouth, and it reminded Tennison strongly of the sculpted head of an ancient goddess.
    Everyone, even the hardened longtime pros who thought they’d seen everything, were impressed . . .
    Everyone except Kernan, cynical old bugger, who was seeing a hole in his budget rather than an expertly crafted clay head.
    His only comment was a surly, “Very nice,” and then the swing door was wafting the air as he disappeared through it.
    Richards was popping off photographs, moving his camera around to cover all the angles. Tennison turned to the men.
    “Right . . . I want these photographs to appear everywhere they can, local and national press. From now on you’ll show them to anyone who might be able to help. Let’s get the Allens in to see this . . .” She gestured towards the head. “Vernon Allen has confirmed that there was a hooker working from the basement of Number fifteen that summer. From his description it wasn’t Nadine but it’s possible that Nadine was a tom as well . . . perhaps Harvey was a small-time pimp? Harvey is at the hospital all day tomorrow,” she added, “so I won’t be able to see him till the evening to tackle him about it.”
    “She doesn’t look like a prostitute,” DC Lillie said.
    “Start asking around anyway.” Tennison moved to the board. “Vernon Allen has accounted for his family’s whereabouts on the thirty-first. For the last ten years there’s been a Reggae Sunsplash concert in Honeyford Park on the last Sunday in August. Vernon says Esme was at that concert—she’s there every year running a stall selling West Indian food.”
    The men were silent, paying close attention. Glancing down at her notes now and then to refresh her memory, Tennison continued.
    “Apparently Tony, the son, attended the concert, which is an all-day affair—ten to ten. Vernon says he spent the day at home with Sarah and David. Tony returned at about nine p.m . to look after his brother and sister so Vernon could go to work. I’ve checked Vernon’s work record. He did a double shift through Sunday night and late into Monday. By the time Esme had packed up, returned things to the cafe and got back home, it was about ten forty-five p.m. She says by then all three children were asleep in bed. Obviously, wherever possible, I’d like these accounts verified.”
    She looked around, and was about to call the briefing over when Oswalde, leaning back nonchalantly against a desk, arms folded, said casually, “Perhaps that’s the link between Nadine and Honeyford Road.”
    “What?”
    “The Reggae Sunsplash.”
    Tennison’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
    “Harvey could have met her there, or Tony Allen. Perhaps the victim’s bag of African cloth was a costume of some sort. She might even have been performing at the concert.”
    Nobody said anything. Oswalde’s first contribution, after being on the team less than twenty-four hours, was a good one, and everybody