her.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.
6
“ H e’s our prime suspect and he’s dying. I’m not going to sit back and watch.”
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Muddyman panted. “Just another runaway, another dead prostitute . . .”
Tennison halted on the ninth floor of Dwyfor House and turned to him, her chest heaving. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do if it means climbing these poxy stairs again,” Muddyman said, staring up with deep loathing.
“She’s someone’s daughter, Tony.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Muddyman set off again. He said bitterly, “Anything we get from the old sod will be thrown out of court anyway. ‘He didn’t know what he was saying,’ ” Muddyman mimicked a light brown voice. “ ‘Oppressive conduct by the police . . . ’ ”
If when they’d seen him the previous time Harvey was on his last legs, he was at death’s door now. He looked even more haggard, and kept swallowing tablets—ten different shapes, sizes, and colors—as if they were candy. Tennison, seated opposite him on the sofa, treated him as gently as she knew how. She spread the photographs of Nadine on the coffee table and gave him plenty of time to mull them over. Finally, chest wheezing and rattling, he shook his head.
“No, I’ve never seen her before. I did let the basement room that summer, I admit it. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He fixed Tennison with his rheumy eyes. “The big darkie complained about everything I did. He just wanted me out.”
“Why did you let the room, David? Did you know the girl already?”
“No, I’d never seen her before. It seemed such a big house for just me and I needed the money. I put a card in the newsagent’s window.”
“What was her name?” Muddyman asked, leaning against the back of the sofa.
“Tracey? Sharon? I don’t remember,” Harvey said wearily.
“How long did she stay?” Tennison asked.
“Couple of months.”
“What months?”
“June, July . . .”
“Not August?”
“No, she’d gone by then.”
“Did you know that she was a prostitute?” Muddyman said, his tone nowhere near as gentle as Tennison’s.
“No.”
“Could she have been friends with that girl?” Tennison indicated the photographs.
“It’s possible.”
“Could she have had a set of keys to the flat?”
Harvey’s narrow shoulders twitched. “Possible I suppose . . .”
“Could she and some friends have used the flat that Sunday you were at your sister’s?” Tennison pressed him.
“How should I know?” His eyes were upon her, but unfocused, as if he couldn’t quite make her out. “As you say, I wasn’t there . . .”
His shoulders started heaving as he went into a coughing fit. Muddyman hesitated when Tennison pointed to the kitchen, but then went off and came back with a glass of water, which Harvey gulped down with four more assorted pills.
“Just one last thing, David.” Tennison smiled at him encouragingly. “Could we have a photograph of you, please?”
Harvey wiped his mouth. Beads of water clung to the ragged fringes of his mustache. “Why?”
“It’ll help us eliminate you from our inquiries.”
“Will I get it back?”
“Of course.” Tennison watched him on his snail’s progress to the glass-fronted bureau. “One from the mid-eighties if you’ve got it.”
Harvey took a tattered, red album from the drawer and leafed through it. Tennison went over to stand beside him. She picked up one of the framed photographs, a moody sunset over a gray, restless ocean, which to her inexpert eye looked to be of a professional quality.
“Are you the photographer?” Muddyman asked, taking an interest.
“No. My nephew Jason.”
“They’re very good,” Tennison said, putting it back.
“Here.” Harvey gave her a snapshot of himself, a darker-haired, stronger-looking Harvey with a brown mustache. “Younger and fitter, eh?” he said with a wan
“You’re certain?”
“I’m certain,” Tony Allen said.
6
“ H e’s our prime suspect and he’s dying. I’m not going to sit back and watch.”
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Muddyman panted. “Just another runaway, another dead prostitute . . .”
Tennison halted on the ninth floor of Dwyfor House and turned to him, her chest heaving. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do if it means climbing these poxy stairs again,” Muddyman said, staring up with deep loathing.
“She’s someone’s daughter, Tony.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Muddyman set off again. He said bitterly, “Anything we get from the old sod will be thrown out of court anyway. ‘He didn’t know what he was saying,’ ” Muddyman mimicked a light brown voice. “ ‘Oppressive conduct by the police . . . ’ ”
If when they’d seen him the previous time Harvey was on his last legs, he was at death’s door now. He looked even more haggard, and kept swallowing tablets—ten different shapes, sizes, and colors—as if they were candy. Tennison, seated opposite him on the sofa, treated him as gently as she knew how. She spread the photographs of Nadine on the coffee table and gave him plenty of time to mull them over. Finally, chest wheezing and rattling, he shook his head.
“No, I’ve never seen her before. I did let the basement room that summer, I admit it. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He fixed Tennison with his rheumy eyes. “The big darkie complained about everything I did. He just wanted me out.”
“Why did you let the room, David? Did you know the girl already?”
“No, I’d never seen her before. It seemed such a big house for just me and I needed the money. I put a card in the newsagent’s window.”
“What was her name?” Muddyman asked, leaning against the back of the sofa.
“Tracey? Sharon? I don’t remember,” Harvey said wearily.
“How long did she stay?” Tennison asked.
“Couple of months.”
“What months?”
“June, July . . .”
“Not August?”
“No, she’d gone by then.”
“Did you know that she was a prostitute?” Muddyman said, his tone nowhere near as gentle as Tennison’s.
“No.”
“Could she have been friends with that girl?” Tennison indicated the photographs.
“It’s possible.”
“Could she have had a set of keys to the flat?”
Harvey’s narrow shoulders twitched. “Possible I suppose . . .”
“Could she and some friends have used the flat that Sunday you were at your sister’s?” Tennison pressed him.
“How should I know?” His eyes were upon her, but unfocused, as if he couldn’t quite make her out. “As you say, I wasn’t there . . .”
His shoulders started heaving as he went into a coughing fit. Muddyman hesitated when Tennison pointed to the kitchen, but then went off and came back with a glass of water, which Harvey gulped down with four more assorted pills.
“Just one last thing, David.” Tennison smiled at him encouragingly. “Could we have a photograph of you, please?”
Harvey wiped his mouth. Beads of water clung to the ragged fringes of his mustache. “Why?”
“It’ll help us eliminate you from our inquiries.”
“Will I get it back?”
“Of course.” Tennison watched him on his snail’s progress to the glass-fronted bureau. “One from the mid-eighties if you’ve got it.”
Harvey took a tattered, red album from the drawer and leafed through it. Tennison went over to stand beside him. She picked up one of the framed photographs, a moody sunset over a gray, restless ocean, which to her inexpert eye looked to be of a professional quality.
“Are you the photographer?” Muddyman asked, taking an interest.
“No. My nephew Jason.”
“They’re very good,” Tennison said, putting it back.
“Here.” Harvey gave her a snapshot of himself, a darker-haired, stronger-looking Harvey with a brown mustache. “Younger and fitter, eh?” he said with a wan
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